#or at least not as much as they seem to without me

[piastriprincess]

caught  up  in  circles ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  time  loop  ,  f1  med  staff!reader  ,  strangers  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn  . tw  one  crash  ,  z*k  br*wn  and  chr*stian  h*rner  mentions  lol word  count  9.9k author’s  note  this  one  is  for  my  piastri  princesses  !  aka  it’s  all  about  oscar  and  entirely  self - indulgent  but  i  hope  you  all  like  it  too  !  inspired  by  palm  springs  -  one  of  my  favorite  movies  which  for  some  reason  made  me  think  of  osc  the  last  time  i  was  watching  it  <3  this  is  lowkey  long  as  hell  but  in  my  opinion  it’s  worth  it  .  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  and  my  inbox  is  open  for  requests  !  i’m  hoping  to  have  an  event  up  in  the  next  couple  of  days  too  .  love  you  all  MWAH  !  title  is  from  time  after  time  by  cyndi  lauper  .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it. 

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop. 

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep. 

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains. 

Number two: he can alter the day. 

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet. 

Number three: he can’t die. 

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him. 

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out. 

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there. 

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him. 

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset. 

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest. 

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side. 

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock. 

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads. 

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words. 

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet. 

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied. 

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still. 

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word. 

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway. 

You’re not here. 

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine. 

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache. 

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before. 

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters. 

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it. 

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around. 

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood. 

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his. 

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.” 

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice. 

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear. 

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri. 

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!! 

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes. 

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend. 

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on. 

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either. 

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water. 

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan. 

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent. 

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.” 

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters. 

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does. 

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin. 

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets). 

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing. 

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water. 

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic. 

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head. 

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht. 

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment. 

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck. 

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing. 

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t. 

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time. 

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake. 

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you. 

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to. 

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you. 

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap. 

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache. 

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life. 

And then he jumps. 

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly. 

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air. 

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours. 

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook. 

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment. 

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet. 

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own. 

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always. 

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today. 

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now. 

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment. 

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone. 

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it. 

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences. 

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion. 

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table. 

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food. 

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?” 

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice. 

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you. 

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth. 

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped. 

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you. 

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done. 

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart. 

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it. 

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow. 

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it. 

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries. 

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you. 

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure. 

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling. 

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.” 

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time. 

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you. 

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising. 

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors. 

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time. 

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened. 

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once. 

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you. 

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit. 

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different. 

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof. 

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness. 

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir. 

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else. 

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips. 

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it. 

[spoiled-girlie-in-training]

This is something that comes up in self-healing journeys that I think isn't acknowledged enough.

A major part of self-improvement comes face to face and toe to toe with grieving. Grieving opportunities you've lost, relationships that have failed, friends you used to rely on, etc.

For me, personally, I grieve the community I helped build. I used to be a volunteer in a leadership position at a large convention. I ran a department that, when I first started in my mid-teens, was me and one or two other people. By 16, I was the equivalent of an assistant manager for the department, and by 18, I was heading the whole department on my own. Under my leadership, we went from 2 or 3 members to 26 members under me. We were a team. We were all united in our passion for what we were volunteering to do for the event, and it felt like a family.

I still hold dearly onto my last Christmas event with all of them. We all sat and played games for hours. We laughed and joked. We talked about our future plans as a group. It was the happiest I had ever been. It was the safest I had ever felt. Near the end of the night, everyone insisted I sit down in the middle of everyone and close my eyes. I heard them all whispering and laughing and I got nervous when I heard them place something in front of me. Was this some kind of prank? It wouldn't be the first time I had been tricked in a group setting, so I braced for impact. I was told to open my eyes, and I did...only to find a massive gift basket in front of me. My volunteers had all banded together and bought me a Nintendo Switch, some blankets, and some baking tools. I hadn't asked any of them for a gift; they had all opted to and made a point to do it to express thanks. I cried so many tears of joy that day, and I thanked the universe for letting me have the opportunity to create such a safe space for myself and others.

6 months later, I was removed from my position. Someone I had looked to as a mentor and mother figure admitted to my face that she had organized it by setting me up to look incompetent to the owners of the convention. She told me she didn't like that I had a stronger bond with the other volunteers than her. She told me that, when I was younger, she thought she could mold me into the perfect "team player" who would "play my part without stepping out of line". She told me that she "wasn't happy with how I turned out". She even looked me in the eyes and told me that no one would ever believe me if I tried to expose what she had done before removing any and all ways I had to contact any of my volunteers to tell them what had happened to me. The few I've happened to come across have told me they left after I "stepped down" since it wasn't the same without me. Apparently, I had "decided to step down due to differing opinions about where our department was heading". At least, that's what the new leadership my 'mentor' had handpicked to replace me had told everyone.

I felt gutted. I lost enough hair to get diagnosed with alopecia areata. I gained 25 pounds due to stress eating. I had the worst acne of my life. And I cried nightly. I felt like I had lost everything. When I talked to other people...they didn't seem to fully get it. "It was just a position at some convention," they'd say. "Maybe it's for the best that you were removed if you're getting this hysterical about it."

I'm lucky that I have my therapist, because it put it all into perspective for me. I was grieving. I had lost a safe space. I had lost a passion project that I dedicated over 7 years to. I had lost many friends who had no way or idea of how to contact me. I was grieving something that hadn't technically died.

One thing I've learned in my journey to self-acceptance and self-improvement is that one of the first steps is grief. You have to grieve the ghosts of things that haven't passed away and the potential those things had. You have to grieve the ideas and expectations you had for them and for your future. It's a slow, non-linear process. Some days, you'll feel that grief bubble up even though it's been years since it's happened. I mean, this month is the 2-year anniversary of me losing that position and it hit me like a freight train as I was sitting and working on a custom order for a customer.

And that's okay. I'll acknowledge that grief and accept it. A part of me is still grieving. A part of me will probably always be grieving that loss...but after I acknowledge and accept that part of myself, I think of where I am now. I'm a successful business owner with a strong support system, friends across the US, multiple successful social media pages (by my own standards), and I love myself. I used to struggle to get out of bed and with basic hygiene. I struggled to eat. I struggled to get dressed. Now, I have self-discipline and structure. I take care of myself in ways that past me wouldn't have been able to conceptualize.

And once I think of all that...I feel grateful it happened. I feel grateful for every moment I got with those people and in that safe space. I feel grateful for the leadership skills it taught me and the confidence it instilled in me, even if that's what led to a lot of pain. I'm grateful that it happened how it did and when it did because it left me in the right place at the right time to seize opportunities made for me. I think Francis Ward Weller summarizes it pretty well.

"The work of a mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them. How much sorrow can I hold? That's how much gratitude I can give. If I carry only grief, I'll bend toward cynicism and despair. If I have only gratitude, I'll become saccharine and won't develop much compassion for other people's suffering. Grief keeps the heart soft and fluid, which helps make compassion possible."

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you don't know why Bob doesn't like you, but a relapse forces you to find out.

(Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader) Part 1/?

You don't think Bob likes you very much. Especially when the situation goes from being a ragtag group of underdogs to a fully blown Avengers Avengerz(!)-living-together-in-the-tower deal.

In fact, maybe he just doesn't think much about you at all. He's quiet, shy even, with most of the team, but on the rare occasions he contributes more than a mere small smile, you're the last person he's talking to.

It doesn't bother you much. So what if Yelena is his keeper, making sure he's alright and keeping a tactful eye on him? Obviously he'd be more open with her. But still, you wonder if you ever said something wrong, or were too harsh on him when you all first met. (Hell, he'd even rather talk to Walker than you, it seems.)

Okay, maybe it bothers you more than you'll admit.

You've never been one to make friends easily, but when you can't even win the affections of someone who literally has the living embodiment of guilt and resentment fighting for dominance inside of him, then there must be something wrong with you.

But you get on with life. The new version of it, anyway. You train, you go on missions, you sleep, and you do it all again. Occasionally, the team starts to develop into something more important to you. They have your back, and you have theirs.

Still, even with all this, Bob doesn't bite. Not when you offer him coffee, not when you ask him about what book he's reading, and not even when you try to crack jokes about the team's questionable public branding.

So you give up. You keep your head down. But then one day, Yelena asks you to hang back from a mission to keep an eye on Bob, who seems to be in his head more than usual.

"Maybe it'll be good for you two," she says, not unsubtly. "Get to know each other a little."

Great. Now you know everyone has noticed the rift between you.

You stay out of his way, poking your head around the corner ever now and again, catching him sitting in front of the window and looking out at the sky. You know better than to ask him if he's okay, so you stay hidden.

Except one time you look out, expecting to see him there, and he's gone. Shit. You've lost the biggest asset and most dangerous weapon in New York.

You quickly head to his room, certain he's fine, but not wanting to be responsible if he's not.

When you get there, the door is partially open, and you gently push it the rest of the way. The lights are out. You look around, and your heart stops when you see a shadow sitting on the bed. A black silhouette, sitting very still. Your head suddenly fills with memories of that day, when you were forced to relive the most horrific snapshots of your past: revisiting some of your most terrible deeds — ones that you can't outrun, even in your sleep, even now. It’s torture without the pain.

Without thinking, you reach back and pull out your gun, pointing it at the shape. Your hands are steady, but only just. You know from experience bullets will do nothing to stop The Void, but if the team comes back and finds your shadow burned into the ground, you at least want them to know that you fucking tried.

As soon as you do, the shadow moves. "Woah, woah," it says. "It's me." It reaches over and switches on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room in a relieving warm glow. It's just Bob, sitting on his bed, looking rightly panicked.

You immediately stand down, hooking your gun back into place. Your heart is still pounding. "Bob. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were..." Then you immediately feel bad.

"Sorry," he says. "I just wanted to sit in the dark for a while. I should have thought--"

"No, don't apologize."

When you ask him what’s wrong, he’s cagey. You’ve done this dance before — trying to talk to him and getting little in return. He’s okay, you’re okay, so you give a small grunt and decide to leave.

But he stops you, a guilty look on his face. Finally, he explains. He always feels this way when the team leaves for missions, knowing how dangerous he is but hating knowing everyone is in danger. He wants to help, but has no idea how to harness his powers beyond simply controlling them. He looks up at you, suddenly quieter (if that’s even possible) and says that today feels even worse, because the one person who likes him the least is stuck babysitting him.

“Hold on,” you say. “What do you mean?”

Then it all comes pouring out. Bob thinks you hate him. You think Bob hates you. Neither of you hate each other. The realisation makes you laugh, hard. He doesn’t quite get there, but he does crack a confused smile.

Evidently, your resting bitch face paired with his natural shyness has caused a stalemate.

“Bob, I’ve wanted to be your friend this whole time,” you say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I just stopped trying because you seemed…I don’t know, scared of me or something.”

“I think I am, just a little.”

“Don’t you have the power of a hundred suns or something?”

“A million exploding suns,” he says casually, shrugging. You don’t really know what to say to that until he cracks a smile, and you realise the only response is another laugh.

“Okay, well, for clarity’s sake, can we be friends now?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. Emboldened, he holds out his hand. You look at it, remembering what happened the last time you accidentally grabbed his hand a year ago in that damn incinerator. (A trip into the "Void Rooms", even when brief, isn't good.) Your recollection must register on your face, because you see his smile drop. He pulls his hand back, but you know that in order for this to work, he has to trust you. And you have to trust him.

You reach out and grab his hand, gripping it firm in yours, shaking it as he wanted you to. Between your fingers, something is happening. There’s an invisible charge. Can he feel it? You shake it off.

“For what it’s worth,” you tell him. “I don’t see you as a burden. Nobody else around here does, either. I think we need you as much as you need us. And don’t be scared of me, because I’m not scared of you.”

That seems to unlock something in him. His shoulders drop, his chest expands and releases with a loaded, relieved breath, and his hand quickly relaxes in yours.

“Well…” he tears his eyes away from your hands, looking back up at you. “…That’s another person I can add to my very small list.” Another thought crosses his mind, causing the smile to fade.

"What would you have done?" he asks. "If it hadn't been me in here? If it had been...the other me? If I'd dragged you back into that place?"

You feel your fingers flex in your palm by your side. You'd go down fighting, is what would really happen. But you can't say that. You have to say something else: something not as desperate but equally true.

"I would have found you," you tell him. "I would have torn through every memory to find you, Bob. And we'd get out of there, just like we did before. Together."

His brow creases, watching you, ringing his hands, torn by some internal conflict you'll never fully understand. But he does soften still, giving you a grateful nod.

You leave him then, giving him the space he obviously wants. But what you don’t know is that he doesn’t want you to leave. He wants to talk to you, to catch up on getting to know you. There’s so much he missed out on, because he’s stupid, and now he wants to do everything he can to make up for it.

What you also don’t know is that, despite being relieved that you two can now be friends, is that soon, there’ll be a whole new problem.

Soon, just being friends won’t be nearly enough for either of you.

Part 2 (aka: When you realize you're falling in love with Bob, and it sucks.)

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Where It Hurts

Summary: Joaquin Torres x fe!Reader -> You won't let anyone else in your hospital room, with the exception of Joaquin.

Disclaimer: Some of the one-shots I have for Joaquin have been in my drafts for a while. Mentions of wounds and Joaquin helping you fix them, slightly established relationship. Not Proof Read.

“She won’t let anyone in with her.”

That’s what the Doctor had told them all as they waited in the hallway for you. From where Sam was standing, he could see the reflection of you sitting on the edge of one of the medical beds. 

He’d only gotten a quick look at you, but the damage seemed extensive enough to keep you out of field work for at least eight months. Six if you came back and stuck to desk work for a while. 

And one look was all it took for him to say, “Joaquin. You go.”

“Captain Wilson, sir-”

Sam turned back to the doctor. “All due respect, Doc. She needs him.”

“She’ll let me in,” Joaquin added. 

The Doctor studied the two Avengers in front of her. Looking around at the other five, they all seemed to have an agreeing look in their eyes. If it had been anyone else, she would have asked them to wait. But you’d refused most treatment. 

Thankfully, you had no internal bleeding or damage. You did have a fractured rib which she could give you medication for, but other than that, it was a matter of gluing and/or stitching up your external wounds. And she didn’t think the best course of action was to leave you alone at that moment. 

So she nodded. 

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Joaquin let out a breath of relief, immediately making his way towards your hospital room. 

Meanwhile, the doctor turned to Sam and the others, going through everything she had found and what would follow for the next few months. 

You heard the small whooshing noise of the door being pushed open and it took a lot out of you just to look up. You could have cried when you saw Joaquin, if you had any energy left to do so. 

He walked over to you, slowly, not wanting to scare you. You’d been through a lot in the last couple of days. Eventually, he stood in front of you, your eyes fixed on each other. 

He took in the injuries he could see. A tidal wave of bruises, multiple grazes and cuts, a lot of dried blood and what he could only guess had been a gash on your arm. 

You felt his fingers lightly brush some of your hair away from your face, the baby hairs being caked and dried in blood, sticking to your skin. 

You hissed at the pain a little and closed your eyes. 

“Sorry,” Joaquin apologised. Then he let his hands rest by his side. “Tell me where it hurts.”

You just pointed to different places. Without knowing, you’d given him the order he needed to fix and seal your cuts. 

Pulling up a medical table, he found all the supplies he needed already there. “This is gonna hurt, but I’m gonna be as gentle as I can, okay?”

You just nodded. “Okay.”

Joaquin gave you a final nod to assure you before he started on the first cut you had pointed to. He worked in silence, and you were thankful. There had been so much noise rattling through your ears for the past few hours alone, you found a sanctuary in the comfortable silence between yourself and Joaquin. 

