#series: courage under fire

[roadtogracelandx45]

Courage Under Fire| Currahee part 6

masterlist

Dick looked up when he saw the shadow passing the small barracks that he shared with Lewis and frowned when he saw Olivia walking past quickly and alone, which was odd. She was never alone. She was usually with him, Lewis, her twin, his friends, or her girls, but never alone.

He stood up quickly and pushed open the door. "Liv? Is everything okay? Why are you back so soon?"  The girl paused and turned to look at him, and his heart broke when he saw the tears coming down her face and leaving black mascara streaks in their wake.

"No, everything isn’t okay." Her voice trembled and broke causing Dick to go down the stairs and pull her into his arms. Something he was normally against, but this was Olivia in front of him, the girl who got him to dance, and was like a little sister to him. 

"What happened? Where are Lewis and Liebgott?" He looked over her head, searching the area for them. He had seen her leave with Liebgott, and moments later, Lewis followed them with a peculiar look on his face—something he had never seen before.

"In town." She hiccupped, burying her face into his PT shirt. 

"Come on," He muttered, a surge of anger going through him, he couldn't believe that they let her walk back to camp by herself especially with being upset, he steered her up the two steps that led into the tent and over to the empty bunk, and had sat her down.

 "Lew was drinking again." Dick who had busied himself with getting tissues for her to clean her face off, turned, “Liv you can handle him when he is drinking, you did all through OCS.’  

“This time it was different; he was different. He was cruel and jealous.” She returned as he moved to sit next to her, handing her the tissues, “Like how he would talk to Kathy, he called me a slut.” 

Anger surged through him again, he couldn’t believe that Lewis did that; this wasn’t the Lewis he had come to know in the last few months. The Lewis that he knew loved Olivia deeply, and he would never do anything intentionally to hurt her.  

“I kind of lashed out at him, told him he was the one that followed me out of the church and to the airport and he was the one that came up with the idea to pretend that we were married so Katherine didn’t try to marry me or my sister Marla off to some man who is old enough to be our father.” 

“Wait. What?” Dick was surprised in all the months that he had known both Olivia and Lewis, they had never once had either one of them mentioned that they were pretending to be married.  

Olivia’s cheeks colored and she turned to look at him, “My mother is a money-hungry, gold-digger whore. All she wants is money and power, and  because my father divorced her, she lost out on the trust fund that Fredrick set up for the family.” 

She paused to wipe her cheeks off and crumple the tissues up in her hands, “So as soon as I turned 16, she started to try and marry me off to any man that she thought was acceptable. The last time was right before Bobby, Marla, and I moved back to South Philly, and I wrote to Lewis and Aunt Helen about it. When we were in Arizona for his almost wedding to Kathy, Lew had the bright idea that if he was single and I was old enough to marry, he would marry me.”  

Dick nodded his head showing he was following her as he reached for the canteen that was sitting on the floor between his and Lewis’ beds so she could have some water, now that she seemed calm enough to talk. 

“Lewis came to Charleston with me and Helen. Because my brother died in Pearl, Katherine was there when we arrived and started right in on me, so he decided to act like we got married to stop her from going on about everything.” After taking a sip of the water, she said, “Including the fact that I should have been okay with getting married at 18 years old, like she was when she married her first husband.” 

She took another sip of the water to get rid of the lump she had in her throat, “That was all news to me and   Bobby. That she had been married before our father. He mysteriously died, too.”  The redhead was surprised at how bitter she sounded, it was the complete opposite of how she normally was. 

“Oh, you didn’t hear that part of the story from Lewis?” She asked as she shifted to sit facing him, “2 of 4 Katherine’s husbands have turned up dead. My father and Nathan, her third husband, are the only two who lived. The only reason why Nathan is still alive is because he faked his own death.’

“And your father?” Dick asked as he rubbed his hand across her back, trying to wrap his head around this all.

“Was smart enough to get the hell out of dodge when he reconnected with Andie.” She answered, “We were 10 when Daddy went to Philadelphia for work and met her again. Mother was back on the drunk farm, and he brought Andie and two of her kids, Izzy and Tommy, with him. Andie swooped in and started taking care of us. It was so odd to a mother all of a sudden. Katherine only ever cared about my brothers, especially James and Nicholas. She hated that either one of them took up for me.’ 

Dick nodded his head showing that he was following her.  “Daddy served Katherine with the divorce papers after she came back from the drunk farm. She was furious. Started throwing stuff around the parlor.’

It struck Dick how privileged Olivia was at that moment, talking about the parlor of the house she grew up in and how her father served her mother with divorce papers. She and her two brothers, who were with her, were down-to-earth and well-mannered. Almost the exact opposite of Lewis. Perhaps that is why they almost worked so well together, she mellowed out the extreme sides of his personality. And he brought her adventurous side. Two pieces to a puzzle, but he supposed that maybe the age gap was going to be a part of the problem. 

**

Herbert Sobel, seeing the lights still on in his XO’s cabin, went up the stairs and peered into the small window. Olivia was sitting Indian style on the empty bed next to Winters, they were sitting next to each other, looking way too cozy. 

This was an interesting development.

 From what he had been told by Amber and later by General Sink that Olivia was extremely close to not only Lewis Nixon but Dick Winters and they had grown close during their time in Benning, and from what he was seeing, they were extremely close. This is too perfect, he could use this against Winters and turn his best friend against him, and in turn, Olivia. If they all saw that Lewis was against them, they would turn too, and the girl would leave, and Amber would be in charge of everything. 

 It would be absolutely perfect. And he, he needed this win. 

*

Lewis had stumbled into the barracks just after 2 in the morning being supported by Ed Tipper and Floyd Talbert, and was met by a very upset Dick Winters and Olivia Stewart who stood up quickly, her face tear stained and had dark mascara streaks left a pathway down her cheeks. 

“Come on, Livvy, I will walk you back to your barracks,” Floyd said as he crossed the room quickly, he could see the fire and hurt her eyes, and wanted to stop her from attacking Lewis and regretting it tomorrow.  She couldn’t even bring herself to look at or say anything to Lewis as she brushed past him and went over to Floyd’s side.  

“Livvy.” Lewis managed before Tipper pushed him back towards the beds. “Sir, I would suggest leaving her alone until you sober up. Otherwise you may end up on your ass again and I am not talking about the Lieutenant.”  Even though he knew it wasn’t his place, he would put Nixon on his ass for hurting Olivia. 

They could hear Joe’s voice coming from outside the barracks calling for Olivia, and they didn’t need another moment like they had at the bar; this time, Joe wouldn’t hold back. Especially if he saw how upset Olivia was. For all the bravado that he showed in the bar and around town, deep down, they all knew that he cared for Olivia. How much they didn’t know yet. 

“Liv!” Joe’s voice came again, causing her to go out of the cabin and into Joe’s arms.  

**

“ ‘Ey, hey, princess. It’s okay.” The cabby said as he caught her in his arms, holding her to his chest.  “I am sorry.” She cried into his chest, all the emotions that she had built in her since the attack on Pearl Harbor, the emotions that she tried to hold back, just came out of her. “Shh, Liv, it's okay.” He soothed, holding her tighter to his chest, “Come on.” He led her away from the barracks to the latrines to help her clean up a bit.   

“I am sorry, I am sorry.” She repeated as he opened the door to the latrines. Joe was surprised that she was apologizing for showing emotions. In his experience, girls could be overemotional and go from one extreme to another quickly, but never apologize for it until a lot later, if at all. 

“What are you sorry for? Nixon was bang out of order for what he said.” He asked as he closed the door and twisted the lock. He wasn’t risking an interruption from Mary, Nixon or anyone else who could be coming in.  After she had left and Talbert and Tipper separated him and Nixon, he had decided that he was going to make it very clearly known to Olivia that he wanted her and was going to do anything to get to her. Even if that meant giving up Mary.  Something that he hadn’t been sure of until he saw her interacting with her nephew. He could see having a family with her if they both survived the war. 

“For not telling you about the fake marriage. For leaving you there to deal with Nixon. For crying.”  She started as he crossed the space and stood behind her at the bathroom counter, and placed his hands on her hips, his fingers tracing over her hips and the smooth material of her dress. 

“Olivia, you have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes were on hers in the mirror, “He did that to protect you from a fate that you didn’t deserve.”  On the walk back to Toccoa, Bobby had informed him, George Luz and several others about the fake marriage and how Nixon had lied about it for her and Marla’s safety. If it had been one of his sister’s friends, he would have done the same thing.  

His hand trailed from her hip across her pelvis, his eyes never leaving hers. “Joe. What are you doing?” She asked, her breath hitching in her throat. He hushed her and pressed his lips against the soft flesh of her neck, “Just let this happen, Princess. We both want it.”  

Her eyes met his in the mirror, she looked thoughtful for several long moments as he trailed his fingers over the smooth material of her dress and down. She hummed in agreement before she turned her head and kissed him.

**

“Lieutenant  Stewart, may I have a word?” Sobel asked the next morning, seeing the head nurse sitting at one of the tables in the officers’ dining hall. It was the first time that he was seeing her there; normally, she was attached at the hip with Nixon and Winters, or even her twin brother and his friends.  

“Captain Sobel, what can I help you with?” Olivia asked as she picked up her coffee cup and took a sip from it.  

“We need to have a conversation about what I saw on Friday night.” 

 She raised her eyebrow, she had a pretty good idea of what he saw, but she wanted him to say it so she could try and deny it, “What did you see Friday night?” 

Sobel leaned forward, the smell of stale coffee on his breath wafted towards her, and she scooted back in her chair to get away from it. “ You and Winters together.”  

“So? I am usually with him or the other officers, that's nothing new.”  She was relieved that he hadn’t seen her and Joe leaving the latrines together, uniform and dress rumpled from their romp. 

“Not looking cozy like that.”  

“Cozy like what?” She asked. “Like something happened between you two.” He was surprised when she started to laugh, “He was comforting me, Captain. Nothing happened between us. I am sure if you poked around during our very rare downtime, you would see me like that with Guarnere, Liebgott, Talbert, and some of the other men.” 

“See, I don’t believe it, especially after what I have heard from Amber.” He leaned further over her, causing her nose to wrinkle. “I know just exactly how easy you are.” 

“Excuse me?” Her temper flared as she stood up and pushed herself away from him, “Easy?”  He smirked, he had succeeded in getting under her skin, and he couldn’t help but revel in it, “Yes, you let just about anyone into your pants.” 

An angry red flush covered her cheeks and neck,  and her hands curled into fists. Like he wanted to strike him, but knew better. He would go straight to Sink after hitting her back and get her kicked out; they both knew it. And in ways, Olivia was a lot like him; he wanted nothing more than to be a nurse, and because of her own stubborn pride, she wouldn’t take the money to go to nursing school. The Army was her best shot at achieving that goal. 

“I wonder what Colonel Sink would say if he knew that the precious head nurse is sleeping around.” 

“You can say whatever you want, I know the truth, and I am sure the good Colonel will too.” She said, “Excuse me, I have work to do, I am sure you do as well.” 

**

She was still trembling when she went into the small office that she shared with the male officers, the only two that were in there were her older brother Edward and Dick both of whom looked at her and stood up when they saw how distressed she was. 

“Sobel approached me in the officer’s mess hall.” She said before they could, “Apparently he thinks that Dick and I have something going on.’ 

Dick’s ears burned red as he sat back again when she said that. “He saw us in the barracks last night when we were talking about what happened with Lewis and him pretending to be my husband.” 

Edward nodded his head, his lips pressing into a thin line, angry as Spiers, Shames and a few others joined them; he didn’t want to say anything in front of the others to save his sister from more embarrassment but it had seemed it was already getting around the companies that Lewis and Olivia fought. 

Ranney, one of the men who had been out on the weekend pass and looked a little worse for wear, sat down next to Olivia and draped his arm on the back of her chair. He wanted to ask her about how things went after she had left and if there was any merit to the inklings of rumors that they had heard from Sobel, but seeing the expression on the oldest Stewart’s face, he held off.  

They were working in silence when the door opened again, Skinny Sisk was brought in by the military police; his tie was hanging loose around his neck, and his shirt was mostly unbuttoned and untucked from his trousers. There were faint red lipstick marks on his neck and jaw.  Olivia had glanced up from the information that she had been reading quickly to see who it was and go back to the paperwork, but froze seeing how unkempt  Skinny was.

 “What happened?’ Edward asked as he sat up straight in his chair, he was the most senior of everyone in the room, so it was on him to ask. 

“We caught this one out by the train tracks.” The MP said, “With his girlfriend.”  Skinny could see the amusement in Olivia’s eyes as she mouthed train tracks out at him.  “Bathroom?” He mouthed, causing her mouth to twitch into a smile, and inclined her head in his direction as if to say touche. 

“What in the world were you doing at the train tracks, Sisk?” Edward asked, his mouth twitching into a smirk as if he knew the answer before even asking.

“Well, sir, I thought it was a good space for some alone time,” Skinny answered, looking from the younger Stewart to the older one. “Why didn’t you leave before the military police showed up?” Ed Shames asked, unable to help himself. 

“Because, sir, she was coming, the train was coming, and so was I.” If Edward was surprised at his statement, he didn’t show it; his sister, on the other hand, covered her laughter with a cough, causing the boy to be ridiculously proud of himself. Not many people could get Olivia to break like that. “I will let you handle this, Captain Stewart.” The MP who brought Skinny in said. 

 The older Stewart boy nodded his head in agreement as the man left the room, his attention going from Skinny to his sister, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. “Olivia, this is not funny. He could have been killed.” 

“But isn’t that how most men want to go?” She asked innocently through barely contained giggles, “In the woes of pleasure? I mean that’s what PawPaw said.” 

 Edward scrubbed his hand down his face, almost in annoyance. Leave it to their great-great-grandfather to tell Olivia stories like that. “Olivia Franklin!” He scolded again as she stood up and started gathering her paperwork to take with her back to the hospital. 

“I am going to walk Skinny back and go to the hospital to check on the girls from Charlie company.”  

“Just behave yourself, Liv,” her older brother started, “You have already caused enough trouble with Sobel this morning.” 

She grinned innocently at him and held up her free hand, “As well behaved as a nun in church. You coming with us, Mike?” 

Ranney, who had been sitting next to her, nodded his head and stood up quickly. He liked the other officers, but he wasn’t comfortable around them like he was around the others, so he was okay with leaving, and he wanted to repeat the story to the others.  

The elder Stewart watched as his sister fussed over Skisk as they walked out of the room, his worry clear on his face. Dick had started to tell him what happened the night before when she came in and just gave a brief rundown. A huge part of him wanted to pull her out of Easy, away from her twin, Lewis, and the others to keep her safe for his own peace of mind, but he knew Olivia would never forgive him. So he had to stand on the sidelines and hope that she didn’t blow up her life and everyone around her. 

[houseofamidala]

LIONHEART / robb stark by @heartofmortis

TARYN BARATHEON AND ROBB STARK the queen and the king in the north

[salem-s]

10 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, annnnnnnnnnnnnngst (im so sorry reader???), mentions of blood (brief), descriptions of parental abuse. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 7.3k. no chill.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER back to me by the marías

Rafe’s panicking. 

Once the feeling in his legs comes back, he abruptly leaves the dance floor, seeking refuge in the hallway in a feasible attempt to calm himself down. 

A part of him is pissed.

Pissed at how easily you brushed him off, pushed him aside, dumped him as if the past few days meant nothing to you. Rafe finally builds up the courage to tell you how he feels, and you do that?

You tell him to forget it, call him a liar, and run away? And you have the audacity to lie to his face, saying it’s meant nothing to you? None of the words, touches, moments spent curled up in confidentiality? His temporary humiliation haunts him, creating an ugly feeling that sits in his chest, the feeling of being rejected without so much as a glance.

Another part of him is worried. 

Rafe replays the moment in his head over and over again, not quite able to get the image of your disbelief out of his mind.

You looked offended, almost, as if the whole debacle was one giant trick. You kept trying to convince him that it’s not true, coming up with numerous excuses for him to back out, but he believes you were the one trying to convince yourself of it.

Why were you so adamant that it was a joke? Did it come across that way? Is it that hard to believe? 

He’ll never forget the shimmer of desperation that glossed over your eyes at his confession, as if the mere thought of him wanting you seems like a horror story, a fantasy. The approach he took has him kicking himself. Did he come on too strong? Was he holding you too tight? Did he hurt you again?

Rafe’s nail beds are irritated as his thoughts plague him. You pulled away from him so fast that he had whiplash, as if his skin was on fire and you were getting burned at his very touch. You put as much distance as you could between them multiple times. 

The realization dawns on him. 

You're scared. 

Rafe quickly gets over his pity party and nearly runs back into the ballroom, eyes desperately scanning the crowd to try and find you. 

Because, fuck, he’s scared too.

Not scared- terrified.

Running a hand through his hair, he huffs as his search goes nowhere. He just needs to talk to you, to clarify a few things, and to let you know that he can’t have this confession separate you. Even if you never touch each other again, Rafe decides that that’s better than losing you all together. Even if he has to love you from afar, to only be able to look at you or be around him is infinitely better than a brick wall built high between you. 

The thought of never being around you again makes his chest pull achingly, desperately. He needs to fix this. Now. 

Shit, he’d rather wait eons for you than be with anyone else. 

And that scares the shit out of him. 

But Rafe’s always been someone who knows what they want, when they want it. As a spoiled kid, he’s used to getting what he asks for, and he refuses his fuck-up to come between him and the only person he’s ever been tethered to. The string is fraying, and he’s getting desperate to make sure it doesn’t get snipped. 

With a thumping heartbeat, he retreats back to the table and notices all of your stuff is still there, sitting neatly on your chair, untouched. Without a second thought, he grabs your clutch and scans the room again. The search is unsuccessful, only seeing Lorenza talking to extended family, but no you, no glimpse of that godforsaken pinot noir colored dress that’s been making his head spin all night. 

“Looking for angel?”

Rafe spins around to see Yara, peering up at him eagerly. 

He nods quickly. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

Yara sultry nods her head, spinning on her heel without a word and leading him out towards the hallway with the bathroom and exit. 

Like an idiot, Rafe follows. 

And his head truly begins to spin when they enter the empty space with no you in sight. Rafe’s ducking his head in every corner, brows pinched in confusion as he looks around the corridor desperately, only to be met with desolate hallways and only his reflection seen in the pristine marble walls. 

His frustration only blooms.

“Uh, Yara, she’s not–”

The thumping in his ribcage augments when Yara harshly grabs his arm, pulling him into a see-through storage closet and shoving him up against a shelf that digs painfully into his back, caging him into the small space with a smile that's nothing nice.

“Finally,” she purrs at him. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

The words make Rafe feel drunk. Or drugged. Or both. Because he gapes his mouth open and closed like a fish, brain short circuiting with the combination of whatever the hell is stabbing his back and whatever is happening in front of him. What the fuck?

Blinking stupidly and offering no words, Yara simply giggles low and places a manicured hand on his chest, fingers playing with his tie and splaying across his toned chest through the dress shirt.

“C’mon, Rafe. Don’t act dumb.”

What? The words don’t come out of his mouth, paralyzed. 

“I've seen the way she treats you,” Yara muses low, her talon nails tracing idle shapes through the hills and ridges of his abdomen. “I can take care of you.”

Her touch is burning hot, uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unwanted. 

Rafe’s chest bubbles in panic, senses heightened from his anxiety of not being able to find the one person he needs right now and the uneasiness that this proximity is thrusting on him. 

Anything feels wrong when it’s not you. 

His chest is heaving. God, it feels like he’s about to throw up, and he can’t help the flash of anger that roars in his mind, because why does this girl think she’s on the same playing field as you? His sweet girl? The audacity to even utter your name is downright disrespectful, undeserving. 

Rafe roughly grabs Yara’s wrist, shoving her arm away from him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He spats. 

Yara’s eyes widen innocently with confusion. “Wh-What?” The girl takes an uneven step back as if the revelation is inconceivable. “You don’t want me?”

Want Yara?

“You better be fucking kidding.”

Rafe balls his hand into a fist, nails most definitely embedding crescents into his palm as he barrels out of the closet, frustration and anger simmering up to his ears as he feels he’s on the verge of crashing out, tugging on his hair for the upteenth time. Ignoring the faint desperate pleas behind him, Rafe storms back into the ballroom, letting out a shaky breath as he scans the room again.

This time he doesn’t hesitate to get up in people’s faces.

Rafe approaches people he’s never met before, asking if they’ve seen you, describing the details of your hair and your dress and even mentioning the color of your eyes, once. He must go up to dozens of people, the result all being the same – nothing.

They have no idea where you are. Some people don’t even know who you are, nor can spare an ounce of regard for his dilemma. Most are confused at his desperation, wordlessly shaking their heads in befuddlement and shrugging him off as if he’s crazy. 

Not even Lorenza understands, who looks concerned at Rafe’s worried expression but nonetheless is unable to decipher his ragged breath and fast words. 

The spot that Yara touched on his chest aches, as if he’s been branded. It feels ugly, it feels wrong. He feels like he needs to change and take a shower, to wash off any trances of people that aren’t you.

How could he ever learn to love the touch of another when you're the only presence he can endure?

Rafe feels like he’s been searching forever, even poking his head into the women’s bathroom to see if you've taken refuge in there without a warning or apology to the elderly woman who clutched her pearls at his intrusion.

When that goes nowhere, he feels like he’s suffocating, like you're slipping through his fingers despite feeling like he just had you. As he stands in the hallway with the sounds of echoed laughter and muffled music, he realizes his ears are ringing and his hands are shaking. 

He needs air.

And that’s the smartest thing he’s done all night, because when he seeks solace in the brisk ocean air, he spots something off to the side, practically buried in the sand. 

Heels. 

Rafe’s heart lurches. 

His legs are moving before he can process it, gripping your clutch so tight he feels like he might’ve broken something inside. The thought passes quickly, reassuring in the back of his mind that whatever he broke he’ll just pay for, as he scoops up the discarded heels and scans his surroundings, eyes narrowing at the pathway leading into the dark, to the quiet lull of the ocean, and his gut lurches him forward, heart thumping as he finds himself descending into the inky void of the night coated with nothing but suffocation. 

Each step feels like a lost cause, frustration bubbling as he curses at the wild goose chase he’s thrust himself into.

Here he is: the big, bad Rafe Cameron stumbling through the night, looking high and low for a woman he’s practically sold his soul to, gripping your belongings between calloused fingers and bleeding nail beds.

Rafe curses again, but his footsteps falter when he sees a silhouette in the distance, crouched low to the ground. The sight makes his ears, finally, stop ringing, but he almost wishes they hadn’t because then he wouldn’t hear it.

Quiet sobbing. 

The noise Rafe breaks his fucking heart. 

A moonlit figure sits on the sand, hunched forward with shaking shoulders that match the sound of hushed weeping. God, he prays it isn’t you, hoping that horrific sound isn’t coming from you, selfishly pleading that it’s someone else having a bad night.

But the closer he gets the more his suspicions are confirmed, chest tugging at the sight of your backless dress and wine colored gown cascading over the ridges of the sand. 

His voice wavers when he says your name.

You don't even turn around, waving him off dismissively. “Not now, please.”

Yeah, no. 

There’s no way Rafe’s leaving. He physically can’t. In fact, he hurries over to you, setting your clutch and heels down in the sand a few feet behind you as he comes up to place a hand on your shoulder.

You shake off his touch immediately and he panics. Did he make you feel like this? Did he hurt you, again? 

You turn away from him, sniffling. “Seriously. Leave me alone.”

“No.” Rafe lowers cautiously next to you. He hates that you don't look at him. “Look at me.”

“I want you to go.”

Even if I wanted to, I can’t, he thinks.

“I can’t leave you like this,” he whispers, frustrated you won’t look up, desperate to get you to stop crying. “Please, we can talk about this. I really didn’t mean to freak you out, I–”

Then a bitter laugh escapes your lips, and Rafe frowns at the sound, something that sounds so disingenuous, so unlike you, that it makes his stomach drop. 

“What?”

“This isn’t about you,” you whisper, voice wavering despite all of your best efforts. 

“Then what is it?” Rafe pleads. When you don't answer, exasperation bubbles as he says your name again. “Talk to me, I swear we can–”

“We can’t. Just go.”

 Rafe wants to scream. “No. God, will you look at me?”

You do.

And it gives him fucking whiplash. 

Glossy and tear striken eyes meet his, but it’s not the running mascara or puffy eyes that concern him. No, it’s the bloodied towel you hold up to your lip. 

The air is pulled from Rafe’s lungs, heart dropping instantly. 

All the frustration that has been built up in his temper immediately dissipates, now flooding solely in concern, in worry, in anxiety.

You're hurt. You're bleeding. He can’t even form a single thought except how uneasy he is seeing this, knowing he did nothing to stop it, whatever it was. 

Then he’s seeing red. 

Balling his fists so tight, he’s sure he might draw blood himself, because someone did this to you, deliberately hurt you, laid a hand on his sweet girl.

Rafe’s mind immediately wanders to Patrick, that stupid prick would do something like this and probably laugh it off after. There’s a slight chance it could’ve been Grant, merely based on your history alone, but the fact that he’s barely spoken to, let alone looked at, you the entire trip doesn’t make him believe he’s the culprit.

No, you must’ve gotten in a fight with someone. A random person. Maybe a catfight. Because none of this makes any fucking sense. 

With a trembling hand, Rafe slowly moves the cloth away to inspect the wound. It’s a cut on your lip, swollen and plump but no longer bleeding. 

When his hand comes to cradle your jaw instinctively, you pull your face away from his touch, avoiding his eyes and looking out onto the water. You try your hardest to remain stoic, but a few tears continue to fall as you attempt to stop hiccuping.

“Who did this?”

His voice is as still as he can possibly make it, but there’s a wave of anger, of fury, at the thought of someone doing this to you, someone hurting you. Rafe tries to mask it, but his tone drips in irateness.

But you don't relent. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he nearly screams. “Tell me.”

“Please go back inside, Rafe.”

Frustration floods his chest as he raises his voice. “Don’t you understand?”

You lightly flinch at his volume, and a part of him knows he needs to reel it in but he needs you to feel his desperation.

“I can’t! I can’t just go back inside. I can’t leave you.”

You shake your head, still refusing to look at him as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t need you. Stop.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, running a hand through his already ruined hair out of irritation.

Resisting the urge to cradle you close, he instead settles on a long deep breath to steady himself, readjusting himself so he’s kneeling right in front of you, forcing you to face him. The uncertainty in your voice allows him to keep going, allowing him to understand that you're saying this to protect yourself. 

You're here right in front of him, looking anywhere but at him, but Rafe couldn’t feel further away. 

“I know you don’t mean that," he says softly, delicate enough to make up for his outburst earlier but firm enough to get you to understand. "Stop pushing me away.” 

The dam breaks. 

A hiccup. “I don’t know how,” you sob before you can stop yourself, covering your eyes with your hands. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Rafe’s heart fucking shatters. 

The feeling kills him. He doesn’t care if he’s crossing a line or overstepping when he’s hugging you, pulling you tighter when you try to evade his grip as you cry and push and writhe.

He doesn’t budge, tears brimming his eyes at your struggle, at your inability to let someone in, at how someone could even fathom hurting you. 

“Let go–” You struggle, weak hands meekly attempting to push him away.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. “Stop– Stop. I’m here. Stop.”

A jagged sob escapes your lips. He holds you tighter. 

His sweet girl. 

The thought makes him sick to his stomach. 

Eventually your efforts gradually stop, fully collapsing into his embrace as you cover your face with your hands, letting his arms cage you in entirely. Rafe does the best that he can, cradling the back of your head and running his other hand up and down your back soothingly, whispering sweet nothings to talk you through your cries. 

And all you can think about is how embarrassed you are.

You're embarrassed of it all: the playing pretend, the overtly snobby family, the emotions that can’t seem to stop and continuously overflow under the faucet of nonstop misfortunes, the thought of him with someone else, the cut on your lip, the helplessness.

