#something something fear of getting close to someone

[illyrianbitch]

Breathe

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has a panic attack. You help him through it.

Warnings: panic attack pov, symptoms of anxiety (heavy breathing, dissociation, bad mean internal narration), lots of talks of fear, breathing exercises, comfort/care

Word Count: 3.6k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t notice it at first— not really. 

But his shadows did. 

They curled in close, drawn silent and taut, as if bracing for something, getting ready to soothe him like a newborn babe.

It always started quiet. Or, it used to, when it happened more often. Like pressure building— something soft at first, something creeping.

Azriel shifted in his seat at the end of the table, half in shadow as he often was.  

He blinked once. Twice. 

He realized, rather quickly, that he was too warm.

Not the kind of warm that settled into your bones on a sunny day. Not comfort. No, this was the kind of warmth that crawled across his skin. Under it. Sticky, stifling. His leathers suddenly felt too tight, like his chest couldn’t fully expand. 

He shifted again, pushing himself to focus on Rhysand’s voice once more. On the words his brother, his High Lord, was speaking.

Nothing was wrong. Not really.  He was seated where he always sat, in the same chair, in the same meeting room, listening to the same details about the same rotations and intelligence reports. Nothing was out of place. Everything was all as doomed, as dismal, and as hopeless as it had been recently. 

They were losing a war. And Azriel knew it. 

The conversation turned toward intelligence failures– intercepted reports, broken leads.

Azriel couldn’t stop his thoughts from growing louder. Faster. Those were another failure on him. On his abilities, his spies. He’d fucked up. Again, and again. The one thing he was good at, the one thing he was supposed to do— and he couldn’t. 

No, no. Stop. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He’d been doing better. Azriel, deep in his rational mind, knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely, at least. Koschei was unpredictable. His devoted followers hadn’t been something anyone could’ve predicted — Children of the Blessed who had found another ruler to worship. Another god to bow to. That wasn’t on him.

But it was… wasn’t it? It felt like a failure.

His shadows stilled around him, began calling to him in the way only they could. But Azriel couldn’t pay attention. His mouth was dry now. His hands were cold.

And there was something curling in his chest. A pressure. A discomfort. A wrongness inside him, like something off-center. He was sure of it. A flaw, like some thread pulled too tight. 

Az tried to anchor himself. Tried to focus on the sound of his brother’s voices, the crinkle of paper beneath his hand. But his thoughts were racing ahead — spiraling. 

The room was too loud.

He gripped the edge of the table. Attempted to draw in a deep breath. When it resisted, when his lungs protested against the strain of his ribs— broken many times before, he opted for flexing his fingers. Uncurled them. Tried to breathe through it once more.

This was pathetic, Az thought bitterly, the sharpness of his own anger swallowing up all other thoughts. The soft voice that tried to tell him he wasn’t to blame for everything was drowned out. It sounded so much like a younger version of himself. And something else, too— a voice that sounded awfully like his mother. 

Azriel had been fine this morning. Hadn’t he? 

So why, now, was he in such pain? Why was his throat tight? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He needed to breathe.

None of this was real. It was all in his head. It would pass. 

He was fine, he repeated in his mind, even as his wings twitched– betraying him before he could catch them. A subtle flex at first, a slight stiffening in his membrane. Defensive, instinctual. 

He tucked them in closer to his back, as if he could subconsciously make himself smaller, less visible. 

He was losing it. Gods, he was losing it and he couldn’t even stand without drawing attention—without someone noticing, without Rhys or Cassian giving him that look.

His wings spasmed again—this time sharper, a visible shudder that raced down the spine between them. Panic, the primal kind, began to bleed into the edges of his breathing.

Not real. Not real. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

He barely noticed when Rhysand’s voice faded into nothing, when the world outside of his own body dulled to a low hum. His vision blurred, not outwardly—no, that would’ve been merciful—but inside his mind. Thought tangled over thought until all that remained was one screaming, splintered thing: move.

Azriel refused to give in to that weaker, fearful side. He refused.

So, instead, he forced himself to lift his head– to act like he was still present. He gripped the edge of the table harder, forcing another breath through lungs that refused to expand. He forced his body to stay still even as every part of him screamed to run.

His eyes caught yours immediately.

You weren’t speaking. You hadn’t been speaking for a while—Az realized dimly that you’d fallen silent when he had.

You were staring at him, a brow furrowed in confusion, eyes darkened with worry. Real, devastating worry— written across your face like you’d felt his unraveling in your bones, like you knew exactly what he was fighting.

You always did that, Az thought briefly. Noticed things. Noticed him. Even when he tried to disappear, buried himself in shadows and distance and the anger only he knew how to hone, you still saw him.

And you were another thing he’d fucked up. Another thing, another person, he’d failed.

His panic hit him like a punch to the chest.

A wild, churning thing inside him lurched loose—sharp and wrong and too much.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

Not here. Not now.

Azriel tried to push to his feet smoothly, tried not to let the room tilt sideways around him. The scrape of his chair on the floor was deafening. His wings flared slightly behind him — a startled, instinctive reaction — before he forced them down again with trembling effort.

He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Couldn’t.

He just needed to get out. Get out.

By the time he stumbled into the hallway, the panic was a roaring thing in his chest. His wings kept twitching, muscles seizing like they couldn’t decide whether to shield or flee. His shadows seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, gathering in dark, frantic swirls at his feet, then dissipating and flickering against the walls, like they were trying—desperately—to anchor themselves, to pull him out of the fear gripping him.

The world narrowed to the thud of his boots and the pain in his chest. He was shaking now — his hands, his arms, his breath. He couldn’t get a full inhale. He couldn’t slow down. His mind was spiraling. He didn’t know where he was going.

Get out. Just get out. Get out get out get out.

He reached the end of the corridor, but his vision was still tunneling. He staggered sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. They were getting closer. Tighter.

Get out.

He needed air. Real air.

Needed out.

He winnowed. All instinct, like a broken wild animal on the run from something it knew it couldn’t beat. And then—he landed. He didn’t even know where he was going until the cold hit him.

Dirt. Grass. Night air.

He fell to his knees in it.

Hard.

It knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, fingers clawing into the earth. Trying to ground. Trying to focus. Trying to breathe.

Stupid. Stupid. This doesn’t happen. You’re fine. You’re not a child.

But he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t stop the rising panic clawing up his throat.

You’re a joke. You’re unraveling. You’re slipping and they’re going to see. You’re a liability. A fucking mess. You’re going to ruin everything—

He shouldn’t have been like this — he’d trained for worse, he’d handled worse. His shadows crowded him, trying to ground him, to pull him back, just as they did when he was three hundred and covered in blood. Twenty-two and angry. Eight and afraid.

It didn't work. They were just more noise. The pressure behind Azriel’s ribs sharpened. His skin itched. He couldn't tell if it was sweat or fear crawling over him.

A cold wind rushed over his skin, sudden and powerful. And for a second—just a second—it grounded him.

Then the panic surged again. Harder.

His fingernails dug further into dirt, the movement straining and pulling at the tight skin at his hands, the raw tendons and everything that was wrong with him. 

He couldn’t fucking see anything. Couldn’t focus. Azriel was sure his heart was breaking itself against his ribs. He pressed his forehead to the ground, desperate to disappear into it. The skin between his shoulders was buzzing, crawling with invisible ants. The old, familiar impulse to tear his way free, to snap bone and tendon if it meant getting out—getting away—scratching out the thing inside him he couldn't reach.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of him, the boy he'd once been was crying. Somewhere, even deeper, the soldier he'd become was roaring at him to stay still, stay quiet, get over it.

Azriel was vaguely aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Of a choked gasp that sounded too much like him. His shadows were scared now, concerned, louder as if they were trying to be louder than the voice in his head. But it was no use. 

His body was too small and the panic was too big.

And then—

A sound. A shape.

His name, maybe.

But it didn’t sound right. Didn't sound like anything.

It felt, almost, as if Az was trying to hear underwater— trying to breathe it in and choke.

He jerked away from the voice, instinctual. He didn't want to be seen. Not like this.

But then it came again. Warm. Gentle. Familiar. His shadows darted towards it.

“Azriel?”

And for the first time, he felt it. Felt you.

His eyes blinked open—wild, unfocused—but the world began to sharpen.

Not all at once. Not clearly, at least. But enough. Enough to see you there, from the corner of his eye, approaching him slowly, breath white in the cold air. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and pressed his palms flatter against the earth. His wings half-flared without permission. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

You’re weak. You’re not enough.

Your failures are going to get them all killed. Koschei. Koschei. Koschei. What if he kills them all? 

A flutter of heat brushed against his shoulder. He briefly registered the movement, somehow coherent enough to piece together the fact that you were crouching beside him. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked, a warrior, a spy— a feared male brought to his knees by his own damaged mind. 

For one harrowing moment, he wanted to snarl at you. To bare his teeth and tell you to go where you’re needed, to leave him alone— Because he didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t want to admit that he needed it. If he admitted it now, so vulnerable and exposed in front of you— embarrassingly so— you’d realize, for a second time, he wasn’t worth it. 

But he would never do that. He didn’t want to push you away again. 

A wave of shame hit him flat in the chest—flooding his system. Azriel forced his wings against his back until the muscles screamed. He gave a tight shake of his head, managed to say between jagged breaths, "I'm fine. Go home."

Your hand hovered at his back, near his wings. Gently pressed. He was shaking. 

He turned his face away. “Please.”

“Azriel,” you said again. Closer. 

Something crumbled in him when his shadows returned to his wrists, floating in soothing circles. He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. Count, like his mother always taught him to. Trace the patterns of his shadows. 

But gods, it wasn’t working.

“I can’t,” Azriel rasped. His voice was barely there. 

A few seconds later, your hand was on his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw. You tilted his face toward yours.

“I’m right here,” you said. Your eyes were wide. Pleading, almost. Like he was lost and you were begging for him to find you again. 

And he would, wouldn't he? Find you, that was. In every lifetime. 

He blinked. It didn’t feel real. He didn’t deserve this tender touch.

 “Az, can you look at me?”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” 

You reached up, brushing a hand through the strands of his hair at the front — a soft, slow rake of your fingers like you were trying to soothe him back to himself. The touch startled him. His eyes opened wider, found yours again, even as his chest still heaved with shallow, broken breaths.

“I’m—” he sucked in a breath, but it hitched, harsh and shallow. “I’m not okay.  I’m— I’m scared and I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t keep pretending—”

He was unraveling. Words spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

“I’m not enough. I’m not—stable. I can’t help with Koschei. I can’t find anything. People are dying. I’m letting everyone down and—fuck—” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t breathe—”

You shifted without hesitation, lowering yourself to your knees before him, so you could meet him at eye level. Gently, delicately, you reached for one of his hands — still clawed into the dirt like an animal — and began to uncurl his fingers from the earth. He shifted his position with the movement. 

He blinked again at the sensation, disoriented, his brows furrowing as you guided his hand up and placed it over your chest. Over your heart. And covered it with your own.

“Feel that?” you whispered, taking an exaggerated deep breath. His hand rose with the motion. “All that air coming into my lungs. It’s really nice, Az. Refreshing. Don’t you think?”

He nodded. Or thought he did. It was hard to tell where his body was.

“I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

He swallowed hard. His lungs still fought him. But he would try. Gods, for you — he would always try.

You inhaled again, slow and deep, and he followed — or tried to. Again. And again. Until something in his lungs finally loosened, like a muscle unclenching.

He closed his eyes.

The panic didn’t vanish. But it ebbed. Enough to come back into his body. Enough to feel the weight of the earth, the throb of his heart. The gentleness in your touch. His wings gradually relaxed. His other hand stopped trembling against the grass.

When he opened his eyes, he found yours already waiting.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, he could see you. Not through panic. Just… you.

His hand twitched under yours. You interlaced your fingers, pressing his palm against your skin even firmer. Finally, Azriel took a deep breath. A proper one. Felt the refreshing night air fill his lungs. 

And when you smiled — soft and aching and full of something he couldn’t name — he felt the last of the panic slip out of his bones.

He realized, with excruciating clarity, exactly where he was now. Realized that he was touching you. That you were so close. That somehow, impossibly, despite everything he’d ruined, you were here. 

He almost forgot to breathe again.

You shifted your free hand up slightly, brushing it back through his hair — a tender, absentminded thing, like it was instinct for you now. 

“There we go,” you said softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Azriel took advantage of his proximity to take you in— the curve of your mouth, the way the moonlight caught the shine of your hair. How close you were to him, how real it felt. It was almost enough to make him believe he had died after all— that this was some kind of fragile heaven he wasn’t meant to keep, a dream created by a brain deprived of oxygen. 

He let out a breath. His body went lax, sinking into the earth. Into you.

You glanced back at him again, your hand still in his hair, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He studied your face like he could memorize it all over again — the faint crease between your brows, the tremble you were trying to hide in your jaw, the way your eyes softened when you caught him looking.

Something inside him cracked open wider.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then to your eyes. And then his gaze dropped once more, landing on where his hand still rested over your heart, your smaller one covering his. Without thinking, Azriel brushed his thumb across your skin. A slow, reverent sweep. He felt it immediately— the sudden, sharp skip of your heartbeat under his hand. 

“Your heart,” Azriel whispered, “It’s...beating really fast.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” you murmured, giving him a sheepish, crooked little smile.

“Why?”

Azriel swore he caught the faintest tint of pink at your cheeks.

“It tends to do that around you.”

Something inside him stumbled, caught on a beat he didn’t recognize. "Oh," he breathed out.

A few moments passed. And then, slowly, you shifted — separating just enough to ease down beside him. Azriel mourned the loss of your touch, of his hand on your skin. He settled into a similar position, watching as you tucked your knees to your chest and rested your head lightly atop them. 

The silence that followed felt easy. Comforting. Azriel was grateful for it, despite his longing to touch you again. His breaths, now more regular, were still slowly coming back to him. 

You turned to look at him, your cheek pressed against your knees. “What happened, Az?” 

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Out of everyone, you were the only one he'd ever truly opened up to about these episodes. These small attacks — flashes of terror, of helplessness — they'd started creeping back after the second war against Hybern. A strange, ugly pattern.

He hated them. Hated the way they made him feel: weak, broken, like he was still the trembling boy locked away in a lightless cell. But he’d been doing better. He had been. And now — this — it felt like a step backward. Like a fall from a cliff he'd barely managed to climb. He felt like a failure. Like a burden.

“I…I don’t know. I just…”

He looked at you then. Really looked. At the way your eyes urged him to go on. And somehow, his thoughts came easier. More honest. 

The truth was — Azriel had spent most of his life benefiting from the image of someone fearless. The cold, steady blade in the dark. The one who didn’t flinch.

But Azriel was afraid all the time.

He moved through his fear like a second skin — worked off it, thrived off it. Fear of losing someone. Fear of being weak again. Fear of being proven wrong. Fear of being left behind. It sat in him like something feral, something sharp-toothed and restless, always on the edge of recognition.

He knew fear the way an animal knew the shift of the wind before a storm.

And lately, it was starting to take more than it gave. 

He hated it. Hated that for all the years he'd spent learning to master it, it still had the power to master him.

“I hate this,” Azriel said finally. Barely audible. “I hate that I can’t control this panic. That it’s still in me. That I freeze. When I’m needed most.”

“You’re not frozen now,” you said. “You came back.”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to protect people. I’m supposed to keep our court safe. That’s what I’m for. If I can’t do that... if I’m just afraid…then what am I?”

“You’re still you. Even when you’re afraid. Especially then.”

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment. Nodded, just barely. “I think you’re the only one who thinks that.”

“The fearless don't win wars, Az. They just die faster. The ones who love... the ones who are afraid — they're the ones who survive. They're the ones who save people."

He blinked, like you’d struck him, and a wave of relief ran through his body. Azriel let out a rough breath — almost a laugh. “Since when did you get so philosophical?”

You shrugged, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “I used to date this guy…”

He arched his brow and you tilted your head, pretending to think. “Taught me a few things about war. About fear. About how important it is to find people worth being afraid for.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched upwards. “Sounds like a piece of work.”

You breathed a soft laugh and the quiet stretched again. He ran his fingers idly through a blade of grass, taking in the calm night surrounding him. 

��How did you know where I went?” Az asked.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees, chin resting on them, eyes tracing his shadows dancing along the grass. “I made a lucky guess.”

“Well… thank you," he said, his heart glowing. "For finding me.”

You glanced at him, your eyes softening as you replied,  “Always.”

Then you tucked your chin back onto your knees, looking up at the sky again. The stars spun lazy arcs overhead. Azriel watched you instead— for a few indulgent moments, at least. 

Eventually, Azriel’s gaze drifted from you, scanning the patch of grass beneath you both.  A soft smile tugged at his lips as the memory surfaced—of the first time he kissed you—here, in this exact spot.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: posting this randomly as i am...crawling...slowly....from the grave.... where uninspired writers.... and my abandoned wips.... go to rot...

as a girl who has suffered w panic attacks my whole life (thank u traumatic events!) i would rather die than have someone like...kiss me for example, but i cannot tell u how intimate those moments are after someone sees you so vulnerable and theyre just like so...casual abt it? so i simply had to write a lil something, idk anyways enjoy this random lazy ass work <3 onto my series i go!!!!

fun fact.... this is actually a scrapped scene from one of my drafted series (anatomy of dependence), that full exes to lovers, second chance romance, best friends to luvers goodnesssss!!!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻 (im going to revamp this soon, so if you wanna stay on it, let me know!!)