Every now and again, a small hiss would leave your lips and he’d quietly apologised. Once he’d finished all the stitches you needed, he started gluing others shut, placing tape over the top to help it remain in place. 

The mission had been planned for almost eighteen months, and a few days ago, everything had been kicking itself up a gear until today. It had been a battle against illegal arms dealers and you’d found yourself stranded alone, the rest of your team racing around the place to either fight someone else, or get out of there whilst they still had the chance. 

Joaquin had, luckily, been with Sam when Sam had gotten a call from Bucky. You were being rushed into the compound for medical treatment. Bucky only got word because Peter had gotten an alert from Friday telling him your information and medical sheet had been rushed through the processor. 

Sam and Joaquin had rushed as quickly as they could towards the compound, leaving Sarah and her two boys at a pizza place Kate had constantly been recommending. 

By the time Sam and Joaquin had landed on the tarmac outside, you were being carted off the jet and into the compound. At the time, you’d been unconscious so when a nurse had come to check on everyone in the waiting room, in order to give an update, everyone was relieved to hear you’d be okay. 

Once Joaquin had finished with the smaller cuts, he moved over towards the sink and started to fill up a bowl with some warm water. Opening the bottom cabinet beside the bed, he reached inside for a clean washcloth, and then he was right back in front of you. 

He was careful as he manoeuvred your head from side to side, dabbing and wiping the dried blood from around your wounds and on your skin. 

“How’s your rib?” 

“Sore,” you answered, your throat dry. 

Laying the dirtied cloth into the bowl when he was finally finished cleaning you up, he walked across the room to the cold cabinet. Walking back over, you watched as he effortlessly cracked the inside packaging before shaking the contents around the bag. Once he had it wrapped in a separate fresh, and dry, washcloth, he stood in front of you again. 

“Can I?”

You just nodded, already lifting your shirt. He helped you, seeing the agony on your face. Letting your arms drop to your side, Joaquin pressed the ice pack to your side and after flinching, you settled into his touch. 

As his other hand rested and warmed the other side of your rib cage, you leaned your head forward, closed your eyes and finally relaxed. 

Joaquin pressed a kiss to your brow after a few moments as he removed his hand from under your shirt and ran his fingers over the length of your hair to move it from your neck to down your back. Meanwhile, he kept the ice pack in its place. 

“Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me, Angel. Not for something like this.” 

Looking up at him, his fingers continued to brush the hair from your face before you leaned up and he met you in the middle, placing a tender kiss on your lips. 

Rolling your lips as the kiss broke apart, you leaned your head against his chest one again, his lips pressing a light kiss to the back of your head as his fingers massage your scalp a little, easing the tension. 

 “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Joaquin could feel the tears in his eyes, threatening to spill forward in silence. 

He didn’t know if you had heard him, his voice having come out in a hushed tone. But the fist that clenched at the t-shirt he wore under his flannel told him otherwise. 

“So am I.”

[22ayla21]

Hi! I have something for Leona.

Could you do Leona with wife reader where she call him by his full name. How he, his family and kids will react. Maybe bonus that Leona try to coax his wife for his to escape the situation.

Love your writing with my whole heart ❤

Full Name - Full Defeat

One innocent snack turns into a catastrophe when Leona realizes that his full name, spoken by his wife, is not just an address, but a sentence.

The heat in the Sunset Savannah was its usual mild and dry self. The day rolled on: the children were playing chess, servants bustled in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Leona... well, Leona was napping after lunch as always. No one batted an eye – it was his established routine, practically a law of life.

Everything was going as usual until a clear and almost ominous voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Leona Kingscholar."

The yard fell silent at once. Even the breeze seemed to quiet down, not wanting to miss a word.

The children, engrossed in a game of chess, froze. The boy slowly raised his eyes from the board where he was setting up the pieces. His sister, only ten minutes older, mouthed:

"Dad's in trouble."

Farena peered into the yard, papers in hand. He had already opened his mouth to say something, but upon hearing his brother's full name, he immediately darted back into the shade, as if observing a scene in the wild jungle where a lion had suddenly encountered an enraged lioness.

Farena's wife raised an eyebrow and said softly:

"She never calls him that. Only if..."

"...he's really messed up," finished Leona and Farena's mother, folding her arms across her chest and fixing her gaze on the kitchen door.

At that very moment, Leona, lazily stretching after his siesta, appeared in the doorway with a plate in his hand. An empty plate. He licked his spoon. Heard his full name. And froze in place.

"What the—?" he began, but stopped short, meeting his wife's gaze.

She stood tall – not very tall, but her look was formidable, her eyes narrowed, and the towel draped over her shoulder seemed not like a kitchen accessory, but a banner of righteous retribution.

"Please repeat," she said in an even, icy tone, "exactly what you just ate?"

"Um..." Leona, who was unfazed by magic, duels, or even Malleus's tantrums, suddenly felt his mouth go dry. "There was a plate there, and... I thought it was up for grabs."

"That was mine. I specifically left half to finish later. You knew that. I said it out loud. Three times. I even pointed at it once."

He scratched the back of his head.

"Well... it looked kind of lonely. And it smelled really good. I didn't want the food to go bad."

"Leona. Kingscholar," she repeated, and this time it wasn't just a voice – it was a tocsin.

A quiet movement began in the yard. The children started to slowly retreat towards the back door.

"Hurry, before Mom starts the lecture on personal boundaries," whispered the daughter, nudging her brother.

"Or, heaven forbid, she brings up 'that mango incident' again," he added with horror.

Farena, hiding behind the curtain, whispered to his wife:

"This is worse than when he spilled sauce on the archive maps. Much worse. At least it wasn't his food that was ruined then."

"She was saving that portion," Farena's wife nodded. "It had smoked meat in it; she specifically asked for it to be made. The chef said there are no supplies for next week."

Meanwhile, Leona, still holding the spoon, tried to force a guilty smile.

"Well, even if you're angry, I'm still your favorite, right?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Leona Kingscholar. You ate my food. Without asking. Without apologizing. Without the slightest remorse. This is – betrayal."

"Oh, come on, that sounds a little too serious..."

"You knew perfectly well how much I wanted to finish it. You heard me. I saw you nod. And then... you. Ate. It. All."

He flattened his ears.

"Sorry..."

She rolled her eyes, turned away, and walked out of the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder:

"Make your own meat today. And look for any remaining conscience you might have."

Leona remained standing in the empty kitchen, ashamed, with the spoon in his hand and the face of a man who had finally realized what he had done.

He turned and saw his whole family watching him from the window.

Farena gave him a thumbs-up.

"Welcome to the club."

His mother sighed heavily.

"Well, at least she remembered his name. He's been getting too lax lately."

And only the children, hiding in the next room, giggled:

"Mom won. Dad's knocked out."

[biancasaidstfu]

I am honestly still laughing over how much they tried. Meeting the contractual obligations while also setting the scene for a least-damage impact situation seems to be their game plan.

Couple of things that stood out for me:

1. The photodump is black and white, but the first one. Look at it carefully. Luke's lip has a hint of red/pink. Look at the other photos. It's not there. Choosing this as the first one seems very intentional in terms of the message they want to send. They are going with the whole look he is in a relationship with her.

2. It's followed by the photo of Luke kissing her WITH HIS EYES OPEN. We have seen him in pure bliss with Nic and that man literally purrs and closes his eyes at her touch! Sorry, but the eyes wide open scream staged.

3. Looks like there were a bit of drinks involved and well, if he has to put up with her presence, I would drink myself to oblivion. I don't think he was drunk at all and that is commendable because I needed a couple of drinks when this whole thing dropped. So drinks helped to tolerate her presence.

4. He cleaned up his insta feed. Archived almost every personal content. It's screaming work-based. So....... Changing the feed content to scream work-based right after dropping the so-called "hard launch" that there is indication that this is all PR

5. The only two personal content in his feed are his 30th b'day celebration and the celebratory cinnamon rolls. Both directly related to the one person. If he was aware of how fake his PR stunts were, he is most definitely aware of the lore behind the cinnamon rolls. It is a very strategic move.

6. He looked hot AF last night. He was giving bad boy vibes. This got me thinking..... With White Mars due to be released before bridgerton, what if his team is trying their best to kill two birds with one stone?

We have Colin Bridgerton who is the sweetest man to ever exist on our screens and what if, the character in White Mars is not the same? He looks like he had some training done and he looks more buff than he does. Imagine with me: Luke playing the hot bad boy vibes villain in White Mars.

These photos kinda give that vibe. I won't say f-boy vibes because that can be interpreted wrongly. It's smolder smolder and bad boy vibes.

7. I knew when Nic took Jake to Cannes, Luke and A will show up with a bigger matchstick. No one was buying what Nic and Jake tried to sell and people have been clocking on Luke's behaviors to the point that the fandom could predict what will happen next. It is widely speculated and hoped that Luke will distance A from anything Bridgerton related.

So what better way to throw a damn fucking granade by bringing her to a Bridgerton related event where Nic was even present and put up the stunt that they did.

8. In an event with many well-known people in the industry, they somehow let her pose solo on the red carpet? If this was a hard fucking launch, why did she pose solo? Why was she named in the images while certain actors weren't? I am a bit confused. Exactly what is her occupation? She is a dancer. We now see her trying to enter the modelling industry, but again, she is nowhere near close to level that will get her recognized on the street. We saw her try the influencer thing, but that didn't work because of her lack of relatability and authenticity. None of her current status/occupation justifies a solo red carpet appearance.

9. Taking the words out of Luke's mouth: "not that big on public displays of affection".......

They expect us to believe that staged photos and video with a woman Luke looked murderous next to? The same one with whom Luke were overheard saying, "let's get this over with" and boogergate? The same one that has been public bully for months without doing anything to defend her?

Yeah, that's right. Because she is not the woman who he is with irl.

10. The lack of any photos between Nic and Luke is so telling. If they were all just good friends, we would have gotten one. No photo is fueling the whole they are feuding claims. I guess this is the best thing to make sure they can sell the L and A content because putting Luke and Nic near each other is like having cupid hover above them all the time and thousands of fairies are born every second they spend together.

11. I feel like the current aim is to burn the fucking thing to the ground and I say this because of Nic's caption. Calling it a "class night", "favourite messers in one room" and "what a night" she has said what she wanted to say without saying it.

12. Nic's latest blocking spree helped with the current narrative that Lukola "isn't real". By blocking mostly Lukolas, she set the stage. It's mind-blowingly genius tbh.

13. I think majority of the fandom got the contractual obligations due date incorrect. Most are assuming it's June after the first papgate. I think not. Infact, I think it will extend well into the summer around the time when the SoHo gang broke up. When all of a sudden they stopped posting Luke on their stories and all and I remember one of them posting about NDAs. Yes, initially the contractual obligations may have started in June, but there was a clear shift in summer. Then there was another shift after Nic got papped with Jake. So I think the obligations will run to a one yr duration from the date that the renegotiations took place at.

14. I don't think we will get the Lukola launch as soon as the obligations end. They are currently in the trenches so I wouldn't be surprised if they take some time to bask in the no obligations period before they launch because they will have to field through media invasion once it happens. We know Luke didn't immediately unfollow Jade when they broke up. I doubt that Luke's team put out the statement the day that they broke up. So I am expecting a similar route to be opted and most importantly, it will be at Luke and Nic's own terms.

15. BAFTAs. I am calling it. Nic will either take her mom or her sister. I can't imagine her turning up to one of the most important award shows of her career where she is favoured to win, without someone from her family present.

50/50 on whether Luke will take A, but after the pre BAFTAS stunt, I would say they might double down and have her at the actual event. It would be such a cruel twist of fate if it does and in that case, whatever A has on Luke is HUGE and I will die on that hill.

16. If all of that is false and if Luke is really with her, I have lost my respect and admiration for him and it has nothing to do with her. It has everything to do with Luke.

The big names of Hollywood are dating people/married to people and they still do the press yours and all that with their co-stars. There is chemistry there, but they never deny that they have an irl partner/girlfriend/boyfriend. The teams don't say that they are "publicly single". They appear on red carpets together during the promos itself and are respectful for the partners.

What we saw on bridgerton WT goes beyond PR. Those acts, the things they said and the way they behaved would be extremely disrespectful to their partners if they are in a relationship with other people. The reception to the adjacents have been brutal. Nic has subtly spoken up about it while Luke has chosen pindrop silence. We know that Luke has no issue clarifying what he wants to, as he did with the cake one. So if Luke really is in a relationship with her, he hasn't treated her right. Sorry, but that's a fact.

17. Nic and Jake is a whole other topic that I have quite a lot to say about. The difference is, Nic and Jake are part of their friends circle. There is so many photos and videos to prove that they belong to the same friend group. My only issue is that having seen so many indications that Jake belongs to the LGTBQTIA+ community, letting the public speculate on Jakola, for the sake of upholding the contractual obligations Luke has to uphold, is very grey.

If for example, Jake volunteered for it and is willing to go along with it, then great. Especially if he is not ready to disclose information about his sexuality and if by this narrative, he is allowed time to be who he is, then fine. At the same time, Nic being such a vocal activist for the Queer community, people can perceive it differently. Some already do. It's a very grey area with no right and wrong because yes, if it is PR, there is a mutual understanding from both parties but at the same time, it is deceiving. It's inauthentic. It goes against what everyone associates Nic with.

I mean they can say that they never confirmed the relationship and that it was the public and the media who did so, but at the same time, people can bring up the fact that they do have the resources and manpower to correct the public narrative. The issue is RN they are not only not correcting the narrative, but they are fueling it.

Shit-stirrers indeed.

Then again, I always remember Nic saying I'm an interview with Aimee that she would never do anything for her haters. She didn't take her driving license because a dude yelled at her and she decided to be a forever passenger princess. So I think one of the reasons why she is leaning to the Jake narrative is because it's already out there and that it pisses the hell out of some people.

At the end of the day, it isn't looking good for Nic either. If she is really with Jake, she has behaved as inappropriately and as disrespectfully as Luke did. She hasn't treated him right. Also there is the added layer of Nic being a woman and girls girl and the optics are just bad because why would she encourage such an action from Luke if he was really with another woman?

18. I have spent hours rewatching their interactions, the interviews, what other people have said about Luke and Nic. There is 99% chance of them being together irl and only 1% chance of point 16 & 17 being true. We probably will never get the full story tbh. I think a lot of the messiness could have been avoided and it all comes down to the PR execution of this whole charade.

19. We know the teams are lurking around. I think some of us have come too close to the truth which is complicating things obligation wise and so we are being served with what we are rn. Smokescreens are no longer enough as the scales are tipped so much in favor for Lukola that the only thing they can do is just watch the whole damn thing burn to the fucking ground.

20. This is the endgame. It's about to be messy, but they don't seem to have much choices. I think what they want is to just let it burn and not have it overanalyzed so that when they want to rebuild, there is less holes to patch up. So, I am going to give them the grace that they are the actors we saw and fell in love with because of their incredible talent, chemistry and authenticity. If space is what they need, space they shall get. Fuck it all, I would make a Luke and A fan page if that's what it's going to help them fulfill Luke's obligations. Just give us a sign and I swear, Polin fans and Lukola fans will do whatever is needed to get this fucking over with

👏👏👏

Perfect anon.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

A villain that’s very protective of their hero

A tear ran down their temple when the hero woke up.

"I..." Their throat tightened. It hurt. All of it hurt. As they realised they were covered in dust, their eyes teared up even more, washing the dirt off their face in clear slim lines. They couldn't see much, but there were little rays of sunshine pushing through the concrete above and to their sides, revealing the villain on top of them.