It makes you feel weak, curled up in his arms like this in a blubbering mess, probably bleeding onto his nice dress shirt with smudges of mascara. You aren't used to being coddled, it’s suffocating, pathetic. 

It takes a long time for you to find your voice. And when you do, it comes out through choked ragged breaths. 

“I’m sorry.”

Rafe sighs deeply above you. “No, baby. None of that.”

Your lip wavers.

How badly you want to apologize for how ridiculous you feel, how strange these pet-names are making you feel, how stupid this whole night has been. But you can’t find the words, not without sobbing, so you bite your lip, hard, and then wince as a sharp sting jolts you. 

Idiot, you think. 

“No apologies,” he whispers. “I’m here. Whatever you need.”

God, he’s being so fucking sweet that you nearly forget about what you saw earlier.

There’s no doubt you're laying on the same spot Yara touched, brushing over the same fabric that met the smooth, lotioned callouses of her hand. You have half a mind to pull away, to keep protecting your heart, but no matter how hard you want to try, you can’t. Besides, Rafe’s grip is too secure. It’s clear he’s not letting go anytime soon. 

You want to yell and scream and shriek to get him off, to tell him to go fuck off and be with his new girl, his new plaything, because apparently he’s already moved on.

But that flies out the window when you hear Rafe sniffle. 

Your confusion is through the roof. Your heart is pulling in a million different directions, teetering between the anger of betrayal to the sympathies of hurt. The whole anterage you've gone through with Rafe is the last thing you want to think about right now, wanting to push your feelings to the back of your mind for the time being. The thought of talking about what happened earlier sits heavy on your heart, the feeling of dread weighing you down. 

You can’t talk to him. Not right now. As much as you seek comfort in the warmth of his arms, it feels wrong, disingenuous, fake. 

Frankly, you know what you need, and choke on your breath to find the courage to say it. 

“I want… I...”

Your words are so quiet, incomplete and fragmented, barely a whisper as your lip quivers. 

Rafe hears it. He understands.

It takes him a moment to find the courage to release you, reluctant to let you go, you can tell, because his touch lingers a little longer than it should as he sucks in a deep breath, as if he’s been punched in the gut. Rafe hugs you a fraction tighter, a wordless promise, before he slowly pulls away.

You feel your hair brushed out of your face, his fingers delicately ghosting the hot skin of your cheeks. Half of you wants to lean into the touch, the other half wants to pull away, knowing deep down it’s dishonest. 

“Don’t move,” Rafe commands softly, taking one more moment to gloss his eyes over you, over your cut, before he’s gone. 

You hate how cold it feels without him, and you hate how you miss his warmth. The desperation makes you feel sick. Rafe’s made it clear his confession earlier was said out of hysteria, out of confusion. God, everything is so confusing.

The waterworks spring up again when Lorenza is suddenly at your side, cradling your face and wiping your tears away. 

And you let it all out. 

Through blubbering tears, you spill everything to your nonna: the purposeful dress alteration, how your dinners have been cut in half, the condescending comments on the yacht and at the table, the constant comparison to Yara, how Paulette gave the dress to someone who deserves it, the speech, and, finally the slap. 

Lorenza simply listens, occasionally wiping your tears away. 

When your nonna asks about what led up to the slap, you sigh, shutting your eyes momentarily and giving in. You're sick of lying. Of playing pretend. Of putting up a facade. 

You tell Lorenza the truth about Rafe, that you never were together, and the threat to leak that information to the family is what warranted the slap.

You explain the arrangement, how you were only sleeping together and how Paulette caught you two, how Rafe is simply doing you a favor because he didn’t want to go home to see his family, and you figured having the boyfriend card would get everyone off your back for once. You even lament further that you don’t even like each other, not in the way you were supposed to.

The shock is evident on your nonna’s face, appalled and confused. 

Not at being deceived, but at how you're calling it pretend. 

Lorenza doesn’t believe it.

Not when she’s seen you both unguarded together. 

Not when she’s seen you huddled together in the morning, fast asleep in each other’s arms in an uncomfortable twin bed. Not when Rafe woke up early on your birthday to enlist her help to make the day special, basically begging for information despite not understanding a word of her native language. Not when you worriedly checked out the window every ten minutes to see when he was coming back from his run. Not when she’s seen you sneaking unintentional glances when the other wasn’t looking, or lingering touches when you passed by each other. 

As you explain the fake arrangement, your nonna lets her eyes shift over to Rafe, who’s been pacing back and forth about twenty feet away the entire time, close enough to keep an eye on you but far enough to where he’s not intruding, and doesn’t believe for one second that you feel nothing for each other. 

But that’s not what you need to hear right now. Definitely later. But not right now, as the sting from your mother’s wedding ring burns fresh against your lip, scarring more than something physical. 

Lorenza reassures you that everything that’s happened is not your fault, that your mother is cruel and vile and wrong for everything she’s put you through. The actions of the mother are not done because of the child, but rather done to mask the insecurities that haunt her. The world will forgive you if you choose to let your mother go, saying there’s no consequence in cutting the parasite off. The weight on your shoulders will lift at the loss. 

It takes a long time for you to calm down, to fully calm down, head pounding at the intensity of your meltdown as sand embeds itself in your fingernails. The cool breeze combined with how frail you feel has you caving into yourself, aching all over your body. 

Once you have the strength to stand, Rafe’s at an arms length away, extending a cautious hand that ghosts over your body to ensure you don't fall. Lorenza can tell he’s torn on his involvement, unsure of whether to support your bodyweight or keep his hands to himself, afraid of overstepping. 

Your nonna generously offers the two of you to come back to the cottage for your last night, knowing that being in the general vicinity of Paulette might stir up more trouble. And, without question, you accept the offer, because the thought of being around your mother for one more second makes you feel sick, and you decide your nonna is right: you will feel much lighter if you never see your mother again, starting tonight. 

The room is packed hastily. You don't bother neatly folding your clothes as usual and instead shove them in your suitcase, solely desperate on leaving the resort, leaving it all behind. Whatever doesn’t fit in the bag from the lack of organization, Rafe is wordlessly putting in his suitcase. You don't even change out of your dress, simply leaving it on with your heels.

When you slip on Rafe’s suit jacket to cover up, he doesn’t complain or poke fun. 

As you and Rafe pack the taxi, Lorenza is approaching the front desk, turning in your keycards and checking you out of the room prematurely. Once she returns, she squeezes in next to you and pats your knee. You look past Rafe’s profile to watch the resort get smaller and smaller, soon its bright lights fading into a low dim. 

You feel his eyes on you, and when you gather the courage to look, you notice he’s looking at the cut – no – staring at the cut, a pained expression glossing over his eyes.

It makes you frown. When Rafe meets your eye, he lets his pretty blues linger for a second before turning to the window, almost ashamed. He wants nothing more than to hold you but knows he shouldn’t. He can’t.

The familiar cottage broaches into sight and you let out a deep breath, feeling as if you can finally relax. The giant fog of uncertainty and anxiety that consumed you seems to dissipate into thin air. The worst is over. 

Ticino and Po greet you three, and Lorenza helps you with the bags and escorts you back into the same little room, neatly made twin beds adorning opposite sides of the wall.

You and Rafe float to your respective sides hesitantly, unsure if approaching one another is safe territory. Lorenza’s voice feels far away, the only noise filling the silence, and you can only absentmindedly nod to your nonna’s words as you sit at the edge of the bed, smoothing over the sheets with a calloused hand.

The only time you shake your head is when Lorenza asks if you want her to clean the cut. 

A gentle kiss is left on your forehead, your nonna whispering a sweet nothing before leaving the room, not before momentarily coming back with a dry wash cloth in case you want to do it yourself. With a soft goodnight and an appreciative nod towards Rafe, who stands awkwardly at the end of his bed, your nonna leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind you and filling the room with silence. 

The tension is thick, suffocating. 

All you can do is sit, staring into space and absentmindedly reaching for the cloth and attempting to stand. 

Suddenly Rafe is kneeling in front of you, a hand covering yours to cease your movements. 

You find his eyes, snapping out of your trance and pinching your brows at him, confused. But the softness in his pretty blues eases the worry line away, especially when he places your hands back into your lap and grabs the cloth. 

“I got it,” Rafe whispers, saying your name gently. “C’mon.”

A warm hand splays on the bare skin of your back, easing you up off the bed and towards the bathroom. Him saying your name feels wrong.

The bright light makes you squint, but nonetheless you move towards the counter at his guide. As you sit on the closed toilet lid, Rafe turns on the water, wiggling a finger under the faucet to make sure the temperature is what you need. Once it’s to his liking, he dabs the washcloth under the stream to get it wet, then pumps out the smallest portion of antibacterial soap that sits on the counter. 

Rafe turns to you, kneeling on the cool bathroom tile to get nice and close. It can’t be comfortable on his knee, and you almost tell him that he doesn't need to do anything, but his expression is so indifferent that you can’t discern if it’s concern or anger. 

You can smell his cologne masked with his scent, your head pounding from all the crying but also spinning at his close proximity, at how he’s continuously coming back to you despite your constant pushing.

One of his hands rests on your lower thigh just above your knee to ground himself, and neither of you flinch from the familiar touch, a second nature. The moment of solace comes and goes, because he gently caresses your jaw with the cloth, you leaning into his touch subconsciously. 

But when he gingerly presses the cloth against your cut, you wince at the contact, and Rafe frowns, pulling away a fraction. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice is saccharine. “I need to put it back on, okay?”

You lightly frown, but nod anyway. You grimace again when the warm cloth touches the cut, but don't pull away this time and let him keep his hand there to cradle your jaw. A moment is spent like that, still and unwavering.

Then he pulls back to dab the areas around the cut, wiping away any makeup or dirt that might’ve gotten around it. 

Your words are slightly muffled from the contact.

“Don’t you need hydrogen peroxide?” You ask quietly, surprising him. 

But Rafe’s shock comes and goes. “Not for the lip. Actually, it could make it worse, make it take longer to heal. So just water and soap.” His voice is soft, reserved. 

Just for you. 

“Really?”

Your genuine tone of curiosity makes his heart fucking melt. His sweet girl. Not trusting his words, he settles on a nod and small smile. 

“How’d you know that?”

Rafe continues to clean the cut with a feather light touch, pinching his brows in focus with parted lips, so in tune with his actions that he almost doesn’t hear you. 

“Used to get in a lot of fights,” he all but whispers. Noticing your frown, Rafe’s heart skips a beat, instead smirking to try and reverse your expression. “I practically have a medical degree at this point.”

But his joke doesn’t land, and your frown only deepens. 

Rafe’s eyes soften. “Hey. I’m retired. It was a long time ago. Okay?”

You reluctantly nod. “Okay.”

Your fingers gently play with his that are splayed on your thigh. Once you realize what you're doing, you freeze, and move your hands away.

Rafe hates it, speaking before he can shut himself up. “It’s okay. You can keep doing it.”

I want you to keep doing it, he wants to say. I never want you to stop.

Hesitantly, your hands move back to cover his, trying to ignore how your cheeks feel hot under his gaze especially after getting caught. But this time is different, there’s no poking fun or mockery or charming smirk. Just the green light. It’s funny how serious he sounds, the tone feeling foreign to you, especially when he’s being nice and serious. 

You should push him away. You should be mad at him after his little rendezvous, his impractical prank of pushing and pulling you like the tide. You should group him in with all the other men you've been with who jump ship at the first sight of hardships and sail onto the next girl.

But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this, taking such good care of you without you having to ask, doting on you without anyone as a witness. 

Despite it all, he deserves to know what happened. 

“It was my mom.”

That makes Rafe still, eyes flickering from the cut up to your gaze and glossing with confusion, bewilderment. 

This time, you don't look away. “I told her the truth about us. How we aren’t…together.” You ignore how he stiffens. “I was upset because…” 

The words die in your throat. You were upset because you saw him cuddled up with the one girl who is everything you can’t be. 

But you can't say that. Instead you suck in a breath. “It doesn’t matter. But I was threatening to tell everyone just to piss her off and she…yeah.”

Rafe’s chest pulls achingly. This is because of him?

“Apparently the thought of a whore of a daugher is worse than one with a busted lip.”

Rafe flinches at the word you call yourself, moving to defend you but you speak before he can.

“I told nonna, too,” you confess, quieter. “Although her reaction was handled much better, I’d say.”

The attempt to joke falls on deaf ears. Slowly, he pulls the cloth away, putting the pieces together in his head with puffy parted lips and a pinched brow. You hate that you have the urge to lean forward and kiss his heartbroken expression away. 

“Don’t… Don’t call yourself that,” is all he can meekly come up with. 

You shrug. “It’s the word I said to Paulette. Just trying to tell the story straight.”

It still makes him sick, squeezing his eyes shut in disbelief. “She hit you because of that?”

You nod. 

His whole body feels uneasy as he albeit whispers your name. “I’m so sorry.”

The use of your name makes a shiver go down your spine. Not trusting your words, all you can do is shrug again, finally averting your gaze and looking down at your hands still brushing along his knuckles. 

His next question makes you still. “Has she done this before?”

Part of you wants to tell him everything. How this isn’t the first time you've had to cradle your cheek and cover it up with makeup. How the burden of trying to please her has been aching your shoulders for years. How you finally want to let go, finally want to stop and pull away for good. But the words don’t come. You don't think they ever will, not for anyone. 

Your silence is the answer. 

Rafe hates how you don't say anything. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not really a bedtime story,” is all you can whisper. 

That makes him frown.

None of this is a bedtime story. This whole thing has seemed like one giant nightmare for you, and he wishes he could say he’s doing his part to help it turn into a dream but can’t say for certain if his intrusion has been good or bad. 

But he’s had his fair share of nightmares, of scary accidents that he’ll never be able to forget. There’s a strong pull that he feels towards this moment right here, because despite all of the tennis-match bickering and pushing away that you've both been doing in self sabotage, you're connected by fragments of similar memories. Like it or not, you understand each other on a level deeper than intimacy. 

“Last summer my dad choked me out for fucking up a business deal,” he finds himself saying, which makes you pick your head up. “Had bruises on my neck for ages. Could barely talk. My sister had to teach me how to use concealer.”

He hates how his voice wavers despite bitterly trying to laugh, and when he notices you go to say something, he quickly interrupts you to clarify the reasoning for the antidote. 

“This isn’t… I’m not telling you to get something in return. I just want you to know that I understand.” Then, softer, “More than you think.”

One of your hands reaches up to brush some of the hair out of his eyes, hair that he’s been helplessly tugging all night from the emotional turmoil. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Rafe nearly sighs at the contact, wanting nothing more than to pull you close. Instead, his thumb ghosts over your cut, blue eyes scanning over the wound. “And this to you.”

You're talking before she can process what you're saying.

“I’m sorry about earlier… I wasn’t very nice to you.” You continue at his confused tilt of his head. “When we were dancing…”

The realization makes him suck in a small breath. 

Your mouth opens and closes, shocked that you brought it up. “I just… I can’t–”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not–”

Rafe interrupts firmly by saying your name, yet with an edge of softness that silences you, “We don’t have to do anything about it. I’ll be alright.”

It’s funny how desperate he was earlier to get answers, as if not knowing was going to make him immediately drop dead the longer it kept getting prolonged. But the sequences of events of tonight force him to put it on the back burner, because it truly can wait. He’ll wait forever if it means the possibility of being with you. 

You want to say more, he can tell, but he doesn’t allow it. “C’mon. Let me get that makeup off.”

So he does. Rafe finds the stash of makeup wipes and takes one between his fingers, gingerly rubbing circles all around your face to get rid of the stains of today, of course avoiding the area of the cut. You eventually close your eyes, relishing in the feeling of removing the reminders of the night. And he does it so gingerly, too, that at some points, you aren't even sure he’s touching you. 

You wordlessly get ready for bed, brushing your teeth and retreating back into the bedroom where you change into pajamas. This time, he doesn’t help you, and part of you is glad to have gained back a semblance of independence, even if it only lasts a fraction of a moment. 

Because you don't get into your twin bed. 

You can’t.

Rafe’s already laying in his, not wanting to push any boundaries more than he already has tonight, opting on not inviting himself to invade your space once more.

He watches you, hovering by the bed frame as if you're contemplating getting in or not, and he sees right through your struggle, wanting desperately to gesture you to his side like he always does. But not this time. He needs to let you come to him, if you even want that. 

And you do. But not in the way he likes. 

“Last night?” You ask sheepishly, almost dejected. 

Rafe nods without hesitation as you pad over to his side, his arms immediately greeting you to help you lay down. You take solace in your rightful spot, slipping underneath the covers and pressing your body taut against his as if it's made to be there.

His fingers fumble with the lamp switch as he leans up to turn the light off, grateful for the darkness to mask his confusion, his panic. 

Last?

That solidifies it, he thinks. After tonight, it’s done. 

Part of him wants to believe you're still dazed from the whirlwind of a night you've been through, distracted and unwilling to give his preposition any thought. There’s no way this can be the last time he holds you close, and his heart lurches at the image of future-him all alone. Pitiful. You'll come to your senses in the morning and your mind will be more clear. 

But that’s the other part that haunts his thoughts.

Your mind is clear. Well, at least clearing by the minute. You're preparing to let him down easy, already apologizing for how abruptly you handled the situation in concocting a plan to soften the blow that, no, you don't want to be more with him. You've had plenty of chances to tell him if you reciprocate, and haven't. 

It kills him. 

It kills him even more that you were upset about something before the slap, that there was more of something that he has no idea about. Whatever it was, it lead you to tell your mother the truth of the arrangement. It kills him further that you couldn’t seem to tell him why, but all fingers seemingly point to him.

Rafe must’ve done something, and if it wasn’t his fault, he’d be pretty surprised. It must’ve been bad enough for you to spill the secret willingly.

He can’t ask you questions right now, even though he desperately needs answers. Rafe is losing his damn mind in this twin bed as your heartbeats press against one another, his arms wrapped securely around you as if you're going to disappear if he lets go.

He figures that’s true, and finds himself pulling you a fraction tighter to relish in your final night together, limbs entangled and skin pressed against skin, not that you notice because by the feel of your steady breaths, you're asleep. 

Now all that surrounds him are his suffocating thoughts. And those don’t let him sleep. 

You're forced to wake up earlier than expected to account for the longer cab ride to the airport. 

Rafe anticipates the alarm, pretending to shut his eyes moments before to assimilate into the role of being awoken so severely.

But the truth is, he didn't sleep a wink.

He’s sure the bags under his eyes will give him away momentarily, and he’s already come up with a number of excuses to brush off the truth to dissipate your worry. That is, if you even worry about him. 

You jolt from your sleep to the sound of the blaring alarm, immediately groaning and curling further into the sheets and, coincidentally, nuzzling further into Rafe’s embrace. It’s warm and it smells like him, the thought of leaving this makes your head pound in an emotional hangover. 

But you said last. As in final. One more. Done-zo.

Had you meant it? Not in the slightest. But you need to mean it to protect yourself. 

It doesn’t help when his hands rub up and down your back soothingly to coax you awake. It also doesn’t help that his morning voice is so deep, so unintentionally sultry, that it sends a shiver down your spine, lulling you to rouse from your slumber. But, truthfully, it only makes you more tired as the effects of last night catch up to you. 

The last thing you want is to replay all of the events, however the harsh sting on your lip is a painful reminder, a long lasting reminder, of what happened in that closest.

So you push it down. 

You lean away from his touch. 

And he leans away from yours.

You say goodbye to your nonna quickly but meaningfully, because if you let yourself linger, you'll never get on the flight. 

The cab ride is silent. Distant. Cold.

Rafe doesn’t say a word to you, and the clench in his jaw prevents you from saying anything either, not wanting to further ruin his damp mood. He eventually puts his headphones in, completely shutting you out. You don't even want to go on your phone, as the hundreds of missed texts and calls from your family are the only things waiting for you.

You notice him anxiously pick at his nail beds as he stares out the window, expression hard and collected, and this time you don't reach over to stop his anxious tick and instead turn a blind eye. 

You've pissed him off enough in the past few days, pushing and pulling him in like the tide. With a heavy heart, you decide to have your final move be the push so you can move on from him once and for all.

That way he can go about life as he wants to: uncommitted, free, not tied down as he has previously talked against. After a few days away from you, Rafe will come to his senses and will realize his confession was simply the spur of the moment. He said it himself, you don’t need to do anything about it. 

Because there’s no way he wants you after he’s seen all of your ugly.

The thought is incorrigible. 

The flight is long and you can barely pay attention to the movies you put on the small screen. You figure Rafe’s getting his beauty sleep in his first class seat, noticing how dark the eye bags under his eyes were this morning but deciding not to comment on it. It’s funny, you would’ve made fun of him for it a week ago. Now you can barely look at him without feeling a dull ache plague your heart. 

And he doesn’t look at you. 

Not when the plane lands.

Not when you catch an Uber back to campus together.

Not when you part in front of your respective dorm room doors. 

Standing silently, almost aware of the space, you glance at him staring down at his keys, jiggling them in his palm to delay the inevitable. Still, he doesn't look at you.

You're just gathering up the courage to say something, to thank him for everything that he's done for you in the past week, to tell him how grateful you are to have had him by your side during the shit show that was the entire week.

But he takes a long deep breath, finding the right key for his room and gripping it tight.

“I’ll see you around,” is all Rafe says before he unlocks his door and disappears inside. 

You stand in the hallway for another minute, paralyzed in place from the animosity in his voice, feeling like you're back to square one: barely friends. 

Even though you know it’s your fault.

You push, and push, and push, incapable of pulling, incapable of accepting things you don't think you deserve. All these horrible thoughts in your head prevent you from truly enjoying things, from pushing past the hurt and deep insecurities rooted in your mind. It's hard to allow yourself to be happy, to think you deserve it, in fear of getting it ripped away from you.

Despite the pit in your stomach, you pull yourself together, knowing it’s for the best in the long run, as you unlock your own room and greet the solemn walls like an old friend. 

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes legit myyyyy bad yall

[dragonsondragons]

Part 1 - That Look In Your Eye | You Should Probably Leave series

You make big, bad, Jack Abbot nervous in a way he really isn’t used to. He fumbles his first attempt to invite you to the party, so Dr. Ellis gives him a crash course in how to get the girl.

Word Count: 3.9k

Content: yearning!jack, medical social worker!reader, reader is Jack’s work crush, slow burn, Jack on his #healingjourney, awkward abbot, unspecified age gap, named reader because I dont like using y/n (named her Nel, short for Eleanor. And yes Nel will be friends with Mel)

Read the Prologue! / Masterlist / Taglist

Author's Note: Sorry this took me sooo long to get together! I have the next few parts mapped out well and and mostly written tbh but was struggling so hard with how to introduce their interaction and dynamic in this part. Also, I would highly highly recommend reading the prologue before this part. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

In the Pitt, Jack was seen as a very confident man. He knows exactly what he’s capable of and precisely how to execute it most efficiently. It's one thing unshaken in all his years practicing medicine. No matter how low he’s felt– in war zones, in the pitt– he always stays steady under fire. Words and procedures are tools. He uses them to achieve a goal: keep the patient alive. Be calm, cool, concise. 

It's something he learned in combat, that medics aren't just healers and fighters. They are a source of confidence for the whole platoon. They set the tone. A force multiplier. He was supposed to keep a level head and know what to do, no hesitating. If he stayed cool everyone else would follow suit. 

He had to to seem confident on the outside, but never let himself feel it too much on the inside. If you feel too confident, you start to forget that there is just one critical moment, one mistake, standing between your patient and death.

Jack couldn't help but feel that way now, like he was one mistake from ruining his chances with you. Deep breath. No ones going to die, he repeats in his head. It's one of the constant reminders he’s had to give himself when anxiety spikes. Another deep breath.

He was supposed to be a confident guy. Asking out the girl you liked shouldn’t be so hard. 

But there was a disconnect for him, between what was shown to the world– a self assured master of his craft– and what he felt on the inside. Analyzing every little mistake so that he can be better for next time. Never letting himself feel too secure, always striving for better. Battling between his desires and that loud voice inside, telling him to isolate. 

Because of that voice his social confidence was a lot more shakey than his work persona. For the most part he can fake it till he makes it or keep enough distance from people that it doesn't matter. But then there was you, slowly drawing him out of his shell. Bit by bit so that he barely saw it coming until it hit him like a truck. He should have seen it a long time ago. But he likes you and there's no denying it now. He's decided he's gonna try and do something about it, and that requires some guts and smooth talking he’s not sure if he's capable of.

He pulls into his parking space in the hospital garage, yearning for you hard. He worked himself up all the way here and now that it's at the forefront of his brain he can’t resist the urge to be near you. 

You’ve got the guts, he tells himself, willing it to be true. Just invite her to the party. Just be yourself? Is that who he wanted to show her? This fucked up guy who can barely work up the courage to ask her one simple phrase. There it goes again; his mind working against him.

He walked in through the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder. Immediately, he saw you. You were sitting at the hub checking the patient census that had just come into your inbox from the day shift and radiating something bright. Maybe it was just him who saw you as the sun.

Now or never. He walked towards the large central desk and slung his backpack under an inner counter. He leaned down on his elbows behind the computer you worked at, thrumming his fingers against the counter top. “Hey, You.” 

His familiar greeting made your stomach flip and you couldn't help but smile. It had been a few days since your shifts had aligned. “Good evening, Dr Abbot,” you hum to him, eyes tearing away from your screen to look up into his hazel eyes. 

Suddenly his pep talk to himself in the car flew out the window. With you sitting right before him, everything inside his mind was gone. You sure didn't mind gazing into Jack’s eyes, in fact you enjoyed it, but the silence was dragging on so you broke it. 

“Missed you at lunch yesterday. I had to eat with Shen and he would not shut up about a big high pressure weather system moving in or something.” There was a pressure system building in Jack's chest. He wanted to respond but was caught up inside his mind. Missed you at lunch, echoed in his mind. She missed me? More pressure flared. 

“Everything okay, Jack?” you asked, head tilting as you looked at him so caringly. 

“Huh?”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else right now. And that look in your eyes, there’s something you’re not telling me.” She could always read him like a book. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind right now.” He was going to continue to deflect, as usual. But she was already onto him. This was his chance. Might as well just come out with it. “Actually I uh was wondering of yo–” Your pager screamed out through the ED and you looked down at it on your waistband. He deflated. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, dayshift always has them on the highest volume.” You read the message coming in and started gathering stuff from the desk around you. “I have to get going to see this patient before discharge. What was it you were wondering though?”  

“Uh… I, um. I was just gonna ask if you, um. Brought your lunch today?”  Fuck. He lost all his steam when that pager went off.

“You know I always do.” You were standing up from the swivel chair now. “Same time as usual? Just page me if you're not gonna be able to make it?” He gives you one of his awkward thumbs up with both hands and says “See you up there,” as you turn to go see the patient. You smile back over your shoulder at him.

He leaned down and put his head between his hands on the counter top while chastising himself for his failed attempt at asking you out. 

He hadn’t registered Dr. Ellis off to the other side of the hub during this whole interaction, having been so focused on whatever it is between him and you that draws him in. A laugh burst out that snapped him out of his pity party. “What the hell was that, Abbot?” said Ellis, thoroughly amused at seeing a guy like Dr. Abbot who is so typically composure and competence fumble. “You can do a REBOA in your sleep but can’t flirt with a woman?”

He lifted his head slightly and glared. “Who said I was flirting?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t successfully flirting. But it would take a fool not to see that you like her.” He laid his head back down and groaned at that. Despite his current embarrassment, Jack liked working with Dr. Ellis more than most other people. He appreciated her no nonsense approach and deft skills. And the fact that she's not afraid of him. She will tell it to him like it is. He knew that interaction was bad, but if Ellis was confirming… then it was really terrible. 

“I don't know, I just… panicked.” How can he stay so calm when someone’s bleeding to death but couldn't do this one thing when faced with you. 

“Did you bring your lunch?!” she echoed him. “That was really what you came up with? What were you really trying to ask her?” He hesitated. But Ellis seemed to already know so much about this whole situation. Guess he wasn’t as close to the chest with his crush as he thought. Maybe he should let her give him some advice. 