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[lazysoulwriter]

the trouble we cause. - pedro pascal x wife!actress!reader.

requested!!! thank you for sending, love doing this one.

---

It had started as a joke.

"Imagine if we ever worked together," you had laughed, curled up against Pedro’s chest one night. "We’d get absolutely nothing done."

Pedro had only grinned, pressing a kiss to your hair. "I'd be professional... ish."

You should've known better.

Because now, six months later, you were sitting across from him at a press junket, cameras rolling, mics hot — and you were this close to bursting into laughter because of the dumb little face he was making at you from across the table.

It was a losing battle from the start.

From the very first day on set, you and Pedro had been... a problem.

It wasn’t intentional. You were both professionals — award-winning, seasoned actors. But professionalism had limits when it came to your husband whispering Spanish nonsense into your ear between takes just to make you giggle.

It wasn’t your fault he kept sneaking glances at you during serious scenes. It wasn’t your fault you kept blushing and ruining your lines. And it definitely wasn’t your fault when the director had to physically separate you two during lunch breaks because apparently, "you're distracting each other too much."

Not that the separation helped much. Pedro had a whole arsenal of "across the room" tactics: raised eyebrows, secret smiles, a whole silent language only the two of you understood.

You were, in short, insufferable.

And everyone else loved you for it.

The junket was the worst (or best) example yet.

Initially, they had placed you and Pedro side by side, thinking it would be cute — married couple! same movie! adorable!

It took all of ten minutes for chaos to erupt.

You couldn't stop leaning into each other, whispering jokes under your breath. Pedro kept trying to "discreetly" hold your hand under the table. At one point, you straight-up started laughing so hard at something he muttered that you had to hide your face behind your coffee cup.

The publicist eventually gave up and moved you to opposite ends of the panel.

Big mistake.

Now, you were playing silent games of charades across the stage — winking, mouthing jokes, making faces until the moderator very politely asked if "the married couple could please focus."

You bit your lip, cheeks flaming. Pedro just shrugged, grinning like the devil himself.

Later, during the one-on-one interviews, it only got worse.

Every time someone asked a serious question, Pedro would somehow manage to derail it.

"What's it like working together?" Pedro: "Dangerous. I fear for my life daily." (said while giving you a full-on heart-eyes look.)

"Was there a lot of on-set chemistry?" Pedro: "Wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to propose again."

You smacked his arm for that one — gently, lovingly, the way you did everything with him.

The interviewer laughed. Pedro just looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

When you got home that night, exhausted but buzzing from the day, you collapsed onto the couch together, still in your fancy clothes.

Pedro immediately pulled you into his lap, arms locking around your waist.

"You know," you murmured, tracing lazy patterns over his chest, "we're a menace."

Pedro laughed, deep and warm. "I think they’re just jealous," he said, nuzzling your temple. "They wish they had this."

You smiled, feeling that familiar, overwhelming rush of love for him.

"This," you echoed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And you wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant getting scolded like teenagers every time you were in a room together.

Especially if it meant this.

---

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 001 ✱ THE FIRST DEATH

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“This white area right here,” the doctor says, pointing to a section on the screen. “This is the tumor.”

Your gaze shifts from the glowing image of your brain to the doctor sitting across from you. Your eyes lock onto the man’s face, trying to process the words you’ve just heard. You blink once, then twice, and then a third time, hoping the reality of it will somehow change, or at least make more sense. But no matter how many times you blink, the words remain — brain tumor. Your chest tightens. Your breaths feel short and shallow. Your heart rate spikes, and suddenly, the room feels smaller. You’re not sure if it’s the shock, the disbelief, or the wave of panic rising in you, but your world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

“A brain tumor?” Your voice is barely a whisper, barely audible, as though if you say it too loudly, it might become too real to bear. “A brain tumor…”

“Yes. And a very dangerous one.”

Your mind tries to make sense of it all, but nothing clicks into place. Instead, a faint smile, almost involuntary, forms on your lips. Your eyes drift back to the computer screen, staring at the scan of your brain. The image is clear — six large, distinct spots, each one a reminder of something that shouldn’t be there. You stare at it, unblinking, as if maybe by looking long enough, the truth will somehow change. A tumor. In your brain. It doesn’t sound real. It’s like something out of a bad dream, one that you’re not ready to wake up from.

A few days ago, you’d come to the hospital after passing out at the boxing gym. It had started out like any other day — training, working through the motions, feeling the usual aches and fatigue. But that night was different. You felt a wave of nausea hit you, but you pushed it aside. Just tired, you thought. Then came the dizziness, the piercing headaches, until, finally, you collapsed. When you came to, your coach was hovering beside you, his face filled with concern. That was when they decided it was time to get checked out. The scan was supposed to only offer some clarity. And now here you were today, hearing something that felt impossible. A tumor. A dangerous one. In your brain.

The words hang heavy in the air. Your chest tightens again, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Do I have to get surgery?” You ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

The doctor hesitates, his expression turning even more serious.

“It’s inoperable, Y/N. Because of the location, surgery would be too risky. It’s not something we can touch safely.”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds hollow, almost forced, and the sound catches in your throat, thick with the weight of what you’ve just been told. You feel an overwhelming lump form there, as though your body itself is betraying you. Your eyes burn, and you bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“But then… what happens to me?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, it feels like your chest might collapse under the pressure.

The doctor’s face softens, but you don’t need sympathy right now. You don’t want that look. Not from someone who’s supposed to help you.

“There’s nothing we can do for now,” the doctor says, his voice quieter, more reluctant. “We can only hope that the tumor doesn’t grow. That it stays the same size. We need to monitor it closely.”

Hope. The word echoes in your mind, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Hope? That’s it?

“So I’m just supposed to live with this? And hope it doesn’t get worse?” The frustration in your voice is evident, a mix of fear and disbelief. “What happens if it does get worse? What happens to me then?”

The room feels colder, more suffocating. The future, once filled with possibilities and the simple joy of living, suddenly seems like a distant memory, slipping further out of reach with every passing second.

“So I’m going to die young?” You don’t even know if it’s a question anymore. It’s more like a statement of fact, a brutal realization that you can’t undo.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather himself before responding. His eyes flicker with something — pity, maybe, or just an overwhelming sadness that a young person like you has to face this. You don’t want pity. You want answers. You need to know.

“Doctor,” you say, your voice suddenly more forceful than before, though it’s thick with the pain of everything you’re processing. You straighten up in your seat, willing yourself to face the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “Tell me the truth. How long do I have left to live?”

The words are out, and now there’s no taking them back. The air feels heavier, charged with the weight of the question, and for a long moment, the doctor says nothing. He just looks at you, his gaze steady but reluctant, as if bracing for what comes next. And finally, the doctor exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Nine months. Maybe a little over a year if you’re lucky. In your current condition, it’s possible you might live a bit longer. But that’s all we can give you. Time. We just have to wait and see how things unfold.”

Nine months. Or a little over a year.

The doctor’s words hang in the air like a dark cloud. They’re vague, but the message is undeniable: neither option leaves you with much time. You feel the weight of it, crushing you from all sides. Suddenly, your throat tightens, and you feel a sharp lump rise in it, choking you. You want to cry, scream, punch something, break everything in sight — yet, all you do is stare blankly at your hands, fingers fidgeting with a nervous energy that doesn’t seem to help. You can’t breathe. The walls of the office feel too close, the air too thick, the entire space too small. All you want is to escape. To run. To make it stop.

In just over a year, you will be dead. And the most horrifying part is there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“I know this is difficult to process,” the doctor’s voice continues, soft, almost too compassionate. “I sincerely hope you’ll take the time to talk to someone about it. We’ll schedule another appointment next week for more details.”

You nod, though you don’t truly hear the doctor anymore. His words blur into a meaningless murmur, lost in the buzzing noise that has overtaken your thoughts. You stand up automatically, your limbs moving without conscious thought, too numb to feel anything. Your body feels disconnected, like you’re watching yourself from the outside. Your eyes are empty, like the world around you is out of focus, and the doctor’s mouth moves in slow motion. You catch a few words here and there, but they hold no weight. Only the echo of your own thoughts fills your mind, reverberating louder than anything else.

With a faint bow, more out of habit than anything else, you grab your bag, your hand shaking as you sling it over your shoulder. The floor beneath your feet seems to stretch farther with each step you take. Your body is on autopilot, moving mechanically toward the door. The cold, sterile scent of disinfectant hits you as soon as you step into the hallway, more suffocating than it ever was in the office. The familiar scent of the hospital now feels foreign and harsh, like the smell of a place where people come to die, not heal.

Your feet drag as you walk. Your eyes are locked on the ground, watching the tiles pass beneath you, but your mind is a whirlwind, spinning with a thousand thoughts, none of them clear, none of them making sense. You’re lost. Completely lost. Should you tell someone? Your mother? Suho?

But no. No, you can’t tell anyone. Not yet.

Your mother… She wouldn’t understand. She’d probably just dismiss it. Her cold, indifferent attitude would be the same as always. She might even accuse you of making it up for attention, a sick attempt to get sympathy. You could already hear her voice, the dismissive tone, the lack of care. Even the rare times you visited her at the retirement home, she barely acknowledged you. Why would this be any different? You could already hear the words, feel the sting of them, the way they would cut through you.

And Suho… No. Definitely not Suho.

You know your best friend too well. You know that hearing this news would break him — completely and utterly. Suho would break at the mere thought of it, at the simple thought of losing you. Maybe Suho wouldn’t show it outwardly, maybe he would try to stay strong, to hold it together for your sake. But you’d see it. You can already picture the sadness in Suho’s eyes, the way it would completely ruin him. You couldn’t do that to him. No, you couldn’t break him like that. You can’t bear the idea of that. You can’t bring yourself to do that to him.

The doctor had said you had about a year left, give or take. A year. That’s time, right? Time to hide it. Time to lie about the headaches. Time to fake your way through each day, pretending nothing’s wrong. It should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? You’d just keep quiet. Keep everything to yourself. No one needs to know. You could hold it together for a little while longer, couldn’t you?

Because once people know, once they learn that your days are numbered, they’ll look at you differently. They’ll see you as broken, fragile, like something already slipping through their fingers. They’ll treat you like a dying man, as if you’re already been buried six feet under. They’ll pity you. And that… that is the last thing you can bear. The thought of people looking at you with those eyes, speaking to you with that soft, sorrowful tone, treating you like you’re already gone — that would kill you long before death ever touches you. The pity would be worse than the tumor itself.

And your first death has already happened. It happened the moment the doctor told you about the tumor.

▅▅▅▅▅ 𑁍 ▅▅▅▅▅

If there’s one thing you absolutely despise, it’s waking up early. Especially this early. According to the cold, unfriendly numbers blinking on your watch, it’s 5:49 AM — a time that feels almost inhuman to you.

The sky is still cloaked in deep gray, and the streets are eerily silent, the world not yet awake. Step after slow step, you drift down the road toward Byuksan High School, your right hand shoved deep into the pocket of your school uniform jacket, the other clutching a small paper bag, warm with the smell of fresh pastries. Your backpack hangs carelessly off one shoulder, and the low thrum of music filters through your earbuds, though you’re barely listening. Your mind is far too crowded with heavier, louder thoughts.

Today, you’re ridiculously early compared to your usual schedule. Way too early.

Then again… you hadn’t been able to sleep a single second after the soul-crushing news you received yesterday.

You hadn’t gone to your part-time job at the convenience store, hadn’t dragged yourself to the boxing gym either, texting your coach some excuse about feeling too sick to make it. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. Instead, you had stumbled home, dropped face-first onto your bed, and stayed there. No dinner. No phone. No distractions. Just hours of thinking. Endless, restless, useless thinking. Memories, regrets, fear — they all tangled together in your mind until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

By four in the morning, you gave up trying to fight it.

If sleep wasn’t coming, you might as well move. You pulled yourself out of bed, took a shower, threw on your uniform, and decided to leave the house absurdly early, hoping that maybe, with a long enough walk, the fresh air would sweep the chaos out of your head.

( It hadn’t. )

But at least you had enough time to stop by the small bakery a few blocks from home — the one Suho loved — and pick up a few pastries.

You now move calmly through the deserted halls of Byuksan High, your footsteps echoing slightly against the linoleum floor. The school is eerily silent, only the faint hum of the old heaters breaking the stillness. The sky outside has started to shift — not fully light yet, but no longer pure darkness either. That grey-blue hour between night and morning where everything feels suspended, floating.

Stopping in front of Class 1-5, you gently push the door open, cringing at the small creak it lets out. You step inside, instinctively making as little noise as possible. The classroom is empty, save for one person ; Suho. Sprawled across three desks at the back of the room, his arms dangling loosely, mouth slightly open, fast asleep — exactly how you expected to find him. The sight makes something tight and painful twist in your chest, but outwardly, you allow a small, genuine smile to tug at the corners of your mouth.

You close the door behind you with a soft click and make your way to your seat — also in the back, right in front of Suho’s. As you pull out your chair and quietly lower yourself into it, you notice Suho stir slightly.

Shit. Did I wake him up?

You freeze for a second, then slowly place your backpack down on the floor, setting the bag of pastries carefully onto your desk. You glance over your shoulder just as Suho shifts again, grumbling something incoherent under his breath, and — hilariously — sniffs loudly the air, his nose twitching like a dog catching a scent.

“Seriously?” you mutter to yourself, a laugh bubbling up in your throat despite yourself. “He can smell food even while he’s sleeping?”

At the sound of your voice, Suho stirs again, this time cracking one eye open sluggishly. He squints toward you, clearly still halfway trapped in a dream. His head lifts slightly from the desk, and for a second, he just blinks at you in confusion, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

His gaze drifts around the empty, dim classroom, then back to you, disbelief written all over his sleepy face.

“Y/N…?” he croaks, voice hoarse from sleep. He shifts upright, stretching his arms with a groan before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it? Why the hell are you even here already?”

“It’s probably around 6:30 or something,” you reply casually, lifting the small paper bag in your hand up to head level, the scent of fresh pastries practically leaking out. “I brought us food.”

Suho blinks again, as if processing the information slowly, before his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You absolute legend,” Suho says, practically scrambling to sit properly on top of his desk now. His hair is a complete mess, sticking up at odd angles, but he looks so genuinely happy that you feel a deep warmth bloom in your chest — bittersweet, but comforting.

You chuckle softly as you toss a couple of items toward Suho : two custard-filled donuts, a few mini cakes neatly wrapped in wax paper, and a strawberry milk — plus a banana milk for good measure. You had picked up the exact same for yourself, except you opted for two strawberry milks because you’re basically addicted to them. Suho catches the pastries clumsily, practically hugging them to his chest like precious treasure.

“You’re saving my life right now,” he says seriously, already unwrapping one of the donuts with the urgency of a man who hadn’t seen food in weeks.

You just lean back in your chair, resting an arm over the backrest, watching him with a small, warm smile.

“Thought you might be hungry,” you say simply, taking a lazy sip from your own strawberry milk.

“How are you even alive right now?” Suho jokes between bites, his cheeks puffed out adorably with donut. “You literally hate mornings.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, tearing into a piece of cake and popping it into your mouth. “Miracles happen.”

The two of you fall into an easy, quiet rhythm — chatting about nothing in particular as you eat. You listen to Suho ramble between mouthfuls of donut about how brutal yesterday’s math homework was, how Coach Kim wants the both of you to sign up for the upcoming school sports festival, how someone allegedly flooded the boys’ bathroom on the second floor again. Normal things. Stupid, everyday things.

And you soak it all in like it’s air you desperately need to breathe. The sound of Suho’s laugh, the way he talks with his mouth full even though he knows you hate it, the excited sparkle in his eyes when he’s telling a story — it’s all so real, so vibrant, so painfully alive. It hits you harder than you expect, how much you want to protect this for as long as you possibly can. How desperately you want to freeze time, to keep this version of Suho untouched by the reality waiting to crush you both.

No, you think firmly. Not yet. Not for a while.

You’ll keep the secret. You’ll keep pretending. Because once you tell Suho, there’ll be no going back. And the smile currently lighting up Suho’s face would never quite look the same again.

“Hey, earth to Y/N?” Suho’s voice cuts through your thoughts, waving a hand in front of your face. “You good?”

You blink, startled, then huff out a soft laugh, reaching over to steal half of Suho’s second donut without permission.

“Yeah. Just thinking about how ugly you look when you eat.”

Suho lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest.

“Rude! I am a vision of beauty,” he protests, spraying a few crumbs across the desk.

“You’re a vision of something, alright,” you tease, grinning widely.

You both burst out laughing — real, genuine laughter that fills the classroom and bounces off the empty walls. For a while, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in your own little bubble of silly jokes and sugary pastries and the kind of friendship that feels unbreakable.

The sun finally pushes itself up over the horizon, light bleeding slowly into the classroom through the grimy windows. Little by little, the rest of the world wakes up. Students start trickling into the classroom, chattering sleepily, slamming their desks, and unpacking their bags. The noise grows louder, the day begins like any other — and you don’t even notice, too busy trying to etch this fleeting, perfect moment into your heart.

For now, life goes on. Just like it always has.

And you’re determined to make it stay that way — for as long as you possibly can.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ and the first chapter is finally here! im so so excited to write even more for this fanfic >~< also, this story is available on my wattpad too with a male oc if you ever feel interested!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @naelvze @ecrvea @eijizwrld @dudekiss3r @ten0rikuma @nnryota @yeon103 @strawberrywith-chocolate2 @daichiwkmi (let me know if you wanna be added!)

