#the steps have been small. and are still small. it's like climbing up a spiral staircase

[visdiefje]

It's so wild and refreshing to me to want to be HERE. In my country. In my general area. Where I am

[maxlarens]

hi lilli!! i heard angst and i came running, how about searching for each other in crowded rooms, finding each other everywhere with logan or oscar, whoever sparks the most inspo, but plot twist—not being able to be together for some reason (the why is totally up to you, feel free to ignore if this isn't your cup of tea). thank u thank u <3

kait!!! hello!!! thank u for sending this in!!! im gonna do oscar 😁 it genuinely hurt my feelings SO BADLY to not have them make up at the end of this. so i sympathise with everyone that im about to make sad it was a bad time for me too❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

It's familiar, this feeling.

The squeeze of your chest, the grieving, panicking thing climbing up your throat. You've been feeling it a lot lately, every time you catch a glimpse of someone with hair the same colour as Oscar's; wearing clothes you swear that he has; a person with the same shoulders, the same gait.

You've been seeing him everywhere. You just think you have. Monaco is small… not that small apparently.

When it had first happened, at the beginning of summer break, you’d half expected to be back together within a week. For Oscar to message you and half-beg to talk to you again. In your dreams, you’d both come grovelling back to each other, apologising for cruel words, making amends for various mistakes. Then you would kiss him and you’d tell him how much you love him and things would get better.

Instead, you’ve spent weeks of your summer break totally and utterly miserable. Missing Oscar like a phantom limb. You reach for him, he’s not there. You go to text him, find a thread of messages discussing the logistics of returning the other’s belongings.

You sit in your flat and you watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice in a row twenty two hours and forty-four minutes because it doesn’t remind you of Oscar and it occupies your time in a way nothing else can right now. You cry until your eyes are puffy and you write in a diary you’ve never touched before, because it needs to go somewhere. The feeling stuck in your throat needs to be written down said out loud and you can’t say it to Oscar, who you would usually tell everything, because he needs “distance from you right now”.

Briefly, you convince yourself that “right now”, indicates that there still might be a later for the two of you. That this thing between you that’s fallen to pieces might one day be salvaged. In the quiet moments of Lord of the Rings you spiral down a rabbit hole of ways to get Oscar back, pathetic fantasies of how you might convince him to talk to you again. Then Arwen says, “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone” and you cry for two hours straight.

You sob, your face in your pillow and you think that was supposed to me! That was supposed to be us! And maybe it wasn’t, maybe you’re not an elven maiden giving up her immortality for a mere man, but you love Oscar. You wanted to spend the rest of your life with Oscar. And now… now…

Well—

It is the waiting that’s the worst.

No texts, no calls. Lando sends you a few, but you can’t bear to hold a conversation with him, knowing he’s playing both sides. And anyway, you’re just thinking about Oscar. Is he there? Is he reading your texts? Seeing the pathetic selfies of you on your couch in days-old PJs? Is he staring at your stagnant text thread just like you are? Has he blocked you?

Your every waking thought is consumed by him. You drag yourself out of the apartment for coffee down the street and you wonder what he’s doing. Has he been rotting at home like you? More than likely he’s been doing things. Playing padel with Lando, going out for lunch, training at the gym, FaceTiming his family.

You feel sick to you stomach. You can list on one hand the activities that you’ve done since Oscar broke up with you at the beginning of the month:

Sleeping, crying, watching Lord of the Rings, ordering takeout, training because you have to. Going for coffee had been a big step out of your current comfort zone. You’re wearing pants that aren’t sweatpants… you’d even showered properly for fuckssake.

You got your most noise-cancelling headphones on, blasting sad Taylor Swift (who you don’t even like. It’s just something to fill the void) and staring down the barista so you can lip-read if they’re saying your name or the words Large Oat Latte. And then—

Then. The barista is mouthing Oscar and your stomach lurches as the exact object of your ire temporary depression walks to the counter. You try to convince yourself it’s not him, you keep seeing him places but it’s never really him. But it is, that’s his burgundy shirt, his swoop of hair, his knobbly little ankles.

You release a ragged breath that you hope isn’t too loud. You duck your head, try to avoid his gaze as he turns, pretending that you haven’t seen him. Try to look occupied by your phone though you’ve only had time to open to your home screen. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, you blink furiously, trying your best not to fall apart in this coffee shop.

At least he’s not with someone else, you think as a tightness crawls up your throat to settle at the base of your tongue. But he looks happy, he looks fine, he looks better than you feel right now. God, what if he’s better off without you? What does it mean that you don’t seem to better off without him?

There’s something wet sliding down your left cheek and then you see Nike trainers entering your vision, still directed firmly downward. Someone puts a hand on your shoulder— you don’t jump but it’s a near thing. You reach up to slip your headphones off, wiping the tear discreetly as you go. Then you look up and it’s him, it’s Oscar.

He’s holding out a paper cup labeled, Oat Latte and smiling at you tightly.

“They were calling your name,” he says by way of explanation.

“Right,” your voice is shaky, weak, “Thanks.”

He nods, you take the coffee, careful not to touch his hand. You’re trying to swallow down the lump in your throat that’s rising rising trying to claw its way out of your mouth. You blink away the tears filling the corners of your eyes. You can’t look at him.

You’re looking up at the ceiling instead, biting the inside of your mouth. Breathing in and out, in and out.

He says your name, and then, “Do you want to talk?”

You feel like a tonne of bricks has just hit your chest. Knocking the wind out of you. Tears, hot and wet, are slipping down your cheeks. You can’t speak, you turn around and leave the coffee shop without saying anything because surely you’ll just start crying if you open your mouth. Oscar finds you again across the road, in a dark cobbled alleyway. The heel of your hand is pressed to the middle of your chest, you’re hiccuping, trying to stifle heavy sobs that you’d much prefer to let out in the privacy of your own apartment.

“Hey,” he says, gathering you into his arms before you can push him away, “It’s okay.”

You whine, collapsing into his chest, face pressing into his shoulder, “No, it’s not.”

You cry loudly, trying fruitlessly to keep the sobs in. Oscar’s hand rubs comforting circles into your back, which makes it better until you realise it’s Oscar, which makes it immediately worse. You stay there a while. Until your eyes are puffy and your throat sore.

“Better?”, Oscar asks, the crease between his eyebrows prominent.

You sigh tiredly, shrug, “Sure.”

Your coffee is cold now, your chest feels void, hollow.

You shake your head before Oscar can say anything further, before you’re set off on another fucking pathetic crying fit in the arms of your ex-boyfriend, “I can’t talk, Oscar. I really can’t.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding and swallowing some lump in his own throat.

You bite down hard on your tongue. Turn to leave the dark alley to go home, your back prickling with Oscar’s wet brown-eyed stare on you. He lets you leave. You spend the ten minute walk wiping tears before they fall and itching to run back, to kiss him, to pour all the emotion in your chest into some physical action.

There’s an awful grieving ache in your chest that’s carving out your insides and when you check your phone after walking in the door there’s a text from Oscar that reads:

I miss you. I’d really like to talk to you soon.

not sure if it was weird but the lord of the rings Mentions were kinda about how you’re in such a fragile state during a breakup that something as irrelevant to your break up at lord of the rings will make you cry for hours for no real reason. (and not to expose myself but after a break up i did watch the lotr trilogy two times in a row. told my friends and got a text from one of them asking if i was depressed 😭 like yes… temporarily alright)

send me a prompt/req + driver and i'll write something. pls check if my requests are open first 💖

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

What a Mess 3

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: thick!Bucky Barnes

Summary: Your new job isn’t all that you expect. (maid AU – short!reader)

Note: hate me, baby.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You're a little less addled as you enter the condo that day. You have a soft playlist going as you carry your kit through and roll in the vacuum. The sunlight beams large rectangles across the hardwood as the shadows of the frames skew between. The air is still and as placid as the melody in your ears. 

The list guides you. Even as you could recite it by rote. You can never be too careful. You turn the corner into the living room, the TV glaring blue across the space.  

You round the couch to grab the remote. Strange, the coffee table is pushed back. Your toe brushes something on the floor and you stop short. 

You look down at the body on the floor. 

Concern ripples up your spine and swells in your throat. Is Bucky okay? His shoulders curl forward as he hugs a pillow, legs bent under the thin throw blanket usually folded over the back of the couch. It's only his low snores that assure you he didn't collapse there. 

You sway above him. Even as he lays on the floor, you feel tiny. Should you wake him? You glance up at the television and decide better of it. You've been a part of a similar tableau. Sleepless nights are often a battle, especially alone. 

You shut off the TV and retreat. You'll wait to do the front room. You look up the spiral staircase. The metals too noisy. What can you do that won't disturb him? 

You turn off your earbud and put it away. You'll have to be careful of everything you do. The silence is dense. You don't often let it pervade your life. You always have something going; music, a show, an audio book... anything to keep you from drifting. 

You start small, wiping down the cupboards with a dust cloth. There isn't much to catch but one day can make the difference. 

There's still no step stool. You make sure he isn't around when you lift yourself up on the counter and work on your knees. You should ask but you also hate to be demanding. 

Despite the odd circumstance, it's calm. You stay alert as you work through the lost, out of order, but you do what you can. 

Will he wake up soon? You hear a groan followed by a murmur. You can't understand it. You turn the faucet on, keeping the stream slow, and wash up the few dishes left near the sink. The smell of the citrus dish soap wafts in the air. As do his snores. 

The snorting rhythm reassures you. They don't stop even as you chance your ascent upstairs. You use the small hand broom on the steps. You find that's easier. Slowly you make your way down until a metallic chink startles you. 

You turn on the steps as Bucky squints sleepily at you. He wears a pair of briefs, his shoulders draped in the throw blankets, as his thick hair hangs in puffy tangles. He rubs his chest, scratching there as you avoid looking below his groggy face. 

You push yourself against the narrow railing as he grips the bottom. You do your best to make room for him to pass. 

"Time?" He asks. 

You wince and fumble to free your phone from the holder on your belt. "Eleven." 

He sniffs and nods. 

"I know it's not on the list, but... coffee, please." 

He backs up and rubs his temple. You can tell by how he moves that he has a headache. You didn't expect a super soldier to fet those.  

"Yes, sir," you leave the hand broom on the step so you can remember where you left off and stand. 

You come down cautiously. You don't like how narrow and steep the climb is. Bucky goes to the couch and drops down heavily. You glance over as he grips his skull. 

You keep your phone out and google the instructions for his coffee machine. You don't have one yourself.  You find the bag of grinds and load it up. You add water to the tank then hit 'brew'. Simple enough. 

You wait for the machine to finish and pour a mug. You turn to face the front room. Bucky’s head rests against the cushion as he remains unmoving. You tiptoe over and peer around. The coffee table’s too far to put the cup down. You stare at him as his eyes are firmly shut. 

“Smells good,” he sits up and reaches for the mug. You hand it over. “You can help yourself.” 

You fold your hands and offer a tight smile, “no thanks. Very kind though.” 

He groans and nods, bringing the cup up to inhale the scent. He blows over it before he drinks. You wince. “Oh.” 

His blue eyes flick over to you, “what?” 

“Oh, I didn’t... didn’t ask if you put anything in it.” 

He shrugs, “black is fine.” He takes another deep swig and clears his throat. “You wouldn’t believe the dirt water they put in field rations.” 

You dip your chin and shrug, “uh, oh no.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles as he cradles the mug in his large hands and leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “Just... talking.” 

You nod and put your hands behind you. He glances at you again. You can’t read his expression. Is he annoyed? 

“Goddamn,” he exhales deeply and raises the cup to press against his forehead. 

You watch him, teetering between fleeing back to the stairs and waiting for him to tell you to do so. “Do you need some advil?” 

His cheek dimples and he scoffs as he lowers the mug, “doesn’t work for me.” 

Your brows pop up curiously, “oh.” 

“Another cup should do the trick,” he drains the coffee and holds out the cup. “Appreciate it, doll.” 

“Yes, sir,” you take it as a dregs trickles down onto your fingers. 

“Don’t gotta call me sir. This isn’t a platoon,” he rubs his cheek. “Not the sergeant here. Just...” his voice trails off and he shakes his head. He stands and rolls his shoulders. “You can leave the cup on the counter for me.” 