“I’m having a party at my place soon, and I was trying to ask her to come,” he admitted.

Ellis raised one eyebrow. “You're having a party?” She never thought she would hear that come out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I'm having a party for everyone from work, you’re invited. That's not the point. Point is I had my chance and I chickened out.”

“Yeah, you did. You have absolutely no game, old timer.” 

“I have game, just… not in that particular instance. I'm out of practice,” he tries to defend himself.  

“Clearly. But I can help you with that.”

“She totally can,” Dr. Santos interjected. Santos had been trying out a rotation on the night shift and had just finished up with a patient in curtain 3 nearby. Always the eavesdropper, she tuned in to the conversation between Abbot and Ellis as she had approached the hub. “Dr. Ellis has got mad game, trust me.” Ellis rolls her eyes at the overzealous intern. “Wait–we’re talking about you getting nervous around Nel right?” 

“Wha-No. I don't get nervous around Nel.” Both women scoff at him. Jack’s eyes widen and turns to Ellis for a sidebar. “How do you both know about this? I don't want to make this a thing. If she's not into me I don't want her to be uncomfortable at work.” He can't be careless about this, needs to do it right. 

“Abbot, be so serious,” she deadpans. “She’s totally into you.”

“You don't know that,” Jack huffs. How do they know if you're into him? He barely let himself know he was into you until therapy earlier today. Santos and Ellis share a look. Santos butts in again, “Dude, it's so obvious. Her eyes literally twinkle when you're in the same room.”

“Don't dude me right now, Santos,” Jack snaps. Do they? Twinkle for him? He hopes so. But he doesn't want to get his hopes up. God, this whole thing is putting him so on edge. 

Ellis sees how uncomfortable Jack’s getting and jumps in. “The grownups are talking here, Dr. Santos. Guy over in North 12 needs his bowel dismipacted, go.” As she reluctantly leaves to go handle the literal shit that's been assigned to her, Ellis tunes back into the conversation with Jack.  

“She's right though, it's obvious you're both smitten. You’ve just gotta shoot your shot, man.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself at the thought. “What are you planning to say?” 

He hesitates. Drums his thumbs against the counter top again. “How about I'm having a party. You can come, if you want.”

“God, this is why I date women. You're useless.” 

“You said you would help!”

“Look–that's way too passive. Sounds like you don't care if she comes or not. Women like when you're sincere and confident. Usually that's your forte, but I guess not when you’re nervous about your crush. Try to tune in to that Abbot, ya know, direct and to the point.”

If I say what I actually mean, Jack thinks, it will be ‘I think you're smart and caring and beautiful, and I like spending time with you at work. And more than anything, I’d like to see you outside of this hell hole…preferably…all the time.’ He’s staring off into the abyss now.

“Oh my god, you're so in your head. Just be normal, be yourself! Say Hey, I'm having a party. I would really like it if you came.”  

“Got it, yeah. Be normal.” 

She huffs at his nervousness. “If you don't grow a spine and ask her out, I will,” Ellis jests, giving him a little incentive. 

“C'mon, give me a chance here.”

“She's hot, kind. Seems like a really great person. So you better snatch her up before someone else does.”

—

It was just before 1am when your stomach started to grumble, queuing you that it was almost your normal “lunch” time. You finished up your case note you were working on, grabbed your food from the breakroom fridge, and headed up to the roof. 

Lunch with Jack was always a highlight of your shift. No matter how shitty a patient had treated you or how many problems you had encountered that day, sitting with him for just a few minutes always made it feel like you were free of the hospital. Returning to your shift after those moments with him, the fluorescent lights turned softer and long hospital hallways less suffocating. 

It happened by accident really, the two of you becoming lunch buddies. You brought your lunch box up to the roof to get some air while you took a break. He was already up there, leaning up against the railing staring out at the city beyond the hospital. He wasn't expecting a visitor, didn’t encounter many others up there, but suddenly there was you. An angel of the night.  

When you pushed open the door of the stairwell to see him staring out at the skyline, you remember thinking that this man looked like a beacon high up above the rest of the city, standing steady and sending out a signal. Looking out over the whole city and asking who’s there? Free in the dark of night to admit that he was seeking connection. 

From the very first moment, you read him eerily well. And you approached. Because you were seeking the same thing. 

You struck up a conversation with him and offered him half of your sandwich. Kept doing so until he started bringing his own food too, usually whatever had the quickest doordash delivery time. He made you laugh with his dry and dark humor. Shared silence with you when you were both too tired to speak, or listened to you ramble about the book you were reading or some movie you had watched. Sometimes he had questions.  ____

“Have you ever heard of the Four Agreements?” he asked one night. You picked through some of the Chinese food he had ordered from the 24 hour place down the street, while he took a bite out of the apple you had packed. You chuckle a little at his question. 

“Why are you laughing at me?” he asks.

“Sorry– it's just. As someone who works in a mental health bubble, the Four Agreements is like… the bible of self help. And it's a little cliche.”

“You’re calling Linda cliche?”

“Who’s Linda?"

“My therapist. She recommended it."

“Look at you, doing therapy.”

He gave you a little shrug. “Thanks. So I shouldn’t read it? If it's cliche."

“No, no, It could still be useful. Give it a try.”  ____

He also surprised you with these bursts of intense vulnerability, sparsed out between his usually more gruff or sarcastic responses. 

Whenever he was about to reveal something to you, you could almost see it coming. He would always position himself next to you, leaning over on the railing and facing out over Pittsburg like he was that first night you found him up here. He wouldn’t look in your eyes like he usually did. Would just stand next to you there and focus on some point, far out on the horizon. He’d be quiet for a while, and you would just wait, just being there with him. 

____

“That guy we both saw today, the boarder in North 7?” 

“Yeah?” you encouraged him to continue. 

“I know him. Well not him, really, but his brother. We served together. He lost his brother the same day I lost my leg.” He pulled up the hem of his scrub pants a bit to reveal a glimpse of his prosthetic.

“Oh…Jack. I’m so sorry. That must bring up a lot of old memories.”

“It was a long time ago. Can’t change it now.” He wants to pull away from the exposure he felt at saying this to you. But you draw out something in him. Sharing with you is easier sometimes, and he doesn't know why. It's because he’s falling in love with you and hasn't let himself admit it yet.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.” You’re always trying to encourage him to feel.

“Yeah... still hurts like hell. Hurts more because I hadn’t thought about Eddie in months, maybe years. I forgot about him.” 

You turn your head to face him, frowning. He maintains his gaze on some faraway spot. “You can’t blame yourself for that. If you remembered them all every second of every day you would drive yourself crazy.” 

He took a shaky breath in and just nodded. That was as much opening up he could take for the moment. “I gotta go back down there, check on the patients,” he says, letting the voice telling him to run win, for now.

You pause for a beat, trying to replicate his own incessant gaze that would always get you break and look up at him. The trick doesn’t work on its own master. He continues to put that distance between you and stares out at the city beyond the roof, then down at his feet. 

“Okay. But just be careful with yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to talk more, I’m here.” You jutted your hip out to bump his, trying to coax him out of his unease, show him that it was okay to open up to you. He stood fully up from the railing, giving you a double thumbs up. That was becoming his signature move with you when he didn't quite know what to say. He kept doing it because it always made you smile.  ____

Sometimes his appearances on the roof were just as scattered as his ability to show vulnerability. After times where he opened up you might not see him for days. He would go brood and throw himself into the work to get his mind off the memories, or off of you, when the way you were making him feel scared him a little too much. He would chastise himself for letting his feelings slip out like that. Would convince himself that you didn't want to hear anything about it, no matter how supportive and kind you were whenever he did share. 

Deep down he longed for connection, even though he actively pushed everyone away. 

Once you found him on that roof, finally someone was pushing back. You would come and find him if he didn't show up on the roof, or send him a message as you were heading up, pestering him to come join you if you could. 

And the way you responded to him showing how he felt, admitting what ate at him inside, it started to show him that it was okay to reveal himself. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, but still he kept coming back to have lunch with you. 

Tonight would be just like any of those other nights, he told himself as he hiked up the stairs to the roof entry. Just be normal. 

You were already up there waiting for him when he came through the stairwell door. The light midsummer night breeze blew your hair around your face and he sensed something heavy on your mind. Brooding on the roof was usually his forte.

As he approaches you barely register his presence. He places a hand on your shoulder, which makes you jump and turn to him. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah–fine.” You shake your head and give him a little smile but he sees it's not the kind that you usually flash, the kind that's earnest. He doesn’t push.

“Well, if you weren’t good I would offer some crab rangoons as a pick me up.” He lifts his takeout bag up. “But if you’re fine then you don’t need em.” 

“Gimme that,” you snatch the bag from him and dig out the rangoons. 

“That’s what I thought.” the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-there smirk. 

You two dig into the combo of takeout and packed food spread out before you. All of his nervousness from earlier in the day had dissipated. Up here, in the dark, just the two of you, he was calm. As calm as Jack Abbot could be these days. He lets himself think about being with you like this in the daytime. Somewhere else, like having a picnic in a park where you would admire the spring flowers and he would admire you with the same reverence. 

He had to ask his question, because failing would mean missing that chance. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.” you said.

“Like what?” he keeps his gaze locked on yours like if he blinked you would disappear. 

“I don’t know. I just recognize that look in your eye.” It's the look I get when I admire you, he thinks.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you go first.” You let out a huff of a breath. “Fine. I just… I guess I’m tired– getting really tired of all the roadblocks in my work. People always need more than I’m able to give them. Shelters are always full or the patient doesn’t meet some eligibility requirement and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You’re doing everything you can with what you have, that’s more than most people. You rock it in there everyday,” Jack responds. 

“I know that, in theory. It’s just been harder and harder to believe it lately.”

“Well, I’ll keep reminding you.” 

“Okay, your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then forced himself to look at you head on. “Uh, I’m going to have everyone from work over at my place for a barbeque. But I wanted to, uh, make sure that you would be there, with me. And…maybe it will help you decompress from work and everything.” It was as un-awkward as he could possibly make it. 

You found his subtle bashfulness cute. It was endearing to bring the steady Jack Abbot to jumbling his words. “I would love to come.” The biggest smile you've ever seen on him spreads across Jack’s face. 

“When’s the next Saturday you’re off?” he asks.

“Two weeks from now.”

“Then that's our party then.” 

You giggle. “Our party, huh?”

“Well you’re the guest of honor, I decided.” 

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

The banter slows, both of you feeling the tension of crossing a new line that you can't go back over. It's quiet for another beat, then Jack speaks again, quietly.

“Ellis is gonna be proud of me for this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had no game, earlier at the beginning of shift. I meant to ask you then but got too nervous. So she gave me some pointers.”

That made you blush. You had liked Jack Abbot for a while, but did not want to risk your friendship on making the first move. You didn’t want him to think that your support of him was conditional on him reciprocating feelings. You could see him deeply struggling and cared about him, just wanting to be there for him. So even though you had butterflies tingling in your stomach more and more after each encounter, you tried to keep the relationship as professional as possible. After this– him asking you to come to his party like that, admitting it made him nervous to do so. It finally showed you that you could want more with Jack. That he wanted it too. 

It emboldened you, and you reached out to lace your fingers with his. “I like you the way you are Jack. It's okay to be nervous, but please just keep being you.” 

He squeezed your hand and nodded his head. “I think I can do that sweetheart.”

[fear-less]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 this is awkward..

pairing: james potter x f!reader

➥ In which, you were fed up with James, deciding to put aside your pettiness you drag him away from the gryffindor party to talk to him.

Warnings: angst, fluff, james pov, this inspired by awae (aka the best show ever), r and james speaking is 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓵𝔂 inspired by gilbert confessing that he wants anne so effing bad bc he 𝓯𝔀 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝔂, lowkey dont hate me for making the “dreams” u want so like…. I just didn't know what to do bc like idk smh i set back women 50 years by that

a/n: tysm for all the love on this series!! y’all are NOT ready for the next chapter, writing it rn and 😭🙏 BUTTT tysm for 300🫶🫶 also I finished the last chapter... do y'all want me to post it today or edge y'all and post it tomorrow

series masterlist ! - divider creds: i-mmaculatus & dollywons

It was now nearing the end of the school year—even if there was still a month to go. James could now be in the same room as you without glaring daggers at whoever you were talking to. Though he told himself he was over you, he knew deep down that the feelings never faded.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he was fine. And yet, every time he caught sight of you, every time your laughter reached his ears from across the room, it was as if someone had set fire to his resolve.

He wanted to talk to you so badly it was almost pathetic. But it was like the universe itself was conspiring against him—or, more specifically, like Finn Laurier had developed some sort of sixth sense for James’s intentions.

Because every single time James gathered enough courage, every time he braced himself to walk over to you, Finn would appear out of nowhere. Whether it was in the Great Hall, the library, or even during Quidditch practice, Finn always seemed to materialize by your side at precisely the wrong moment, stealing away your attention and leaving James feeling like the outsider in his own story.

It was infuriating.

“Mate, you’re grinding your teeth,” Sirius remarked casually one afternoon as they sat under the beech tree by the lake.

James startled, realizing with some embarrassment that Sirius was right. He quickly unclenched his jaw and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m just…”

“Just what?” Sirius prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” James lied, though his voice betrayed him.

Sirius gave him a knowing look. “If this is about her again, just—”

“It’s not about her,” James interrupted quickly, though he winced as the words left his mouth. He knew Sirius wouldn’t believe him, and he wasn’t sure he even believed himself anymore.

Sirius sighed, shaking his head. “Prongs, you’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep this up. Just talk to her already.”

“I’ve tried!” James snapped, louder than he intended. He lowered his voice and added, “I’ve tried, but every bloody time, Finn shows up. It’s like he’s got a bloody tracker on her or something.”

Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally chimed in. “You know, maybe you’re overthinking this,” he said, not looking up from his book.

“How could I possibly be overthinking this?” James demanded, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Maybe Finn’s not doing it on purpose,” Remus suggested calmly. “Maybe it’s just bad timing.”

“Bad timing?” James repeated incredulously. “Bad timing doesn’t happen this often, Moony. This is a pattern.”

Remus gave him a skeptical look but didn’t argue further.

James leaned back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath. He hated how much this was bothering him. He hated how much control this entire situation had over him.

But most of all, he hated the thought that you might actually be happy with Finn.

It wasn’t that he thought Finn was a bad guy—quite the opposite, really. Finn was charming, talented, and annoyingly good at everything he did. He was the kind of guy parents adored, the kind of guy professors went out of their way to praise. And worst of all, he was the kind of guy who could make you smile in a way James had only dreamed of.

James opened his eyes, staring up at the branches overhead. “Maybe I should just give up,” he muttered.

Sirius snorted. “Yeah, right. That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said all day.”

“I’m serious,” James insisted.

“No, I’m Sirius,” Sirius quipped, smirking.

James groaned, throwing a small pebble in his direction. “Not the time for jokes.”

“Fine, fine,” Sirius said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, you’re not giving up. You’re James Potter, remember? Stubborn, arrogant, never-takes-no-for-an-answer James Potter. You don’t give up on things you care about.”

James hesitated, staring at the rippling water of the Black Lake. He wanted to believe Sirius. He wanted to believe that there was still a chance, that you weren’t as far out of reach as you seemed.

But as he watched you across the courtyard later that day, standing beside Finn and laughing at something he said, James couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was too late.

But his doubt soon melted into something far more unsettling when he noticed your gaze shift. For the first time in what felt like forever, your attention wasn’t on Finn Laurier—it was on him.

James felt like he might throw up.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his hands fidgeted with the hem of his robes as he quickly looked away. In fact, he didn’t just look away; he turned his entire body in the opposite direction, hoping to mask the flush rising to his cheeks.

“C’mon, James, you’ve got a Quidditch game to win today! Channel all that anger you’ve got towards Laurier into winning us the Cup!” Sirius said, clapping a hand on James’s shoulder with his trademark grin.

James gave a faint nod, trying to let Sirius’s words sink in. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but he had to admit—focusing on Quidditch might be better than brooding.

As the match began, Sirius’s advice started to help. Flying through the air, the roar of the crowd, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins almost made him forget the mess he was tangled in. Quidditch always had a way of making the weight on his shoulders feel lighter.

Almost.

At first, he wasn’t paying much attention to the game. His mind wandered back to you, back to everything that had gone wrong. He thought about what he would say, how he could even begin to fix things. And, like always, he couldn’t resist scanning the crowd for you.

Even in the middle of a fight, even when he swore to himself that he was done, James always looked for you in the stands.

And he found you—right where he didn’t want to.

You were sitting with Finn Laurier, your hand clasped in his. James’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight, and he forced himself to look away, though the image burned into his mind.

Of course. Finn fucking Laurier.

He sighed, his grip tightening on his broomstick. There was no point in hoping anymore. Whatever chance he’d had—if he’d ever had one—was gone now. Maybe he’d already been downgraded in your life: a friend at best, a stranger at worst. The thought stung, and James shoved it down, refusing to dwell on it any longer.

And then, something golden caught the corner of his eye.

The Snitch.

For the first time all game, James’s focus snapped into place. He leaned forward on his broom, his heart pounding—not from heartbreak this time, but from the sheer rush of competition. If nothing else, he could still win this. He could still bring home the Cup.

James shot after the Snitch with everything he had, the rush of wind against his face only fueling his determination. The crowd roared, but their voices blurred into the background. His world narrowed to one thing: the golden glimmer darting just ahead.

The Hufflepuff Seeker was hot on his trail, but James barely registered them. This was his moment. The Snitch veered sharply to the right, and James followed, his reflexes razor-sharp. He could feel the weight of his emotions—anger, heartbreak, frustration—all pouring into this chase.

The Snitch dipped low, skimming just above the grass, and James dove after it, his fingers outstretched. The Hufflepuff Seeker was closing in fast, but James didn’t care. He pushed his broom harder, faster, his body leaning forward so much it felt like he might fall off.

And then, his fingers closed around the Snitch.

The Gryffindor stands erupted into cheers, deafening and jubilant. The sound echoed across the pitch as James pulled up, the Snitch held high in triumph. For the first time all week, a genuine smile broke across his face.

He’d done it.

Back on the ground, his teammates swarmed him, yelling and celebrating as they lifted him off the ground in a flurry of hugs and pats on the back. Sirius was the loudest, of course, laughing as he shouted, “That’s my best mate! Did you see that dive? Bloody brilliant!”

James grinned, allowing himself to soak in the moment. But as the initial adrenaline rush faded, his thoughts drifted back to you.

Through the crowd, he spotted you walking toward the castle with Laurier. You looked happy—laughing at something Finn said, your hand still in his.

James’s chest tightened, the pain creeping back in.

Sirius slung an arm around his shoulders. “Oi, don’t let that git ruin your moment. You just won us the Cup, Prongs. Focus on that, yeah?”

James forced a nod, plastering a smile on his face. “Yeah. You’re right.”

But deep down, as the team carried him back to the common room, the ache lingered. Winning the match had been a distraction, but it wasn’t enough to erase what he felt for you—or the sting of seeing you with someone else.

Still, James promised himself one thing: he’d get through this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. And who knew? Maybe, someday, you’d see him the way he saw you.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•��•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

The Gryffindor common room was a chaotic blur of red and gold, filled with triumphant cheers and laughter. The moment the team returned from the pitch, the party was already in full swing. Someone had charmed a banner to flash "Gryffindor Wins the Cup!" in shimmering letters, and butterbeer bottles floated around the room, courtesy of a cheeky charm from Sirius.

James stood in the center of it all, grinning as his teammates and housemates patted him on the back and congratulated him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to bask in the glory of the victory, letting it drown out the knot in his chest. He’d won the game, and Gryffindor had the Cup—he deserved to enjoy it.

“Prongs!” Sirius yelled over the noise, shoving a butterbeer into his hand. “You’re the man of the hour! You better milk this for all it’s worth, because Merlin knows you deserve it.”

James laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t let me hear you say that too often, Padfoot. I might start believing it.”

Sirius gave him a devilish grin. “Oh, you will. Now, c’mon, let’s make some noise!” He climbed onto a table, raising his bottle high. “To Prongs, our Quidditch hero!”

The room erupted in cheers, and James couldn’t help but laugh, taking a sip of his butterbeer as the noise washed over him. For the first time all day, he felt lighter.

As the party went on, James moved through the crowd, chatting and laughing with his housemates. But no matter how loud the celebration got, his eyes kept drifting to the door, half-hoping, half-dreading to see you walk in.

And then, you did.

James froze mid-conversation, his heart doing that familiar stutter-step it always did when he saw you. You looked radiant, wrapped in Gryffindor colors, your cheeks flushed from the cold. But his chest tightened when he noticed Laurier trailing behind you, his hand resting casually on the small of your back.

James quickly turned back to his conversation, forcing a smile and pretending not to notice. He wasn’t going to let Finn Laurier—or his own stupid feelings—ruin the night.

“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius said, appearing at his side again. “Stop moping and do something fun. We just won the bloody Cup, mate! At least pretend you’re having the time of your life.”

James forced another grin. “I am having fun, Padfoot. Loads of fun.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You’re staring at her again, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” James lied, taking a long sip of butterbeer.

Sirius groaned, grabbing James by the shoulders. “Look, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stop torturing yourself, and you’re going to have a bloody fantastic time tonight. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll prank Laurier so hard he won’t know which way is up. Deal?”

James couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking his head. “Alright, deal.”

Hours later, the party was still going strong. Someone had turned the music up, and the common room had transformed into a dance floor. James found himself dragged into the middle of it by Lily Evans, who gave him a pointed look.

“Stop sulking, Potter,” she said, smirking. “You just won the Cup. Act like it.”

“I’m not sulking,” James said, though his half-hearted smile gave him away.

Lily raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, she tugged him into the rhythm of the music, and for a while, James let himself get lost in the moment.

It wasn’t until he caught sight of you again, laughing at something Laurier said, that the knot in his chest returned. He took a deep breath, plastered on another smile, and decided that, for tonight, he’d keep pretending.

He watched you from across the room as you and Laurier continued talking, laughter bubbling between you two. He could see the way you looked at him now—so different from the way you looked at him before. It was like there was a barrier, a wall that hadn’t been there when he first met you.

“Prongs,” Sirius appeared at his side again, his voice low and concerned. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot, but this is ridiculous. You’re letting Laurier ruin your night—and you just won us the Cup, for Merlin’s sake. You’re allowed to be happy tonight. So go talk to her. If you don’t, I swear I’ll do it for you.”

James frowned at him, irritated. “I’m not talking to her, Pads. Not now.”

“Then at least get out of here and enjoy yourself,” Sirius pressed. “We’re celebrating, mate. You’ve earned it.”

James looked over at you one more time, and for a second, he almost gave in. But the knot in his chest was still there, tightly wound, and it made everything feel so much harder than it should’ve been.

But maybe... maybe he could find a way to feel better. Maybe he could lose himself in the celebration.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally muttered, glancing at his friends.

Sirius didn’t seem convinced but let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, but I’m not letting you go off and brood in some corner. The whole bloody school’s celebrating with you tonight.”

James smirked faintly, feeling a little lighter. Maybe he could pretend to be okay, at least for tonight. He could let the victory, the laughter, and his friends drown out the ache for just a little while longer.

But as the night continued, and as the music played on, James found himself once again looking toward the doorway, hoping—just hoping—that you’d look his way.

For the first time in forever, the world was finally on his side as he saw you quickly leaving Finn and walking straight to him.

“May I speak to you, please?” James nodded, Dumbfounded. 

You quickly grabbed his hand and went outside the common room and into the corridors. 

You took a deep breath, your fingers twisting nervously. “James… I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

James’s throat went dry, his pulse quickening as he struggled to find his voice. “Yeah?”

You nodded, glancing down at your hands before meeting his gaze. “I—I’m sorry.”

That wasn’t what he had expected. Of all the scenarios he’d played out in his head, an apology hadn’t been one of them.

“For what?” he asked, genuine confusion coloring his voice.

“For everything,” you said in a rush, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “For avoiding you. I was confused—about what I did that made you ignore me. And I guess I wanted to get back at you for ignoring me, so I decided to do the same to you. And… I’m sorry for whatever happened between us that made things so weird.”

James stared at you, your vulnerability hitting him like a Bludger to the chest. His heart ached at the uncertainty in your voice.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quickly, shaking his head.

“Yes, I do,” you insisted, your voice firm despite the tears welling in your eyes.

“No, you don’t,” James countered, his tone soft yet resolute. “It’s not fair to put all of this on yourself. You’ve always been there for me, and I—well, I’ve been a terrible friend lately. I was practically acting like you didn’t exist.”

James faltered when he saw the blank expression on your face. Panic flickered in his chest—had he said too much?

But before he could say anything more, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

“Oh, James,” you murmured into his shoulder. “It’s okay. I—I was acting like you didn’t exist too, but only because you were doing it to me.”

He blinked, caught off guard, before slowly relaxing into the hug. He looked down at you, his hand instinctively reaching up to brush away a stray tear trailing down your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You shook your head, a small, watery smile breaking through. “We’re both sorry. Let’s just… not do this anymore, okay?”

James nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Deal.”

“It feels so much better having my best friend around again.” James’ smile faltered again, he never liked the word “best friend” when it came to you, he always wanted more.

“Definitely”

You two let each other talk for what felt like hours even though it was barely fifteen minutes. He enjoyed every second though, until you brought up Finn and future plans they may include him. He couldn't believe it, when had your parents met his? He remembers your dad telling him how much he was rooting you and him to be together, now he's okay with you dating some other dude? And worst of all, your father was okay with that same dude wanting to marry his daughter? James felt like throwing up.

“Then he said that my father laid it out on a silver platter.”

“Laid... what out on a platter?”

“My future! Gave him the blessing to...to propose. I don't know what to do.”

“You told me you don’t mind being married straight after Hogwarts if you truly loved the man. That being a wife and mother... is your dream. Finn is.. nice, and both of your guys’ parents are supportive. I don't understand. What's holding you back?”

“Just… one thing.”

“What am I supposed to do? Everyone else is just... moving on, and now you’re... and I’m still... We never even... And he’s there, and you’re—Merlin, you’re never going to find someone who—” James stopped, his voice cracking. “I know that much, so how... how am I supposed to... I can’t... I— We...”

Before you could speak–a drunk Sirius somehow found you two. “Woah James you're really speaking to her? Atta boy, now, let's get back to the party, cmon, we are going to do something cool, have you heard of ....” Sirius rambled on, tugging on James’ arm to drag him back to the party.

“I’ll be off, then.” You said, voice quivering as if hesitant to leave.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

All James could think about was the previous night—the talk you two had shared. Your words, your voice, the hesitation in your eyes—it all replayed in his mind like a haunting melody. What would’ve happened if Sirius hadn’t barged in, if James had told him to leave, if he’d been brave enough to stay in that moment with you?

“I think…” James began, his voice breaking as he paced the Gryffindor dormitory, “I think she might’ve been asking if I love her. And—and I think I told her to marry someone else.”

Sirius, slouched in the chair by the window, looked stricken. “Mate…” he started, his tone heavy with guilt. “If I’d known—if I knew what was happening—I wouldn’t have gone looking for you. I—I practically ruined your chances. Merlin, I’m so, so sorry.”

James stopped pacing, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know if she meant it. She said so much without really saying anything, and now I don’t know if I imagined it all.”

“‘Sure, take option two,’ when option one is all she wants for her future?” James muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

“What is option one?” Peter asked, his curiosity breaking the tension.

James scoffed, bitterness creeping into his tone. “It’s Finn, obviously.” He paused, his anger flaring. “But both their parents support it, and she told me that! Before she spilled all of that on me, we were talking and laughing like nothing was wrong. But now…” He exhaled sharply, his voice softening as he sat down on the edge of his bed. “Now it feels like I’m being asked to explain the rest of my life on a bloody ticking clock. And if I make the wrong decision, I’ve either ruined my life—or hers.”

The room fell silent. Sirius and Peter exchanged uneasy glances, while Remus seemed lost in thought, unsure of how to respond.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

Meanwhile, you had confided in your mother about your plans the night before: to finally tell the man you truly loved how you felt. You hadn’t wanted to bring it up while you and James were laughing and enjoying each other’s company, but you knew if you didn’t seize the moment, you’d never say it at all.