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man.

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, ��don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.” 

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.   

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication. 

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

..

..

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.” 

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath. 

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly. 

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before 

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you���ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him. 

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.  

.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

..

..

..

“domina, we are here.” 

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised.  you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs.  the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were  and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice. 

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said. 

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs. 

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam  across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both. 

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

.

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs  or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself  as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing. 

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really. 

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here.  not by men like him  and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor. 

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle. 

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @loveaurdeepression, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 08. A state of dreams

PREV PART trigger warnings: mental + physical + emotional neglect, Reader is in a ‘limbo’ of nightmares, grief, shouting, I am a bit unsure on what trigger warnings suit this chapter so if you think I missed anything pls do say so main m.list        series m.list

Sleep is supposed to keep pain away from you, it’s supposed to give you a break. But your sleep has been haunted by nightmares from the day of the attack to today, your nightmares filled with violence and the Gods are punishing you. Punishing you for not fighting back, that’s what these dreams have to be.

Nightmares that talk about the ‘what if’, the nightmares that kill your soul. You’re stuck in them, you’re stuck in a river of pain and you don’t know how to get out of it. You don’t want to be asleep, you don’t want to sleep.

“Come on, (Nickname),” your mother chuckles as she opens her arms, no she isn’t. “you don’t want to keep me waiting, right?”

You don’t, you want to rush into her embrace, cry as you wish for a better life. Cry as you ask her why Bruce hates you, cry as you beg for a reason why your family doesn’t love you. But you can’t.

You can’t run into her loving embrace, because before you’ll reach her the scene will change, it will be Bruce holding your shoulders in a crushing grip. Asking you why you couldn’t just stay silent, asking you why you just couldn’t be a good doll and stay in the corner to be forgotten. So you’ll make her wait. Just to see her face.

“Baby,” your mother gasps dramatically, putting her hand on her heart. “did mama do something wrong? Is that why you don’t want to give me a hug?”

You shake your head as you ignore the shifting scene, oh how you hate being aware. “I just want to keep looking at you, mama,” you whisper. “you look so beautiful.”

Your mama laughs as she takes you in her arms but then she disappears. Leaving a younger you behind in a hospital gown, a gown that you remember all too well. It was from the hospital you almost died in. It was the last time you remember being comforted by your mama. “You vowed to stay healthy,” younger you whispers in anger. “you broke that vow!”

“I did,” you admit, not even trying to placate them, not even looking them in their eyes. “health isn’t something you can control. We were destined for this, we are destined for pain. But we’ll find our people through that pain.”

“It’s not fair!” younger you shouts, clenching their hospital gown in their hands. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! We did everything right!” Younger you was sobbing, sobbing to the point you could feel their tears in your own hearts. “Why can’t we be happy?!”

You look at the ground, the scene was shifting again. It was the manor, and this time it was Alfred in front of you. His nose flaring as he raises his arm and starts shouting at you, you can’t hear him but it scares you. You feel threatened, you feel unsafe and most of all you feel like you’re in danger. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it wasn’t enough for him. He grabs your shoulders as spit flies from his mouth as he shouts, your heart just becoming numb. “it’s not my fault… I didn’t do anything!”

Exactly, a voice whispers in the back of your head, you were complicate to your own abuse. You kept the key of your own jail for so long, so can you fully blame Alfred?

You close your eyes and shake your head. That voice is wrong, you weren’t complicate in to the neglect that they gave you. It was never your fault, it never will be. You just need to ignore Alfred, both in dream and when you are awake, just because he wants you a certain way doesn’t mean you have to be that way. You know that right? You just need to wake up for now, can you do that for me?

Can you open your beautiful eyes? (Oh, is that Duke you hear or someone else? Is your mother calling for you?)

But for now you will continue to stay in state. A state of grieving what you could have had, a state where in you experience all the fear that you have ever felt once more, a state where you see your mother but barely can remember her face and voice, a state that reminds you of the hell that awaits you once you open your eyes.

But that hell is your story, and you can take it to another road. You’ll try and try, and you’ll fail. Don’t get me wrong. But after all that failure you are bound to learn, and you are bound to grow. So take the hands that hold out to you, you’ll never have to walk this path alone.

NEXT PART Heard my grandpa is the hospital while writingso updates might be slow for a while, or a bit darker and more chaotic. I have also closed the taglist since whenever I add new people in the editor it shows up but not in the post??

taglist: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret,

[icupblog]

Where did the party go? (batfam x neglected reader) TW: neglect, slight kidnapping

Gotham residents always said that the city could hollow your heart out, that if you lived there long enough you wouldn't care about how many homeless lived in that abandoned building, or how high casulties were every time the Joker got out of Arkham. But at least when gothamites went home they could cuddle up to their loved ones. At least they could have someone coddle them and ask them mundane questions like how their day was and talk about the weather. You on the other hand had no one.

Did you have a family, yes... but they weren't yours, in the sense of whether they would care if you left the house late or if they would come to a dance show you had because you had asked them to (they wouldn't)

So you spent your days working, grinding away at your schoolwork. because maybe Tim would be impressed if you got all A's on your exams, maybe Dick would notice you rather than just ignore your presence, maybe even Jason would give you some semblance of a smirk and tell you good job (you had lost hope for Damian).Oh, how you hoped to live up to your expectations, even for Barbara and Stephanie and they weren't even adopted.

Maybe you knew when you first entered the Wayne Manors beautiful gates that the house would be haunted by something, you just didn't think that something would be you.

You first entered the fiery gates of Bruce Wayne's home when you were 12 years old, unlike the kids that had come before you, you had actually reached double digits before making it to the dark knights home. (well the kids that were there at that moment in time).

The first time you met the man himself was after a funeral. You had just arrived at the Manor a day prior with Alfred escorting you to your room before you slept, and when you awoke there was pure brilliant silence throughout the mansion. It was so surreal you thought you were in a dream, you tiptoed down the massive staircase into the entrance of the house. The windows were slashed with a heavy downpour of thick unyelding rain, almost as if it reflected Bruce's own emotions. He opened the tall doors with superhuman ease (to a small twelve year old at least) and slouched his way into the manor, uncaring to whether his soaked clothes would get on Alfred's beautifully cleaned carpet. He looked up at you and held your gaze for an unseemly amount of time before sighing. You felt as though you should have said something, however upon seeing the man your throat closed up immediately. How could you do anything when just looking at him fills you with a strange foreign emotion? (fear)

When you were 12 you ignored the hints the family would sometimes give you that they were too busy. "Sorry name but I'm pre-occupied besides you're a bit old to ask for my help, right?" Dick would say while he would scroll on his phone. "Okay, uhm, see you around then," "Hey, I was wondering if you weren't too busy with paperwork the-" "No name I'm working got to Alfred if you need anything." "O-okay" Bruce would always be straight forward and blunt, he didn't care, no matter how hard you wanted him too. To him you were nothing more than a mistake a stain on his playboy image as one of his many escapades as Brucie Wayne ended with your mother getting pregnant. "Babs, can you help me with my computer?" "Have you tried switching it off and on again?" "no..." Barbara would always give you some time of day just not a lot... like 30 seconds max.

Then before you could think it could get any worse Tim arrived a Kid around your age, yet he would always sneak off with Bruce and Stephanie (a girl he would bring round, you sometimes could spot her before she disappeared) into the depths of the study and come out hours later looking exhausted and even more irritable before.

It somehow got even worse when Jason came back an evil entity hell bent on ruining your life, and Tim's. He show up outside your school sometimes telling the office workers you were his half-sister and he had to pick you up after school some days. He would shove on the end of his motorbike and hold you in a safehouse for hours on end before realising no one would arrive for you. Upon realising the great Batman didn't care about his one civilian child he would grow furious, breaking things around you as you clinged to whatever you were attached to and cry. Eventually he would grow bored of this old routine and leave you alone.

You tried to tell the family but they would just say "he didn't mean it" "he's not in his right mind name" or even worse they would forget the fact that their child who should be dead by all means kidnapped you and instead asked about his well-being. "Was he angrier or more sad?" "Did you see where you were held? maybe we can reach out to him B". In fact you didn't even realise Bruce Wayne your supposed father was Batman until you had moved out and put the pieces together.

Eventually Cassandra came along, then Damian. You think you were so traumatised by your first encounters by them both that you had blocked them out of your memory. You do however remember coming out of each conversation with an injury.

Let's just say when you eventually became eighteen you were quite frankly done with the family, you had decided to move out asap, so the second you got your college admissions you skedaddled out into metropolis.

Guys how do we feel about this?????

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: your first argument with your future spouse

Hello and welcome to this reading! Here I will tell you how the first argument between you and your future spouse will go. I hope you enjoy this reading!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

the extended version of this reading you can find on my patreon, the link of which is here

Pile 1:

The first argument you will have with your future spouse won’t be an explosive one, but it will hurt you regardless. This argument is going to centre around priorities, in specific about one of you two feeling like the other person isn’t making enough time or putting enough effort into the relationship during a busy/transitional time (think about starting a new job, project, moving, or family troubles). You or your future spouse is going to feel a little abandoned, like an afterthought, while the other will be frustrated with the fact that even though they’re doing their best and trying it feels like it isn’t ever going to be enough. This isn’t going to be an argument that comes out of nowhere either; it will be one of those arguments that will come up eventually, you just don’t know when since it builds up over a couple of weeks.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

You and your future spouse will be having your first argument about privacy and boundaries. One of you two, most likely your future spouse, is going to be very clingy in the beginning of your relationship. They will constantly try and spend time with you, never leaving you alone, always sleeping over and simply just spending every second with you. Right now you might feel like this is something incredibly nice and lovely to have, but the moment you are in this relationship you are going to realise that privacy and time on your own is going to be very important to you, and having someone close to you 24/7 is very draining and just not good for your relationship. You will realise that it is not good to not have a life beyond your relationship; and will fear this is what’s happening to your future spouse. So the moment you two have an argument, it’s going to be about all of those things.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

Your first argument with your future spouse is unfortunately not going to be the best argument. Your future spouse will most likely do something with a different person that will make you incredibly upset. They won’t actually have cheated on you or anything, but they will have been closer with a specific person than you would’ve liked; think about them meeting with this person in private, sleep over at their place or them going out to a movie or a restaurant all on their own. This is going to be hurtful and cause you some insecurity; and even though your future spouse will get what you’re coming from it’s still going to be a sensitive subject since they had their reasons for doing the things they did. Ugly words are going to be shouted at one another, tears are going to be shed, and you are going to be rethinking your whole relationship. In the end it will get talked out completely, apologies from your future spouse will be given, but it is going to take a couple of days.

extended reading > paid readings

[dearstvckyx]

You've got a heart of gold and mine is always broken - Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri has quietly loved his guarded best friend for months, trying and failing to break down her walls. After finally asking why she won’t give him a chance, she admits her fear of getting hurt again. Patient and steady, Oscar shows her that love with him isn’t something she needs to fear. - The Neighbourhood , The Shining

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Warnings: emotional vulnerability , mentions of bad past relationships

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

⸻

Oscar wasn’t oblivious.

He saw it all — the way you tensed when someone got too close. How you laughed at jokes but never let anyone past the surface. How you treated attention like a game you refused to lose.

You were sunshine wrapped in barbed wire. Beautiful and untouchable.

Oscar should’ve known better than to chase someone who didn’t want to be caught.

But he did.

Every day.

Because he saw something no one else bothered to look for — the girl who was scared, not selfish. Guarded, not cruel.

He couldn’t stop trying, even when you pretended you didn’t notice.

⸻

Flashback.

It started small.

After a long meeting, Oscar had waited by the door, pretending to scroll on his phone.

“Need a ride back?” he offered casually, looking up at you with that soft smile.

You hesitated—just for a second—before shaking your head.

“Thanks, catboy,” you said, teasing him with a smirk. “But I like walking. Less awkward conversation.”

He had laughed it off, even though he watched you leave, your shadow growing smaller with every step.

⸻

Then another time—at a team dinner—he slid into the seat beside you before anyone else could.

“I saved you the best spot,” he said with a wink.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched like you were fighting a smile.

He talked to you the whole night, voice easy and warm, nudging you with jokes and stories.

When dessert came, he built up the courage to ask:

“Hey… do you wanna go out sometime? Just us?”

You had blinked, wide-eyed, like he asked you to solve a physics equation on the spot.

Then you laughed—a little too loudly.

“You’re sweet, Oscar,” you said. “But you don’t want me. I’m more work than I’m worth.”

He never forgot the way you said it—like you believed it.

⸻

Now, sitting side by side on the pit wall after a long day, the track lights buzzing, he found himself asking again.

“I don’t get you,” he said, trying to sound light even though his heart felt heavy.

You gave a dry laugh. “Yeah? Welcome to the club.”

He nudged a pebble with his shoe, glancing sideways.

“You know I like you, right?” he asked, voice soft.

“You’ve mentioned,” you said, sarcasm hiding the panic clawing at your chest.

Oscar waited a beat. Then another.

“Why won’t you let me?” he asked, no bitterness — just hurt.

You swallowed.

The words stuck to your tongue, thick and heavy.

“Oscar…” you whispered. “I like you. Really, I do.”

His heart skipped.

“But I can’t risk getting hurt again,” you said, voice cracking. “I’ve loved before. And it broke me into pieces I’m still trying to glue back together.”

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Fragile.

Oscar didn’t rush to fill it. He just shifted closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“I’m not them,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to break you. I’m here to stay. If you’ll let me.”

Your eyes burned, blinking away tears you refused to let fall.

“You have a heart of gold, Oscar,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And mine is always broken.”

He reached out slowly, curling his pinky around yours.

“Maybe we can fix it together,” he said. “Or maybe… it doesn’t need fixing. Maybe it just needs someone to stay.”

You finally turned, looking him in the eyes — really looking.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” you warned.

He smiled—small, sure, and entirely Oscar. “I do.”

You exhaled, shaky and unsure, but let your head fall lightly against his shoulder.

Maybe you were still broken.

Maybe love still scared you.

But sitting there with Oscar, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel so terrifying.

It felt like coming home.

⸻

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Six

CW: Language

WC: 5.5k

Notes: Paige and Azzi 🤝 racing when they really shouldn’t. Anywayyy lmk what yall think. Like fr send thoughts plz. Also there fr might be some typos in here so my bad

The Belgian Grand Prix always felt different.

Longer track. Longer days. Longer everything.

Azzi adjusted her gloves as she sat in the cockpit, feeling the rumble of the Ferrari underneath her like a second heartbeat.

Outside, the clouds were heavy — Spa was always threatening rain — but right now, it was just cool and gray.

Perfect for fast laps.

“Radio check, Azzi,” Mateo’s voice buzzed into her ear.

“Yeah, loud and clear,” Azzi replied, rolling onto the track exit and easing onto the throttle.

Spa was brutal in how spread out it was.

Everything felt distant. Every sector was a journey.

“First timed lap. Let’s stay clean through turns 2, 3, and 4, see how she feels.”

Azzi took the corner flat, climbing the hill with the precision of someone who didn’t fear physics anymore.

“How’s the balance?” Mateo asked.

Azzi gave a tight shrug even though he couldn’t see it. “Good. A little light at the front.”

Then — almost without thinking — she asked:

“Is Paige on track yet?”

There was a beat of silence, like Mateo almost smirked over the radio.

But when he spoke, he was professional as ever:

“Yep. She’s about halfway through her flyer. Sector two just came through — she’s down three-tenths off you.”

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek.

She told herself it was a racing thing — knowing where your competitors were.

Right. Competitors.

But no matter how many times she repeated that in her head, it didn’t explain the little spark in her chest when she heard Paige’s name.

Or the ache when she remembered last week — Paige in her lap, Paige tangled up with her in bed, Paige saying Azzi’s name like it meant something.

Azzi took another lap, the track sprawling out endlessly in front of her.

God, Belgium was long.

And Paige hated it.

Azzi shouldn’t know that. She shouldn’t know that Paige thought Spa was too stretched out, too hard to find rhythm at.

She shouldn’t know that Paige preferred tighter, technical circuits — Monaco, Singapore, Hungary.

But now she knew a lot of things she shouldn’t.

Like the smell of Paige’s perfume when she leaned in close — something expensive and clean.

Or the way Paige’s body fit against hers — soft, perfect.

Or that Paige’s middle name was Madison — something Azzi had teased her about mercilessly after discovering it.

They hadn’t known each other like this back in F3.

Back then it had been easier — teammates for half a season, both still reckless kids.

Azzi had thought Paige was cool, a little bit cocky, insanely fast in the wet.

Nothing more.

Now?

Now it was so much more it scared the shit out of her.

“Sector times coming through — you’re purple in one and three. 2nd overall for now, behind Red Bull,” Mateo updated casually.

Azzi wiped her sweaty palm against her race suit.

“Copy,” she muttered, half-listening.

The car roared through turns 16 and 17, and she could hear Mateo flipping through data in the background.

“Paige improved, by the way. Only two-tenths off now.”

Azzi’s stomach twisted again, but she just gripped the wheel tighter.

Focus.

It was just racing. Just Paige.

Except it wasn’t just Paige anymore, and they both knew it.

And with every lap around this endless, endless circuit, Azzi felt that truth getting harder to ignore.