He steps towards you and you flinch. He moves around you and you turn to watch him. His feet slap the floor heavily. He must be in rough shape as you usually don’t hear him stalking around the place. He disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. 

You look down at the porcelain. More coffee. Simple. 

[corroded-hellfire]

Older Eddie freaking out when she tells him she’s pregnant. He gets worried he won’t be able to be there for them in ways he wants to and tries to run. But he sees the ultrasound picture and breaks down and goes back to his girl

Confused older!eddie, you still that dumb boy we all love

Words: 1k

I’m pregnant.

The words run through Eddie’s head again and again as he lies next to your sleeping form. The sound of your soft, slow breathing is the only noise in the trailer, but Eddie can hardly hear it over the beat of his pulse pounding in his ears. 

He’s glad you’re able to sleep because God knows he’s the farthest thing from sleepy. Pregnant. Eddie’s starting to think he can see the word scrawled across the shadowy ceiling he’s been staring at for the past three hours. 

You’ll be 52 when the kid is born, Munson, Eddie thinks to himself. Which means you’ll be 70 when he or she graduates high school. Well, at least 70 if the kid follows in my footsteps when it comes to education. Heaving a quiet sigh, Eddie tilts his head to the side to look at you. He watches the easy rise and fall of your shoulders with each gentle breath. 

There’s a sudden sense of panic climbing up Eddie’s chest and it feels like an iron hand clamps around his throat. You deserve so much more than this, he thinks. You deserve to have someone your own age, who can be there for you longer than I’ll be able to. 

Unable to bear the thought of you having to take care of your child and an aging Eddie, he pushes himself out of the bed and stalks out of the bedroom. 

2:02 am the neon green numbers on the microwave remind Eddie as he steps into the kitchen. He runs his hands through his salt and pepper curls and begins to pace back and forth in the small space. The two of you had never talked about having kids. Obviously, what was between you was serious and you were both in it for the long haul. Maybe one of you should’ve brought up the subject but it was too damn late now, Eddie mused. 

“Jesus,” Eddie says as he rests his hands on the back of a kitchen chair and hangs his head. “People are going to think I’m her dad and the baby’s fucking grandpa.”

The tightness in his chest returns tenfold as he imagines you calmly explaining to people their mistake, like you don’t mind it one bit. But Eddie knows it would bother you after a while and it would ignite embarrassment in him every single time. The same thoughts would spiral around his head that hadn’t been present since the two of you first started going out: she can do better; you’re too old for her; it’s selfish when you’re going to die at least twenty years before her. 

The shame is too much. Eddie’s nails dig into the wood of the chair as his jaw tightens. Before he can think better of it, he heads towards the front door, where his boots are settled next to. He shoves them on and doesn’t bother to tighten or tie the laces. The keys to his truck hang on the hook next to his leather jacket, but the sight of the jacket only reminds him that he isn’t wearing a shirt. 

“Fuck.” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. If he walks back into the bedroom to grab a shirt, he knows he’ll see you, sleeping there like the beautiful angel you are, and fall into your arms. But leaving is what’s best for you…isn’t it? “Get it together, Munson.”

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down as much as he can, Eddie remembers seeing a sweatshirt hanging on the chair next to the one he was leaning on in the kitchen. It’s an effort to walk across the floorboards of the trailer in such heavy boots without causing a piercing squeak, so Eddie practically tiptoes his way. Calloused fingers snag on the worn gray cotton of the sweatshirt and snatch it up. In his haste, the sleeve of material knocks a few pieces of mail onto the floor.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters. He bends down on creaky knees to pick up the envelopes that bear both your and his names. At the very bottom of the pile, there’s a thinner piece of paper that had gotten mixed in with the mail. 

A slightly trembling hand raises the grainy black-and-white picture to eye level. Even if the lightning weren’t so scarce, the moonlight shining through the window over the sink its only source, Eddie would need to squint to see the image clearly. The small fuzzy bean in the middle of the sonogram has Eddie falling back onto his ass, tears filling his eyes as he stares at the picture of his child. His baby. Your baby. 

Fat tears begin to roll down Eddie’s cheeks and he brings his free hand up to cover his mouth. How could he be so stupid? How could he even consider leaving? Leaving you? Leaving this innocent baby? No, he knows with complete certainty that would be the biggest mistake he’d ever make. So worried about the amount of time that he’d have with you that he was about to throw away the best thing that ever happened to him. And who’s to say someone younger would have more time with you? The next day isn’t promised for anyone, no matter the age.

Eddie puts the sonogram back on the table and is quick to scramble out of his boots, kicking them beneath the chairs to be dealt with in the morning. Both his leather jacket and sweatshirt get tossed on the couch in his haste out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and back down to your shared room. 

When he enters, you’re sleeping on your other side now, so he’s able to see your face. Letting his eyes roam over your beauty, more tears begin to fall. He roughly wipes off his cheeks with his rough palms before climbing into bed with you. Though you look so peaceful asleep and tucked in the blankets, Eddie can’t help but slide in as close to you as possible and wrap you up in his arms. A small, sleepy murmur tumbles from your lips as you snuggle up to your boyfriend.

“Everythin’ ‘kay, Eds?” you mumble as you lift your head and rest it on his bare chest.

Eddie nods as he holds you even tighter against his body. 

“Mhmm, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, a smile breaking through at the way you cling to him. “Everything’s great.”

[blackbat05]

A Year On

Oliver Wood x Reader

Plot: You've finally achieved your dreams of opening a bookstore. A good friend is there to help you with a much needed confession between the two of you.

A/N: This took me longer than I would have liked but what a whirlwind this year has been - in a good way! I'm so thankful to so many people for the support~ In a way, this piece also reflects my experiences in its own unique way. Thank you for always supporting me and have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! May more good things come our way~ Tagging the lovely @the-slumberparty

Genre: Fluff, PG-13

Prompt: Has it been a year already?

“That’s the last of it!” Hermione beams as she waves her wand, the last box sitting nicely on the pile of the many other boxes that the two of you had been bringing into the shop the whole morning.

The shop that you had finally acquired.

“Thanks Hermione, you really didn’t have to give up your whole Saturday morning for this. Don't you have to get Christmas decorations for the house?"

“Are you kidding?” She admonishes. “My best friend has finally achieved her dreams of opening her own bookstore? I’ll be your first customer!”

You give her a hug, feeling equally giddy and lightheaded from the success. Sure, it was only the first step, but you allowed yourself to savor this small win.

“I was hoping to be your first customer, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for second.” A voice pipes up from the entrance.

“Oliver!” You squeak at the sight of the burly young male clutching a bouquet of sunflowers. “Please, come in!” You invite him in, ignoring the pointed look that Hermione gave you.

“Well, I’ll be on my way then. I have to meet Ron in twenty minutes. Don’t want to be late!” Hermione happily sing-songs as she bids goodbye to the two of you. The bell jingles before plunging the shop into silence once more. Oliver strides forward, presenting you with a bouquet of sunflowers.

"Congratulations. You've done it."

You take the flowers carefully, grateful. "Thank you for making the time. You must have been incredibly busy with training."

"And miss the opening of your bookstore?" Oliver brushes off the minor inconvenience. "I'll be a terrible friend."

You laugh, but your heart sinks a little at the word - friend.

You weren't going to lie, the little admiration for the Keeper back in school had grown into a crush and spiralled out of control. Not to mention how he was there for you during your worst period of time.

"Has it been a year already?"

"Huh?"

Oliver's question snaps you out of your daydreams and you swore you saw him chuckle.

"You know, since I last saw you." He refers to the time when you found yourself out and down of luck in your job and life. The depression slowly crept behind you before swallowing you whole. No matter what your family said or tried, you refused to budge, believing that it was something you could never climb out of.

But Oliver refused to give up on you.

He did everything he could - making sure you ate, riding on his sleek broom after training in the vast countryside and showing you the empty shop in Hogsmeade that was now proudly occupied by you.

"Yeah. When you told me you made the down payment for the shop, I thought you were pulling my leg at first. Then you showed me the deed and that's when I knew it was real." You paused, unsure.

"I still don't know why you did it."

Oliver walks around the boxes, observing them like they belonged in a Museum. You wait with bated breath.

"Can I be honest?"

Oliver picks up a book from an opened box. “You only deserve good things.” He looks at you with his big brown puppy eyes that made you fell in love- a big ass capital L with him in the first place.

“You were always so optimistic, helping everyone, listening to their troubles. Including mine. Remember when Flint knocked me off my broom and I had an injury so bad that I was unsure if I would be ready for Puddlemere’s tryouts?”

You remembered well. Oliver was a mess. You still can’t forget the image of the twins running out of his dorm, hair set aflame on their bright Orange hair. They warned you not to enter but you told them that they were just being ridiculous. Two hours and eight minutes later, you managed to get Oliver out of the dorm to have supper. When George asked you how you did it, you replied with two words.

“I listened.”

“And you saved me.” You think Oliver is just being nice but you take one look at him and his expression is dead set on serious.

“You always gave so much to others, never expecting anything in return.” He says. “So… I wanted to be the first to do something for you.”

Your breath hitches as he takes a step forward, freckles from playing Qudditch evident on his rosy cheeks.

“Ollie…” You use the nickname that only you’re allowed to call him.

“This is so crazy.” Oliver lets out a huff of air. “I’ve practiced this so many times in front of actual mirror and I’m tongue tied.”

The butterflies in your stomach flutters and you swore you could float a few feet of the ground. But you remain patient with the adorable man in front of you trying to gather his remaining bearings.

“I’m so proud of how far you’ve come. This is all your own efforts and I’m glad to be part of it.” Oliver starts, before his eyebrows crinkle at his own speech.

“What I’m really trying to say is that I love you. I love you so much for seeing who I really am beyond Gryffindor's Qudditch Captain. For being there for me every single day... and I want to be there for you... if you'll have me."

You almost burst into tears at your best friend's sweet and vulnerable confession. No more dancing around each other, no more games. You throw yourself around his burly frame, face nestled in his chest.

"Yes. Yes I'll have you dork." You muttered, not exactly ready to let him see your puffy eyes. But Oliver doesn't care as he gently pries you from the comfort of his red sweater.

"I'm sorry it took me this long. I thought with everything that has happened over the past year, you would want to settle down first before anything else."

Could this man be any more perfect?

"I appreciate that Oliver, I really do. Though I am not entirely blameless." You admit, feeling a teensy bashful. Oliver is confused for a moment and when he understands that you held the same feelings as he did, a charming grin is plastered on his face. You know what that means - he's ready to tease you.

"Really? Oh do tell."

Flame rushes to your face as you open another box of books for the much needed distraction.

"You know what, forget I ever said that."

"Now you know I can't do that. When did you figure out you had feelings for me? Ooh was it when you saw me half naked in the locker room during our last year?"

"Oliver Wood, if you continue this- nonsense. I'm going to have to put you to work!" You stumble over your words, not fooling anyone.

"Well then, use me as you wish. My day is yours to command."

It was your turn to smile as the two of you started to arrange the books on the shelves in synchronized teamwork.

If present you had went back in time to tell past you that this would be your life? You would have snorted it off and continued moping around. How funny a year could be so different.

Perhaps, that was the magic of Christmas.

[mushies-stories]

Keys: when in need

Juice x F!Reader

Summary: Exchanging keys can be a big deal but also a sign of trust and love. Reader gets a phone call with bad news while Juice is on a run. she seeks him out for comfort but settles with his apartment while he's away.

Warnings: None? pet names? crying...? The family problem is left open; we all go through some hard times, so I thought it fitting to leave it open for anyone who find it helpful to and comforting.

Authers note: i have a few ideas about how having a Key to Juices house is helpful and i think i might write like a little series for them. like nothing in order other than maybe this being the first with the how?

word count: 1867

Juice looked at you with a small smile while his hand dug in his pocket. “Here.” he says as he pulls whatever it was he was looking for. “This is for you.” he says and holds out a sing key on a keyring. You looked at the key then back to him, shocked that he was taking this step in your relationship. It made you happy while also nervous, no one had ever given you a house key before. You wanted to be closer however, it was just a surprise and a little out of the blue. Juice got nervous the longer it took you to respond, his smile faulted a little and his shoulder sagged just a bit. “You don't have to take it… I just thought-”

“I want it.” your words were rushed and sounded just as nervous as juice looked. You reached out and slowly took the key, eyeing it with a soft smile. “No one has ever given me a key before.” you confess. 