What you hadn’t expected was for him to turn you down. To tell you—calmly, almost dismissively—that you should marry Finn.

Your mother was waiting for your response. You knew she expected good news, a letter confirming that you and James were finally together. Instead, you sat at your desk, penning words that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Dear Mother,

I did what you told me to do, but I fear I shouldn’t have. We were talking just fine, and then I told him everything. I told him how I felt. And he told me to marry Finn.

Finn is lovely, yes—but he’s not James. I asked James if there was any chance for us, and he said no. At least now I have clarity on where I stand with him. And I know it sounds awful to compare Finn to James, but... maybe knowing what I know now, I can learn to be happy with Finn. Father and Finn’s family are all thrilled, after all. I don’t even want to think about what I would’ve done if James had said he felt the same.

You sighed, folding the parchment carefully and sealing it in an envelope. The weight of your words sat heavily on your chest, but you couldn’t dwell on them any longer. You needed to send this letter immediately.

Pulling on your cloak, you found yourself heading for one of the secret passages to Hogsmeade—the ones you and James had used so often. The memories stung, but you pushed them aside. This time, you’d be using the passage alone.

The quickest way to deliver your letter was through the owlery. You knew exactly which owl was the fastest.

As you walked, you let your mind wander to James one last time, allowing yourself the quiet ache of what could’ve been. You would never speak to him again, not like before. That part of your life was over.

Finn was your future now. And while it hurt to admit, deep down, you knew it was for the best.

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[mercurial-chuckles]

HIS FIORE - PART 1

Summary: Steve smexy Rogers moves into the neighborhood, and one evening, he catches you sneaking into the building opposite his through the fire escape. He watches curiously, slightly amused and, quite frankly, amazed by you. Guess what he does next? He writes a note, signs it with his middle name, Grant, and slips it under your door. How will you discover that Grant is none other than Captain America? Series Warnings: Language | Eventual smut | Mature content (minors DNI) | Steve’s naughty thoughts | Steve in-love Rogers | Steve possessive jealous Rogers | Drunk Steve (adorable, hot mess) | Neighbors | Secret identity | Steve watching the reader from a distance (slightly stalker-ish…ish) | A smidge of angst | Overloaded fluff | Happy happy ending

Chapter Warning: Language | Steve watching the reader from a distance (slightly stalker-ish…ish) | Good ol' fluff

A/N: Finally finished writing this! Originally, I wrote two parts as connected prompts for Steve Rogers Bingo Round 3, but I've decided to revamp the entire piece. Also, I'm going to try sticking to a schedule--wish me luck! 😉 Banner credits: Me | Photo credits: The internet | Divider credits: @buck-star (Sydney, thanks a trillion ❤️)

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! Check out my other works: Masterlist

His Fiore Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Steve was happier, much happier now that the excruciatingly long recruiting was done. It was a nightmare to have Tony during the recruiting, and now that it was all over, Steve would get a good night's rest.

"Maybe you should try asking that nurse from the med-bay...Nina, I think her name is," Natasha had suggested casually as they walked toward the compound's parking garage after the painstakingly long day.

Steve groaned, running a hand over his face. He shot her a sharp look, trying to convey just how disinterested he was in this line of conversation. If Steve could, he would have sprinted away, but with Natasha, there was no escaping a conversation, especially this. She'd been too interested in his personal life or lack thereof.

He was happy with his hobbies: sketching and visiting museums. In fact, he could take up a side gig as a virtual museum guide.

"Look, can we drop it? I'm really not interested," he emphasized firmly as he approached his bike quickly.

Natasha smirked, undeterred. "Might be time to find someone to keep you in check, old man," she teased, climbing into her car.

Steve rolled his eyes as he swung his leg over his bike. Natasha had been relentless about his lack of dating life, going so far as to learn the names of agents and acquaintances she thought might catch his eye.

But she never understood that Steve didn't believe in casual flings or whatever the modern dating concept was. He was a man from another time, one where courting had a clear purpose, and the idea of dating left him uneasy. Maybe he just couldn't shake the insecurity of the scrawny kid from Brooklyn who barely mustered the courage to speak to a girl, let alone charm one.

"You need help setting up your place?" Natasha asked, snapping him out of his thoughts as his bike roared to life.

Steve grinned, slightly grateful she decided to drop the discussion. "I've got a duffel bag of stuff, Nat. I think I can handle it." If he was being honest, he was simply glad he found friends and family, which was more than he could ask for.

She huffed, shaking her head. "At least buy some furniture, Rogers."

"Don't need to. Sam helped me find a furnished place," he countered, his grin widening.

With a quick goodbye, Steve sped off toward his new apartment in Brooklyn.

'This place is a steal,' Sam had told him, a one-bedroom unit with just enough space and a cozy little balcony. Located in a six-story building with five units per floor, Steve's apartment was on the corner, offering a decent view of the street below and, if he leaned far far enough over the railing, a glimpse of Hamilton Park.

Sam, ever resourceful, had pulled some strings with the building's owner, a friend from the VA, to ensure Steve's identity stayed under wraps. Not that most people cared to look twice at the guy in glasses, a baseball cap, and loose clothing. Steve made a point of blending in, and it worked mostly.

By the time he arrived, the neighborhood was bathed in the warm glow of a quiet evening. Steve parked his bike in the designated cellar spot and headed upstairs.

His stomach growled as he stepped into his apartment. The serum gave him an insatiable appetite. Despite the hearty meal he'd had at the compound earlier, he was hungry again.

Making a bowl of soup and a few store-bought dinner rolls that tasted appetizing enough, he stepped out onto the small balcony that connected to the living room while balancing his plate in one hand and a water bottle in another.

Steve's unit was on the 5th floor, and his towering frame made the modest space look smaller, but he was still grateful to have it. On his left, there were two more units.

The view from the balcony stretched over the nearby intersection. A small window beside the balcony door allowed light to stream in. Framing the balcony were sleek black railings, their design simple, providing a clear boundary without obstructing the scenery. Thankfully, the balconies for each apartment were independent, offering a sense of privacy rather than being connected.

Modestly furnished with two petite metal chairs, a small table arranged neatly near the center, and a compact two-seater bench sat at the edge, positioned to take advantage of the view, Steve's balcony was more functional in comparison to his neighbor's, which looked cozy and inviting in the faint glow of series lights and vibrant looking furniture.

Settling into a chair, Steve let out a content sigh. The sounds of the city filtered out, and he felt a rare moment of peace. This was good, Steve thought. Perhaps he could get a larger chair.

The evening air was warm, and as the sky darkened, he finished his meal, settling back in his chair to enjoy the peacefulness of the moment.

He was about to head inside to play some music and sleep off the day's stress when he noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Curiosity piqued, Steve leaned forward, glancing toward the source. You were pulling down the fire escape stairs in the opposite building.

The stairs were only five feet from the ground, but you struggled to grip the first one and had to fight to get your footing on the next. With surprising speed, you managed to steady yourself, though nearly slipping. You quickly hugged the metal stairs, and Steve's heart raced, expecting you to fall at any moment.

You mumbled something, then began climbing.

Steve initially thought you might be up to something…a thief maybe, albeit a beautiful one.

Despite the precariousness of your situation, there was something undeniably intriguing about you. Steve was grateful for his enhanced vision because he almost had a clear view of you. Your silhouette in the dim light revealed a lithe figure, and the determined expression on your face only made him more curious.

Steve instinctively moved closer to the railings, ready to intervene if necessary. Either you were up to trouble or were going to hurt yourself, and it didn't seem like a good idea to let you keep going.

Just as he was about to call out, you jumped onto the balcony and, with a proud little flourish, did a victory lap.

Steve couldn't help but smile, silently chuckling at the sight. You wore shorts and a simple T-shirt with an angry dog saying, 'Bite me,' and a huge band-aid on your left knee. He knew this was going to be etched in his memory.

He decided to wait a moment, intrigued by what you would do next. If you gave him any reason to act, he was ready--but he watched in silence for now.

To his utter shock, you pulled a water jug from somewhere behind you on the balcony filled with plants, and you began watering them, which was when Steve's focus shifted to the balcony opposite him. It was beautiful. The garden was full of various plants and creepers, flourishing vibrant flowers.

Steve leaned forward, utterly captivated. You moved with such care while watering, gently wiping away the remnants of old leaves and tenderly touching the plants. At one point, you even blew a flying kiss to a few of them. And then, were you… talking to them? His surprise deepened, and he instinctively ducked behind the railing, hoping to remain unnoticed as he observed the scene.

After a while, you carefully descended from the fire escape, moving toward the edge. You hesitated, looking down at the ground with a mix of apprehension and determination.

From his vantage point, the height was nothing when he was so used to jumping from the buildings, and you looked adorable, silently praying before jumping.

But you miscalculated and landed hard on your butt with a loud thud.

"Every fucking time," you muttered to yourself, loud enough for Steve to hear.

He couldn't hold back a laugh at the sight of your disgruntled expression, utterly charmed by everything you did.

Steve bit his lip, trying to suppress a laugh. He didn't want to be too loud, though he couldn't help it. Watching you rub your ass and mumble about the pavement, he couldn't help but notice. You had a sexy ass.

What the hell? He was horrified at where his thoughts were going, shaking his head to clear it. No. Focus.

He watched as you crossed the street, disappearing into his building as you entered the main door and out of his view. He stood there, staring straight ahead, his mind caught in a swirl of thoughts about you. A small, uncontrollable smile crept onto his face.

You lived in his building.

He glanced across at the beautiful, tiny garden where you had just been and felt an unexpected warmth bubble up inside him.

Minutes later, he heard shuffling from the balcony next door. His heart raced. He quickly retreated into his apartment, hoping--praying--that it was you. And yes, there you were.

With the light still turned off in his unit, he opened the small window to the balcony beside the door, leaning out slightly, not wanting to be seen.

You had a tube of what looked like ointment in your hand, your smile bright as you gazed at the opposite balcony.

You sat down and removed the band-aid on your knee. Steve winced as you hissed in pain, muttering a string of profanities. He rolled his eyes, tempted to step outside and tell you off for your language, but his thoughts quickly turned to something else. I could totally spank some manners.

His mind immediately snapped back to focus. His thoughts had never jumped in that direction before. Never. He shook it off, blaming it on the fact that he'd not been so attracted to someone so quickly.

He focused on the injury you were tending. What appeared to be a small scrape was a large bruise, and Steve could feel a sharp pang of concern for you as you winced, applying the ointment carefully.

You disappeared inside, leaving him with a sense of disappointment. He peeked out, checking to see if you had gone to bed. To his surprise, you came out again, this time with a book.

Steve watched you for what felt like hours, a smile never leaving his face. He felt content, oddly happy to have moved here, and it was not just because it was a decently prized single-bedroom apartment with a balcony. It was more to do with you being his neighbor.

~

This continued for the next few days, and Steve wasn't proud of it. He had become that guy--watching his neighbor like some sort of creep. But he couldn't help himself. It was therapeutic, in a way, watching you.

You moved with such care. Steve could see you filling a watering can, tending to the plants with such gentleness. There was something almost reverent in the way you whispered to them.

He found himself wanting your attention and the need to know you, hear you talk, feel your touch, and hold him the way you did with the plants so tenderly grew in him every second of the day.

And he needed to hold you as tended as a flower. His flower. His Fiore. Delicate and beautiful.

~

Two weeks had passed, and Steve couldn't stop thinking about you.

With his hectic schedule and sudden missions, he hardly had a fixed schedule. He had to leave early and return late at night, and though he tried to adjust his schedule, it was no use. He had no idea where you worked, either.

'Maybe I could ask Nat for help,' Steve thought, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Getting Nat involved would be a disaster.

It was a catastrophe in his head anyway because the thought of you consumed him, and as the days went by, he decided to act. He'd leave you a note just to see what would happen. A way to break the ice, if nothing else.

He slipped a note under your door.

Was it creepy? Maybe.

Could he help himself? No.

Maybe, just maybe, you'd see it as romantic.

Dear Fiore,

I must say, the garden looks beautiful. Your nightly rescue missions seem to pay off.  Keep up the good work. This is your next-door neighbor.

–Grant

He'd changed the note a dozen times before settling on that, trying to keep it casual and sound cool, not revealing who he really was yet being somewhat truthful.

Steve hadn't felt that anxious outside of missions in his modest existence except when he got the serum, his palms were sweaty, and his nerves were dangling tenuously by a damn thread as he waited for your response.

The whole night, Steve was hyper-focused on every tiny sound around him. He slept in the wee hours of the morning, cursing his enhanced senses, worried sick if you'd knock on his door to tell him off, to mind his business.

The next morning, he found a note from you and finally could breathe again, a smile tugging at his lips when he read it. No one could dampen his mood all day, not the stubborn ass SHIELD secretary, not the stick-up-their-butts agents, and not even Tony calling him Cap, Capsicle or whatever the hell he seemed to come up with.

Hey Grant,

Welcome to the apartment, neighbor! Terry, from the third floor, told me someone had moved next door to me. You know about my secret plant ops! I'm not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that you were watching me. But thank you? The plants need all the love they can get. I've seen those people bring tons of plants, let them die and replace them with new ones. Can you believe it? I couldn't just leave the plants to die now, can I?  :(

PS: Love the name Fiore! Name's Y/N, BTW.

–Fiore

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[pedrosyouknowwhat]

under his grasp

Summary: Acacius threatens you.

warnings: noncon, cheating, victim blaming, oral (f receiving), threats of rape (not to reader), noncon insinuations (not to reader), breeding kink, unprotected p in v, violence, etc

Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! reader

Series Masterlist

Seeing he had gone for good, you had dressed back into your wedding dress as it was the only comfort and clothes you had and decided to sleep in the marital couch, too scared that crawling in his bed would give him any ideas.

Morning came and you were up earlier than expected, sleep being scarce and more frightening than being awake. As your gaze searched around the room, the thick body of Acacius laid pleasantly in his bed. You tried to sleep longer, but handmaidens bustled into the room ready to prepare you for the first day of you endless nightmare.

They were quiet, Acacius’ handmaidens. They greeted you shyly, perhaps unknowing how to greet a Queen, and presented you a lavish turquoise gown; you allowed them to dress you as some stirred Acacius awake, but he batted them off, grumpily.

“I can dress myself.” He groaned, and you could tell that after he left you the night before, he had drunk.

Certain handmaiden caught your eye; she was young, similar to you physically, and she stood close to you. Her movements were timid, perhaps even more scared than the others. Your eyes followed her as she left the room.

True to his words, Acacius dressed himself in more casual robes; a beige picta. The silent was deafening, casting shadows over the dawn as you sat still, unaware of what to expect.

“When are we returning to the Palace?” You managed your courage to mutter, and Acacius finally posed his tired eyes on you.

“When you learn to be a good wife to me.” He answered sharply. “A husband cannot spend his nights looking for solace in another’s woman’s embrace.”

His words felt thick around him, his eyes glaring daggers. You felt a knot in your throat.

“Was that what you did after the events of last night?” You dared to ask him. He hesitated for a while, you could see it in his swerving eyes.

“Do not blame me, you decided not to comply.” He responded, and his feet padded closer to you, his broad figure becoming bigger and bigger.

“That didn’t deter you the other night.” You bit, rage lacing your words. “and I guess that didn’t deter you yesterday, as I can’t believe your other woman was whorish enough to sleep with a newly wed man.”

He chuckled at your words, pleased in his fantasy that you were portraying jealousy. “You would be surprise by how many girls like you dream of pleasing a General as myself.”

If that was true, then it felt unfair. For him to take you, just to dispose of you later, felt unfair. It all felt like a twisted joke, because despite not wanting him, he had done all of this for a reason.

“But just so you know,” He added, a sly grin on his face. “the one I bedded last night wasn’t compliant either.”

It felt like salt on a wound, and your face twisted into a bitter expression. He enjoyed it so much, the fight, your hatred, it fueled the fire in his loins.

“You are disgusting.” You spat, rising to your feet. “I cannot fathom how you portray yourself as the Hero-”

A sharp slap cut your words short, sending your face to the side as you gasped. His grip fell again on your face, now slightly more tender as he forced you to look at me.

“Oh, I am no Hero,” He sneered. “I am far more than that, I am your God now, and like Gods, I do not preach morality.”

You felt weak once again, but hatred still run through your veins as you glared at him. Your cheek stung.

“All this fighting has made me wanton.” He confessed, and your eyes widened in fear of his words. “after all, we must give Rome a heir.”

“You will be crowned King shortly,” You ushered, perhaps pleading. “you can have bastards and make them heir.”

He tutted at your excuses. “But I want you, darling; our heirs will rule Rome.”

“Why does it matter anymore?” You questioned, seeing impatience running through his features.

“Enough.” He barked, letting go of your chin. “Get on the bed.”

What if I say no?

What if I scream?

What if I comply?

Your mind raced, and he grew angry but you stood your ground. His lips almost curled into a smirk as he grabbed your forearms, as bruising as he had done the first night, and begun moving you towards the bed.

Your instinct kicked in, and you fought because complying was too humiliating for you. Kicking and clawing came to no avail as your back hit the soft, tousled fabrics of the bed.

“Are you going to behave or do I need to tie you down again and fuck you like a breeding mare?” He barked, and your arms grew weak under the threat. His gaze fell over the pretty dress that you wore, and he fought the urge to rip it apart. It was new, and a gift to you from him.

He opted for lifting your skirt and producing his manhood from beneath his robes. You didn’t want to look at it, feeling its weight on your leg was enough to tell you.

Your arms had fallen limp against the bed as he forced your thighs apart, presenting your cunt to his eyes.

“I realized I had forgotten something,” He confessed to you, and your mind screamed. “did not taste you properly yet.”

His dark eyes were set on you as he lowered his face to your exposed core, a pink tongue darting from his lips and licked a line along your seam. A whimper escaped your pressed lips, thighs shaking, and his mouth latched to you.

Like a man starved, he sucked your most intimate part, sending shivers along your body. Your nails dug into the covers, begging someone or something to stop the pleasure he was eliciting so darkly. But your hips buckled, making him even wilder as he thrusted his manhood into the bed. Like a man on a mission, he constrained his desires in order to get you to submit beneath him, which perhaps brought him more pleasure than the act itself.

A hand that was spreading your thighs apart let you free, but the limb curled itself into you, presenting yourself as soft mewls and squeaky moans left your lips. His fingers tangled themselves in the slick mess of arousal and saliva, pushing through your swollen walls; you jerked as he curled them inside, working your clit with his tongue.

There was a slight pain from the pressure, but it fueled the heat you felt, nipples pebbling against the silk of your dress and electricity jolting through you. Your thighs shut around his head, thick curls slightly matted from his efforts, and he knew.

A hand on your hip, holding you still, and now his digits thrusted in and out, fucking you until your legs wrapped around his neck, and you felt pressure relieve as you shot slick arousal directly into his face.

You didn’t care to try to reason what he had forced your body as you fell, spread, on the sheets, eyes lidded and throat hoarse from the war cry that had erupted from you.

Through your blurred vision you saw him rise on top of you, wiping you from his lips and face as his devoured all the essence you had poured onto him.

“No-” you whined as you felt the engorged tip of his cock pushing against your abused folds, hands rising to push at his chest.

“Come on, dumb girl,” he muttered at your skin, a hand gently taking your wrists above your head as the other propped your leg over his shoulder, letting himself slide right in with a pleased grunt. “I have pleased you, now do your duty.”

He sheathed himself in with a hiss, head bobbing back as your overstimulated core clenched around him. The sting had dissipated, and shame rose to your cheeks as you felt a need for it. The feeling, of needing to be fucked, pitifully reminded you of those nights along Lucius, the ones were his body heat felt like forbidden fruit, were you craved he would touch you, and were you would feel shame burn on you the next day as wild images blurred your thoughts.

But Acacius wouldn’t let you feel that need ever again, that you knew. He was an animal, biting into your soft skin as he rutted into you, as if trying to get closer. In a way, his assault felt like his desire to imprint on you, to make you yours, thing that he wouldn’t let you forget as he groaned and moaned it into your ear.

“There you are,” he mumbled, almost whispered, tightening the grip around your wrists unconsciously. “being fucking good for me, letting me fuck my wife.”

And you could fight it, you howled like a bitch in heat beneath him, letting General Acacius breed you despite the tears in your eyes. Your leg muscles stung beneath him, splayed like whore, for what felt like hours.

“Gonna finish inside you, paint your walls,” He panted into your ear before nibbling on your lobe. “gonna fuck the heir of Rome into you, dumb girl.”

True to his words, his pace picked up even more as he decided to finish the job. His grip snaked to your lower back as he pressed himself into you with a guttural groan, and you felt his sticky wetness inside of you, coating you; something you couldn’t clean up.

Perhaps this was for the better; the sooner you’d give him a heir the sooner he wouldn’t have an excuse to do this. But you knew that fantasy was unrealistic. Acacias had no excuse for enjoying the act so much.

His weight fell over you, shortening your breaths as you finally peered your eyes open, gaze cut by the mountains of muscular flesh of shoulder and back. The simple robe he had placed slipped from his body, and you felt sweat dampening as his torso pinned you down. His hand unwrapped his grip, knitting his fingers with yours. You begged he didn’t fall asleep.

But he didn’t, and you were grateful for that. Knowing he was crashing you, he tossed his body beside you on the bed. The silent rang in your ears; anticipation heavy, until he spoke.

“Each time you displease me, or deny me,” He said, threat and decisiveness in his voice. “I’d like you to think of our first night, and I’d like you to remember the pretty faces of the handmaidens I have here, at my power-and to know that I was considering you a Queen at the time.”

He had made his words clear.

[wintfleur]

𝓛ATE NIGHT TALKING

aka iris’s relationship with luke

━━━ ❛ now you’re in my life, I can’t get you off my mind

how did they meet?  iris and luke met outside their apartment building during a fire alarm drill, iris had noticed how worried he looked and went up to him to reassure him that it's a routine check. There was an immediate attraction to each other, and iris gave him her number before she went to her apartment. 

their first impressions?   

iris’s first impression of Luke was his pants, she thought they were cute as an avid lover of Snoopy herself. She also found him very endearing of how shy and awkward he was and she wasn't blind — of course, she noticed how handsome he is.  

luke was breathless when he turned around to see her behind him, not expecting such a pretty girl to start a conversation with him. It was an instant attraction for him, he liked how kind she was to reassure him, him getting enough courage to ask her to show him around. 

who fell first?  i would say that it was mutual, there was an immediate attraction and connection when they first met. But they really fell for each other during that week and a half of texting every night before they got to see each other again. But luke definitely fell the hardest. 

who asked who?  luke was the one to ask her to be his girlfriend, it was after their third date and he was walking her to her apartment door. iris was talking about some random topic and luke just interrupted her by asking, she of course said yes and then invited him to come inside and watch a movie. He of course said yes. 

first date?   luke was the one to ask iris out for their first date. planning the whole thing himself (okay and a little help and advice from his mom and nico) Luke picked her up around 7:30 and drove her to the arena, where they had the place to themselves. Luke showed her around and tried to teach her how to skate and shoot, they then had a cute like picnic on the ice (luke brought a blanket for them to sit on) they talked for hours, luke bringing her home around 1am. 

first kiss?   iris was the one to kiss luke, and it was during their first date, something neither of them expected to happen. Luke was practically hugging her from behind, helping and fixing her hold on the hockey stick. Everything luke was saying about the stick was going over her head, all she could focus on was his arms around her and how passionate and cute he sounded when he talked about hockey. Luke started to get flustered under her gaze and started tripping over his words, so iris leaned forward and kissed him softly, 

first ‘I love you’?   Iris was the one to say i love you first, it was after a pretty rough game for luke. Luke came over to her apartment after the game, really just beating himself up silently as the two cuddled on the couch. Iris could tell something was bothering him, so they talked about it. She hated seeing him so upset and she did her best to reassure him and praise him, he was saying how the media doesn't love him like they do his brothers. So she softly cupped his face and told him “I love you”. 

how did everyone find out and react? 

family + friends: luke told his parents and brothers almost immediately, and iris told her parents and her aunt immediately as well, only telling her brothers when it was official. They were all very supportive, Iris's brothers being a little reluctant to accept the fact that their little sister is dating. They told their friends when they were official, all of them were very supportive and happy for them as well. 

the public: the public found out when luke just casually mentioned having a girlfriend in an interview. And for months there was just crumbs on who she is, iris only being seen in the background of pictures with him. But they were officially seen together at the stadium series family skate. It was mostly positive feedback, clips of the couple going viral. 

ꪆ୧  GENERAL DETAILS !

their tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, mutual pining, tall bf! X short gf!, yapper bf! X listener gf!, sun x moon, private but not secret, lost in their own world 

love languages: 

luke’s: physical touch, gift giving, words of affirmation 

iris’s: words of affirmation, physical touch, acts of service 

pet names: 

luke’s for iris: pretty girl, babe/baby, sweet girl, sweets 

iris’s for luke: love, darling, angel, pretty boy, lots of pet names in french 

their favorite sleep position: 

luke’s: he loves being the big spoon, and he definitely won't admit out loud but he loves being the little spoon too. 

iris’s: iris’s is okay as long as she's touching luke or her cat moose in some way, she doesn't like feeling alone when she sleeps. 

songs that describe them: 

my love mine all mine – mitski

teenage dirtbag – wheatus 

iris – the goo goo dolls

late night talking - harry styles 

she looks so perfect - 5sos 

baby i'm yours - arctic monkeys & the newell octet

contact names: 

luke’s for iris: mon chéri ❤️

iris’s for luke: sweet girl ❤️

contact photos:

iris’s for luke: iris picked a picture of luke smiling when they, along with his parents and friends went out to eat. 

luke’s for iris: luke picked a picture of iris that he took during the summer when they were away for vacation. 

lockscreens: 

iris’s for luke: iris chose a picture of luke that she took at the first game she went to after they became official.  

luke’s for iris: luke chose a picture he took of her at one of their dates, it's one of his favorite pics ever. 

ꪆ୧ THEIR THINGS !

lazy days on the couch/bed 

playing puzzles/board games & doing arts n crafts 

cooking/baking together 

going on walks 

pulling each other close by their belt loops

chasing each others lips after pulling away from a kiss

sharing food / drinks 

Iris stealing Luke’s clothes

siting in the corner of the room and having their own conversation, while hanging out with others 

being a mom and dad to Iris’s (their) cat moose 

ꪆ୧ FUN FACTS !

they would spend hours texting each other at night for days before they started hanging out in person. 

Iris absolutely loves to make luke flustered, she will find different ways to do so, by teasing him, showering him in love and compliments etc. 

Luke is regular on her TikTok, whether it's him being seen in the background or he's doing a silly little trend with her. 

Iris is Luke’s biggest fan, she's constantly praising him and supporting him in every way. 

iris taught luke how to play the guitar 

Luke is very touchy, and grabby. especially when they kiss, he’s always wanting to touch her. 

luke is always trying to teach her about hockey but iris always gets distracted looking at his lips/eyes 

luke is a grade a clinger 

Date nights are something that the two are always looking forward to, some notable dates are escape rooms, bowling, mini gold, arcades, museums and taking different art classes. 

They enjoy their privacy, being very careful about what they show on the internet. 

Every summer they like to go away for a little while on a vacation. 

Luke always has his arm around her or resting his hand on her thigh when they are sitting next to each other. 

There are so many cute compilations of them made by fans. 

They have a great relationship with each other’s families. 

Luke loves it when Iris speaks in French even though he doesn't understand it, Iris has been teaching him some!

Luke practically lives in Iris's apartment at this point, he has his own key and some of his essentials there. 

When they are apart, they are always up late texting/calling 

Summers at the lake house with iris is luke’s favorite, he loves how great she gets along with everyone. He loves spending the day out on the boat with everyone, having Iris by his side as he holds her close, quietly singing along to the song in her ear to make her giggle. 