The hero had to swallow, clear their mind. The villain stared at nothing in particular, not even the hero under them. They looked like they were concentrating, but the hero knew that look too well: the villain was in surging pain.

Their washed-out eyes were wide open and there was blood sticking onto their hair. The hero couldn't tell for how long they had been unconscious, but the villain seemed to have been awake the entire time.

Apparently, not even a building collapsing on top of them could destroy them.

The hero stared at them, stared at that face shape, those shoulders, those eyes. Was that it? Were they ultimately going to die together? Right here?

The hero didn't have any energy left in them to lift a finger, at least of all chunks of concrete. Their muscles burnt and they were sure several bones of theirs were broken. They continued to observe their enemy. Their enemy who had saved them. Without them, everything left of the hero would be mushed-up heroism and a torn cape. How was it even possible that the both of them were alive?

"How are you holding up?" the hero whispered. They were sure they had mere minutes before the villain's arms would give out. Mere minutes before the villain would collapse just like the building.

At first, the villain didn't answer. Their arms were shaking. They took in a deep breath.

"My kidneys are definitely done for," they said eventually. Their voice was raspy, their breathing quick. "And my leg is broken. You think some of your friends will come to our rescue?"

"If we can hold on for like ten more minutes, maybe. That's a big if, though." The villain nodded or maybe the hero imagined it, after all their view was extremely limited. "Why'd you do that? You could have saved yourself."

The villain finally looked at them and the hero's chest hurt more than before.

"...how could I not?" they asked.

"No, please, don't do that-"

"You're my everything. I do all of it because of you. I show up to see you, I mess up to see you, I fight to see you."

"Please," the hero begged. They couldn't bear a confession now. They couldn't watch the villain die because of them. "Please don't say that. Please tell me you hate me and it was a mistake or instinct."

"You know that's not true." The villain's blood ran down their side and dribbled onto the hero. They moaned softly. "You know that's not true, not even a little bit."

The villain let out a sharp breath and the hero could tell they were breaking down slowly. Growing weaker while the concrete grew heavier.

Tears gathered in the hero's eyes anew.

"I can't do this," the hero said. "You can't leave me, please. I am so scared. I am so-"

They choked on the words. There wasn't much space for either of them, but the hero managed to push their arm up and although some of their fingers were certainly broken, they touched the villain's cheek.

"Are you getting claustrophobic?" the villain asked gently. Their arms were trembling and more and more blood was running down their sides. The hero knew the villain could barely hold it together and they didn't seem to realise that the hero was rather getting thanatophobic. Even now, the villain remembered that the hero was a little uncomfortable in tight spaces, but the lack of space was their last problem right now. "Don't worry. I am here."

And there it was.

Blood coming out of the villain's mouth.

"I am here, please don't cry," the villain said. "I am right here."

The hero tried to hold back their sobs, but it made everything a little harder.

"I am so tired," the villain whispered. They closed their eyes for a second. "Please, can I lay down? Just for a minute or two. My back hurts so much."

"Yes, come here," the hero answered. Their bottom lip quivered.

But they were more than ready to share the weight the villain had protected them from.

pt. 2

[saladscream]

Alas, the best things do come to an end eventually, and they’d been riding side by side all morning, mostly in companionable silence, when disaster struck under the form of Arthur believing himself to be subtly clever. “So, Merlin…” he began in a teasing tone that made the back of Merlin’s neck prickle in warning. “How about you tell me of that mystery man of yours?” “That mystery man of mine…” Merlin echoed flatly. “Yes. The one who tickles your fancy. Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes,” the prince admonished with all the self-confidence of the deluded prat. “Come on, you can tell me.” Merlin glanced his way and pursed his lips, gauging how far he could take the charade. “Oh well,” he said. “You know him better than I do.” “How so?” “Because he only dwells in your imagination.” Arthur made a rude disparaging noise, then went on, “I don’t know why you’re being so secretive, Merlin. You know you can’t keep a secret for long. You’re a natural blabbermouth.” “A blabbermouth?” Merlin said as he ducked a low branch. “Still better than being a dollophead.” “Now see? That’s obfuscation. And it’s not working.” “Damn, now you’re waving around the big words.” To which Arthur only gave Merlin a side look and a smirk. “He’s a knight,” the prick announced with perverse relish. Merlin frowned, a bit nonplussed. “What makes you think that?” “Oh I just know,” Arthur said smugly. “A fine knight with blonde hair, blue-eyes, impeccable manners, big calloused hands…” Merlin’s heart wedged itself just a tiny bit sideways in his throat. “He sounds good, when do I meet him?” he asked without so much as a tremor in his voice. “Well, he could’ve been travelling with you right this instant had you not been so damn difficult.” And then everything began to slot horribly into place. “What the… You tried to set me up with one of your bloody knights?!” Merlin blurted out in disbelief. “And you think I’m besotted with Leon? Or Erwan? What is wrong with you?!” “They’re the finest knights in Camelot!” And Arthur had the gall to blush and look offended by his finding fault with his choice. “And they’re both blonde,” he added with a supreme pout. “What the hell does that have to do with ANYTHING?!” The cry of utter outrage scared away the birds in the surrounding trees. “You like blondes.” “Less and less by the second!” And thank goodness, at least Arthur had the intelligence to seem insulted by that. “God…” Merlin shook his head. Just when he thought the man couldn’t be anymore of an idiot, he just had to outdo himself. “Seriously. Erwan?” “The man worships the ground you walk on,” Arthur argued the most naturally in the world. “And he’s the most adorable killing machine I’ve ever met.” “Oh because that’s obviously what makes me go weak at knees. An adorable killing machine.” Merlin rolled his eyes loudly, then cleared his throat a little when something in his chest gave a guilty wobble. “Well, go on then, educate me if you will. What makes you go weak at the knees?” the cabbagehead scowled. “That’s personal.” “I’m beginning to think you have no idea yourself.” “And I’m beginning to think a lifetime of strict abstinence is looking more and more like a desirable option if it saves me from the horrors of a matchmaking prince.”

This excerpt was brought to you by The Arduous Taming of a Difficult Prat to celebrate the 3k-hit milestone. I know it's ridiculous and terribly vain on my part, but it makes me happy. 🥳😘❤️

(btw, this excerpt is taken from 2/3 into the fic: you'll have a loooong slow burn of a slog to go through before the boys are actually this forthcoming... 😅)

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

payneland + 22

Thank you for the prompt! Here's some post-canon, pre-slash Payneland:

22. “...you knew?”

CW: Referenced homophobia

They don’t talk about it, until there’s nothing to do but talk.

Charles isn’t sure how long they’ve been trapped in this iron cage; there aren’t any windows in their prison and it’s not like they need to eat or sleep. Their captors took Charles’s bag, his cricket bat, and Edwin’s notebook when they threw them in there, so there’s nothing to do to keep them occupied. There’s not even enough room for Charles to pace; the cage is barely large enough for them to both stand chest-to-chest without touching the iron bars.

So they talk, because Charles would go mental otherwise. They talk about Charles’s dad and Hell and Port Townsend and losing Niko. They reminisce about past cases. They speculate about how much Crystal and the Night Nurse are probably driving each other mad right now. And finally, when it seems there’s nothing left to talk about, they revisit the elephant that’s been hanging between them for six months now.

“I wasn’t sure if you would ever want to see me again after I told you,” Edwin says quietly, nearly a whisper. The basement is pitch dark; even though their faces are only centimeters apart, Charles can’t make out his expression.

Charles is surprised by how much that hurts. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you again?”

“Because back in my day, what I told you would have been unconscionable.”

“Well, it’s not your day anymore, is it?” Charles shakes his head. “You really thought I’d go all the way to Hell for you, then leave you on the steps?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t know if you’d want anything to do with me after we escaped.” Edwin blows out a frustrated breath. “You must understand, none of this was something to be spoken of when I was alive. It wasn’t even to be thought of. When people like me were spoken of, it was because we were the subject of scandal, condemnation, and usually criminal charges. There weren’t people like Crystal running around with flags.”

“Yeah, I get that, mate,” Charles says. Not even the happy memory of Crystal and Edwin arguing when she wanted to hang up a pride flag in the office is enough to distract him. “But I told you, didn’t I? It doesn’t matter one bit to me. It wasn’t really a surprise, to be honest.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say even before Edwin’s voice goes shrill with indignation. “You knew?”

“Not about you being in love with me,” Charles says quickly. “Didn’t see that one coming, trust me. But I mean, I could guess you were… not a ladies’ man.”

“Not a ladies’ man,” Edwin echoes. “How did you know”

Charles doesn’t know how to answer that, because the truth was, he just sort of… assumed. There was something about Edwin that always reminded him of Mr. Wright, the man who’d lived two doors down from him when he was a kid. He’d always seemed like a nice enough bloke, but his father sneered at him and forbade Charles from riding his bike past his house alone. It wasn’t until Charles was older that he realized that the quiet man who lived with Mr. Wright probably wasn’t just his roommate.

“I don’t know, mate,” he finally says. “Guess I just know you, don’t I?”

“Everyone always knew, back when I was alive.” Edwin doesn’t sound indignant now, just tired. “The way I walked, the way I spoke, the way I stood.  That was why Simon…”

He trails off, but Charles knows what he was going to say next. Days ago—at least Charles assumes it was days, but it may have been weeks by now—Edwin finally told him the whole story of how he died. Charles got so angry, he punched the bars of the cage and barely noticed when they burned his hand.

“They were fucking idiots,” Charles says fiercely. “All of them.”

“Of course they were, Charles. They accidentally summoned a demon as a prank. They were hardly Britain's greatest minds.”

“No, because they were shitty to you because of the way you stood.” Charles reaches up to put his hands on Edwin’s shoulders, just like he did on the stairs out of Hell, smoothing his thumbs over his collarbones. “Listen, you have to know that there’s nothing you could ever tell me that would make me never want to see you again, yeah? Nothing. You’re my best mate. That’s never going to change.”

He hears Edwin’s throat click as he swallows. “Never say never.”

“No, I will bloody well say never,” Charles says firmly. “Our friendship survived you not liking ska. It will survive anything.”

That earns him a small laugh.

Charles’s chest feels tight with a thousand emotions he can’t put a name to yet. “And I think you being in love with me is brills, okay?”

“You do?” Edwin sounds gobsmacked, which makes Charles smile. He likes taking his partner by surprise. Doesn't happen often, does it?

“I mean, it’s just… flattering, you know?” Charles’s face is warm, which is weird. Ghosts aren’t supposed to get flushed. Did he touch the iron bars without noticing? “Because you’re aces and if you love me, then I must be pretty great too, yeah?”

“Like I said in Port Townsend, you’re the best person I know,” Edwin says, voice going soft again.

Yeah, it’s definitely too warm in here. Time to get out of this bloody cage. “And at least you’re not in love with the Cat King or that bloody crow.”

Edwin lets out a huff of laughter. “I suppose it could be worse.”

Charles feels like there’s more to say, because Edwin’s got to know how much he means to him, but before he can find the right words, there’s a horrible wrenching noise, followed by a crash, as if the door has been ripped off the cage. Charles whirls around, arm thrown out to defend Edwin, ready to take on these wankers with his bare hands if he has to—

“For goodness’s sake.” The Night Nurse’s voice rings through the darkness. “I do not know how on earth the two of you managed before Crystal and I came along. Getting dragged to Hell, kidnapped by witches, and locked in cages. What a way to run a business.”

Charles’s shoulders sag with relief as Edwin makes an offended noise behind him. “Would you believe that we used to not get kidnapped all that often?”

“No,” she says flatly. “Now, come along, let’s get the two of you out of here before you manage to get into more trouble.”

***

Angst and Hurt/Comfort Prompts

[mustyrosewater]

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐚

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3,424

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when she went missing, disappeared without a trace, it was almost like a deep seated black hole found it's way into rhetts chest, as he recalls all his time spent with her admist trying to find answers, the deep seated energy of the cursed lands they live on come apart to make way for lovers to find each other again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: reader haunting the narrative, missing persons, religious themes, supernatural elements if you squint. narrative told through time skips and flashbacks.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so the lewis pullman resurgence seems to have pulled me out of my cave, i can't promise ill be back to publishing on a regular occurence, but my ethel cain love has seemed to have pried this out of me. inspirations of a southern gothic nature, ethel cains music, and the movie lake mungo. if you guys get invested enough in this i'll release part two.

the dull hot wind is the only sound finding its way through the window opened only a crack, blowing the ripped white cotton curtains back and fourth softly, the peeling white paint around the window frame catching the early morning rays in a way that almost makes it look like a painting. 

even in the cramped single bed with a spring mattress that creak with every minute movement made, they’re so still that no sound emerges from its springs. in this moment, nothing exists outside of this old bedroom, nothing except the pair of them achieving what some might consider peace, or at least whatever semblance of peace they could find in between the hellscape of a small christian town they live in together.

she smells like bar soap and the old antique perfume she’s had for god knows how long that never seems to run out, the cotton dress splayed over her body practically soaking up the scent which he makes a point of resting his nose against, his eyes shut softly as he feel’s her fingers running across his scalp, his head resting on her chest as he feels the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the slow heartbeat seemingly matching pause with his own to create a song unlike any he’s ever heard before. 

maybe this is what they meant whenever they mentioned heaven, not some pair of pearly golden gates with a swarm of angelic choirs, maybe heaven was just this bedroom in her folks old farmhouse that they’d lived in for generations, maybe heaven was him resting atop her as she played with his hair absentmindedly and stared out the window to the field staring back at her with an overwhelming silence.

she felt like the mountains were watching her, like they were their own conscious being’s with such wisdom that would never match her own, guardians watching everybody live and die, countless stories they could never tell. 

his eyes finally opened to stare across at her, the concern on her face seemingly breaking him out of the trance he was stuck in; this is how it always was when he was with her, he’d spend hours in her arms only for it to feel like minutes, lying in the arms of a creature like her, sometimes it felt as if he was looking across at the face of god, yet he knew how much trouble such a statement could get him in with her ma and pa, if they even knew about the pair of them. 

so many nights climbing in and out of her window, fleeting moments and time spent together going down the drain quicker than he ever wanted it to, he wanted to get the fuck out of here, take her with him, go wherever his truck would take them. 

he could see the worry in her eyes, the way she stared out the window like she knew something was coming that she couldn’t stop, some unmovable and unchangeable fate that she couldn’t run from if she tried.

when her head finally turned to face him, he could see the look of concern in her eyes now changed to sheer horror, her mouth opening but no sound coming out as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

rising from his resting place on her chest, just as he lifted his hand to place a hand on her cheek, he felt his hand fall into nothing, darkness overtaking anything he could see as the sudden feeling of falling intruded upon his senses like a wash of ice cold water. 