–

The debrief room was freezing, the kind of cold that cut straight through Azzi’s race suit and made her wrap her arms around herself without thinking.

She sat next to Mateo, laptops open, sector maps and tire graphs blinking on screens in front of them. Azzi stared at her lap data, half-listening to Mateo talk about telemetry spikes and brake balance, nodding when appropriate.

Her mind was still stuck on the track.

No, not the track.

On Paige.

“You’re being weird quiet,” Mateo said lightly, clicking through to another graph. “Not like you.”

Azzi flicked her eyes over at him but didn’t bite.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his thigh.

“Hey, random, but—” he flipped a tab open on his laptop, scrolling, “Paige posted something during break. New York. Did you guys, like… run into each other?”

His voice was casual. Almost too casual.

Azzi kept her face neutral.

She was good at that. Had been for years.

“Yeah,” she said, short. “We had drinks.”

That was all.

No extra words. No stupid smile, no fucking heart in her throat.

But Mateo clocked the hell out of her anyway.

His eyes flickered — a quick, knowing look — before he leaned forward again like he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

“Cool, cool,” he said, flipping to another page of data. “Same city and all. Makes sense.”

Azzi nodded stiffly, focusing hard on the tire degradation charts.

Her hands were a little too tight around her water bottle.

They wrapped up another ten minutes later. Mateo didn’t push. He never did.

He just handed her a printout of race sims, gave a quick grin, and said, “Go shower, Fudd. Take a break.”

She wandered through the paddock toward the team motorhome, boots heavy, race suit still half unzipped around her waist.

Her head buzzed, not from the laps, but from Paige.

The constant undercurrent of her.

Azzi stepped into the small private bathroom near her room, turned the water on scorching, and stripped down automatically.

Steam rose around her, thick and blinding.

She stepped under the spray, letting it hit her full force.

Finally — finally — she could think.

Paige.

Paige, looking a little awkward this morning. Paige’s voice over the radio. Paige’s fucking middle name.

Azzi leaned her forehead against the wall.

She was comfortable being out — she really was.

Her parents knew. Her brothers knew. Her close friends.

It wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t shame.

But this world…

F1 wasn’t exactly known for making things easy.

Cameras everywhere. Millions of eyes. Endless judgment.

It wasn’t fear, exactly.

It was exhaustion.

And somewhere in that fog of exhaustion, Azzi found herself giving Paige a little bit of grace.

Paige, who wasn’t just dealing with the weight of the grid, but the weight of herself too.

Paige, who probably hadn’t told anyone either.

Paige, who smiled like hell but pulled back the second anyone got too close.

Azzi closed her eyes.

Sometimes she forgot — just because they were the same age didn’t mean they were the same.

Azzi had been in F1 three seasons longer. She knew the rhythms. The grind. The loneliness.

Paige was still new. Still raw.

Still learning how brutal it could all be.

Azzi let the water beat against her skin until she felt wrung out.

She didn’t know what they were doing.

She didn’t know what it meant.

But she knew this:

When Paige leaned into her in the middle of the night — when Paige trusted her enough to stay — Azzi wasn’t going to pull away.

Not now.

Not when it felt like maybe, maybe, they were both reaching for the same thing.

–

It was lap six of the race, and everything felt…wrong.

Not in the car — Azzi’s Ferrari was moving well, nimble on mediums, grip solid in the cool Belgian air.

Not in the strategy — tire life looked good, energy deployment was fine.

It was the pack.

Too tight.

Too crowded.

Like no one was willing to let go.

Azzi gritted her teeth and focused ahead. The front group — her, a Red Bull, both Mercedes, both Ferraris — were jostling for the same slice of track.

Way too close for the early laps of a race this long.

“Car behind two-tenths,” Mateo’s voice came through her radio, cool and clipped. “ERS mode four. Watch turn nine, dirty air.”

Azzi adjusted her settings, leaned into the corner.

She trusted Mateo. Trusted herself.

Still — the air was wrong.

Nervous.

And then—

Yellow flags.

Sector two.

Static cracked through the radio.

Azzi heard shouting. Caught the tail end of someone screaming “incident!”

Then a blur of white and red, off track, smoke trailing.

Azzi’s stomach dropped straight to the floor.

Paige’s Ferrari was nose-deep into the barriers at 150 miles per hour.

Azzi was already pressing the radio button before her brain caught up.

“Is she okay? What happened?”

Static. More static.

Mateo didn’t answer immediately.

Azzi downshifted instinctively, glancing at the crash site as she passed under double yellows.

The car was wrecked.

Front wing destroyed.

Tires twisted wrong against carbon fiber.

Azzi’s hands tightened around the wheel.

Is Paige okay?” she demanded, sharper now, heart hammering.

Mateo’s voice finally cut back in, frazzled: “She was bumped. McLaren behind got too aggressive. McLaren spun too. Medical car’s rolling.”

That was not an answer.

Azzi flexed her fingers on the wheel, forcing herself to breathe.

Focus.

Focus.

She remembered her first crash. Rookie year. Barcelona. All she could think afterward was how much it shook you — not just your body, but your head. The noise. The force. The way the world tipped sideways and didn’t right itself for days.

And this — this was Paige’s first crash. Paige, who had never so much as brushed a wall in her entire career.

“Mateo,” she said again, voice low, “I need to know if she’s okay.”

“Still waiting,” Mateo answered. “We’ll tell you the second we know.”

Azzi nodded to herself. Professional. She had to stay professional.

But the worry scratched under her skin, itching, pulling, refusing to be ignored.

They sent the safety car out. Azzi slotted behind it, controlling her tire temps, flicking through settings like she was supposed to.

But her mind stayed on sector two.

On the wreck.

On Paige.

It didn’t matter that they were awkward still. It didn’t matter that Azzi hadn’t been able to look her in the eye in the driver’s room all weekend without remembering skin and mouths and Paige’s stupid, beautiful laugh at 2am.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was that Paige was lying somewhere behind the barriers, maybe hurt, maybe worse, and Azzi couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“Driver extraction complete,” race control finally announced over the airwaves.

Azzi closed her eyes for a second, unseen inside the helmet.

“She’s walking,” Mateo added quickly, relief clear in his voice. “Medical checks pending, but she’s out of the car.”

Azzi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A deep, shuddery thing that rattled through her chest.

Good.

She was okay.

The race would go on. Azzi would keep driving. Keep fighting. But under the steel nerves and the race-honed focus, something inside her stayed knotted tight. Because that was the thing about caring about someone you shouldn’t.

It didn’t turn off just because the lights went out and the visor came down. It didn’t turn off when the cameras rolled, when the whole world watched. It didn’t even turn off when you needed it to the most. It just sat there, stubborn and aching and alive.

–

5th.

It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t what Azzi wanted.

Especially not when the car had felt good in the first stint. But somewhere after the safety car, the Ferrari started behaving…wrong. Weird loss of power on straights. Something in the deployment.

Mateo was already talking about engine mapping errors before she even peeled her gloves off.

Azzi climbed out of the car in the garage, jaw tight. The first thing she did — before debrief, before interviews, before even pulling off her helmet — was ask Mateo:

“Paige?”

Mateo caught her meaning instantly.

“They sent her to a local hospital,” he said, lowering his voice. “Just precautionary. More thorough scans.”

Azzi nodded. It made sense. Belgium was brutal — the track long, the barriers close, medical protocol strict.

Still.

Still, something twisted in her gut.

Mateo lingered a little too long as she pulled her fireproof face covering off.

“You and Paige,” he said, voice casual, but not really casual at all. “You two good?”

Azzi kept her face neutral. Professional.

“We’re friends,” she said simply. “Teammates.”

Mateo didn’t push it. Just clapped her lightly on the shoulder and muttered something about checking telemetry later.

Azzi barely heard him.

She just wanted —

God, she didn’t even know what she wanted.

To see Paige.

To hear Paige.

Something to prove she was fine.

–

Her hotel room felt cold when she got there. Cold and too quiet, even with the windows cracked open to the late-summer air.

Azzi sat on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the blank wall.

Finally, she picked up her phone.

Thumb hovered.

Paige’s name blinked up at her.

She hadn’t texted.

Hadn’t called.

Azzi hesitated — then hit the button anyway.

The line rang twice before it picked up.

“Hey,” Paige said.

Her voice was…off.

Small. Tired. Guarded.

Azzi’s heart twisted again, but she kept it steady.

“Hey,” she said back, soft. “You okay?”

A beat.

Two.

“Doctors said I’m fine,” Paige muttered eventually. “X-rays clean. Just bruised up. Said I could go home tonight.”

Relief slammed into Azzi so hard she nearly closed her eyes.

“Good,” she breathed. “That’s good, P.”

Another long pause.

“You didn’t have to call,” Paige said finally.

Not angry — just…tired.

Azzi’s chest tightened.

“I wanted to,” she said simply.

Paige didn’t say anything for a second.

Then:

“You don’t have to babysit me, Azzi. I’m not a fucking rookie.”

The words came out sharper than either of them intended.

Azzi flinched like she’d been slapped.

Fought to keep her voice calm.

“I never said you were.”

“No, but you think it,” Paige shot back.

Azzi sat up straighter.

“Jesus, Paige, I don’t—”

“You do!” Paige snapped. “You think just ’cause you’ve been here longer, you know everything and I’m some dumbass kid who needs her hand held—”

“Paige,” Azzi cut in, sharp now. “That’s not fair.”

Another beat.

Breathless silence between them.

Paige’s voice cracked when she spoke again.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I just—”

Azzi closed her eyes.

“I know.”

Soft. Real.

“I know, P.”

She didn’t take it personally.

Not really.

Not when she could hear it — the crash still rattling in Paige’s bones, still spinning her brain sideways.

Azzi leaned back against the headboard, pressing the phone closer to her ear.

“I know you’re upset,” she said quietly. “It’s your first crash, Paige. It messes with you.”

Another long silence.

Then Paige, so small she was barely there:

“Don’t worry about me Azzi. I’m fine.”

Azzi swallowed the lump in her throat.

“You’re not,” she said gently. “Not right now. And that’s fine. Just rest for a bit, okay?”

No answer —

but Azzi could hear Paige breathing.

Alive.

Still fighting.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

–

Paige had texted when she made it back to the hotel.

Azzi knocked once before letting herself in.

The door wasn’t locked anyway.

Paige was curled up on the far side of the hotel bed, looking rumpled and exhausted and irritated in the low light. She barely looked up when Azzi entered, just muttered something under her breath that Azzi didn’t quite catch.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Azzi said, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“I’m fine,” Paige said immediately, the words too sharp.

Azzi ignored the tone. She crossed the room anyway, dropping her backpack onto a chair, keeping her voice low and careful. “You don’t look fine.”

“I don’t need you to babysit me, Azzi.”

The way she said her name — like it was something dirty — set Azzi’s teeth on edge. She sat on the edge of the opposite bed, facing her, keeping a little distance, even though all she wanted to do was reach out.

“You almost ended up in a hospital overnight.”

“I didn’t, though.” Paige shifted, pushing herself up onto her elbows, wincing slightly when she moved too fast. “I’m not a child.”

“You got bumped into a wall at 150 miles an hour, Paige,” Azzi said, sharper than she meant to. “Forgive me if I’m a little—”

“What?” Paige snapped. “A little what? Concerned? Worried? Acting like you have some right to—?”

Azzi clenched her jaw. “You’re my teammate.”

That hung there, ugly and thin between them.

Teammate.

Like that explained everything.

Like it erased everything else.

Paige laughed under her breath, bitter. “Right. That’s all we are, isn’t it?”

Azzi felt heat crawl up the back of her neck.

“This isn’t the time,” she said tightly. “You’re not even—you’re not thinking straight.”

“You mean because I’m pissed off?” Paige bit back. “Or because I’m sick of pretending like none of it matters?”

Azzi froze.

There it was.

All of it.

Every unspoken thing between them, cracking loose under the weight of exhaustion and fear and whatever the hell today had been.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Paige said, softer now, her voice catching somewhere in her chest. “You didn’t either. We were supposed to be friends, Azzi. Teammates. Nothing else. But then you—” She broke off, shaking her head like she couldn’t say it out loud.

Azzi breathed in slowly through her nose, trying to keep calm. “I didn’t do anything you didn’t want.”

“I know,” Paige said, closing her eyes briefly. “I know.”

Azzi didn’t know what to say to that.

The silence spun out, heavy and suffocating, until Paige let out a rough, frustrated sigh and pressed her fingers to her temples.

Azzi’s instincts kicked in immediately.

“Your head?” she asked, voice sharp with concern.

“I’m fine,” Paige muttered, but her hand stayed there, rubbing slow circles against her forehead like she could scrub the pain out of it.

Azzi stood up without another word. She crossed the room, dimmed the lights even further until only a soft golden glow was left, and slipped into the bathroom to dig out the Tylenol and a bottle of water from the hotel’s amenities.

When she came back, Paige was still rubbing at her head, her body coiled tight like a wire ready to snap.

Azzi set the water down on the bedside table, then sat again, closer this time.

“You need to take something,” she said gently. “You hit the wall hard, Paige. You have a concussion.”

“I’m fine.”

Azzi gave her a look that said don’t lie to me.

Paige stared at her a long second, something raw and pained flickering in her eyes — and then, wordlessly, she took the Tylenol from Azzi’s outstretched hand and swallowed it down with a gulp of water.

Azzi watched her the whole time, making sure.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension from earlier still simmered under the surface, but the edge was blunted now, dulled by exhaustion and something dangerously close to tenderness.

“You’re stubborn,” Azzi said eventually, voice low.

Paige gave a breathless laugh that didn’t sound happy. “Takes one to know one.”

Azzi huffed softly, reaching out to brush a piece of hair off Paige’s forehead without really thinking. Paige didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” Azzi said, quieter now. “You don’t have to… fight everything by yourself.”

Paige’s mouth twisted like she wanted to argue — but then she just looked down at her lap, saying nothing.

Azzi leaned back slightly, giving her space.

Outside, the lights of the city flickered in the dark, and somewhere deep in Azzi’s chest, something hurt.

They weren’t just teammates.

They never had been.

And they both knew it — even if the world wasn’t ready to know it too.

Azzi stayed sitting at the edge of the bed for a long time, watching Paige fight the pull of sleep like it was a battle she couldn’t afford to lose.

Paige’s head kept tilting forward, jerking up again each time, stubborn to the bitter end. Azzi didn’t say anything. She just shifted up onto the mattress properly, leaning against the headboard, close enough that Paige could feel her there without either of them having to say it out loud.

After a while, Paige gave up.

She shifted over almost unconsciously, head finding Azzi’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Azzi froze, then forced herself to relax. She carefully tilted her head back against the wall, careful not to move too much. Paige’s breathing evened out slowly, the tension in her shoulders finally giving way to something softer, heavier.

Azzi stayed.

She stayed even when her arm went numb.

Stayed even when her own body begged her to move.

She stayed because this was Paige.

Because for once, Paige let her.

The city lights eventually dimmed to nothing, and morning started to bleed into the sky outside the window.

–

Azzi woke with a start when she felt Paige stir beside her. She glanced down to find Paige blinking sleepily, clearly disoriented.

“Hey,” Azzi said softly.

Paige grunted in response, still half-asleep. She pulled away slowly, sitting up with a groan and rubbing her hands over her face.

Azzi swung her legs off the bed, stretching her back out with a grimace. “We should get moving. We’ve got a flight to catch.”

Paige nodded, looking wrecked.

Azzi wanted to say something — anything — about how bad Paige still looked. But she bit her tongue. She could push, or she could stay close. Today, staying close seemed smarter.

They packed quickly and quietly. Azzi had already arranged for her private jet to be ready at the small airfield just outside town. One benefit of her success — and the Ferrari paycheck — was not having to wait around in airports anymore.

They barely spoke on the drive to the airfield. Paige leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes, her whole body drawn tight with something Azzi couldn’t name.

She knew she should say something.

Press harder.

Force Paige to admit what was obvious to everyone with eyes — that she wasn’t okay.

But Azzi had known Paige too long. Pushing would only make her dig in harder.

They boarded quietly, the engines already humming low and steady. Azzi dropped into a seat and buckled in. Paige took the one opposite her, slouching low.

Once they were in the air, Azzi finally broke the silence.

“You still look off,” she said, trying for light but coming off more worried than she wanted.

Paige shrugged without opening her eyes. “Just tired.”

“You’re sitting out in practice one.”

It wasn’t a question.

Paige cracked one eye open, giving her a crooked half-smile. “Yeah. They’re gonna let one of the F2 kids have a go. Learning experience, right?”

“You need more than one session off,” Azzi said, voice low.

Paige shrugged again, which Azzi hated even more than an outright argument.

“I have to race,” Paige said after a minute. “Hungary’s a good track for us. The car should be better there than it was at Spa.”

Azzi rubbed her hands over her face, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with racing.

“I know. But we’re miles ahead. Constructors’ points aren’t gonna vanish overnight.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi looked out the window, watching clouds roll by beneath them. She wanted to reach across the small aisle between their seats, grab Paige’s hand, tell her it was okay to take a break, to take care of herself. That no one would think less of her for it. That Azzi — of all people — sure as hell wouldn’t.

But Azzi stayed where she was.

Because that’s what Paige needed right now.

Not pressure. Not even kindness that felt like pressure.

Just someone sitting across from her, not pushing.