Or staying up late watching movies with her, his brothers, and their friends, or being outside surrounding the campfire, iris is always curled up in his arms, luke placing soft kisses on her head. 

It takes them at least 20 minutes of just laying in bed before they are ready to get up and start their day, they just wanna stay in bed and cuddle all day. 

Half the time Luke has no idea what Iris's homework is about, but he is always there to help her in any way he can. 

Luke has never liked to show off or make themselves look good, but then he met Iris and all he wants to do is just impress her. 

Luke gets a little grumpy whenever he’s away from iris for too long. 

They really are just attached to the hip. 

They have nights where they just play video games in iris’s living room, they get competitive and like to make bets with each other. 

Iris playing the piano helps Luke sleep

They love teasing him, but they enjoy Jack spending time with them! Their favorite third wheel. 

Luke’s friends and teammates love teasing the couple, mostly Luke from how in love he is. 

ꪆ୧ POSTS N MORE !

iris_auclair just posted !

📍Ann Arbor, Michigan

liked by nicohischier, gabeperreault44, curtislazar95 and more

🏷️ lhughes_06

🎵: national anthem - lana del rey

iris_auclair heaven’s in his eyes 💫

view all comments

laramyersss you are toooo fine for a man 😐

iris_auclair life’s not fair 💔

username luke looks like he bites

iris_auclair he does :p

jackhughes my eyes are really pretty huh

lhughes_06 she’s talking about mine you freak 😒

lilychee MAMA PLS ONE CHANCE

iris_auclair say less 😛

louispartridge RED WHITE BLUE IS IN THE SKY 🗣️

iris_auclair SUMMER’S IN THE AIR AND BABY HEAVEN’S IN YOUR EYES 🗣️

trevorzegras ur never getting behind the wheel again…

iris_auclair I couldn’t see with you big ass head in front of me 🙄

colecaufield LMAFO

edwards.73 Queen slay pop off

_quinnhughes moose n rissy

iris_auclair power couple fr 🙂‍↕️

ethan_yoon moose misses you guys 😐

iris_auclair just moose?

ethan_yoon COME BAKC HOME PLS 😭

Arthurauclair I disapprove of this post, you are showing too much skin.

hugoAuclair I second that 😐

iris_auclair go away 🧹

markestapa BEER PONG QUEEN 👸🏻

iris_auclair Couldn’t have done it without you 🙂‍↕️

baileybass the 8th pic 😻

iris_auclair I prefer the sixth 🤤

baileybass okay now…

OfficialGabrielleAuclair Beautiful Princess ❤️

username body tea 😻

username they are so cute ☹️

username Luke’s hand placement in the 7th pic 🤤

dylanduke25 boyfriend stealer 💔

iris_auclair he looks so pretty in my bed 💔

lhughes_06 not this again…

elblue6 love you Iris! what a great summer❤️

iris_auclair love you to!! definitely one of my favorites ❤️

lhughes_06 you are perfect I love you so much marry me I am on my knees 🙏

iris_auclair Luke baby breathe 😭

lhughes_06 I want you so bad 😖

roro’s note. 𝖨𝖳𝖲 𝖥𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖫𝖫𝖸 𝖯𝖮𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖣 !!! 𝖨𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 💔 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌/𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌 𝗆𝗐𝖺𝗁

au 𝓶.list

˖ ་ taglist : @cixrosie @winterbarnesblog @toasttt11 @43hyughes @iceflwers @bunbunbl0gs

©️WINTFLEUR ; you can't copy, translate, reproduce, repost my fic, use my plot or layout.

[nhmkhnh]

⌗SERIES 07 ──── ⌗CHAPTER 01: laced in smoke and silk.

── .✦ she taught beauty like it was a weapon. vi walked in with questions—and forgot every single one.

CHAPTER INDEX / NAVIGATION

before vi wore the badge, before the gauntlets, before her name was whispered with wary awe by zaun’s thieves and piltover’s elite—she was just a girl with too much anger and too little direction.

and even then, she remembered you.

she remembered the first time she saw you—not in some grand spectacle or guarded meeting, but in passing. a blur of silk and lantern light. you were stepping out of a transport near the old blackridge district, hem of your embroidered robe catching the glow of the street lamps. your hair was pinned up in that intricate style you always favored, but loose enough to tempt curiosity. you moved like you didn’t need to be seen to be known.

vi had been leaning against a wall, bruised from a scuffle gone wrong, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth and spitting onto the ground. she looked up—and time thinned out.

you didn’t look her way. of course not. you didn’t need to. just your presence alone made her straighten her spine, made her forget the ache in her knuckles and the sting on her jaw. she watched you go like people watched falling stars—brief, unreachable, and gone too fast.

later, she asked vander who you were.

“she runs that place on thorn row,” he’d said, stirring a drink behind the bar. “don’t get ideas. she’s not for the likes of us.”

vi had shrugged. “didn’t say i had ideas.”

but gods, did she.

you ran the maw’s quieter counterpart—a parlor on the edge of piltover’s shadow, hidden behind antique wood and velvet curtains. a place where people came to watch beauty unfurl, not to buy flesh. dancers, shadow plays, fire poets. vi had never seen anything like it.

it took her a week to work up the courage to go.

she’d slipped in through the back, not wanting to be seen, her jacket stained with zaun’s grime and her boots too loud for the carpet. she stood at the back of the room, barely breathing, as a woman danced with fans of blue and gold silk across a small stage. but vi didn’t watch the dancer. she watched you—seated in the corner, speaking quietly with a violinist, sipping something amber from a thin glass. you smiled at something they said, and vi felt it bloom inside her like wildfire.

she came back.

once. twice. ten times.

never spoke. just watched.

you noticed, of course. you always did. there was something in the way your eyes paused on her shadow near the wall, the way your fingers stilled mid-gesture as if sensing a presence. you let her stay. let her linger. never called her out, never asked her name.

but one night, you did more than that.

you walked up to her after the last act ended. she’d frozen, boots planted, mouth suddenly dry.

“you’re not old enough to be in here,” you said, voice low and smooth like violin resin and night air. “but i won’t tell.”

vi cleared her throat. “wasn’t gonna cause trouble.”

you tilted your head. “i know.”

she’d expected you to walk away then. but instead, you held out a wrapped parcel.

“it’s chamomile and cinnamon. helps with bruises.”

vi blinked. took it. “you… noticed?”

you didn’t smile, but your eyes glinted with something warmer. “i see more than most think.”

that night, vi didn’t sleep. she kept that parcel under her pillow until it lost its scent. and even then, she couldn’t throw it away.

you were her first almost.

the first time vi thought: maybe i could be something else. for someone like her.

but reality came fast and sharp.

there were raids. fights. powder’s experiments going wrong. grayson’s shadow closing in. vi lost track of how many nights passed without your silhouette in them. she stopped going. told herself it didn’t matter. that you were just a passing phase. a fantasy.

and then came the explosion. the betrayal. the fire that swallowed everything.

when vi was dragged away in chains, the last thing she thought of wasn’t her family. wasn’t powder.

it was you.

you, in that quiet room of candlelight, sipping from a glass, head tilted like you heard things others didn’t.

ten years pass.

and nothing, no one—not even time itself—can quite tear your name from the softest part of her memory.

vi slammed the report folder shut with a curse.

“this is going nowhere.”

the echo of her frustration bounced around the archive room in the back of piltover’s enforcement headquarters, where dust gathered in corners and leads came to die. the scent of old ink and metal made her feel boxed in, tight in the chest. she shoved away from the desk, chair screeching against the floor, then began to pace.

caitlyn leaned against the shelf with the cool calm of someone used to this. “we’ve followed every name she’s used. cross-checked alley sightings. half the city claims to have seen a ghost.”

vi stopped mid-step. “jinx isn’t a ghost.”

“no,” caitlyn agreed quietly, “but she doesn’t want to be found. and you—” her voice softened, “you’re running on fumes.”

vi ran a hand through her hair, biting the inside of her cheek. she hated this. the helplessness. the waiting. jinx was slipping through their fingers like smoke, and the longer it went, the more she spiraled. something in vi twisted with every explosion, every taunt. and she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

until caitlyn spoke again.

“there’s… one name i haven’t brought up.”

vi looked at her sharply. “why not?”

“because it’s a long shot,” caitlyn said. “a whisper, really. but a reliable source claims she’s been hosting certain people—people with access to information no one else has. someone even said she knew about the hexcrystal shipment three days before it left the labs.”

vi frowned. “she who?”

caitlyn hesitated. then slid a grainy photo from a folder.

a woman in motion. mid-step. a long coat flowing around her knees, delicate silk scarf caught in the wind. it was blurry, but the face—vi would’ve known it blind.

you.

the world dropped out from under her.

she didn’t speak. couldn’t.

caitlyn tilted her head, noticing. “you know her?”

vi’s throat was dry. “yeah.”

caitlyn waited. when no more explanation came, she added carefully, “we should meet her. ask what she knows.”

“no.”

“what?”

vi was already grabbing her jacket, the photo clenched in her hand like a lifeline. “i’ll do it.”

“vi—”

“she won’t talk to you,” vi said, not cruel, just certain. “but she might talk to me.”

ten years, vi thought, and i still remember the way she smelled.

she didn’t tell caitlyn that you had once handed her tea wrapped in brown paper. autumn blend, you’d called it. cinnamon, blood orange, and something smoky she never quite identified. she’d never tasted anything like it since. but she remembered.

so she bought a tin.

she wore a clean shirt. combed her hair. told herself this was professional.

and then she stood in front of the maw.

it hadn’t changed. still gleamed like a predator dressed in gold trim, nestled among the polished facades of piltover’s upper wards. no signs, no guards—just redwood doors and a silence that pressed close.

the man at the front desk barely looked up. “appointment?”

“she’ll want to see me,” vi said, lifting her chin.

he blinked slowly. “name?”

“vi.”

a pause.

then: “ninth floor.”

she didn’t breathe in the elevator.

the tin of tea was warm in her pocket.

when the doors opened, she stepped into the hush of thick carpets and soft instrumental music drifting through the air. glass walls reflected her back at herself: a soldier in steel-toed boots, out of place.

but then she heard it.

music. and something else—fabric swishing through air.

she turned the corner.

and stopped breathing.

you were dancing.

on a small, polished platform in your office, barefoot. one silk fan in each hand—red and bronze, catching the late sunlight pouring in through the tall windows. your movements were slow, mesmerizing. each flick of your wrist carried heat, each twist of your waist said watch me but don’t come closer. your hair was half-up, strands falling loose with each pivot, and your eyes were closed.

you looked like something from a painting.

and you were so much more beautiful than she remembered, vi nearly forgot how to stand.

the air felt heavy with something sacred.

when you finally turned—mid-spin, fan slicing gently down—you paused.

opened your eyes.

saw her.

and smiled.

god, that smile. cool and unreadable, but edged with knowing.

“you took your time,” you said softly, lowering the fans.

vi’s voice caught. she cleared her throat, but nothing came out.

you raised an eyebrow. “ten years and not even hello?”

“i brought tea,” vi blurted.

you blinked, surprised. then: “you remembered.”

“of course i did.”

you stepped down from the platform, walking toward her in measured steps. “let me guess—autumn blend. still cinnamon-heavy?”

she handed it over, fingers brushing yours. “you told me it was your favorite.”

you turned the tin over in your hands, then looked up, something unreadable flickering in your eyes. “and why are you here, officer?”

vi’s jaw clenched at the title. “you already know.”

“maybe.” you set the tea aside. “but i want to hear you say it.”

vi stared at you. everything she meant to say—every line about intel and strategy—was gone. burned away by the sight of your bare feet, the way your perfume lingered, how close you were.

“i need help,” she said finally. “about jinx.”

“ah.” you circled her slowly now, not predatory—just curious. like an artist walking around a half-finished sculpture. “and you think i have it.”

“i think,” vi said, “you always knew more than people thought.”

you didn’t respond immediately. instead, you stood behind her, voice close to her ear. “and you? what do you know, violet?”

she hated how her name sounded so good in your mouth.

“i know you never forget your ghosts,” vi said hoarsely.

you stepped in front of her again. “and which am i? a ghost or something else?”

vi didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

not yet.

you poured the tea without asking if she wanted any. of course she did.

the scent filled the room—spiced orange peel, cinnamon bark, a hint of clove—and vi nearly groaned at how fast it dragged her back. her eyes were locked on your hands. still graceful. still precise. everything you did was a kind of performance, even now. even pouring tea.

you handed her a delicate cup and sat across from her, legs crossed, posture unbothered.

“so,” you said after a sip, “what has my little monster done this time?”

vi stared into the steam curling from her drink. “she’s not yours.”

you tilted your head, mildly amused. “she’s not yours either. or did something change in the last decade?”

vi didn’t answer that.

you smiled faintly. “didn’t think so.”

she shifted in her seat, jaw tight. “she’s bombing chem-lines. stealing from hextech carriers. got half the enforcers too scared to walk alone.”

“and what do you want from me?”

“a name,” vi said. “a location. anything.”

you leaned back in your seat and studied her—really studied her this time.

"you’re still angry," you murmured.

"i’m not here to talk about me."

“but you're here.” you said it slowly, as if that meant more than she’d let it. “and you brought tea.”

vi exhaled sharply through her nose. “what do you want me to say? that i never stopped thinking about you? that i still see you when i blink too long?”

your eyes darkened, and for the first time, your voice dropped low. “no. i want you to say why you disappeared.”

vi froze.

you leaned forward. “you came to me like a shadow, night after night. then nothing. not even a goodbye.”

“there was a war,” vi said, and it sounded like a weak excuse even to her. “i went away. got locked up. then when i got out…”

she didn’t finish.

you didn’t push.

but your gaze softened. “you got hard edges now.”

“so do you.”

you huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “yes. but mine don’t cut.”

she set her tea down. “look, i didn’t come here to—”

“to be seen?” you offered gently.

vi’s throat worked. “no. yes. i don’t know.”

you stood.

walked to the window.

the sun had dipped lower, casting golden light across your profile. your fan lay open on the table, forgotten. your hands twitched at your side, as if they wanted something to hold.

“you never liked being touched,” vi said before she could stop herself.

you turned slightly, one brow raised. “and you remembered that?”

“of course i did.”

a beat.

then you asked, almost too softly: “but you still wanted to, didn’t you?”

vi got up.

she didn’t walk over. not yet. just stood, fists clenched, like coming closer would snap something inside her.

“you don’t get it,” vi said. “you were the first thing that made me want to be more. not just fight more. be more.”

you looked at her then. really looked.

and stepped closer.

one breath away.

your hand reached for hers—not to hold it. just to hover. a whisper above the knuckles.

“i did get it,” you said. “but you weren’t ready.”

vi’s breath shook. “and now?”

you smiled, barely. “now you’re dangerous.”

“is that a no?”

“it’s a ‘not yet.’”

behind you both, the fan clicked closed.

you stepped away first.

“information comes at a cost, officer.”

vi swallowed hard. “what kind?”

you picked up the fan again, twirling it once, then answered, slow:

“you stay. for one night. just as you are.”

vi’s brows drew together. “that’s it?”

you looked at her—straight, sharp, unblinking.

“your badge stays at the door. your questions too.”

“and if i say no?”

you smiled. “then you get nothing.”

vi hesitated.

then dropped her badge gently on the table.

[angrythingstarlight]

While my mind always goes to Bucky first in any form, I also thought about Ari this time. What thoughts does this inspire in you, queen?

🪄🫀

Pairing: Demon!Bucky x Reader

A/N: Unbetad, written on my phone.

Bucky is the bane of your existence. Ever since you got the best of the demon last winter, he's plagued your doorstep like his never ending shadows. Trying to make you pay for your insolence, his wounded pride not able to accept that he lost to you. An unassuming, shy soul that he should have easily devoured.

He's intent on getting you down on your knees, his attempts at making you beg him for forgiveness are fraying at your already fraught nerves. You bested him. You won his game fair and square. He should be on his knees for you, not the other way around.

Not when you were so clever, for once in your life anyway.

If that happened more often, you wouldn't have found yourself needing to make a deal with a demon in the first place. But it what it is and you actually came out on top.

He can't stand it.

Bucky always comes out on top. As he likes to remind you. Daily. Relentlessly.

Since he won't leave you alone, you've decided to make him useful.

Bucky wants you so fucking bad, you're going to make sure you're taking up residence in his mind all day, every day.

You're going to make him do your bidding. Which is to leave you alone and suffer. Maybe do a few things on your behalf. For a few weeks anyway. Once he sees what you're capable of, he'll move on to some other poor soul and forget all about you.

It was surprisingly simple to find the right spell. Well, simple after a few attempts left scorched marks along the top of your counters. You'll deal with that later.

You're adding a few unnaturally blue petals to the jar when your phone buzzes. BUCKY flashes across the screen.

He added himself to your contacts a month ago. Right around the time, he convinced your neighbor to move out and give him the apartment. Bastard. You liked Thomas, he was nice.

Bucky even kept the guy's cat, the fluffy white traitor keeps traipsing in your place whenever you open the door. Sometimes...sometimes you swear his eyes are the same shade of blue as Bucky's. Thats crazy, you shake off the thought and go back to your jar.

The only thing left is a lock of his hair. You snagged that during your last fight, under the guise of pushing him out of your place. Your hands shook for almost hour afterwards, so sure that he was going to realize what you did. But he never came back that night. You're lucky. This spell is useless without it. Normally things never go your way but recently everything has been working out for you.

Except the irritating demon darkening your doorway. Your phone buzzes. BUCKY. Again. BUCKY. Again. Bucky. You'd shut it off but it always rings when he calls. No matter how many times you block him.

You swipe through the messages popping up on your screen. Don't even think about it. Stop it or I will. Don't fuck with me. I can feel what you're doing and I promise you sweetheart, you will regret it.

Eh. Not the worst things he's sent you.

You pick up the strands, your hand hovering over the open jar. Bang. You startle, nearly knocking over the jar. One hand shooting out to steady it, the frothy liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. Your heart pounds in your chest, slamming painfully against your ribcage. Bucky shouts your name. Silence. The silence is worse than him screaming, it feels more ominous. A tremble slices through your hand as you bring the short chestnut locks above the concoction. A series of rapid fire bangs rattle the walls of the kitchen, the floors shake under your feet.

Alarms rings your in brain, warnings to stop, it's not to late. You don't. You're not sure why. It feels like you should but you can't.

You open your hand and watch in rapt fascination as his hair sinks into the jar. Before your courage seeps out of you, you screw the lid on and shake once the jar. Twice. The rattlingly stops and the room goes quiet. You can only hear your soft breathes and the slow tick, tick, tick of your clock.

A warm breeze winds around your legs, traveling up your body in a languid wave. Notes of smoked cedar follow, your head feels too light yet too heavy all at once. You stumble backwards, hitting something hard. The kitchen window tilts, melting into the sink below, the walls twisting and darkening around you.

A hand smooths up your belly, your chest, pressing into the column of your throat before cupping your chin. Your face is tilted up and you blink, trying to clear your vision.

Blue eyes stare down at you, a cascade of emotions shimmer in their depths. You can't make sense of what you're seeing. Then he smiles revealing a set of pearly white teeth, his tongue runs across his bottom lip.

"Wha—"

"It's time to go. You wouldn't want to miss your honeymoon would you?"

What. You're going to kill him.

Bucky winks as he gathers you in his arms. "You can try wife as many times as you want. I look forward to it. After I get done fucking you."

This was supposed to be a simple answer and i got a little carried away. Anyone interested in a demon!Bucky tricking a reader into being his bride? Because now I have thoughts 👀

[insomniamamma]

The Second Kind: Kermit (snl) x F!reader

A/N: I'm going to start by blaming @oonajaeadira for this one. I bounced head cannons at her and she provided encouragement. We had a good laugh and then I was like fuck it I'm writing the fic. Reader is back where she grew up for an annual family reunion. This is pure silliness that got surprisingly emotional. Woody Harrelson's character is named Scooter. This is the silliest thing I've ever written and I had a fucking blast. Also a FLIR is a type of thermal imagine camera that used by UFO people and ghost hunters.

Warnings: Ugly family dynamics. Politics. One use of "Libtard" (not from Kerm or Scoots). A whole UFO sighting and the terror that implies. Anxiety. A bit of panic. Alcohol consumption.

You knew things would turn ugly. But you still showed up. For your younger cousins if nothing else. The family reunion has felt less like a fun occasion and more like an obligation lately. Doesn’t help that your grandparents and uncles have let Tucker Carlson and Fox News and Twitter hollow them out from the inside.

Everybody’s been cordial so far, but now the sun is down and the fire is bright and the beer is flowing and Uncle Mike starts his usual spiel about how those dirty foreigners are taking jobs from good hard working Americans. You feel your neck start to stiffen, your jaw start to tighten up, knowing that Mike’s got enough liquid courage on board to recite a sermon’s worth of Project 2025 talking points with a heaping helping of Qanon horseshit. Your Aunt Jennie downs her beer in a series of convulsive swallows and grabs another, you can see the vein pulsing at her temple even in the flickering fire’s glow, just waiting for Mike to pause for breath so she can go off. You know what’s going to happen, what’s happened at every reunion since 2016, MAGAts vs Libtards, everyone buzzed and yelling, and then tomorrow everyone will wake up sore from sleeping on the ground, eat breakfast and play softball in the big open field behind the row of tents, and act like nothing happened.

Christ, you’re tired of it. You grab a beer from the cooler and wander out into the field that borders the campsite. You’ll all play softball tomorrow, even though you’re dogshit at it, pick a place in the outfield and hope nothing comes your way. But for now the darkness is inviting and wide, but you’re not alone in it. Two men hunker over their phones, red light reflected up into their faces.

“Fuckin Starlink train, there must’ve been a launch.” “How many of those thing’s’re they gonna put up there?” “Fuck if I know, They launch, what, like every three days? The newer ones are s’posed to be low albedo but I’ll believe it when I see it.” “Haven’t they been de-orbitin them lately?” “I hear shit, don’t know if it’s true or just more fucking disinfo-or” These two, and their muted conversation seem way more interesting that the impending argument back at the campsite, same miserable script recycled from 2016. “You guys stargazing?” “Jesus!” says Mullet, pressing a hand to his chest. “Watchu sneaking up on us for girlie?,” says Beanie, “Kerm’s got that, fuck is it? Generalized Anxiety Disorder and—“ You flinch back and Mullet flaps a dismissive hand at Beanie. “’S’okay, Scoots, I’m good. She just startled me, that’s all. And yeah, we’re lookin at the stars. Mostly.” “Mostly?” “You been livin under a rock or somethin?,” says Beanie, no wait, Scoots? Scooter, like the muppet? “She’s not from around here,” says Mullet, “She’s with that big family reunion that comes around third weekend in July.” He raises the binoculars to his face. “She sure sounds like she’s from around here,” “She is standing right here,” you say, “And she grew up two exits down route 17 from here. Keep coming back for some dumbass reason.” You convulsively swallow half of your rapidly warming beer. “Aw shit,” says Scoots, “Didn’t mean nothin—“ “It’s fine,” you say, “My aunt and uncle are going to scream at each other about politics and everyone is going to get mad, and I’m just fucking tired, you know?” “That’s rough, man,” says Kerm, “Families suck sometimes.” “Politics,” says Scoots, “Don’t matter who’s in charge. Me and Kerm’ve got bigger fish to fry. There’s a meeting about the sightings Sunday at the fire hall. We get some good footage we can report that shit to MUFON.“ “Wait? Sightings? Like aliens—“

“Hey!” Says Kerm, “Got somethin,” and he points up into the black, while Scoots fumbles his phone, narrow your eyes and see something twinkling against the deep velvet of the night sky, grab your phone out of your pocket, just in case, “What’m I lookin at?” “Gimme a sec—oh shit—weather sat—“ “Crap.” “S’okay man, the night is young, Kermit. We got all the time in the world,” says Scoots, presses a cold can of beer into your hand and tosses one to Kerm who catches it one handed, glaring up at the sky, “Kermit?” “He is my eye in the sky,” says Scoots,”He got them eagle eyes, man.” “Your name’s Kermit?” “No?” He rubs at the back of his neck, “Well, it’s uh, complicated-“ “It’s not complicated. This dude sang Rainbow Connection in the fifth grade talent show and he’s been Kermit ever since.” “Can you excuse us for a moment? I need to have a word with Scooter here. There’s plenty of beers in the cooler-“ “What, man? What?” “Come here, Scooter.” He slings an arm around his buddy’s shoulder, “We’ll just be a minute, won’t we?” Kermit hauls his friend a few paces away and silent laughter shakes your shoulders. This is way more fun than listening to your family split along party lines and start yelling over each other. Cold beer and bright stars and the whisper-shouts of your new pals somewhere off behind you. “Why’re you tellin on me like that?” “She’s cool with the fucking aliens, man, I don’t think the muppets are gonna be a deal breaker, dude-“ You stifle a laugh, and admire the broad sky above, the stars look like sugar spilled on velvet, faint glow of the Milky Way threaded through the background. I’m gonna go stargazing when I go back home, you think, I’ve missed this, you think, remember sneaking cigarettes at the end of the driveway of the house you grew up in and peering up into that big black night, home for Christmas break and the stars seemed to vibrate in the cold. Stars don’t twinkle when seen from space, know that from some sci-fi book, something about light lensing through the atmosphere. Crane your neck up and take it all in, but then you notice something, an absence of stars, poking up from the top of the hill across the way. “Still. How’d you like it if I told her why everyone calls you Scooter?” “Now that ain’t fair. We were in kindygarden--“

“Uh…guys? Is this normal?” “What?” “Where?” “Right there,” you say and point up into the dark, “See the notch where the powerlines run? Start there and look up! It looks like something in front of the stars, doesn’t it?” “Oh shit.” “Get the FLIR,” says Kermit, “Get your phone out, honey, we’ve got to document this—“ “What’s a FLIR?” “Shh,” says Scoots,”We live, Kerm?” “Yeah, just make sure you’re recording.” You’re not sure if Kermit is talking to you or Scoots or both so you pull out your phone and start recording, a symmetrical spike of darkness rising out of the trees like a star destroyer. “What the fuck—“ “My name is James Pedro Martinez, and we are recording this footage at 12:55 am local time at Rudy’s Camp and Mini-golf.” “Heck yeah we are,” says Scoots. “What the fuck IS that thing—“ “I’m here with Thomas ‘Scooter’ MacIntyre. He’s filming with the FLIR and, uh—“ You say your name without even thinking it, the darkness keeps rising, keeps spreading across the sky, and you start to feel the hairs on the back of neck and arms prickle up, sick pulse in your belly, low vibration just on the edge of your hearing, feel it in the soles of your feet, in your teeth— “We’re getting some pretty heavy infrasound- phone probably won’t pick it up but we’re definitely feeling the effects! How’s the FLIR—“ “White hot! Their material science must be off the fuckin chain man! Anything we make would be visibly glowing if it got this hot—“ “Look!” The the field is bathed in sizzling red light that reminds you of road flares, one light at each corner of the craft that blocks out the whole damn sky, and a fourth pulsing on and off in a slow throb-- “Oh shit! That’s the drive powerin up—“ and the hum in your ears, in your teeth, in your chest ramps up, your eyeballs seem to vibrate in their sockets, and then nothing. The black shape, the nauseating hum is gone like it never was. Nothing but shimmering stars and muted, if angry conversation from your family’s campsite. “Did you see that?” Scooter runs around you and Kerm in a delirious loop, “Did you SEE that? DID YOU FUCKIN SEE THAT???? WOOOOO!!!!” He does two and two thirds cartwheels and splats flat on his back in the grass like he means to make a snow angel. “I saw!,” you say, “I fuckin saw it! What the fucking fu-“ and then your legs give out from under you like they’ve been switched off, plant yourself with a soft oof of exhaled breath and Kermit is right there hunkered in the crabgrass with you, big warm hands gripping your shoulders, keeping you upright. “It’s okay,” he says, “I know it’s a lot. Being your first time and all.” You look up at Kermit’s earnest face picked out in starlight, his big, wide eyes, twitch of his mustache as he worries at his lip. You laugh. You can’t help yourself, laugh and feel tears slide out, hear the screamy edge to your voice— “Ah, shit, she’s hysterical-“ “She ain’t hysterical! That’s fuckin sexist, Scoots, we talked about this-“ “My bad, sister,” Scooter slaps a cold can into your hand, “Drink that up. And take some nice deep breaths through your nose. It’ll help. Infrasound’s messing with you is all.” You pop the can open and drink. Scooter plops down by Kermit, their faces pinched in the light of Kerm’s phone, his arm stays draped warm over your shoulders.

