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cherienymphe · 2 years ago

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Teenage Dirtbag (JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, mentions of blood, public sex, jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.

Your rescue just comes with a price.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest as you walked down the street. It was late, much too late to be walking down the streets of Kildare County by yourself, but it was the only solution you could find to allow yourself to think. You just needed some time to think, that was all, and once that was over, you had every intention of going back to the party.

Most especially before Rafe noticed you were gone.

When you slipped out of the bedroom under the guise of needing to pee, your boyfriend had been snorting yet another line of white powder that was painstakingly familiar to you. You figured you had a decent amount of time before he pulled away from his conversation with Kelce and Topper long enough to take note of your absence. A shudder passed through you, and you swiped your tongue between your lips.

It was the middle of December, and even if you were actually dressed for the weather—which you weren’t—it was still too cold to be out and about like this. Your dress had sleeves, but little good they did you when the fabric stopped above your knees. Your pristine white converse did little to keep you warm too. A biting breeze from the ocean hit your cheek like straight ice, and you swallowed.

You welcomed the feeling.

Anything felt better than this aching and suffocating numbness you’d felt for months, now. The sting on your face was almost comforting in some way because the pain meant that you were alive. Beneath the loud buzz in your ears and the hollow feeling in your chest, you were still alive, and that was so relieving. Too many times you’d almost convinced yourself that you’d died and were living out the rest of your days in hell.

When your face felt even colder all of a sudden, you paused.

You were surprised to feel wetness when you reached up, staring at your fingers with something akin to disbelief. There was really only one reason you cried these days…so why were you crying, now? The ache in your shoulder from the other day had long subsided, so that couldn’t be it. You felt your face pinching a tad, brows furrowing as you just…stared at your fingers.

Only the distraction of headlights could pull your gaze away, and you were thankful that you weren’t in the road. You really didn’t think much at all of the approaching van, hardly sparing it another glance as you continued to walk down the street, telling yourself just five more minutes. Five more minutes, that was all you needed. Just…

Five more minutes.

To yourself.

Without Rafe.

You stopped again because you were once again pulled from your thoughts, but this time it was by the sound of a voice. Brows drawn together, you turned around, noting the familiarity of it. It was only when your eyes landed on familiar blonde hair did you finally give the van a double take, telling yourself that you’d seen it around town here and there.

Sarah’s boyfriend owned it.

“Y/N?” she wondered, both concern and disbelief coloring her tone. “What the hell are you doing out here this late?”

She was standing just by her open door, the van parked in the road, and she was rushing towards you before you could answer.

“It’s like forty something degrees outside,” Sarah breathed, reaching for her jacket.

You noticed that even underneath it, she was dressed more appropriately for the weather than you.

“Where’s Rafe?” she asked, handing you the thick coat, eyes still wide.

“He’s just…up the street,” you gestured. “I just…I just needed a minute.”

Your excuse was lame, and you knew it, and Sarah’s frown only deepened as you put on her coat.

“You just needed a minute at twelve o’clock in the morning? Are you crazy?” she chuckled, but you could tell it was a poor attempt to mask her worry. “Where’s the house? We’ll drive you.”

You wanted to protest, but you figured that Rafe would notice your absence soon—he always did—and you should be trying to get back to the party before he did. You couldn’t deal with his ire any day of the week, but there was something about today that was particularly maddening. If Rafe so much as raised his voice at you, you just knew you’d burst into tears.

“It’s really no big deal. There’s plenty of room in the back…if you don’t mind riding with a handful of Pogues, that is,” she teased, pulling you along.

She knew you didn’t care about that, but she liked to poke fun, anyway. However, her use of the plural had you faltering, and she noticed.

“Oh,” you said, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “Are Kiara and Cleo with you?”

“…and Pope and JJ,” she added, curiously eyeing you, now.

You were sure that your apprehension was all over your face, and you tried to weigh your options. There was no way Sarah was just going to let you walk back by yourself, it would be a losing battle that’d more than likely result in Rafe noticing you were gone by the time you finally got back. On the other hand, though, it would be just your luck to hop in after Rafe already noticed your absence.

Pope and JJ were names you weren’t all that familiar with a year ago, but you definitely were, now.

Even if they were Kooks, Rafe would lose his mind if he knew you were riding around with other guys. The guys in question being two people you regularly heard him complain about would only add fuel to the fire. One of them being JJ—a polite blond who’d smiled at you in The Wreck once—would send Rafe, and your physical wellbeing, spiraling.

The memory of that day had you blinking back tears, and you were somehow grateful when headlights blinded both you and Sarah.

Even if Rafe’s truck didn’t have a distinct sound, those obnoxious headlights were recognizable anywhere. As disappointed as you were that your alone time was officially over, you were relieved that you wouldn’t have to explain yourself to Sarah for the tears that were no doubt about to spill over. You’d seen the slight panic and shock on her face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Those were the words that greeted you as soon as Rafe parked and hopped out of his truck.

“You said you were going to the bathroom and next thing I know, everybody I ask is saying they haven’t seen you for a while. Are you fucking-?”

“Rafe!”

Sarah’s tone was harsh, her tone incredulous, and she looked at her brother like he’d lost his mind. The eldest Cameron only just seemed to notice her presence—and that of the van—and you watched the way he snapped his mouth shut. By now, Sarah’s boyfriend had turned the van off, and you hadn’t noticed the door opening, revealing the rest of her friends inside.

They were anxiously watching the exchange.

“Sarah, it’s fine-.”

“It is not fine,” she argued, looking between you two. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Her gaze was resting on her brother, now as he neared you.

“He’s just worried,” you defended him, attempting to placate her. “He’s right. It was stupid of me to be out here this late at night with no cellphone, no jacket…”

You trailed off with a shrug, leaning in to Rafe as he grabbed your hand and pulled you closer. Sarah’s expression didn’t change, and she fixed Rafe with a hard look to which he didn’t even acknowledge.

“I don’t care. There are nicer ways to get his point across to his own girlfriend,” she harshly whispered to which Rafe merely rolled his eyes.

He said nothing else to her, only choosing to pull you along instead. However, with another glance at you, he paused with a deep frown. You noticed that his gaze was on Sarah’s jacket, and so you were unsurprised when he reached for it. You tried to ignore the feeling of being watched.

“Take this off,” he told you, just loud enough for you to hear.

When you did, he roughly tossed it back at Sarah who struggled to not let it hit her face. He ignored her offended ‘hey!’, reaching for his own jacket instead and putting it on you. When your arms were through it, he pulled you towards his truck. You noticed how quiet he was the whole way, and you eyed him, knowing that a quiet Rafe was never a good thing.

As he helped you into the passenger seat, you could see that Sarah hadn’t moved, watching you two with her arms folded over her chest. By now, her boyfriend—whose name had finally come to you—had joined her, saying something to her that you couldn’t hear. Whatever it was didn’t exactly lighten her mood, and she only shook her head in response.

A somewhat familiar blond had joined both of them, now, saying something and lightly waving his arms about in a way that finally got them to move. John B. helped Sarah back into the van, but even as he made his way to the driver’s side, you noticed the blond still hadn’t gotten back inside. Just then, his blue eyes met yours through the windshield, and you didn’t hold his gaze for long.

Rafe finally joined you, and you lowered your eyes, resting them on your lap instead.

The last time you’d been face to face with JJ, it resulted in the one and only time you ever called the police on Rafe. That day felt like a lifetime ago, and it was something you desperately didn’t want to revisit. Rafe was jealous, always had been, and because that wasn’t changing anytime soon, your only option was to adjust and keep him happy.

“Anything could’ve happened to you,” Rafe finally said as he started the vehicle.

Taking a deep breath, you leaned back in the seat.

“I didn’t think I’d be gone that long. I just wanted some air for a bit,” you told him, looking at him, now as he started to drive.

He wouldn’t look at you, and that made your heart sink for so many reasons. One of his hands came up to rest at his lips, and even though his eyes were on the road…it still felt like he was looking dead at you.

“You lied to me,” he said after a while.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you sat up.

“No, I-I didn’t. I did go to the bathroom, but afterwards I just wanted some air. It was so loud, and everyone was smoking, and it was just too many people…”

Your words died in your throat when Rafe raised a hand, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek. When he didn’t say anything else, you settled for looking out the window. Despite being wrapped up in Rafe’s jacket, you still felt a chill go through you, and you rubbed your arms through the fabric. The silence in the truck was so suffocating and tense, and when you glanced at your boyfriend again, his gaze was still fixated on the road.

With anyone else…that would be normal, the right thing to do.

With Rafe—who was known to keep one eye on the road and one eye on you—it meant he didn’t want to look at you. You were internally cursing yourself…because you knew better. Leaving the party without Rafe, no matter the reason, was a bad idea, and you knew that…but you did it anyway. Everything had felt so suffocating, and you weren’t lying to him when you said you just wanted some air.

When you realized that Rafe was going to your house instead of his…

Your stomach flipped.

You looked at him again, this time with tearful eyes, but like before…he wouldn’t look at you. Furiously blinking, you tightened his jacket around you, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. The world outside of the window started to slow as he neared the driveway, and you took a deep breath when he parked on the other side of your father’s car. When he shut the engine off, you both sat there for a few moments, Rafe only moving when you started to reach for him.

Swallowing down anything you wanted to say to make this better, you merely took his outstretched hand when he opened your door. His hold was firm as he walked you to the door, and you felt his heated gaze on you as you reached for your key. There was no doubt that your parents were asleep—the plan was to sleep over at Rafe’s, after all—and you were quick to put in the alarm code before it could wake them up.

When Rafe shut and locked the door, you looked at him.

“Are you staying over?” you quietly asked him, and Rafe didn’t break eye contact as he leaned against the door.

He merely gazed at you for what felt like a long time, slowly crossing his arms over his chest. His dark blond hair curtained along his forehead, and his blue eyes felt so intense in the low lighting. He took his time in dragging his gaze over you from head to toe, one brow raising when his eyes met yours again.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he wondered, tone even and dripping with sarcasm.

Swallowing down a sigh, you put the alarm back on, and it took no time for Rafe to reach for you, his hand resting on the back of your neck as he walked you upstairs. Both of your steps were quiet, neither one of you wanting to wake your parents, but Rafe didn’t want to wake them for a whole other reason.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” he hissed as soon as your bedroom door was shut. “Huh?”

You stumbled when he shoved you away from him, and you fixed him with a look, taking off his jacket.

“I didn’t mean to be gone that long,” you quietly argued, and Rafe scoffed.

“That’s not the point, Y/N. You left the party alone in the middle of the night…no jacket, no phone, and with no one knowing where you went.”

Rafe spat the words at you, making you feel stupid—their intended effect you were sure—and you sat down on the edge of your bed. It was one of the rare moments where Rafe’s ire came from genuine worry…even if it was mixed with just a tad possessiveness. That was why his next words didn’t shock you.

You knew it was coming.

“…and what? Were you just…going to hop in John B.’s van before I got there?”

Rafe’s hands were spread out as he looked at you, waiting for the answer you both knew he wouldn’t like.

“Sarah offered a ride,” you told him.

“Sarah wasn’t alone.”

You clenched your jaw, looking away with a small sigh.

“So, what? You would’ve rather I just walk back to the party in the cold and by myself?”

His arms were folded over his chest as he looked down his nose at you, eyes hard.

“You left the party in that condition, didn’t you? That wasn’t too much of a concern then…”

This argument was going nowhere, and you knew you’d lose, so you simply held your tongue and fixed Rafe with a nod.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

You knew that was what Rafe wanted to hear, anyway—an apology. An apology for daring to go anywhere without him, for almost getting into a car with men who weren’t him, for running the risk of anyone knowing that your relationship with Rafe was less than perfect. When his shoulders sagged at hearing those words, you felt a little relieved.

“That was stupid,” he eventually said, nearing you. “…and I didn’t know where you were or what might have happened to you.”

His hand came up to brush against your cheek, and you reached up, resting your own over his. For just a split second, you saw the fear in his blue gaze, and it never not fascinated you. Rafe could be so horrible to you, sometimes…beyond horrible, but then in the next second, he was that vulnerable kid who just wanted to be chosen—favored. For whatever reason, he sought that in you, and the thought of losing you drove him mad. It always gave you whiplash.

…because you’d lost count of how many times he’d threatened to kill you if you ever left him.

He leaned down to press his lips against yours, and when you kissed him back, he rubbed his hands up and down your arms.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” he chuckled, pulling you to your feet and towards your bathroom.

As you turned on the shower, Rafe went to get clothes for the both of you. It only took a few seconds for the water to get hot, and when you pulled your hand from under the spray of water, you were startled by Rafe’s presence just behind you.

When the back of your head hit the wall, the sound of the shower drowned it out, and your eyes were wide as Rafe harshly pressed his fingers into your jaw. There was nothing unreadable about his expression. All of his anger and annoyance was plain as day on his face, blue eyes glinting in a way that was scarily familiar. When you reached up to grab his wrist, he only tightened his grip on your face.

“I would rather see you run down in the street like a dog than riding around with any of those Pogues,” he calmly told you, and you released a shaky breath. “Do you understand?”

He loosened his hold enough just to allow you to nod, and he ran his eyes over your face, seemingly satisfied with what he saw there before letting you go. You stared at his back as he turned around, furiously blinking away any tears that threatened to spill over. The chills that overtook your body were gone just as fast as they came, and you took a deep calming breath. You reached up to touch your jaw as he checked the water for himself, shakily starting to undress as Rafe did the same.

You stared at your window with the soft sound of Rafe’s breathing in your ear. His arm was haphazardly thrown over your waist, tethering you to him even in sleep. When you glanced at your clock, you noted that it was almost five in the morning, meaning you’d been up out of your sleep for almost an hour and a half. Once awake, you hadn’t been able to keep your eyes closed, and so you just laid there deep in thought.

Your jaw still ached a bit from Rafe’s brief but harsh hold, and you reached up to touch it.

Every fiber of your being had screamed at you to just stay at the party, telling yourself it was a recipe for disaster, but you’d gone against your instincts. Gone against what you’d been conditioned to do. Truthfully, the night could have ended so much worse, and you wanted to scream at how lucky you felt that you got off lightly. How lucky you felt that you’d only gotten some harsh words and a tight pinch to the jaw.

How lucky you felt that you wouldn’t have to put on any extra makeup for a week.

You could feel your eyes stinging, something that only happened in those moments where you let your guard down. When Rafe asked you out all those months ago—two years to be exact—you could never have imagined that this was where the two of you would end up. The beginning of your nightmare, your nineteenth birthday, was always on your mind, and you never not blamed yourself.

Rafe hit you…and you stayed.

…and now you were paying for it with your life.

You wiped your face, throat tight as you slowly sat up. Rafe’s arm slipped as you stood, and you looked over your shoulder at him, relieved to see that he was still asleep. You desperately clung to those rare moments of solitude, taking advantage of every second to just gather your thoughts and mentally prepare yourself for another day of lies.

Accepting that you wouldn’t be going back to sleep, you made your way downstairs.

Every time you smiled, you were lying. Every thread of your fingers through Rafe’s was a lie. Anytime your parents praised Rafe and gushed about him, you agreed, and that too was a lie. Rafe hadn’t been a good boyfriend in over a year, and you sometimes found yourself wondering if he ever was. After all, hadn’t it been four months into your relationship when he first started pressuring you for sex? It seemed like such a small thing then, something to overlook, and you wondered if anyone in the world was as desperate for a time machine as much as you.

Recalling what time your father usually got started with his day, you set about putting some coffee on. As much as you wanted to get started on breakfast to distract yourself, you knew how much your mother enjoyed that, and so you decided to leave that for her. Rafe had this strange way of sensing your absence in his sleep, so you weren’t surprised to find him awake when you went back upstairs.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbled, cheek pressed to the pillow and hooded gaze focused on you.

You were gentle in closing the door, not wanting to wake your parents before their normal time…but also because Rafe usually had one thing on his mind when he first woke up.

“Good morning,” you softly replied. “I was just making my father some coffee.”

Rafe’s eyes were on you as you rejoined him, hair going every which way as he shifted to watch you get comfortable under the cover. When you looked at him, he was smiling at you, soft lips turned upwards just a tad in the low lighting as the sun just started to rise. You couldn’t pinpoint the look on his face, and you were just starting to get a little worried when he chuckled.

“Have I told you…how great you’re going to be with our kids some day?”

You let out a light laugh too, looking away and feeling your gut twist a tad.

“You do say it more often than I would like,” you admitted, and Rafe scoffed, leaning in some.

“What? You don’t want to have my babies? A bunch of spoiled brats running around and hanging off of your legs?” he wondered, pulling at the sleeve of your shirt.

You tried not to think about it for too long.

“No, I… I’m just saying we’re twenty,” you emphasized. “Isn’t that something we’re supposed to be thinking about a good six…seven years from now?”

When you looked at Rafe again, his smile had dimmed a bit. It was subtle, but the difference was anything but to you. You knew your boyfriend like the back of your hand, and you swallowed when he propped his head up on his hand. He stared at you for a good amount of time, lightly chewing on his bottom lip.

“Yeah, but…” he held your gaze. “How else can I guarantee you’ll never leave me?”

His tone was light, but there was a hint of something in there that told you he was entirely serious. Even when he suddenly laughed, shaking his head at you and taking your hand, you weren’t fooled. The glint in his blue eyes prevented you from being fooled.

“You know I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “I just like the thought.”

He suddenly exhaled, face falling a bit as he played with your fingers. His smile slowly dropped entirely, eyes dimming just a tad as he rested them on your joined fingers. So much of your time with Rafe was spent watching him, waiting for him to say or do something just so you could gauge how you needed to react. Gauge the choice that would bring the least damage. You watched him swipe his tongue between his lips, brows pulling together just a tad.

“About last night…”

You straightened, pressing your back to your headboard with a shake of your head.

“Don’t worry about it-.”

“No, last night…shouldn’t have happened,” he whispered to you, lightly tapping your hand. “I told both you and my dad that I was going to work on that.”

He did.

He lied.

Or at least…that was how it seemed. It wasn’t like you knew what was going on in Rafe’s head better than him, so for all you knew, Rafe was actually trying. That was the deal, after all. Ward saves Rafe from going to jail and Rafe works on his temper. With that being said though, you hadn’t known how to tell Ward that you didn’t think the problem was Rafe’s temper.

Rafe Cameron was a very calculating individual.

God knows he was a lot of things but dumb simply wasn’t one of them. Rafe was the kind of person who just always seemed to be aware of his actions—too aware. Truth be told, you didn’t even think he had a temper. He just preferred to react to certain things a certain way because every time he hit you…grabbed you…even when he was yelling at you, there was a certain calmness to his visage that clued you in on the truth.

The problem was never that Rafe couldn’t control himself…because he could control himself just fine.

Rafe simply liked scaring you.

“You don’t understand how terrified I was when I couldn’t find you,” he continued, and you nodded.