-

4:02 AM

the red numbers across from him on his side table glared into his vision, the dull red light only filling up a small amount of his bedroom as he awoke with a soft gasp, his eyes looking around wildly for a few moments as he sat up quickly; trying desperately to find her in his bed where he could have sworn she had been only moments ago.

the reality of where he was came crashing down on him as his eyes flutter closed, the ramming thumping of his heart beat trying its hardest to crawl its way out of his chest as he lifted a hand to his face, the feeling of sweat across his skin bringing him back down to earth.

every time he had that dream, it always felt like he got closer every damn time, that maybe he’d finally be able to touch her and hold her.

maybe this time he’d be able to bring her back with him, out of his dreams and back into his arms where she belonged. 

everybody in town had tried to tell him that she’d skipped town, that she was probably my halfway across the country with a new name and a new identity. 

it wasn’t uncharacteristic of the people in this place to try and bury the memory of that they didn’t understand, try to pretend like it never even existed in the first place; they sure as hell never understood her, even he didn’t sometimes. sometimes when he’d look in her eyes, he had no idea what was looking back at him, what sort of secrets lied behind those pools and what was she trying to run from. 

the sheriff’s effort was minimal when it came to investigating her disappearance, extending as far as putting up a few missing posters with a photo of her standing smiling in the church choir, the smile on her face doing nothing to off set the look that was always ever present in her eyes, the picture always being more haunting than fond to him. 

it seemed that he was the only one who wasn’t content to just let her fade into obscurity, for the missing posters to just become another face in the crowd to be forgotten, the image of her continued to remain burned into his mind, his every waking moment taken up by questions of where she was, what happened, was she okay? 

it had been like this every day since she hadn’t shown up to church on sunday, concern seeming to rise with her folks when she’d remained gone since that morning, unsure if she’d even come home that night.

it wasn’t the missing church that had made rhett start to feel that pit of dread in his stomach, it was the fact that she hadn’t been to see him. 

as far as he’d been told, all her possessions were left behind in her room, nothing was missing save for the silver cross she always wore around her neck, the only thing she would never leave the house writhing, the cross he’d held between his fingers as she lay beneath him many a night, looking up at him like he was an angel. 

when she was officially declared missing, he’d be unable to hide his reaction, his jaw tensing when her ma had relayed all the details to him with a shaky voice when she’d come by to ask if he’d seen her, citing that she’d seen her chatting to him after church once or twice. 

if only her poor old ma had known just how deep their connection went, just how much her daughter’s disappearance was causing bile to feel like it was rising in his throat, a black hole growing larger and larger the longer she was gone. 

it like she’d simply ceased to exist, like she was there one moment and the next not. but he knew that didn’t happen, people don’t just fade out of existence and never return. she had to be somewhere out there, somewhere waiting for him. 

seven weeks later, and her absence was still a constant presence leering over him at all times, seeing her missing posters as he drove past the bus stop in his rusted truck, seeing her folks farmhouse up on the hill as he drove across the dirt road back to his own home. 

he’d taken the time to visit her folk’s every now and then, convincing himself he wanted to see how they were holding up, telling himself you would have wanted him to make sure they were doing okay; once every few weeks became once a week, which then became every three days. he’d bring them groceries when they needed them, even stayed to make sure her ma would actually eat, the grief of her lost daughter seeming to place her in a downward spiral. 

her pa wasn’t handling it any better, spending his every waking hour in the shed out back, isolating himself from everyone around him and refusing to speak to anybody save for a sentence or two, most of all rhett. 

he could make sure her ma was okay at the very least, even if it meant sitting with her in the kitchen as she showed him through photo albums looking over childhood photos of her standing ankle deep in the lake down the hill from her house, her face frozen in a laugh as she held her white church dress up away from the water. 

the pain was like a hot knife searing across his throat, keeping himself composed even as her poor mother shed her tears for her lost daughter, joining his hand with hers in a prayer even if he never thought of himself as a particularly godly man. 

yet even now, sending off his prayers to a god he didn’t believe in hardly seemed like a fool’s act, silently promising that if he could find his way back to her, that he’d never question again, never stop going to church till he was too old to walk, and even then, he’d damn well crawl. 

when he’d first seen her standing in the family graveyard across the field, he’d thought it was his own mind playing tricks on him, convincing himself that the lack of sleep from staying up all night with a grieving mother had made him so weary to the point he was now seeing the flow of her white church dress in the distant darkness of the night. 

when he’d blinked, turning his head completely to face the eerie site of the uneven headstones sticking into the ground, there was nothing there, only the reeds growing out of the hollow ground flowing silently in the cool autumn wind. 

as he’d climbed back into his truck and slammed the door shut, he taken a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel, a deep sigh emerging from his ribs as he tried to reason with himself, assure himself that he wasn’t going nuts, a trick of the light shining down on the farm by the half moon was all it was. 

the land around here had a strange way of playing tricks on people, sometimes it felt like the ground itself was breathing, like standing in the back of a giant. the tree’s were ancient the mountains even more so, some used to say that there were forces at play that would drive even the most sane man to do unspeakable acts. 

maybe the land itself had swallowed her up and stole her from him, claiming its pound of flesh in order to keep some undisturbed force at bay. 

if that had been the case, he would have gladly allowed himself to be swallowed up with her. 

he truly hadn’t mean to go looking, he’d insisted with himself that it was purely because the police weren’t doing enough, having essentially filed her away to the depths of a cabinet to be forgotten. he told himself that if he just went a little further, he might finally be able to have her back in his arms safe and happy just like he always had. 

sometimes going looking results in more questions than answers, even worse so, answers to questions you’d never think to ask. 

he didn’t know what he’d expected to find as he stalked through the tree line near her families home, his eyes peering from top to bottom as he searched for any sign of her presence, any little detail that could give him insight into where she’d gone. 

even if it had turned up with nothing, he could at least find some semblance of peace knowing there was nothing to be found. 

and yet, he had done so little to prepare himself for the possibility that something would find him. 

hanging across a branch in the distance, catching the sunlight in a way that had managed to catch his eye instantly, swinging softly in the wind, was that exact same silver cross, swaying back and fourth with a soft almost silent jingling as the silver chain collided with itself. 

moving in an abnormal way for the noticeable lack of wind, he took little notice of its almost unnatural movements, only able to let out a pained sound as he wrapped his hands around the chain and pulled it from its place hanging on a thin branch. 

from its placement, all the way to the harsh movements, he couldn’t help but feel like she was calling for him, reaching out of the darkness and pleading with him to find her, a silent scream for help. 

-

12:38 am 

Running the delicate silver chain along his finger tips, he’d made little effort to fight back the emotion of finding the necklace, his throat on fire with the tears he let fall, he couldn’t even tell himself if it was because he was grateful to finally have a piece of her back with him for the first time in months, almost as if her energy was practically radiating off of the metal, or if he was more terrified of the implications that came with it.

He refused to ask himself the why’s and the hows of the necklace ending up hung on a tree in the woods, only promising himself that he’d return to those woods again tomorrow, try and see if there was anything else to be found that might tell him even a little bit more about what happened to her. 

Staring up at the dull cream coloured ceiling of his bedroom, he could only pull the cross over his head and let it rest over his heart as he held his hand over it and tried to fill his mind with happier memories of her, anything that could alleviate from the horrifying images that his mind was playing back like a reel, swimming in a pool of all the things that could have happened to her, trying to believe they weren’t true.

-

It had been a muggy night in the summer when they’d first crossed path’s, even though it was late in the evening, the small town was still brimming with the occasional sound of children yelling out, finally allowed to stay out a little later in the evening to do whatever it is that the young ones did nowadays.

He was hardly excluded from a summer night of activities just like everybody else, seemingly wanting to take advantage of the warm nights while they still could, before they were sucked back into a cold dark winter that brought with it early sundowns and frostbitten mornings. 

The warm summer evening’s brought with it a populace of folk trying to beat the hot night air by venturing down to the lake just down the road from the church, a freshwater sanctuary hidden by tree’s that went barely touched save for the summer months.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d spotted the group of teens running down towards the church as he’d passed in his truck, headlights clearing the dirt road in front of him, revealing what the moonlight couldn’t. 

In his defense, he’d hardly ever needed to pay much attention to the road at hours as late as this.

The stream of white suddenly in front of him had him slamming his foot on the brake so hard that it lurched him forward, a painful reminder of the seatbelt he’d clipped in earlier which dug into his collar. 

With wide set eyes and his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white, he allowed to headlights to make the image in front of him clearer, his heart ramming in his ears so hard he could barely even hear the rumble of the engine.

She’d might as well have been a deer in headlights, her white dress flowing against the soft warm wind as she held a towel closely to her chest, almost as if it would have been a barrier between her and the truck had he not stepped on the break soon enough.

Her wide set eyes focusing on him were quickly moved to the other side of the road, the sound of amused screeches of other girls ringing out as one of her friends ran across to grip her wrist and pull her the rest of the way across the road, playfully calling her an idiot as she urged her to move. 

Her friends amusement at the prospect of her being hit by a car wasn’t as distracting as the fact that as she began to run the rest of the way across the road and towards the lake just down the hill, she turned suddenly and looked back at him through his passenger side window, an unreadable look crossing over her features as the world suddenly seemed to move in slow motion.

The truck didn’t start moving again until she was completely out of sight, disappearing over the hill and completely out of rhett’s field of view, seemingly entranced by the sight of her white dress shining against the field’s in the moonlight. 

The next time he’d seen her had been at the church at the top of the hill. Even if we wasn’t in attendance himself, he’d offered to fix the broken fence surrounding the almost decrepit building, something to keep him busy, probably didn’t hurt that it kept him in the church folk’s good graces, considering just how many of them were littered around the town. 

He was never one for religion, never saw much point in prayer, he’d been under the belief that life dishes out what it does, and that you could only move on and make the most of it for as long as he could remember. But it wasn’t his place to judge what people did to bring themselves any small comfort when it came to the ups and downs throughout, if somebody could gather any form of faith that made things make just a little more sense, he couldn’t blame them.

When that same white church dress came into his peripheral vision like a ghost, he couldn’t have not looked, almost like the wind was singing to him, urging him to look up from the particularly stubborn nail he was trying to pry out of the wood and catch sight of the angel stood at the entrance of the church.

The sounds of shuffling and footsteps seemed to signify that the service was coming to an end, the chattering sounds of voices beginning to grow louder and louder as people began to leave.

It was that same goddamn pair of eyes on him, just as they had been when she’d been stood in front of the headlights of his truck, only this time paired witha tilted head as she seemed to observe him from a distance, her expression once more unreadable, only before the soft smile came across her plush lips when they’d made eye contact. 

He’d stood from where he was kneeling like a reflex, taking a moment to adjust the cap sat on his head, never once breaking the eye contact shared between them, silent yet such an exchange of energy that speaking could never achieve, an unknowable interaction shared only between the two of them.

That was the day he’d finally learnt her name, when he’d heard the sound of her mother calling it from inside, finally causing a break in their eye contact as she turned her head to smile at her mother walking out and taking her daughters arm, the pair stepping down the small set of wooden stairs and onto the dirt ground. 

He’d made a point to look away, just as a matter of politeness, yet because he knew what church folk were like, especially with their daughters, and he could only imagine what it might look like if he was caught staring at her like a bobcat stared at jackrabbit. 

-

4:02 AM. 

[allofnypeaches]

I love a lot of things about the hunger games trilogy, but by far my favorite part of reading the books is how suzanne collins manages to use katniss' unreliability as a narrator as an advantage that improves the reading experience instead of limiting the readers' interpretation of the facts. I think about how when reading other first-person narrated books I am always conditioned to perceiving things the way they are presented to me by the narrator, without me even realizing it, and how that - obviously - reflects how every story has multiple sides to it and whatnot. but the hunger games, despite having a very biased narrator, manages to paint us a picture that is wider than katniss' view somehow. I haven't fully figured this out yet, but I think it's a combination of the following things that make this possible;

#1: Katniss, although very young and at times naive and blinded by fear, survival instincts, propaganda and most of the time just sheer confusion because of all the information that is kept from her, is very skeptical of everything. she rarely ever takes things at face value (even when she should, like when peeta shows his feelings for her), and is always questioning, pondering the different motives behind things, the possibilities and outcomes of what could happen if x thing meant y instead of z. and yes, her hypothesizing is often inconclusive - which is very understandable for someone in her situation - but it invites us to question things and hypothesize about them on our own, and through context clues that she may sometimes miss or misinterpret, we are sometimes able to piece together entire puzzles of the narrative before she does, and that is simply delightful to experience, while simultaneously not spoiling anything either, because it makes us anxious to see how and when she will realize what we already know.

a few examples include, but are not limited to :

- realizing that Peeta is madly in love with her before she even considers that possibility

- realizing that Madge genuinely likes her, as well as her entire family, and that they're actually friends before she admits this

- seeing through Gale's words and knowing he has romantic feelings for her before that ever crosses her mind

- thinking that the people in 12 are definitely looking out for her and Prim in any way they can (with their extremely limited resources and freedom) before she gets suspicious of that fact

- realizing how much of a symbol of hope and rebellion she is to Panem before she is told so (that's the most obvious one though)

- comprehending her mother's reaction (or lack thereof) to her father's death before she can see past the resentment in catching fire

- seeing that Gale brings out the worst in her at times, and seeing that he's constantly pressuring her when she's already holding the weight of the world on her shoulders, and how that makes him a bad friend, who, by the way, doesn't see her as a friend at all especially after the first games

- piecing together how terrible Coin is and how she needs to be eliminated just as much as Snow for the war to end before Katniss fully accepts that reality (she is the least oblivious to this one)

- realizing that Squad 451 don't actually believe that Coin gave her a mission in Mockingjay, but they're following her anyway because they want to, long before they tell her that

- watching her fall in love with Peeta, develop deep feelings of love and desire for him, while she is always either excusing it as something else, or too confused/oblivious/naive to see it

#2: the characters around Katniss never seem one-dimensional because of how empathetic she naturally is. because of how much she treats everyone like multi-faceted human beings as complex as she is, we are invited to wonder about those characters' feelings very deeply, and to interpret their actions accordingly, which greatly diminishes the potential for mischaracterization if the person reading actually exercises at least 1% of their critical thinking. this also goes for the system that she lives in, the culture she grows up in and the overall symbolism of things throughout the books. because of how well everything is presented, we don't need Katniss to tell us straight up how manipulative, coniving, dirty, cruel and tyrannic the government is, we can see this time and time again, in small and big things, from her odd description of things she's never seen/tried before showing us how isolated the districts are from eachother and how precarious their living situations are, to her talking about how traumatic her father's death was for her making us wonder if it was actually an accident. she doesn't have to connect the dots for us to wonder about the limited genetic pool of district 12, or about her father's extensive knowledge, where it came from and why he passed it all down to her, why he documented it in a book. it's like there is always a door open into the lives of others, into the things they believe in, into what the past of what that world was like, and if you're just willing to go through that door, the universe within the books greatly expands.

and that is all extremely intentional, too. Suzanne is trying to tell us that it is always worth it to look past our own lenses, to question things, to not be susceptible to manipulation and propaganda, to look beyond what we are shown and see the world, and the people in it, for what they truly are instead of always being limited by our own perspective of things. it's just so beautifully and masterfully written, and it will never stop being relevant. that's why these are my favorite books ever.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Can I request reader helping calm down series ENA when she’s in full sad mode, if you haven’t written it before? I just really want to hug her and tell her everything is going to be okay. :(

To say that Ena's emotions were like a box of chocolates would be a grave understatement.

It'd be much more accurate to instead say they were like "a pandora's box of chocolates", as she could be in a relatively normal (or at least "normal" by her standards) or a relatively awful state of mind. And you wouldn't have a clue until you saw her.

Today, you stopped by her place to visit her and Moony. It was a perfectly average afternoon, nothing too significant going on, so you figured spending it with your girlfriend and friend was fine.

But unfortunately, you'd come to discover that what came out of that metaphorical box...was an emotion you hoped to never see again.

Full, unbridled, uncontrollable sadness.

You knew something was wrong when Moony called you up in a panic, and you could hear Ena crying in the background and unwillingly converting her friend's words into white noise.

So when you arrived, it wasn't any surprise when the celestial entity swung the door open on the first knock. Her mannequin arm practically dragged you inside the house, closing it behind you in seconds, as her eye remained wide. "Where have you been, dude?!! I've been calling you for HOURS!!"