They landed in Budapest in the soft light of late morning. The heat pressed down immediately, sticky and heavy. It was going to be a brutal race weekend, physically and mentally.

Azzi caught a glimpse of Paige’s profile as they climbed into the car waiting for them on the tarmac.

The stubborn set of her jaw.

The way she moved just a fraction too slow, like her brain and body weren’t quite lining up.

Concussion, Azzi thought again with a sick twist in her stomach.

But Paige didn’t say anything.

And Azzi — against every screaming instinct — didn’t either.

They had a job to do.

Two more days, Azzi told herself.

Just get through Hungary.

Then the summer break.

Three blessed weeks where maybe, maybe, they could finally figure out what the hell they were doing.

If Paige was still in one piece by then.

Azzi wasn’t sure if that was hope or fear threading itself through her ribs as they drove away from the airport and into another waiting weekend.

–

It was Practice Two.

Hot, heavy air clung to the circuit at the Hungaroring, making everything feel just a little slower, a little stickier than usual.

Azzi clipped into her gloves, slid her helmet on, and jogged out to the car. She had a job to do — scrub some tires, run some quali sims, feel out the long run balance. Nothing crazy. Just sharpness. Precision. The usual.

Still, even as she fired up the car and pulled away from the garage, her eyes flicked toward the other side of the pitlane, searching for a flash of red and white.

Searching for Paige.

It was the first time Paige had gotten back in the car since Spa.

Since the crash.

Since the moment Azzi’s heart had slammed into her throat when she saw Paige’s car buried in the barrier.

She tried not to think about that now.

Tried.

The laps blurred past — smooth, professional, careful. Azzi was ticking off her list, hitting her marks. It was good. It was fine. But something still nagged at her.

“How’s Paige?” Azzi asked over the radio, casual enough that maybe it wouldn’t sound weird.

There was a pause before Mateo answered.

“Taking it easy today,” he said. “Or at least that’s what Luca said.”

Azzi pressed her lips together inside the helmet, glancing at the sector times lighting up her dash.

Slow.

Paige was slow.

Fine, Azzi told herself. It was fine. Paige deserved to take it easy. She deserved to get her feet back under her without everyone breathing down her neck.

“Copy,” Azzi said shortly, and threw herself back into the lap.

–

The next day, Practice Three, Paige looked different.

Sharper.

Faster.

Azzi watched from her own cockpit, tucked into the garage between runs, as Paige’s name kept popping up higher and higher on the timesheets.

She didn’t know if she should be proud or furious.

Because as much as she wanted to wrap Paige in bubble wrap and lock her away somewhere safe, she knew — God, she knew — that Paige was right.

She had to race.

By the time qualifying rolled around, the tension in the paddock was a living thing. Hot, vibrating, electric.

Azzi climbed into her car, clipped her belts tight, and tried to drown it all out.

Focus.

Precision.

Speed.

Nothing else mattered.

–

Qualifying was brutal.

Hungary always was.

Hot tires, hotter track, little mistakes costing tenths that you couldn’t afford.

One corner slightly wide, and you were done.

Margins razor-thin.

Azzi went fastest early in Q1, then again in Q2.

In Q3, she wrung the car’s neck, every millimeter of track used, every ounce of herself left on the circuit.

She crossed the line, heart in her mouth, and saw her name flash to the top of the board.

Pole.

For about fifteen seconds.

Then another time blinked onto the screens.

Paige Bueckers — 1.

Azzi just sat there for a second, her hands still tight around the wheel, staring at the timing screen like it had personally betrayed her.

Then she laughed, the sound raw and sharp in her own helmet.

Because of course Paige had done it.

Of course she had.

Paige fucking Bueckers — stubborn, brilliant, impossible Paige — was back.

Azzi coasted back into the pits, pulling into the garage with her jaw tight, trying to keep everything professional. Everything controlled.

The car was wheeled back into the Ferrari bay. Mechanics flooded around her. Someone was shouting numbers into a headset. The whole garage buzzed like a struck wire.

Azzi climbed out of the car, pulling her helmet off in one smooth motion, shaking her damp hair free.

Across the garage, she saw her.

Paige stood just inside the barrier, helmet under one arm, suit half-unzipped to the waist, chest rising and falling fast.

Dr. Liao hovered at her side, clipboard in hand.

“Do you have water?” Paige asked, her voice raw and tired.

Dr. Liao smiled patiently. “Yes, Paige. Let’s get you some water, alright?”

Azzi stayed where she was, watching.

Paige didn’t even seem to see her.

She just nodded stiffly, letting herself be steered toward the back of the garage, toward the quiet little alcove where the team doctors set up shop on race weekends.

Azzi peeled off her gloves, slow and deliberate, trying to keep her face blank.

She should feel relieved.

Paige was fine.

More than fine.

She was fast.

But something still pulled at the back of Azzi’s mind — the way Paige swayed slightly when she moved, the way her hands trembled just a little when she handed off her helmet to a mechanic.

Azzi turned away, forcing herself to focus on the debrief, the data, the job.

Because this was F1.

Because feelings didn’t win races.

Because even when it was Paige — even when it was everything — Azzi still had to keep her head.

For now.

–

Race day in Hungary was so hot it shimmered.

Even in the garage, under shade, Azzi could feel the thick weight of it pressing down.

But for once, everything worked.

The cooling systems inside the cockpit. The drink system. The radio. All of it humming along without a hiccup.

It was like the world was finally giving them a break.

Azzi settled into her seat, belts strapped tight, gloves tugged into place. Her visor clicked down.

Focus.

One more race.

Then the break.

Lights out — and it was a dream start.

Paige nailed it off the line. Azzi tucked in right behind her, slingshotting forward, clear of the pack.

It was obvious within the first few laps — Ferrari was just better today.

Faster, cleaner, untouchable.

Azzi heard Mateo’s voice in her ear, smooth and almost relaxed. “2nd, Azzi. Five seconds off Paige. McLaren’s about seven behind you. Just manage tires, yeah?”

Azzi clicked her radio once.

“Copy.”

She settled into the rhythm, letting the track come to her.

Hot wind screaming past the car, tires digging in through the corners, engine singing behind her.

Perfect.

Out of the corner of her eye, once in a while on the straights, she caught a flash of papaya orange — the McLaren behind them. It was one of the new guys. Some kid who was just happy to be here, racing like it was Christmas morning. Every time Azzi saw him in her mirrors, she felt the same tiny, almost reluctant smile tug at her mouth.

Good vibes all around today.

No chaos.

No failures.

No disasters.

Just pure racing.

By the time they crossed the finish line — Paige first, Azzi second — the pit wall exploded.

Cheers, fists in the air, Mateo’s voice breaking into a shout over the radio.

“Yes, Azzi! Beautiful drive! Double podium for us! Let’s go!”

Azzi coasted into the cool-down lap, letting herself grin, exhaustion finally bleeding into something lighter.

God, she needed this.

They both did.

–

After the champagne, the interviews, the endless photos — they finally peeled themselves out of their suits and helmets and made it back to Azzi’s jet.

Still buzzing, but quieter now.

Sleepier.

Heavy-limbed with satisfaction.

Paige sprawled into a seat near the back of the cabin, head tipped against the wall, hair a mess from her helmet.

Azzi dropped into the seat across from her, kicking off her sneakers and grabbing a water bottle.

“Got summer break plans?” she asked, cracking the cap.

Paige peeled one eye open. “Yeah. Heading to Colorado for a while. Some cabin up in the mountains. Good weather. No people. Just chill.”

Azzi tipped her head back, whistling low. “Damn. That’s a good idea.”

She hadn’t made any real plans.

Maybe catch up with some friends. Wander around New York. Sleep too much.

Nothing like what Paige was describing — clear air, quiet, a full step away from the noise and the grind.

Paige stretched, arching her back slightly before slumping again, lazy. “You could come, if you wanted,” she said, almost offhand. “Cabin’s got extra rooms.”

Azzi blinked at her.

It was nothing.

Just a casual offer.

Still, her brain scrambled for a second, words tangling.

“For the cooler weather,” she said, aiming for easy, casual, totally normal. “Not for you or anything.”

Paige’s mouth twitched, the tiniest smile.

“Right,” she said, and let her eyes close again, as if she hadn’t just thrown Azzi’s heart into an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

Azzi leaned back into her seat, letting the hum of the engines fill the cabin, letting herself breathe.

The summer break stretched ahead of them now.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.

[mirai-lunar]

3am.

Stories with some of the Invincible Variants. Fem! Reader (And reader actually likes her variant here).

Includes: Sinister Mark, Omni Mark, Mohawk Mark, Veil Mark (Shiesty Mark), No Goggles Mark

Word Count: ~3.2k

Warnings: Dark Themes, Violence, Suggestive Themes

Sinister Mark

♥︎

The area around you wasn’t pretty to say the least.

He was on one of his rampages, destroying everything he saw on site.

You sat on a large piece of rubble as you waited.

On occasion you would look over your mini ledge to the world below, watching a few civilians scream and run for their lives. 

Once the destruction died down, that was when you heard a cape blow in the wind. He was now floating behind you as he spoke.

“Get up. We’re leaving.”

You turned around and pulled yourself up, slipping your phone in an empty back pocket. For a split second, your eyes looked into his goggles. You then looked past him, and pointed to a person in the distance.

“That person is dying,” you calmly stated. “You should probably finish them off.” 

In an instant, that person’s head was severed. 

He then returned back to you with a cold smile on his face, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You’re an odd one,” he mused.  

He knew what he was. He had no idea what you were. 

The two of you met a few days ago. He had approached you, but before he could snap that pretty neck of yours, you had smiled softly at him. In the midst of all the chaos, you smiled. 

It wasn’t a deranged smile. Just a calm one.  

“I know,” you said, that same smile once again on your face. He lifted you into his arms before taking off into the night sky. Stars shimmered above your head, and you watched the world speed past you. Normally flights with him were quiet, but this time…

“Tell me your name,” he stated. You happily responded. 

“My name is Y/n.”  

He frowned. There was that damn smile again. Why the fuck were you so happy? 

“Can…Can I ask you your name?” You said. 

“I never said you couldn’t. It’s Mark.”

“Oh…That’s a nice name-”

“What the hell is your problem?” He asked. Nothing he did bothered you. He could be splitting a person into parts and you wouldn’t even flinch. It was as if you enjoyed his presence. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. Your expression was now saddened. “I didn’t mean to make you upset-”

“You didn’t. Just answer my question.”

“Oh...Well, you saved me Mark. And I wanted to thank you for that.”

“I never saved you.”

“A building you collapsed killed someone I knew,” you explained. “That was one of the best days of my life.” 

He raised a brow. You were glad someone you knew was dead?

“…”

The rest of the flight back was silent. Once he arrived at your home and set you down, you thanked him. He frowned in response. 

“You can stay tonight if you’d like,” you told him. “Or if you want something to eat, I can warm up some leftovers. Would you like to stay?”

Your eyes were so bright, so hopeful-

“No,” he flatly said. “It’s 3am. Go to sleep.”

He then took off into the sky. 

You remained in place for a bit, before ultimately deciding that he was right. As you made your way inside your home, you changed into some sleepwear, climbed into bed, and closed your eyes for some much needed sleep. 

That is, until some time later you heard movement.

You didn’t know how long you were asleep, or how much time had passed. But when you felt the weight shift in your bed, your eyes shot open. Fear overtook you for a split second, until you felt a back press gently up against yours.

You calmed, recognizing who it was.

He didn’t say anything, but just him being here made your heart flutter. You rolled over to face his back, and then moved as close to him as possible. As your face rested against his warm skin, you spoke softly.

“Goodnight Mark. Thanks for staying…” 

You didn’t get a response.

Omni‎ Mark

♥︎

He was suspended in midair, his gaze focused on the starry night above. It was always so peaceful during these times.

But he needed to stay vigilant. Just in case.

Which is why at 3am, he was floating in the sky above your home. You had noticed his absence, and also made your way outside. 

“Mark? Is everything okay?”

He looked down, and to his surprise you weren’t on the ground, but halfway on the roof of your home. Your legs were dangling off the side of the building, but you eventually pulled the rest of your body up.

He sighed before moving down to speak to you. 

“You know that wasn’t safe, Y/n.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” you murmured. “I should probably get down then.”

To his surprise (yet again), you didn’t bother to climb down, but instead leaped off the roof. The fall was too far for his liking, so before gravity could even pull you down, he had caught you. You laughed, and his neutral expression was now a small smile. 

“When you said you were getting down, I assumed you meant the way you came,” he stated. You smiled back at him.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Are you okay? You’ve been staring at the sky more often. Are you missing home?” 

He descended to the ground, before making his way back into the house. He still had you in his arms. 

“No, I hated my home.” 

“..Oh…” You hadn’t expected that answer. “Well, what about your dad? In this world he was a hero until…that day he turned evil. How was your dad in your world?”

“I killed my father.” 

Okay, you did not expect that response either. He killed his father, but he dresses like him? That’s a lot to unpack. As he made his way through the kitchen and towards your room, you grew silent. 

“I…I see,” you murmured. “I don’t know the circumstances, but I’m really sorry to hear that Mark.”

He paused to look down at you for a second. 

“Don’t be. What’s done is done.”

As he set you down in your room, you climbed into bed, curling up in blankets. 

“Was there anything you loved back home?” You asked him. In all honesty, you were worried. He seemed to hate a lot of things. 

He considered your words before responding. 

“I loved you.”

Oh… that’s right. There was a variant of you in his world. You were curious about what happened to her, but the silence that followed after he responded was concerning.

The last thing you wanted was to resurface some unpleasant memories. You needed to lighten the quickly darkening mood. 

“Aww, that’s sweet,” you said. “I don’t personally know the Mark in my world. But… I do know you. And I love you.”

That brought a smile back to his face. 

“I love you too,” He said. You leaned into his touch as his hand rested against your face. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”

“Alright, but only if you do too.” Your eyes adjusted as he turned off the lights. You then rolled on your side to face away from him. “Get out of the suit and join me. I want to cuddle you.” 

It didn’t take long for him to comply. Once you felt the weight on your bed shift, you waited a few moments, before rolling over to face him. You then wrapped your arms around his waist, and gently pressed your lips against his. He returned both the loving gestures. Once you two pulled apart, you rested your head against his chest. 

“Remind me to kiss you a lot more in the morning,” you murmured. He chuckled as you continued. “Goodnight Mark....”

He pressed a kiss against your forehead before responding. 

“Goodnight.” 

Mohawk Mark

♥︎

“Hey, wake up.”

Your eyes shot open. 

As you sat up in bed, your mind quickly raced. It was dark, and you couldn’t see your surroundings. But you could make out an outline of him. 

He was in bed next to you, a hand behind his head as he rested casually on his back. His other hand had shaken you awake. 

“You were flailing like a fish out of water,” he stated. “Let me guess, another nightmare?”

Your hand reached for the lamp on your nightstand. A soft glow now illuminated the room, and you rubbed your forehead in an attempt to calm your nerves. He waited a bit before speaking.

“Really didn’t expect this to be an everyday thing.” He sounded more amused than worried. When you wiped a stray tear from your face, he propped his head up on one hand. “Aww, Baby… Was it that bad?”

“The last thing I need right now is you making fun of me,” you told him. He now sat up in bed, before leaning over your shoulder.  

“I’m not. Whatever you’re dreaming about shouldn’t bother you.” He leaned in close to your ear. “Especially when you have me…” 

“I guess you’re right,” you murmured. Your hand gently caressed his face as you looked over your shoulder. “You’re much worse than my nightmares.”

You were immediately snatched down into bed. 

“I was joking!!” You exclaimed in-between laughter. You barely had time to react when his lips pressed roughly against your skin. You tried to get away from him, and you almost did, but he had grabbed one of your legs in the process of your little escape. As he dragged you back towards him, you pleaded. “Okay! I’m sorry- H-Hey!!”

You felt hands squeeze your butt, and you shot him a glare. That’s one place he’s always grabbing.

“You’re too much, you know that?” You told him. As your hands wrapped around his midsection, he smiled in response.

“You seem to handle me pretty well.” He leaned towards you, and the two of you shared a quick kiss. “And hey, you should be thanking me. At least I took your mind off things.” 

Both of your eyebrows raised. You had completely forgotten about the nightmare. 

“Yeah…I guess you’re right…” you murmured. While you considered his words, he climbed off you, and settled back into bed. A yawn left his lips.

“As much as I love messing with you, I’m fucking tired,” he murmured out. “Try to get some sleep.”

“What if I have another nightmare?” You asked him. He sighed. 

“Just wake me up. I’m sure I’ll think of something to take your mind off it.”

That sounded comforting. 

You checked the time on your phone. 3am. 

“Alright then,” you said. You reached over to turn off the light before settling down in bed. As you moved closer and rested your face against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your back. 

You leaned your head up before pressing a kiss against his face. 

“Goodnight Mark. I love you.”

He was already snoring. 

You furrowed your brows, a hint of frustration on your face. He was always like this. Out in 3 seconds.

A sigh left your lips, and your face once again rested on his chest. 

Why you loved him, you had no idea. 

Veil Mark (Shiesty Mark)

♥︎

He was peacefully asleep in bed, an arm dangling off the side as he snored softly. 

You were standing directly next to him.  

Your eyes narrowed, before lifting your weapon of choice in hand. You had already warned him multiple times that you would do this. 

It was too late for apologies now. 

You slammed the pillow as hard as you could across the back of his head, causing him to jolt awake. Before he could process what was happening, you continued to wail on him. 