“It was stupid, I know,” you agreed, briefly looking at your lap.

“Anything could’ve happened to you,” he roughly exhaled, lying flat on his back. “…and then I saw you about to hop into John B.’s van.”

Rafe shook his head in disgust, gaze focused on your ceiling.

“I couldn’t think straight,” he murmured. “All I saw was…red.”

You didn’t know how to respond, mind lingering on what he said last night. Rafe’s thoughts seemed to stray there too, and he suddenly let out a bitter chuckle.

“You don’t know what they’re like…”

That was true.

Your parents had never let you associate with anyone or anything from The Cut, and that had stuck with you even when you became an adult. It wasn’t like you believed the same things Rafe and his friends did, it was purely about being respectful of your parents’ wishes. Besides, you never had any reason or opportunity to mingle with anyone from that side of the island—every party you ever went to was in someone’s fancy house.

…but then Sarah started dating John B. Routledge…and she seemed happy with him…and happy with his friends.

…and so you figured they couldn’t be as bad as Rafe claimed.

“All they do is go around fucking up their own lives…and then turning around and blaming us because they refuse to…I don’t know, get their shit together,” Rafe sneered, sitting up. “They’re a bunch of low-lives, and if I actually gave a crap about Sarah and what she does, she wouldn’t be anywhere near any of them either.”

You watched Rafe pull on one of his many shirts he kept in your room, one hand running through his hair.

“So, I promise I’m not being my usual asshole self when I say,” he paused, looking at you. “You really would be better off dead than hanging around any of them.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding when Rafe told you he was going to grab something to drink. When he asked you if you wanted anything, you simply shook your head, turning to gaze out the window the second he was gone.

Rafe’s hand was tight on yours as he walked you down the beach, keeping you as close as humanly possible.

You knew parties were held on the beach all the time, especially the annual big bonfire, but you just never had it in you to go. However, when Rafe mentioned he’d be meeting Topper and Kelce there later, you didn’t quite know what came over you to ask about tagging along.

It had thrown Rafe.

“Baby…that’s not really your thing,” he’d lightly laughed, resting his hands on your arms.

You’d thought about it, humming.

“Mm, no, but… It’s your thing, and I’ve never been, and it’s not like I’d ever go by myself, so why not go with you?”

You’d given him a pleading smile, something you’d learned to perfect with Rafe if you wanted any sliver of happiness in this relationship. It had taken him much too long to consider, finally relenting and going to his dresser to find you something to wear. As he’d helped you get dressed, he made his concerns clear.

“You stay with me the whole night, alright…?” he’d said, tying your shoelaces and glancing up at you. “There are a lot of…questionable people at these parties. You’re not just among friends.”

Once you arrived on the scene, it hadn’t taken you long to figure out what Rafe meant.

It wasn’t the kind of party that only consisted of rich kids you went to high school with and who you’d see at the country club. You were sure you’d never been to a party where you didn’t recognize ninety percent of everyone you passed your eyes over. It was one thing to know you were kind of sheltered.

Something else entirely to bear witness to it.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing Y/N along,” Topper greeted, nodding at you.

You only smiled back in response, heart sinking a bit when Kelce barely acknowledged you. You supposed you couldn’t blame him for his behavior. Even if no one knew the extent of Rafe’s wrath when it came to you, everyone still knew how he could get, and you tried not to dwell on the fact that Kelce’s aloofness had little to do with respect and more to do with how he viewed you in relation to Rafe.

You belonged to him.

…and so you couldn’t be treated like your own person.

You remained empty-handed while Topper got drinks for the rest of them, forced to occupy yourself some other way. You opted for drinking it all in, eyes lingering on couples too wrapped up in each other or some girl who wanted to attempt a keg stand. You didn’t feel as suffocated as you normally did at parties, cramped into one building with far too many people and no hint of fresh air. Out here on the beach, it was actually enjoyable.

The ocean breeze wasn’t even as cold as you’d expect, but instead a welcoming contrast to the heat from the fire.

For a moment, you even thought Rafe might bring you along again.

At least…until he showed up.

Your boyfriend had only half turned his body from you for less than a moment when you heard your name being called by an unfamiliar voice.

“I got it right,” he praised himself when you turned to face him, a beer in his hand as he held it out to you. “Can I interest you in a tasty Milwaukee beverage?”

For his own sake—and yours—you wanted to pretend that he wasn’t talking to you, but not only had he said your name as clear as day, he was also looking straight at you. That was something you weren’t used to—guys besides your father or Rafe or even his father holding eye contact with you for long. You couldn’t tell if he was brave or stupid. Your heart was in your throat when he stepped closer, and you were quick to shake your head.

“No, thanks,” your answer was hurried, and the blond that you were unfortunately becoming more familiar with only smiled in return.

“Come on,” he chuckled, extending his arm and the drink. “What, is it not fancy enough for you?”

You could tell that he was a little drunk, so maybe that was where his courage came from, but the mischievous grin on his pink lips also told you he knew he was being a little shit, right now. If it wasn’t for the way your stomach violently twisted into knots, you might’ve laughed too as you attempted to turn him down again.

“Hey, you know what, you know what? I’ll take it.”

Your boyfriend’s voice descended over the conversation like a sobering fog, and you tensed, taking a step back until your shoulder was grazing his chest again. You shrank in on yourself, mood declining even further at the prospect of what was to come. The blond before you noticed.

“Thank you, man, I appreciate it,” Rafe’s tone was mocking as he reached past you for the cup.

Your eyes widened a tad when it was pulled out of his reach.

“That’s nice of you to suggest that, Rafe, but I didn’t ask you.”

JJ—the drunk blond who was hellbent on ensuring you never attended another beach party ever again—kept his gaze on Rafe, that taunting smile twitching a bit.

“If you said pretty please, maybe, but you didn’t-.”

“Oh, okay, pretty please,” Rafe evenly repeated like the words were foreign to him. “Pretty please?”

“Yeah, so, Y/N…” JJ’s gaze was on you again, handing you the drink. “You can have it.”

You were in the middle of shaking your head again, opening your mouth to tell him you were fine when Rafe rudely beat you to it, declaring for you that you didn’t want it all the while knocking the drink in the other blonde’s face. Your lips parted when he stumbled back just a little, but you weren’t surprised when he put his hands on Rafe, shoving his chest just as you hurried to step out of the way. Rafe—always itching for a fight—seemed oddly satisfied to have just soaked JJ in beer, chuckling to himself.

“Dirty Pogues,” he laughed with a shake of his head, and you didn’t have time to linger on your disappointment with him before Sarah’s friend was punching him square in the face.

It was like you blinked, and they were fighting, and when you blinked again, John B. and Topper had joined them. Having been on the other side of Rafe’s fist before, you didn’t envy the younger blond when your boyfriend hit him hard enough to have him stumbling back. Even though you had long accepted Rafe’s penchant for violence, it didn’t mean you relished standing around and watching it.

“Rafe!”

It seemed that you were one of the few who actually wanted this fight to stop, so many other people seemingly enjoying this. You weren’t for so many reasons, but most of all because if Rafe walked away from this with a broken nose or black eye, you were getting some of the blame. Your eyes briefly met Sarah’s when she ran over, your gaze pleading.

“John B., chill,” she screamed at her boyfriend, pulling on his shirt. “Guys, guys-!”

Sarah was joined by a familiar face—you were positive it was Kiara—and you watched her help separate John B. and Topper while Pope was trying to get Rafe off of JJ. You thought to yourself that he managed to pull that off much easier than you imagined, but one glance down told you why that was. As Rafe stood, your stomach flipped at the sight before you.

JJ’s eyes were squeezed tight as he held a hand to his face, but that did little to stop the blood from seeping between his fingers. You were no doctor, but if you had to, you’d guess that he had a broken nose. The only reason Rafe was even able to be pulled off of him was solely because your boyfriend was satisfied with the damage he’d done.

Pope was helping him sit up, and despite the blood that dirtied his face, JJ still laughed at something his friend said. In the back of your mind, you could register your name being called, but you were still too focused on trying to make sure Sarah’s friend wasn’t seriously hurt. You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, and when he glanced up, already bruising eyes resting on yours, your guilt grew. You were forced to focus on more important matters though when a rough grip seized your wrist.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Rafe hissed, his gaze questioning when you finally looked at him. “We need to go. Kelce called the cops to break up this sad excuse for a party.”

You weren’t given the chance to respond to that, held at his side as Rafe stomped away from the beach and towards his truck. Against your better judgment, you glanced over your shoulder, thankful that Rafe was deep in a conversation with Topper and Kelce. You weren’t surprised to meet an eerily familiar shade of blue as your eyes met his, JJ half distracted by a conversation of his own as Sarah and her friends stood around him.

When he reached up to swipe his thumb along his bottom lip, wiping away blood in the process, he smiled at you, and like before, you couldn’t decide if he was brave…

…or stupid.

#jj maybank x reader #dark!jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #dark!jj maybank #obx imagine #obx fanfiction #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank imagines #outer banks #outer banks imagine #outer banks fanfiction

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devilish-cherry · 1 month ago

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higuruma relationship headcanons ♡

ᨳ♡₊➳ higuruma x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ my other works

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: wrote these while rotating him gently in my mind like a microwave plate. pls enjoy my higuruma brainrot 🖤

₊⊹. higuruma always appears serious, but the man has absolutely no chill when he misplaces things around your apartment. cue exhausted chaos when he accuses the couch of theft because his reading glasses mysteriously "vanished" again, only for you to point out they're right on top of his head.

₊⊹. he will not let you walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road. not because he's a chivalrous king. no, he's just "done the math" and "you have better odds of surviving if i take the impact." you told him that's dark. he nodded. "correct."

₊⊹. higuruma often forgets to eat when he's busy with work. the first time you brought him a carefully prepared bento, he looks at you like you're a haunted statue and he's a museum guard wondering how the hell you got out of the glass. "you made this for me?" he murmurs softly, as if you handcrafted an artifact of immense historical importance. his restrained, quiet joy makes your heart burst, even when he quickly tries to regain composure, mumbling, "i suppose i'll owe you a favor."

₊⊹. you found out he sleep talks. not like normal people though. full lawyer monologues. you've been woken more than once by him murmuring things like, "objection... overruled... please don't move the cat." he denies this. you have video. he still denies it.

₊⊹. he once walked into a glass door because he was watching you instead of where he was going. he tried to act like it didn't hurt, but then muttered something about "structural flaws in transparent architecture," while holding an ice pack to his forehead.

₊⊹. higuruma once tried to plan a cute date. his version was a guided tour of the supreme court in tokyo. you tagged along because you love him, but he did whisper, "this is the best day of my life." after seeing an old law book behind glass. you didn't have the heart to laugh.

₊⊹. you once asked what he thinks justice is. he went on a long, brilliant tangent, but then stopped halfway through and softly added, "probably waking up next to you more often."

₊⊹. he acts stoic and low energy in public, but the minute you're home and you so much as look tired, this man is making you tea and folding a blanket over you like you're the last endangered bird on earth. he does it without blinking.

₊⊹. higuruma sends you links to articles like "ten ways to improve sleep quality" at 2 a.m. because he's awake and miserable and wants you to be the opposite. "you should get eight hours," he texts. meanwhile, he's blinking at a spreadsheet like it personally betrayed him.

₊⊹. when he holds your hand in public, it's initially stiff and awkward, almost robotic. but his grip subtly tightens whenever you pass through crowded streets or busy intersections, wordlessly protective and endearingly nervous.

₊⊹. he's so careful with your fingers, like he's afraid you'll shatter. but if you interlace your fingers first? his ears go red. every. single. time.

₊⊹. you once woke up to find him baking muffins. from scratch. at 4 a.m. in complete silence. he said he "needed a productive distraction." you asked if everything was okay. he looked at the batter and said, "emotionally, i relate to the collapsing center of this mix."

₊⊹. on a date, he casually says, "your laugh is admissible evidence that happiness exists." he keeps a straight face while you nearly choke on your ramen.

₊⊹. higuruma doesn't own a gaming console, but when you show him stardew valley, he plays it like it's a legally binding job. he has spreadsheets. he starts referring to your virtual farm animals by name in casual conversation. you've created a monster.

₊⊹. you once walked into the room wearing his shirt. he stared at you. then at the shirt. then back at you. "that's... mine." but he said it like it was a religious experience. never asked for it back.

₊⊹. on his rare days off (which he calls "brief windows of sanity"), you'll find him in the living room dramatically staring at nothing, drinking tea like a war general. you'll curl up beside him and he'll look at you like you're the only real thing he's seen all week. "you're the only good decision i've made this month," he murmurs.

₊⊹. whenever you talk passionately about a niche interest, he listens with intense seriousness, nodding slowly and saying, "this information feels useless, yet now i inexplicably care. interesting."

₊⊹. when higuruma knows you've had a rough day, he quietly brews tea, pushes the steaming mug towards you, and bluntly says, "drink this. it won't fix your problems, but at least you'll be hydrated when confronting them."

₊⊹. when you hold his face to kiss him, he always closes his eyes and exhales like he's being absolved of all his sins. and afterward, he just rests his forehead against yours like he needs a minute to reboot.

₊⊹. higuruma is touch-averse with strangers but turns into cling wrap when it's just you two. if you're sitting together? thighs touching. hands brushing. pinkies linked. it's like his love language is "i have to be in your orbit or i will collapse."

₊⊹. you once called him "babygirl" as a joke and he stared at you for a full seven seconds like you'd violated the geneva convention. but then, later that night, he muttered, "sleep well… babygirl." in the softest, lowest voice known to mankind. you had to walk out the room to laugh without dying.

₊⊹. his version of flirting is dry commentary followed by one (1) very specific compliment that knocks you flat. you'll say something silly and he'll sigh like he's aged 12 years, then go, "... you're the only person i can stand for more than ten minutes."

₊⊹. he never outright says he's jealous, but if someone is flirting with you, higuruma suddenly manifests like an irritated poltergeist. with the driest possible tone, he'll interrupt with something like, "ah, there you are. my apologies for the delay. our appointment is overdue," even though there was definitely no scheduled anything. later, when you call him out, he avoids eye contact, quietly admitting, "you're free to talk to anyone, of course. i simply found that particular situation... inappropriate."

₊⊹. sometimes he gets lost in thought and just sort of... drifts into another dimension while holding a spoon midair. you've had entire conversations while he's mentally tabbed out. when he returns, he'll blink and say, "continue." like you're a podcast he paused.

₊⊹. higuruma once tried to do a cute couple thing and take a photobooth strip with you. he looked confused the whole time and in the final photo, he was blinking. "do i look weird?" he asked. you said no. you're lying. he looks like he just got jumpscared by affection. it's your favorite photo ever.

₊⊹. he doesn't smile often. but when you kiss his cheek out of nowhere? instant, quiet, soft smile. barely there. blink and you'll miss it. but it's real. and you feel like you just unlocked an achievement in a visual novel with 0.2% player success rate.

₊⊹. he once fell asleep on you mid-sentence. fully slumped against your shoulder like a guy who'd been emotionally evicted. the last thing he said before passing out was, "you're the best part of my reality." which, frankly, should've been illegal.

₊⊹. higuruma has seen the ugliest sides of people. but you're the proof he needed that something good still exists in the world. which is why he always watches you like you're a miracle someone left on his doorstep and no one's come to claim yet.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #higuruma x reader #higuruma hiromi #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk imagines #jjk scenarios #jjk headcanons #jjk hcs #higuruma x y/n #higuruma x you

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inexplicifics · 2 months ago

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A modern Witcher AU ficlet for @domaystic 2025 prompt 5, withered flowers, also on AO3:

“He’s not coming back, you know.”

Jaskier tears his gaze away from the vase of withered flowers on the windowsill and glares at his best friend. “He will. He’s just…late.”

“Jaskier,” Priscilla says, very gently, “it’s been a month.”

Jaskier takes a shaky breath. “And no one’s found a body, so he’s not dead.”

Priscilla sighs, but she turns the subject to their mutual nemesis’s most recent terrible album, and Jaskier manages to distract himself for the rest of the afternoon with ragging on Valdo Marx and writing half of a new duet and going down a delightful rabbit hole of learning about the history of chocolate chip cookies.

And then Priscilla leaves, and Jaskier is alone in the too-big house again. He slumps down in the breakfast nook and reaches out to touch one flower petal very delicately. They’re nothing special - not storebought roses, not hothouse orchids. Just buttercups, gathered by the side of the road, because Geralt is secretly a complete and utter sap.

He always brings Jaskier flowers when he comes back from a contract, and Jaskier puts them in a vase on the windowsill and sighs happily over them until the next ragged bouquet.

Usually, Geralt takes a couple of contracts a week, and the flowers don’t have time to wilt more than a little.

Usually, Geralt isn’t gone for a month.

He’d said this would be a longer contract, yes, but Jaskier had thought he meant a week, maybe two at the outside. Not this endless awful waiting. And Geralt’s phone just goes straight to voicemail, and his brothers aren’t picking up their phones - not that Lambert is ever great at it, but he’ll usually answer texts at least - and the horrible waiting is driving Jaskier mad.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until his phone rings, over on the counter where he left it, and he startles and discovers the sun has set and the entire kitchen is dark. He fumbles to his feet, tripping over the table leg, and catches himself on the counter with a curse.

Suspected Spam, the screen reads, and Jaskier pushes the reject call button with another muttered obscenity and flicks on the light. Dinner. He should eat, even if his appetite is terrible these days. Priscilla will be so disappointed in him if he admits to skipping another meal.

He’s rummaging in the fridge for whatever might still be edible - there’s leftovers from a dinner out with Essi, that’s probably still good - when he hears a car pulling into the driveway.

He slams the fridge shut and goes scrambling down the hallway, tripping over his own shoes and thudding against the door, scrabbling for the doorknob for a long moment before he manages to flip the lock and yank the door open.

Geralt is standing next to his battered, well-loved old station wagon, gaunter than he ought to be, shoulders slumped with exhaustion -

And in one hand he holds a little clump of buttercups, the yellow petals seeming to glow under the porch light.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes.

Geralt gives him a tiny, weary smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

Jaskier half-tumbles down the porch steps and tackles Geralt back against the car, clinging to him tightly; Geralt lets out a soft oof and wraps his arms around Jaskier just as hard.

“You asshole, I thought you were dead,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, nuzzling at Jaskier’s hair and inhaling deeply. “Phone fell in a swamp.”

“Of course it did,” Jaskier sighs.

“Missed you,” Geralt admits. “There kept being more kikimoras.” There’s a vast weariness in his voice; Jaskier can only imagine day after day slogging through a swamp, forever chasing horrid creatures, bone-tired and filthy and injured.

“Come on,” he says, straightening up and kissing Geralt gently. “I’ll draw you a bath.”

Geralt smiles and offers the buttercups. Jaskier takes them reverently.

They’ll look lovely on the windowsill, a brilliant gold reminder that Geralt is home at last.