You were about to correct her with "you actually called me five minutes ago", when the sight of your grayed-out girlfriend stomping around the living room without having any sense of direction--or any acknowledgement of your presence--made you reconsider.

Now you understood why Moony was so panicked. "Ena?? How long has she been like that?"

"Forget it! We gotta evacuate the premises now! She's gone AWOL, I fear."

"No, no. I...got an idea." You shook your head. "She'll listen to me. I've gotten her out of that mood before."

"Yeah? Well good luck." She grunted, watching you approach Ena cautiously. She stayed by the window in case she had to break through to escape, but curiosity made her linger long enough to see how you handled this situation.

At some point, your arms managed to surround the polygonal woman before she could ram headfirst into the wall, stopping her dead in her tracks. "Ena, it's me. I'm here. I'm here now." You try to tell her.

But she didn't instantly recognize your touch, and she felt even more overwhelmed and wanted whoever was making her feel like this to go away forever. So she began thrashing around violently, blocky fists hitting your body--although they were rather soft, not doing any actual damage.

It made you wonder if she subconsciously knew it was you...but couldn't do anything, as she wasn't in total control over herself right now.

You knew that, and you didn't waver, keeping your hold on her firm. Her muffled screaming and glitched-out sobbing created a symphony of unpleasantness that'd make anyone's ears bleed, yet you were willing to endure it all if it meant she'd recognize you through her tantrum.

"Ena, it's me." You repeated, softer this time. "I'm here now, love. It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Luckily, your words seemed to be taking effect as her fists slowly stopped hitting you, eventually bringing them back in front of her. And for a moment she was still, attempting to speak your name, which you could hear despite all the garbled mess.

"Yes. It's me." You pulled away a little, gently taking her wrists and looking at the tearful triangular eyes on the back of them. The two halves of her mouth were full of static, hence why it's so difficult for her to talk. "You can see me, right? I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

She just sniffled, and you glanced up at her blank face. On the empty canvas, you saw hints of blue and yellow trying to reappear as small glitches and static overlay. It made you think the worst was finally coming to an end. "Ena?"

"Mmm...m-mhmmm....U̴W̸A̸A̶A̶A̶H̸H̴A̸A̸A̶!!!" Just like that, her full-sadness took over again as she ripped her hands out of yours and covered her face with them instead.

But instead of having another violent fit, she seemed to accept that you were actually here, and not some stranger, as she melted into your embrace, wanting to hide away from the world. Like you were the only thing anchoring her to reality right now (and in truth, you were indeed).

You decided to sit down on the couch, holding her closely, grateful that you've gotten through to her before she could bring any harm to herself or others. Immediately, you felt her tears soaking through your shirt as she sobbed into your chest, curling up into a ball.

After that initial startling wail, she was a lot calmer now than before, but obviously she still wasn't anywhere near okay. And while you rubbed her back and murmured sweet affirmations and condolences, you wondered what could've possibly led to her being stuck in this state for so long--to where not even your words could pull her out of it right away.

The only other person who was with her before all of this went down was-

"Moony, what did you do?"

"H-Hey! What are you accusing me of??" The lunar entity gasped, appalled that you dared to suspect she had something to do with Ena's current near-inconsolable emotional state. "She's your girlfriend, right? Thought you two had some sort of telepathic connection...or "deeper understanding" of whatevertheheck goes on inside her head."

"...deeper understa--....that makes no sense. You two have been friends longer than I've known either of you." You sent her a glare. "You, of all people, should know-"

"Uuhuuhuuu..."

"Huh?" Feeling a tug on your shirt, you looked back at Ena, who was now covering her ears, whining all the while. And it took you a second to understand what got her upset just now. "Crap..I'm sorry. I know you're feeling overwhelmed...but everything's okay, my love." You went back to comforting her, running a hand through her hair. "Don't mind us. We're just...being stupid. Right, Moony?"

"Hey, you said it, not me."

"Oh for the love of....will you just-?!"

"S-Stop awrguing, guys! Let's just...l-let's just all agwee that I'm the stupid one here!!"

"No you're not.....wait..." You blinked, realizing that your girlfriend finally sounded normal again. Her colors have returned to her body--and somehow you completely missed it despite her not leaving your arms once.

Moony was surprised, too. "Oh cool. Glad that's over." She sounded totally and utterly disinterested. "Imma sneak on outta here. Give ya'll some....alone time. Bye, [y/n]. Bye, Ena...Zena. Bye." She ended up going through the window, shattering it as the glass bits dissolved into pixels by the time they touched the floor.

You were a bit glad she left, as you could now fully focus on the person who was still cuddling up to you. "Are you okay now, Ena? You had me worried."

"I'm fine. Bu...But I'm sowwy for being a mess. My head huwrts." Ena's blue half spoke as she nuzzled her face into your chest, hiccupping. "Do you have a baseball bat I could borrow?"

"Not on me. And I wouldn't let you borrow it anyways." You shake your head. "If it's okay to ask....what made you go all-gray on Moony? Did she say something?"

"....no."

"Then..what happened?"

"I..erm...forgot." Her happier side took over, looking up at you with a smile. "But that's okay. It was probably over something rather silly, anyways. We needn't concern ourselves with that. I feel much better, and it's all thanks to you, my dearest love."

With a small giggle, courtesy of her more feminine voice, she hugged you tightly and kissed you on the cheek. "Apologies for any distress I might've caused. I..really don't mean to--act like such a buwrden..." Her sadness uttered briefly.

Out of nowhere, she went from having a full-blown meltdown in your arms, being virtually mute, to acting like nothing happened?

You should be used to her emotions flip-flopping like this...yet she always seems to surprise you.

Nevertheless, you're relieved it's over, and that this pandora's box was sealed for the time being.

So you smiled softly and hugged her back. "You're not a burden. I'm just glad I could be here to help."

[orphicreveries]

hi! it would be awesome if you could do henry x fem!reader (or gn, idk) where henry is just…feral. you know? unable to control it. i like to believe he’s never really been one for sex, so he’s just so pent up, you know?

I LOVE THIS, it’s even hotter ESPECIALLY because he’s never really felt the need to be sexually active.

It had been raining all afternoon.

The kind of ceaseless, delicate rain that felt more like a nuisance than a storm. It dappled the windows of Henry’s apartment like ink, rendered the entire room damp and shadowed. You were both supposed to be translating something, Catullus, maybe, or something worse, but you hadn’t turned a page in over an hour.

Henry sat across from you, glasses off, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the floor like he was calculating something. A pallid statue of control. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said, teasing, eyes drifting over him with lazy interest. “Must be a truly devastating poem.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first. Just blinked slowly, like he’d been roused from somewhere far away.

When he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t with curiosity, or even annoyance. It was hunger.

Not vulgar. Not even particularly physical.

“I can’t focus when you’re in the room,” he said.

You blinked.

He wasn’t smiling (he never smiles). He wasn’t joking.

“You—what?”

He took his glasses in one hand, folded them shut. “You distract me. Thoroughly. And I resent you for it.”

You laughed, uncertain, flustered. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I’ve tried everything. Cold showers. Longer walks. Reading the Metaphysics from start to finish. None of it works. I think I may be…” He trailed off, rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “Jesus.”

You stared.

“I think I may be on the verge of doing something terribly out of character,” he said finally, almost dreamily. “And I’d rather you not look surprised when I do.”

And before you could form a thought, before you could so much as breathe, he was on you.

Not like in a film. Not graceful or slick. There was a kind of barely-suppressed fury in it, like he’d been holding himself still for so long the moment he moved, he shattered.

His mouth on yours was hard, desperate. His hands clutched your waist like you might vanish. He kissed like he’d never done it before. Or at least never done it right. You kissed back with a gasp, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and that—that, drove him mad.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, panting, his voice low and cracked: “Can I touch you?”

You nod, still in a daze from his lips on yours.

And then he was dragging you back onto the couch with him, his long limbs tangled in yours, his hands pushing your skirt up around your hips like the fabric offended him, like it had personally mocked him for months.

He got your underwear off somehow, he didn’t even look down. Just shoved them aside and slid two fingers into you with the kind of reverent care that nearly broke your spine.

You whimpered. And that—that was it.

Henry groaned, full-bodied, like you’d knocked the breath from his lungs. He started moving his fingers like he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop, couldn’t even breathe properly with how wet you were, how tight you clenched around him. He kissed your neck, your cheek, your mouth, half-formed murmurs breaking between each gasp.

When you came, sharp and hot around his fingers, he shuddered. Swore softly. And without a word, he reached down, undid his belt, and pushed himself into you with a breathless, strangled “Gods forgive me.”

It was fast. Filthy. Utterly ruinous.

He muttered something against your throat and came so hard it seemed to hollow him out.

Afterward, he collapsed against you, drenched in sweat, breathing hard.

“Christ,” you muttered.

Henry didn’t move.

“…Feel better?” you asked eventually, voice dry.

He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan.

“No,” he said. “Not even remotely.”

It should have ended there. It should have, he’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? Release, satisfaction, the edge filed off whatever aching obsession had haunted him for weeks.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

Not even close.

You were still beneath him, flushed and damp, heart racing, your lips parted in a dazed little breath. And when you shifted, just a little, he felt himself twitch, still hard. Still wanting.

Still starving.

“…Henry,” you breathed, but didn’t say more. You didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said everything. That quiet, stunned want now made obvious. That perfect, terrible desperation.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Not frantic. Not frenzied. Just deep, like he meant to pour all of it into you.

When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide.

“I thought it would be messy. Embarrassing. Fast. But—” He swallowed, brushed his fingers over your temple like he was reading you. “You’re so soft. So warm. I can’t stop thinking about it. About the way you wrapped around me like you were made for it. Like I could stay inside you and never leave.”

Your breath hitched.

He kissed your throat, your shoulder, your wrist. Reverent. Methodical.

“Will you let me do it again?” he asked, quiet, shaking. “Properly this time.”

And he did.

He lifts himself off of you and stares at the sight before him.

Not just looking, memorising. His hands dragged down your ribs, your hips, over the curve of your thighs. You felt him hard again, hot against your stomach, leaking slightly, but he didn’t rush. He just kissed you, your mouth, your chest, between your legs, until you were arching under him and begging without even meaning to.

Then, finally, he slid back into you, so slowly it made you cry out. He hissed through his teeth, nearly buckling.

“Gods. You feel—” He groaned. “I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never—this is madness.”

He fucked you like he wanted to sink into your bones. Deep. Controlled. Filthy in a way that felt almost holy. Your legs wrapped around him, nails raking down his back, and Henry, usually silent, cold, unreadable, was whispering.

Praise, poetry, sweet ruined things like: “I want to live inside you.”

“Look how wet you are for me, how greedy—”

You came with a broken moan, legs shaking, tears pricking at your eyes. And Henry? Henry didn’t stop.

He just kept moving inside you, slower now, gentler. And when he came, it was with his head thrown back, groaning like the thought of being separate from you physically was unbearable.

After, you lay tangled together on his couch, the air thick with the smell of sex and rain and old books. His breath was still unsteady. He looked ruined.

“…Better now?” you teased again, voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed, low, rough, and pressed a kiss to your neck.

“No,” he murmured. “Now I want you again.”

[lustlovehart]

I think about the shadow husband Jade often. I think about how in love he is with his spouse who walked straight out of a Jane Austen novel. It's giving cat owners with scraggly cat

This is really funny cause I was thinking about TWYD Jade too!! (I was working on the epilogue from his pov earlier today :D)

Oughhhh I absouloutely adore Jade and Reader in TWYD because of this dynamic!! It won’t be too focused upon in the epilogue as I want to focus on Jade a bit more, so I’ll explain here!!! I like to think Reader is apart of the ‘marriage isn’t needed to be happy’ group! of their time. The only reason they really married Azul however, isn’t from the need of financial gain or position improvement, but simply because they genuinely love him, wholeheartedly.

It’s what makes their intital dislike towards Jade after their marriage so strong. While they wedded Azul because they knew he would never use them for such things as power, not without being honest with it at least. Jade however… while their history has them being close to him… Chances are that dubious look is hoping for an advantage that’s more than just a marriage, though… Perhaps wealth? You’ve been left with a very hefty sum in the wake of your husband’s death after all. You wouldn’t put it behind him to do such a thing.

Though…

You’ve always been completely unaware of how smitten he is with you, to such a point that this marriage isn’t for power… but the hope that maybe you can love him too.

Maybe he’s in one of those rare moments where he’s not the sly and duplicitous man he typically is, but a version of himself that has him longingly staring out the window. He has a blank expression on his face as he looks down at the river, his fingers playing with his ring. If anyone saw him, they could easily perceive him for a man in grieving.

Well, in fairness, he is, but not for the death of a human. Rather, he mourns what never existed. Not yet at least.

His sighing only seemed to increase more and more throughout the day, each one making you pinch his side. Right when he was about to let out his nth exhale, he feels you cover his mouth with your palm. You look exhausted with him, rolling your eyes when he turns his head to look at you. His greeting is muffled through your skin, it’s ticklish, but you don’t dare to tell him that. It’ll serve him a surprise advantage for a later day.

“Perhaps you should cease such mannerisms. I could hear you all the way from the modiste.” you can feel his smile, as well as see it in his eyes. When he attempts to speak again, your hand keeps him from it once more. It’d be better if you had cloth to halt his speaking, but not hearing his horribly deep voice is nice—

A warm muscle licks across your skin, causing you to retract your hands immediately. Cool air hits Jade’s saliva that’s now on your skin, growing a scowl on your face.

“My… No gloves? That’s quite scandalous.” He tuts at you as if you’re in public, his body shielding your naked arms from view, as if the room isn’t empty.

“You have seen me in sleepwear more than once, do not act like a shepherd in heat at the sight of a wrist, Jade.”

“Well I must be weary, if you are to be wearing such an outfit in public—! I could not bear the thought of having to duel each suitor who longs for you. If I perished before loving you to fulfillment, I’d be despaired in heaven.” He puts a hand to his heart, sniffling as he wipes away his fake tears.

“Do not be ridiculous,” you walk over to the window, taking its handles and pulling them in, “Lady luck would have you unfortunately, win each duel. Besides,” Your eyes lock onto the photo of Jade and Azul on the ledge. Jade can see the way your naked finger grazes Azul’s cheek, a soft smile plastered on your lips. “The angels would not let a man like you so much as breathe their pure air.”

He laughs at your retort, entirely forgoing the look you gave to his picture. He doesn’t have the chance to come up with his own reply before you’re already walking back to his doors, Jade looking at your leaving form.

“Ah wait,” you stop to turn to him, your hand already pushing the exit out, “Did you come for a reason? You must have something else to tell.” He watches you look away, your face running through multiple expressions of thinking.

“Mm… I don’t believe so.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

For a moment, silence lingers between the two of you, before you bow and finally take your long awaited leave. The shutting doors shutter a loud clash as soon as they close, Jade not wasting a second to take the photo from before and throw it to the floor. The frame shatters, the glass cracking in all directions—

Except towards Azul.

Truly, how different is he from him? You might’ve only seen Azul’s soft side, but he was truly no better than himself when it came to such business…! He was juts as cunning, and devious, and greedy—

…

Ah yes, it’s okay. Because…

There’s no longer an Azul for you to see anymore.

———

I like to think after this Jade’s hugging reader in bed as they sleep, meanwhile they’re pulling Jade’s head away by his hair like he’s some sort of wet cat 💀

[versevibess]

Commandress

Cassian X Reader

PART FIVE

Part Four

Part Three

Part Two

Part One

SUMMARY:

The Commandress grows closer to the members of the night court and gives her final answer to the High Lord. Cassian’s absence makes her heart grow fonder, yet once everything snaps into place, her first instinct tells her to run.