“Oh this is good, this is REAL good-“ “Good enough for MUFON?” “This is good enough to get us on Coast--“ “Shh!” “What-“ “They’re still arguing.” “Huh?” “Back there. By the fire. They’re still arguing. Listen.” Kermit giggles and then presses his hand over his mouth. —it’s transGENIC not transgender you stupid fuck! 300 year olds aren’t collecting social security, Elon’s 4-chan flying monkeys don’t understand COBOL—what the fuck is a COBOL? Exactly. “We just had a flyover from Spaceball One and they didn’t even fucking notice!” “Hail Scroob,” says Scooter, and those weird screamy laughs try to bubble up again and Kermit gives your shoulder a squeeze, “You where filming too, right?” “Oh, yeah,” you frown, “I think so? Shit, I don’t know. I felt that in my teeth!” You paw through the damp grass for you phone, “In my fucking fillings-oh here we are!” You wipe the dew and dirt on your pants and type in your password, fuck it up because your hands are shaking, shit! Fuck! I’ve only got two more tries and then- “Here,” says Kermit, holding out his hand, “What’s your password, honey?” “He aint gonna scam you,” says Scoots, “Kerm’s an upright dude.” Put your phone into his waiting hand and lean in close to tell him the numbers. “I got you. Here. Let’s see.” You open your camera roll and scroll down. Scooter leans over your shoulder so he can see. “There’s a lotta shake,” says Scooter. “No shit there’s a lot of shake! This might be fuckin Tuesday for you guys but this is my first close encounter of the third kind-“ “Second kind, technically-“ “Dang it, Scoots, I’m tryin to hear this. Can you run it back a little? Make sure your sound’s up?” You do as he asks and Scooter manages to stay quiet, the jitter of sick cherry red lights, mishmash of your voices— scooter macyntire filming with the FLIR- and your own voice in a stream of muted obscenities, what the fuck, what the FUCK, what the fuck IS THAT? “Sorry.” “No,” says Kermit, “This is great. This just backs us up! We could go viral!” “We could go viral,” says Scooter, “You need to get a hard copy though. Physical back up.” “Oh. Right. Would you be okay with that? Coming back to my campsite? I mean, not for anything like that, just for me downloading the footage. Not to say that I wouldn’t, you’re real pretty and all, but this is serious shit here.” “You’re making it weird Kerm,” says Scooter, packing up his FLIR camera and cooler, “I gotta go. Kayleigh’s singing with the choir tomorrow. If I’m late Barbara will tear me a splendid new asshole.” “Give K-Monster a hug for me, yeah?” “Sure thing brother. And don’t you worry. Kerm’s not gonna serial kill you or anything.”

“Jesus,” says Kermit, and you laugh, “I promise I’m not trying to make things weird.” As you draw closer to the lights from camp, fire glow and yellow lights on the cabins washing out the stars, you get your first real good look at him, those deep dark eyes so worried. “We just saw a fucking actual UFO and you’re worried about making things weird? I think that ship has sailed, or blasted off or something. ” He starts giggling, and you do too, can’t help it. His laugh is infectious and wheezing, eyes crunched into delighted crescents, and you end up leaning in to each other as walk, arm in arm like a couple of drunks stumbling home from a bar. “If this is the meet cute what’s the first date like?” “Something with less mosquitos for one,” says Kermit, and you laugh until tears squirt out of the corners of your eyes, but then the peals of laughter turn to choked sobs in your throat sounds an animal might make, sounds that have nothing to do with you at all, prickling metal taste in the back of your throat, low pulsing and somehow bright feeling in your gut, and Kermit takes your hands, folds them up in his and lightly squeezes. “Breathe, honey,” He presses your hands against his sternum, hammer of his heart transmitted through his faded Queensryche t-shirt and into your palms, “In through your nose and out through your mouth like Scoots said. Breathe with me.” You close your eyes and focus on the inhale and exhale, the thump of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, “You’re havin a panic attack. It’ll pass. You got this.” You're not sure how long you stand in the bug-struck dark, his hands cupped over yours, matching your breath with his. Eventually that spike in your gut, that sensation of being about to fall fades enough that you can take a step back, draw your hands away and swipe at your leaking eyes. “Guess I’m the one who made it weird, huh,” “Nah, we just saw some crazy shit, that’s all,” says Kermit, “First time I ever saw the lights I went home and sat at my kitchen table and cried. I wasn’t even sad, really, it was just a lot, you know? Scared the heck out of my cat. Oh crap! You’re not allergic are you?” “No.”

“This is me,” he says, leads you to an old RV with a deck built up around the door, geraniums and petunias in terra cotta pots. “You stay here year round?” “Yeah, it ain’t much, but it’s mine. I help Gail and Rudy out with maintenance and such, man the camp store for em when it gets busy. They’re getting up there, you know?” “Yeah,” you say, “Always thought Jay Jay would take over for them.” “Jay Jay left years ago,” says Kermit, “Comes home for Christmas and Easter and that’s it.” You think of all the third weekends in July spent here like clockwork, when the reunion was about seeing who could eat the most hot dogs and playing Marco Polo in the pool with the cousins, penny poker and hearts with your uncles, sticky koolaid faces and dirty knees and grubby hands and scary stories told in the tent while the adults stayed up late by the fire. Before everything got angry and broken. The idea that this place might disappear or become something else seems unfathomable. “Hey, you good?” Kerm’s holding the door open for you, “If you don’t want to come in it’s okay, I can just grab your phone for a minute—“ You shake your head. “It’s fine,” you say, “Just got lost in my own head for a second there.” “Happens to me all the time,” he says, “C’mon in.”

Kermit’s trailer is cozy and tidy and not what you expected from him at all, red and white checkered curtains hang above the windows, a beaded curtain divides what you assume to be the bedroom from the rest, the front bunk beds yanked out and replaced with a computer desk and hand-built bookshelves, loaded with battered sci-fi paperbacks, Larry Niven, Robert Heinlein, C.J. Cherryh. A small wooden rack of tiny souvenir spoons hangs by the door, the kind you find in truck stops and airports. “It’s gonna take a minute for this to boot up,” says Kerm, “There’s beers in the fridge if you want. I gotta get some more ram for this fuckin thing-“ Clicks the mouse fruitlessly while watching the loading screen. You go for the fridge and notice crayon drawings pinned by fruit shaped magnets, a school picture of a grinning girl with missing teeth and blond pigtails. “This your daughter?” “Nah, that’s Kayleigh,” he smiles, “Barb and Scoots’s little girl.” “Oh! K-Monster,” “Yeah, she’s smart as a whip! Gets that from her Mama.” His smile turns a bit devilish and you laugh, “I watch her couple times a month so Barb and Scoots can do date nights and stuff.” “You get to be the fun uncle,” “I do! Took her to see Inside Out last Saturday, they do a summer kids series at Crystal City. Bing-Bong, man, I wasn’t ready— Oh heck! We’re up! Here! Sit! I don’t want to go poking through your camera roll unsupervised.”

He stands and offers you his chair, reaches around you to click at the mouse and open a new window and you are suddenly very aware of him, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the fan of his breath ghosting the top of your head, low murmured christ this thing is slow, I really gotta- the small space the proximity and you feel like you should be nervous, in a strange man’s home, letting him access your phone, but you’re not, and then the thumbnails fill in like blinking open eyes, and suddenly there’s a prickly weight in your lap, a meow that sounds like it needs wd-40 and a pair of irritated green eyes, little tabby with a ruddy blaze. “Sorry,” says Kerm, “That’s Poppy. She’ll settle down and stop yelling if you pet her.” Poppy turns delirious stabby circles in your lap before settling down, purring like an idling semi. You absently scritch her ears while the cursor turns to a spinning pinwheel. “Found her eating expired hotdogs out of the dumpster behind the store. Gail’s allergic and I’m a sucker so-alright! Let’s take a look!” You and Kermit watch the weirdest two minutes of your life play out, your quavering voice and jittering bloody light like embers or cigarette ends, pulsing slow at first and then flickering and brightening -that’s the drive powerin up, and then everything whites out, a rustle and thump and Scooter’s muted voice Did you SEE THAT??? “Crap. I must’ve dropped it. Sorry.” “No, you did real good! You got our voices! We’ll be able to match up time stamps! This backs up me and Scoots! It’s even better that we don’t really know each other all that well! No one can say we staged it, you know?” Kermit wriggles like an excited child, smiling bright and huge, dimples sunk into his scruffy cheeks “This is so fucking cool!” He says. “Yeah, it really is, we saw a fucking spaceship! Like a real one! Like some Battlestar Galactica shit!” “Heck yeah we did!” His face falls, “I hated that last season though. It just felt kinda tacked on.” He rummages around and plugs a thumb drive into the front of the PC tower, “I’m gonna give you a hard copy. Your video and mine.” “You could just send me the video—“ “Uh-uh. Scoots’d’be real mad. I’d never hear the end of it. You gonna be in town for a minute? I’d like to give you a hard copy of the FLIR footage, but Kayleigh’s got that concert so we probably won’t be able to get together until the afternoon—“ “I’ve got to go home after the softball game,” you say, “I’ve got to get some rest before work.” “That’s a bummer,” says Kermit, presses the thumb drive into your palm, “Scooter’s talking about setting up a Discord, you know for other folks around here who’ve seen the lights. We can keep in touch that way. If you’re good with that. I put my number in your contacts, but you can delete it if you want. I’m not sure how comfortable you are with this whole thing? I mean, if you just wanna go home and forget all about it, I understand.” He hands you your phone and you open it. “Kermit” James Martinez. You send him a smile emoji and hear his phone ding.

“I’d like you to send me that discord link, James. I’d like to know if anything else happens with this?” “Really?” “Really,” You frown, noting the time, it’s nearly 3am and you’ve got to participate in the family softball game without being too hungover or else the teatotaling relatives will judge you, and then seven hours of boring interstate ahead of you, “I should head back. They’re probably drunk enough to be past yelling at each other by now. Everyone gets worked up and then after enough beers they decide that everything’s fine actually. Sorry, my family’s weird.” You shoo Poppy off your lap, now thoroughly coated in cat hair. “I know how that goes,” he says, “I think sometimes you gotta find your own family. Like me and Scoots and K-monster and Barb are family even though we’re not related at all.” He opens the door for you and you stand on his deck, soft glow of the Christmas lights that hang off the RV’s awning. “Hey, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you need to be nice to yourself for the next couple days.” His big hands enfold yours, “Don’t make any big life changes, you know? First time we saw the lights, Scoots went on a bender and almost trashed his marriage. Its weird but it’s not worth wrecking your life over, you know?” Your first impulse is to laugh, not much of a life to wreck but he seems so worried, those soft brown eyes fixed on yours, pads of his thumbs brushing over your knuckles, your second impulse is to burst into tears, and some of this must come through on your face because suddenly you are enfolded, tucked into the join of Kermit’s neck and shoulder, arm banded tight around your upper body, broad palm cupping the back of your head--

"Hey no no no you’re okay, you’re okay, baby, you’re okay, it’s a lot, I know."

He smells a bit like sunscreen and a bit like Deep Woods Off and a bit like beer and sweat, but he’s warm and solid and here and you feel tears leaking out of your eyes, and you know this is some visceral reaction to everything that’s happened, you know it’s just your body rejecting the field lit up in red and the stars blacked out, and that horrible sound that built and built and vibrated in your bones but knowing doesn’t stop the tears. Or the snot.

"You’re okay. you’ve got his, okay? Breathe with me. Just like before. You’ve got this." "I got snot on your shirt." "It’s okay, he says, snot washes off. This shirt’s seen better days anyway. Can you so something for me?” He steps back and holds you at arms length, hands on your shoulders. You wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your hoodie. “Do what?” “Can you text me when you get back to your house? So I know you made it there safe? I know you got a big trip and you’ve just had a real big shock and you don’t ever need to talk to me again if you don’t want to-“ And maybe it’s that big shock having its say when you lean in and kiss his scruffy cheek, “Oh,” he says, and presses his hand there, “Oh gosh.” “I’ll text you when I get home.” “Yeah,”he says, “Yeah that would be great.”

[roadtogracelandx45]

I really want to include the whole “She was coming, the train was coming, so was I.” in Courage Under Fire

[dakusan]

hi hi daku!

so this is a bit personal but, do u have any intention on making your work non fan fiction? i think your vampire world build is totally grounds for an awesome sexy romance series! and also i personally just really enjoy the way u write romance.

i ask cause i really admire your world building skills and im using your works to give me courage and also using them as something to strive for as i improve my own writing.

anyway, hope you’re having a good day! byeeeee

- 🥟

OH 🥟 BABY you just unlocked the archive room with the broken lock, the one labelled “Secret Dreams and Rage Manuscripts” and I’m about to OPEN THE FLOODGATES—

But first: Do you understand how much that means to me? Your words. That something I made—something feral and full of fire—made you braver? That’s not small. That’s not a comment. That’s a revolution in my chest. You just wrote yourself into my heart’s scrolls. Permanent ink.

Now...

Yes. Yes. YES, I have thought about writing books. Like novels-novels, the kind you hold in your hand and feel the weight of your own madness. I even wrote an entire Minho x OC fic that was basically a novel in disguise. But that's still technically fanfiction.

Now let’s talk original.

There’s a story I keep tucked under my tongue like a last resort poison.

The Blue-Eyed Empress

Era: Ancient Korea (possibly Goryeo, possibly a custom alt-history empire)

Vibe: Kingdom of the Wicked meets Empress Ki meets The Villainess Is a Marionette but written like blood on silk.

She was born into nobility but refused to be currency. Ran the night before a forced marriage to a sadist. Became a phantom myth, healing peasants and poisoning corrupt lords, leaving behind whispers and blue-flame rumours.

Then the Emperor noticed her not for beauty, but for intellect. Took her as a concubine. Not to cage her, but to study her.

She let him. For strategy.

And once inside the palace? She wove a web out of silence and servants.

She rose. Became Empress. Reigned not with affection but cold reform.

Her only love? The war commander. Loyal. Deadly. Hers.

Until the palace fell. She vanished.

Some say she was killed. Some say she ran. Some say she still watches, from behind a different face. But the Empire never forgot her name.

I am built for writing, for lore, for kink-coded vampire warlords, and imperial poison queens, but self-promo makes me want to sink into a lake in a velvet dress. I SUCK at it. The same way I release music with feral intent and then crawl back into a coffin when it comes time to “promote it.” Someone says, “sell yourself,” and I just—✨ combust ✨. Like full emotional firecracker. Smoke. Gone.

Still… I’ve been thinking. Maybe a Patreon series. Maybe I start with short stories. Maybe one day, I vanish from the internet and reappear on shelves as “that unhinged bitch who writes hot war criminals and sad immortal soulmates.”

You gave me courage with this ask, 🥟. That means more than you know.

So if I ever do write it… you’ll be the first to get a signed copy 💋🦇

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 6: I Am Missing You To Death]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, a Wolfman update, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), dragons, murder, suicide, say hello to the Crab Fam! 🥰🦀

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 9k (she chonky!).

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

There’s fire on the table, ice in your blood. Alicent and Helaena are prisoners in their rooms, and tomorrow Otto will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, but you are here in the Great Hall surrounded by candles, cider and beer and wine, rare roast boar sweating blood like rubies, raucous celebration.

Your father and Clement are laughing with Medrick Manderly, Lorent Marbrand, Luthor Largent, other men of Rhaenyra’s council; when they toast their wine, it sloshes carelessly out of the glass goblets. Corlys Velaryon—whose navy helped secure the city—is pensive and withdrawn, saying very little. At the center of the high table, the woman who calls herself queen is manic: color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, but not a warm life-giving glow, a hollow glint like the flash of coins or swords or moonlight. She is receiving a litany of congratulations for her victory from the lords of loyal houses: Blackwood, Bar Emmon, Costayne, Tully, Frey, Dustin, Cerwyn, Grimm. Frequently and unmistakably, Rhaenyra glances across the hall to where Daemon is conspiring with her military commanders, his back to the wall and arms crossed and face daunting yet distracted somehow, reminding you very much of Aemond. He does not look at his wife. He looks elsewhere, into the future, into the past, into the northwest where Nettles and Baela are waiting for him to return to the cursed corridors of Harrenhal.

“Please eat something,” Everett says quietly. He is carving off the least-bloody pieces of roast boar and laying them on your plate, where they remain untouched. He doesn’t have much to talk about with the other men as long as the topic of conversation hinges on combat. He knows books, not blades. Everett can walk, though only slowly and with great difficulty; he does not ride horses, he does not fight, he does not have a wife and in all likelihood never will. He reads and he watches, sharp eyes like a hawk’s.

“I’m alright,” you reply with effort that feels like lifting iron, stones, the dead weight of a man.

“You’re not,” Everett says, pained.

“Cregan Stark is a good man!” your father is telling his compatriots. He has grey hair and a crafty grin and speaks with dramatic sweeps of his arms. “When he heard of my daughter’s tribulations, borne with such courage, such resilience, he assured me that his intentions to wed her were unchanged. He pledged to forgive her any transgressions suffered at the hands of the Usurper.”

“A better husband than any of us!” Clement trumpets, toasting his wine glass with anyone who will accommodate him. Clement does have a wife—and two sons so far, the infant heirs of House Celtigar—but he spends far more time writing to Lord Stark than his family back on Claw Isle. “Gallant! Merciful! The most clever and civilized Northerner to ever live!”

“Hear hear!” his audience answers spiritedly, though Everett only frowns.

“And soon Cregan will leave Winterfell,” your father continues. Rhaenyra is now listening attentively. “He will finish rallying and fortifying his men, and then march south to crush the last vestiges of this infernal, traitorous uprising!”

Resounding cheers, fists drummed against the table. Clement picks up where your father left off: “Already Roddy the Ruin and his Winter Wolves slaughtered 2,000 Lannister men at the Fishfeed. Can you imagine the carnage when Cregan arrives with his host of young, fresh, able-bodied warriors?! We will eviscerate the Kingmaker! We will avenge Rhaenys, Lucerys and Jacaerys! And when we find the Usurper, when we drag him out of whatever hovel he’s crawled into on his belly like a snake, we will cut him open to see if his guts are green as well!”

As men roar all around you—men who have killed, men who are starving to do it again—you stare down at the reflection in your wine, a vacant face that barely resembles yours. You cannot write to Aegon. He cannot write to you. Where and how he is will remain a mystery until you meet again…or until the Blacks uncover his fate. In your mind, he is both alive and dead; he is sick, he is well, he is suffering, he is finding solace in another woman’s bed, he is lying broken on the side of the road, he is sailing under the cover of darkness into Dragonstone on a borrowed ship, he is drunk, he is sober, he is burning up with fever, his is reunited with Sunfyre, he is in desperate need of you, he has forgotten you completely.

“I bet he’s at Storm’s End!” Medrick Manderly bellows, motioning with a turkey leg as if it’s a dagger. “We should send assassins to slay him!”

“No, no, the Reach!” Luthor Largent counters. “He’s probably on his way to meet his brother Daeron there!”

Theories are lobbed back and forth like the arrows of archers, none of them right. No one asks you. No one has asked about the abuse you supposedly endured either. It was taken for granted as truth; what else could anyone expect from a captor as notoriously depraved and insatiable as the Usurper? Your melancholic demeanor is proof enough. Inquiry beyond that would be impolite. And then Rhaenyra says, startling you: “Is there any chance he’s gone to Dragonstone?”

“He cannot be there, Your Grace,” your father assures her. “It is impossible to take Dragonstone without there being signs, ships in the sea and smoke from the kitchens and the like. We would have heard from the lords of the Crownlands who reside near the island.”

Unless they have silently abandoned Rhaenyra’s cause. Unless Aegon and Larys have won them over. You have to protect him. You have to distract the side you once called your own. You twist the dragon ring on your left hand, gold wings and jade eyes. No one asks about that either; sometimes you think they don’t really see you at all. You say softly: “He spoke often of Dorne.”

“Dorne?” your father muses, stroking his short beard.

“Of course he did,” Clement says. “Degenerates are quite at home there.”

Medrick Manderly is muttering: “We’ll never find him if he gets past the Marches…”

Rhaenyra gazes at her husband again, a hollow, vulnerable sort of desperation, a plea that echoes against stone walls. He knocks back the last of his wine, turns his back on her, and strides out of the Great Hall. Rhaenyra’s pale eyes—a treacherous, oceanic sort of blue like Aegon’s—are glossy with despair. You’ve crossed paths with her before, of course, usually from a distance; but you are fascinated by how much she has changed. With each person she loses—King Viserys, infant Visenya, Luke, Jace—another piece of her is cut away like a man being flayed. The so-called queen is more erratic, more cold. She has had her remaining children brought to King’s Landing: Joffrey, Aegon the Younger, Viserys who is a sickly and disengaged toddler, his eyes and nose always running. They are tucked safely away in their rooms currently. They are glorified prisoners, just like you; they have no role in shaping the world they will one day inherit.

“My lady?” Autumn says, tapping your shoulder. The Blacks know her only as a handmaiden who assisted you in escaping the clutches of the Usurper when he fled King’s Landing. They have no idea who might have fathered the child in her rounded belly. It would not be safe for them to know. Before her time comes to deliver, Autumn will have to go someplace where the Blacks will be unaware if her son or daughter has the silvery hair of a Targaryen. You promised her a new home, but you cannot give it to her yet; nothing you own is truly yours, and Aegon left too suddenly to gift her property on your behalf. Autumn, curiously, does not seem to be in any hurry to leave you.

“I’m alright,” you say again, another leaden lie. The men are now discussing how the Usurper should be executed once they’ve found him: beheaded, hanged drawn and quartered, fed to a dragon, burned alive, some combination thereof. Medrick Manderly is suggesting that they have him flayed alive. When Cregan Stark arrives at last, surely there will be Boltons in his retinue.

“You are exhausted,” Autumn announces, loudly enough for the others to overhear. “You have been through so much. Please, my lady. Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”

“Will you, please?” Everett asks Autumn. His eyes flick to hers, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll check on her before I retire for the evening.”

Autumn offers you her hand. This is a kindness, an escape. You take it and rise from the table.

“My daughter!” Bartimos Celtigar laments, gesturing to you. His spectators, men rabid with bloodlust, nod and murmur sympathetically, like it is almost something too distasteful to speak of. Murder can be discussed openly, torture, weapons, war; but the violence women collect and carry in their bones? Those are details best left unsaid. Perhaps it strikes too near to their own deeds, if they dared to think hard on them. Your father approaches and kisses you twice, once on each cheek. Rhaenyra drinks her wine and stares blankly at the place where Daemon had stood. “So wronged, so mistreated, and yet she is still with us. She will rise again. She has a glorious future ahead of her. We all do. All of us who serve Rhaenyra, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. To the words of my house: Perpetual Resurrection!”

The men lift their cups and shout, none more deafeningly than Clement: “Perpetual Resurrection!” Everett mouths it quietly to himself. Corlys Velaryon says nothing. Rhaenyra holds her head high, sorrowful but defiant. You retreat from the Great Hall with Autumn, the hem of your gown flowing out behind you, black like the faction the Celtigars have aligned with, black like mourning.

“No,” you tell Autumn as she starts up the stairwell that leads to your bedchamber.

She is puzzled. “Where then?”

“Take me to the dungeons.”

“What? Why?” Then she understands. “Oh. Oh no. You don’t want to go down there. It’s awful, dark and grimy, dried blood on the walls, handprints and fingernails. Spiders and bones. Rats everywhere.”

“So you know the way.”

“Yes,” she admits cagily, tugging at a coiled lock of her coppery hair.

Your eyes narrow. “When were you in the dungeons?” You met Aegon there? He took women there? Before the war, before he was burned, before he met me?

“Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t want the answers to,” Autumn says primly. Then she ushers you through doorways and shadowy stairwells that lead down, down, down.

Grand Maester Orwyle is in the black cells. Jasper Wylde has already been executed; Tyland Lannister is being tortured until he reveals the location of the Greens’ stores of treasure. Otto Hightower, condemned to death, is housed on the floor of the dungeons reserved for prisoners of noble birth. There are torches burning in the corridor, rage-orange luminescence like dusk bleeding into the cells through gaps in the iron bars. Autumn does not leave you alone there, but she does wait at the end of the hall to give you—and the man who three times served as the Hand of the King and was twice removed from the same office, first by King Viserys and again by Aegon when Otto proved too cautious for his liking—some semblance of privacy.

Otto peers up at you from where he sits on the floor of his cell, strewn with dirty straw and glowing firelight. He appears old, impossibly old; the flesh has evaporated between his skull and his yellowed skin. He already looks like the skeleton he will be soon. He once counseled Aegon against flying into battle with Sunfyre, and Aegon hated him for it. But Otto was right, wasn’t he? “Did you tire of all the merriment upstairs? Or have they run out of roast boar? I could smell it cooking, you know. All day long as rats chewed at my ankles.”

“I imagine you now regret not running when you had the chance.”

Otto shrugs haggardly. “My odds would have been as good on the road as here. Out there, I might have been descended upon by a bear or a shadowcat or a band of thieves who left me gutted on the roadside. At least my death will be clean and swift.”

“Is there anything I can bring you?” you ask him, gently now. “Anything I can do for you? Before…tomorrow?” Before your life is ended. Before the Greens lose one of their greatest assets.

His gaunt face stretches into a slow, taunting grin. “You have chosen a side, Lady Celtigar.”

That’s true, isn’t it? By not spilling the Greens’ secrets. By falling in love with their king. “If Rhaenyra wins, I have to marry Cregan Stark and Aegon dies.”

“And you want him to live so he can marry you.”

It stuns you so much it takes a moment to find your words again. “Well, that’s not possible.” He already has a wife, no matter how insane she is now.

“I would not assume that any form of depravity is beyond his skill.” Otto sighs deeply. “Before that bitch took the city, I was corresponding with the Dragonseeds called Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. They claim they will switch to our side for titles that Rhaenyra denies them. Ulf wanted Storm’s End—delusional, the drunk could not manage a fishing village, he spells half his words wrong—and Hugh asked the Blacks for Casterly Rock. Apparently Daemon was actually amenable, but Rhaenyra refused the notion entirely. How fortunate for us. If we offer these Dragonseeds the seats of lesser houses—Costayne and Merryweather, I’d suggest, both traitors to Aegon’s cause—I think they’ll declare for us. Alicent must write to them. With Aemond, Criston, and Daeron on the battlefield, and Aegon gods know where, she must be the one to negotiate for our side now. She is capable of it. I know she is.”

“She can’t get to the rookery.”

Otto smiles up at you cunningly. “I suspect her letters will somehow find their way there,” he says. “And you are now more knowledgeable of the would-be betrayers’ whereabouts than I am.”

You nod. This is true, for the Blacks speak openly around you. While Corlys’ alleged bastard Addam Velaryon—who accompanied the navy into King’s Landing—now patrols the skies above the city on Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh are currently stationed at Maidenpool in a remote corner of the Riverlands and awaiting further instruction. Rhaenyra dislikes them, you can sense this already. She has heard tales of boasting, drinking, whoring, brawling, bottomless greed. She does not trust them. She does not understand how the gods allowed her sons to be killed and those scoundrels to live.

Otto says: “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What is it that draws you to Aegon?” He speaks with profound, genuine confusion. “What is there to admire? To yearn for?”

You see him, playful crooked smile and dazed eyes, careful hands, tiny silver braid. Unaware that you’re doing it, you twist the dragon ring on your finger. “He’s brave. He’s kind. I don’t understand why none of you can see it.”