#my writing #geraskier #domaystic2025

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fredswrite · 2 months ago

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A/N: Oh myyyyy. My first James Kelly fic I’m so happy hehe. I spent so much time on this and I hope you enjoy this just as much as me!!

SUMMARY: After your car broke down, you don’t really have a choice but to go to the nearest auto shop you can find. What a surprise to see that a certain James is working there.

WC: 1.2K

WARNING: None for this chapter.

MLST part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5?

ONE NIGHT STAND

The auto shop wasn’t much to look at.

Its sign was half-lit, one of the bulbs flickering against the gray sky. The garage doors were rusted at the edges, and a battered old truck sat out front like it hadn’t moved in weeks. You hadn’t even noticed the place before today, even though you must’ve walked past it dozens of times. But when your car sputtered out two blocks from your apartment and refused to turn over, no click, no crank, nothing, this place suddenly felt like your only option.

But when you walked inside, the bell ticking at your arrival, you saw the man you least expected to see, hell, you wanted to forget him.

You weren’t supposed to see him again.

That was the unspoken agreement, the deal made somewhere between the second whiskey and the third kiss. A night of heat and nothing more. No last names. No texts. No follow-up.

And yet, there he was.

James.

Standing in the middle of the open garage bay, his shoulders broad under a blue work overall smeared with grease, his sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight caught on his forearms as he leaned over the open hood of a car, one hand steady on the frame, the other wiping a rag across the side of his wrist.

You stopped mid-step. Your breath caught. The engine noise faded into the background like someone hit mute on the world.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

You could leave. You should. But your car died on the side of the road not ten minutes earlier, and the old guy at the front desk had called ahead to this shop for a repair. It was supposed to be just a quick fix. A battery, maybe. A cable.

Not him.

You took a step forward. Gravel crunched under your black boots. His head turned from the car he was working on at the sound.

And then those eyes, the ones you hadn’t been able to forget, locked onto yours.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

For a second, you couldn’t tell if he recognized you. His expression didn’t shift. No smirk. No flicker of embarrassment. Just the same unreadable stare he’d given you that night, right before he kissed you like he didn’t know how to be gentle, like he hadn't eaten in days.

Then his jaw tightened.

He knew.

“Can I help you?” His voice was low. Unchanged. Familiar in a way that made your chest feel like it was cracking open.

You opened your mouth. It took a second for the words to come.

“My car died,” you said. “I called and they sent me here. He said one of his guys would take a look.”

James nodded once, slowly. “You’re the Civic?”

You nodded.

He didn’t say anything else. Just walked past you toward the front office, all calm professionalism. Like you were a stranger. Like he hadn’t pressed you against a hallway wall two months ago and whispered your name into your neck like a confession.

You followed him into the office.

The same old man was waiting behind the desk, cheerful and oblivious. He handed you a clipboard and asked you the usual questions: make, model, last time you had it serviced. You answered mechanically, pen scratching across paper as your ears rang.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel James watching you. Not obviously. Not directly. But it was there, the weight of it. The question in his silence.

He whistled low at the battery code and sent one of the younger guys to go pick up your car. “Might be a quick fix,” he said, glancing between you and James. “Unless the starter’s fried.

“I’ll check it,” James said, already turning back toward the garage.

You hesitated. “James—"

He stopped as you left the office to meet him by the counter.

Didn’t look back. Just stood there, spine straight, hands on his hips.

You dropped your voice. “You weren’t gonna say anything?”

He turned then. Slowly. Blue eyes locked on yours, sharper than you remembered.

“I didn't realize it was you.”

“And now that you know?”

A beat.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

There was no heat in his voice. No guilt either. Just that same steady calm, like he never let himself react too fast. That same tension you’d felt after he kissed you the first time, like he was always holding back more than he gave.

You stepped toward him, just a little. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough that the air shifted between you.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you said.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a second. Then back to your eyes.

“We weren't supposed to, didn’t want to explain anything.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

The words stung more than they should have. But he didn’t say it like it was cruel. He said it like it had cost him something, too. But that was the engagement you both signed when you shared your kisses.

“And now?” you asked, quietly.

James glanced toward the bay. The clang of tools echoed in the background. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You want the truth?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “But I figured you moved on. People like you don’t circle back.”

You blinked. “People like me?”

“People who stick to comfort. I’m not that kind of guy.”

Your heart thudded once. Twice.

“Well,” you said, voice soft but steady, “I guess the universe decided you were for today.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was the closest you’d seen to something real. You don't think he even smiled that night, but the alcohol didn't help.

“You want me to pretend we don’t know each other?” he asked.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I said.”

He didn’t speak for a long second. Then he stepped forward. Close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin beneath the grease and sweat and metal. Close enough to remember exactly how he’d looked above you in the half-light of that one messy night.

“I don’t forget that easily.” he said.

Neither did you.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. But his hand brushed yours as he passed toward the door.

He walked towards your car, which had been towed into the parking lot. Your heartbeat shattered out of your chest like a hammer.

And this time, he didn’t leave.

TAGS: @haydenchristensenisbae @f1wh0recom (lmk if you want to be added)

#james kelly fluff #james kelly x reader #hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker x reader #hayden christensen x reader #fred’s one shot #fred’s fic #fredswrite #sam monroe #stephen glass

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brklynbxby · 2 months ago

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closed starter for @mysteriousxgirls

Medellín, 7:03 a.m.

The gates slid open with a mechanical groan, like they hated letting anyone go. Diego stepped through them without looking back, clutching a small plastic bag that held five years of state-issued life: a worn Bible, a couple of letters, and a photo of Liyana so creased it had white veins spiderwebbing across her smile. He wore what the prison gave him — a plain grey shirt that clung awkwardly to shoulders that had grown broader with time, khaki trousers stiff at the seams, and slip-on shoes that felt like cardboard under his feet. Over it all, a cheap navy hoodie hung off his frame, the zipper sticking halfway up. It wasn’t cold, but he kept it on anyway. It felt like armour, flimsy as it was. He was twenty-four when they took him in — caught with two kilos in the backseat of a borrowed car, set up to carry the weight for someone higher on the ladder. He’d known better. He just hadn’t been given a choice. Or maybe he had, and he picked wrong. Prison was what people said it was: cold, loud, brutal in the quiet moments. Fights over nothing, guards who didn’t give a damn, food that tasted like wet cardboard and regret. Bland oatmeal for breakfast, beans and rice on repeat, sometimes a mystery meat that smelled like burnt rubber. He never asked what it was. You learned not to.

Now he stood outside, breathing air that didn’t smell like bleach or desperation. The sun felt surreal on his face. A battered red pickup rolled up to the curb, horn tapping twice. Mateo. A friend from school, before everything. They hadn’t talked in years, but Diego had called him last month — just to see if anyone from his past still picked up. A lot didn’t but Mateo did. “Damn,” Mateo said, leaning over to push the passenger door open. “You look older.” Diego smirked faintly, sliding in. “Fuck, I feel older.” As they pulled onto the main road, Mateo glanced at him. “So what’s the move, hombre? You want a beer or a burger?” “A burger,” Diego said without hesitation. “Biggest one they’ve got. And fries. Real fries. Not that half-cooked cafeteria shit. You know they served this one thing, they said it was chicken, but it was grey. Grey, man.” Mateo laughed, shaking his head. “Welcome back to the real world. You’re getting a double with bacon and cheese.”

They hit a drive-thru just outside the city. As Mateo ordered, Diego pulled out his phone — cheap, secondhand, barely holding charge as the red bar kept reminding him. He stared at Liyana’s number. A picture of them still as the contact photo. A picture back when life was simpler. A date they went on at a milkshake shop, they must’ve been around 18 years old. His thumb hovered over the screen before he pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice. Straight to voicemail. He stared at the screen for a second, then tucked the phone into the pocket of his khaki trousers. Mateo didn’t ask — just handed him the burger. “Liyana?” Diego nodded once. “She still in the city?” He asked again. “I think so?” Diego announced before he peeled the wrapper back slowly. The two had been together since high school. “She wrote me letters. Visited. Then one day she said she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep her life on hold for me. I don’t blame her, man. She deserves the fucking world and she was always way more than just my girl. But I told her — when I got out, I’d find her. I’d make it right.” He took a bite, chewing slowly, like the flavour hurt. “I lost her once. That’s on me. But I’m not losing her again.” Mateo looked over at him for a long second, the truck humming under them. “You sure that’s a door that’s still open?” Diego didn’t answer right away. He just looked out the window as the city came into view, bright and busy and full of things he hadn’t touched in five years. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m knocking until my fingers bleed.”

#mysteriousxgirls #c:d.vargas #diego x liyana

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whisperofaflame · 2 months ago

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♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 3: The Cat, the Witch and the Spider

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend the rest of the day in Wanda's company, anticipating the return of her wife, Natasha.

Word Count: 6.6k

Featuring: A really cute cat, and the first appearance of Natasha.

When you pull yourself out of your daydream, you realise you haven’t been to the bathroom for hours, and you really need to pee. You stand up and hastily make your way out the bedroom and into the bathroom on the same floor. You’re so focussed on your need that it isn’t until after, when you’re washing your usable hand at the sink, that you notice the state of yourself. Starting at your chin and spreading up your right cheek is a patch of pink, grazed skin. You look awful; it’s very evident that you endured something untoward recently. It looks clean though, so you consider that someone must have seen to it at some point this morning, since it most likely came from your close encounter with the tarmac, and that must have left some residue. It’s funny, how seeing your injuries in the mirror triggers your brain to receive the pain. You can feel the sting in your cheek now that you know it is there, now you understand the signals. You wonder if it was all getting mixed up with the shoulder pain before.

You look down at the rest of you, seeing your top is worn thin beneath the sling, where it dragged along the road. Your jeans too look a little battered, but there don’t seem to be any rips or holes. You wonder what your legs look like beneath, whether there are more scrapes hidden under the denim, or any purple patches emerging under your skin. You’d really like to change out of your jeans into something more comfy, but it occurs to you that it’s going to be an ordeal to change with only one arm, and your non-dominant arm at that. Even going to the toilet was a faff.

Looking at yourself in the mirror again, you realise there is perhaps one thing you can do to improve your appearance even a little. Your hair is sticking up all over the place, half in and half out of the bobble you wrapped around your ponytail before you left your flat this morning. No wonder Wanda keeps brushing it out your eyes. And as lovely as it feels to have her gentle touch, you’d much rather look presentable in front of her.

You remember there is a mirror in the walk-in closet of your bedroom, which you glanced in your periphery when Wanda was showing you around. So you head back there, and wiggle your hairbrush out the toiletries bag, after wrestling with the zip a while. You’ve found it’s best to attempt everything with one hand first, and only employ the dangling fingers of your right arm in the direst of straights, since any use of that side inevitably provokes an intensive throbbing in your broken bone. So you wrangle the tool out with a single fumbling hand and approach the mirror with a grimace of determination.

It’s clumsy work, making you really how lopsided your muscles must be in your body, but you just about manage to tame your hair with your left hand. That is, until you gain confidence and start making fast, cocky strokes — which you simply don’t have the dexterity to control. The full weight of the hairbrush, plus the momentum you’ve pushed in with your hand, collides with your collarbone, and you have to bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. You hiss out through the cracks, scrunching your eyes shut and squeezing out a few tears. A range of swear words run through your head as you try to fight the feeling with ferocious thoughts.

It doesn’t really go away, but it does subside a tiny bit after half a minute of agony. You force yourself to take deep breaths and look up at yourself again. It’s good enough; no more hair brushing for now, you decide.

You don’t feel particularly tired anymore; your dozing in the car seems to have been enough to revitalise you. So there’s nothing to do but go downstairs and join Wanda in the kitchen. You wonder about bringing something down with you, something to do, but you decide against it. For now, you’ll just go with the flow.

You leave the bedroom door open as you leave, since it feels private enough tucked away at the top of the stairs, and you don’t have anything to hide anyway. Then you take careful, quiet steps down the winding staircase. Down to the level with Wanda’s bedroom, then down again to the entrance level, as the sound of classical music slowly seeps into your consciousness.

You turn to your left at the bottom of the stairs, stepping softly into the kitchen in your ankle socks. Wanda is at the stove but she twists to face you, greeting you with an all-encompassing smile, which reaches her eyes and softens her shoulders.

She’s so beautiful.

“Here, sweetheart,” Wanda says, pulling out a bar stool from under the island in the middle. “Take a seat while I cook.”

You awkwardly shimmy onto the high stool, feeling off-balance due to your rigid right side. Then you place your good hand on the counter and push against it to spin the stool, so you can face Wanda. She places a hand gently on your knee.

“I’m making a big omelette for us,” she tells you with a smile. Then she tilts her head slightly. “I hope that’s okay?”

You nod, feeling dazed. It’s hard to focus like this, when your senses are assaulted by her kindness from all avenues — her voice, her smile, her touch. Wanda gives your knee a light squeeze, then she turns back to the pan on the hob. You chew your lip and press your hand between your legs, just above your knees. It’s only now that one arm is out of action that you realise how fidgety you are, since you’re constantly initiating motions to clasp your hands or arms together, all of which have to be aborted when you remember your arm is off-duty. Instead, your feet find a little rung on the stool and you lightly bounce your left leg up and down while you watch Wanda. She’s moving so fluidly, her body responding ever so slightly to the music playing from a radio on the corner of the counter. She hums a little too, happily occupied in her cooking. You let the sight, the sound, the smell wash over you.

When Wanda finishes the omelette, she pulls two plates out of one of the overhead cupboards and begins plating up. Your processing is so slow in the wake of the accident that it’s only when she lifts the plates and turns that the idea of offering help occurs to you.

“Sorry — can I do anything?” You stand up from the stool, and it creaks a little with your hasty motion.

Perhaps Wanda sees a certain desperation in your eyes, because she gives you a token task to do.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Could you bring the glasses over, please? I’ll come back and get the jug.”

You nod, and wait until she’s walked past you before approaching the counter and gently stacking the two glasses Wanda took from the cupboard. Then you carry them across to the dining table with your remaining hand. Wanda passes you again on her way back, and smiles. You duck your head to hide flushed cheeks, and set the glasses down one at a time, beside each plate. Wanda turns the volume down on the radio, then fills the jug from under the tap and then carries it over, meeting your watchful eyes. She sets it down, then pulls out the chair beside you. You’re about to move to the other side of the table, sure you’ve managed to accidentally hover at her spot, but then she gestures with her hand for you to sit.

“Thank you,” you mumble, as you obey without question. You slide in front of the chair, and lean down to pull it forward, but it moves slowly without your input. So you sit, and turn back to see Wanda smiling down at you. She briefly places a hand on your intact shoulder, then moves round the table, taking the seat opposite you.

A warm, cosy feeling settles in your stomach. You feel a little exposed, with her facing you, but her kindness is chipping away at your discomfort and softening your demeanour. Wanda picks up her fork and flicks her eyes towards your plate meaningfully, so you lift yours too, and begin to eat.

It’s a little awkward, only having one hand, but luckily the omelette isn’t too difficult to cut with the side of your fork. The two of you eat in peaceful tandem, and you’re surprised by the ease of the silence, the lack of pressure to speak. It’s appreciated, because you can’t think of anything to say right now, and your brain probably wouldn’t comply if you were obliged to answer any questions.

The first interruption of the meal comes from the stairs, a loud and insistent meow which makes you jump. You turn to see a small white cat approaching the table with slightly skittish steps as it scopes out the two human bodies at the table.

“Oh, silly me,” Wanda chuckles. “I’m sorry Y/N, I forgot to tell you… Meet Mayakovsky. Or, Myau-kovsky, as Nat calls him. Because he meows so much.”

Mayakovsky stops a few steps from the table, tail flicking and eyes watching you intently. You glance at Wanda for permission, and she smiles. So, very slowly, you crouch down on the floor, and extend your left arm, hand in a fist except for your index finger, which you stretch out for a greeting.

Mayakovsky’s tail settles into an upright curl, and you wait patiently, trying not to move or stare at him too intensely. Soon, your patience is rewarded by his approach, cautious at first, but then confident as he begins to trust you. He boops his nose against your finger, then goes round to his right, rubbing his cheek against your fist and sliding along your outstretched arm. Your face lights up at his acceptance, and as he circles behind you, tail wrapping round your legs as he goes, you slowly turn your head to Wanda and grin happily.

“Well, he’s taken to you rather quickly, sweetheart,” she says, laughing lightly.

When Mayakovsky comes back around to your front, you slowly sit down on the floorboards, and offer your hand again. When he rubs his head against you, you turn it into a testing stroke, and you hear and feel him purring against you.

“You’re very handsome,” you whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He is very handsome,” Wanda agrees, “but he’s also a bit of a liability.”

“Really?” you ask, wondering what sort of antics he gets up to.

“He’s deaf, but also not very coordinated, so he often falls off things when he gets a fright. If you need to get his attention or let him know you’re there, it’s best to step heavily on the floor so he can feel the vibrations.”

You nod, and look back at Mayakovsky, who’s nudging you to give him more pets. His whiskers are tickling against you, making you giggle. You stroke him a while longer, until he gets bored, or remembers what he came in for. He trots over to Wanda, and meows loudly again, like he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being. Which, you suppose, he can’t.

“OK, OK, I’ll get you something,” Wanda tells him, standing up. You return to your seat at the table and watch as she goes into the kitchen and takes a bag of cat food from a cupboard near the door. Then she pours a small amount into a bowl, partially hidden under a shelf, which might be why you missed it when she showed you around. Once the bag is away and Mayakovsky’s face is buried in the bowl, she opens the balcony door a little, letting in a welcome breeze.

“Nat thinks I spoil him too much,” Wanda sighs, coming back to you and leaving Mayakovsky to eat. “But I can’t help it, he’s just too cute.”

“He is,” you agree, taking another bite of your omelette. “How long have you had him?”

“Not long; I adopted him less than a year ago. Nat wasn’t happy at first,” Wanda laughs. “But then, it was a surprise for her — I adopted him the day I found out about him, and didn’t have a chance to warn her. It took her a while, but I think they’re quite fond of each other now, though neither of them will admit it.”

You grin, but inside you’re beginning to feel a little worried about meeting Natasha. You can’t help but feel that you, like Mayakovsky, are a surprise arrival. And you’re certainly nowhere near as cute as him, which must have helped ease the blow.

Mayakovsky finishes his food, and trots out the slight opening of the door to the balcony. Wanda explains that there’s a cat flap downstairs too, so he can get out even if the door is closed. You finish your omelette and drink some more water, feeling the cold liquid dripping down your throat and quenching the thirst you hadn’t registered until now.

Wanda stands to clear the table, and you help her stack the plates and carry everything through to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, as she loads the plates, cutlery and glasses into the dishwasher.

You shrug. “I’m okay. A bit sore though.”

“Of course, sweetheart” she nods, then glances at her watch. “You can have some more painkillers in an hour.”