“Stop! Stealing! The blankets!” You exclaimed in-between each hit. You then burst into laughter. “I’m freezing over here!!” 

It was his turn to laugh now. 

“Ah fuck.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry about that.”

“Every night I go through this, and every night you say the same thing,” you told him. The pillow fell from your hand as you moved away to switch the light on. “At this rate, I’ll have to start sleeping on the couch. At least I won’t freeze to death there.”

“Maybe, but you’ll also be left pretty lonely,” he explained. “Let’s figure this out tonight, or I’ll take the couch.”

He untangled himself from multiple blankets he had stolen from you, and you grabbed a fluffy one, before wrapping it around your neck.

“How about I wear one like a cape?” You said. “You can just tie it around my neck and…”

Your mouth stopped moving, a horrible realization flashing through your mind. You imagined him pulling the end of the blanket in his sleep, and you choking to death by it being tightly secured around your neck.

“...Actually, never mind. No capes,” you flatly said. He laughed. 

“You were so sure of yourself five seconds ago.” He then examined all the blankets on the bed. “We have three small blankets. Why don’t we just get a fucking big one?”

“....That makes sense,” you murmured. “So when you inevitably try to steal it, there should still be a lot more of it left on my side. Actually…” 

You made your way out the room, dug through a closet in the hallway, and returned back with a large blanket that dragged along the floor.

“We can try this one. It’s old, but should work.”

“Alright then.”

You settled back into bed, and he threw the large blanket over the two of you. You wrapped yourself in the blanket once, before your eyes shot open, realizing your mistake. 

“Oh. I forgot to turn off the-” In an instant the room was dark. “-lights. Thanks... Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You were warm, and the sleep was peaceful.

Until 3 am. 

You felt him roll himself in the blanket not once, but twice. You furrowed your brows, the amount of blanket on your side significantly decreasing. 

“Oh for the love of-” You tried to hold onto the rest of the blanket for dear life, but you were no match for his strength. It was a losing tug-of-war. Once the blanket was once again stolen from you, you were seeing red. 

No way he slept through all this. He had to be doing this on purpose.

“Mark!!!” You reached for the pillow underneath your head to slap him with it, but to your horror one of his arms had wrapped around your waist, before he started his little spin again. You were dragged towards him as you clawed at the bed. “MARK!” 

He rolled you on top of him first, and then he rolled again, you now on the side of him. Your heart was racing.

If he rolled one more time, you would be under him. And he could crush you. 

Thankfully, he didn’t move anymore, opting to just snuggle up to you instead. You could hear his light snore.

“How in the world are you still asleep?” You whispered. 

He didn’t respond, and you eventually sighed, dropping your head in defeat.

A bit of loose blanket was all you could grab before closing your eyes. 

You would complain later. But at least now you were warm.

No Goggles Mark

♥︎

A cold breeze had woken you up. 

Your hand reached over the bed as you spoke with a groggy voice.

“Mark… You left the window open…Mark?” 

You pulled yourself up, noticing that his side of the bed was empty. Rain poured heavily just outside the window, and you had an idea where he was currently at. 

As you climbed out of bed and stuck your head out the open window, you were pelted with cold, fast-falling rain. Your ears caught a voice in the distance. 

“Woohoo! This is awesome!!” 

It was him. He was currently zooming through the sky, and his excitement had echoed throughout the air. You smiled. 

“He seems to be having fun.” Your eyes turned behind you to check the clock on the wall. “At 3am, no less.”

You then pulled down the window to shut it, but for some odd reason the movement halted. As the window abruptly opened again you nearly screamed.

“Hi Y/n!!” It was him. He had stopped the window from closing from the outside. 

“Mark!? How did you get here so fast!? I literally just saw you in the sky.” 

He laughed as he made his way inside. Water dripped from his suit, and his hair.

“Hey, do you wanna go outside with me?” He asked you. You laughed.

“Right now?! But it’s raining!”

“Aww, but it’s so much more fun with you!”

You sighed. 

“Alright then. We can splash in the water or something.”

Before you even spin around to grab your rain jacket, he had already grabbed you, and made his way out the window again. You shut your eyes and held onto him as the world sped around you. Once he came to a complete halt, you took a second to catch your breath. 

“That was-”

You were then immediately submerged in cool water and your body tensed up. He brought you back to the surface, and the two of you now floated in a lake. 

“Mark! I meant splash in a puddle! Not a whole ocean!!” You splashed water in his direction, and he laughed before splashing water back at you. 

“This is a lake actually! It was the nearest body of water.” 

You two kept laughing and splashing water at each other. 

“Mark! No fair! Stop hitting my leg!” You said in a playful manner. He gave you a confused look.

“I’m... not hitting your leg-”

“Seriously Mark!” You swam a bit away from him. When you felt something bump into your leg again, you went silent, realization hitting you. 

Wait, if he wasn’t touching your leg, then something else was. 

“S-something’s in the water!!” You exclaimed. He immediately grabbed hold of you before lifting you into the air. As the two of you hovered just above the water, his eyes looked down to examine its depths. 

“Hmm, the water’s pretty dark here so…Oh.”

“What is it?!” You were too scared to look. He laughed. 

“I have no idea what that is,” he admitted. “It looks like some sort of creature. And it’s pretty big.”

The way he casually described what was just bumping into you made your blood run cold.  

“Take me home Mark! I think I’ve had enough fun for one night!!”

He made sure the flight back was fast. Once you calmed your racing heart, the two of you showered before eventually settling back into bed. You held onto him, and he cuddled you to calm you down. 

“You just love to attract danger for some reason~” He teased you. You pouted. 

“I attract danger?? You brought me there!!” 

“I know, but that creature only seemed interested in you~” 

“You are not helping Mark.”

He held you closer before his lips pressed against yours. You returned his sweet gesture, and once you two pulled apart, he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“Don’t be scared," he told you. "I can get rid of it tomorrow if you'd like."

You sighed. 

“No, it’s alright. We intruded, just... leave it be,” you murmured. Sleep was already beginning to overtake you. “Goodnight Mark. I love you.”

He smiled. 

“I love you too.” 

~

If you squint, some of these could pass as fluff lol. Ngl, this took longer than expected to write rip.

[crystal-to-bloom]

Chapter 3: The Quiet Between

Grayson family x child dragon reader

Another crack

Then — movement

A tiny hand — clawed but fragile — pushed gently against the shell from inside. It wasn't violent. Not angry. It felt... hesitant. Like someone knocking softly on a door, afraid of being tu rned away.

Debbie backed up one step

Then two

She wanted to run. To call for Nolan. But something stopped her. Maybe it was fear. Maybe something else. A quiet pull in her chest that she couldn’t explain.

Tap

Tap

The shell crumbled outward, a soft pop of frost swirling into the air.

And then — eyes

Two of them. Huge, glowing, the color of frozen seafoam — somewhere between blue and green. They blinked up at her through the broken shell. And beneath them, a face — small, soft, inhumanly delicate.

Hair spilled out over the rim of the egg — snow-white at the roots, fading into glowing turquoise at the tips. It shimmered like crystal threads under moonlight.

Two tiny horns, just barely curved, peeked from under her fringe. And a thin tail, matching the color of her hair, trailed after her as she dragged herself free of the shell.

She didn’t cry

She didn’t move aggressively

She just looked up at Debbie… like she’d known her all along

And Debbie — frightened, breathless, frozen — didn’t run. She didn’t scream

She took a step closer

One step. That’s all

But it was enough

The living room was still. The only sound was the soft crackling of frost melting into the carpet.

Debbie didn’t know how long she stood there — a minute, maybe five — just staring at the tiny creature that now lay curled on the blanket. The shattered pieces of her egg steamed faintly in the warm air, fading like mist.

The little girl — because there was no other word for her — didn’t move much. Her eyes blinked slowly, tracking everything, especially Debbie. Her breath came in soft puffs, visible in the cold air.

And she was small. So small

Debbie’s gaze moved over her again — the white-and-turquoise hair clinging to her damp face, the way her horns barely curled above her forehead, the way her thin tail coiled instinctively around her legs like a kitten’s.

She doesn’t even look like she knows how to stand

The thought startled her. She hadn’t meant to think of the child that way — like someone helpless. Vulnerable.

And yet… she was

Debbie took a slow step closer

The child didn’t flinch

Another step

Still nothing — just wide, watching eyes. Like she was waiting for permission to exist.

Debbie knelt beside the coffee table, careful not to get too close. Her hand hovered in the air for a long second before she let it fall, slowly, onto the edge of the blanket.

They sat in silence.

The baby tilted her head slightly.

Then — without a sound — she reached out with one tiny, clawed hand and touched Debbie’s fingers.

Cold. Ice cold

But her touch was gentle

Delicate

Instinctive

Debbie’s throat tightened. She blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back.

— “You’re just a baby” she whispered.

The little girl blinked. Her small tail twitched once behind her.

Debbie didn’t pull away.

She didn’t call for Nolan.

She just… stayed. In the quiet. In the cold.

She didn’t know what this child was. Not yet. But for now, she didn’t look like a danger. She looked like someone just as scared as Debbie was.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

[ryuyejiho]

"Yours again" Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Smut Summary: Once lovers, then strangers. Now — even with someone else by her side — they're finding their way back. Word Count: 1.7k

I was lounging on a sunbed by the pool, lazily sipping on my drink. Soft chillout music played somewhere in the background while the warm breeze toyed with my hair.

Without thinking too much, I snapped a photo — my legs stretched out against the backdrop of the turquoise water, a sliver of the pool... and completely by accident, part of Jungkook's tattooed arm as he stepped forward in the water.

I didn't even notice. Honestly.

I posted the picture on Instagram and tossed my phone aside. It was supposed to be innocent. Just another vacation snapshot.

Minutes later, my phone started vibrating like crazy. The calm was shattered by an endless flood of notifications.

I picked it up.

"Who is that?!"

"Whose arm is that?!"

"ANSWER ME NOW."

Texts from my boyfriend blew up my screen, one after another, getting angrier by the second.

"Are you hiding something from me?!"

"Who the hell are you with?!"

"You think I'm stupid?!"

The phone kept ringing, notifications popping up nonstop. I let out an annoyed sigh.

Jungkook, leaning against the edge of the pool with his drink almost empty, raised an eyebrow at me.

"Someone's losing it," he said with a smirk, but there was a darkness behind his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago.

I scrolled through a few more messages, each more frantic than the last.

"Where are you?"

"Why aren't you picking up?"

"If you don't answer, I swear I'll fly there and find you myself."

I scoffed under my breath.

"I can't believe I ever let him treat me like this," I muttered, tossing my phone down onto the pool tiles like it was nothing.

"He doesn't even deserve to know your name," Jungkook said, his voice low and rough. "Let alone have any claim on you. Why the hell are you still with him?"

I leaned my head back, closing my eyes for a second. Jungkook didn't push, just watched me with that intense, half-lidded gaze.

Jeon was my ex. Someone I shouldn't have been anywhere near. And yet — here we were. No promises, no grand declarations. Just stolen glances and small touches that said more than words ever could.

No one knew about us. And honestly? That was fine.

My "current boyfriend" — if I could even call him that anymore — was just a ghost in my life. All that was left between us was fights and his sick jealousy. He treated me like property. Like something to control, even when he knew he couldn't keep me.

I heard Jungkook climb out of the pool, the sound of dripping water hitting the hot tiles.

Then I felt his fingers ghost over my bare shoulder, slow and deliberate.

I didn't look at him — I didn't need to. His touch told me everything. Anger. Lust. The desperate need to remind me who I belonged to.

"Maybe I should remind you who really sees you... who actually treats you like you deserve," he whispered, his lips brushing my ear.

A shiver ran down my spine. Not from fear — never from fear.

I turned my head, meeting his gaze.

"Show me," I said, voice steady.

He didn't hesitate. He grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet.

The sunlight danced across the water, but all I could feel was the heat radiating off Jungkook's body standing so close to mine.

"You already have everything you need," he murmured, his hand sliding down to my hip, gripping it firmly enough to make me gasp.

"You're not his anymore," he added, like it was a simple, undeniable truth.

I didn't answer. I didn't have to.

My heart was racing, and my body — my body had already chosen long before my mind could catch up.

Jungkook's fingers tightened on my hips, pulling me flush against him, closing the last sliver of distance between us.

"You have nothing left to lose," he growled, his breath hot against my skin.

And instead of replying, I kissed him.

Our bodies crashed together like waves under a burning sun, the heat between us making the world blur at the edges.

There was something in his eyes — not just dominance, but a flicker of something softer, something raw. Like he wasn't just claiming me. He was begging me to let him.

Our breakup had never been clean.

It wasn't a final conversation or a huge fight — just silence stretching longer and longer until the space between us became impossible to cross. His career took off, he was gone more than he was home, and then he left for the military.

he birthday party of our mutual friend was the moment when we started talking again.

We were supposed to be rebuilding a friendship.

Instead, we ended up rebuilding something very, very different — in his bed.

Now, his lips crashed into mine, rough and desperate, like all those buried feelings were too much to hold back anymore.

"Don't go," he snarled against my mouth, hands anchoring me in place like he was afraid I'd vanish.

He kissed me harder, messier, rawer, like we had wasted too much time pretending we didn't still belong to each other.

"Fuck this," he growled. "Fuck your boyfriend. Fuck pretending. Fuck hiding."

Before I could say anything, he grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the hotel.

We didn't care who saw. Not anymore.

My heart thundered against my ribs, adrenaline and desire sparking electric under my skin.

As soon as the elevator door slammed shut behind us, Jungkook pushed me against the wall and kissed me like a man starved.

His hands roamed down my body, yanking at the strings of my swimsuit like they were nothing more than annoyances in his way.

"You were never his," he hissed against my skin. "You were always mine."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. He already knew.

The door clicked shut behind us with a heavy sound.

And then he spun me around, pinning me to the wall with a force that stole my breath.

His hands slid possessively down my hips, tearing at the fragile ties of my swimsuit like they offended him by even existing.

I felt his hot breath against my neck, ragged and shaky.

"I've had you before," he growled, freeing himself with one hand while still holding me captive against the wall. "But now? I need you even more."

I braced my forehead against the cool wall, trying to steady my breathing — but then he thrust into me in one hard, brutal move.

A helpless moan tore from my throat.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, gripping my hips even tighter.

He moved fast, rough, relentless — but there was something new in the way he touched me.

Something raw. Something desperate.

"My girl... mine," he whispered, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, leaving behind marks, proof, branding me.

My hands scraped against the wall, searching for something to hold onto as his pace became merciless.

His hand slid up to my throat, holding me there, a soft but undeniable reminder of exactly who I belonged to.

"No one else will touch you," he growled, voice dark and low. "No one else will even fucking look at you."

I felt him bite down on my neck, a fierce mark blooming under his teeth. A mark everyone would see. A mark that would scream to the world that I was his.

"I want everyone to know you're mine. I don't care about hiding. I don't care about anything but you," he hissed, every sharp thrust of his hips driving the words deeper into my bones.

Then, without warning, he spun me around to face him.

I sagged against the wall, legs trembling, heart hammering against my ribs.

Jungkook stared at me — wild, intense, something dark and something tender swirling in those deep, dark eyes.

Before I could catch my breath, he lifted me up, forcing my legs around his waist.

He carried me to the bed, throwing me down onto the soft sheets.

He didn't give me time to think.

He was on top of me instantly, his hands mapping every inch of my body like he was trying to memorize me, claim me all over again.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," he murmured, voice low and ragged.

Before I could even form a reply, he was inside me again — deeper, rougher, more desperate.

Our bodies moved together in a rhythm that was frantic, messy, real — like all the time we lost had finally caught up to us.

His forehead pressed against mine, sweat mingling between us, and in his eyes I saw everything.

Not just lust.

Love. Longing. Regret. Hope.

Everything we had lost and everything we were still too scared to name.

He cupped my face with one hand, kissed me so fiercely it felt like the world might end — and I didn't care if it did.

Because right now, there was only him.

Only us.

When we finally shattered together, it felt like the world tilted off its axis.

We stayed there, tangled up, breathing in the same rhythm.

He didn't move. Just held me tighter, like he was afraid if he let go, I'd disappear.

"You're not going anywhere," he whispered against my temple, his voice sure and steady.

He rolled us onto our sides, pulling me close against his chest.

His hands roamed my body, never staying still, like he needed the constant reassurance that I was really there.

But it was his gaze that seared into me most of all.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, his hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, forcing me to meet his eyes.

They burned into mine, raw, aching, desperate.

"Fuck pretending," he growled. "Fuck acting like I don't love you."

My heart stopped for a beat.

Jungkook didn't look away. Didn't flinch.

He just held my gaze, waiting.

I didn't say it back.

I didn't need to.

He already knew.