“Ah.” And now Otto at last comprehends. “I was in love once,” he says wistfully, very far away, gazing at the stone wall, gazing at nothing. “I don’t remember what it felt like. But I remember that it happened. I suppose I will see Alicent’s mother again tomorrow. I hope she still recognizes me.” His eyes return to you, reflecting torchlight that shifts and distorts. “These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder.”

You can hear Aegon’s voice in the silence of the dungeons: I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you. “I’ll help your side however I can.”

“Do not allow the Blacks to discover your treason. You are far more valuable to us as someone who can drift between worlds than as a professed ally, assuming you cannot turn the Celtigars.”

“I can’t.” You could convince Everett, perhaps. But he isn’t the heir to Claw Isle.

Then Otto smiles, and it is the softest, most tender thing you’ve ever seen him do. “Please tell Alicent that I love her.”

“I will.”

“Now go,” he says. “Before you are witnessed here. Before you endanger what you want most.”

To end the war. To stop this suffering. To be with Aegon again. You hesitate, not knowing how to say goodbye. What is there left to say when the man in front of you is already dead?

“Go,” Otto Hightower orders again; and this time you obey.

He dies at 9:00 the next morning. Sunlight streams fierce and blinding into the Dragonpit. The smallfolk applaud and cheer, though perhaps mostly because Syrax and Caraxes are perched atop the domed roof and waiting, fangs bared, to devour anyone who dissents. In the people’s eyes, you see less savagery than terror. You can read the thoughts that dart between them, infectious like fever: We do not trust Rhaenyra, this ruthless queen, this Maegor with teats. We do not trust her bloodthirsty uncle-husband. We do not want to burn if Aemond and Vhagar return to reclaim the city.

Daemon swings the blade himself. It takes three blows to sever Otto’s head. This must have been intentional; you know what an expert swordsman Daemon is.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit compliantly with your family at meals, dances, executions. You stroll in the gardens. You bring Helaena flowers, lilies, irises, tulips, daisies, roses. You bring Alicent paper and quills and ink. You take the letter she writes to the rookery above the chambers where Grand Maester Orwyle once resided. As the raven departs for Maidenpool, black wings flapping in cerulean summer air, you stare through a window that looks out onto Blackwater Bay towards Essos, Driftmark, Dragonstone.

Is Aegon there now? Is he alive?

You have no way of knowing; while ravens pass between King’s Landing and the Riverlands frequently, you cannot risk someone noticing correspondence with Dragonstone. But you feel that Aegon is safe on that fearsome, windswept island. You feel that he might even be gazing out of his own window, back towards the mainland, back towards you.

When you return to your bedchamber, Everett is there. He is seated at the writing desk and pointing to pages in a book about animals of the Crownlands, bears and dragons and crabs. The book is for children; the words are large and accompanied by colorful illustrations. Autumn is sitting in Everett’s lap, giggling as she repeats the words that he croons through her firelight hair.

You pause in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to read!” Autumn replies brightly.

“I thought you weren’t interested in that.”

“I’ve been struck by sudden and forceful inspiration to shed my commoner ignorance.”

“Autumn, dear,” Everett prompts. She climbs out of his lap, sweeps him a teasing girlish courtesy, and sails out of the room. Everett looks to you. “Come. Sit.”

“Not in your lap, hopefully.”

He laughs. “Where on earth did you find her?”

You take a seat at the edge of your bed, toying with your ring. Your fingertips glide over the bumps of those gleaming jade eyes. “A brothel here in King’s Landing. I don’t know what sort of family she was born into.”

“Oh,” Everett sighs sympathetically. Your father and Clement would be viciously pejorative, would demand Autumn’s removal from your service immediately. But Everett is a different sort of man. He was even before he was burned, and he’s far more so now. “The poor thing.” Then his eyebrows leap up. “Wait. How did you end up visiting a brothel…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You peer out the window that overlooks the beach. You’re always watching the sea now, as if it can tell you its secrets, as if it can whisper to you in a language made of gull cries, breaking waves, starlight and moonbeams reflected on indigo currents in the dead of night.

“It’s strange,” Everett says. There is a soft, sad smile on his face. “Your body is here with us, but your soul isn’t.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to explain everything that’s happened.

“The Usurper must have harmed you terribly.” Everett is not asking, but he is opening the door; you can tell him anything that is burdening you, and he will keep it to himself. You once sat with him as he lay dying, or at least when everyone believed he was; everyone but you and Maester Arthur back on Claw Isle. You once helped bring him back to life. That is a bond forged with something stronger than iron, something deeper than blood.

Aegon? Harm me? “He would never do that.”

Now Everett’s eyes are fixed intently on you. He is reading you like calculations of taxes, expenses, accounts, gains, losses. He realizes, hushed and alarmed: “You weren’t taken to King’s Landing by force.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His jaw drops open, his eyes blink incredulously. “Do you…do you think he’s the rightful king?!”

“It’s not about that for me.”

“You are betrothed to another man.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“The Usurper is married.”

“Yes,” you say again. “And yet…”

“Seven hells,” Everett exhales. He shakes his head. “But…the Usurper…Aegon…he…he…he’s a monster, isn’t he? A rapist, a degenerate, a slothful and selfish wastrel?”

“No. He’s not. Just like Rhaenyra isn’t a sweet, serene mother to her kingdom.”

Everett smirks ruefully. He can’t argue with this.

“Aegon will pardon any Celtigar who rebelled against him. All they need to do is swear fealty upon being captured.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I know where he was planning to go. I don’t know if he made it there.”

“And you worry for him,” Everett says softly.

You nod, unable to speak. You can feel the threat of tears scorching in your throat, dark churning clouds that forecast lightning, cyclones, floods.

“His burns have healed?” Everett asks. “Everyone knows he was horribly wounded at Rook’s Rest.”

“They’ve scarred over. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be alright.”

Everett understands this, he remembers the discussions the two of you once had with Maester Arthur. Severe burns weaken the organs, even years after the flesh is no longer raw and weeping. Survivors are prone to failure of their kidneys, liver, heart. They must be careful to avoid further trauma. Aegon does not have that luxury. “I don’t know what remedy to offer you,” Everett says remorsefully. “Rhaenyra met with Alicent, and the dowager queen put forth a generous compromise. Alicent proposed that the realm be divided. Aegon’s seat would be at Oldtown, and his jurisdiction would include the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands. Rhaenyra would continue to rule from King’s Landing and preside over the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North. Both branches of the family would survive.”

“Rhaenyra could have ended it.” You marvel at the simplicity, the doomed slighted possibilities. “Here and now. The bloodshed would be over. Aegon could return to me.”

“Rhaenyra rejected the notion of any concessions whatsoever. Our father and Clement encouraged her. I would advocate for a peaceful resolution, I would advance your interests, sister. I would, I swear I would. But it is futile. You know they don’t listen to me.”

No, not in the arena of warfare. Everett is the heir to your father’s skill with trade, but Clement is the future Lord of Claw Isle, and it is he who wields swords and shields and leads men into combat. Everett cannot fight. Other men will never regard him as their full equal. “You have listened to my treason and not condemned me. I cannot ask for more from you than that.”

Everett stands from his chair, a slow, laborious undertaking. He crosses the room gingerly, lifts your chin to break the trance as you stare down at your ring, beams like the sun. “You want him.”

“Yes,” you admit helplessly.

“You’ve never wanted any man.”

“Just him. It can’t be anyone but him.”

Everett nods, thoughtful, amused. “Then I will pray that Lord Cregan Stark takes a wrong turn on the Kingsroad and ends up in the Vale, or the Iron Islands, or Essos, or perhaps even walks right into the sea. He’d sink, I’m sure. All those furs must be heavy when wet.”

“If anyone asks, you believe Aegon to be in Dorne.”

“I certainly do.” Everett smiles, touches his lips to your forehead, shuffles off to find Autumn and tell her that she can come back now.

Some nights, if you can enter without being noticed, you steal into the bedchamber that was once Aegon’s, the place where you brought him back from the dead, the place where he made you crave things that had once only filled you with dread, fear, revulsion. No one else has claimed Aegon’s rooms. No one else wants them. They make jokes about the debaucheries his walls must have seen, the unholy stains that surely riddle his mattress, rugs, curtains. They don’t know him at all, and nothing can make them want to. Tonight, there are quarreling voices coming from outside. You go to the open window, your lungs expanding with cool indigo air, and look out.

“Where are you going? Daemon? Daemon!” Rhaenyra is raging after him, following him onto the wet sand of the beach. “Back to Harrenhal? Back to your whore?!”

He does not answer. He strides arrogantly, he storms away from her, this woman he once loved for her tenacity and pride. He has no appetite for weakness. He has no patience for pruning those creeping, thorny vines of madness that are growing into her mind, her veins. Already Caraxes is landing in the surf to take him back to his foothold in the Riverlands, to Baela, to Nettles.

“Then go!” Rhaenyra screams after Daemon. And if you can hear this, surely others can as well. “Just go! We don’t need you here! I don’t need you here!”

Lies, lies, lies. Desperate and transparent lies.

Daemon and Caraxes take flight and disappear into the nightscape darkness over the ocean. You climb into the bed that was once Aegon’s, curl up in a nest of his blood-flecked sheets, breathe in lingering wisps of rose oil and the echoes of his low, drowsy voice, thick with wine and milk of the poppy and forbidden desire for a woman who sheds and replaces her skin again and again and again.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, you go to the gardens and read under the heart tree about cures and poisons. When you return inside—clutching a glass jar containing sticks, leaves, grass, and a single wriggling caterpillar, a gift for Helaena—the Red Keep is in chaos. Servants and guards are gossiping feverishly. Upstairs, Alicent is howling with grief. You glimpse Autumn racing up a staircase towards the dowager queen’s rooms to comfort her. There are sounds of celebration in the Great Hall, cups being toasted and cheers loosed like dragonfire. You follow them, suffocating terror constricting your throat like a noose. Is it Aemond, Criston, Daeron? Is it Aegon? Have they found him, have they killed him?

At the center of the high table, Rhaenyra is wearing a gown of black and red on her body and a smile of soulless satisfaction on her face. She holds a glass of maroon wine high above her head. “To vengeance!” she calls, and the lords that fill the hall thunder the words back to her. “To victory!”

“Father…?” you say, rushing to Bartimos Celtigar’s side. Clement is shaking hands with Manderlys and Blackwoods and Costaynes, grinning radiantly. Everett and Corlys are peering around grimly, looking uneasy, looking ashamed.

What have they done now? Who have they murdered in cold blood?

“Father, what—?”

“He has no more heirs,” Bartimos Celtigar tell you, as if it is the most joyous of surprises, as if is a gift like a gemstone or a rare book.

“Who?”

“The Usurper. Both of his sons are now dead. Neither of his brothers have children. Aegon has no heirs!”

“Maelor,” you whisper, envisioning that defenseless white-haired child, giggling, affectionate, anxious, sobbing in the arms of Sir Rickard Thorne. The jar tumbles out of your grasp and shatters against the stone floor. “Maelor is…he’s…he’s been killed…?”

“By a mob of Black loyalists at Bitterbridge,” your father says. “The Greens were trying to smuggle the child to Oldtown. Our supporters attempted to seize the boy so he could be brought to us. Alas, they were too boisterous. He did not survive, and neither did his keeper Rickard Thorne.”

They tore Maelor apart? They clawed and yanked at that little boy until there was nothing left but shreds of muscle and moon-white bones? You gape up at your father, unable to recognize him, unable to keep the horror from your face. “You’re celebrating the murder of a child?”

“They did the same when Luke was killed.”

Because Aegon thought they had to. Because he wanted to protect his brother. “It was wrong then and it’s wrong now.”

“You are too compassionate, daughter,” your father says, smiling with a puddle-deep, patronizing fondness. Was he always this way? Has he changed so much, or have you? He touches your cheek, and you want to flinch away from him. “You lose sight of the scale of this war. Each child of the Usurper that dies spares thousands of others. Aegon now has no heirs left, not unless you count that little girl who’s hidden away somewhere, and don’t the Greens reject the right of a daughter to inherit the throne? Isn’t that what all of this havoc has been about, preventing Rhaenyra’s ascension? This is a resounding triumph for our side! This is something to commemorate!”

They tore Maelor apart??

Corlys gets up from the table and leaves the Great Hall. Everett is watching you with wide, fearful eyes. He is pleading silently: Don’t react. Don’t panic. Not where they can see you.

“Are you well?” your father asks you, concerned now.

“I feel ill,” you hear yourself answer. You grip the back of his chair so the floor can’t rip itself out from under you.

“Just a moment,” Everett says, rising in that labored way, the scar tissue straining painfully at his ankles and knees and hips. “I’ll accompany you back to your rooms…”

But you can’t wait for him. The tears are already flame-hot and misty in your eyes. You rip away from the Celtigars, away from all the Blacks, and escape upstairs. Breathless, sobbing, you go first to Helaena’s bedchamber. Aegon’s wife is standing in front of her window that overlooks the sandstone courtyard, cobblestones of muted earthy gold. You can hear courtiers chattering far below. You can hear the carousing reverberating from the Great Hall. Helaena does not turn when you arrive; she does not give any indication that she is aware of you.

“Helaena,” you gasp. “Your Grace, I…I’m so sorry…what has happened…it’s despicable, it’s soulless, I cannot stop Rhaenyra’s men from reveling in it but I would never defend their actions, I would never join them, I am horrified and heartsick and appalled—”

“It’s a travesty,” Autumn says from the doorway, and you glance over at her. When you look back to the queen, she has vanished.

“Helaena?!” you shout. You and Autumn bolt to the window. Down in the courtyard, courtiers are shrieking and fleeing from the mess. On the cobblestones, Helaena lies sprawled; her arms and legs are bent at impossible angles. A pool of blood spreads out from under her like a river swelling in a storm until it spills over. Guards are hurrying to the scene, their armor jangling. “Helaena!”

“She’s gone,” Autumn says, bundling you into her arms before you can make for the hall, the stairwell. Her belly presses unyieldingly into you. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t go down there. You can’t help her now.”

You cover your face with both hands and scream: for Maelor, for Helaena, for Alicent, for Aegon, for the world full of people who can’t stop paying the debts others incurred.

“Don’t go down there.” Autumn’s voice is warm and hushed, her grasp strong. “You can’t help Helaena now. You can only hurt yourself. You don’t need to see it. You don’t need her blood on your hands.”

Everett appears, looks out the window to investigate the commotion in the courtyard, backs away with a hand covering his gaping mouth. “Oh, gods. All the gods, Old and New. What a goddamn fucking disaster.”

Autumn at last releases you, and you dash into the hallway with Everett following as quickly as he can and Autumn walking with him, one arm looped through his. You find Alicent in her rooms, standing motionless beside her bed in an emerald green gown. She is trembling and speechless, she is in shock. You embrace her. “I’m sorry,” you say, tears falling on the velvet of her dress. “I know that doesn’t make it any better, but I am.”

Everett and Autumn enter the bedchamber and shut the door behind them. “What—?” Everett begins.

“I have to go to him,” you say. You step away from the dowager queen and wipe your eyes with your sleeves, black like onyx, like obsidian, like death.

“Who...?”

“Aegon. The king,” you tell them. “He’s going to hear of this. He’s going to know what happened to Maelor and Helaena. I can’t let him face that alone. I can’t let him fall into despair.”

“But he…I mean…” Everett is trying to choose his words sensitively. The state of the royal marriage was no secret anywhere in the realm. “Was he even…involved with his wife and children? In any meaningful way?”

“It’s not about them, it’s about him thinking that he’s responsible, that he’s a curse to anyone he touches, that he ruins people, I…” You shake your head franticly. “I can’t stay here. I have to go. I have to be with him.”

“Go where?!” Everett exclaims.

“Dragonstone,” Autumn answers for you.

“Dragonstone,” he repeats numbly. “You can’t be serious! How will you get there?!”

“I’ll take a horse to Crackclaw Point and then pay a boat to ferry me across the water.”

“Alone?!” Everett says.

“I’ll have to be. You cannot travel by horse, only carriage. And your absence would be noticed too swiftly. Father would send soldiers after you if he feared you’d been captured.”

“You’ve never gone anywhere alone, now you’re going to travel a hundred miles over earth and ocean to Dragonstone?!”

“She won’t be alone,” Autumn says. You and Everett turn to her. She is grinning. “I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.”

“You can’t ride a horse either,” you object. “You’re with child. It could be dangerous.”

“I’ve done far more vigorous activities while pregnant, believe me.”

“You’re really going?” Everett says, quiet, mournful. It seems that you’ve only just reunited with him.

“I have to. Aegon thought I’d be safe with the Blacks, and I am, I suppose…but I’m not really a Black anymore. And I can’t let him suffer alone. I…I…”

“You love him,” Alicent says. She gazes at you with huge, glassy, void-dark eyes, like those of a doe felled by arrows. She is half-here and half-not, and thank the gods for that. Her loss is too great. She cannot bear it all at once. Part of her knows her only daughter is dead on the cobblestones outside, her last grandson was torn apart by a mob that were more beasts than men. And then part of her is only aware of this room. “Properly. Entirely. In a way he can understand.”

“I do,” you confess. I do, I do.

“I’m glad,” Alicent says dully. “Someone must.”

She staggers to her bed, lies down on it, curls up like a wounded animal, rips away her golden necklace of a seven-pointed star and throws it to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night, you and Autumn leave King’s Landing on horses Everett procured. There is only a skeleton crew of guards left in the Red Keep; the rest are partaking in the festivities that pulse in the Great Hall like a heartbeat, candlelight and music and manic glee. Yet among the smallfolk, no one is celebrating. They are in mourning for their misfortunate, benign queen and her toddler son. They are hissing venomously about Rhaenyra, Daemon, Bartimos Celtigar.

The court will not notice Autumn’s absence, not for days at least, perhaps not ever. Everett will upend your bedchamber before he goes to sleep, knocking over chairs and tables, yanking sheets from the bed. In the morning, he will tell your father that he assumes you are still resting from your illness, from the insurmountable stress of the past months. Women are so fragile, after all; their lives are one tragedy after the next. When at last someone checks on you—hopefully not for a few days—it will appear that you have been taken after a struggle. You did not leave. You were kidnapped by fiends using the secret passageways. You are a prisoner of the Greens again, and likely spirited away to the Stormlands or the Reach or perhaps even the remote, golden sands of Dorne.

You and Autumn travel by night and sleep through the day, staying at roadside inns paid for by the heavy sack of coins Everett gifted you. It is not difficult to blend in among countless travelers and refugees displaced in the wake of the war. You have no distinguishing characteristics, no Valyrian-white hair or ragged burns or sapphires in place of eyes. In fact, Autumn attracts more attention than you do. She is beautiful, talkative, effortlessly flirtatious. Men trail after her at every inn. You receive exemplary service, the hottest soup and the cleanest rooms. She complains to you about how difficult it is becoming for her to rest as her belly grows: perhaps five months along, perhaps six, she isn’t certain, her cycle was already irregular from the lemonweed tea brewed at the brothel.

In a small town called Eagle Harbor at the base of Crackclaw Point, you need to hire a sailor to take you across the narrow strait to Dragonstone. You fumble through stilted inquiries at a tavern until Autumn takes charge, half-drags a bald, bearded man back into the pantry, emerges with him five minutes later, and orders a pint of ale that she sips with a lazy, arrogant smirk.

“May the Mother have mercy!” the sailor says unsteadily, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll go to Dragonstone and back ten times for this red-haired demon!”

You and Autumn board his humble vessel at the end of the town’s lone pier and set off through choppy, night-draped waters towards Dragonstone. On the way, the sailor informs you that he’s made this trip a handful of times in the past two weeks, delivering an assortment of workers to the island: servants, guards, maesters, cooks.

“Rumor has it,” the sailor says with a conspiratorial grin. “There is a very illustrious occupant currently holding Dragonstone. He is scarred, but he is growing stronger. Surely you know of whom I speak. He must have beckoned you to join him. Perhaps you are servants. Perhaps you are whores. He has a famed appetite for them.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Autumn offers casually.

“Many here in the Crownlands are aware,” the sailor continues. “But you will not catch anyone being too loose with their gossip. The Beggar King is no enemy to us. The Bitch Queen is an enemy. That money-grubbing Bartimos Celtigar is an enemy. But the Greens will end the taxes he put on us. The sooner the Beggar King is well again, the better. He and his dragon too.”

When the sailor docks at Dragonstone, Autumn helps you up onto the pier and then gets back in the boat. “You aren’t staying?” you ask her, baffled, troubled. You have grown terribly attached to her. Cold night rain falls onto the island, growing heavier by the minute. Lightning snaps through the darkness and strikes near the castle.

“No. I want to be with Everett.” Autumn smiles. “And I know the king would not wish for me to impose upon Dragonstone.”

She’s probably right. “Why is he so cold to you? So avoidant?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Autumn says. “He doesn’t want you thinking about him fucking anyone except you.” She grins, winks, gestures for the sailor to unmoor his boat again. “When the Greens come to retake the capital, please ask them not to incinerate me.”

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Good luck,” she says, waving. “We’ll wait to set sail until you’ve started up the steps.”

Through the darkness, through the driving rain, you trudge up the beach and then ascend the stone steps carved precariously into the cliffside. The grey stone is slippery; for parts of the climb, you walk on your palms as well as your boots. Your ring clinks against rock. When the clouds momentarily blow away from the moon, the gold wings glimmer in the silver light. There are torches burning in the mouths of iron dragons as you near the entranceway of the castle, towering walls that disappear into storm clouds. There is candlelight flickering in the corridors and chambers within. You can see dots of miniature infernos in the windows.

Aegon is in one of those rooms.

Suddenly, a screech startles you so badly you nearly plunge off the steps. Fire blooms in the night air only yards from your face. He’s clutching the cliffside, glaring at you with molten gold eyes set in an angular skull, snarling, smoke drifting skyward from his nostrils. You scream before you can stop yourself.

Sunfyre!!

You crouch down on the steps, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for him to burn you alive. Seconds pass, ten, twenty, thirty. When you look at Sunfyre again, scales shimmering in the moonlight, he is observing you not with hatred but with curiosity that is clever, almost catlike. You have never been this close to a dragon before. You’ve never wanted to be, and now is no exception. He smells like smoke and sulfur, earth and ash. Sunfyre clambers nearer to you, his muzzle outstretched. You flinch away, whimpering, but he is not deterred. The dragon sniffs and nudges at you, his breath hot, his snout bumping against your arm and shoulder.

“Stop!” you squeak, petrified. “Sunfyre, don’t!”

At last, he seems to realize he’s frightening you. The dragon retreats with a low grumble from deep in his chest. You scramble up the remainder of the steps before he can change his mind.

There is distant shouting, and someone cranks open the castle gate for you. You hurry into the courtyard, running now, as rain pours down on you and thunder booms. There is a figure in a hooded cloak trotting out of the castle entrance. At first you don’t believe he can be Aegon; he is standing too tall, moving too brisky. You have never seen him so well before. But then he calls to you, and there is no doubt.

“Angel?!” Aegon shouts in disbelief over the drumming of raindrops. He is rapidly closing the distance between you. The wind tears off his hood. Beneath it his hair is longer than you remember and wild except for a single small braid down the left side of his face. His cheeks are ruddy. Tears stream from his eyes. He has heard what happened to Maelor and Helaena; he has been weeping for them, for the impending ruin of anyone he’s ever touched. “What the hell are you doing here—?!”

And instead of waiting for an answer he kisses you, or you kiss him, or you both do it at once, an unspoken covenant written not in ink but in the blood that whispers to each other through the veils of vessel walls, muscle, scarred skin. His hands are cradling your jaw, his lips ravenous. He smells like rose oil; he tastes like wine and rain and the clean salt of tears, the ageless mineral blue of the ocean.

“It has to be you,” you tell Aegon, a ghost of a voice in the maelstrom of the storm. Your thumbprint skates across his full bottom lip before you kiss him again, more slowly now, entwining yourself with him, hipbones and ribcages and handprints that will never wash off. Do you see what I’m offering? Do you feel what I want? “You’re not ruining me. You’re saving me. And it can’t be anyone but you.”

Aegon studies your face, stunned eyes murky like the waves, and then hungry as well: depths that swallow ships, watery graveyards that feast on bones. Then he takes your hand and leads you into Dragonstone. Inside, Larys Strong is waiting under a cascade of torchlight. He blinks at you as if you might disappear. When you don’t, he tilts his head to the side, intrigued.

“Lord Larys,” Aegon says curtly. “Make yourself invisible for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys purrs with a bow. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“This way,” Aegon says, and you follow him up a staircase and down a corridor to a bedchamber illuminated only by a few flickering candles and flashes of lightning. In the corner of the room, you glimpse swords and armor; on Aegon’s bedside table, there is a glass bottle of rose oil and the hollowed-out shell of a crab, boiled red like fresh blood. And then you are on the bed and Aegon is beside you and there is not a single thread of you, muscle or marrow or nerve, that is afraid. “Are you sure?” he’s asking between deep, insatiable kisses, his fingers working on the laces of your gown. “We don’t have to. We can stop.”

But does he want that? No, no, he’s starving just like I am. “I’m sure, Aegon.” And you uncover each other with hands that rip away cotton and silk like trees are stripped bare in the winter.

His clothes are gone, cloak and trousers crumpled on the floor, and he pauses with trepidation in his eyes. His scars riddle him with uneven swaths of white, pink, red, a burgundy so dark it’s almost the violet of a bruise. The macabre patchwork stops at the lowest part of his belly, where his skin becomes abruptly pristine, pale, velvet-soft. “I guess…” He swallows noisily. “I guess this isn’t what you imagined the man you’d sleep with would look like, huh?”

“No,” you agree, smiling, pulling him in close again. I never imagined enjoying this at all. “And I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Aegon helps you tug off your gown and loosen your hair; it spills freely over the bedsheets. He’s on top of you, his warm weight perfect and welcome and right. Too swiftly for you to be nervous, his hand has settled between your legs. He strokes you, only on the outside where there is no threat of pain, as his tongue darts into your mouth and wetness soon coats his fingers. Then his fingers venture lower, seeking to enter you, the first time anything ever has. And you feel it, though you wish you didn’t, involuntary and uninvited: your body tensing just as his finger attempts to glide inside, a biting pain that makes you wince.

“No,” you yelp softly, a betrayal of your own flesh.

“Okay,” Aegon murmurs reassuringly. “That’s okay. Not a problem. Here…” He sits upright, draws you to him, bites lightly at your throat as you settle in his lap. “You’re in charge. You decide if and when it happens. And if this time doesn’t work, that’s fine, that’s completely fine, we can try again later, I can wait—”

“Are you alright like this? Am I too heavy?”

He grabs your face with his left hand—fingers hooked around your jaw, his eyes locked with yours—and says roughly: “Don’t ask about me again.”

“Okay,” you moan into him as his right hand skims down to touch you, to coax the fear out of you, to draw powerful circles around the place where your pleasure is greatest.

“This is about you.”

“Okay,” you say again, only a whisper this time, obedient, desperate.

“Please let me have this,” Aegon begs, resting his forehead against yours, his silver hair grazing your cheeks. “Please let me take care of you this time.”

“Yes,” you sigh, breathing him in, roses and heat and wine and sharp, oceanic, mineral lust. You lay your palms against the gnarled scar tissue of his chest and Aegon chuckles bitterly.

“I can’t even feel it. I’m a monster.” Then you press your bare hips to his, gradually finding a rhythm, slipping his cock through slick, warm folds that are aching more ardently than you ever knew was possible. “Oh fuck,” he gasps. “I felt that.”

“I want you,” you plead. “I want you, I want you.”

“Not yet…”

You are aware that your tension unraveling, your muscles opening as Aegon massages you until his hand is soaked, until you’re so wet the friction is almost nonexistent. Outside waves crash and lighting flashes and thunder growls like a dragon. I can’t wait. I need him. You lift up and Aegon holds his cock steady, coating it in your wetness with a quick pump of his hand, so you can lower yourself onto him. Slowly, you can feel his cock sinking into you, an indescribably foreign sensation, fullness and stretching and dull, strange contentment that is more like the potential of pleasure than anything else. There is discomfort as well, yes, a burning and a stinging that swells as he fills you. You try to keep it from your face; still, Aegon can read the pain there like black ink on pages.