Your head tilts in question, wondering how she knows this. Wanda huffs out a half-laugh, and smiles at your confusion.

“The doctor who gave us your medication, darling. She said you could take it every six hours, but we should count from the drugs you were given in the ambulance around nine this morning.”

“Oh,” you say, realising you remember none of this, despite your attempts to appear engaged in the hospital. Maybe the concussion is affecting you more than you think.

“It’s okay honey, I can keep track for you until you’re feeling a bit better.” Wanda reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I can’t imagine how confusing all of this must be for you, but you’re doing just fine, alright?”

There’s a tensing, twisting feeling in your chest; you feel so comfortable and self-conscious at the same time, and you don’t know how that can be.

“Now, what would you like to do this afternoon? I wondered about watching a film downstairs, to let your body rest a bit. What do you think?”

You shrug, then nod very slightly. You don’t have any other ideas, and a movie sounds nice. Internally, you wonder if she will join you. You hope that she will join you.

“Alright,” she says, closing the dishwasher. “Let’s go down, then.”

You scoot out of the way to let her lead, still not confident enough to initiate anything. She smiles at you ask she passes, and looks over her shoulder to watch you tiptoeing behind her. When you reach the stairs, you’re able to use the banister on the left side to reassure yourself on your descent. You still feel off-balance with your right arm strapped tightly against your torso, and as the painkillers begin to wane inside your body, the bruising impact of the crash is beginning to emerge in your legs too. Wanda watches you the whole way down, glancing back and pausing when you slow.

“That’s it honey,” she encourages you softly. “Take it slow.”

When you reach the bottom, she grants you a quiet “good job”, and you bite your lip in an attempt to restrain the blushing.

Wanda leads you to their living room space, sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. You sidle behind the coffee table and perch down slowly, lowering yourself with your good arm on the sofa and leaving an appropriate gap between you. Sinking in to the sofa and surrounded by cushions, your jeans suddenly feel more restrictive and uncomfortable on your body. The denim grating against grazed skin, digging in to your tummy as you sit. You begin to regret leaving them on and not changing when you could. You’ll just have to bear it, and hope that you can be distracted from the feeling.

“What would you like to watch?” Wanda asks, picking up the remote and turning the TV on.

You shrug. It’s silly, and a little rude maybe, so you force yourself to find the words. “Don’t know.” Still, it feels insufficient. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to think…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reassures you, interrupting your babbling explanation. “Let me think for you. Just let me know your thoughts if and when you can.”

You nod, with a small smile of relief. It’s a welcome reprieve, to be given the opportunity to rest. Leaning back against the cushion, you feel your muscles relax, making you realise how much tension you’ve been holding in them for hours. Wanda watches you, and smiles at your contentment.

You look up at the TV screen, your breath slowing. Wanda navigates to Netflix, and flicks through some options. You find it hard to keep up with the changing images, so you let your eyes wander a little, turning slowly to face her and gaze at her intent expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, thinking. “When I’m feeling under the weather I like to watch something relaxing, like a Studio Ghibli film.”

You perk up at that. “I love Studio Ghibli films!” you pipe up, eyes jumping back to the screen.

“Have you seen this one?” Wanda asks, highlighting Kiki’s Delivery Service. You frown, and shake your head. “It’s one of my favourites,” she tells you, and you turn back to her.

“Can we watch it then?” you ask, realising you’ve assumed she’ll stay, but hoping she intended to anyway.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s see if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

You smile, sinking deeper into the sofa, happy that she seems to be settling down to stay too. She starts playing it, and tucks her feet up so that her legs are crossed on the sofa beside you. Her knee is very close to you now; you can feel the heat of her body. But you force yourself to focus on the screen, which doesn’t turn out to be hard. You’re very quickly transfixed by the gorgeous animation, the gutsy young witch and her doleful cat companion, Jiji. You’re so engrossed that you gradually forget where you are, and who you’re with. In the scene when Jiji the cat sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry into the air, you giggle and pull your feet up onto the sofa, forgetting Wanda’s proximity. Your foot bumps into hers, and you’re brought back to earth at once, blushing at your clumsiness and the level to which you have become invested in the film. You tuck your feet underneath you a little tighter, so your crossed left foot can’t bump into her right. And you stare back at the screen, determined not to look at Wanda and show her your burning face.

After a while, Wanda puts her feet down on the floor and shuffles to the edge of the sofa.

“I’m just going to get your meds, sweetheart,” she whispers in explanation. “I don’t want you to leave it too late and get more sore.”

You blink at her, thoughts still occupied by the film. As she stands, your brain finally catches up.

“Thank you,” your murmur, and she gives you a little smile before passing in front of the coffee table and returning to the stairs.

In her absence, you shuffle back into the left corner of the sofa so that you can rest you legs out without intruding into Wanda’s spot. It’s a little uncomfortable though, because you need to stay at a certain angle to avoid pressing your bad side into the sofa.

When Wanda returns, she is carrying a glass of water in one hand and the pill bottle in the other. She sees your shifted position, and frowns briefly.

“Honey, switch over to my side,” she directs you gently. “It looks uncomfortable, having your shoulder against the cushions.”

Because she’s phrased it as an instruction, rather than a question, you feel obliged to obey without offering an initial polite refusal. You swing your legs to stand, and sidle between the coffee table and the sofa to sit in the opposite corner instead. Indeed, when you sit down it is a lot more comfortable. With your right arm facing out you can lean back fully, and relax your core muscles. Plus, there’s still the hint of warmth on the cushion, the ghost of her body heat left behind.

Wanda crouches down beside you, and holds out the glass of water. You have to sit up again a little bit, afraid of spilling, before taking it in your left hand. Then she opens the pill bottle, pressing and twisting with both hands to undo the seal and overcome the child-lock. She shakes one pill out into her hand, then twists the lid back on with the tips of her fingers and places the bottle onto the table.

“Ah,” she says, realising at the same time as you that you now don’t have a hand to take the pill with. A wild, imagined image of her placing it on your tongue leaps to the forefront of your imagination, and you’re suddenly gripped by the terror that she can somehow see it, read it on your rubescent face. You hand back the glass, averting your gaze, and let her swap it for the small white pill instead. You open your mouth just a little to let it in, then take back the glass and wash it away with the water. It gets a little caught in your throat, and you pull a face without meaning too, grimacing as you try to flush it down with more water. Finally, it relents its grip and disappears down the pipe.

Wanda takes the glass back from you in her right hand, and simultaneously brushes your hair behind your ear with her left, making you catch your breath at her soft, whispering touch.

“Hopefully this will help your pain a bit,” she says, frowning at you sympathetically. You lean back again, looking into her grey-blue eyes, blinking stupidly. Then you nod, because she doesn’t seem to be moving, and you’re not sure if you should be doing or saying something. She smiles at this, and shuffles in front of you to sit on the other side of the sofa, where she’ll surely also feel the warmth of your body beneath her. She’s also chosen to sit right beside your feet, and you can almost feel the charged space between your toes and her thighs.

“Do you want me to go back a bit?” she asks, gesturing to the screen when you look back at her in confusion.

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. She smiles, nods, and turns back to watch the film. And you do the same, tension evaporating as you focus on the story again, letting the music lull you. You’re so comfy, and the movie is so calm and comforting with its soft colours and gentle music. It gets a little blurry and harder to see, but you don’t really notice, and you definitely don’t mind. Slowly, your eyes flicker and begin to close, as you drift off to sleep.

When you wake, you find a soft blanket draped over your body. Turning to face the screen, you see it has been turned off. Wanda is sitting at the far end of the sofa, tucked into the opposite corner, legs crossed and hands rhythmically knitting between them. She glances up, and her face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good sleep?”

You have to think a moment, still catching up to where you are and what has happened. Finally, you nod.

“How long was I out for?” you ask quietly.

“Just over an hour,” Wanda tells you, her voice gentle, like she’s trying not to startle you so soon after waking. She leans down and places her knitting on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “I was just thinking I should wake you up soon actually. Nat should be home from work shortly, and I’d better start making us some dinner.”

You sit up, eager not to hold her back from her daily routine. The blanket falls away from you a little, reminding you that she must have tucked it in around you while you were sleeping. The thought makes you feel a lightheaded, giddy kind of joy. But then you realise that this fuzzy, cosy state you are in is not how you want to be when you’re introduced to Natasha, who sounds capable and serious and discerning.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and get changed? You ask, feeling there is finally enough incentive to justify the inevitable pain of removing your scuffed clothes.

“Of course, darling. Do you want any help?”

“No thanks,” you say hastily, terrified at the notion of her seeing your body when you’re trying so hard to contain (and deny) all your haphazard emotions. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, fixing you with a look that makes you feel like you’re being x-rayed. “It might be tricky with your sling, honey. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure her, trying to sound confident, despite fully agreeing that yes, it will be tricky.

“Okay,” she relents. “But I’d prefer to wait outside your room, and then you can call me if you get stuck, alright?”

You nod, biting your lip as you consider the premise, imagining getting stuck halfway through changing and having to desperately call for aid in such a compromising position. The thought makes you shudder.

You peel back the blanket, attempting to fold it but hardly managing with one hand. Wanda smiles at you though, so you think it will do.

The two of you walk up the stairs together, climbing the three flights to your — no, the guest — bedroom. Once there, you take a deep breath, summoning all your resolve to complete this task. Wanda waits, as promised, outside, and you close the door over most of the way behind you.

It’s an almighty ordeal: even just shimmying out of your jeans and pulling on a loose pair of joggers feels like a marathon effort, and involves a lot more painful leaning than you expected. With your lower half sorted, you immediately realise how stupid you were to assume you could manage any of the next part by yourself. It dawns on you just how dependent you are now, at least until your collarbone heals enough to move your arm without excruciation. Throwing caution to the wind, you attempt to undo the sling, breathing heavily in wheezing pants of pain. But then you are stuck, crying out as the weight of your arm is released and you are forced to tense it in position, the energy rippling through your bones.

“Y/N, honey, can I come in?” Wanda asks, sounding desperate.��

You can’t reply verbally, you’re expending all your effort on trying not to scream. But the door opens anyway, and she’s rushing to you, hushing you gently, hands taking over with reassuring efficiency. You close your eyes as she supports you, checks for your consent. When she asks what you want to change into you open your eyes just enough to gesture at the baggy t-shirt you laid out on the bed. You nod pathetically whenever she asks if she can proceed, desperate just to get it over with, no longer worried about your dignity since it’s already gone, deserted from your body along with your tears.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be too forward, and you can absolutely say no if you’re not comfortable, but do you maybe want me to take your bra off? I just wonder if it’s adding pressure to your collarbone…” Wanda asks, cautious and gentle.

You really think about this. It occurs to you that it will have to come off at some point tonight, and maybe it’s better if you get it all out of the way now, rather than having to rehash this undignified sequence again later today.

“Um, w-would you?” you ask, very quietly. “It’s just, it is kind of uncomfortable, and I don’t… I can’t…” You tail off, but she is quick to reassure you.

“Of course I can, sweetheart. This must all feel so awkward, hm? But it’s okay. I’m happy to help, you just need to let me know if you want me to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and duck your eyes down again.

It’s embarrassing, yes, but Wanda is very careful and respectful as she helps you undress. She focussed her attention entirely on keeping you right arm at the least-worst angle, and averts her gaze expertly from the source of your self-consciousness. Slowly, so as not to jar you, she slips the t-shirt through your sore arm and then over your head, letting you contort your left arm through the sleeve yourself. Then she gently reassembles the sling on your body, making sure it’s sitting right and the fabric of your t-shirt is smoothed out underneath.

“There,” she whispers, “all done.”

You breathe out a deep, relieved breath, and cautiously look up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” you tell her, really focussing on holding her gaze, since you are desperate to communicate the full extent of your gratitude. Your collarbone aches something rotten after all the contortion of changing, but you feel infinitely more comfortable now that you’re out of the clothes your body was violated in.

“You’re so welcome,” Wanda assures you, placing a hand on your head and smoothing down your hair in a light stroke. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start cooking. Do you want to join me, or would you like some time to yourself before dinner?”

Her touch is like a drug, one that leaves you desperately wanting more. You feel a tugging sensation inside you, one that yearns to stay near and languish in wait for more of that feeling, of her fingers against your skin, of her soft lips smiling nearby.

“Can I come with you, please?”

She smiles, and the small glint of her white teeth between her lips is like the glint of heaven’s gates breaking through the clouds.

“Of course, sweetheart. Such good manners,” she hums approvingly. You blush, and take her hand automatically, which you think she was holding out for you, but now you’re not sure. She doesn’t let you doubt though, because she squeezes your hand gently in hers, like she wanted it all along, even if she didn’t.

Back in the kitchen, you offer to help but Wanda distracts you with a recipe book, somehow convincing you to flick through and find something to bake tomorrow, and making you forget you ever asked to assist her. You’re gazing avidly at a photo of some expertly iced cupcakes when you hear a door opening in the distance, and turn around with a hint of trepidation.

Through the open-plan level, past the table and the armchairs, you can see a woman has entered the main door, and is putting her shoes away.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda calls out. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Your body cools at once in anticipation of meeting Natasha. Does she even know you’re here? Has Wanda told her to expect you?

Natasha approaches, her gait confident and casual. She’s maybe slightly shorter than Wanda, and her body is more lean. You can see the muscles in her arms as she walks, and you notice her posture is straight and strong. When she nears, you observe her face. She has dyed red hair, glossy and clean in a tight french-braid at the back. She’s also beautiful, in a striking, slightly intimidating way. She fixes you with an inquisitive stare, and you again have the feeling that you’re being x-rayed, though this time, it feels a little less friendly.

“Nat, did you get my message?” Wanda asks, walking over to her and giving a chaste kiss in greeting. Natasha reciprocates, but quickly returns her gaze to you, frowning slightly as she answers her wife.

“Only just,” she says shortly.

“Well,” Wanda smiles between you and her wife. “Nat, this is Y/N.”

“Natasha,” she says, nodding her head to you. And you’re caught between thinking that she’s introducing herself, versus instructing you to call her by her full name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natasha,” you say, but it comes out in a little squeak which rather diminishes the formal impression your were going for.

Natasha gives you a very brief smile, then takes a breath in and looks to Wanda.

“Right, I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay. When will dinner be?”

“No problem, my love. It should be ready in fifteen,” Wanda tells her, turning slightly so you can no longer see her expression, only the slight cocking of her head from the back. You think Natasha might give a small nod of her head, but it might have been a meaningless movement. Then she gives Wanda a quick kiss, and departs upstairs.

You watch her go, feeling a little crestfallen, and mentally chastising yourself for letting it get to you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Maybe she’s had a bad day. And besides, she’s entitled to feel a little taken aback by you, you’ve essentially gatecrashed their lives.

“Don’t worry about Nat, sweetheart,” Wands tells you quietly. “She… Well, it takes her a while to warm up to people. It’s not personal, okay?”

You look up at Wanda’s face, furrowed with concern like she yearns to make sure that you aren’t taking her wife’s behaviour to heart. Her words are a bit reassuring, though they don’t quite go all the way to assuaging the worry that you’re not wanted. But you nod, forcing a smile, because somehow it pains you more to see Wanda worried, and you desperately want to be a good guest for her, since she’s going to all this trouble to help you. So you try to reassure her in a casual manner.

“It’s okay — I hadn’t really noticed it anyway,” you say. It’s a lie, and perhaps an obvious one, judging by the way Wanda’s lips curl into a somewhat pitiful smile. But you don’t pay it much mind; your focus is stolen by her hand reaching out and taking hold of your left hand. She clasps your fingers from below and wraps her thumb on top to draw light circles on the back of your hand, watching as your body reacts unconsciously, eyes fluttering in hazy delight.

“Just give her some time,” Wanda hums, her words echoing in your brain like a mantra. “Soon she’ll be as taken with you as Mayakovsky and I are.”

You blush, and smile to yourself, looking at your lap as she squeezes your hand and lets you go. She returns to her cooking, and you turn back to look at the recipe book. But you’re not reading or looking at the pictures at all. None of the pages turn, as you’re engulfed by the giddy feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are wanted after all.

Eventually, Wanda pulls you out of your haze and asks you sweetly if you can set the table. You nod quickly, and almost fall off the stool with your eagerness. She chuckles and catches you with an arm at your waist.

“Careful, honey,” she laughs, and you grin bashfully in return.

You set the table in a slow, laboured manner, since you only have one arm to carry things, and Wanda gives you a light warning not to stack things when she sees you attempting to balance three plates in one hand. So you go one item at a time, trying to get the right balance between speed and stability. Natasha appears as you’re finishing, her hair loose and damp on her shoulders, watching you as she attempts to dry it with a towel. You avoid her gaze, feeling uncomfortable at being perceived so intensely by her. You wonder what Wanda told her in the message; you wonder what she thinks of you.

When Wanda calls for you both to take a seat, you wait for Natasha to sit first, scared of taking her place and causing a greater rift between you. She looks at you for a moment from her seated position, observing your body swaying slightly on the spot in indecision, before she pulls out the chair beside her. You bite your lip, and force yourself to smile at her, before travelling round the other side of the table and sitting down.

“You look a bit rough,” Natasha says bluntly. “What happened?”

“I, um, don’t really remember,” you say, in an awkward, stilted manner. “Wanda says I was hit by a truck at the intersection.”

Wanda carries over a big pan, filled with the sweet-smelling apricot and chickpea tagine she told you she was making.

“She was, Nat; it was awful,” Wanda explains, brow furrowing sympathetically at you as she relates the story. “It hit her from the side; I was right behind her, so she was flung onto my bonnet. I only just stopped in time — she could have been crushed otherwise.”

“Broken collarbone?” Natasha asks you, and you blink in surprise.

“Yes,” you respond, surprised by her quick and accurate diagnosis. “H-how did you know?”

Natasha shrugged. “Broke mine a few years ago. It really sucks, I’m sorry.”

You give her a small, grateful smile, which has to double up for two kindnesses when she takes your plate for you, serves you a portion, and places it down again.

“Thanks,” you murmur. She just nods simply, and focusses on serving herself.

Wanda asks some general questions about Natasha’s work day, and Natasha offers some vague answers in return. You’re not really listening though, you still feel a bit groggy from the pain and the meds and the sleep. Plus, you’re concentrating really hard on eating your tagine without spilling it on you.

The quiet sounds of chewing and light scraping of cutlery against plates is disrupted by a loud meowing from the door. Mayakovsky strides in, and you watch as he approaches Natasha’s chair, then opens his mouth to release a black, eight-legged mass which wriggles as it falls to the floor.

You and Wanda both jump in surprise, but Natasha just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course you would save this for me, malen'kiy negodnik,” she says with a dramatic sigh.And she confidently scoops up the spider in her hands, nimbly avoiding Mayakovsky’s desperate swipes and standing up with her hands cupped around his prey. You watch as she walks to the balcony door, opening it wider with her elbow, then steps outside and releases the spider into one of the plant pots. Mayakovsky stalks behind her, but then scarpers down the steps, abandoning his prey in search of something better.