[monicfever]

hiii angel!! i was wondering of you'd do something for dex and reader who has severe attachment and abandonment issues? i love love love your work sm!! <33

ben poindexter x attachment/abandonment!issues reader. 𝜗𝜚 headcanon’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ co dependency ,, toxic relationship probably? idk my heart shaped glasses are on ,, gender neutral reader ,, it’s dex so .. yah

DEX knows that kind of fear. the kind that makes your chest ache when someone takes too long to reply. the kind that whispers they’re leaving. so when you get quiet and distant and paranoid, he doesn’t take it personal. doesn’t get mad when you ask for reassurance three times in ten minutes — just pulls you into his arms and says it again: i’m not leaving. i’m right here.

he literally doesn’t know how to process being wanted this much. this is probably one of the most ideal scenarios out there for him.

emotional dependency. if one of you is upset, you can’t focus on anything until the other is calmed down.

dex lets you kiss his pulse when he’s scared. he won’t say it out loud, but it grounds him — to feel your lips where his heart beats. to know someone wants him alive. you let him kiss your wrist in return.

he lets you cling. he needs it too, if he’s being honest. lets you tangle your limbs around him like a lifeline. lets you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and real and not going anywhere.

the relationship isn’t about space, it’s about closeness. constant closeness. suffocatingly sweet, terrifyingly intense closeness.

you joke about being codependent and he nods like it’s a compliment. like, yeah? obviously.

you’ve both made it a habit to over-reassure each other when you talk about friends or exes. like, you’ll say “she’s nice, but she’s not you. no one makes me feel like you do.” dex’ll say “he’s cool, but you’re mine.” and it never sounds forced. it sounds like medicine.

you’ve both had full-blown meltdowns over someone going to the store without saying goodbye. the smallest silence, the smallest gap in communication triggers that deep, clawing fear: they left. they didn’t think it mattered.

both have habits to constantly reassure each other you're still chosen. dex will tap your thigh three times — his silent code for i love you, i'm here, i’m not leaving. you squeeze his hand in return — i know, i feel it, don’t stop.

he sends voice notes when he knows you’re spiraling. tells you exactly what he’s doing, exactly when he’ll be home. never ghosts, never disappears. he knows what that does to someone.

lets you repeat yourself. lets you doubt. lets you cry. he gets it — how love feels like something that could vanish if you breathe wrong. he lets you see him anxious, too. the tapping, the pacing, the tension in his jaw. not to make you feel guilty — but so you know you’re not alone. you don’t scare him. he’d rather have you panicked and clinging to him than not have you at all.

it’s terrifying how much he loves you. he needs you like air, like sleep, like the pills he forgets to take when he's too busy watching your location update on his phone. he never calls it stalking. he calls it making sure you’re okay. calls it looking out for you. calls it love.

he adores that you’re clingy. never complains. never rolls his eyes. in fact, the more you need him, the calmer he feels. finally, someone who wants him like that. who’s just as intense. neither of you go anywhere alone unless it’s absolutely necessary. if you could, you’d share one nervous system. always touching — pinkies hooked, shoulders pressed, legs tangled.

both of you panic when the other doesn’t answer the phone right away. he’s texting “where are you? are you okay?” while you're calling back in a frenzy thinking he got hurt.

falling asleep on top of him. always. his chest, his lap, draped across his body like a weighted blanket. he’d stop breathing before he’d ask you to move.

you panic when he leaves. even if he says it’s nothing big, even if it’s just a quick job. you cling to him at the door, voice cracking as you whisper “what if you don’t come back?” — dex melts. completely. cups your face in both hands, presses your forehead to his and says “hey. i’m coming back. i always come back to you.”

he leaves behind a hoodie that smells like him. a voicemail saying “i love you” just in case. his location’s always on. he double checks the locks before he goes. triple checks if you’re crying.

the second he’s home he’s dropping everything at the door, walking straight to you like he’s been starving. wraps his arms around you and mumbles, “missed you so bad. i’m sorry, i’m here now. i’m not going anywhere baby, i’ve got you.” you’re curled up on the couch in his hoodie, cheeks blotchy from crying, and he’s just standing there staring at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. like, he thinks you’re so adorable when you need him. “gonna make it up to you,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair while you cling to him. “wont go anywhere without you. won’t even go to the bathroom without you, swear to god.”

and he doesn’t. for the next 24 hours he’s glued to your side, follows you around the house like a puppy. lays on top of you like a weighted blanket, kisses every inch of your face until you start laughing through the tears.

you’re in his lap while he eats. in his lap while he watches tv. he literally can’t function unless you’re physically touching him. one hand on your thigh, arm slung around your shoulder, pinkies linked — something.

if you say “i thought you were gonna die,” he gets so soft. kisses the corner of your eye, strokes your cheek with the back of his hand and says, “you really love me that much, huh?” like he’s shy about it.

he thinks it’s so cute when you get possessive too. like if you cling to his sleeve when someone flirts with him, he leans in and kisses you right there, smiling against your mouth.

you both have those breakdowns where it’s not even words, just shaking and holding each other like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts beating. and every time he promises it again. even if he already said it twenty times that day. “i’m not going anywhere. i couldn’t even if i wanted to. you’ve got me forever.”

one time he tried to leave in the middle of the night for something “quick.” didn’t want to wake you. but you did wake up — reached out, found the bed empty, and by the time he was at the door, you were sobbing in the hallway. he immediately dropped his bag, walked back to you with the most heartbroken look on his face. cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing your tears away. you clung to him so tight he just sank to the floor with you, held you there until the sun came up. whispered over and over, “shhh. i’m not mad. you’re allowed to need me. i love it when you need me.”

he started letting you tag along after that. even if it’s just waiting in the car. even if you’re not doing anything. he’d rather see your worried face through the windshield than not see you at all.

he talks to you through his earpiece. “you still there, baby?” / “mhm.” / “talk to me. tell me what you’re gonna make me for dinner. i just wanna hear your voice.” and if you do stay home, he calls during the job. on the job. literally ducking behind cover like “hey, yeah, just wanted to say i miss you. i’ll be home soon, okay?” - - que him throwing a rock at matts forehead without even looking. when he comes back, he doesn’t even take off his boots before grabbing your face and kissing you breathless. muttering “you okay? did you cry? i missed you.” (part of him secretly likes it when you cry over him.)

he’ll cancel plans to stay in bed with you. has zero problem being irresponsible if it means holding you through a panic attack or a clingy spiral.

absolutely calls you pet names when you’re anxious. “sweetheart,” “angel,” “my baby.” says them soft and slow, like a lullaby, until you settle in his arms.

he wants the mess. wants the tears. wants the clinginess. it makes him feel safe. it makes him feel real. desired. if you ever try to apologize for needing too much he cuts you off with a kiss. “you’re exactly what i’ve always wanted.”

if you ever pull back, even just a little — even for a second — he goes absolutely wild. not in a “calm down” kind of way. in a “no, no, no” kind of way, like you’re slipping through his fingers. the moment you don’t immediately reach for him, his chest tightens, his heart rate picks up. “what’s wrong? don’t you want me?”

if you stop needing him for a second, even in a non-desperate, non-needy way, he can’t breathe. he panics. he feels his whole world shattering. like you’re getting ready to leave him. your clinginess feeds him. he knows you care. if you even accidentally pull away or seem like you’re trying to give him some space, he’s on you within seconds. wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. he cracks when you show signs of independence. he thinks it’s a sign you’re going to disappear.

his mind works overtime, spiraling into the idea that if you don’t cling to him, if you don’t hold him like you’re terrified of losing him — then you will leave him.

starts to feel resentful of anything that takes you away from him. if you hang out with friends, if you don’t text him back immediately, if you want time for yourself, it all feels like a slow rejection.

will whine or get genuinely upset if you don’t show enough physical affection. even if he’s the one who’s too clingy, he’ll act like you’ve abandoned him just for pulling away for a minute.

he doesn’t like when you act like you’ve got it together. when you try to be strong without him. it makes him feel like you don’t need him anymore, like he’s invisible. “i thought you needed me. i thought i was the one you couldn’t live without.”

obsessive, compulsive tracking. you go to the store? he needs to know when you’re leaving, when you’re back, what you bought. stalker tendencies. if you leave for a moment, if you go out alone — he’ll follow. just to make sure you’re not leaving him or finding someone else.

he listens to you so obediently. whatever you say goes. if you tell him to stay close, he doesn’t question it. if you tell him to sit down, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing and sit at your feet.

he’ll drop everything for you. his work, his hobbies, his interests — none of it matters if you need him.

both of you feed into each other’s worst fears: being abandoned, being alone. you make excuses for each other, let each other get away with anything just to avoid the uncomfortable idea of ever losing the other.

he enjoys knowing that you're so wrapped up in him, that when you feel abandoned, it’s almost as if the world is crumbling. he doesn’t want to be cruel, but he can’t help the rush it gives him knowing you’ll always look to him first for validation, for connection.

dex knows exactly how to get under your skin when you're struggling with your abandonment issues. when you try to shut him out emotionally, he’s the one to make you feel like it’s impossible to be without him. the more you get lost in your own head, the more he thrives on being your constant. when your insecurities flare up he doesn’t give you space; he pulls you in closer, touches you in ways that ground you. dex loves that you fall apart when he isn’t there. when you shut down or spiral into your own head, he sees it as proof that you can’t exist without him.

when you catch him spiraling, getting quiet, withdrawn, convinced you’re gonna leave - you drop everything to hold him. he clings to your shirt and hides his face in your neck like a kid. he never had that kind of comfort growing up, and now he craves it from you. only you.

when either of you even jokes about leaving, the other shuts it down immediately. it’s not funny. not even a little. you both get too in your heads about it, replaying it for hours after, paranoid it wasn’t a joke at all.

you both feed off each other’s clinginess. if one of you starts it — handsy, needy, whispering you can’t sleep without them — the other doubles it, tenfold. suddenly you're locked in each other’s arms like the world’s ending and only this moment exists.

keeps one of your things with him at all times. could be a hoodie, a piece of jewelry, even a chapstick you used once. he doesn’t tell you, but when he’s losing it, he holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. when you find it and realize he’s been carrying it around? you start doing it too.

neither of you knows how to fight without the deep-rooted panic that this will be the one that ends it. dex raises his voice once, and your heart drops into your stomach. you go quiet and his hands are already in his hair, begging under his breath — “don’t shut down. don’t leave.”

when one of you leaves the room for more than ten minutes without saying where you’re going, the other’s already pacing. it’s ridiculous. dex once came back from a shower to find you curled up on the floor thinking he bailed. now he always announces where he’s going. even if it’s just the kitchen.

when one of you is away for too long, you both lose sleep. it’s not just missing each other. it’s panic. dex gets snappy and withdrawn, you get dramatic and anxious. the reunion is always intense. too many emotions, too much relief.

he doesn’t just get protective. he gets viciously protective when you talk about past relationships, past abandonments. he hates thinking about you being hurt before him. loving someone before him.

sometimes dex gets so overwhelmed by how much he loves you that he just shuts down. goes quiet. curls up against you and buries his face in your stomach, you play with his hair until he comes back.

you both hate sleeping without the other now. you try to be normal about it, but you wake up nauseous. dex stares at the door like you might walk in. even one night apart leaves you both off balance. you sleep facing each other a lot. turning your back feels like a statement, and neither of you could survive misinterpreting that in the dark.

he picks up on your micro-expressions instantly. your blink patterns, how you fidget when you’re upset, how your smile twitches when you’re scared. he watches you like a survival manual. you do the same to him — he calls it creepy as a joke, but he melts every time.

dex starts fights on purpose when he’s scared you’re pulling away. just to make sure you care.

your phone backgrounds are each other. not even cute aesthetic photos — full-on, raw, vulnerable pictures.

you both keep little mementos from each other. you write notes to each other constantly. on mirrors, on receipts, on the backs of your hands. he has every post-it note you’ve ever written. you keep a receipt from a gas station because he held your hand in the parking lot and told you he’d never let go. you keep them like relics. like insurance against loneliness.

when one of you gets triggered or panicky, the other instinctively lowers their voice, softens their movements, goes small. you both know what it’s like to be too scared to ask for comfort.

every time one of you has a nightmare, the other doesn’t ask what it was. not unless you want to say it. instead, the rule is: water, forehead kiss, wrap around each other until your breathing syncs. the night resets when you find each other again.

there’s a rule: never leave the house angry. ever. if you fight, you sit on the floor, back to back, and you breathe. five minutes. ten. until the tension melts.

you keep a shared notebook for when the feelings are too big. you write letters to each other in it, especially on hard days. sometimes dex scribbles “i love you even when you’re quiet.” and leaves it on your pillow. you write back: “i love you when you’re angry. i know why you get that way.”

dex lets you trace his scars when you’re anxious, over and over. even the ones he usually hides. you do it like it’s sacred. like every inch of him deserves love. when he can’t breathe, you ask him to trace your spine, your jaw, your hands. it calms him every time.

dex keeps a note in his phone called “what to do when they’re hurting.” it’s just little things you’ve said helped. your favourite snacks. songs that pull you back. the way you like your hair touched.

you both panic when the other one sleeps too still. like — is that still breathing? dex has absolutely leaned over you, whispered “baby?” until you stirred just slightly. and you’ve done the same, barely touching his chest with your fingers to feel it rise.

marks you up when he’s jealous. hickeys, scratches, bite marks in places only he’ll see. for control — for comfort, for proof. you do the same. a little too hard with your nails. a kiss with too much teeth.

he absolutely malfunctions when you compliment him too earnestly. like, he can take teasing or playful flattery, but if you look at him dead serious and say something he stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

he doesn’t know how to handle the way you hover when he’s injured or just tired. like bringing him water, checking his face for any sign of discomfort, asking “need anything?” every ten minutes. he’s never had someone be gentle with him like that, it completely unravels him.

becomes totally silent when you trace his features. like, drag your fingers over his cheekbones, his brow, his jaw — just looking at him like he’s something sacred. he leans into your palm every time.

dex absolutely gets flustered when you praise him in front of people. casual stuff — “he’s so good at that,” or “he takes care of me better than anyone ever has.”

he loves being watched. like when he’s doing something totally mundane — loading a gun, brushing his teeth, pacing — and he notices you looking at him like you’re obsessed. it short-circuits him a little. he tries to act normal, but it makes his skin burn in a good way.

once got really quiet after you hugged him from behind and just held him there. no words. no tension. just arms around his waist, your cheek against his back.

when he’s being moody or short, you don’t fight back. you just cup his jaw, tilt his face toward yours, and say “talk to me.” it undoes him completely. you never use that voice unless you’re pulling the hurt out of him like a splinter.

he is always waiting to be “too much” for you. too cold. too quiet. too angry.

he can always tell when you’re spiraling in your head, even if you don’t say a word. maybe you’re fidgeting with your hands, chewing your lip, or just not making eye contact. he’ll pull you into his space, drape a heavy arm around your shoulders, and rest his head on top of yours. you don’t need to explain; he already knows. sometimes, he’ll just leave a kiss on your temple and wait, and that’s all it takes for you to calm down a little.

when you’re feeling overwhelmed in public, maybe at a party or in a crowded place, his first instinct is to reach for your hand, fingers squeezing just enough to pull you back to him. the simple pressure of his hand is enough to remind you that no matter how loud the world is, he’s here, and he won’t let you go.

when you’re on the verge of a panic attack he instantly knows. his reaction is immediate, he doesn’t try to talk you down with logic (because he knows that doesn’t work), instead, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, keeping you in his chest until you’re calm. when it’s over, he doesn’t leave you, even for a second. he’ll make sure you feel safe.

sometimes, when your abandonment issues hit, you get scared of being left alone — whether it’s him going out or just being in a different room. dex, noticing this, will make sure to be around you constantly, but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm you. if he has to leave for a bit, he’ll casually say, “i’m going to grab coffee. wanna come?” or, if you’re staying in, he’ll just hang out in the same space as you, whether it’s in the living room or the kitchen.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[cameronsbabydoll]

I just read ur prompt abt scc conversation and it makes wonder would scc!reader seek out someone she can actually talk to, like a mom from school a teacher or someone she’s sees on a daily basis when running errands

yes — absolutely, she would.

because even caged birds look for cracks in the bars.

scc!reader is so deeply lonely, and even if she doesn’t realize it fully — even if she still defends rafe in her own mind — there’s a quiet part of her that aches for real connection. someone who sees her.

so yeah, it would be so natural for her to gravitate toward someone she sees regularly — someone safe, non-threatening.

like:

a kind teacher at her kid’s school who always smiles at her and asks how she’s doing,

a neighbor mom who walks her dog every morning and waves over the fence,

the older checkout woman at the store who always remembers her name and her kids’ favorite snacks,

or even the receptionist at her OB office, who gently asks, “how are you doing, really?”

and at first it’s just little things — small talk. smiles. shared glances when the other moms are cold or dismissive. but slowly, she starts clinging to those moments. it becomes the highlight of her week.

someone remembered her name.

someone asked how she was, not just the baby.

someone said, "you look tired — are you okay?"

but then the fear sets in.

what if rafe notices?

what if she lets it slip that she’s unhappy, and it gets back to him?

what if this sliver of warmth gets ripped away too?

so even when she starts to feel close to someone, she’s careful. always careful.

she doesn’t share the full truth — not about rafe, not about how trapped she feels — but she wants to.

it just… catches in her throat.

she’ll sit in her car in the parking lot after school pickup, crying quietly because the teacher complimented her, and it made her realize no one’s really spoken to her in weeks. not really.

and she almost texted the teacher.

just something simple like “thank you for being so kind.”

but she didn’t.

because rafe checks her messages sometimes.

[itsnesss]

𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | you didn’t plan to fall for kimi, but after one night in mexico, everything changed. now, months later, love hits like a drug, intense, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist

warnings | toxic, possessive love, intense emotional connection

word count | 1.1 k

🖇️ sctw album 🖇️ more ka12

You never planned on falling for Kimi.