Juice relaxed a little with a soft chuckle. “That so? Well you're welcome over whenever baby.” he says with a crooked smile. 

Your own smile widens and you step closer to wrap your arms around his middle, his own came up to wrap around your shoulders. “Thank you juicy, I love you.”  you say into his chest.

He gives your shoulders a small squeeze and kisses the top of your head. “I love you too Baby.” he says with a goofy grin, happy you accepted his offer. 

A few days later you decided to make a spare key of your own and give it to him, showing him that you felt the same way and trusted him enough to have it. He showered you with affection and love over the whole thing and didn't complain when you told him you would prefer to be at his place, since he was so clean and his place was so nice.

~~~~

It was normal for you to text Juice and tell him you were going to come over or be there when he got home. You both had come to an understanding that his place was the normal meetup spot. You didn't mind your own place but Juice's apartment smelled like him, it looked like him and you felt comfortable there when he wasn't even home. He didn’t seem to mind it either, since it was naturally cleaner than yours anyways, something he tried not to tease you about.

There was a night however, he was gone for a three day run and would be back late at night. You had been given some news about a family member that caused you to spiral a little. With tears rimming your waterline you drove to Juice’s empty apartment in a daze. It was about 5pm when you pulled up and used your key to let yourself in. 

You left the door unlocked and kicked your shoes off. Still in a complete daze you went straight to Juice's closet and pulled down one of his black T-shirts. You pulled your own shirt over your head and replaced it with his. Climbing into his bed you wrapped yourself up in his blankets. The blankets and pillows smelt like Juice, like he was almost there with you. You felt safer, still lonely and sad but his scent and apartment helped soothe you enough to fall into a restless sleep. 

What you didn't know was that you had left your phone at home. Juice, who had tried to call you soon after you left to tell you he would be home rather late, had tried back all day. Every stop he called you once and then soon he was blowing up your phone just to make sure you were okay and every time you didn’t pick up his anxiety got worse. By the time they rolled into town Juice was making a B-line straight to your apartment. When he pulled up to find your car missing and your door unlocked with your phone inside he began to really panic. 

On auto pilot he rode straight to his own apartment, the last place he could look before falling into a full blown panic attack.

Juices felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders when he saw your car parked in the spot next to where he puts his bike. He haphazardly parks next to your car and practically runs up the stairs to his apartment. When he placed his key in the door however he found it already unlocked and the sinking feeling that something bad filled his chest again. He held his hand near his gun as he entered his apartment. It was quiet and dark when he stopped inside. Your shoes were laying upside down by the door but there didn’t seem to be any kind evidence of a break in. Relaxing his shoulders a bit he closed and locked the door behind him with a soft sigh. 

Slowly he walked to his bedroom. A small smile crept across his face when he flicked the light on to find you asleep in the middle of his bed. You were wrapped in his blankets and your hair was a mess around you. Juice really wanted to let you sleep, you looked a little like you needed it at the moment.

He was too anxious and worried for that however. You had left your phone at home and the door’s were unlocked. You know by now how much Juice cares about your safety, you should have known better and locked them. He kicked his boots off, for the moment not caring where they landed. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently moved the hair that was obstructing your face from him. His smile flipped quickly into a frown, his brows pinched together. You had been crying, evidence dripped onto his pillow. You had probably been crying for a while now and it broke Juice’s heart. His thumb came to swipe threatening tears from your tightly closed eyes. “Baby, wake up.” Juice spoke soft and gentle, trying to coax you out of your slumber slowly so as to not startle you. “C’mon baby, wake up for me please.” he asked again, now stroking your hair a little. 

Your eyes shift a little before fluttering open. It took you a moment to focus and realize Juice was there. “Juice?” you croaked out. 

When you sat up Juice couldn't help the giddy feeling when he saw you in his shirt. You were upset about something and you seemed to seek him out for comfort. 

“Your home… What time is it?” you asked, rubbing your eyes while you try and read the clock. 

Sitting against the headboard Juice wrapped his arms around you enough to pull you and sit you on his lap. You didn’t hesitate a moment and wrapped your own around his torso and laid your head against his chest. “Almost one in the morning, if i knew you were here i would have been sooner.” he said softly, rubbing your thigh with one hand while the other held you against him by your lower back. 

It took you a moment to remember how you even got in his apartment. You felt bad, you hadn’t said anything and left your phone at home. You looked up at him with watery eyes. “I'm sorry.” you say, voice clever but still only just above a whisper. 

Juice gave you a tender smile and shook his head. “I'm just glad your safe Babygirl, I was worried.” he told you. “What's going on, did something happen?” he then asked. 

You nodded slowly, remembering the phone call you got earlier that day and all the emotions you were sleeping to get away from came flooring back. Fresh tears filled your water line before falling quickly. Before your own hand could come up to swipe them away Juice was there, gently wiping the streaks from your cheeks and tucking your hair behind your ear. He let you take your time, slowly getting the words out. You hated how broken your voice sounded but you felt just a little better telling him. He reassured you over and over he was right there, take your time, he wasn't going to leave you alone. You managed to tell him everything you knew about what happened. He didn’t know what else to do at the moment but to hold and listen to you and for the moment it was just what you needed. Safe in his arms while you poured your bleeding heart to the man you loved and trusted the most in this world. 

With a shaky breath you finally  gave him a small smile, tears still streaming down your face. “I just… didn’t know what to do or where to go.” you said, as you snuggled closer to him. “I just got in my car and drove here.” you admitted. 

Juice smiled softly, he didn’t like the pain you were in but knowing he was such a big part of your life now just made him happy. “I'm glad you came here, wish you would have locked the door and told me so I didn’t have to panic.” he scolded you softly. 

You hummed in agreement. “I know, I'm sorry.” you repeated, you felt a little awkward now that he was home, actually there giving you the comfort you had been seeking when coming here. You couldn't help but apologize. Your tears continued to fall but lessened enough so your breathing could even out. Listening to Juice’s heart beat helped keep your head in reality. 

Juice shook his head again with a short low chuckle. “Baby, no need to apologize. I'm here for you and I just want to make sure you're safe.” he told you. “Next time maybe just leave me a message okay?”

“I will.” you agreed.

For a while you fell into a comfortable silence while you calmed down. Your tears stopped and your eyes felt heavy now. It was still late and you knew Juice must be exhausted. “You need sleep.” you say and go to stand but Juice's arms stop you from moving and instead pull you to sit with your back pressed against his chest. 

He nuzzled into your neck. “Not before I know you're going to be okay.” He says. 

You smile to yourself. He really was a good man. “I'm okay Juice, I promise.” you say and lean into his hold. “You’re here with me and that's enough, I cried it all out anyways.” You joke light heartedly. 

He kisses your shoulder and lets you back in bed before getting up with a grin. “Okay, tomorrow I'll make breakfast and we can do whatever you want, alright baby? I'm all yours.” he says while undressing, opting to take a shower in the morning and getting into bed next to you. 

You hummed in agreement and scoot closer to him, cursing up against his side and laying your head on his chest. You were glad he was home, now you felt like you could get some real rest and hold off your worries for a while.

[livesworthlivingau]

Lives Worth Living Chapter 6

Spoilers for ISAT and Two Hats especially, CW: More mental spiraling, mentions/memories of being stabbed.

"FRIIIIIN! FRIIIIN WA-"

"AAAAAAH!!!" (You scream, jolting up in bed, frantically feeling at your chest then gripping at your sore neck. You gasp for air, panting violently, desperately filling your still burning lungs.)

"F… Frin?…" (Bonnie leaps back in shock, their excited expression instantly dropping into worry.)

"S-Sif! I-It's okay, it's over! We're here!" (You hear Isa's voice to your left, feeling his hand reach for you cautiously. Without hesitation you throw yourself into him, wrapping your arms as tight around his large frame as you could, burying your face into his chest. Tears continue to flow from your eye as you just struggled to breath for a short while, repeating your mantras to yourself. You're safe, you are loved. You're safe, you are loved. You're safe, you are loved… You feel a smaller figure pressing against you from behind, causing you to flinch at first before relaxing once again. Bonnie wrapping around you in a big hug as well. You're safe… You are loved…)

"O-Okay… I-I'm okay, th-thank you…" (You stammer out, sniffling and wiping the tears from your face. You slowly pull away from Isa, in spite of much as you'd love to stay in that moment forever.)

"Of course Sif, I'm here for yah…"

"Yeah! Me too!" (Bonnie bounces cheerily, happy to have helped, making you chuckle some at the sight of it, how proud they look, especially knowing the amazing person they grew into.)

"Hehe… Thanks Bonnie, y'know, I think your hug helped the most!"(You lean in to whisper loudly at them, making sure Isa could hear as you tease. Isa just chuckles to himself while Bonnie gets starry eyed before rushing out of the room.)

"MY HUGS ARE BETTER THAN ISA'S!!!"

"Hah! Can't believe you'd betray me like that Sif, and I thought we had something special!"

"Sorry, just being honest, you better step up your game big boy~."

"Heh… I guess that's something else we'll have to practice then…" (Isa adds, his cheeks growing darker as he does. You can feel yours heat up as well… You've been bonded for decades and he still gets you like this…Stars you're so pathetic, heh…)

"O-Oh! B-Bonnie was almost done with breakfast, I'll grab you a plate and you can rest up a bit more, alright?" (You nod some, still a bit flushed but giving him a happy smile as he leaves.)

(You finish breakfast and get dressed, feeling a bit better after… 'last night'. You look to the window, then to the door, contemplating for a moment, before deciding this required all of your attention. You open the window and climb out of it, you weren't as experienced with this as you used to be, but you keep a careful grip and manage to shimmy down well enough. You set your sights on the biggest tree you could find again… and you start walking.)

(You get lost in your thoughts as you wander, reliving the moment of your death over and over again. You place a hand on your chest… it still hurts a little, like a wound just freshly closed over. You don't understand what made Loop do that, but you still wanted to help… If you couldn't have Loop around this time then what was the point of having to go through all this over again…)

(You come to a stop, finally finding the small clearing from before. The favor tree towers over you. It's silent aside from a light rustling of leaves as the wind blows through.)

"… Loop?…. LOOOOOP?!…" (You wait, hoping, begging, wishing for a response!… No… No more wishing… You have to find them on your own. You suddenly perk up, looking down at your hand as you remember. You put your hand into the odd gesture that you were taught so long ago, bringing your thumb to your ear, and pinkie to your mouth. You hope so dearly that this still works…)

"… Loop?…" (You aren't sure how or why, but a part of you knows the message was delivered… You wait for a moment before realizing a response won't come.)

"Please talk to me Loop… I'm sorry I-"

["YOU'RE SORRY?! Am I such a sad excuse of a person that YOU'RE apologizing for getting STABBED?!"] (You flinch as their voice screams into your mind, hurting at first from the volume rattling through your brain.)

["Don't you get it?! You won! You can move on, you HAVE moved on! Why do you still need me?! I have no use to you or your family! I will never be able to move on, especially having to stare at you all constantly, knowing what was taken from me!!… What… What I gave up on… Because I wasn't as strong as you…"] (You feel the connection severed abruptly before you can speak, even hearing a bell ring for some reason? You lower your hand, just standing there, defeated… You slowly turn around and start the long trek back to your family… still missing the same member it always has…)

[littlebugs]

saved - chapter one

azriel x reader series

warnings: she/her reader, a little language, short!reader, reader is the archeon's half sister (no race mentioned), fluffy ish, azriel ooc, sfw, not edited oops, azriel has a big wingspan, elain slander i'm sorry i have to rafs bloo notes: this was supposed to be a blurb but i just...spiraled. first time posting a series here BE NICE. also i kind of imagine this charcater with a evie vibe hence the gif (: description: you're half fae, living life on the borders of various courts after your half siblings got dunked in the cauldron. set after acowar, feyre has invited her half-sibling to Velaris to reunite the family. but what happens after a certain shadowsinger takes interest in you?