Natasha comes back in, closes the door behind her with one of her toned arms, and walks to the sink to wash her hands.

“What would you do without me, ladies?” she calls out cockily.

And, hearing her husky voice and watching her self-assured movements, you realise with a jolt to your stomach that you may now have more than one crush to contend with.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the introductions of Natasha and Mayakovsky. Here is a photo of the cat that inspired him (the real version belongs to my friends; this beautiful boy is also deaf and he has a crooked tail so he's not very coordinated. He is blessed with pretty privilege, however). ♡

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #mommy wanda #mommy natasha #f/f fanfic #collision course #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff

141 notes · View notes

raineandsky · 5 months ago

Text

#140

The hero rips the shop door clean off its hinges, and demands into the fleeing crowds, “Where’s the thief?”

People seem much too busy leaping out the way of the hero’s assault to answer him. He surveys the scattering crowds idly, waiting for his heroic senses to kick in and decide on someone amongst the masses. It does after a long second, locking in on someone darting for the back entrance, and the hero doesn’t waste time guessing whether his assumption is right.

The door batters off the wall loudly as the villain stumbles down the steps. Probably a favour to the shop—the hero’s already caused enough damage to the front door. He steps out as the villain runs across the car park. He just watches for a moment as he goes, humming a laugh as the man almost runs straight into one of the parked cars.

The hero isn’t in any rush. He always catches his prey. This may be the villain’s life on the line, but to the hero this is a simple game of cat and mouse.

He finally gives chase as the villain disappears around the corner. It’s not hard; the villain’s barely halfway down the road when the hero catches up to him. He cuts the thief off, bringing him to a skidding halt, but this isn’t capture to the villain—it won’t be until the hero has him practically unconscious, probably. The thief turns on his heel and leaps down a side-alley.

The hero always found it funny that these fiends still try to escape him, even after his reputation started to get around—he always catches criminals, and it’s always worse for those who think they can get away.

Clearly this one hasn’t heard the stories. The hero blocks his escape, grabbing onto his shirt so he doesn’t try doing a one-eighty again. The villain makes some noise that sounds a bit like, “Augh!”

“Nice try,” the hero snaps coldly. The villain looks terrified, for lack of a better word. “Now give me the stuff you’ve stolen.”

With shaking hands, the villain reaches into his coat. The hero tenses, prepared to snatch a weapon away, but after a moment of fumbling the villain presents him with a single apple.

“You should know better than to mess with a hero.” The hero tightens his hold on the other’s shirt. “Show me what you actually took.”

The villain pulls a pained face. “That- That’s it. That’s all I took. It was a grocery store, there wasn’t much else to take.”

He barks a laugh, once, awkward. The hero isn’t laughing. “They sent me after you for an apple.”

He can kind of see it now. His shirt is crumpled, his coat plain, his hair neat. The expression of a scared animal. The hero scowls—this isn’t a villain.

He gives the thief a shove, sending him stumbling back. He almost trips over a brick laying on the floor. The sight makes the hero feel even more tricked.

He holds his hand out expectantly. “Give me that.”

The civilian looks at the apple sitting in his palm. Then he sighs and puts it in the hero's expectant hold.

“There’s nearly no money going into this city,” he comments as the hero takes a bite. “None of us normal people can afford anything.”

“Get a better job then.”

“Not all of us can be heroes.”

The hero glances at him. It sounds like it’s bordering an insult but the man isn’t looking at him, so he simply hums in disinterest before heading back to the shop.

“Thank you!” the shopkeeper cries when the hero appears in the doorway. “Did you catch the thief?”

The hero takes another bite of his apple. “No,” he says flatly. “What’d he take?”

“Basically my whole shop!” The shopkeeper gestures vaguely to the shop behind her, which frankly looks more ransacked by the hero’s entrance than an actual thief. “He’s probably taken half my profits for this month with him.”

The hero nods idly. He’s only half listening—he’s busy reining in his annoyance. “Sorry he got away, then.” The apple crunches loudly into the following silence. “Better luck next time.”

“Thank you for trying. I’ve no doubt he’ll be back—I’ll call you then!”

The shopkeeper shouts that last part, since the hero’s already checked out of the conversation and is making his way to the shattered front door.

He can’t believe he got called out here for this. These common shop owners don’t seem to remember that heroes have better things to be doing than chasing petty thieves. He wrecks the last standing glass panel on his way out to make the point.

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain #happy monday yalllllllll #(i say this from the throes of monday)

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penumbra-mayhem · 4 months ago

Text

And All That Follows (ch. 2)

aka: Put Your Ear Up to My Wall, Mistake My Heart for A Drumbeat

David fights to keep everything quiet, Asher takes on a new role, and Milo finds Tank (for better or worse).

Ch. 1 // Ch. 3 // ao3 // 4.6k words

(TW: death, car accident, grief, implied/referenced self-harm, vomiting, gore/blood, violence)

EDIT: new title (formerly known as The Fall of an Alpha, but i hated that name so i chose a new one)

————————————————

Sept 3. 2017, 11:52 pm

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David’s phone started vibrating as soon as he pulled away from the morgue. He’d placed it in his backseat—a habit Gabe had instilled in him years ago so he’d never be tempted to text and drive.

He ignored the buzzing, willing the rain battering against his car to drown out the sound. It worked; his phone eventually went silent, and David’s full attention was brought back to the barely visible road he was traversing.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Another call. He contemplated pulling over, but Gabe’s voice hummed in his head: Patience. Not everything needs an answer right away. He decided against it. Whoever was calling would realize he wasn’t available and leave a message.

The call ended.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

It started again. And again. And again. And again. As soon as a call ended, another began. He could feel them in his skull, like the buzzing was coming from his brain. Like his head was a freshly shaken wasp nest.

The wasps traveled down into his gut, twisting and tightening his intestines. They kept traveling, moving to his extremities. His hands went numb. Then his feet. He couldn’t feel the steering wheel. Or the gas pedal. Or the brakes. His vision began to tunnel.

No. He didn’t have time for this. He had a job to do. He needed to focus. He needed to get back to his apartment safely. He needed to get the key. He needed to go to his dad’s house. He needed to get into his study. He needed to throw up.

David found himself pulled off on the side of the road, doubled over in the rain, emptying his stomach into a bush. How embarrassing, throwing up like a little kid. That’s enough, he thought to himself, get it together. He stood up straight, but the movement was too quick and he found himself doubled over again.

Everything in him burned as it came up. It stung.

Retreating back to his car, David quickly checked his phone. Missed calls, voice messages, and texts from various pack members flooded his screen. Someone must have found out what happened. None of them seemed urgent—nor from Asher or Milo—so he put his phone on ‘do not disturb’ and returned it to its place in the back seat.

When he sat down behind the wheel, the wasps were gone. David started the car again and continued back home.

————————————————

Asher cradled his phone, rocking gently in an effort to appease his bawling body. He told himself he had until Milo texted with an update. Then he would pull himself together. His abdomen ached as wave after wave of mourning slammed into him.

He mourned for Gabe. The officer had said he’d died at the scene, but had it been instant? Had he suffered? Did he know he was dying? Did he try to move his legs only to realize he was paralyzed from the waist down? The neck down? Did he frantically gasp for breath as his lungs slowly, agonizingly filled with blood? Had he tried desperately to pry his arm from where it was pinned to reach his phone and call his son just one more time?

He mourned for his pack. Gabe was the founder. They’d never been without him. Would they survive? Would they break into dissension? Crumble apart without leadership? Asher had heard of the devastation past packs had gone through following the death of an alpha or a founder. Gabe had been both. And the pack didn’t even know he was gone. David had said he’d tell them tomorrow at the meeting, but was that the best way?

He mourned for David. David, whose family was already so small. Who already struggled to feel and show his emotions. Asher had seen the initial impacts of this loss. Cold. Detached. Devoid. Would David recover? Was this a wound he could ever heal from? Was he in pain? Asher assumed so, but if David was, he hadn’t shown it. Was he putting on a front, a wall he wouldn’t let anyone see behind? Or was he numb? Was that worrying David? Did he feel guilty he wasn’t feeling anything for his dad’s dea—

buzz buzz

Asher jumped at the vibration in his hands. He rose from the floor and stumbled over to the couch, wiping his face with his shirt. Milo had texted:

At Tank’s place, door was left open

Asher’s stomach dropped. His fingers were a messy flurry as he texted back:

shit

txt updts

or call

davids not bakc

He waited for a reply.

————————————————

Milo pulled into the parking lot of Tank’s apartment complex. He’d past the site of Gabe’s crash on the way, scanning for a glimpse of Tank or their bike. Thankfully, he’d found neither.

But he saw Gabe’s car, and that alone almost sent him into a spiral. No wonder Tank had sounded so wrecked; the driver’s side had crumpled like paper.

As he raced through the parking lot, Milo caught a glimpse of Tank’s motorcycle parked in a large puddle to his right. He’d been right; they’d come back here. Thank god.

Once at the entrance to Tank’s building, he pressed the buzzer for their door and waited. Nothing. He pressed it again. When he was met with the same result, he started pressing every button, hoping someone would let him in. Eventually the door unlocked, and he pushed through.

Milo bounded up the stairwell to Tank’s apartment, slipping and catching himself several times on the rain-slick steps. His throat tightened when he turned a corner and spotted their door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

As he walked towards it, he texted Asher:

At Tank’s place, door was left open

After a few moments, his phone buzzed with a series of replies:

shit

txt updts

or call

davids not bakc

When he reached their door, Milo pushed it open further and crept into the apartment. The curtains were all drawn and the lights were off, but Milo could slightly make out a series of objects on the floor. He felt around for a switch and flicked on a light.

All the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen were open and empty, silverware and broken dishes littering the floor of Tank’s tiny studio. Milo could practically track Tank’s movements, following the dents along the wall where they had hurled each cup and plate and fork and knife.

Then his eyes landed on blood—a piece of broken glass on the floor, glistening crimson along its sharp edge. Milo trailed the fat red drops to the closed bathroom door. The sight and faint smell of Tank’s blood made his head spin.

“Tank?” he called out.

A smear of blood glinted on the door handle. He gave two soft knocks. “Tank, please,” he tried again, “I know you’re in there.”

A wretched voice answered from the other side of the door, “Go away.”

He ignored them and tried the handle, grimacing at the slick feeling of fresh blood on his hand. Luckily, they’d left it unlocked.

Pushing the door open, Milo peered inside the dark bathroom. Tank was a huddled mass in the corner of their shower, head buried in their arms.

“I said go away, Miles!” they shouted, raising their head just enough to glare at him over their arms, eyes glinting with fury.

Milo flinched but didn’t leave. Crouching down, he spoke in as calm of a tone as he could muster, “Where’re you hurt, Tank?”

“Get. Out.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Milo replied, “Can I turn on the light?”

“No,” they snapped.

“Okay." Milo took out his phone and turned on his flashlight instead. He tried to ignore the trail of blood leading to Tank as he opened up their mirror cabinet, then the one under their sink.

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking for your first aid kit.”

“I don’t have a first aid kit,” they sneered.

Milo shined his light at Tank, who shrunk against it, burying their head again in their arms. They were soaking wet from the rain and shaking terribly. He cast the light away from them.

“Just leave!” they moaned.

“No. You’re injured, and since you have nothing to treat it with, I’m taking you back to Ash and David’s,” he retorted.

A snarl gurgled up from deep in Tank’s chest as Milo approached.

“You can growl at me all you want, I don’t give a damn.”

The snarl grew louder the closer he got. But once he kneeled down in front of them, it began to change, breaking up and losing its bite.

“I know,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes as Tank began to cry, “I know, Tank.”

He placed a tentative hand on their arm. They trembled under his touch, but didn’t pull away.

“Just come with me, please. You don’t have to talk about it. You can be as angry as you want. I don’t care. I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Milo said as he set his phone down, flashlight to the floor.

“I-I am,” they lied, their sobs warping their words.

“You’re bleeding from somewhere, I saw the blood in the kitchen and in here. So no, you’re not,” Milo countered.

“…it’s n-n-not b-bad,” Tank lied again.

“Can I see?”

Tank hesitated, then raised their head. Milo couldn’t make much out. He flipped his phone around, so the light pointed up at the ceiling.

He choked down a gasp at the sight of Tank’s face. The gash just under their left eye was deep, blood still pumping out slowly, drenching their cheek and dripping down their neck. It was in their hair, on their clothes, on their hands.

“Not that bad, my ass,” Milo muttered, “Tank, this needs a healer.”

“No. No healers,” they choked out, tears leaving trails in their blood.

Milo knew accepting any sort of medical help was difficult for Tank. They never talked about it, but he assumed there was some sort of trauma or pride or fear stopping them. He was trying to be understanding, he really was, but it was all too much. It was late, he was spent, Tank was bleeding, and Gabe was dead.

“Fine,” Milo spat, “You either go back to Ash and David’s and let me sew it up, cause it’s going to need stitches, or I stay here and call a damn healer. Your fucking choice.”

That shut them up. Their sobs subsided and they glared with all the fury left in their trembling body before muttering, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

————————————————

At the sound of the front door opening, Asher sprang up and raced to the hall. "Tank?"

David stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping like tears from his lashes. He looked as stoic as before, but now a sickly tinge covered his features.

"David," Asher breathed, "Was it...was it him?"

"Yes," he muttered, walking inside and shutting the door, "What happened?"

"What d'you mean?"

"You thought I was Tank." David stopped in front of him.

"I just uh...hoped..."

“What happened?” David repeated, his voice low and tense. He didn’t have the time nor energy for hesitation. His stare bored into Asher, demanding an answer.

"T-Tank saw Gabe's car," Asher spluttered. David's eyes widened. "They called Milo when they saw it. He had to tell them what happened, he—we couldn’t lie to them. Milo went to their place. He texted me when he got there but he hasn’t updated since.”

Of course. Of course they couldn’t have just waited to tell anyone until David got back. Or until tomorrow, like he told them. David pulled out his phone, turning off ‘do not disturb’. There were more missed calls and texts, but none from Milo or Tank. He pulled up Milo’s contact and called him.

“Hello?” Milo’s voice oozed with trepidation.

David’s was dry and sharp. “Is Tank ok?”

“…yes. We’re heading to my car now, we’ll meet you back at your place.”

“Are they hurt?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David started getting another call. He ignored it.

“Um…” David could tell Milo was choosing his words carefully, but for David’s sake or Tank’s he didn’t know. “Yes, but it’ll be ok.”

David gripped his phone tighter, but kept his rising worry out of his tone. He needed to stay level, anything less would just be detrimental to everyone’s safety.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Take them to a healer.”

David heard Asher mutter ‘fuck’ behind him. There was a long pause on Milo’s end, filled only with the sound of rain and Milo’s breathing as he walked.

“Milo.”

Finally, he replied, “We’ll be at your place soon.” And with that, Milo hung up.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

The buzzing in David’s head started again, echoing those from his phone. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he stormed past a bewildered Asher and into his bedroom.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“David? David, what did Milo say? Is Tank ok?” Asher called out as he followed, making the wasps in David’s head angrier. He watched David tear through the drawers of his desk, searching for what, Asher didn’t know.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Asher called his name several more times before David seemed to hear him. He whipped his head around.

“Is Tank hurt?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Yes,” David replied before continuing his search, “But Milo says it’s fine, so I’m hoping it’s not too bad. They won’t go to a healer, no surprise there, so they’re coming back here.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Who is calling you?”

David finally found what he was looking for; he pulled out the key and clipped it onto his key ring. “The pack. Someone must have found out. Maybe the wreck was on the news or someone saw it like Tank did. They’ve been calling since I left the morgue.”

David pushed past Asher again and started heading towards the front door. He fought back the wasps in his head.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Are you going to answer?” Asher asked as he followed.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“No.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Why not?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

He opened the front door. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “At the pack meeting.”

“David they can’t wait that long,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “They already know. Or they’ve at least heard rumors. You need to talk to them.”

“Well, I don’t have the time!” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “I’ve got to get to my dad’s house and figure all this shit out,” David growled. The wasps were winning; he was starting to lose focus. He turned to leave.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Then let me do it.”

David paused.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“What?” he asked over his shoulder.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Asher’s voice took on an edge David had never heard from him before, “Let me go with you and answer the calls,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…“I’ll still be near, so you can get to your phone if you need to. But this way, you won’t be distracted, and the pack won’t be left in the dark all night.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David wanted to say no. Having Asher near right now felt like a liability. But he was right. buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…The pack already knew, and keeping them in the dark was only going to incite panic. That and David needed the buzzing to stop, both from his phone and his head.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David unlocked his phone and handed it to Asher.

————————————————

“Hey, can you see who just texted me?” Milo asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

Tank wiped their hands as well as they could on their jeans before picking up Milo’s phone.

goin w david 2 gabes

key undr mat

b back l8r

“It’s Ash,” they reported, “He’s going to Gabe’s place with David? He said the key is under the mat and they’ll be back later.”

“Why’re they—nevermind. Can you text him back and let him know we’re almost to his place and also ask if David has a suturing kit? Password’s 0209.”

Almost to ur place, u got a suture kit?

tank???

The one and only, how’d u know?

u txt dif

y do u hav milos phone

He’s driving

oh rite

r u ok

Im fine, suture kit?

david says in bthrm

Gotcha

y do u need it

Dont worry bout it

————————————————

“…yeah Kelsey, it’s true…I know…we don’t know that yet…yes, tomorrow morning at 11…okay…hey, you text me if you need anything…okay…okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, try and get some rest…I will…bye K.”

Asher ended the call and trotted after David, who was already unlocking Gabe’s front door. He rubbed his eyes in the brief moment of silence before David’s phone started buzzing again.

“Hey, Mika…yeah, it was a car crash…”

David was stuck in the doorway. The foyer loomed before him, both nauseatingly familiar and eerily alien. His childhood home was now as much a husk as his father was. It made the wasps in David’s stomach writhe.

Asher was staring at him, David could feel it. So, he took a step inside. Then another. And another. It almost felt like trespassing.

There was a David who used to live here. Who at seven years old had learned the virtue of honesty when he admitted to breaking the kitchen window. Whose first loose tooth was yanked out by a string attached to the front door. Who used to visit every week after he moved out. Who mended the roof and repainted the baseboards. Who spent countless hours listening to his father’s stories by the fireplace.

That was not this David, the David treading across the floorboards like a thief.

He reached his father’s study and unlocked it with the key he’d retrieved earlier. Asher ended his call and said, “I’ll be in the living room. Let me know if you need anything.”

David nodded and walked into the study, closing the door behind him.

It smelled like him: rosemary, leather, and something distinctly Gabe. The scent should’ve been comforting, but it just stirred the wasps up, making him lightheaded as they whirled.