WARNINGS:

SMUT, minors DNI. This was my first time writing smut and I hope my Cassian girls have been FED. I don’t know what kind of warnings to add so just assume everything until I figure it out <3

I can probably note that it was rough, could be rougher though x

18+ under the cut!!!!

Nonsense.

Dare I say it, but the High Lady was talking absolute nonsense.

I had two days to stew over her words; that my heart may not be entirely content, regardless of whether I held my wings. Two days to heal and two days until I had to tell the High Lord and Lady that I planned to stay.

My back still ached with pain, yet mostly my muscles had become accustomed to the weight of my new, or old, wings. I could walk freely throughout the house, climb in and out of bed without wincing from the strings of pain holding my limbs together. Yet it seemed as though my stomach, my heart, had not entirely achieved the same.

Cassian had been gone for a few days.

Those few days felt like an eternity, even by fae standards.

We had gotten to know one another well, although not enough for me to feel this way. I couldn’t place what it was, but I felt so drawn to him that each time I found us apart, my gut would twist in such a horrific way that I thought perhaps I had fallen ill; that I had caught a virus of some sort, or that he was using magic to toy with me. Regardless of what it may be, I found myself thinking of him, before I slept, as soon as I woke. Thinking of the way he’d hold me as we soared through the sky’s, how the Lord of Bloodshed seemed so soft at heart, how he kissed my temple so delicately as I withered away in bed. Sometimes I thought so hard about it all that I could feel his chest beneath my palm still, that smooth plane of hard muscle, the soft patter of his heart.

Some nights, the thoughts would lead to unsavoury acts.

It had been a while, since I had any sort of sexual attraction to any man. After spending years secluded with nothing but females and young surrounding me, sex wasn’t even a thought. Of course, I had engaged in it before, yet only with whichever male at whatever tavern seemed the least unbearable; it was meaningless, a quick release which I would soon after realise I was better off before hand. It made me feel sickly, yet once I thought about doing those sickly things with him, it would turn sweet.

On one hand, I thought about how I would need to restrain myself from ripping the leathers from his back and climbing on top of him once he returned. On the other hand, I couldn’t bare the thought of the Illyrian warriors believing I was second in command because I had persuaded him with open legs.

‘If you listen close enough, I think you’ll find that your bed is calling my name too.’

His words lingered in my mind for longer than I would like to admit.

•

Morrigan, once again, helped me in dressing for Solstice Eve dinner.

She made an effort to pick out my gown for tomorrow as well, one similar to the one I had worn that night we ventured out in Velaris. This time it was a satin of deep emerald green, to match my siphons she said, with a deep chocolate brown shawl of fur. Tonight’s dress was much more simple, a slate grey thick cotton with a square neckline, embroidered with silver thread. She had to summon the slats with magic, I didn’t have her down as much of a sewer anyway.

He had arrived as I was buttoning the dress with the new power of my siphons, glowing green threads pouring down my back to where they threaded each cotton coated button with care. I could smell him, almost following the scent of sandalwood and melted snow with my eyes to where it dragged through the hallway, down to the entrance of the House. My cheeks flushed as I patted down my dress, my body tingling with both nerves and excitement.

Mor had already darted out of the door upon his arrival, and I didn’t hesitate to follow close behind. Although my steps were slowed with the weight of my wings, I almost tore through each door as if I was searching for him. My body was betraying me, in a wicked cruel way. It was telling me something that my mind simply couldn’t comprehend.

He was grinning from ear to ear once I reached the landing, deeply engrossed in conversation with Rhysand and Morrigan, yet when his eyes met mine, they never left. My brain was a wreck of rushing thoughts, I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same way, whether he had been thinking the same things. His change from his usual scaled leathers and gleaming red siphons hadn’t helped either; a silk black shirt left unbuttoned just low enough so that I could see the tanned taught muscle of his chest, pressed black trousers held together with a silver buckled Illyrian leather belt. It was as though my body had began to melt away with the snow beneath my feet.

And then his eyes widened as he noticed, the gigantic wings which shuddered with nerves behind me, the flickering siphons mounted in perfect peaks above the apex of muscle.

He began to stride towards me.

And my heart began to pummel in my chest.

I hadn’t even noticed Morrigan and Rhysand slithering past and into the house silently.

“Commandress.” He addressed me formally, his polished black boots settling in the snow a few inches before mine. He reached down slowly as his lips brushed my cheek so featherlight that I thought that maybe I had imagined it.

“General.” I said back with a smile tugging at my lips.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, “you look different? Did you change something about your hair?” His grin sent warmth through my body, despite the harsh winter air prickling at my skin.

“Yes, hair heavy enough to leave me bed ridden for three days.” I replied back with a playful snarl, yet my heart was bursting with gratitude.

He let the silence settle over us, just for a moment. “You look beautiful.” He said quietly, eyes flickering from my face to my wings, catching me off guard completely.

My mouth hung open for a second before I could come up with some witty remark, some snide comment to mask the fact that my insides felt as though they were doing leaps and jumps inside of me. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” My voice was barely a whisper above the wind. “About time you took those leathers off for a clean.” I managed to add before slowly turning to walk through the doors.

He let out a breathy laugh which vibrated straight through me. Our steps slowly fell in sync as we walked through the grand entrance of the house, following the lingering scent of Rhysand and Morrigan.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, “I came to visit during the treatment, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there once you woke - I was tied up in Illyria.”

Blush creeped to my cheeks at the memory, of him dangled on that bed beside me as he smoothed the hair from my face, leaning over on one elbow as he kissed my forehead. “I know you did, thank you.”

His cheeks also grew a deep crimson, a beautiful contrast to his deep Illyrian skin. “You remember?”

“I remember.” Silence washed over us and I fought with the fact that I should lay it all out before us.

I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of it being seen as a quick ticket into my position. I had proved myself, I knew that, proved myself by living on that land surrounded by sea and snow for countless years. Proved myself by fighting in that sickening war, even if it meant I was standing alone by the end of it.

But the desire still burned.

And my restraint was fraying.

•

Dinner was delicious. Slightly more formal than usual, yet still filled with the usual lighthearted laughter and easy flowing talk that the Night Courts inner circle often possessed. It was as though once they took their seat at the table, all of the outside chaos would vanish. It was just them, and their family.

Nerves loomed over me the entire meal, disguised with a smile and a trembling laugh. Cassian could tell, and decided he would make it worse by sitting beside me and brushing his knee against mine throughout the dinner. Although my decision had been made long before I spoke the words, it made my stomach churn with self doubt at the thought of swearing my life to their legion.

It wasn’t only for me, it was for the rest of the females who had suffered at the cost of men and their sick tainted minds. To rot away on an island, it would spark satisfaction in those twisted souls if they knew.

It was when we were in the sitting room with an opened bottle of wine on the coffee table before us that Rhysand had crossed his leg one over the other, and began to tell me about the priestesses and their positions in the library. He had even told me some of their stories, stories which almost made me weep. Mor, Cassian and Azriel were seated along a couch underlining one of the grand arched windows, participating in a much less heavy manor of conversation, wings shaking behind them as they laughed and complained that Rhysand was putting a damper on the night. It wasn’t a damper to me, it was a window of opportunity, one to make me say -

“- I’ll stay.” I breathed, as if I had been holding the words in with my breath. I watched as Feyre’s eyes widened at the side of her mate. “I will stay, I will help you lead your armies, as long as my females are cared for.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, before a smirk slowly stretched across his lips. My sudden outburst drew the attention of the others, Azriel standing from his seat, followed by Cassian.

“Well then,” Rhysand jutted his bead towards his mate, who was positively beaming beside him. “We will have you take your oaths the day after Solstice. But for now, Commandress, enjoy the holiday.”

•

Once the fuss of my decision had settled down, and everyone had finished bracing me in the warmest of welcoming hugs, it was only Cassian and I left in the sitting room.

We both sat on velvet armchairs beside one another, an audience to the High Lady and her mate as they both overlooked Velaris’ beauty on the red stone balcony. His wing was wrapped around her to shield her from the cold, and although I was unable to hear what they were saying, it seemed as if Feyre was absolutely infatuated. I watched from a distance as that was all I could do, the reality of such love ever finding me so farfetched.

Cassian and I were consumed by comfortable quiet, sipping from our glasses occasionally. The stunning night sky illuminated his face in such a way it made him even more beautiful, structured. Even the scars that braced his skin suited him.

“Thank you.” Was all I whispered to break that silence.

He didn’t respond for a moment, as if he was wrapped up in thoughts of his own. “For what?” He said.

I almost laughed. What shouldn’t I thank him for.

“For everything.” I said with sincerity, my heart practically bursting inside of my tight chest. “For the opportunities you have given my people and I, for the wings, just everything. I doubt I will ever be able to repay you for your kindness, but I am in hopes that my service will cover some of the debt.”

“You are in no debt to me.” He said firmly.

“I am, and I forever will be, Cassian.”

He didn’t argue further, instead continued to watch the Lord and High lady with heavy lidded eyes. He gestured a glass towards them, the amber liquid sloshing around with the movement.

“Do you ever think people like us could find a love like they have.” He asked, his voice lowered, hoarse.

I swallowed sharply and narrowed my eyes at the two.

People like us, who held so much unforgiving rage in their hearts that perhaps there was no room for love. People like us who believed with our own minds that we were not worthy of such a thing, and that the Mothers plan for us only consisted of war and bloodshed. Thick skinned and sharp witted to withstand the judgement of others and ward off any comfort.

“Perhaps if you asked me three weeks ago, I may have said no.” My vision grew unfocused on the High Lord and Lady, their figures merging into a fuzz.

My statement peaked his interest.

“What changed your mind?”

I thought about answering him truthfully, thought of confessing all of my muddled feelings. Yet I just shrugged.

“I don’t know, my eyes have just opened to the possibility.”

He didn’t respond, and as I turned to glance at him I noticed he was already looking, an unreadable expression on his face. His knuckle which was propping his chin up unfolded and rubbed along his stubble; I had to look away as heat shot through the centre of my body.

I didn’t know whether to address it, didn’t know whether or not I should acknowledge the fact that I felt this way or just allow it to eat me alive.

His boots shuffled against the ground as he stood, my eyes glued to the coffee table despite his movement. Then he walked to me, until his body shielded my vision, one calloused scarred hand hooking beneath my chin and tilting my face upwards. My wings shuddered behind me at the contact, wide eyes meeting his as my hands gripped the embellished arms of the chair.

“You are in no debt to me.” Was all he said, before leaning down and pressing his warm lips to my cheek. I didn’t even bother to mask the way my breath hitched as he lingered there for a moment, his scandal wood and smokey scent consuming me whole like some sort of spell.

And then he walked away.

And that was the last time I saw him that night.

•

We didn’t celebrate Solstice back at my camp.

It didn’t seem necessary.

But once I experienced the traditions and the joys in which the holiday brung, I realised how much I had been depriving myself and my people of. My heart warmed at the thought of my females all surrounded by warmth, presents, delicious foods. The kids who would receive the more prestige cuts of meat on their birth dates would now receive presents wrapped in ribbon and love.

We sat at one of the cozy stone tables situated on the landings, the starlit sky watching over us as presents were exchanged with beaming smiles and grateful thanks. The food was ready in the kitchen, the smell wafting throughout the house and tickling our noses with temptation.

Although I had requested not to be a part of the gift exchange, I still experienced the second hand joy of each person who unwrapped their presents with wide grins across their faces. Amren received the most beautiful of jewels, Mor received bundles and bundles of clothes, Feyre received some more sentimental gifts. Yet although my eyes could not leave them, my mind was stuck on one particular gift still resting against the red stone floor, the wrapping paper as if it had been crumpled and unraveled again.

Cassian’s chair screeched from beside me as he pushed away from the table, the group still heavily engrossed in laughter and conversation as he did so. He slowly swanned to the gift lying in solitude, sweeping down and grabbing it with one hand before bringing it back over to his seat. My eyes dragged slowly as I followed him around the room, right until he had landed back next to me.

He sat back down on his seat, shuffling it forward a few times before turning to me. “This one’s for you.”

My brow immediately furrowed, my eyes narrowing at the small beige tag which hung from silky red ribbon. It indeed said my name.

Slowly I took it from him, one finger pinching at the end of the ribbon as I pulled it and watched it unravel into my lap. It was soft yet heavy, squishy yet firm. I began to peel away at the crumbled paper, settling the gift in my lap. As the ripping revealed more and more, black scales began to become uncovered, leather lined with fox fur adorned with emerald green siphons. A beaming smile spreading across my face, my eyes shooting to Cassian’s who watched me in anticipation.

“You like them?” He eventually asked.

My smile still hadn’t faltered, my knuckles gripping the shoulders of the fighting leathers as I held them out in front of me. They weren’t quite the same as his and Azriel’s, the insides lined with a mix of satin and fur, as well as fur spilling from the collar and sleeves. One siphon had been adorned to the chest, two others to the shoulder.

“I asked for the fur to be added so they could be similar to your usual leathers, but if you would rather them without I could-“

“I love them, Cassian.” I cut him off, eyes flickering towards him for a brief moment before I found myself staring back at the leathers in awe. So carefully crafted, not a stitch out of place and I still hadn’t looked at the trousers which lay folded against my lap. “They are beautiful, thank you.” I said, my voice wavering with sincerity as I leant over and pressed my lips to his cheek. Warmth had already spread throughout his face despite the plummeting temperature, and I couldn’t help but notice that his breath hitched slightly at the heartfelt gesture.

“Only the best for the Commandress of the Night Court.” He smirked as I pulled away, smoothly masking his slight slip up in breath as heat began to travel up my neck too.

•

“Azriel would you be able to grab me that bottle of wine, the one with the wax top, please?” My head jutted towards the alcohol cabinet behind him, in which he immediately stood from his chair and swung around to grab.

Once he had retrieved the heavy glass bottle, a scarred hand gripped its neck as he passed it towards me across the table. I was about to take it and bid him thanks, when Cassian’s thick fingers shot out to snatch it away mid air. My mouth jutted open in protest, yet I noticed that he had only done so he could read the label stuck to its centre. I simply continued my meal.

“I believe we have become bad influences, you didn’t drink nearly as much when you first arrived here.” He stated, eyes lifting from the label to meet mine, which I rolled in return.

I quickly chewed my mouthful of food, swallowing it dryly. “Excuse me for being nervous about moving into a house with complete strangers, I’m sure my body didn’t need alcohol to add to that.” I settled my fork down beside my plate, reaching out to grab the bottle which hung in mid air. He snatched it away the moment my fingers grew near. “Consider it a compliment, I must have warmed to you.” My head tilted to the side as I leant forwards and reached for it again.

Azriel raised his eyebrows. “Warmed to him or want to numb the pain of being around him?” He mumbled, a sly smirk etching across his lips as he side eyed his brother whose mouth fell open.

“More than just a pretty face, aren’t you Shadow Singer?” I smirked in return.

“Well you’re definitely not getting the wine now that you two have decided to join forces against me.” He tucked the bottle beneath his arm, his bicep bulging against the glass bottle. I couldn’t tell which one I wanted more in my mouth.

“Fine then.” I scowled, my chair screeching along the tiles as I pulled away from my seat.

“Stop being a nuisance Cassian.” Feyre scolded him, which he simply ignored as he rose from his chair.

He had absolutely no reason to stop me from filling another glass, absolutely no reason other than being a terror. He was in one of his playful moods, clearly; one that I had no intention of matching, especially when my throat was crying out for some aged wine.