The night air in Velaris holds a mystic chill as you ascend the multitude of steps leading to Rhysand's townhouse. More like a deathly chill,  as you’re not dressed for a trek up the small mountain stationed at what seems to be the highest point of Velaris. Finally making it to the top, you keel over, cursing whatever god decided this what your life. 

 Despite the weariness, a sense of anticipation lingers, excitement almost. Or maybe you’re catching frostbite and becoming delusional. After a few minutes, you finally reach the top, swearing and actually panting.  Before you can gather the energy to knock on the door, it swings open, leaving you surprised. 

A tall figure stands in the doorway, the glow of lights inside outlining his broad shoulders. His features, sharp and captivating, come into focus. The eyes, a shade of violet that sparkled with mischief, locked onto yours. Is he tryna rizz me up or- 

The tall figure extends a hand, his handsome face framed by windswept hair. "You look like you've just climbed a mountain. Welcome. I'm Rhysand." The sarcasm in his voice is undeniable, but you refrain from sneering. Ripping your eyes away from the High Lord, you notice two more figures emerging from behind him. One, with an easygoing grin and tousled hair, winks at you. The other, with piercing hazel eyes that observe with a quiet intensity, makes no move. They’re all very hot.

Rhysand vaguely gestures toward them, "This is Cassian, and Azriel."

Cassian, the one with the easy grin, greets you warmly, and you smile back. Azriel's gaze lingeres, still not making any moves, but stepping aside to allow you to enter. Finally out of this cold ass bit- You hear Rhysand snicker behind you, laughing at an unheard joke. Or maybe you’re the joke. It’s hard to tell. 

Only seconds after crossing the threshold, a joyous commotion erupts from deep within the townhouse. Feyre, Nesta, and Elain, a hurricane of brown hair and laughter, rush towards you. Feyre, her vibrant blue-gray eyes lit with happiness, embraces you first. "You made it!" Her hug crushes you, and you swear you hear a rib snap. 

Nesta, looking bored, adds, "It's been too long." But you swear you can see a hint of a smile on her lips as she hugs you alongside Feyre. And finally, Elain, looking sort of sickly but better than when she was human, joins the embrace. "I’ve missed you" she says softly, her arms wrapping around you. 

The reunion unfolds with laughter and hugs, your sisters laughing and examining you, everything from your hair, to your shoes, and kind of scandalous outfit which Elain pales at. 

After they finally get tired of you (you swear a singular tear escaped Nesta’s eye.) Feyre guides you into a sitting room, which is charming and cozy at the same time. Taking a seat on a couch, you find yourself flanked by Feyre and a blonde headed fae, smiling almost too widely at you.

As soon as you turn to look at her, she starts talking. Very fast. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you! Feyre has told us so much about you!"

You stammer, shocked by her swiftness “Oh, uhm I-”

Rescuing you from introduction, Elain chimes in, from the couch. "This is Mor, Rhys's cousin, and that's Amren, who's…yeah," her face strains at the mention of Amren, as she gestures to a woman sulking in a corner, who looks at you with nothing but disdain in those oddly shiny eyes. Almost.. silver? You quickly look away, trying to avoid her gaze.

As you settle into the space, the blonde, Mor, starts yammering on about some sort of dress. You listen intnetly, until your sister's mate enters the room. 

Rhysand, (The most delightful, cunning, handsome High Lord, as Feyre has told you,) takes the seat across from you, his two friends joining him. Almost out of earshot, he quietly leans toward Azriel. "What's going on, Az? You're acting strange."

Azriel, the one who has not said a word to you since you’ve arrived, remains silent, his focus elsewhere. He’s actually very….attractive. Like a greek god, like you would just let him throw you across the room and- 

Rhys snorts, distracting you from your train of thought. Almost like he heard what you were thinking. Oh. The blonde on your left quickly distracts you, laughing loudly, as the Cassian lad rants about the quickest way to behead someone, which is just..swell. And all the meanwhile Rhys and Feyre stare at each other giggling. Feyre opens her mouth in shock and Rhys nods, gesturing to you, engaged in silent conversation

Raising your arms up in silent defeat, you get up and walk to what seems to be a kitchen. With no food. Which is just-  You nearly jump as Azriel basically appears out of nowhere. He shoots you a seemingly uncharacteristic smile as he observes your bemused expression.

"Curious about the kitchen, aren't you?" Azriel's voice, deep and resonant, carries warmth. Very at odds at how he looked at you like you were some sort of demon  five minutes ago. 

You nod, very confused with the switch up, and lack of any food, while drinking in his appearance. His hair, dark and tousled, frames a face chiseled with handsome features. Hazel eyes, deep and mysterious, hold intensity that make you never want to look away. Why he kinda…  Feyre and Rhysand start laughing again, and you feel yourself getting flustered.

"Is there something I'm missing?" You ask, gesturing to the seemingly empty kitchen.

Azriel leans against the counter, looking oddly casual. He crosses his muscular arms across his chest in a way that makes you shiver, and continues "In this house, you don't find the food. You just..think of it."

Confusion lifts from your face as Azriel just…thinks. In an instant, the kitchen responds. A tall glass of water appearing in front of him automatically, as if the room itself is eager to please.

You can't help but marvel, "That's incredible." You look at him, but to meet his eyes you have to physically tilt your head, and as he loos down at you, the height difference is obvious.

With a stretches flex of his arms, his impressive wings unfold gracefully, each membrane extending with a mesmerizing precision. As the Illyrian basically flexes, the intricate webbing catches the light, with wings that are far bigger than the ones you saw on Rhysand at the door.

From the living room, a conversation commences "What is Azriel doing?" Cassian whispers, smirking slightly. Rhysand, clueless himself, raises an eyebrow. 

As you borderline gape, you catch Elain's gaze intensifying, frustration apparent in her expression. You can only wonder, why as Cassian blurts out from the other room "Well, someone's feeling extra dramatic today."

You look over to Rhysand, leaning back with a sly smile adding, "I didn't know our shadowsinger had a flair for the theatrical."

Azriel, with a casual shrug, replies, "Just felt like stretching my wings a bit."

Breaking the heavy silence that fell over the group, Mor finally breaks into laughter. "Well, well, Az. I never thought I'd see the day. What's next, a dance number?"

The group laughs, but seeing Elain’s pointed stare, you make your way back to the sitting room, leaving the Illyrian in the kitchen, unbeknownst to you, disappointed. 

______________________

As the night deepens, members of the once noisy dinner party leave one by one, leaving the town home quieter than it was. With only the three Illyrians and the blonde (whose name you keep forgetting) you head towards the stairs, bidding them good night. 

Your ascent to the second floor brings you to an opened door at the end of the hallway adorned with what you expect are Night Court aesthetics – moonlit tapestries, celestial motifs, and the faint scent of jasmine lingering in the air. You breathe in, and slowly sit down on your bed, trying to get the hazel eyes and mysterious shadows out of your head.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Azriel stands abruptly, and not so discreetly follows you upstairs. Cassian and Rhysand, left in the living room, exchange bemused glances

Rhysand, eyebrows raised in silent query, looks to Cassian for an explanation. Cassian, shrugging with an amused grin, whispers, "Beats me. Maybe our shadowsinger has a sudden interest in beauty rest."

Intrigued and sensing unspoken mystery, Rhysand and Cassian exchange conspiratorial glances. With shared nods, they decide to venture upstairs, their footsteps quiet as shadows against the Night Court's nocturnal melody.

Back in your room, you find comfort in the surroundings of your room. Moonlight filters through the window, casting a soft glow on the elegant furnishings. Deciding to settle in for the night, you slip into a set of…you could barely call them pajamas, more like scraps of silk, and stretch your arms, sighing faintly. 

A soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. You secretly hope for a certain shadowsinger as you trudge towards the door. Opening it, you silently rejoice to the cauldron as Azriel stands there, his typical shadowed demeanor now softened by an unusual glint in his eyes.

"Mind if I come in?" he asks, breaking the silence.

[carpenterswife]

ALL MY GHOSTS (viii)

series masterlist

- summary: With your ex-fiancé still at large, Beau takes you into his camper when you’re released from hospital, refusing to let you out of his protection. Despite your initial protests, you settle down comfortably in Beau’s camper within mere days.

- word count: 1755

- warnings: Mentions of abuse, kidnapping, abduction, inhumane treatment, trauma, dissociative behaviour.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

“I gotcha.” Beau murmured reassuringly, his hand outstretched. Your frail hand landed in his, his other pressing to the small of your back, helping you climb up into his truck. “All settled?” He eyed you worriedly.

The visible marks had, somewhat, improved over the last five days, but the bruises were still ugly and green, and the wounds were scabbed; red and inflamed still.

You nodded back at him, still silent.

You still hadn’t said a single damn word to him since that first day.

With a soft smile, hoping to comfort you a bit, Beau shut the passenger side door. He didn’t miss how you flinched at the noise.

Beau was angry. So fucking angry. Jack had hurt you. And he’d had the man in his clutches and then let him walk away; let him return to you and inflict even more pain. He should’ve done better. To protect you. To be there. To find you.

He was blaming himself again. He always did this. The guilt weighed heavy on his chest, soon to be accompanied by. a heavy dose of self-loathing.

He climbed into the truck, glancing at you momentarily. He felt a sharp stab in his heart, starting the engine. He didn’t know what to say or do to help you.

He’d been a cop for up to nearly half his life; he’d seen victims come out kidnappings with layers and layers of trauma. But, after the case was finished, they were sent home. He never saw the long-lasting impacts. He’d never had to care for and love someone who was still reeling from the impacts and the pain and the trauma.

He was clueless.

Beau Arlen had no fucking idea what he was doing.

Still, he drove you out to his place.

There were no words exchanged the entire drive. Beau was tense, knuckles white around the steering wheel. One glance at you made his heart constrict; you were curled up on his passenger seat, knees tucked close to your chest, head on the windowpane. Like you were protecting yourself.

God, you were normally so chatty with him. You got in his truck and you blasted music, and you teased him relentlessly.

Jack had stripped you of everything that made you, you.

He wanted nothing more than to make you feel okay again. Make you feel safe.

The doctors had warned him it’d take a while. That sometime like this could have permanently damaged your psyche. That the psychological effects of an abduction alike to this one could last months. (At least you’d agreed to come home with him. Both he and the doctors had thought you’d want to go to your home. But you hadn’t argued when he offered.)

He felt useless. And then that proceeded to make him feel bad. Who was he to make this about himself? You were a beaten, lost, broken mess, and he was feeling shit?

Beau spiralled the whole drive home.

It didn’t help that you didn’t say a word. Even as he helped you out of his truck, and grabbed your hospital bag from the back, putting it over his shoulder, you didn’t speak. Beau guided you to the front door, hand hovering over your back.

Was he allowed to touch you like he used to? He used to be so comfortable with you. But he didn’t want to hurt you, or scare you. He didn’t know how to help.

Unlocking the door, he steadied himself mentally, opening the door to let you into his home.

The moment you entered, three cats were pawing at your legs. Beau watched you soften, with an easing heart, at the realisation he’d taken in your cats. He stepped in, around you, shutting the door, letting you kneel down to greet your pets with scratches.

He nervously played with his keys, making them jingle and clink. “I didn’t want to leave them.” He explained himself quickly. “They would’ve been taken by a shelter, so I took ‘em in. They’re very sweet. I didn’t know what to feed ‘em, but I took the cat food in your cupboard, and they— well, there’ve been no complaints.” And here he goes, rambling. “I think I’ve been looking after ‘em fine. I’ve never had a cat before. But they seem fine. I haven’t killed ‘em at least. Not that—“

“Beau.” Your quiet, scratchy voice cut him off. He took in a deep breath, meeting your eyes. Your lips pulled into a small smile. “Thank you.” You whispered, voice raspy from days of not being used.

Beau relaxed. He bit back a happy grin. He did something right. He gave you a goofy smile, pleased with himself. The sight of you smiling, relaxed, scratching your cats as they climbed over you, simultaneously broke and warmed his heart.

It was the first time you’d smiled in days. But you were smiling.

Baby steps, Beau, he reminded himself. Baby steps.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Beau’s camper was comfortable and cozy.

You’d been here for the occasional movie night, occasionally by Jenny and Cassie. But you’d never stayed overnight. It was almost silent — not a single car, just the wildlife outside. You curled up on the surprisingly comfortable sofa with your three cats, and just relaxed.

This was nice.

Yet, still, you couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the new environment, maybe it was the lingering tension and anxiety, but your brain wouldn’t relax.