David switched on the desk lamp. Everything was just as he remembered:

Books lined the walls, organized alphabetically by last name. Stacks of paper sat neatly on the outskirts of the desk’s surface, leaving the middle open for work. A lumpy mug David had made in high school held a collection of pens and pencils.

David walked around the desk. Three picture frames adorned the polished oak. The first held a pack photo from the previous year’s Solstice. The second held a candid of David’s mother, sticking her tongue out at the camera as she ran through a yard sprinkler. The third held a picture of Gabe and David on their most recent camping trip, their faces wild and beaming.

On the back of Gabe’s chair hung his jacket. David felt the black leather—soft with use and dedicated upkeep.

The wasps were stinging his eyes; David pressed his fingers into them, seeing sparks as he crushed the bugs behind his eyelids. He collapsed into the seat and focused on his breathing, forcing the wasps in his chest to move in an orderly fashion. Not here. Not yet. He had a job to do.

David opened the largest drawer of the desk and began to gather what he needed.

————————————————

"Shit, Tank, this looks really bad.”

Milo sat back on his heels; the cold of the tile seeped through his pants and into his skin. Tank stayed still in their position on the bathroom floor as Milo leaned in again, holding the needle tight in his hand.

After a moment, he leaned back again, exclaiming, "Fuck, I don't know how to sew stitches! I mean, my mom taught me to sew but skin is so fucking different than fabric. It moves and bleeds and-and, for fuck's sake, it's your face, can we please get a healer?"

Tank scowled but didn't reply, biting the inside of their cheek to keep from snapping.

"Alright, fine. Okay. But I'm gonna have to go slow. I don't know what I'm doing and, again, this is your face," Milo warned them.

"Just let me do it, then," Tank muttered.

He dismissed the offer, "No, you've got your shaky hand."

"I can use the other."

"No, cause that's not your dominant hand. You've got to do this with your dominant hand, and that's your shaky hand. You're gonna scar real bad if you—”

"I don't care about scars."

"You'll care about this one."

"I have other scars on my face, I really don't care."

"You'll care about this one."

Tank looked away, the weight of the night and how they got there in the first place pulling them back down into silence. Seeing he’d won, for now, Milo breathed deep and tilted Tank’s head up slightly with one hand. He held the needle close to their cheek, whispering, "Okay. I'm gonna start."

Tank winced as the needle pierced their skin, and Milo almost called the whole thing off. But he kept going, and they quickly stopped wincing.

Milo was laser focused, doing his best to keep the stitches small and tidy. But when he was about halfway done, a tear rolled down into the gash, stirring Milo from his concentrated state. He used a gentle thumb to brush away the tears on Tank's cheeks.

"I'm not crying cause it hurts," Tank whispered, "It doesn't hurt."

"I know," Milo murmured, "...almost done."

Despite the circumstances, a sort of morbid satisfaction stirred in Milo at the sight of the bloody rift closing under his hand. It felt good, felt right, to be pulling something back together when everything was falling apart.

When he finished the last stitch, Milo placed a large bandaid over the gash. Tank stared down at their hands while Milo put away the suturing kit.

As he began scrubbing the dried blood off his hands in the sink, Tank explained:

“I didn’t mean to do this, you know.”

Milo stayed quiet, giving Tank the space to talk more if they wanted. But the silence just made them feel more pressured to defend themself.

“Well, I did mean to throw that glass, I just, I didn’t mean for it to throw itself back at me,” they clarified.”

“Okay,” Milo said. His tone came out of his mouth light, but fell heavy on Tank’s ears.

“I wasn’t trying to draw attention to myself,” Tank asserted, their anxiety rising.

“Okay,” Milo repeated. The discussion didn’t need to go any further. He didn’t even know why it was happening in the first place.

Tank blinked tears from their eyes. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t purposely pull everyone’s attention from Gabe.”

Milo turned around and leaned against the sink, trying to defuse them, “I believe you, Tank. I know you. You would’ve let yourself bleed out in that shower before ever coming to me or anyone else for help. Especially tonight.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Of course it’s a bad thing, Tank!” Milo threw his hands up, gripping tightly onto his braids.

“How is that a bad thing?!?”

“Because you can’t—I just—ugh, I can’t have this conversation right now. I need…I don’t know what I need, but it’s not any more of this,” Milo shot.

Tank’s face twitched from the blow. They staggered to their feet. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

“What? Tank, no—”

“You stitched me up. Thanks. Now I’m leaving.” They threw open the bathroom door.

Milo followed them down the hall, grumbling, “Tank, you don’t even have a ride.”

“I’ll walk.”

He rolled his eyes. They were being ridiculous. “That’ll take you forever, especially in this weather.”

Tank whipped around, hissing, “I don’t give a fuck. You don’t need me here, you said it yourself.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well it sure did fucking sound like it.”

They stormed towards the door, but Milo slipped in front of them and blocked their path.

“I just meant I don’t need to talk about that anymore!” he exclaimed, gesturing to Tank’s cheek, “We can talk about Gabe. We can talk about how we feel. We can talk about the future and the pack and what this all means going forward. Or we could not talk at all! But I don’t want to talk about shit that’s already happened. I don’t want to talk about shit that didn’t even happen in the first place. That’s not productive.”

“I don’t care about being productive,” they spat.

“But you care about David, right? If you won’t stay for yourself or for me, stay for him.”

“He’s not even here.”

“But he’ll be back. And you know how he gets; he’s going to need us.”

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Yes, he does,” he groaned.

Milo’s phone began to vibrate.

Tank cried out, “No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t need my mess on top of everything else going on.”

As Milo dug his phone out of his pocket, Tank shoved past him and raced out the front door.

Milo’s heart stuttered at the name on his screen. He rushed to the open door, yelling into the storm, “Tank, stop! Tank, please come back! Tank!”

Tears welling in his eyes, he leaned his weight against the door frame and answered the call.

“Mom?….yeah, it’s true. Gabe’s dead.”

Wails erupted through his phone, scraping Milo hollow.

————————————————

David found everything in under ten minutes—unsurprisingly, given how organized Gabe was and how pressed David was to leave.

When he’d gathered the last of what he needed, he locked the study and walked into the living room. Asher was pacing, on another call of what seemed an endless barrage. He glanced at David and was summoned by a jerk of the latter’s head.

The two left the house and drove back home, Asher answering calls and texts the whole way back. When they reentered their apartment, they heard Milo’s voice trickling down the hallway:

“Yeah, I know…no, but I’m sure we’ll find out more tomorrow…Oh, David and Ash are back. I’m gonna talk to them and then head over…no the rain has died down, I’ll be fine…yeah…okay, I will, I promise…okay, see you soon…I love you too, ma.”

He looked up at David and Asher.

“Is Tank okay?” Asher asked.

“Huh?” Milo replied in a daze.

“They had to get stitches?”

“Oh right…um, yeah they fell on their way to their apartment after they saw the crash. The rain made their stairwell slippery and they busted their face open. But I stitched them up, best I could,” Milo lied.

Asher nodded before getting another call. He answered, walking away into the kitchen.

“Where are they now?” David asked, clutching a handful of manila folders, a briefcase, and a familiar jacket.

“They uh,” Milo looked away, “They left.”

The buzzing picked back up in David’s head. “Left?”

“…we got into a fight.”

David breathed out slowly, muttering under his breath, “Tank.”

“No, no, it’s my fault! I was distracted, I wasn’t careful with my words, I wasn’t listening to them. They left, I don’t know where, and I was gonna chase after them but then my mom called and…” Milo wiped the back of his hand across his face.

The sight of Milo’s tear-streaked cheeks turned the hum in David’s head into a cacophony.

“I think I’m gonna stay at hers tonight,” Milo croaked as he gathered his things, “She’s really upset.”

“Of course,” David replied, internally cursing that he couldn’t bring himself to say more.

“I um, I’ll be at the meeting tomorrow. I’ll text Ash for the details,” Milo babbled. He stopped by the front door. “David. If you need anything, you text me. Or call me. You hear?”

“I hear,” David lied, the buzzing in his head drowning everything out.

#YAY second chapter done!!#this one is like twice as long as the first chapter whoops #but im very excited with where i plan to go from here #this is gonna be a much longer fic than i originally thought #ok so my thoughts prob dont read further until u read the fic #or do i dont really care #milo's passcode to his phone is an easter egg hehe #i like personalizing the wolf bois texting styles #darlin is only texting with capital letters cause milo hasn't turned off his auto-cap #otherwise on their own phone they dont capitalize anything ever just like asher and me lol #ive got shit in the works for the wasps its not just a random thing that im gonna drop after this so no worries there #poor marie!!!#poor everyone tbh #oop and kelsey cameo!#ok im worried about running out of tags so im gonna stop here #if u wanna know more just send me an ask/message and i'll keep yapping #anyway #mayhem is brewing #redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fandom #redacted fanfic #redactedverse #redacted headcanons #redacted david #redacted milo #redacted asher #redacted tank #redacted darlin #redacted gabe

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movingmusically · 3 months ago

Text

What Are Friends For? - Chapter 10

Word Count: 6.3k

Masterlist

The countryside stretched out ahead of me, the narrow road winding through rolling green fields under a cloudless blue sky. My little car hummed along, but my mind was anything but calm. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, the smooth leather warm under my palms, and tried to steady my breathing.

Callum’s text had been vague, which wasn’t unusual for him. “Just get here by 10—you’ll see,” he’d said, like that was helpful. See what, exactly? The set? The cast? Austin? My stomach did a little flip at the thought of him, unbidden but not unwelcome.

I glanced down during a brief stop at a red light, frowning at my outfit for the hundredth time. Skinny jeans and a blouse in a light, summery fabric had felt like a safe choice at the time—casual, comfortable—but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I should’ve gone for something a bit smarter, something that said, “Yes, I’m totally calm and not losing my mind over seeing a guy who may or may not like me back.” But then again, it was a TV set, not afternoon tea at the Ritz. Maybe I’d overthought the whole thing.

What was I even going to say when I saw him? “Hi” felt too bland. A casual wave seemed awkward. A hug? Too presumptuous. I could practically hear Zara’s voice in my head: “Just act normal. Unless you want him to think you’ve completely lost it.”

Easier said than done.

The set came into view as I crested the hill, the sight taking my breath away for a moment. Massive WWII planes were parked across a sprawling airfield, their wings gleaming in the late-morning sun. Uniformed extras milled around in clusters, the scene alive with motion and noise—a vintage time capsule brought to life.

And there, leaning against a battered army jeep like he owned the place, was Callum.

I blinked, my breath catching as I took him in. Dressed head-to-toe as a WWII pilot, his khaki uniform and tan leather jacket making him seem like he’d walked straight out of a history book. The aviator shades perched on his nose added to the effect, his relaxed grin making it clear he was enjoying himself far too much.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath, pulling the car to a stop.

“Ange!” he called, his grin widening as I stepped out.

“Blimey,” he teased, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to peek over them. “You’re actually here. Didn’t think you’d make it past the nerves.”

I rolled my eyes, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “You look like you’ve stepped out of a recruitment poster. Is that part of the job, or just your natural charm?”

“Bit of both,” he said, straightening up and spreading his arms. “What do you think? Dashing, right?”

I snorted. “I’ll give you ‘dashing,’ but only because you look like you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Can you blame me?” he said, climbing into the jeep with a practised ease. “Come on, hop in. Time to show you what all the fuss is about.”

I climbed into the passenger seat as Callum started the engine. The jeep rattled and bumped as we made our way toward the heart of the set, the air alive with activity. Crew members adjusted lighting rigs and sound equipment, extras chatted in their period-perfect uniforms, and the faint crackle of a loudspeaker cut through it all.

Callum brought the jeep to a stop, turning to me with a lopsided grin. “Welcome to 1944.”

I climbed out slowly, my feet hitting the ground as I turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. It was overwhelming—the scale of it, the detail, the way it felt like stepping into another world.

But none of that held my attention for long.

As we approached one of the planes, my eyes locked on a figure standing off to the side, arms crossed and his bomber jacket slung casually over one shoulder. Austin.

The sunlight caught his hair, the honeyed strands tousled in a way that looked effortlessly perfect. His uniform was just snug enough to hint at the broadness of his shoulders, and the toothpick perched between his lips gave him an easy, roguish charm.

My heart stuttered.

“Ange, you alright?” Callum’s voice broke through my thoughts, his teasing smirk firmly in place. “You’re looking a bit… distracted.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, quickly glancing away. But the heat creeping up my neck wasn’t so easily ignored.

“Come on,” he said, motioning me to follow him toward the centre of the set. “There’s a lot to see, and you’ve got to make the most of it.”

I nodded, trying to focus on the planes, the costumes, the sheer scale of it all. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back toward Austin.

And when his eyes finally met mine, my stomach flipped.

Austin pushed off from where he was leaning, his bomber jacket shifting with the movement, and started walking toward us. His steps were measured, unhurried, and every inch of him exuded the kind of easy confidence I’d always envied but never mastered. The toothpick shifted in his mouth as a slow, lopsided smile curved his lips, and my pulse tripped over itself.

“Cal,” he greeted with a nod before his gaze flicked to me. “Ange.”

“Hey,” I managed, my voice coming out a touch higher than I’d intended. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hi.”

Callum gave a low chuckle and clapped Austin on the back. “She’s already starstruck, mate. Told you this would happen.”

“Shut up, Callum,” I shot back, but my retort lacked any real bite. My attention was locked on Austin, who seemed entirely too amused by my flustered state.

“Glad you could make it,” Austin said, his voice softer now, the words settling somewhere in my chest.

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and cursing myself for how awkward I sounded.

“Right, enough standing around,” Callum said, clapping his hands together. “There’s a lot to see, and not much time before I’m due back in front of the camera.”

He led the way deeper into the set, Austin falling into step beside me. The air was alive with the hum of activity—crew members shouting instructions, the clatter of equipment being moved, the distant drone of a plane engine starting up. It was overwhelming in the best way, like stepping straight into a time machine.

“They really went all out,” I said, more to myself than anyone else, my eyes darting between the planes, the props, and the clusters of people in immaculate period costumes.

Austin glanced at me, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“Something” didn’t even begin to cover it. The sheer scale of it all—the authenticity, the attention to detail—was breathtaking.

A familiar voice cut through the hum of activity. “Well, well, look who it is.”

I turned just in time to see Anthony strolling toward us, his uniform looking pristine, though his cocky grin somewhat ruined the composed military effect. Behind him, Nate and Raff followed, all of them looking far too at home in their costumes.

“Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon,” Nate said with a smirk.

“Oh, come on,” Anthony added, “let’s be honest—we’re just impressed you survived all that tequila.”

I groaned. “It wasn’t that much.”

“Enough to make you very entertaining,” Raff teased. “But fair play, you held your own.”

Austin hummed around his toothpick, eyes glinting with amusement. “She did.”

I shot him a glare. “Not you too.”

Austin just grinned.

“I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned,” I muttered.

“Oh, be proud,” Anthony said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “You held your own, and more importantly—you provided the night’s best entertainment.”

“You lot are never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Callum said cheerfully.

Austin’s eyes were still on me, amusement lingering in his expression. “It was a good night,” he said simply, and something about the way he said it sent a flicker of warmth through my chest.

“Alright,” Anthony said, shaking his head. “We’ve got a scene to shoot in a bit, but make sure she gets the full experience.”

“Oh, she will,” Callum assured them.

Austin was quiet as the others wandered off, but I caught the brief glance he and Callum exchanged. Something was going on.

I folded my arms. “Okay. What was that about?”

Callum slung an arm around my shoulders and started walking me toward a row of trailers. “Come on, Ange. Just trust me.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t trust.”

But it was too late—before I knew it, I was being ushered inside a trailer by two women holding hairbrushes and fabric swatches.

“You must be Angie,” one of them said warmly. “Come on, love. We’ve got work to do.”

“Wait, what?” I asked, glancing at Callum in alarm. “What’s happening?”

Callum grinned. “You’re getting the full experience. Hair, makeup, wardrobe—the works.”

I turned to Austin, hoping for an ally, but he only shrugged, his smile softening. “You’ll look great.”

“That’s not the point!” I exclaimed, but the words lost their punch as the two women gently but firmly ushered me toward the makeup chair.

“Relax,” one of them said with a grin. “You’re going to have fun.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but as they set to work curling my hair and pinning it into an intricate updo, their infectious enthusiasm started to chip away at my nerves. The wardrobe team bustled in next, handing me a simple but elegant 1940s-style dress that fit like it had been made for me.

By the time they were finished, I barely recognised myself in the mirror. The hair, the makeup, the dress—it all came together to transform me into someone who looked like they belonged on this set. My nerves hadn’t disappeared entirely, but there was a flicker of excitement now, too.

When I stepped out of the trailer, Callum let out a low whistle. “Blimey, Ange. You clean up alright.”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed under the weight of his gaze.

Then I looked at Austin.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let his eyes sweep over me in a way that made my stomach flip all over again. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “You look perfect.”

The words hung between us, warm and unexpected, and for a moment, everything else—the noise, the bustle, the nerves—faded into the background.

“Alright,” Callum said, breaking the moment with a clap of his hands. “Time to get her on set.”

“On set?” I echoed, my heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean, on set?”

“Relax,” Callum said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “It’s just a walk-on part. You’ll stand in the background, maybe carry something, look like you belong. Easy.”

“Callum, I can’t—what if I mess it up?”

“You won’t,” Austin said, his voice steady and reassuring. “Just think of it like this: you’re not playing a part—you’re just you. Well, you in the 1940s.”

“That’s not helpful,” I muttered, but the warmth in his gaze eased some of the tension in my chest.

“You’ll be great,” he said simply. But I wasn't sure I believed him.

By the time Callum led me toward the soundstage, my nerves had officially kicked into overdrive. The sheer scale of the set had been overwhelming enough, but the idea of stepping in front of the camera—even just as a background extra—made my stomach churn.

It wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t expected to act. I just had to exist in the background, blend into the world they’d created. Easy, right?

Except all I could think about was how one wrong move—a misplaced step, an accidental glance at the camera—could ruin the take and waste everyone’s time. Time that costs actual money.

I stopped in my tracks just outside the set, my breath catching in my throat. “Callum, I can’t do this.”

He turned back, raising a brow. “Ange, it’s not that deep. You’re literally walking through a scene.”

“Exactly! Which means I have to walk properly—not too fast, not too slow, don’t bump into anyone, don’t look at the camera, don’t trip over my own feet—”

Austin’s voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. “Hey.”

I turned, startled. I hadn’t even noticed him slipping away from the others.

He tipped his head toward a quieter corner of the set. “Come here.”

I hesitated, glancing between him and Callum. My best friend just smirked, clearly seeing right through my hesitation, before giving me a little shove in Austin’s direction.

I followed Austin toward a quiet space behind one of the prop walls, away from the main bustle of crew and cast. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, studying me in that steady way of his.

“You’re overthinking,” he said simply.

I let out a shaky breath. “I just—what if I mess up? What if I walk the wrong way and ruin the take? What if I—”

“Angie.” His voice was warm, patient, like he could hear every anxious thought bouncing around in my head. “You won’t.”