I stomped around the table, Cassian’s broad stature blocking my access to the wine cabinet entirely. “No, I brought her here and now she wants to team up with Az, I’m not having it.” Amren rolled her eyes at him as she bitterly chewed on her food and I had to bite down on a laugh.

“Cassian, please pass me a bottle.” He ignored me.

Azriel turned in his chair, mischief written across his face as he raised his eyebrows at the both of us. “How are you going to refuse an order from your second?” He asked, clearly satisfied at his slight stir before he turned to dig back into his plate of food.

“She’s not my second yet.” Cassian grumbled, his eyes narrowing down at me as I stood before him with my arms crossed. Rhysand choked out a laugh from further down the table.

“Is that right? I won’t be tomorrow either if you don’t pass me the wine.” I hissed.

His mouth opened to speak yet immediately closed straight after; perhaps he believed I was speaking the truth.

“Fine.” He mumbled and triumph sparked within me.

He peeled the bottle from beneath his arm and I offered a mocking smile as he outstretched it towards me.

I raised my hand to snatch it away before he changed his mind, and my fingers grazed his.

Yet I didn’t grasp the wine.

My vision went black and that bony finger began to tap beneath the skin of my chest once more, this time frantically, matching the rhythm of my heart. A sea of ink washed over my vision with a ribbon of glowing gold snapping taught between the shadows in which we stood. Energy shot through me as if I had been possessed by a spirit, the wine bottle colliding with the ground and shattering into smithereens as I heaved for breath. My body shot into complete shock, my vision still dimmed with only that glowing stream connecting the two of us, chest to chest, heart to heart.

I stumbled a few steps back, blinking rapidly to adjust my sight on Cassian, whose hand gripped his chest as if he was about to rip his heart from his flesh. His face was contorted in both pleasure and pain, as was my own. The entire room fell silent around us.

He was my mate.

My vision had cleared, shadows of black drifting away behind me as I stared at him in complete and utter shock. My shoulders heaved up and down as I tried to swallow my breaths and he slowly stepped towards me. Heat soared through my entire body as if it had been ignited in fire, the mix of emotions swirling above my head before they came tunnelling down on me.

I took one look in his hazel eyes and they were soft, understanding, glazed over with what seemed to be relief. Almost as if -

“- You knew.” The words fell from my lips in disbelief, his steps towards me quickening as mine fell backwards, further and further away from him. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me.” My voice began to raise and anger defeated the lust which was crawling over my body at the sight of him. He didn’t immediately jump to protest, which confirmed my rather bold statement; Rhysand even rose from his chair.

It was supposed to be an emotional time, yet not like this. My anger had bubbled over every glittery thought that came with that glowing gold tie to him, the one that begged my body closer to his as I stepped away. Had I been this incredible warrior who worked hard to prove the strength of my women, who lead an army of females into a sea of men swarming Hybern’s bloody battle field; or had I simply just been his mate. Had all this been a lure into his trap.

“You sly, wicked being.” I said lowly, although my heart dropped as his face fell as if it had been released my invisible hands holding strings. I felt sick to my stomach.

He etched closer again, stepping over the glass with an outstretched hand, reaching to comfort. “We can talk about this.” He stated slowly, cautiously.

I shook my head immediately, swallowing my shallow breath as tears began to brim in my eyes. “No we cannot. Matter of fact, I do not wish to speak to you at all.” My glazed pupils trailed over the table of star stuck fae, who hadn’t said a word since the bond snapped in place. Mor even remained holding her fork full of food mid air, mouth stuck in a small, unmoving circle. My lips pressed into a small forced smile as I nodded to the group. “Please, enjoy the rest of your holiday. I shall see you all tomorrow.” The words faltered as I spoke, and I began to step towards the doors.

“Wait!-“ Cassian bellowed from behind me, yet I didn’t do as much as look back as my hand reached out for the door handle.

•

Perhaps it was the heightened hormones and emotions of the mating bond snapping into place that made my skin itch and burn from the inside out; or perhaps it was the sheer anger of being fooled into a position rather than earning it. All of my hard work, a trap glamoured by flattery to get me to enter this court, this army, this man. The thought of him had me ripping at clumps of my hair.

My mind was like a ball thrown back and forth on a court; maybe it was never their intention to hurt me, but what had stopped them? Was I too much of an unpredictable brute that they couldn’t have me know until I had pledged an allegiance. Was I the problem? Or was it Cassian. Was I some pillar of strength and a potential role model to his female Illyrians, or was I just his pretty mate?

I scoffed at the thought, submerging my body further into the lukewarm bath water which was muddled with tears and sandalwood soap. A pretty mate, that’s what he needed. A little doll who could be placed on a pedestal, one that wore dresses without itching away at the fabric and had never handled a dagger in her life; one who’s skin didn’t tell a battlefield story. I thought at the ways I would get back at him, perhaps surprise him at breakfast with a fist to his gut or wake him with his own dagger to his throat. Maybe I was punishment enough.

It made sense now that it had all fallen into place, the innuendos, the uncontrollable thoughts I had been experiencing, the way my body was drawn to him. No matter how many violent acts of vengeance I imagined, they soon turned into something more; a dagger to his throat which soon slid to his leathers, cutting through the material until the golden brown skin covering his muscles peeked through. My thighs clamped together at the thought, water sloshing over the sides of the tub at the immediate reaction.

He had been pacing outside the door for twenty minutes. He had remained down stairs for an hour or so after I stormed off, most likely to consult the rest of his circle on what his next strategy may be. Cunning, that’s what he was. I wondered whether or not he had a brain of his own behind that handsome face, or whether it was his friends who made his decisions as well as keep his secrets for him; he paid no heed to the pain his own actions may cause to others.

And neither did I apparently, considering I had decided I will be leaving by tomorrow afternoon.

The High Lord had arranged for my people to be at my ceremony, so their proud faces could watch me as I pledged my life away to set them up for theirs. My gut twisted in unspeakable ways as I thought about the looks of disappointment on their faces as I told them we would be leaving this beautiful land they had grown to love through the High Lords mind. Selfishly, I told myself I didn’t care. I would not be ranked as his second in command simply because of the Mothers choice, because I was his mate.

My thoughts continued to spiral as I dried off and dressed in my night gown, eyes dragging along my wings as I did so. Despite his ill made decision to hide the bond from me, he had given me something I had only dreamed of. My wings, my lifeline and my purpose for all of this. He had said it was so I could teach the young to fly, yet some twisted part of me believed it would be so he could have the satisfaction of clipping them himself, having me sit beside him as he commanded his armies with so little as a breath from me.

It was when my feet padded through the cool tiled bathroom and into the bedroom when he knocked. Three times, sharp and pointed. I just ignored them.

Three times again, I could see his face in my mind as his knuckle grazed the polished wood, cold and stern yet worried. My body itched to open the door. I just ignored it.

“Open the door before I knock it down.” He threatened from the other side and I raised my eyebrows to myself, perching on my bed before swinging my legs into the crumpled white sheets. I leant over to the nightstand where my holder laid limp across the wood, unsheathing the blade from its leather case and resting it in my lap.

I attempted to seem unbothered by his presence, unfazed by the pulsing ache beneath my skin. Perhaps it was to convince myself that I could resist him, perhaps it was so once he did manage to burst down that door, he would know that I was not one bit interested in whatever he had to say. He could talk to me through the walls for all I cared, my mind was made up.

The handle giggled twice before he groaned, the sound sending shockwaves to my core as I began to clean beneath my fingernails with the tip of the blade. My toes were curled beneath the sheets in anticipation, anger once again rising through the centre of my body as I gritted my teeth to myself.

Open the door.

His voice echoed around my mind as if he was stood right beside me, my body becoming frozen in complete shock at the internal sound. Magic crackled through me, my eyes instinctively fluttering closed as he lead me towards him. To my own surprise, I allowed it; curiosity taking over as I stepped into a world of dark mental mist. Whispers of black smoke untraveled to reveal a wall of onyx polished marble, vines of red roses with steel thorns climbing up the surface. And in the middle was a single door, wide open for me to enter.

My breathing grew erratic as I struggled to hold my composure through the bond. It took every bone in my body not to grab those roses of steel with my bare hands and tear them down.

Come anywhere near this room again and I will not hesitate to kill you, Commander.

I could feel the warmth of his smirk as I spat through the bond, tracing my body like a sheet of silk.

Don’t threaten me with a good time, Commandress.

I let out a snarl as a growing red thread weaved its way through the keyhole, unlocking the door with ease. It slowly pushed open, yet the smug look on Cassian’s face soon vanished the moment my siphons flung across the room and launched the contents of my vanity at him. Hair brushes and mirrors fell to the floor as he shielded them with a flick of his wrist, yet I didn’t let up, another glowing green line of power flying towards a vase that sat on top of a tall chest of drawers. It bounced off of his shield and shattered to the floor.

I stood up from the bed, knees wobbling from the sheer amount of force that the bond was throwing at me, my dagger still clutched tightly between my fingers.

“What do you want?” I seethed through gritted teeth at I stepped around the bed.

He held his hands out before him, as if he was surrendering to me. “I just want to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” I grimaced.

“You need to understand that it was never my intention to hurt you-“

“No, it was your intention to fool me into the bond.” I sneered, my eyes dragging from his head to his toes. He looked ready to pounce on me at any moment, as did I.

“Why is it such a bad thing?” He asked.

My eye twitched as silence washed over us, my heaving breaths filling the air between us. He didn’t speak a word, just watched me, eyes trailing from my face to my chest and back up to my face again.

“Because I believed that I had worked for that offer-“ my voice came out a broken cry, yet it wasn’t tears in my eyes, just raw, burning anger. “I believed that you sought me out for the warrior that I am, for the good I have done.” My voice began to raise to almost a scream, a plead to get my point across. “Yet I know that I am only here because of your own desires.” I stepped closer to him once more, a trembling finger pointing towards him.

He kept his cool entirely, stepping further into the room as he slid the door closed behind him. I audibly gulped, not from the terror which often followed the Lord of Bloodshed, but because of my own desires and the close proximity we were now in.

“If you truly believe that then we can make a trip downstairs and let Rhysand show you my mind.” He said with a deadly calm tone, his voice almost hushed in comparison to my screams. “From the moment I saw you, until this moment now, let him show you all of it. How I came off that battlefield and pondered your existence for months, how I spoke of you and how you fought once we were ready to. You didn’t leave my mind for a moment-“

“-Yes, because you knew I was your mate.” I spat.

“No, because I hoped for it.” He said, a slight plead in his voice as his hands flexed in front of him. “I wished and I prayed that my gut feeling was true, no bonds had snapped and no words exchanged, I begged the Mother every night that our paths would cross once again, so I could seek out your guidance-“

“Lies.” Was all I could sneer over the sound of pounding blood rushing to my ears.

He puffed out a breath before reaching for me, grabbing my hand before I could push him away. I didn’t want to, deep down I knew that I wanted to cave. He rested his fingers over mine as he placed my palm across the plane of muscle beneath his shirt; just above his heart, as he had done that night we returned to The House together.

“Feel my heart as I speak.” He begged as I tugged desperately to release my hand beneath his. “Feel my heart when I tell you I did not bring you here as my mate, but as the General Commandress of our court. That I not only see you for your beauty but your power, as an equal to myself.”

It was almost as my heart stopped, whilst his remained a steady pace beneath my skin, unfaltering despite the tension of the situation. Part of me still didn’t believe him, and he could tell by the look in my eyes as he slowly released my hand and I let it fall limp at my side.

“I am leaving tomorrow.” Was all I said.

I watched as his shoulders tensed, his breathing slowing yet drawing deeper and deeper.

“You are not.” He said with certainty.

I scoffed and pointed the tip of my dagger towards him as I spoke. “You do not command me, General.” My voice dripped with malice.

A twinkle in his eye. “No I do not, but I know you will not leave.”

“How so?”

He stepped towards me again, so impossibly close that I could feel the bond simmering between our bodies, crackling and fizzling like an open fire. His scent surrounded me, sweeter than usual, now laced with almond and honey.

“Because a female of your strength could crack my skull with their bare hands, and yet I still stand here untouched, the dagger clean. If you wanted to leave, you would have by now.” His words caressed the skin of my cheek like a warm brush of air, a shiver shooting down my spine.

My eyes flickered across his face before the final thread of restraint snapped for the both of us.

His lips soared to mine, hot heated and heavy as his hands grabbed my hips; it was like he knew I would take off from the abrupt clash of our mouths. My wings fell limp behind me as his fingers dug into my flesh, my mind such a blur that I was frozen in shock for a moment, until my lips gradually began to move against his with equal intensity. He took it as confirmation, that I too, couldn’t resist him.

Our footsteps stumbled over one another as he pushed me throughout the bedroom, our tongues working against one another, teeth clashing, desire burning. My back eventually collided with the wall, Cassian’s hands still gripping me as if I was about to run, his knee impacting with the stone behind me as he pushed it between my legs. I gripped at his shoulders, clenching his shirt and his skin as if I was about to tear him apart.

Heat pulsed through my body the longer our tongues rolled against one another, my heart pounding in my chest as he pushed me further into the wall. I allowed it, allowed him to consume all of me until he eventually trailed his lips to my jaw and down my neck. Saliva coated my lips, dripping down my chin as I gasped for breath, gripping him so hard I was afraid my fingers may break.

“Cassian-“ I gasped as he began to suck along the skin, his chest pushing further into mine.

“Yes sweetheart.” He purred breathlessly beneath my ear, the ache between my legs growing unbearable.

My eyes squeezed shut as a sigh left my lips, his knee pushing higher between my thighs to where I needed him the most. “We are not finished with this.” I said breathlessly, biting back on my moans as he feasted on my neck as if he was starved.

“Punish me on the bed if you like.” He mumbled into my skin, peeling my body off of the wall and spinning me so my back was to the bed.

I raised an eyebrow at his statement, forcefully turning him mid stride so that it was the backs of his knees which folded against the mattress. Hauling my night gown over one of my legs, I bunched it up at my hips as I crawled on top of him and into a straddle, his hands now finding purchase at my glutes; tugging and squeezing at the fatty flesh. My head tilted back as I moaned, exposing my chest, my extended neck to him, which he gladly ran his wet lips over once more.

“So beautiful.” His words were a faint whisper against my skin, as if they were only to himself. I ran a hand through his tousled hair, tugging slightly at the root so his head would would tilt back and my lips could meet mine again.

The grip of his hands, the desperation in our lips; I found my body moving in sync against his as our tongues fought, my core grinding down on his clothed erection for any sort of friction. I was growing desperate, not only myself but the bond too. His lips left mine and I met his hazel eyes, heavy lidded and shadowed with lust. His usual deep tanned skin now had a pink flush to it, his lips swollen and wet from a mix of our saliva. He was the picture of something perfect.

“We do not need to go any further,” he said hoarsely whilst he pulled back, his voice as rough as gravel. His hands loosened on my ass as I slumped into him slightly, still completely dazed. “I can leave right now and we can forget this ever happened, but if we start something I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop it.” His words hardly made it over the sound of hot blood rushing to my ears.

I pressed my chest to his as a pathetic pry for any contact, my razor sharp nipples dragging along his clothed skin. He marked my movements, one large hand raising to cup my heavy aching breast through my nightgown as he waited for my response, running a thumb over the tender pebble. I hissed with pure bliss.

“I want Rhys to show me your mind first thing in the morning, I want to be sure you are telling me the truth before a swear allegiance; this is not just about me, but my own people, Cassian, so I hope to the Gods you haven’t deceived me.” My words left my lips frantically, desperately and breathlessly. “And I will make my decision on what to do with the bond once - if - I am sworn in-“ I gasped as his lips attacked my neck once more, hands fisting clumps of his dark brown hair before he shifted me onto the bed.