So, as the sun began to rise, you succumbed to your sleepless night, and got up to explore the kitchen. Which is where you found pancake batter. With nothing else to do, you turned on the stove, and got to work.

It was comforting. Just peacefully cooking pancakes, the orange and pink hues of the sunrise peeking in through the windows, three cats by your feet incessantly meowing. It felt normal. Like it was before. For a moment, you didn’t feel afraid. Beau was in the next room. Everything was peaceful.

Then the door opened, and tension filled your shoulders.

Just Beau. It’s just Beau.

You managed to relax at that reminder, turning to the sheriff. He looked half-asleep, like he’d been dragged from bed by his ankles, knuckles digging into his eyes. Confused, Beau blinked at the sight in front of him, vision hazy.

Sheepish, a tad bit nervous, you smiled. It was small and your lips trembled, but it was smile. Beau took it as progress. “I made you pancakes.” You whispered, slowly gaining more courage to speak to him. “As a thank you.”

His eyes softened, staring at you with admiration and awe. The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Thank you, honey.” He padded over, experimentally sniffing the air. “Smells good. Y’didn’t have’to.” Still, he smiled happily, and picked up the plate of steaming pancakes.

Your shoulders lifted into a shrug again. “I couldn’t find out how to use your coffee machine.”

Beau chuckled, amused. “I’ll make ya one. Sit.” He smiled, ensuring his words sounded more like a suggestion than an order. “Ya wanna head home today? Pack up some stuff?”

Sitting on the kitchen counter, you fiddled with your sleeves. Beau had graciously allowed you to wear his shirt and sweats last night, as you didn’t have anything to wear. However, they were comedically big on you, which he’d found hilarious.

“Yeah.” You agreed quietly. “Sounds good.”

He just smiled, handing you a mug of coffee. His eyes traced over your face. “No problem, honey.”

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

You improved, as the days went on. You were still jumpy, and woke up abruptly from nightmares, but you were talking again, and you were smiling. He’d occasionally pulled a rare laugh from you.

It was, slowly, getting better. You had bad days, where he found you curled up on the sofa, you’d back to him. On those days, he cooked you breakfast, and left you, unless you asked him to stay. Which you had, a few times. It always made his heart feel like it was about to burst.

Dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, you played with your youngest kitten on the decking. Beau was tending to the fire, watching you with a fond smile. Jenny and Cassie were coming over for a movie night; it’d been a good day, and you finally felt ready to see your other friends. Beau was ecstatic, to see you improving so fast.

You dangled a string in front of the cat, giggling quietly as the kitten leapt up and swatted at it. Beau’s smile grew, melting in his chair at the adorable sight.

He hadn’t felt like this in years.

He remembered when he first fell in love with Carla.

It’d been a warm, gooey feeling. A warmth washing over his entire body, muscles relaxing, every time he looked at her.

And here you were. A girl who’d been through hell and back. Who’d gone through so much, and had come into his life so abruptly. A girl, so unfortunate, but still with so much kindness and sweetness.

The world had not been kind to you. But you weren’t repaying that favour. You were effortlessly sweet; sunshine. That old nickname. God, Beau hadn’t seen you smile like that in so long. That sunshine smile that had him almost on his knees the first time he’d seen it.

His heart was a mushy, gooey mess. And he meant exactly what that feeling meant.

Tires crunching over gravel signified Jenny and Cassie’s arrival. In the next moment, the two girls were wrapping you tightly in a hug, practically shielding you. Beau didn’t mind being left out of this one. You girls needed your moment. He silently stood up, making his way to get the drinks, leaving the three of you to (likely) shed a few tears.

“You stuck with her.” He looked over his shoulder. Jenny had followed him in. She took two of the drinks. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Beau’s eyes gazed outside. At you. You were crouched in front of the fire, tending to it, laughing quietly at something Cassie said. The way the fire shadowed your face made you look ethereal. He didn’t say a word. But the silence was enough. It said millions.

Jenny smiled knowingly, following his eyes to you. “You should tell her.” She advised quietly. “You’d be surprised.” With that very cryptic message, she retreated back outside, handing off the two cups to you and Cassie.

Beau took a deep breath and followed after her.

Baby steps. That’s all he needed.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

a/n: sorry for the lack of updates recently !!!!! a levels have been kicking my ass. u have my first exam on the 14th n i am STRESSING

taglist: @yvonneeeee @deans-spinster-witch @fanfic-n-tabulous @dwonfilm @foxyjwls007

@just-levyy @i-love-ptv @hobby27 @zepskies

[onboardsorasora]

omg deaged daniel has my heart:(( he’ll feel so much more comfortable I bet once he gets to talk to his mom:((((

he does!! ok this is literally spiralling lmao!

De-Aged Daniel | De-Aged Daniel Pt2 | Part 4

Max watched as Little Daniel watched him through his lashes as he made his calls. His sticky red ring pop was always close to his lips and Max could see how stained his tongue already was.

“Do you like ring pops?” Max asked kindly, Little Daniel makes eye contact for a moment before looking at Max’s shoulder again and nods. “I like them too, I love the green flavour.”

“‘Shell likes the green one.” Little Daniel offered softly. 

“All the more red ones for you!” Max smiled when Little Daniel grinned. 

“Ok so I ordered the pizza, would you like to play with the cats while I make another phonecall?”

“Your phone’s weird like the one’s in the movies.” Little Daniel mumbled. And Max figured that must be true, an iphone wasn’t exactly the current tech in 1994.

“It is, I’m still learning it too. May I lift you up Daniel?” 

Little Daniel nodded softly and Max lifted him onto his hip. He walked the few steps into the living room and placed the boy gently on the couch. Jimmy was the first to be curious. Little Daniel looked at him dubiously before reaching his hand out slowly to pet the cat.

Max watched them out of the corner of his eyes while he scrolled through his contacts. Grace picked up after three rings, and Max hoped it wasn’t very late in Perth.

“Max, lovely to hear from you!” Grace’s voice was a balm, Max felt completely out of his depth.

“Hey Grace, unfortunately this isn’t a social call.”

“What’s happened?” Her voice was immediately tense and Max kicked himself, he could have handled that better.

“Nothing terrible. I’m gonna show you.” After hearing her noise of agreement he changed the call to a facetime. She looked at him with worried brown eyes, Max flipped the camera to show Little Daniel stiltedly petting Jimmy’s head. His ring pop clutched tightly in his other fist.

“Oh.” Her gasp was sharp. Max watched her eyes grow soft and yearning. 

“Blake said he’s been stressed lately, it happened not twenty minutes ago.”

“So its temporary then.” She spoke to herself, eyes still staring at the little boy who was her miniature in every way. “He likes the show Lamb Chops, and The Wiggles. Don’t let him choose the pizza, he likes the pictures but he doesn’t like the peppers or olives. He’ll eat pepperoni or hawaiian.” 

Max groaned because Little Daniel absolutely chose the pizza and there were all sorts of peppers and olives. 

“Do you still have the epi pen?” She asked quietly.

“I do.” 

“Good. You may need it.”

“Pistachios, hazelnuts, peanuts. I remember.” Max smiled. 

Grace made that ‘oh honey’ face that Daniel sometimes did when he thought Max was going to be in over his head a little. “Some kinds of grass, milk, ice cream, air fresheners, may make him puke–”

“How did you let him move to Italy on his own??” Max laughed when Grace snorted. He had no idea Daniel had been allergic to so many things.

“He grew out of most of it. And he was very convincing.” She smiled, before biting her lip. “Can I talk to him?”

“Of course!” Max crossed the room quickly and flipped the camera back to the front facing one. “Daniel, I have someone who would like to speak with you, is this ok?”

Little Daniel looked up from where Jimmy was trying to climb onto his small lap and nodded softly. Max sat beside him and brought his phone to Daniel’s face.

“Mum!” Little Daniel screamed, scaring Jimmy a little. He scooted forward on the couch to get closer to the phone, Max brought to phone to him. “That's my Mummy!”

“Danny my baby, are you being good for Max?”

Little Daniel gasped, his mouth dropping open. He nodded quickly, his head bobbled like a toy. “Uh huh! Mum are you coming to get me?”

Grace sniffled and covered her mouth with a palm. “Soon my baby. It’ll take a little bit so be good for Max ok? He’ll take care of you until we get there.”

“Ok! I promise!” Little Daniel chirped, he nodded again like a bobble head. 

“That’s my baby. I love you Danny Wanny.”

“I love you more Mummy Wummy!” Little Daniel grinned and looked up at Max when the screen when dark. Max bit his lip, not expecting the cute aggression that took hold of him.

“Do you want to watch The Wiggles?” Max asked instead, smiling with Little Daniel nodded happily.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ⌝

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, angst, fluff, sexual content (mdni), cursing, the colonel, racism, mentions of pregnancy, hints at ab*rtion, slightly possessive!elvis, inaccurate timeline, LONG

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

the air is thick with anticipation, the heat of the summer night pressing down as you stand among the sea of people at russwood park.

though divided by skin color, the crowd hums with excitement. your heart thuds in your chest as you wait, eyes fixed on the stage.

you’ve seen him in pictures, on tv, but nothing could have prepared you for this—the moment when elvis presley takes the stage.

the lights dim, and a surge of screams erupts around you as he steps out, all swagger and confidence.

his black suit glints under the spotlights, the red tie around his neck standing out, and the world seems to tilt slightly as he steps up to the microphone.

your heart pounds in your ears as the crowd, like you, waits eagerly for his next move.

“there’s been a lot of talk about the new elvis…and you know, that other guy.”

elvis raises and wiggles his pinky, his smirk sending ripples through the audience, a mix of awe and wild adoration.

he mockingly croons ‘hound dog’, the familiar rhythm thrumming through you, but it’s when he begins to sing ‘trouble’ that something shifts.

the air becomes charged, electric. his voice drips with rebellion, teasing the crowd.

and then it happens.

his eyes meet yours.

for a brief, fleeting second, the rest of the world falls away. it’s just you and him, the connection sharp and undeniable.

you freeze, heat rushing to your face. elvis presley is looking at you, singling you out in a crowd of thousands.

your breath catches in your throat as he holds your gaze, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he continues with the song.

but the crowd is wild, feeding off his energy, and as he moves across the stage, things start to spiral.

the excitement turns into chaos—people pushing, screaming, climbing over barriers.

the authorities had warned about this, about how his performances stirred up too much passion, too much rebellion. and now you’re seeing it, living it.

the crowd surges, and for a moment, you’re swept up in it, struggling to stay on your feet.

you flinch as officers start swinging their batons at your side of the crowd.

before you can process what’s happening, a strong hand grabs your wrist. you look up, startled, and there he is—elvis—pulling you through the madness, past the screaming fans and the frenzy.

his grip is firm but gentle, and you follow him without question, heart pounding in your chest.

he leads you out of the roar of the crowd, toward a waiting car—a sleek black cadillac gleaming. without thinking, you climb into the backseat beside him, your pulse racing, every sense heightened.

the door slams shut, and suddenly, it’s quiet. the chaos outside seems distant, unreal.

he turns to you, his face inches away. his eyes, even more captivating up close, hold a mix of concern and amusement.

“you alright, honey?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, laced with that unmistakable southern drawl.

you nod, breathless, still trying to make sense of everything.

“i think so.” you manage to say, your voice shaking.

he chuckles softly, a sound that sends warmth through you.

“didn’t mean to drag you into all that. crowds can get a little wild.” his smile is softer now, but no less mesmerizing.

before you can respond, you notice camera flashes through the car window—photographers capturing every second of this surreal moment.

panic flickers across your face.

what will they say? what will they write about this?

elvis seems to sense your worry. he leans back, running a hand through his sweaty hair with a sigh.

“looks like you’re part of the story now.” he says with a crooked grin. “tomorrow, they’ll be writin’ about this in every paper.”

you swallow, the weight of the situation sinking in.

“what’s going to happen now?”

he glances at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“well, can’t just send you back out there after all that.” he pauses, his smile widening, “guess you’ll have to come to graceland with me. lay low until this all blows over.”

you can hardly believe what you’re hearing, your pulse racing as the car pulls away from the chaos of the park. the idea of staying at graceland—with him—seems unreal, but there’s something thrilling about it too.

the way he looks at you, the way your heart races every time he smiles, makes you wonder if this could be the start of something more than just a crazy night.

as the car winds through the quiet streets, you steal a glance at him. you’re caught in his orbit now, and there’s no escaping it.

*