I scoffed. “How do you know that?”

His lips twitched. “Because I used to be you.”

I frowned. “What?”

His gaze softened. “When I first started as an extra—when I was, like, twelve—I was terrified of messing up. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing, and I felt like an imposter just standing there. So you know what I did?”

I shook my head.

“I gave myself a backstory,” he said. “I wasn’t just some random kid in the background—I was part of the world. If the scene was in a diner, I imagined I was waiting for my dad to get off his shift. If it was a school scene, I pretended I was late for class. Something simple. Something that made me feel like I belonged.”

He let that sink in before continuing, his voice quieter now. “You love history, right? You know this world. So don’t think about the cameras or the set or any of that. Just—make up a story. Imagine you’re really here.”

I swallowed hard, the nerves still there, but shifting. Make up a story. Imagine I belong.

Something about the way he said it—so certain, so effortless—made it seem possible.

A thought flickered in my mind, soft at first, then settling deep in my chest.

I already knew the story I wanted to tell.

“My nan,” I said, my voice quieter now.

Austin tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“She used to talk about the Americans in London during the war,” I explained. “She worked in a factory, but she and her friends would go out dancing whenever they could. She said the Americans always knew how to have a good time.”

A small, nostalgic smile tugged at my lips. “She called them ‘trouble with good hair.’”

Austin huffed a soft laugh, but his expression was warm. “Sounds like she had some fun.”

“She did,” I said. “She always said those nights were some of the best of her life. Even in the middle of a war, they still found ways to celebrate.”

Austin nodded, like he understood. “So, be her.”

I blinked at him.

His voice was steady, sure. “For the scene. Pretend you’re her. You’re just a girl on an airbase, surrounded by pilots celebrating their latest mission. You’re laughing with your friends, soaking it all in. No cameras, no crew—just a moment in time.”

I let the idea settle, the edges of my nerves softening. Be Connie. Be my nan.

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Austin’s smile was small but proud. “Okay.”

He pushed off the wall, giving my hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before leading me back toward the others.

As I stepped onto the set, the nerves didn’t vanish completely, but they felt different now—smaller, quieter. I wasn’t just Angie, the panicked background extra.

For just a little while, I was Connie.

And I belonged here.

As soon as the director called cut, the tension I hadn’t even realised I was holding drained from my body. I let out a slow breath, still half-expecting someone to rush over and tell me I’d ruined the entire shot. But instead, the crew was already resetting for another take, the energy on set shifting smoothly around me like a well-oiled machine.

I had done it. I had walked through a scene, kept my nerves in check, and—most importantly—hadn’t tripped over anything.

A small burst of triumph flickered in my chest.

Callum was the first to reach me, his grin absolutely insufferable as he draped an arm around my shoulders. “Well, well, well. Look at you, Miss Hollywood.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, really. Very convincing stuff,” he said, voice dripping with faux sincerity. “That whole standing in the background thing? Mesmerising.”

I shoved his arm off, rolling my eyes. “I hate you.”

Austin appeared beside him then, hands tucked into his pockets, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Told you you’d be fine.”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “Yeah, yeah. You win.”

Callum’s brows shot up. “Wait, Austin helped with the nerves? Not me?”

Austin barely looked at him. “I’m more persuasive.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “He told me to make up a backstory, so I—” I hesitated, my gaze flicking to Austin before I continued. “I pretended I was my nan. When she used to go out dancing with the Americans during the war.”

Austin’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “Looked like you belonged.”

My stomach did a small, ridiculous flip. I covered it by rolling my eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

Callum, however, did go that far. “Oh, mate, don’t say that. Next thing you know, she’ll be trying to get a speaking role.”

“Please.” I scoffed. “That was a one-time thing.”

Callum grinned, slinging an arm back around my shoulders as he started walking us toward the trailers. “We’ll see about that.”

The excitement from the scene still buzzed through me as Callum led us outside, back to the battered army jeep he’d picked me up in earlier.

The jeep rumbled to life beneath us, the engine’s low growl blending into the hum of activity on set. Callum had thrown on his flying jacket before climbing into the driver’s seat, looking even more the part now with the shearling collar turned up against the breeze. Austin, already wearing his, had wrapped a faded blue scarf loosely around his neck, the ends tucked into his bomber jacket.

I really needed to stop staring at him.

Callum gave the wheel a sharp twist, swinging us around toward the far side of the airfield where one of the B-17s stood waiting. “Time for the real tour,” he said, flashing me a grin before accelerating down the narrow path.

The ride was bumpy, the jeep jostling over uneven ground, but the view made up for it. Massive aircraft loomed on either side, their metal frames gleaming under the midday sun, while extras in full uniform moved between them like ghosts of another time. The scent of oil and earth mixed with something distinctly old, like history had settled deep into the bones of this place.

Austin sat beside me in the back, one arm slung casually over the side of the jeep. The toothpick was still in his mouth, rolling between his lips as he watched the set pass by. My eyes kept catching on it—on the way his lips shifted around it, on the slow, almost absent-minded way he worked it between his teeth. It was stupid, how distracting it was. Just a stupid sliver of wood.

“You good?” Austin asked suddenly, glancing over.

I blinked, realising I’d been staring. Again. “Yeah. Just… taking it all in.”

His mouth curved slightly, the toothpick shifting. “It’s a lot.”

That was an understatement.

The jeep rolled to a stop beside the B-17, its massive silver hull towering above us. The crew had done a meticulous job on the aircraft—the detailing, the weathering, even the scuffed edges of the metal—it all looked authentic, like this thing had been through actual missions.

Callum hopped out first, stretching with a satisfied sigh. “Now, Ange, I know you’re desperate to see inside, so let’s make it happen.”

Austin was already moving ahead. He climbed the ladder with ease, disappearing inside the plane like he’d done it a hundred times before. A few seconds later, his voice echoed down. “Come on up.”

I was still looking at the ladder, debating the logistics, when Callum clapped me on the back. “Oh, right. Forgot to mention—only two seats.”

I turned to him. “Okay…?”

He smirked. “Means you’ll have to sit on his lap.”

“What? No.”

“Oh, definitely. Up you go,” Callum said, motioning toward the ladder.

I opened my mouth to argue, but Austin’s head popped out from the hatch, brows raised. “We doing this or what?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before gripping the rungs and climbing up after him. The metal was warm beneath my palms, the scent of fuel and aged leather thick in the air as I pulled myself into the cockpit.

Austin was already in the pilot’s seat, adjusting the straps of his harness out of habit. The space was tight—cramped with dials, levers, and panels that looked intimidatingly complex.

I barely had time to take it all in before Callum hauled himself up behind me, taking one glance at the two seats and smirking.

Austin shifted, looking up at me with an unreadable expression. His toothpick rested at the corner of his mouth, and for some reason, my eyes kept getting stuck there—on the movement of it, on his lips.

It took me a second to process that he’d already reached for my hand, steadying me as I awkwardly climbed over and lowered myself onto his lap, my back pressing against the solid warmth of his chest.

Austin shifted, his arms moving to rest lightly on either side of me as he reached for the controls. “Comfy?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, determined to sound unaffected.

His breath brushed against my ear as he leaned forward slightly. “Welcome to your first flight lesson.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine.

Callum, of course, had zero sympathy. “Oh, you two look cosy.”

“Shut up, Callum,” I muttered.

There was a beat of silence before Austin reached past me to gesture at the controls. “This is the throttle. That’s the altimeter. And this—” His fingers brushed over a switch, his voice dropping. “This one’s just for looking impressive.”

I huffed out a laugh, forcing myself to focus. “Sounds very official.”

“Mm.” His breath was warm against my cheek. “Very.”

Callum turned in his seat, oblivious to my internal crisis. “You two look like a proper flight crew. Maybe I should get a picture.”

“No,” I said immediately.

“Yes,” Austin said at the same time.

Callum was already digging for his phone.

I turned my head to glare at Austin—a mistake, because now our faces were inches apart.

The smirk on his lips deepened, his voice barely above a murmur. “You good?”

No. No, I was absolutely not good.

I forced a nod, ignoring the warmth spreading through my chest. “Totally fine.”

If Callum noticed the tension, he didn’t comment—just took a few photos, grinning at his own handiwork before finally declaring, “Alright, let’s get out before we break something expensive.”

We climbed down from the plane, the metal rungs warm under my hands as I carefully stepped onto solid ground again. The second my feet hit the tarmac, I turned to Austin with a smirk.

“Do they pay you extra for that, or is it just for the aesthetic?” I nodded toward the ever-present toothpick between his lips.

Austin grinned, plucking it from his mouth and twirling it between his fingers. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh no, I think it’s very method,” I teased. “Really completes the whole tortured-pilot look.”

Callum snorted as he hopped into the jeep. “He’s been doing it since boot camp. At this point, I think it’s just stuck there.”

Austin flicked the toothpick at him, narrowly missing his shoulder before sliding in beside me. “It helps me think.”

I raised a sceptical brow. “Think about what?”

He considered for a second before slotting another between his lips. “Lots of things.”

“Profound,” I deadpanned, earning a laugh from Callum as he started the engine.

Callum drove us across the set once more, the jeep bouncing over the tarmac as we neared a large hangar-like structure where the partially built plane sets were housed. From the outside, it wasn’t much to look at—just a nondescript industrial building—but the moment we stepped inside, I understood why this was saved for last.

Two sections of a B-17 sat on the floor, both open at strange angles like they’d been cut straight out of history. One was just the cockpit, set on a massive steel frame, while the other was a larger chunk of the fuselage with an exposed belly turret. The air smelled of sawdust and metal, with crew members adjusting rigging and camera mounts.

Callum gestured toward the cockpit first. “This is the one we use for the interior flight scenes,” he explained. “It’s mounted on a gimbal, so when they need turbulence, the whole thing tilts and shakes, nearly twenty feet in the air.”

I tipped my head back, my stomach flipping slightly at the sight of it. “That’s mildly terrifying.”

“Yeah, you get used to it,” Austin said, his voice lined with amusement. He tapped the metal framework of the lower fuselage, where a ladder led up into the cramped space. “This one’s mostly for the actors to move through—getting to their positions, action shots. No fancy hydraulics.”

Nearby, a large whiteboard was propped up against a workbench, a list of character names was scrawled across it, each followed by a series of numbers. I stepped closer, scanning the list. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” Callum said, following my gaze. “That’s the competition.”

I turned to look at him. “Competition?”

Austin’s voice carried the hint of a challenge. “Fastest time from the floor to the cockpit.”

I scanned the numbers, my eyes landing on Callum’s name—Egan, 8.8 seconds. Then I saw Austin’s—Cleven, 5.5 seconds.

I glanced up at Austin, who was watching me with a lopsided grin. “5.5 seconds?”

He rolled the toothpick between his lips. “I got good at it.”

“You got competitive about it,” Callum corrected.

Austin shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.

I looked back at the hatch, taking in the cramped opening. “And you have to climb in through that? Like, full gear, under pressure?”

“That’s the job,” Austin said.

A nearby crew member strolled past and overheard. “You want to see him do it?”

Austin sighed but was already rolling his shoulders, and lowering himself to the floor. “Guess I’m doing it.”

I crossed my arms, curiosity getting the better of me. “Go on, then. Show me what all the fuss is about.”

Austin shot me a quick smirk, then, without hesitation, grabbed the edge of the hatch and hoisted himself in. The bulky bomber jacket and harness didn’t slow him down—he moved with practiced ease, twisting his body through the narrow opening in one fluid motion. His boots barely made a sound as he disappeared into the cockpit, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Callum checked his phone. “Six seconds.”

Austin’s voice echoed from inside. “Bullshit.”

The crew member called back, laughing. “Nah, mate, that was closer to five.”

I shook my head, still staring at the hatch. “That was ridiculous.”

Austin reappeared, bracing one hand against the frame as he leaned out slightly. The toothpick in his mouth shifted as he grinned down at me. “That’s why I’m the best.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think I need a second opinion.”

Callum clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Ange, there’s no contest. The lad’s got it.”

Austin hopped down from the ladder, landing lightly beside me. “Told you.”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as Austin adjusted his jacket like he hadn’t just scaled the plane in full gear like it was nothing. “Alright, fine. You win this round.”

His smirk deepened, the toothpick shifting between his lips again. “I usually do.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was mostly to cover the fact that my brain was still struggling to function properly after watching that. “Yeah, well… doesn’t mean I’m impressed.”

Austin let out a soft hum, like he wasn’t buying it for a second. Then, just to make matters worse, he winked—casual, effortless, devastating.

My stomach flipped.

I turned away, fully prepared to pretend none of that had just happened, but Callum was already looking at me with far too much amusement. I pointed a warning finger at him. “Not a word.”

He held his hands up in surrender, but the smirk on his face told me he’d absolutely be bringing this up later.

“Alright,” Austin said, straightening. “I gotta head over to rehearsal.”

Callum clapped him on the back. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get out of your way.”

Austin’s gaze flicked back to me for half a second—just long enough to make me feel like he wanted to say something else—before he gave me a small nod and turned to go.

Callum nudged me toward the jeep. “Come on, Ange. Let’s get you out of that dress before you combust.”

I climbed in, still feeling a little unsteady, and Callum—of course—waited exactly three seconds before glancing over with a knowing look.

“Shut up, Callum.”

He laughed, revving the engine. “Didn’t say a thing.”

But as we drove back toward the trailers, I could still feel the warmth of Austin’s gaze lingering on my skin.

By the time Callum came to fetch me from the trailers, I was back in my regular clothes, my hair still holding remnants of its 1940s curls. It felt strange stepping out of the past and back into reality, but the day wasn’t over yet.

“They’ve wrapped,” he said, leaning against the doorframe with that ever-present smirk. “Austin’s with me—figured we’d grab you on the way.”

I followed him outside, where the jeep was parked once again. Austin was already sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded, now in his own clothes—just a simple white t-shirt and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms, his hair slightly messier than it had been all day. His head turned when he heard me approach, his eyes flicking over me in a way that made my stomach do something ridiculous.

“Back in the modern world,” he said, amusement threading through his voice.

“Almost,” I replied, tucking a curl behind my ear. “I’ve spent most of the afternoon picking people’s brains about costumes, hair, and makeup.”

Callum shot me a look as I climbed into the back seat. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “You know I love getting the details right.”

Austin twisted slightly to glance at me. “For your writing?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. I mean, it’s exactly the time period I’m writing about, so the way everything’s put together—it helps.”

His lips twitched, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s smart.”

I felt my face heat slightly, but thankfully, Callum chose that moment to rev the engine and pull onto the road, saving me from having to respond.

The drive back to the cast accommodation was easy, the three of us slipping into a comfortable rhythm, mostly Callum telling stories about mishaps on set. By the time we arrived, the sun was starting to dip, casting long golden streaks across the sky.

Austin hopped out first, stretching his arms above his head before turning toward his house. He hesitated for a moment, then glanced back at me.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You did good today.”

I exhaled a small laugh. “You mean I walked convincingly? Groundbreaking.”

His mouth quirked. “I mean you didn’t let it get to you. You belonged there.”

Something in my chest tightened at that, warm and unexpected. I bit my lip, then nodded. “Thanks. And, you know… for earlier. Helping me get out of my own head.”

His eyes lingered on mine for a beat, something unreadable in them. Then he gave me a small nod, one that felt heavier than it should, before turning and disappearing inside.

I barely had a second to process the moment before Callum nudged me toward his house.

“Inside,” he said, dragging me along. “Before you start overthinking whatever that was.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

I sighed but followed him inside, ignoring the way my thoughts still lingered on Austin’s parting words.

Callum and I sat across from each other at the small kitchen table in his rental, the remnants of dinner between us—pasta, because neither of us had the energy for anything more complicated. The atmosphere was easy, familiar, but my mind was still buzzing from the day.

Callum pushed his empty plate away, stretching out in his chair with an air of satisfaction. “Not bad, huh? I’d say my cooking skills are improving.”

I snorted. “Boiling pasta and opening a jar of sauce isn’t cooking.”

“Wow. Ungrateful,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Next time, you can cook.”

I smirked, taking a sip of my drink. “Next time I will.”

The comfortable silence that followed was filled with the low hum of the fridge and the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate. I let myself relax into it, my mind still replaying the day over and over. The tour, the costumes, the planes, the walk-on part. The moment I had thought would be the most terrifying had turned out to be one of the most exhilarating, and now, sitting here, it all felt a little surreal.

I set my glass down, glancing at Callum. “I still can’t believe you pulled all of that together.”

He looked up, brows raised. “Pulled what together?”

“The tour, the set experience, getting me into costume—” I gestured vaguely, still half in disbelief. “You made today one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.”

Callum grinned. “Well, you’re welcome.”

I narrowed my eyes. Something about the way he said that…

I tilted my head. “You look too smug.”

“I always look smug.”

“Yeah, but this is worse than usual.” I squinted at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Callum hesitated just long enough for me to latch onto it.

“What?” I demanded, leaning forward. “What is it?”

He took a long sip of his drink, drawing it out, before finally exhaling a sigh. “Alright, fine. I didn’t plan the whole thing.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He smirked, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down with an infuriating amount of nonchalance. “I just set up the tour. You should really be thanking Austin.”

I blinked. “What?”

Callum shrugged like it was obvious. “I told him you were coming, figured we’d just show you around, but the rest? The costume, the walk-on part, getting you into the cockpit—that was all him.”

I stared at him, trying to process that. “You’re telling me Austin arranged all of that?”

“Yep.”

“The same Austin who barely knows me?”

Callum snorted. “Starting to think that’s not entirely true.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, my thoughts racing. “But… why would he—”

“Oh, come on, Ange.” Callum leaned forward, smirking. “You really need me to spell it out for you?”

I ignored the way my stomach did an inconvenient little flip at that. I ignored the way my heart had started thudding a little harder in my chest, the warmth creeping up my neck.

Callum didn’t push. For once, he just watched me, the teasing edge in his smirk fading into something softer. Like he was waiting for me to catch up to something he’d already figured out.

I swallowed, my fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table. The warmth in my chest, the nervous energy buzzing under my skin—it had been there all day, hadn’t it? Not just today. Before that, too. In the bookshop. At brunch. Even before that, when he first walked into my flat with Callum, all slow smiles and careful attention.

I had spent so much time trying not to read into things, convincing myself it was nothing. But now, sitting here, with Callum watching me like he knew exactly what was running through my head, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I exhaled slowly, shaking my head, more at myself than anything. “I need to thank him.”

Callum hummed, something amused and knowing in his expression. “Yeah, you do.”

I pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. Callum didn’t say anything as I grabbed my phone and shoved it in my pocket. Didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. Just watched, like he knew this was a moment I had to reach on my own.

I hesitated for half a second, fingers gripping the back of my chair, then turned for the door.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I was just moving.