He shakes his head and murmurs: “Stop, stop, I’m hurting you.”

“I want it. I can take it.”

He’s kissing your lips, your cheek, the slope of your jaw. “Give yourself time to adjust. There’s no rush, Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait until the pain seems to have vanished, then—carefully, tentatively—you rise up and lower yourself again. Yes, there’s definite pleasure now, less sharp than where he touched you before but deeper, more total. You try this again, again, faster now. Aegon’s breath hitches. He’s trembling; sweat glistens on his forehead and dampens his hair.

“I’m going to show you something,” he pants. “But you have to help me out.”

“Help how…?”

“Tell me what I’m doing right.” His fingers are on you again, pressing, circling. And there’s something about this combination of two very different colors of pleasure—dull fullness inside, intense ecstasy dancing over the skin—that lights a spark in you like striking flint.

You cry out, your pace as you ride him quickening, any last remnants of pain banished to distant memory. You are conscious now that you are working towards a peak of some sort; you can feel it building in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon.

Aegon asks: “Faster? Slower?”

“Faster,” you reply, and his hand obeys. You moan, fingers knotted in his hair and lips against the scar tissue of his throat, grisly webs that you cherish for knitting him back together, for saving his life.

“Harder or softer?”

“Harder,” you beg him in a whisper. And all at once, the pleasure is overwhelming, unstoppable, incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced or ever wanted to, anything you thought was possible, anything you believed you were worthy of. It wrenches everything out of you, desire as well as turmoil, every thought in your skull and fear in your bones. It passes, leaving your heart thumping violently and an involuntary throbbing that squeezes Aegon’s cock, releases it, squeezes it again.

Aegon lays you down on your back and thrusts into you, shallowly at first to make sure you’re alright, then deeper and more powerfully. There’s no pain at all, only a hazy calmness, a need to be near to him, to tangle up closer and closer until you share everything, veins and arteries and the capillary beds of lungs. He’s exhausted already; you notice a few needle-thin split seams in his scar tissue. There are faint stains of crimson blood on your belly, your chest. His fingers link through yours, his moans grow louder and more jagged. He comes so hard tears spring into his eyes, and you feel one more thing you hadn’t expected to: not vulnerability but power, pride, satisfaction.

“It’s like that every time?” you ask, drowsy and amazed as he rolls onto his side and pulls you against him. The rain is still falling outside. Lightning paints the windows; thunder quakes them.

“If it’s done well.” Aegon is pink-faced, breathing heavily, staggeringly beautiful. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“No wonder you’ve fucked hundreds of women.”

He laughs. “Not that many.” He grins as he kisses you, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve rid me of them all. You’ve burned them away.”

“I love you,” you say without planning to.

Aegon replies, but not in words you can understand. He whispers something in High Valyrian, his eyes dip closed, he is asleep before you can ask him what it means.

[supernotnatural2005]

The Meet Cute - Chapter Two

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Summary: After a drunken mistake comes a surprising turn of events the morning after. With a helpful push from your best friend, will you finally stop second guessing yourself for once? Will you finally take the risk with your heart?

Word Count: 2.7K

AN: Hey guys! It's finally here, part 2 of The Meet Cute. I'm sorry it's taken me so long, I really wanted to make a return to this story worth it. (I hope I've done so lol) and hopefully you'll be pleased to know, there will be more to this story, possibly another chapter or 2 👀

Warnings: FLUFF! Swearing, some self-doubt, not much else.

Tagging: @zepskies , @kr804573 , @roseblue373

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the pounding in your head. It was as if a marching band had set up camp in your skull, playing the world’s worst rendition of a pop hit on repeat. The second thing you noticed was the light streaming through the curtains—way too bright for the morning after regrettable amounts of alcohol consumed the night before. You groaned, pulling the blanket over your head to escape the merciless sunlight.

Snippets of the previous night began to filter through the fog in your mind: drinking at the bar, Dean’s cocky smirk, Matty ranting about “all the hot ones being straight” after learning about Sam’s fiancé, and...dancing? You groaned again. You vaguely remembered Dean’s hands on your waist, his laughter mixing with yours as the two of you spun around on the dance floor.

You rubbed your temples and turned over, trying to piece it all together and froze. There was someone in bed with you.

Your heart stopped as you stared at the silhouette next to you under the blanket. Broad shoulders, messy hair, the faintest hint of stubble visible on the face buried in the pillow. Oh god. Oh no.

Your stomach churned as you tried to remember more. Did you and Dean—? No, surely not. You weren’t that drunk. Were you?

“Please don’t be Dean. Please don’t be Dean,” you whispered to yourself, panic mounting. Summoning all your courage, you reached out a shaky hand and poked the figure in the arm.

“Mmmf,” came the groggy response, followed by a voice that was far too familiar. “What are you doing?”

You ripped the blanket off the figure and came face to face with a very dishevelled, very sleepy Matty. Relief crashed over you like a tidal wave, and you collapsed back onto the mattress.

“Matty!” You yelled, half-laughing, half-screaming.

Your best friend popped his head out from under the covers, hair sticking up in about twelve directions. He squinted at you. “Why are you yelling? I’m hungover, too, you know.”

“Why are you in my bed?!”

“Because I’m a saint,” he said, rolling onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “You were freaking out about ‘doing something dumb,’ so I stayed. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You flopped back onto your pillow, relief giving way to irritation. “You couldn’t have stayed on the couch.”

“Do I look like a couch person to you?” He scoffed, giving you an offended look.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “What happened last night? And why does it feel like I’ve been run over by a truck?”

Matty propped himself up on his elbows, his grin way too smug for someone in his condition. “Well, let’s see. You had a very friendly dance marathon with Dean—who, by the way, was very into you—and then, when your legs gave out, he carried you back to your room like some kind of knight in shining armour.”

Your face was on fire by this point. “Please tell me that’s all.”

“That’s all I saw,” he said innocently. “But who knows what Dean was thinking about?”

You grabbed a pillow and hit him square in the face.

Matty laughed and ducked away before adding, “Oh, and by the way, we’re all getting lunch together.” He said nonchalantly and paused as he checked the time on his phone. “In about two hours.”

Your jaw dropped. “WHAT?!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Matty said with a wink. “Dean was all for it, but I figured you’d try to hide from him out of sheer awkwardness. This is me, as your best friend, forcing you to take a chance for once.”

“I—Matty, why?!” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“Because you,” he said, poking your shoulder, “are a chronic avoider, and I, as your very wise and selfless friend, refuse to let you sabotage yourself. Dean’s hot and clearly into you. You’d be stupid not to at least try, even if it’s just some fun.”

Your stomach churned again—this time from nerves. “But he’s way out of league.” You tried to reason, and Matty rolled his eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t fall out of his head.

“Bitch, please.” Matty sassed, making you raise a brow at him. “You’re gorgeous, you’re hilarious, and you planned a wedding that people are going to talk about for years. If Dean doesn’t see that, he’s blind. Now get up and get ready. Wear something that says, ‘I’m effortlessly perfect but also fun to be around.’”

You stared at him. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” Matty said with a grin. “And you’re about to pull it off. You’re welcome.”

As he strolled out of the room, you flopped back onto the bed, nerves tangling with excitement. Matty might be meddlesome, but he was also usually right. Maybe it was time to take a risk. After all, it’s not like you had to marry the guy. What was the worst that could happen?

It was nearing 12 o'clock by the time you made your way downstairs to the little restaurant at the other end of the venue. Your sister was still indisposed; she too had had a wild night, and you left a message for her to meet you when she was feeling “alive” so you could see her off before her honeymoon trip to the Maldives.

Lucky.

The walk to the restaurant was simultaneously the longest and shortest of your life. Apparently, Dean had gotten your number at some point last night when you received a text from him not long after you finally got out of bed, reconfirming these so-called ‘lunch plans’ Matty had made.

The latter man strolled beside you, looking far too pleased with himself, while you mentally picked apart every detail of your outfit. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at your closet, replaying Matty’s words: “Wear something that says, ‘I’m effortlessly perfect but also fun to be around.’” How could an outfit say all that?

You eventually landed on a soft sundress in a colour that complimented your skin tone, paired with sandals that were cute but practical. “Effortlessly perfect” turned out to be very effortful, and “fun to be around” was apparently a leather satchel bag with tassels.

“Are you sure this is okay?” You asked Matty for the seventh time as you tugged at the hem of your dress.

Matty gave you a once-over and smirked. “You look great. Very, ‘Oops, I woke up like this, but let’s drink mimosas and talk about art.’”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“Not as much as you’ll hate yourself if you mess this up,” he shot back, opening the door to the restaurant for you with an exaggerated bow. 

“Now, go be charming.”

Inside, Dean and Sam were already seated, looking annoyingly perfect. Sam had an air of quiet confidence as he sipped from a mug. Dean, on the other hand, was leaning back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face when he saw you.

“Hey!” Dean called, standing to greet you both. “You look beautiful.”

The blush hit you before you could stop it. 

“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.” In fact, he looked amazing. Instead of the black suit you’d seen him in last night, he was clad in a dark maroon flannel that accentuated those broad shoulders you’d had the pleasure of hanging onto last night, and some dark-wash jeans that showed off his long and slightly bowed legs.

Dean stepped closer, his green eyes sparkling as he leaned down and kissed your cheek. You had to hide your surprise with a clearing of your throat and a polite smile. Beside you, Matty muttered, “Smooth,” under his breath, and you fought against jabbing your elbow into his side. Why was this a good idea again?

“Matty,” Sam greeted with a polite nod, clearly still wary after last night’s shenanigans.

“Sammy,” Matty said brightly, taking the seat across from him in the booth and leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Miss me?”

Sam shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Matty quipped, and you rolled your eyes at the two of them before sitting across from Dean, who looked entirely too amused by the dynamic. Before any more conversations could flow, a server came over with a fresh pot of coffee for your table, and you thanked her gratefully.

“So,” Dean said, resting his forearms on the table as he focused on you, “did you survive the hangover?”

“Barely,” you admitted with a laugh, stirring into your coffee your usual amount of sugar and creamer. “Thanks for, you know, last night. For carrying me to my room. I’m honestly mortified you had to even do that.” You chuckled, heavily embarrassed. Dean didn’t seem to mind though as he waved a dismissive hand.

“Don’t be. I had a great time.” He grinned wide and genuine, eyes shining with something unspoken. 

“Well, I appreciate it either way.” You mumbled shyly. The intensity of his gaze made your stomach flip, and you looked down at your cup, fiddling with the rim nervously. Why is he even interested? Whispered the insecurities you fought to ignore. Made more difficult without the help of your good friend, Jameson.

“You okay?” Dean’s voice softened, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Still shaking off the whisky haze.”

Dean didn’t look convinced but didn’t press you.

“So, how did you two meet?” Sam asked curiously, and Matty piped up before you could, taking charge of the storytelling, as per usual.

“Well, it’s a tale for the ages.”He started rather dramatically, really putting his 3 months of drama school to use.

“Picture it: college orientation day. I’m walking across campus, radiating my usual charm, when suddenly—bam! Y/N crashes into me, spilling an entire tray of cafeteria tacos all over the both of us.”

Your cheeks burnt as Dean and Sam stifled laughter. “That is not how it happened!”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Matty countered, grinning wickedly. “And then—because she felt so bad—she tried to help clean me up but slipped in some of the taco sauce, nearly taking us both out.”

“I didn’t slip,” you protested, laughing despite yourself. “And it was nachos, not tacos.”

“Details,” Matty said with a dismissive wave. “The point is, it was fate. She looked up at me, covered in salsa and regret, and I thought, ‘This girl is going to make my life infinitely more interesting.’”

Dean chuckled, and his gaze softened as he looked at you, as if he could relate, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s a pretty solid start to a friendship.” Sam nodded through his amusement.

And you shrugged, biting back a grin. “I guess if someone’s willing to stick around after that kind of first impression, they’re worth keeping around.”

Matty placed a hand over his heart. “You hear that? She kept me. Truly, I’m blessed.”

Dean laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t know if I’m more impressed by the nacho incident or by the fact that you’ve put up with him this long.”

“Neither,” you teased, sipping your coffee. “The real mystery is why he’s put up with me.”

Dean shook his head, his eyes meeting yours. “I think I can see why.” You looked away shyly, but you were unable to fight your smile.

“How about either of you? Any stories, and by stories I mean humiliating tales, to share?” Matty began stirring his coffee, just like he was the conversation.

"Well... there is one that springs to mind.” Sam teases, and Dean groans, already bracing himself.

“Oh, come on. Do we really need to—”

“Oh, we do,” Sam and Matty interrupt simultaneously, making you giggle into your hand.

“How about accidentally signing up for a salsa dance class because someone thought it was a ‘salsa tasting’ event?” Sam informed with a jab of his thumb in Dean’s direction.

Matty’s eyes lit up as he nearly choked on his laughter. “Please tell me he actually went through with it.”

Sam nodded, his grin widening. “Oh, he did. The full two hours. By the end, the instructor gave him a ‘most improved’ sticker, which I think was more pity than praise.”

Dean shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I stand by it. A little footwork never hurt anyone.” He shot you a quick look. “Those skills aided me just fine last night.” Again you had to look away at his implication with a shy bite to your bottom lip. Memories of Dean’s talented footwork and moves around the dance floor flashing in your mind.

“Alright,” Matty announced, “before we continue, what’s everyone ordering? Because I, for one, need to eat for a family of four to recover from this morning.”

The conversation shifted, and for the next few minutes, you all ordered your food, the playful banter continuing. Your nervousness started to fade. The tension in your chest eased with every laugh Dean pulled from you. He was funny, easygoing, and had a way of making everything feel like an adventure. Even when Sam joined in, adding his own dry humour to the mix, you felt more and more comfortable in their company.

Dean leaned in to ask you more questions about your life, and you’d told him how you’d found a niche for planning, event planning more specifically, and decided to make a career out of it. Dean seemed to hang onto every word, genuinely interested.

In turn you learnt more about his job as a mechanic and co-owner at his dad’s garage that specialised in classic cars, which you found to be incredibly impressive. And as you listened to him talk about his work, you noticed how his hands moved with confidence and ease, like he was describing something he was deeply passionate about.

You also learnt that both of them were fellow  ‘Kansans.’ Whereas you resided in Topeka, Dean and Sam lived in Lawrence, and although it was only a town over, it explained why you hadn’t run into either of them beforehand.

As the conversation continued, you found yourself relaxing more and more. The nervous energy that had been gnawing at your insides started to dissolve. 

By the time the food arrived, you were laughing freely, engaging with everyone at the table, and… finding yourself feeling comfortable with Dean. It didn’t hurt that, with each passing moment, the way he looked at you felt more intense. Like he was paying attention to you in a way that felt different from the others.

After everyone had finished eating, Matty took it upon himself to grab the check—naturally. He reached for it with a dramatic flourish, blocking Dean’s hand.

“Absolutely not,” Matty declared. “This is on me. Consider it an investment.” He aimed the last words at you with a wink, and you looked at him incredulously.

When you all stood up to leave, the others moved on ahead, but Dean lingered by your side. You felt his presence, warm and easygoing beside you, and you couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“So,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he slowed his pace to match yours, “any chance I can see you again sometime? Without the audience?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the suggestion. The sudden weight of the question hung in the air between you, and you weren’t sure how to respond. Everything about this felt a little surreal—like a moment that could go either way. But then Matty’s words echoed in your mind: ‘Don’t sabotage yourself.’

You took a breath, steadied your nerves, and smiled, a little shy but hopeful. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Dean’s grin widened, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this wasn’t as terrifying as you thought. Maybe it was time to take the risk, to stop second-guessing yourself, and let things unfold as they were meant to.

Dean stepped a little closer, his hand brushing yours as you walked side by side toward the door. You couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something worth the gamble.

AN: Okay, so how do we feel about the reunion between these two? And Matty's glorious input? 😂 He honestly is the best cheerleader! I hope you guys enjoyed this, let me know what you think and if you're excited for the proper date with Dean 👀

If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters let me know.

[emo-markie]

*:･ﾟ✧ Supernatural oc/reader fic recs

I like to read. So I read. A lot. This is my curated selection of fics that make me feral. I highly recommend checking out the creators!

REMEMBER TO READ THE TAGS!

Last updated : October 10, 2024

red means work in progress

blue means complete work

(sorted by alphabetic order)

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SAM WINCHESTER

Birdcage Fires by FallingDomino on Fanfiction.net

Rating: M

After finding a naked girl on a lonely stretch of California road on a stormy night, Sam doesn't have long to try and help the amnesiac girl before Dean drags him back into the life of hunting. Over the past three years, he never really forgot her, but when they reunite, the brothers discover something much more sinister about the night Sam saved her. Sam/OC, Before S1, skips to S4

Complex by NeQuittezPas on AO3

Rating: M

Sam Winchester will do whatever it takes to save his brother from Hell. When all else fails, he tries a spell—and botches it. Cassandra Holmes awoke from uneasy dreams and found herself transported to a fictional universe. Cass wants to go home. Sam wants his brother back. Maybe, working together, they can both get what they want.

Pie and Consqeuences by SteelRigged on AO3

Rating: T

Dean’s eyebrows were popping off his face. He looked at Sam, who had pie falling off his nose, and swallowed a smile. "You're getting slow, Sam," Dean said, and patted his brother on the shoulder. Sam wiped pie from his cheeks and chin. Veronica's rage had caught him off guard. She was one of the few people from his past he was still on good terms with. At least he thought they had been on good terms. At least neutral terms. Not pie in the face terms. “Oh Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean muttered, glowing with pleasure. “Don’t worry. I’ve been there. You probably deserved it.”

pythia - a supernatural rewrite by uncouth-the-fiffth on AO3

Rating: T

John goes missing. Like every time you use your Gift to track him down, it's hardly for his own sake. If it weren't for Dean, trembling under that too-big jacket on your stoop and working up the courage to even say Sam's name, you'd happily never think about their father ever again. Or what you're doing to Sam's life by pulling him back into the hunt. If it was up to you, John Winchester would never be heard from again. But the boys need you. So, you go.

I highly recommend checking out the author's other fics here: uncouth's spn fics

The LightBringer by I_Am_A_Silver_Lining on AO3

Rating: E

Waking in the body of Lucifer, having their memories and powers, should have been horrible. And it was... ...Until it wasn't OR Kore wakes up as Lucifer, powers, memories and all. She is still herself with a little something sinister sprinkled in and decides to rip up the script and throw the apocalypse out the door. However, her True Vessel seems to still believe she wants to get in him, but he'd MUCH rather have it the other way around... OR OC invades Supernatural and takes over the world one piece of trash at a time. with ART

This Untraveled Road (series) by BAPWarrior18 on AO3

By Fate or Free Will

Rating: M

In the year 2003, a witch unleashed a powerful spell that drastically altered the fates of thousands of girls and women around the world. Some were killed. Some were protected. Many went about their lives or deaths unknowing of their transformed purpose. However, each were meant to be soldiers in the war against evil. Each were meant to tip the scales in the favor of good. For one in particular, there would have been no tipping of the scales… if not for some higher being’s determination to piggyback not only on the spell, but on the things that had already been set in motion by demons. OR In which the Winchesters meet the original breed of hunter, causing tiny ripples that turns their world on its head. And brings forth the war of change. For better or worse.

War of Change

Rating: M

THE ROAD SO FAR… The Winchesters met their bespoke Slayer, shifting the balance of their lives and unknown to them, the fate of the world. The Catalyst awakened new paths, altered goals, and shifted motivations. Like a drop in a pond transforming into a tsunami. As intended. Six Special Children survived Cold Oak. Four Slayers fought at the opening of the Devil’s Gate. One Slayer met death and lived. One Slayer confessed and vanished. All the while, two beings of undefined purpose watched and plotted. None could have predicted the drastic turn of events caused by the union of Slayers and Champions. NOW Demons and hunters scramble to make sense of the new world order. Some revel in the change. Some attempt to fix the balance. Others struggle to carry out carefully constructed plans. In the meantime, the Winchesters navigate what it means to be Champions. The Catalyst comes to understand her true gift. And the purpose of The Connected becomes clear.

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DEAN WINCHESTER

one of these nights by uncouth-the-fifth on AO3

Rating: E

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?” “Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.” “Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby."

This Curse On Our House by Sonny13 on AO3

Rating: M

Faith has battles in her bones and nothing left to lose; a dangerous combination, but perfect for a hunter. But she's got demons out for her blood, convinced she can break some kind of curse, and they call her the Child of War - whatever that means. Things might be a little easier if Dean Winchester wasn't so damn frustrating.

Toil and Trouble by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier on AO3

Rating: M

What’s the best way to infiltrate a coven? Be a witch. What does a modern witch need these days… Dean is going to be your familiar. He really wants to be a dog. He's not going to be a dog, and it works out way better and messier than either of you planned.

“Yeah, I have a Great Dean.” by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier on AO3

Rating: E

Dean is a good boy.

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CASTIEL

Angel 101 by kittenofdoomage on AO3

Rating: E

The angels are dying out in huge numbers, and Castiel, searching for a way to save Jack from being used by them, and to also save them, is called by another angel to assist in what he thinks may be the solution.

Branded by ObliviousApple on AO3

Rating: E

Basically, the first time Cas ever touches you, a brand appears on your arm. A brand that says his name in Enochian. Come along for the ride as you try to stop the apocalypse, save the Winchester's from their own idiocy, and fall in love with our favorite feathered bastard. Spoiler alert: the brand is a soulmate mark. Who saw that coming?!

David by therev on AO3

Rating: T

What if the person who found amnesiac!Cas when he stumbled out of that river in Colorado had been a man and not a woman? And what if when Dean caught up with him, he found that Cas had a husband? And what if he was a real character and not the throw-away that they made Daphne?

Empire State of Mind by saprrowed on Fanfiction.net

Rating: M

Castiel makes a friend in New York City. And like many New York sitcoms, this is a story about nothing.

Feathers by enter_the_phantom on AO3

Rating: T

The giving of feathers and the revealing of wings is a sacred act for an angel, and it's something Castiel doesn't take lightly. But if there's one human he'd enter into such a close bond with, it's Abby Singer, the Winchesters' hunting partner and adopted sibling. Whenever he's around them, he feels things he's never felt before, and as strange as these new emotions are, he doesn't want them to stop. Unfortunately for him, Abby isn't the most receptive to his presence. They've been stubbornly opposed to his awkward attempts at friendship ever since they first met. In fact, it feels like he's the only one who can't seem to forge a relationship with the prickly hunter. Even more unfortunately, it doesn't seem to matter anyway, because another angel has already beaten him to it.

Gas-n-sip by eratothemuse on AO3

Rating: E

You just needed a job. Who knew that getting one at your local Gas-n-Sip would end up like this? (Set in 9x06 “Heaven Can’t Wait”)

Guardian Angel by ZonateBiscuit on AO3

Rating: M

When you feel lost, you begin to pray. Charlie Crivens is lost, but she's not sure anyone can hear her. Slow build Castiel/OFC

I Was A Stranger And You Welcomed Me by dorkilysoulless on AO3

Rating: E

Whoever he is, he's either homeless or hitching. He's also too damn pretty not to take home.

The Love Story of the Runner Up by Margo_Kim on AO3

Rating: T

“So you saw a white man in a trench coat pop out in an alley,” Paul says, “and you thought, what, ‘I want to see where this is going’?”  “If you get hung up on details like that,” Miguel says, “it will take a very long time to get through this story. For a very weird era in his life, Miguel dates an angel who is in love with another man.

The Original Cambion by thereluctantshipper on AO3

Rating: E

Just as they're gearing up to stop the apocalypse, Bobby, Dean, Sam, and more importantly, Castiel, meet the original Cambion, a half-demon half-human hybrid. And she wants to... Help them? OFC insert, starts roughly S5E16, will not follow story all the way through.

Questions and Answers by lacqueluster (GG_and_MM) on AO3

Rating: E

Castiel is becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his vessel. He comes to you with some questions.

Where Angels Fear To Tread by OrigamiDoll on AO3

Rating: E

Reader meets the Winchesters and Castiel when they roll through town on a hunt. They inadverdently expose her to the supernatural and turn her world view upside down. Soon, her house becomes a frequent detour for the boys and a friendship begins to blossom between the reader and Team Free Will. Castiel finds himself fascinated by the reader. Where will things lead?

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CROWLEY

Dead Body Moving by NeQuittezPas on AO3

Rating: M

Nell never expected to return from her cross-country roadtrip, but when a fellow camper goes missing during her stay at the Grand Canyon, she may live far, far longer than she expected.

Like I'm Not Made of Stone by ProlixInSpace on AO3

Rating: E

In ancient Mesopotamia, one careless death-goddess invents a cruel curse. Its singular victim can never die, but will rather live the last single year of a random human life somewhere in time, every year, forever and ever. In Hell, a belligerent soul takes centuries of abuse from Lilith herself, and is molded through her cruel tutelage into something darker, more ambitious, and cleverer by far than your standard-issue demon. A pair like that can only become more than the sum of their parts.

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GABRIEL

alexa, play candyshop (bass boosted) by bumbleberrysky on AO3

Rating: T

You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. It's something you're destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point you'd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes you're suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason you'd been brought here in the first place? Maybe... Chuck works in mysterious ways after all. [divergent around s13/the end of s13-- will likely have spoilers]

Along For the Ride by MyPurpleSkies on AO3

Rating: T

Danielle Awenasa Callaghan thought being a hunter was complicated enough. That is until she joins the Winchesters along for one hell of a ride that involves repeatedly saving the world from danger, falling for a Trickster that's more than he seems, hiding the fact that your godfather isn't exactly human from the boys you're beginning to see as part of your family, and discovering that she and the King of Hell share a mutual appreciation for David Bowie's music. Not to mention being told by a cupid that she's met her soul mate already. Oh, let's not forget that she nearly died and was saved by some mysterious stranger that Death refuses to tell her the identity of.

I Want to Tell you by lacqueluster (GG_and_MM) on AO3

Rating: E

He can’t tell her when she’s drunk. That wouldn’t be right. He’ll tell her tomorrow. He’ll bring her coffee and let her shower and then he’ll sit her down. Tomorrow. It’s definitely time. He has to get this off his chest and tomorrow is the day.

Kibble by The_White_Rabbit42 on AO3

Rating: T

Sam and Dean ask Gabriel to cat sit for you, and it leads to a surprising discovery.

Third Time's a Charm by The_White_Rabbit42 on AO3

Rating: E

Gabriel unexpectedly comes to your aid and reveals a part of himself you never expected to see.

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SIBLING OC

Dynamics of an Asteroid by NeQuittezPas on AO3

Rating: T

Sam thumped a photo album down onto her desk. Beneath the thin film of dust, the cover was dark burgundy. Margo recognized it at once. “Ah.” He was here for the other reason, then. The one she’d always dreaded, even if she’d imagined it more than a few times over the years. He was here because that photo album contained pictures of Margo from the time she was born through the time she was in high school. A rare few of them even showed her together with John Winchester—Sam’s father. And also, incidentally, her father. She was not prepared for this conversation.

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CHILD OC

Along Came Sophie by LaceyoftheTypewriter on Fanfiction.net

Rating: T

Dean is still fighting supernatural crime with Sam when a pretty young plot twist named Sophie Gardner shows up claiming to be Dean's 15-year-old daughter. As she worms her way into his heart, he comes to realize what exactly he's been missing, and how far he'll go to fix what's broken.

Light of mine by TheTardyOwl on Fanfiction.net

Rating: T

A Fledgling is almost killed during one of Michael and Lucifer's explosive arguments. Gabriel steps into the role of Caretaker for the little Angel and discovers that his new charge isn't what he expected.

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PLATONIC OC

Student Housing by darkshrimpemotions on AO3

Rating: T

Sam decides to rent out rooms in the bunker to college students. Finding yourself in a housing bind just before the start of your sophomore year, you decide the dirt cheap rent is worth the risk that your landlords might be serial killers.