the days at graceland blur together, a strange blend of quiet moments and stolen glances.

elvis is busier than you’d imagined, always rehearsing, meeting with people, planning his next moves. but in between, you find yourself growing closer to him, sharing moments that feel like they’re just yours—ones that the outside world, with all its frenzy, could never touch.

it’s been months since that night at russwood park, and the tabloids are still buzzing. the colonel, elvis’s manager, has made it clear that you’re to stay out of sight until things die down.

every time you ask when you’ll be able to leave, he gives you the same answer: ”soon, honey. it’s just for your own good."

you can tell that it’s as much for elvis’s image as it is for your safety.

at first, it was strange—being hidden away in the vast mansion, moving through rooms you never imagined you’d see.

you spent hours by yourself, wondering how your life had taken such a surreal turn. but then, elvis started coming around more, seeking you out.

you’d share late-night talks in the kitchen over peanut butter and banana sandwiches, or he’d take you out on long drives when the world outside was asleep, just the two of you, the radio playing softly as he hummed along to the songs.

it’s in these quiet moments that you see the real elvis—not the larger-than-life figure the world knows, but the man behind the fame.

he’s funny, warm, and surprisingly thoughtful. he asks about your life, your dreams, and listens intently when you talk, like your words matter.

one evening, you’re both sitting in the backyard, the air warm and heavy with the scent of magnolias.

the sun is setting, casting a soft glow over the lawn.

elvis leans back in his chair, guitar resting on his knee, strumming lazily as he hums a tune under his breath.

you sit across from him, watching the way the fading light plays off his face.

“you know,” he says after a long stretch of comfortable silence, “it’s been real nice having you around. didn’t think i’d be saying that when all this craziness started.”

he glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

you feel your heart skip a beat at his words.

“i didn’t either.” you admit with a soft laugh. “it’s been... unexpected, but i’ve liked being here. with you.”

he stops strumming for a moment, his gaze holding yours.

“you’re different.” he says quietly, his voice almost thoughtful. “everyone always wants somethin’ from me. but you… i don’t know, you’re just you. and i like that.”

a warmth spreads through you, but before you can respond, the sound of footsteps interrupts the moment. the colonel appears, his expression unreadable.

he’s been watching you both closely these past few days, more than ever.

“elvis.” he says, his tone all business. “we need to talk. press is still stirring things up. we need to keep everything locked down for a bit longer.”

elvis sighs, glancing at you before turning to face him.

“what’re they sayin’ now?”

“more speculation. they don’t know who she is yet, but it’s getting harder to keep her out of the papers. we need to be careful.” his eyes flicker to you for a moment, and then back to elvis. “we don’t need any distractions right now.”

you feel a strange mix of guilt and frustration at being labeled a distraction, but elvis speaks before you can say anything.

“she’s not a distraction.” he says firmly, his voice calm but resolute. “i ain’t gonna hide her away forever, colonel.”

the colonel’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push back. he just gives a curt nod.

“i’ll give you two some time. but think about the bigger picture, son.” with that, he turns and walks back inside, leaving you and elvis alone again.

elvis leans back in his chair, shaking his head.

“man, he don’t know when to quit.”

you glance over at him, unsure of what to say.

“i don’t want to cause trouble for you, elvis. maybe it’s better if i leave, soon as the press moves on.”

he looks at you, his expression softening.

“you ain’t goin’ anywhere.” his voice is low, but there’s no hesitation in it. “not unless you want to. i don’t care what the colonel says or what the papers write. i want you here. with me.”

your heart flutters at his words, the sincerity in his voice settling deep within you. the colonel may be trying to keep you hidden, but in this moment, it’s clear that elvis doesn’t want you anywhere else.

and maybe—just maybe—you don’t want to be anywhere else either.

the night stretches on, the weight of the colonel’s words still hanging in the air. elvis watches you, a softness returns to his expression, cutting through the tension.

he stands up from his chair and walks over, sitting down next to you, close enough that your knees brush.

the warmth of him sends a shiver up your spine.

“i don’t want you hidin’ in the shadows.” he says, his voice softer now. “i’ve been thinkin’ about it. i can’t just keep you a secret, no matter what the colonel or anyone else says.”

you bite your lip, searching his face for some hint of hesitation.

“but… the press, elvis. they’re already stirring things up without even knowing who i am. if they find out—”

“i don’t care.” he cuts you off, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. his hand reaches out, fingers gently brushing you face. “i’ve never been one to follow the rules. not when it comes to somethin’ that matters.”

your heart races at the intensity in his eyes.

you’ve seen that look before—on stage, when he’s in full command of the crowd—but here, it’s just for you. you can feel the walls you’ve built around your heart start to crumble.

“elvis…” you start, but your voice falters, the words lost as he leans in closer.

“i don’t want to play pretend.” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. “not with you. you’re the one thing that feels real in all this madness.”

the space between you closes as his lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s waiting for permission. you respond without thinking, leaning into him, your lips meeting his in a soft, tender kiss that makes everything else disappear.

the world fades away, leaving only the feel of his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his body pressed lightly against yours.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"i’ve been wantin’ to do that for a while now." he whispers, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“i was hoping you would.” you chuckle softly, still trying to steady your breathing.

his thumb traces your jawline, his voice lower, more serious now.

“i’ve fallen for you, darlin’. i don’t know when it happened exactly, but i know it’s real. and i ain’t about to let anyone—fans, the press, or even the colonel—take you away from me."

the confession sends a flood of warmth through you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

“i feel the same, elvis. i’m falling for you too.”

the moment feels raw, vulnerable.

for the first time since that wild night at russwood park, everything is out in the open.

you can see the tension leave his shoulders, a kind of relief washing over him.

he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“then it’s settled. we’ll tell the world. i don’t care what they think. you’re mine, and i want everyone to know.”

you lean into him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“you sure about that? it’s going to be a lot.”

“i’m sure.” he replies, no hesitation in his voice. “we’ll face it together.”

*

the announcement is everywhere.

headlines scream about elvis’s new romance, and the world reacts exactly the way you expected it to.

some fans are thrilled for him, but many aren’t. and then there are the tabloids, picking apart every detail of your life. your face is plastered across magazines, the headlines growing more vicious as the days pass.

‘who is the woman stealing elvis’s heart?’ one headline reads. but it’s the ones that call attention to your race that sting the most. ‘elvis’s secret black lover exposed!’ ‘elvis defies segregation with new flame!’

the implications are clear, and they aren’t kind.

the first time you see the hateful comments, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach. but when you show elvis, his reaction is immediate and fierce.

he tosses the magazine across the room, his eyes dark with anger.

“let ‘em talk.” he growls, pacing the living room. “they don’t know a damn thing about us. they’re just tryin’ to stir up trouble.”

you nod, but the sting is still there.

"it’s just… hard, you know? seeing it like that. i don’t want to be the reason people come after you. we’ve only been together a few months.”

he stops pacing and comes over to you, his hands gripping your arms gently but firmly.

"listen to me. i don’t care what anyone says, alright? i love you, and if they can’t handle that, it’s their problem, not ours." his voice softens, his forehead resting against yours. “you’re everything to me. don’t ever think you’re causing trouble. i’d fight the whole damn world for you if I had to.”

his protectiveness only grows as the press continues to dig into your life, and though it should feel suffocating, you find comfort in it.

he’s always by your side now—his arm draped around your shoulders in public, his hand holding yours tightly as if to ward off the world’s cruelty.

one night, as the two of you sit together on the couch, elvis speaks quietly, almost as if to himself.

"sometimes i think about how things might’ve been easier if i’d just kept quiet… but then i look at you, and i know i couldn’t have done it. i couldn’t have kept us hidden. you’re worth all of this. you always will be."

you smile softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

“i don’t care what the world says, elvis. as long as i’ve got you, i’m fine.”

his arms tighten around you, and you feel the weight of his devotion in every touch, every look.

the tabloids may hate you, some of the fans might too, but here in this moment, in his arms, none of that matters. elvis’s love is fierce, unyielding, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

*

the fairytale could only last so long.

you grew weary of constantly monitoring your every move and enduring the harsh words people threw at you.

as elvis grew busier, you felt increasingly alone. the colonel kept sending him from one place to another, and elvis, so absorbed in his image, seemed to have forgotten about you.

now, you sit on the bed, gazing off into the distance, tears welling in your eyes.

the room is dimly lit, a single lamp casting a soft glow that does nothing to ease the tension hanging thick in the air.

elvis stands by the window, his silhouette framed by the heavy drapes, arms crossed over his chest. he’s wearing one of his sleek suits, the collar slightly open, but tonight the usual charm in his stance feels distant, almost cold.

"you really think that?" his voice is sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

"i don’t know what to think anymore, elvis. it feels like i’m just... part of the show. like i’m just another move to piss off the colonel."

he spins around, eyes narrowing.

“the colonel? this ain't got nothing to do with him, and you know it."

your heart pounds in your chest, frustration mixing with a sadness you can’t quite shake.

"doesn’t it? everything you do seems to revolve around him! i’m just here for the ride, right? someone to throw in his face when he gets too controlling, another way to rebel!"

elvis steps closer, his gaze intense, his jaw set tight.

"you think i’d do that to you? to us?"

you meet his stare, refusing to back down.

"sometimes i wonder if 'us' even exists. or if i’m just caught in the middle of your war with him."

he looks away for a moment, running a hand through his dark hair, visibly frustrated.

“quit talkin’ crazy. it ain't like that."

"then what is it like?" your voice cracks despite yourself. "because it feels like i’m just another way for you to prove something—to him, to yourself. but i’m not a game piece, elvis. i’m a person."

his eyes meet yours again, softer this time but still defensive.

"you ain't no game piece. you’re more than that, more than all of this. don’t you see? you’re the only thing that makes sense in this whole damn circus."

you take a shaky breath, trying to push through the confusion and hurt.

“then why does it feel like i’m the one always getting caught in the crossfire?"

elvis moves toward you, his hands reaching out, but you step back, needing the space. his face falters slightly, his usual confidence dimming.

"i’m tryin’, darlin’. i really am. but this life... it’s complicated."

you nod slowly, the ache in your chest growing heavier as tears begin to fall.

"yeah, i know. but i need to know that you’re with me because of me, not because of some twisted need to defy him. otherwise, what’s the point? why don’t i just leave?”

elvis's eyes darken at your words, and something in him snaps. his voice erupts in a furious yell.

"like hell you’ll leave!" he slams his hand down, sending his belongings crashing off the dresser. "how dare you! i’m with you because i love you, not to prove a point. do you have any idea how much you mean to me? i’m not lettin’ you walk away."

his sudden outburst leaves you trembling, feeling small as you cower on the edge of his bed. you’d never seen this side of him before; you hadn’t even had an argument until now.

elvis’s anger quickly fades as he sees the fear in your eyes.

his expression softens, and he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching out in a desperate plea.

“i’m sorry.” he says, his voice trembling with regret. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you. i’m just... so afraid of losin’ you. please, don’t be afraid of me. i love you, and i’m not tryin’ to hurt you. i’ll do anythin’ to make this right.”

you watch him, the raw honesty in his voice softening the edge of your sadness.

"i just want to believe that. to believe that what we have is real and not just another way to stick it to the colonel."

elvis takes a deep breath, his tear struck eyes searching yours.

"i get it. i really do. and i promise you, honey, it’s real. if you can give me a chance, i’ll show you."

you consider his words, the weight of the argument still heavy but slightly relieved.

"please, don’t make me regret it."

he nods, a look of genuine relief crossing his face as he thumbs away your tears.

“i won’t. i swear."

you lean in, your lips meeting his in a gentle kiss that quickly deepens into something more urgent. elvis responds with the same hunger, having craved your touch far longer than he’d ever admit.