My back fell softly on the mattress, Cassian’s siphons flaring as their threads began unbuttoning his shirt. His face was one of thought, yet he shook it quickly as leant over me, brushing his lips to mine before speaking.

“We will talk more about it in the morning.” He dismissed, eyes trailing down my nightgown before his fingers grazed its hem, shifting it up my thigh ever so slightly. “But for now let me enjoy you-” His hazel irises met mine, clouded by nothing but lust. “-Just whilst you’re in a good mood, before you start throwing things at me again.” He smirked as my hands met the mountains of muscle gracing his stomach.

“Yes in the morning.” I breathed and my eyes fluttered closed. He began to raise my nightgown higher, the cold air creeping up my legs as my fingers tugged to peel his shirt away from his arms. He stopped for a moment to shrug it off, and I sat up to finish the job he started, lifting my nightgown over my head until I was completely exposed before him.

My back hit the bed as his eyes drank in my appearance, the air from the duck feather pillows beneath my wings puffing out from my weight. His wings flared out slightly, shamelessly dragging his gaze over my naked body as if it was the last time he would see it. My eyes trailed shamelessly too, lapping up every defined crevice of muscle, the tattoos swirling across his chest and arm, the taught strain of his pants where his erection pressed against the fabric. I reached forwards and began to unbutton them before his fingers clasped around my wrist.

“Let me take care of you first.” Was all he said, anticipation creeping up on me as he slowly began to shift further to the edge of the bed, until his head was level with my knees. His fingers pressed into my hips, thumbs digging into the subtle flesh of my backside as he gently nudged my legs open, groaning at the sight of my sex. I almost came undone right there.

“Body of a goddess-,” he said between kisses on the scarred skin of my inner thigh, alternating between the two, “strength of a warrior.” He slowly flattened his tongue against my wet slit, my head thrown back and my back arching off of the bed immediately.

He worked his tongue against my clit as if he had done it a thousand times before, like he knew where to press, suck, lick. The amount of times I had touched myself to the thought of him, imagined him doing the most unspeakable things to me, they didn’t amount to this. The press of his grappling fingers to my skin, the sound of him drinking my wetness mixed with my whines and moans, the heat radiating from his own skin; it had me coming undone within moments. He held me down as he ate me through my orgasm, giving me little to no time to recover as he worked me to another.

Two fingers prodded at my pulsing entrance, slowly sliding their way through the slick spongey flesh.

“Cassian-“ I gasped, screwing my eyes closed as my hand reached to grab his free wrist. My hips instinctively began to move with the swipe of his tongue and the pump of his fingers, hums of approval rippling from his lips and through my body as if we were connected as one. I was shocked at how quickly I had recovered from my first orgasm, eager for the next as I pressed my sex to his face with more and more force.

The ache had returned, coiling and swirling in the base of my stomach as his fingers pumped and curled inside of me. Something about being in this much anticipated moment, with him, made me forget about the company on the other floors; I paid no heed to the thought of them as another orgasm rippled through me and this time my body had shook with the overwhelming pleasure of it. My thighs clamped around his head as I screamed, the feeling unworldly as I felt the bond between us grow taught. My chest heaved as he slowly lifted his head from between my trembling legs; my vision was as if it had become white spotted, yet I still enjoyed every second of watching his swollen lips wrap around his own fingers before groaning at the taste. He looked me dead in the eye the entire time, towering over me until he lowered back down to the level of my lips.

I was becoming greedy, two orgasms ripped from me yet needing more and more. My heels wrapped around his hips as I pulled him further towards me, fingers nimbly fumbling with the button of his trousers.

“Tell me,” he began to say in a hushed tone, running his nose along the strained muscle of my neck. “How many times have you touched yourself in this bed to the thought of me?” He asked, and my fingers immediately fell from the lace of his trousers. He sat up straight to shove them off his body, head tilted in curiosity as I struggled to breathe, let alone find the words to answer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice croaked, unable to shake the goosebumps which coated every inch of my naked skin. He didn’t say anything, just continued to undress until he was entirely nude before me, his long thick erection resting against his lower abdomen. He didn’t try to hide it, rather flaunted it, the gleaming flush tip which swayed with his movement, already leaking with his seed and his heavy balls which rested beneath it. My throat went dry at the sight.

He eventually crawled back on top of me, one arm propping him up as the other trailed over my body with a feather light touch, stopping as he grasped my nipple between two fingers. The ache in my breasts morphed into a pleasurable pain as he pinched harder, and for a moment I believed he had forgotten his own question.

“I can smell each time you orgasmed in this bed. You must have been rather busy whilst I was away in the mountains.” He said lowly before wrapping his warm lips around my pebbled nipple, my eyes screwing shut as he sucked on the sensitive peak harder and harder. He released the throbbing skin, “So tell me, what did you think about?” He moved to the next one.

I refused to answer, my eyes still screwed shut in pure bliss, unable to shake the unbearable ache soaring from my cunt and through my body. My nails dug into his shoulders, hips thrusting upwards as I tried desperately to find some sort of relief.

Tell me sweetheart, tell me what you thought about.

His sultry voice slithered through my mind, warmth coating the insides of my skin from his internal presence.

“I thought about this, about you.” My voice was a shaky whisper, I had turned into putty beneath him.

He hummed in approval, lips leaving my breasts and trailing up my neck, towards my jaw. The hand supporting his body remained planted into the mattress, the opposite one coming down between us as he began to stroke himself. I whined pathetically at the sight.

“What was I doing? Did I fuck you hard or soft? How many times did I make you cum?” My cunt clenched around nothing, whines and moans leaving my lips even as I laid there untouched. He hissed through his teeth, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to stroke himself to the sight of me.

“I think you have tortured me enough today, General.” I seethed, my heel looping around to his arse and pushing him further towards me, my patience growing unbearably thin. He let out a deep rumble, a laugh or a groan, I couldn’t quite tell.

“Very well.” He smirked, lining his length up with my pulsing entrance, the anticipation of him coating my walls burning away at my skin with raw unrelenting desire.

He pushed his wide tip into me, a strained moan leaving both of our lips as he slowly inched further into my hole. The stretch was so painfully delicious, my touch starved body glittering at the feeling of someone being inside of me. He then began to move, his muscled arms caging me beneath him as I withered under his slow thrusts. My heavy eyelids eventually fluttered open, nose twitching as I noticed a purple haze beginning to slither beneath the gap between the bedroom door and floor.

My hand patted his shoulder, my breath hitching slightly as I furrowed my eyebrows at the sight. “Wait - what is that?” I asked, leaning on my elbows slightly as he halted and looked towards the door.

“Rhys shielded the room, he must have heard us.” Blush creeped up my neck, embarrassment washing over me knowing that the High Lord and Lady must have heard me in such a state; although Cassian seemed quite pleased with himself.

He thrust into me again, knocking my thoughts out of me as my head tilted back in pure ecstasy. The tip of his penis hit a wall in me every time, every vein and pulse in the muscle prominent to me as he slid through my walls over and over again. The sight of him was something godly, sweat glistened caramel skin, rippling muscles, hair falling in his face. None of my thoughts and wildest fantasies of him amounted to this.

I was thankful for the shield, not only because of the noises leaving my lips but because of his too. He was near growling as he thrusted into me with a relentless unfaltering pace, skin slapping, the bed pounding into the wall almost as much as he was pounding into me.

He positioned himself upright, his knees planted firmly in the mattress as he gave me a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. I moaned into him, nails dragging along his pecs as I tried to get a grip on anything to steady the feeling of pleasure bursting throughout me. Once he pulled away, he gripped the headboard with one hand, the other grabbing one of my left breast as he kneaded it in his palm, entering me at an new angle that heightened the feeling of everything.

He hummed as he watched me arch my back from the bed, “you like that, don’t you?” He asked, his hand moving from my breast to my clit which was aching to be touched. I answered him with a near scream as he began to rub the nerves with his thumb in tight firm circles, his teeth grit as he watched my face contort with overwhelming pleasure. He let out a breathy chuckle, “so responsive, aren’t you?” He taunted, and I couldn’t tell whether he meant the physical reaction of my body, or the fact I simply couldn’t find the words to respond to him.

“Please-“ I didn’t know what I was pleading for, so close to my third orgasm that I had started to see stars. It may have been a plead to stop, a plead to keep going; the rest of my body, including my mind going fuzzy as the tight coil inside of me grew.

But just as I was reaching my breaking point, he pulled out in a swift fluid movement, hands bracing my hips before I could yell in protest and flipping me onto my stomach. I immediately raised my arse in the air, arms scooping underneath the cool side of the pillow as I waited for him to enter me again. He chuckled lowly at my eagerness from behind, slapping his penis against my dripping wet sex before sliding in again.

He kissed down my spine as he began to thrust once more, the skin on skin contact of his chest against the root of my wings sending sparks throughout my entire body. I couldn’t fathom how something could bring me so much pleasure, how I no longer cared how loud I was, how desperate I was acting. Two large calloused hands gripped at the skin of my glutes, spreading them open before releasing them, followed by a sharp slap on one side. My head fell into the pillow, the white cotton soon becoming soaked in saliva as I was simply so fucked out that I couldn’t even keep my mouth closed.

His hand left my burning cheek, grabbing a fistful of my hair as he pulled me upright and flush against him. He briefly pinched at my nipple, before his hand trailed lower, settling on my lower abdomen where I could feel his bulge about to burst through my skin. His palm rested there for a moment before he grabbed my own, placing it in the same spot so I could feel him sinking in and out of me.

“Do you feel that?” He asked me, his voice deepening with nothing but lust and longing. He pressed down harder on my stomach, where the bulge continued to grow larger and smaller, my head rolled back onto his shoulder as I moaned. “This is where I belong now,” he nipped at my neck, my earlobe. “My beautiful, beautiful mate. How many men can say they’ve had the Commandress of the Night Court come undone for them?” His rhetorical question rung around my mind, and although I had imagined my answer, I didn’t dare speak it aloud. “Do you know what it’s doing to me? Knowing your strength, your power, and knowing that I will be the only male able to make you loose yourself like this.” His words came out through gritted teeth, as if he was holding himself back.

I could have came once more from the penetration alone, but as he began to circle my clit again the tie in which was holding me together began to unravel. A white hot light tore through me to the point that the orgasm was almost on the brink of painful, my entire body shaking as he fucked me through it. And as my muscles were almost limp with fatigue, one final, forceful thrust from Cassian had him coming undone, the shadow of his wings casting darkness across the bedroom as they flared out behind him. He roared as if he had been wounded, his warm thick seed spurting into me, claiming me.

We stayed there for a moment, my mind a complete haze as our chests heaved in sync. My wings had gone completely limp, trailing along the bed on both sides of us as if they had been turned to jelly. Sweat coated my entire body, from my forehead to my breasts to my thighs; stuck to Cassian’s front like glue. Our scents had merged into one, and it took every grain of restraint in my body not to walk down stairs exactly as I was and offer him a plate of food. Whether his earlier actions had ill intent or not, I could get used to sex like this for the rest of my life.

He placed a kiss below my ear, one hand sprawled across my stomach as he held me in place. I didn’t fight it, soaking up the warmth and the scent of his skin.

“You did so well, so good for me my mate.” His words were breathless as he ran his hand through my tangled hair, bringing it over my shoulder.

My eyes were still closed, my mind still a blur, his softening cock still inside of me. “I am not your mate yet.” I managed to say between heaving breaths.

He planted another kiss to my neck, nose dragging along the damp skin before he exhaled. “No but you will be. Come tomorrow you will see my intentions were not malicious, and after tonight, I’m sure you won’t be able to resist the bond. I know I won’t.” I felt him smirk against my skin and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at his arrogance.

“We will see.” Was all I said in return, my colder demeanour washing over me once more, now that my thoughts had travelled back to the reason why he was in my room in the first place.

After a few more seconds, he shifted away from me; his cum oozing out of my hole as his penis pulled out. He immediately stood from the bed, and I felt a slight pang of pain in my chest at the thought of him leaving so soon, my wide eyes raking over his naked body like it was the last time I may see it.

“I’m going to run you a bath.” He said as an ever so slight wave of relief washed over me. His hand reached for my face from where he stood at the side of the bed, fingers nestling in the hair behind my ear before pulling me closer towards him. I kept my eyes lowered as he pressed a kiss to my forehead; such an innocent gesture to combat what we had just partaken in.

“My mate.” He said once more.

[howi99]

Prince of Vale part 14

(been a while huh?)

Jaune: *letting himself fall onto his bed, letting out a long sigh of despair*

Ren: *copying his own notes to Jaune's, making sure he's caught up with the school subject* Rough day?

Jaune: *sigh* Let's see; We didn't find any clues on Jacques killer, the oligarchs are blaming me for his assassination even though it would give me no advantage whatsoever, the merchants of Vacuo are celebrating his death and Mistral... Isn't acting up, but considering they are allied to Atlas, i wouldn't be surprised if that changed on a dime.

Ren: *wince* Any good news?

Jaune: ... I guess Winter seems to like me a lot more than her sister? At least we can actually talk without her glaring holes through my head. *Sigh* I wish i could delegate more to my sisters...

Pyrrha: *snap her fingers* Speaking of, i was wondering; Why didn't one of your sisters take the throne? Aren't you the fifth in line?

Jaune: *shake his head* No idea. Something about being chosen, but they didn't give me much details... Anyway, it's not as if they didn't have responsibility themselves.

Pyrrha: *curious* What do you mean?

Jaune: *turning his head towards her* My eldest sister is the current general of our army. The second oldest is a diplomat in Argus.

Pyrrha: Oh right, Saphron De Valois. I've heard a lot about her actually. Gentle, beautiful; the kind of woman everyone should aspire to be.

Jaune: *chuckle* She's a big fan of yours, i'll tell her that next time i see her. *Looking back at the ceiling* Third one is in charge of the economy; Thank god I don't have to deal with that or i'd have jumped from the cliff straight up. *Pensive* I'm not too sure about my fourth sister; she's always been kind of secretive.

Nora: Oh! You think she's the head of the secret service?

Jaune: As if we had that.

_ meanwhile _

Cinder: *listening to the conversation* He still doesn't suspect anything of our existence. *Sigh in relief* Thank god...

Mercury: I'm surprised; with how much un-discreet we were these past few weeks, i was sure he'd caught on.

Emerald: You'd suspect students from another country to be YOUR secret services?

Mercury: *pensive, then shrug* ... I guess not. Good thing Cinder's blunder can be simply explained by her having a crush- *feeling the obsidian blade under his neck* Am i wrong though?

Cinder: *blushing* Shut up! I'm not catching ANY feelings for Jaune!

Neo: *texting Emerald* "Bullshit"

Emerald: *texting back* "You should see our boss; a true brocon if i ever seen one"

Jeanne: *responding in the group chat* You do realize i can read your message, right?

Neo: "But is she wrong?"

Jeanne: "My relationship with my twin is none of your business."

Emerald: "that's not a no Jeanne~"

Jeanne: "I will burn your corps Emerald, don't think I won't"

_ back to team JNPR's room _

Jaune: *shrug* As for my younger sisters; they aren't old enough to have any responsibility other than getting good notes in high school.

Nora: Isn't that your case as well?

Jaune: *waving off her concern* I was groomed for the position since i was a toddler; it's hardly the same for me as it is for them. *Sigh* Beside, even if i love complaining about my situation, at least i'm not my mom who had to figure out everything by herself while dealing with the faunus war on one hand and Mt Glenn independence on the other.