Taglist:

@slowsweetlove @thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #fan fiction #fanfic #imagine #austin butler fanfic #austinbutler #austin butler x #fiction #callum turner fic #callum turner #what are friends for fic #waff

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that-sudsy · 4 months ago

Text

Task Force 141 : The Weekend part 1

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or images used in this work, nor do I claim any rights to them.

It was supposed to be a routine mission for Task Force 141, but as fate would have it, a miscalculation during a mid-air shootout sent them plummeting into the lush, green mountains of nowhere. The team—Soap, Price, Gaz, and Ghost—woke up groaning, their ears ringing like a church bell on Sunday morning. They checked each other for injuries, relieved to find that they were all intact, albeit a bit bruised and battered.

“Right, lads, let’s figure out where we are,” Price said, rubbing his temples. Gaz was already trying to reach Laswell for a pickup, but the radio was as dead as a doornail.

“Where are we exactly?” Soap asked, peeking through a bush. Just then, a man and woman galloped by on horses, leaving the team staring in disbelief.

“Did we just fall into a Western movie?” Ghost muttered, adjusting his mask as if it would somehow make him less conspicuous.

“Looks like we found the road,” Price said, spotting the dirt path the horsemen had taken. They decided to hide their weapons, opting for their smaller sidearms as they ventured into the unknown.

As they walked, they stumbled upon a quaint little town that looked like it had been plucked straight from a postcard. Horses trotted along the streets, country music wafted through the air, and the townsfolk greeted them with friendly waves. It was a stark contrast to the chaos they were used to.

“Blimey, this place is… nice,” Price said, his eyes sparkling with wonder. “I could get used to this.”

“Graves just multiplied,” Soap whispered under his breath, eyeing the locals with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

A woman in a plaid shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat approached them, her thick country accent dripping with sarcasm. “Well, look what the cat dragged in! Y’all new ‘round here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Price replied, trying to sound authoritative despite the absurdity of the situation.

The woman led them to the local diner, where the chef served them a feast fit for kings. The mayor, a jolly fellow with a twinkle in his eye, welcomed them with open arms. “Y’all should stay for the week! No radio connection until tomorrow Evening or so?, so you’re stuck with us!”

“Stuck?” Ghost raised an eyebrow, but the smell of fresh patties wafting from the kitchen made him reconsider.

Just then, the mayor provided them a house they could say for the weekend.

an old woman knocked on their temporary house’s door, and Soap, ever the skeptic, prepared for a fight. Instead, she handed him a fresh pie. His eyes widened in disbelief as he accepted it, looking at his teammates as if he’d just won the lottery.

“Is this a trap?” Gaz asked, eyeing the pie suspiciously.

“Only one way to find out,” Soap said, taking a bite. The taste exploded in his mouth—sweet cranberry filling and a buttery crust that made his soul sing. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!”

After devouring the pie, they were given clothes to change into—jeans, plaid shirts, and cozy jumpers. They looked like a country band that had lost its way, but they didn’t care.

As they explored the town, they discovered it was preparing for its annual fair. Colorful banners adorned the streets, and laughter filled the air. Price was practically glowing with excitement, helping the townsfolk decorate as if he’d found his true calling.

Soap found himself in a barn, where the woman he’d met earlier was stacking hay bales. “Need a hand?” he asked, flashing his best smile.

“Sure thing, handsome,” she replied, her accent thick and charming. Soap couldn’t help but grin like a fool as they worked side by side.

Gaz wandered over to the dance stage, where a woman was fixing the setup. “What’s this for?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s for the fair! We love a good dance and a little music,” she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Ghost had found a quiet spot on a hay bale, sipping homemade lemonade. He was soon surrounded by a gaggle of kids, all bombarding him with questions about his mask. “Why do you wear that? Are you a superhero?” one little girl asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

“Uh, something like that,” Ghost replied, trying to escape their clutches but failing miserably.

As the day wound down, the team reconvened at their temporary house. Soap was the last to arrive, hay sticking out of his mohawk and a smug grin plastered on his face.

“What happened to you?” Ghost asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing, L.T.,” Soap replied, rubbing his face as if trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“Ah, it’s a girl, isn’t it?” Price chuckled, catching the glint of excitement in Soap’s eye.

“Just a dinner invitation and a promise to ride horses,” Soap said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

The next day was the fair......

#cod #johnny soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon riley #task force 141

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adebauchedsloth · 3 months ago

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Dog Days of Summer - Chapter 31

It also comes with a supplemental scene, only posted here on Tumblr.

This is just a scene that was never going to go into Chapter 31, but would not leave my head and plays like a little film scene. It was too long to put in Authors Notes, so it's going here. This scene would slot in at the end of Elise's part of the chapter.

@iridescentflamingo @ladypok3 @ninnosaurus @milykins @sophiacloud28

Below the cut for tidiness.

Dog Days are Over

Florence + The Machine

(Music intro)

Elise stands on the porch shouldering her bag and looking out into the dark front yard. Taking a deep breath she forces herself to walk down the steps of the porch. April and Casey are with her, walking to her aunt’s car that Casey has pulled around for her. The dogs are loaded in and she gives both April and Casey hugs as she tries to maintain a smile and an appearance of calm.

Happiness hit her like a train on a track Coming towards her stuck still no turning back

She gets into the car, fastens her seatbelt, and takes one last look at the farmhouse through the rearview mirror. It’s a bright spot on an otherwise dark night. April and Casey are on the porch now, waving. Elise pets Daisy, who has stuck her head up near the driver's seat, and presses a kiss into the pitbull’s soft cheek. Then, gripping the wheel, she puts the car in drive.

She hid around corners and she hid under beds She killed it with kisses and from it, she fled With every bubble, she sank with a drink And washed it away down the kitchen sink

She drives away, down the track through the trees and pulls onto the country road. Like a bird, we follow her car from above as it winds its way along the dark road between fields, watching the headlights wink in and out as she passes under trees that overhang the road.

The dog days are over The dog days are done The horses are coming So you better run

Elise has the car window down and her elbow sits on the door as she drives with one hand. The summer air blows loose wisps of hair around wildly where they’ve escaped her bun. The road is dark. There are no street lights here. Her face holds a tight expression as she stares straight ahead of her, but then she places both hands on the wheel, gripping it, and punches the gas.

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers Leave all your love and your longing behind You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over The dog days are done Can you hear the horses? 'Cause here they come

Memories from the past six weeks flash by in Elise’s mind. Raph napping with Daisy… Cooking with Mike… Farmhouse Olympics… Fireworks on the river bank… Drinking on the porch with Raph… Talking books with Leo… That last night, laughing with all of them on the couch in the candlelight…

And I never wanted anything from you Except everything you had and what was left after that too, oh

Her thoughts turn to Donnie. Him taking care of her when she was sick with a migraine… Watching Star Trek with him on the couch… Talking and laughing over coffee in the mornings… Swimming in the river… Carrying her up the stairs… Their first kiss under the stars…

Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that

She white knuckles the steering wheel, her breaths coming hard and fast. She can’t keep it together anymore and she’s starting to fall apart.

Every kiss after… His goofy smile… His laugh… The way his eyes lit up when he saw her…

The dog days are over The dog days are done Can you hear the horses? 'Cause here they come

Brushing the hair away from her face… That frown he got when he was concentrating really hard… The feeling of his warm breath on her neck… Dancing in the barn… The cake batter on his face and that boyish grin…

[2:53 - 3:05]

She’s reached the entrance to the highway and is stopped at a stoplight, trying to regain control over her breathing. Her chest expands and contracts sharply in her effort and she roughly wipes at her eyes. Glancing up, she sees the traffic signs. Straight is the highway onramp that will take her back to Boston, but she’s allowed to U-Turn in the lane she’s in. The light changes to green.

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers

She floors the gas and goes straight onto the highway.

Leave all your love and your longing behind You can't carry it with you if you want to survive The dog days are over The dog days are done Can you hear the horses? 'Cause here they come

She’s singing along with the lyrics now. Angrily or hysterically, it’s hard to tell. Her hands are no longer gripping the wheel in a death grip, they now gesture wildly, hitting the steering wheel, fingers flexing as her face contorts around the words and her head beats to the rhythm of the music.

The dog days are over The dog days are done The horses are coming So you better run

We watch her, singing her emotions out as the car speeds along away from Northampton. Daisy is now sticking her head out of the passenger side window, tongue lolling in the wind as the car moves. They drive under a highway sign that says ‘Boston 100 miles’ and we watch as the car’s headlights drive further away, becoming indistinguishable dots among the other cars as they all move off into the distance.

#tmnt dog days of summer #adebauchedsloth #Spotify

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pupculture · 5 months ago

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Vampire×Human fic under the cut (both OCs)

Inspired by @vamprisms ♡ (this is just the first part)

Tags/Warnings: Vampires, bloodplay, dubcon (vampiric feeding), lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers vibes, morally gray characters, intense physical tension, and a dash of dark humor, lowkey snuff. Idek if this is dead dove don't eat, but it's really not that bad. Or I'm fucked up. Regardless, read at your own risk

No I did not edit it or reread it okay? And I wrote straight into Tumblr so no word count XD

Part Two

Look, we all lie on Tinder, right?

A few extra cms here, bit more cash there. So when I matched with Odette, I did NOT believe that she lived in a castle. Who even says that in 2025? Sure, her photos showed this sprawling gothic mansion with ivy-covered walls and actual turrets; but honestly I just thought,

Okay, she's just an eccentric goth babe who got a fancy photoshoot done.

Her description was charming but kept very vague- "Seeker of the sublime. Collector of captivating moments."- while normally I'd swipe left on someone who seems so... extra, something about her just pulled me in. Of course, it didn't hurt that she was drop-dead gorgeous, with a jawline sharp enough to cut me.

So when she messaged me (moments after the match popped up) with: "Would you care to join me for an evening you'll never forget?" I couldn't help but roll my eyes and laugh. I mean, who talks like that? But then I read it again-maybe twice-and felt a little flutter in my chest. It wasn't your standard wyd or hey beautiful, and honestly, I was intrigued. I joked back with, "Is this the part where I end up in a true crime podcast?" thinking that'd scare her off, but she replied almost instantly: "Only if it's a story worth telling." And just like that, I found myself saying yes to a first date at her castle

I swear I’m not desperate! But honestly, it had been a while. I’d just moved to this little backwoods town, and let’s just say I wasn’t pulling as well here as I did in the city. So, the next evening, I found myself on an embarrassingly long drive down a suspicious, winding road. When I finally arrived, I didn’t even need the GPS to tell me I’d reached my destination. Yes, it really was a castle. And it looked even more dramatic in person—perched on a hill and looking like something straight out of a book, complete with an unnecessarily long driveway, lined with ancient, gnarled trees. The taxi driver gave me a look as he dropped me off, like he wanted to ask if I was sure about this. But I waved him off with a confidence I absolutely did not feel, dropping the cash in his hand before stepping out.

The cold evening air bit at my cheeks as I climbed the stone steps to the massive front door, trying not to trip in my high-heeled boots. The door itself was shockingly heavy, the kind you’d probably need a medieval battering ram to break into. But before I could even knock, it swung open with an ominous creak.

And there she was. Odette stood framed in the doorway, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of what I could only describe as an alarming amount of candles.

She wore a dark, flowing dress that clung to her body just enough to leave me mildly breathless, and it swished faintly as she shifted her weight. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and down to her waist. Her lips were curved into this small, almost lazy smile, like she already knew exactly how this night was going to go. “Olivia,” she said, her voice smooth and velvety, the kind that felt like it could wrap itself around you. “You made it.”

I blinked. "Uh, actually, it's Aria."

Her smile froze for half a second before it softened again, seamless, like she was back in control. "Aria," she repeated, drawing it out like she was tasting it. "Of course. Forgive me, my mind must've wandered."

Look, I probably should’ve backed out then and there, I know. But I had already done the whole drive, and she smoothed it out so quickly it barely even registered. I hardly gave the Olivia girl a second thought—and the third was dashed from my mind immediately as her arm circled around my waist and pulled me inside.

The door closed behind me with a low, echoing thud, and before I could properly take in the ridiculous grandeur of the place, Odette’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back. “Let me show you around,” she said, her voice smooth and elegant, like this was just another ordinary Tuesday for her.

We moved down a long, dimly lit hallway lined with portraits—men and women painted in that stern, old-fashioned style, all sharp cheekbones and hollow stares. “It’s been in my family for generations,” Odette said as we walked, her tone calm and measured, like she was reciting something she’d said a thousand times before. “I suppose it’s... unconventional by modern standards, but I find it grounding.”

“Grounding,” I echoed, glancing at a particularly grim-looking woman holding a falcon. “Yeah, nothing says down-to-earth like living in a haunted castle.”

She laughed—soft, low, and completely unexpected. For a second, her face flickered with something strange, like the sound had startled her as much as it had me. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, and she recovered so quickly I almost thought I’d imagined it. “You’re... amusing,” she said, her voice smoothing back into its refined tone.

“Just making sure you’re not a sugar mommy who rents this place to impress her dates,” I said, shrugging like I hadn't actually been wondering that.

Her lips curved into another faint smile, but she didn’t laugh again. “No, nothing so transactional,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to mine, lingering just long enough to make my skin heat. “Come, there’s more to see.”

She guided me through the house with practiced ease, barely pausing to explain the rooms—an ornate dining hall, a cavernous library, a sitting room with an enormous fireplace that I’d bet hadn’t been lit in a century. Her hand remained at my back, gentle but insistent, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t interested in showing me the house so much as getting me somewhere specific.

Finally, she stopped in front of a tall, heavy door. “And this,” she said, her voice dipping lower, “is my favorite room.”

Odette didn't bother opening the door herself. Instead, she pushed me back against it, her body pressing into mine with just enough force to make it open under our combined weight. The movement startled me, but before I could say anything, her lips were on mine. Her kiss was firm, deliberate, her hands cupping my face as if to ensure there was no escape-not that I wanted one. My breath hitched, and for a moment, all I could think was,

Well, yeah, it's a castle, but to her, it's just her house. And let's be honest, showing up at someone's house on a first date definitely screams one-night-stand .

But then her hands dragged down to my hops and coherent thought dissolved into static. I heard the door clicked shut behind her, and she didn't give me a chance to steady myself. Her body pressed me further into the room, her kiss deepening, hands firm but not rough as they guided me right where she wanted me.

Her lips left mine just long enough for me to gasp in a breath, but before I could even gather my thoughts, she leaned in again, her mouth brushing along my jawline and down to my neck. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the moment, and the heat of her breath sent shivers skittering down my spine. I tried to focus, my hands gripping the fabric of her dress, but the way she pressed against me made it hard. "Not wasting any time, huh?" I managed to mumble, my voice shaky but light, trying to break the tension with a little humour. Odette pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Why wait?" she murmured, her voice low and intoxicating. "Time is such a... fleeting thing."

For some reason, the way she said it made my chest tighten and my pussy clench, but her lips were on mine again before I could process it. She kissed me harder this time, more insistent, like she was trying to erase the space between us entirely.

I felt like I was burning, caught between her intensity and the sheer audacity of it all. This woman lives in a castle, I thought hazily. She's got antique portraits and candelabras, and here I am letting her devour me like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Before I could catch my breath, her hands slid from my waist to the backs of my thighs, and in one fluid motion, she lifted me like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around her instinctively as she carried me a few steps into the room before dropping me unceremoniously on the bed. I couldn't contain my giggle at her inexplicable strength, but it quickly died as her hand wrapped slowly around my throat.

She leaned over me, her dark hair falling like a curtain around us. She kissed me again and my head swam.

I gasped as she released my neck, only to pepper it in kisses trailing down from my jaw to the hollow of my collarbone and lower still. Her hands slid along my sides, fingers splayed, as if she wanted to map out every inch of me- occasionaly digging her long nails into my skin.

My breath came faster, ragged, and my heart was pounding so hard I swore she could feel it beneath her touch. She paused for a moment, as if enjoying something only she could sense, and then she whispered, "Is this okay?" The question caught me off guard, but her voice was so soft, so low, that I couldn't bring myself to do anything but nod. She shook her head at me, tilted it to the side, not continuing

"Yes," I breathed, though the word felt heavy in my mouth, like it carried more weight than I realized.

She smiled again, differently now, all her teeth on display and wider than I thought possible.

She moved with that same deliberate control, almost as if she were unaffected. Her hands slipped under the hem of my dress, softly pinching at my flesh until they rested on my panties. A little huff escaped her before she simply tore them off me. Every nerve in my body felt alive, thrumming under her touch. I could feel myself dripping as she glanced at the red lace in her hand and threw it aside.

Another moment and her fingers were already deep inside me. I arched into her instinctively as I felt her nails scratch my pussy, a lovely painful ache and a hiss fell from my lips. Her weight pressed me down but as her thumb pressed into my clit I felt completely weightless.

My chest rose and fell rapidly and I knew I was blushing with the speed my orgasm was building. I realised my eyes were shut and tore them open just to notice her gaze was firmly on me. An almost predatory expression as I whimpered under her and clenched around her fingers. And again she smiled.

Only to pull her fingers from me. Lick them slowly as I squeezed my eyes and held back tears and fought not to beg this women I hardly knew.

Slowly, her eyes still locked on mine, she shifted down my body. I couldn't keep the pathetic, submissive grin off my face as she softly licked her way from my inner thighs to my pussy. I gasped as she softly bit at my clit, trying to pull my thighs together before she roughly pinned them to the bed.

"Please"-

I never beg but I couldn't help it. She gave me a soft smile and licked my pussy again.

When her teeth sank into my skin, it wasn't gentle. A sharp, sudden pain shot through me, and I gasped-but the gasp turned into something else, something I didn't entirely understand. Heat pooled low in my stomach, my body reacting in ways that didn't make sense, and I couldn't stop myself from letting out a shaky, involuntary moan.

She didn't stop. Her lips pressed harder, her tongue sweeping over the bite as I felt warmth trickle down my leg. My head spun, a mix of pain, pleasure, and confusion clouding every thought. Wait... am I bleeding? I thought hazily, but the idea barely took hold before her teeth were on me again, her hunger growing more urgent.

"Odette," I managed to choke out, my voice breathless and slurred. "You-uh-you should've-asked first..." But my protest was weak, barely audible, and the way her mouth moved against my skin sent a fresh wave of sensation crashing through me.

The room blurred at the edges as my body trembled, my senses caught in a spiral of sharp pain and something dangerously close to euphoria. I clutched the sheets again, a gasp slipping out as her lips moved again- this time to my neck. The last things I felt before my vision went dark was her mouth against my skin, the faint, wet sound of her feeding, and my own pulse pounding in my ears like a drum as my orgasm hit.

Part Two

#smut #wlw ns/fw #wlw smut #vampire smut #monster smut #monster fucker #dead dove do not eat #my fic #oc fic #Odette×Aria #hornyposting #this belongs on ao3 #lesbians #lesbian vampires #lesbian #the vampire haunter

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