in one swift motion, he pushes you onto the bed, his body hovering just above yours as your kiss turns wild, a mess of lips and teeth.

a soft moan escapes you when you feel his hips press against yours. instinctively, your hands find their way to his scalp, fingers tangling in his hair.

you pull away just enough to speak, lips still grazing his as you whisper.

“show me you mean it.”

elvis’s gaze softens with adoration, like you’ve hung the stars just for him.

clothes are discarded in a rush, the cool silk sheets brushing against your skin, amplifying every sensation.

you’re wrapped in each other—breathless gasps, whispered ‘i love you’s and the soft creak of the bed filling the room.

one deep thrust from elvis has your back arching off the bed, a sound of pleasure escaping your lips.

he smirks, unable to hide his satisfaction, seeing you unravel beneath him, because of him.

your moans spur him on, his breathing heavy as he nears his breaking point.

leaning close, he whispers into your ear.

“let go for me, baby.” he presses a tender kiss just below it.

your eyes flutter open, wanting to memorize the moment, unashamed and fully present.

“i love you.” you whimper, the pleasure building inside you, ready to burst.

his hips stutter as he loses control, the vulnerability in his expression—the furrowed brow, parted lips—sending you over the edge with him.

he kisses you softly once more before collapsing beside you, pulling you into his arms.

your head rests against his chest, a contented sigh escaping your lips.

“i love you, darlin’. don’t ever doubt that.”

you hum in response, the weight of sleep quickly pulling you under.

*

things were finally getting better, much to your relief. elvis was more attentive—bringing you along whenever possible, planning quiet nights for just the two of you, and always reassuring you with his love.

but as always, life had a way of reminding you it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

your hands tremble as you sit on the examination bed, the doctor speaking words that don’t quite register.

the ringing in your ears drowns everything out.

a hand suddenly grips your shoulder, and you flinch. the colonel stands beside you, his gaze cold and unforgiving.

“do you understand what the doctor’s telling you?” he asks, his voice sharp.

you nod, though your mind feels sluggish, still struggling to process.

all you wanted was for elvis to be here with you, but the memory of how today unfolded sends a wave of nausea through you.

sitting alone in the kitchen, the queasiness hitting hard, barely making it to the bathroom before breakfast came back up.

the colonel had found you there, immediately sneering and dragging you to the doctor to confirm his suspicions.

“elvis is not to hear a word of this.” the colonel instructs the doctor, slipping him money.

“w-what’s going to happen?” you stammer, finally finding your voice. both men turn to look at you, as if they’d forgotten your presence.

the colonel lets out a dry chuckle.

“you’ll return tomorrow for a small procedure, then we’ll take you home like nothing ever happened.”

your heart races, dread flooding your veins as you realize what he means.

“no, no. you can’t do that. elvis would never forgive you.”

“that’s why he won’t find out, right?” he raises an eyebrow, daring you to defy him.

“you’re despicable!” you shout, jumping off the bed, rushing toward the door.

the colonel grabs your arm, his grip tight and unyielding.

you can see it in his eyes—he’ll never respect you, never care about your relationship with elvis. since the moment you entered his life eight months ago, you’ve been nothing but an obstacle to the colonel’s ambitions.

“if you care about him, you’ll do what’s necessary.”

you scoff, yanking your arm from his grasp, bolting out to the car.

when you get home, relief washes over you at the sight of elvis in the music room, absentmindedly playing the piano.

“there you are, honey.” he calls out, a warm smile on his face. “i was wonderin’ where you went. i got a lot done today—wrote some songs i think you’ll love—“

his words stop abruptly as he hears your soft, broken sob.

his head snaps up, and he’s on his feet in an instant, rushing to catch you as you struggle to hold it together.

his heart pounds as he pulls you into his chest, cradling you gently, one hand stroking your head, the other wrapped around your waist.

elvis guides you to the couch, sitting you down carefully. his eyes search your face for any sign of what’s wrong, but he can’t piece it together.

“talk to me, baby.” he pleads softly.

“the colonel... i’m preg—he won’t let me keep it—i’m scared.” you manage to choke out between hiccupping sobs.

“whoa, whoa, slow down, honey. i can’t understand.” he says gently, thumbing away the tears that streak your cheeks.

you take a shaky breath, your lips trembling.

“i’m pregnant.” you finally whisper. you watch elvis’s face light up with excitement, but before he can react, you continue, “the colonel set up an appointment for tomorrow. he says it’s what’s best for your career. says a child will ruin your image.”

silence hangs in the air as you try to make sense of the expression on elvis’s face.

by now, you’ve seen every side of him, but this look is unfamiliar, unreadable.

before you can say anything more, the door swings open. the man you despise strolls in, wearing that same cocky grin.

you don’t have time to react as elvis lunges at him, rage burning in his eyes.

sonny and red burst into the room, grabbing elvis by the arms, barely managing to hold him back.

"you piece of shit! don’t you ever talk to her again, you hear me? don’t come near her!"

you’d seen elvis angry before, but this was different—this was a fury you hadn’t known he was capable of.

spit flies from his mouth as he hurls insults at the colonel, his face flushed red with rage, arms flailing wildly as he struggles to break free from sonny and red’s grip.

"calm down, son. i’m only looking out for your best interests."

elvis lets out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, utterly disgusted by the man standing before him.

"she," he gestures to you, "is my best interest. my only interest. i oughta shoot you in your fat, goddamn face."

"elvis aaron presley!" you scold, unable to let the situation escalate any further. you wouldn’t let him stoop to the colonel’s level.

elvis stops fighting against red and sonny’s hold, running a hand over his face in frustration, but they stay between him and the colonel, just in case.

he shoots one last venomous look at the man.

"you’re fired."

you can feel the weight of the colonel’s icy glare on you, but you turn away as elvis grabs your hand, leading you upstairs without another word.

"see him out.” he calls to his men, receiving a firm "yes, boss" in response.

when you reach the bedroom, a heavy silence fills the air.

elvis goes straight to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. he emerges a moment later, sighing deeply as he sits beside you on the bed.

"i’m sorry—"

"don’t you dare." he interrupts, his voice breaking in a way that startles you. you looked up to see him on the verge of tears, his usual composure cracking.

gently, you cup his chin, guiding his face toward yours, and that’s all it takes for him to break completely.

your heart aches at the sound of his sobs, and you pull him close, shushing him softly as you fight back your own tears.

"i feel like i failed you.” he cries, his voice shaking. "i trusted him, ignored all the shit he pulled, and it nearly cost me our child."

you wipe his tears away, pressing a tender kiss to his trembling lips.

"it’s not your fault, baby. he was supposed to look out for you, but he only cares about himself. you didn’t see it, but that doesn’t mean i blame you."

he nods, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing still uneven but slowing down.

"you’re never leaving my side again." he whispers, the rawness in his voice making it a promise.

you smile softly.

"i wouldn’t want it any other way."

*

years have passed since that heated night, and now, elvis’s career has soared to new heights, all without the shadow of the colonel.

the once tumultuous whirlwind of fame has settled into a thriving, creative journey.

filming movies and releasing hit songs, elvis’s name shines brighter than ever, and he’s made sure to include you and your little family every step of the way.

as you sit on a sunny afternoon, watching your six-year-old daughter play with the same carefree joy you’ve seen in elvis countless times, you can’t help but reflect on how far you’ve come.

elvis, now in his late twenties, is equally captivated by his role as a father and husband, balancing his incredible career with precious moments spent with you both.

you find yourself reminiscing about the fateful night that started it all.

it was a chance encounter, so ordinary at the time, but one that blossomed into this extraordinary life.

sitting together with elvis, you share a quiet smile. the memories of how you met, the ups and downs, and the journey that brought you here are now woven into the fabric of your life.

it’s a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most unexpected beginnings can lead to the most wonderful endings.

with elvis by your side, and your daughter’s laughter filling the air, you know that every step of the journey has been worth it.

___

taglist: @dhimpson @powerofelvis @ab4eva @crash-and-cure

i hope it’s okay that i’ve tagged you all, you’re just some of my favorite blogs that come to mind! if you’d like to be removed or if anyone would like to be added, please let me know <3

[redsummermoon]

Between the Smoke and Sunset

Charlie Dalton x reader CW: female reader, use of Y/N, smoking, kiss [1.2k words]

Charlie felt like he was trapped in his own skin, every nerve on edge. Irritation had been bubbling beneath the surface all day, and the dark circles under his eyes made it obvious he hadn’t slept well in days. Anyone who looked at him could see he was running on fumes, and Y/N was no exception. She had watched all day as he wrestled with whatever was eating at him, knowing she could ease the tension.

“Hey, Char,” she called, sliding into the chair next to where he was sitting, his shoulders hunched in defeat. “I was gonna go have a smoke if you wanted.”

Charlie looked ready to snap at whoever had interrupted his peace, but then his eyes landed on Y/N. His girl. Just the thing he needed to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Babe, yes, please,” he responded, his voice softening.

Y/N smiled and got up, reaching out her hand to him. Charlie took it gratefully, and she began to lead them toward the exit. But before they reached the door, she suddenly stopped in front of a large window.

“What’re you doing?” Charlie asked, confused by the detour.

“This window has a great view, don’t you think?” Y/N replied, her eyes fixated on the warm light pouring through.

Charlie paused, following her gaze. The golden hour had painted the world outside in hues of fiery orange and soft pink. The trees looked like they were aflame, their leaves glowing in the fading sunlight. The window faced west, perfectly framing the sky as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The sunset was going to be breathtaking.

Y/N, still holding his hand, moved closer to the window, pulling Charlie along. He was puzzled at first but didn’t question her. He trusted her with all he was.

As they neared the window, Charlie noticed there was a small, flat space just outside of it. It was secluded, the perfect spot for two people to sit and watch the world pass by without anyone noticing them.

Y/N glanced up at Charlie, and he immediately understood what she was thinking. He stepped forward and began fiddling with the window, trying to get it open. It was stuck.

“Keep an eye out,” Charlie grunted, putting his strength into it. “This might take a second.”

Y/N stood watch, her heart racing with the excitement of sneaking onto the roof of Welton. Finally, with a soft creak, Charlie managed to pry the window open wide enough for them to slip through.

“After you, m’lady,” Charlie said with a grin, offering his hand to help her climb out.

“Thank you, sir,” Y/N chuckled and took his hand, carefully stepping out onto the ledge. Charlie followed right behind her, squeezing himself through the small opening. The small space outside the window felt like a secret world. One that could be just theirs. The fading sunlight bathed them in a golden hue as they sat close together, their shoulders brushing. 

Charlie pulled out his pack of cigarettes and took one into his mouth, then offered the pack to Y/N. He pulled out a lighter and they both leaned in to catch the same flame, the flick of his lighter casting a brief glow on their faces. Charlie takes a slow drag before exhaling into the cooling air. Y/N took her time, savoring the familiar burn in her lungs, the calming ritual of it all.

For a moment, they were silent, just enjoying the quiet intimacy between them. The sun dipped lower on the horizon. The gentle hum of the world outside felt distant, almost irrelevant. This moment was theirs.

“I’m so tired of this place,” Y/N finally said, breaking the silence. She exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl and twist in the air. “School, the pressure, everyone’s expectations. It’s all so exhausting.”

Charlie took another drag, his eyes narrowing as he blew the smoke out slowly. “Yeah. It’s like every day’s just a battle to stay sane. It’s been wearing me down.”

He looked over at her, studying her face in the fading light. She seemed smaller somehow, more vulnerable. 

“You ever think about just… walking away from all of it?” he asked, his voice low, as if the thought itself was forbidden.

Y/N’s lips curled into a small smile as she took another drag from her cigarette. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But then I think… what’s out there for me? What’s next? It’s terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “The unknown. But maybe that’s what makes it worth it, right? The idea that something better could be waiting.”

Y/N leaned her head back against Charlie’s shoulder, letting her eyes drift closed as she exhaled. “Maybe. But it’s hard to think about that when all I can see is what’s right in front of me. The exams, the pressure to succeed… it’s all-consuming.”