You didn’t plan on going to Mexico with him on a whim, or kissing him under a sky full of artificial lights. Just an excuse. Just two friends, with a rare, unique connection neither of you dared to name until you did.

It was your idea. You told him to go, that it was no big deal, just a getaway. He looked at you, a calm smile on his face, as if he had been waiting for someone to say exactly that. He stayed silent for a moment, then with a slight nod, agreed.

What you didn’t know is that this "getaway" would be just the beginning of something you never imagined. Something that would change your days, your thoughts, your entire life.

The trip was the closest thing to paradise you’d ever experienced. The streets of Mexico buzzed with life, with music, with colors. The city had that electric energy that only comes when you’re far away from home and so close to your own desires.

One night, in the warmth of tequila and laughter, Kimi looked into your eyes, leaned in close to your ear, and said:

“I don’t know what we are, but this doesn’t seem like a problem.”

He said it without thinking, but you, who had felt it in every unsaid word, understood. There were no plans. There were no rules. Just two souls trying not to fall into the trap of feelings. But, as always, emotions have no rules. And that kiss at the perfect moment, when the moon reflected on the sea and the waves seemed to dance to the rhythm of your hearts, was the beginning of everything.

Kimi didn’t need to speak much. He was simple in his way of being, never needing to adorn anything. He took your hand, kissed you, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Because it felt good. It felt real.

Twelve months later, you find yourself lying in his bed, the T-shirt you stole from him the night before barely covering you. The sun peeks shyly through the window as he’s in the kitchen, making something he probably never learned to cook, but somehow it seems incredibly attractive. The calm of the morning doesn’t match what the past year has been. But maybe all of this is part of the chaos.

He doesn’t see you, but you see him. You’re lost in the chaos that your life has become since that night in Mexico. You’re exhausted because you feel like you’ve fallen, that love has caught you in such a visceral way that you don’t know how to get out of it. You don’t want to get out, but sometimes the fear of being vulnerable consumes you.

The sound of his footsteps in the hallway brings you back to reality just as you turn to try to sleep a little more. Kimi enters the room with a smile, the same smile that always leaves you confused. The gaze steady, with the intensity of someone who knows they’ve marked you, who knows they’ve made you theirs.

“I heard you moving,” he says, his voice relaxed, but you don’t need him to say much for you to feel it.

You stretch, pretending to be asleep, but you know there’s no escape. You know this game between you is just an excuse to face what neither of you wants to name.

“What’s up, huh?” he asks, smiling as he sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re not going to say good morning?”

You look at him, and realize how easy it’s been for him to adjust. As if none of this surprised him, as if being together for over a year was just a blink in his life.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you murmur, searching for words you can’t seem to find.

He looks at you with the calmness that characterizes him. He knows what’s happening, but won’t say it. He doesn’t need to.

“I do,” he says, brushing your leg gently, as if that’s enough to calm you. “We started as friends. But… when it hits, it hits.”

Those words fall into the air like a sentence, like an affirmation of something you can no longer deny. It hurts, but it excites you. You feel the need to tell him that this isn’t right, that maybe it’s gotten too real, but you know you’re only thinking that to calm yourself. Because deep down, you love how he makes you feel.

Kimi doesn’t pull away. He looks at you steadily, and as if he had the answer to all your questions, he whispers softly:

“I love you. I told you that a while ago, but maybe today you’ll feel it differently. It’s your turn now.”

You freeze for a second. You didn’t expect him to say it. You didn’t expect everything to be so direct, so blatantly honest. But the truth hits you like a wave crashing over you. And it’s impossible not to give in.

You get up, almost instinctively, and kiss him. First slow, then more urgently. Each kiss is a promise broken, a shared pain. And when he pulls you by the waist, lifting you off the floor with ease, you know there’s no turning back. Not now. Not with Kimi.

“Don’t act tough,” he says, smiling with something deeper, something more serious.

You respond with another kiss, this time sweeter, as if you finally understand what you both feared: that this love was inevitable.

His hands slide over your skin, recognizing every corner he’s learned to love. Every kiss becomes a declaration, every touch is a whisper of what was never said aloud.

Kimi lets you rest on the bed, your body still trembling from what just happened. He stays by your side, watching you as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingers. It’s strange, you know. Strange that someone could become your everything in such a short time.

“You know what the worst part of all this is?” he says, his voice low and relaxed.

“What?” you whisper, not wanting to move from his side.

“That this…” he says, pointing to the space between you both, but also everything that doesn’t need to be named. “… this is no longer new. But every time I touch you, it feels like it’s starting again.”

Your eyes fill with something you can’t quite identify, as if in his words there’s a deeper, more terrifying truth. Maybe it’s not that Kimi is in love with you. Maybe it’s that, somewhere deep in your soul, you’re in love with him too, even though you don’t want to admit it yet.

“I can’t stop anymore.” You hold him closer, burying your face in his chest, feeling the quickened beat of his heart.

“Neither can I. And I’m not going to,” he whispers.

Love hits you like a drug. Like a need. Like an impossible longing. And now, in this moment, you know there’s no going back. This is what you both wanted. This is what you both feared.

tags | @ebkitty

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odd Pt. 19

I was going to wait to post this, but I'm bored at work (literally where I wrote this whole chapter, I really just be sitting here all day) and decided fuck it we ball. This one is mostly a gap builder for the start of the trilogy. We all needed a break from constant pain. Enjoy!

XIX: It’s Tactless, It’s a Test

It took me a year to really understand and forgive what happened with Burdock. 

I never really blamed Haymitch, if I was being honest. I mostly blamed myself. Put in my husband’s shoes, I would have done the same thing. 

Besides, it was my body that betrayed me. My womb couldn't carry a child. If things were different, if I wasn’t so broken, maybe in some way Burdock would still be alive. 

Haymitch drank more after his passing, and I spent more time trying my best to make sure Katniss and Prim didn’t struggle too much. I owed them more, the fear that one day the girls might find out the cause of the mining accident kept me up more nights that I’d like to admit. Burdock's death took a heavy toll on Astrid, breaking something quintessential inside of her. She went comatose, refusing to do anything but sit in bed and stare. The small amount the Everdeen’s got from his death was hardly enough to sustain the kids for a few months, let alone a full year. With barely any income, Katniss resorted to using the skills her father gave her to hunt game, selling and trading at the Hob. 

Every week when food was dropped off in Victor’s Village, I took half and put it aside, cooking meals for the girls. Katniss could hunt like her father, but she wasn’t the best at putting it all together into a meal. She’d gotten especially good after meeting Hazelle’s son, Gale, who taught her more about setting traps and checking them. 

It took about 6 months for someone in the Capitol to notice that we were going through our food faster than usual. After that we got less and less, enough for two people and no more or less. 

I would go to the Hob with her when she traded, picking up liquor for Haymitch and shooting daggers when people would try and pull a fast one on Katniss. Eventually it came time for her to take out tesserae, which would have made her father turn in his grave. 

I walked her to her first reaping, holding her and Prim close to my side while Astrid followed behind, head down and face blank. I left a kiss on Katniss’s head, reassuring her as best I could before leading her mother and sister to the viewers section. I held Prim tight to me and gripped Astrid’s hand as they called out the tributes, heaving a sigh of relief that Katniss wasn’t chosen. 

Haymitch chose to distance himself completely from the Everdeen’s, refusing to ask about them when I returned from my daily check in’s. I would just sigh, handing him another glass of alcohol and collapsing into his side, letting him pull my legs over his lap while he took long sips. I held the girls closer than ever, arguing that if they were as near to me as possible, it would be harder for Snow to get them alone and hurt them. 

We didn’t make much small talk anymore, letting silence overtake us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and there wasn’t animosity behind it, we just didn’t have much to say. The constant fear and deaths had taken their toll, leaving both of us numb and flayed open. We still found each other in gentle touches, sweet kisses and featherlight hands. 

More times than not, when the pain got too much, we’d find ourselves tumbling into bed, soft touches breathing enough life in the both of us to stabilize the loss we’d endured. 

I still loved Haymitch, that would never change. He was my world, along with the girls. If I didn’t love him as fiercely as I did, I would have joined the others to their graves years ago. I knew if I was gone, he would completely go off the deep end, and I would never let that happen. 

It took the arrival and subsequent winner of the 70th games to throw Snow onto our tracks again. 

Annie Cresta, a wide eyed girl from District 4, would be the beginning of the end for us. 

We had received the letter a few months after she won. Haymitch had been given a fair warning from Mags the last time we were in the Capitol for her Victory Tour party. Annie had gone off the deep end, madness setting in and twisting her mind. She wasn’t satisfying Capitol citizens, none of them wanting a girl five seconds away from combusting in their bed. Finnick had tried everything to pick up her slack, but they had grown slightly tired of him, needing something new to look at. The winners before between Annie and Finnick had all been careers, which while beautiful to look at, gave the same depth everytime. The people wanted someone with an edge, someone different from the usual overly primed tributes. 

So the next best choice was us. 

We were already required to do annual check in’s with Cesar, the Capitol fawning over our great love story, ignoring the hurt that was permanently etched into our eyes. Finally, with extreme protest from Haymitch that I attempted to quell, the train came for me. He thrashed against peacekeepers, screaming my name until his throat went horse as Effie guided me to my room, promising my husband that she would not let me leave her sight while I was there. 

Effie was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. She stood beside me as they wheeled me into the surgical room, and she was there when I woke up, calling nurses for morphling and making sure ice chips were at the ready. 

“They said it wasn’t as bad as they expected, especially for someone that was so young, and without access to proper medical procedures. There was some scar tissue they cleared out, among other things, but they are confident you will be healthy enough to have more children.” Effie explained, grinning and petting my head. I tried to hold back tears, a few escaping and slipping down my face silently. She must have thought they were from joy, rather than the absolute dread that hit my stomach. 

I was hauled back to Haymitch within the day, keeled over in pain as he met us at the train station. Within seconds of seeing me, he was wrapping an arm around my back and under my knee, carrying me back to our home without another word to Effie. 

He had set me in the bed as gently as possible, running his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth like a mother hen. Every groan from me had him running downstairs, fetching tea, crackers, soup and morphling. 

A few days after, still in a haze of drugs, he’d leaned in and shed a few tears. 

“My brave girl, what have they done to you?” He’d whispered, sobs barely contained. I could barely answer him, instead squeezing his hand to try and bring him comfort. 

“You don’t deserve this life, caring for a drunk and two broken kids who lost their father. You should never have had to deal with this absolute shit hand you were dealt. I sure as hell don’t deserve you– and I’m so fucking selfish for loving you like I do… needing you like I do. I’ve failed you, brought you straight into my fucked up world and asked you to stay. Any apology I give you will never be enough.” My chest tightened as I listened to him, his voice so broken, so full of grief it threatened to turn him inside out. 

I had just squeezed harder, attempting to speak. 

“I– I lo— I love you.” Was all I managed to get out, which seemed to soothe his cries, if only for a second. 

Things became settled between us after that. Haymitch managed to put the drink down for an hour longer than usual, choosing to use that time instead to make love to me. A baby announcement was expected, and by winter of that year, it had arrived. 

Haymitch and I were hauled to live in our apartment at the Capitol the moment a positive pregnancy test reached President Snow’s desk. It was January, which meant that for the first time I would be in the Capitol with my husband for the reaping and games. 

Haymitch, of course, did not let me leave our apartment unless he was glued to my side. 

The pinpad was locked to everyone but us, leaving me with hours of watching shitty movies while he met with the tributes, attended events, and sat in the common room with the rest of the mentors while the cannons went off. 

District 12 was out of the running within minutes, and Haymitch was right back up to coddle me. 

He was a doting husband, which seemed to leave a pang in my chest for all I had missed out on when pregnant with Wiley. He made sure to get whatever I was craving, rubbed my back and feet three times a day, took me on walks, and held me close whenever my emotions got the better of me, intently listening to all my fears. 

“What if they are reaped? 

“What if I almost bleed out again?” 

“How can I be a good mother if I couldn’t even protect my first child? How could Wiley ever forgive me for having another?” 

He shushed me through it all, validating my fears while also reminding me he was here to bear them with me. 

“If they’re reaped, I will do everything I can to bring them back. I’ll bribe a gamemaker, offer my head on a silver platter to sponsors. They’ll make it out.” 

“We are in the Capitol, the epicenter of medical advancements. No one will let you bleed out. They’ll give you good drugs, and when you wake up you’ll be perfectly fine, and I’ll be right beside you holding your hand.”

“You are the best mother, not only were you the greatest mother to Wiley, but look how well you care for Katniss and Prim. Wiley was young, but he was smarter than we give him credit for. He knew you did the best with what you could, Y/N, and he adored you for it. He’s watching over his sibling, and he’s going to make sure they’re okay.”

Our girl was born in the fall, our sweet Twyla. 

She resembled Haymitch the most, facial features a mirror to his. The only thing she shared with me was my hair color, soft tufts already coming in, taking on the shape of her father’s waves. They’d cut her out of me, not willing to risk another hemorrhaging situation. I begged for Haymitch to be present, which was allowed, though not without protest from the nurses. In 12, the fathers were often not able to be present due to work, but if by some chance they were home, it was expected that they stay firmly seated next to their wives, offering as much support as possible. 

It seems that was not the case in the Capitol. 

Haymitch had chosen her name while I slept, something I told him I’d prefer. Twyla was gentle, like the lull of our cigarettes under the stars. It was kind and sweet, sparkling in the darkness of the night. It was completely our little girl. 

I woke up from surgery to find him rocking her in his arms, unable to tear his eyes away from her sleeping face. For a man who’d never wanted children, he was completely wrapped around her finger from the moment she took her first cry. 

We headed back three nights later, coming home to an elaborate crib carved in the shape of a swan, bright pink walls with confetti and balloons. Effie Trinket and her prep team had put things together while we were gone, brimming with excitement to show us the horror of our daughter’s bedroom. 

The moment she left, I looked at Haymitch, Twyla sleeping in my arms. 

“Go to the hob and do whatever you can to find purple paint.” 

He laughed, something I felt like I hadn’t heard in years, before whisking away and spending most of the day bartering through can after can until he found the perfect shade of violet. 

We repainted, even going so far as to add white stars in certain places, making the bedroom into a night sky, the swan rocking our girl to sleep. 

Twyla grew with the cameras in her face as minimally as possible. She was the darling child of the Capitol, but she was still kept as private as we could possibly keep her. They would never know the true date she took her first step, what foods she liked or didn’t like, her favorite stuffed animal or the time of night she woke screaming for someone to hold her. 

She turned 3 the year Katniss turned 16, the year Prim turned 12. 

Both girls had met Twyla, played with her in my old house while I patched up their clothes. Haymitch wanted her to have minimal time with other people, begging me not to bring her to the hob when I went. 

“Haymitch, we can’t just keep her captive here all her life. She needs to experience life, other people.” 

He shook his head, arms across his chest, peering down into the crib. 

“She meets enough people when Cesar shoves that goddamn camera in her face.” He grumbled. I placed a hand on his shoulder, soothing circles traced with my finger. 

“Baby, normal people. People like you and I.” He rolled his eyes, giving me a pointed stare. 

“Ain’t no one like us, sweetpea. What we’ve been through, no one else has had the pleasure.” It was my turn to grumble at him, rolling my own eyes back. 

If there was one thing we couldn’t argue about, it was Twyla’s attendance at the reaping. 

I’d made a stack cake for Haymitch the night before, putting it in the fridge to take out that morning. Twyla had cooed and giggled, swiping the frosting and stealing a lick with her grubby toddler hands. She was bolder than Wiley had been, which made my heart clench so tight it knocked the wind out of me. 

I missed my boy everyday of my life, but especially while watching my girl grow up. 

Haymitch sleepily entered the kitchen, a grin breaking out on his face at Twyla’s greeting. 

“Papa! Papa look!” her smile was mostly gums, pointing rapidly at the cake. He scooped her up, holding her close and bouncing her in his arms. 

“That for me, baby doll?” he grinned at her, tickling her tummy and causing a fit of squeals. 

I brought the cake to the table, setting it down and pulling Haymitch and Twyla to my side, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then hers. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” 

We’d gotten better about celebrating it over the last two years, Haymitch wanting to connote reaping day to happier memories while he still could.  She was emotionally intune, sensitive to when either of her parents were feeling particularly broken. She’d make grabby hands at us when we stared too long away from her, caught in a web of memories. Our baby had made it a habit to plant her hands on our cheeks, peering into our eyes before flopping her head straight into our chests, nuzzling in with soft breaths against our skin. 

We all ate a slice of cake before getting ready to head to the square. Haymitch would have to go onstage, and I would take Twyla with me to pick up Prim, Katniss and Astrid. We parted ways, a chaste but sweet kiss shared between us, a promise that we would say goodbyes before he left for the Capitol later. 

I met the Everdeen’s at their house, Prim fiddling with her dress while Katniss chased her, trying to get her to “tuck in that tail, little duck.” 

Astrid lit up at the sight of Twyla, reaching out for her. She’d been gradually doing better, but still was nowhere near where she was before Burdock had passed. My girl giggled at her, playing with a strand of blonde hair. 

I took Prim and Katniss’s hand, squeezing tight and giving them a tight smile. Katniss and I had talked Prim through what to expect on reaping day, preparing her for what it was like to be in the pool of prospective tributes. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we? Afterwards, we can sneak some of Haymitch’s cake for dinner.” I said, watching my girls sneak a smile to each other, Katniss’s eyes grateful as we headed to the dreaded square.