Charlie’s hand found hers, his fingers wrapping around hers with a reassuring squeeze. “I know. But you’ve got me, and I’ve got you. We’ll get through it together.”

She turned her head, opening her eyes to meet his. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her heart skip a beat.

“You keep me sane, Char,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Charlie smiled, that crooked grin she loved so much. “Right back at you, angel.”

She leaned into him, their faces just inches apart now. The smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between them, adding a hazy, almost dreamlike quality to the moment. Y/N’s eyes flickered down to his lips, and she bit her own for just a second before letting out a soft sigh.

“You know,” she said, her voice teasing as she brought her cigarette to her lips again, “if this is our little escape, we should make the most of it.”

Charlie chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, I’m all for making the most of it.”

Y/N’s gaze met him again, and this time, she didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, closing the distance between them, her lips brushing against his. The kiss was slow, deliberate, like they had all the time in the world. Charlie’s hand came up to cradle her cheek, deepening the kiss as he pulled her impossibly closer.

The world outside seemed to disappear entirely. All that mattered was the warmth of Charlie’s lips against hers, the taste of tobacco lingering between them, and the way their hearts seemed to beat in sync.

When they finally pulled away, both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to steady themselves. Y/N took one last drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the ledge, her fingers brushing lightly against Charlie’s hand.

“Maybe the unknown isn’t so scary,” she murmured, her voice laced with a newfound sense of hope. “Not if I’ve got you.”

Charlie smiled, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “We’ll take on whatever comes next. Together.”

They sat there in silence for a while longer, finishing their cigarettes and watching the last light of the day fade into twilight. There was no rush to leave, no urgency to return to the real world. Here, in their secret spot, they could just be.

And that was enough.

[lixenn]

OCtober 2024 day 27: fear

For today I decided to write a little snippet featuring René and his anxiety since fear is pretty much part of his life 24/7.

TW: minor self harm and anxiety? attack (René is not having a great time 😔)

The trembling wouldn’t stop.

Five minutes and 45 seconds.

The breathing exercises didn’t help, distractions just made him miserable and there weren’t anymore nails left to bite at.

René might have a problem.

A small one. Barely a blib on other people’s radar. Not significant in any way but a problem nonetheless but that was nothing new.

6 minutes.

His hands were still shaking, he should probably. Just … stop, but he reached the point where tremors were on the last place of his priority list.

The experiment failed again. Seven times. All of them gone to shit. He’d followed the protocol to the letter, replicated the entire process from the exact materials to the environmental conditions but still. No dice. Which made no logical sense because René knew it should have worked. He’d seen it with his own eyes, analysed the data and the results spoke for themselves, but one success meant nothing in science. Without statistics there’s no proof, no proof meant no conclusive result and no result was failure.

René was sick of failing.

Sick of experiments, sick of lab, sick of numbers that made no sense.

Sick. Sick. Sicksicksicksicksick.

The trembling stopped but only because he was gripping his hair too hard for there to be any room for further movement. The stinging pain was a slight relief against his spiralling thoughts, so he tugged, harsh. Once. Twice. His scalp burned and some hairs gave away to his grip. René let go, staring at the strawberry red strands woven between his fingers. His vision was obstructed by tears, partly from the pain but mostly result of frustration and being overwhelmed.

The urge to rip, scratch, bite bubbled up again, but René caught himself before he dove of the deep end.

I-

I need.

I need Cilmi.

Cilmi would fix it. Cilmi always fixed it. When anxiety crept up on him in the dark, when fear dragged him down and chained him to despair.

Cilmi will fix it.

Climbing to his feet was hard. Taking a step forward was harder and actually entering the hallway was nearly impossible but René managed. Somehow. He always managed. He needed to. Because his mind never left him alone, anxiety a constant companion ever since he’d been small and with time he learned to cope with his treacherous brain. But there were bad days and worse days and days where he could barely get out of bad without hyperventilating.

Today was bad but not …. the worst.

Because Cilmi was still there. As long as his best friend was still in reach, René could handle the trap falls of life.

The door to the library – oaken, heavy and still splattered with drops of blood – was a welcome sight to René’s tired eyes.

Nearly there.

The smell of books, a mixture of paper, ink and a smattering of dust, brought tears into his eyes again. It smelt like home. Safe.

René homed in on Cilmi, who had looked up from his book as soon as the silence of his sanctum had been disturbed by the squeaking of the door. His dark eyes catalogued everything, the wet cheeks, messy hair, trembling lip and blood crusted nails. No judgement, no disgust, no pity. Cilmi just registered everything that René’s appearance had to offer, came to a conclusion and carefully closed his book.

In a matter of seconds his friend stood before him, taking over his entire vision. A heavy hand dropped onto his hand, the weight familiar and unmistakable, the careful ruffle a stark contrast to his earlier pain.

Cilmi was always careful with him. Careful and kind.

And with the very same kindness he enveloped René in his Flames and ordered:

“Sleep.”

Reality fell away, making space for the bliss of unconsciousness and René let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.

Thanks.

[cgogs]

dear atlas, c!dnf | 4.7k | angst with a happy ending

@dreblrsecretsanta for @purpleglitch !! Sorry for the early upload, it's just that I'm about to be BEYOND busy for the holidays and figured I'd upload this now while I have time. I hope you enjoy it so much!! Happy holidays to you <3

Each step up the castle tower sends a razor-sharp, bone-deep bolt through Dream’s legs. It’s his boot’s fault, mostly. He’s been meaning to replace them, it’s just that every hour more important things are added to his to-do list. Mediate this conflict, protect George, meet with someone here, monitor status on this, go here, deliver that, and try not to die until the day’s itinerary is complete.

Shopping just isn’t a high priority, but he’s beginning to reconsider that sentiment. He really should just give in and invest in another horse, but it would probably just be killed within a month and they’re just far too expensive for that. 

His armor clinks quietly as he moves, uneven and exhausted. A small part of him alerts like a guard dog– straighten up, nobody can know you’re vulnerable, anyone could hear how hurt you are– but another painful step quiets the barking. He traps the groan behind his teeth.

Dream stops for a moment to lean against the wall, hand braced on where the candelabra fixture hooks into the stone. This spiral staircase is dearly kicking his ass, more so than usual. Without the climb to focus on or the pain to blur his vision, he has the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

The castle is quiet, quieter than usual, candles burning low and dripping on the floor. Moonlight cuts through the windows at an angle sharper than it should. 

Dream pulls his communicator from his belt to check the time, a curse slipping out under his breath as the numbers meet his eyes. It’s nearly three in the morning. He’s coming home late. Very late. They talked about this, Dream promised he’d try to get home earlier. 

Guilt settles thick in his gut, despite barely having the brainpower to feel much of anything at all other than exhaustion. He blows the stray hairs out of his eyes, chuffing like an annoyed horse.

Four nights ago, George had been waiting behind the door at the top of the tower. Dream knew he was in trouble before George even opened his mouth. He was holding a clock and asked Dream to guess how late it was. When he guessed wrong, George shoved it in his face, too close to even see the hands, and angrily proclaimed it was nearly one in the morning, and that Dream had been coming home at one in the morning every night the last week after spending all day ‘doing god knows what, who knows where.’

Dream had done his best to be earnest and honest, as much as he could be. If George had it his way and was privy to every little thing Dream did, he’d be stoned in the street or tied to a pyre. Dream’s not sure what events would bridge the gap between these two truths, but he knows it would happen.

He had told George he would try, but that he had so much to do this week. George was anxiously picking at his cuticles the way he did when he was thinking hard, and asked him to promise he wouldn’t come home later than this. Dream thought he’d be able to. And, yes, he’s sorry he broke his promise but… it’s all so important. So important.

He hadn’t meant to let time get away from him. He just had so much to do, and so many stupid things got in the way, Tubbo and Fundy, then Q… and he got in a scrape on his way back and it was all just so fucking stupid.

Guilt grows like a vine up his throat.

He’s sorry. He thinks about what he’s going to say, how he’ll explain himself. He can’t grip on a coherent sentence or script, eyelids heavy like mud, mind fuzzy, feet aching.

Maybe it’ll be fine. George will be asleep, and they can talk about it in the morning. He’ll open the door and see dark hair splayed over feather pillows, still as death. Dream will strip his armor and curl into his body and fit whatever position George fell asleep in, and he’s so excited for it. Though currently, he’s not sure which lover he’s looking forward to seeing more– the bed or the boy.

The last seven days have felt like seven years.

Wax drips onto his fingers. Wincing, he takes another painful step forward. Suddenly things like guilt and excitement were as far away and abstract as distant planets or stars. 

Dream nearly falls through the door when he reaches the summit. He catches his breath, straightens his posture, and prepares to get ready for bed without waking his king. 

He opens the door as quietly as possible. Thankfully, it squeals only a little bit. He tiptoes in, craning his head to look at the boy already fast asleep. He’s curled all the way to the edge of his side of the bed, back facing the door. Dream wonders if it means something. 

He unhooks his cloak first, folding it gently on the table in the middle of the room. It’s a large room that can fit a round dinner table, as well as bookcases and couches and a fireplace. The kinds of things George doesn’t appreciate as much as Dream thought he would.

The boots are next to go, then his sword and his axe, then armor one by one until he’s stripped to his pants and shirt. After a moment’s thought, he shucks off his pants. Shirt and boxers. He looks at the bed and practically salivates, not even thinking to bother with changing his bandages. He sets his comm on the bedside table and attempts to lift a leg to climb in.

Dream’s legs wobble and give out as soon as he leans his weight on the bed. He collapses onto his side, a symphony of pained noises trapped behind the cage of his teeth. He looks up, wide-eyed, to see if he’s woken his Sleeping Beauty. George remains still as a corpse. 

He rather pathetically pulls himself up to spoon him, arm laying limply over George’s side. A sigh of utter relief slides out of his lungs as his chest decompresses. It’s relief like an ice bath in the desert or hot soup in the snow.

The bed is soft on his aching body, George’s sweatpants soft on his bare, bruised legs. Dream drags his calves to tangle with his, allowing himself a relieved whimper into the crook of George’s neck. He sometimes teases George for dressing like he’s living in constant winter, but really he wouldn’t change it for the world. It means soft hugs when he drags his miserable body into bed at the end of the day. If he didn’t wear his sweaters, George wouldn’t be able to cradle his head in his sleeves when he’s bleeding, and Dream wouldn’t be able to bite down on the thick fabric when he had to scream. 

He feels the tension in his body slowly unwind. Every breath has him sinking further and further into the mattress, a taut string slowly, slooowly let to rest. He pulls George closer, hooking his arm tighter around his waist. If he wasn’t used to it it might feel a little like cuddling a corpse. 

That dog in the back of his mind starts growling again. Telling him to check, check, check. 

Dream obliges since it’s a simple request, and he knows he’ll never be able to sleep otherwise. He slides his fingers down George’s arm to find his wrist, pressing on his pulse point. It takes a few adjustments, but he finds that steady beating pressing against the pads of his fingers. Alive. Safe. The last requirement needed to sleep is fulfilled. Dream sighs, nuzzling his head against George’s neck, hand still loosely wrapped around the bone of George’s wrist. 

The midnight air is clear and cool. Dream is warm and holding the love of his life. Nothing outside that horrible wooden door matters here. Nothing else matters. No blood, no bone, no war. Just George.

That is, until he hears the unmistakable sound of his communicator buzzing against the table behind him. Dream ignores it at first, but it comes again and again. His eyebrows knit in frustration. He buries his nose further into the dark space between George’s neck and the pillow, like he could outrun the nagging in the back of his mind. 

It vibrates again, breaking Dream’s resolve. He groans miserably, more than half asleep, as he untangles himself to reach back for the comm. His vision is blurry with sleep, making it near impossible to read the screen until he’s blinked a dozen times. The light of the screen shines too bright for how dark it is. He uses a hand to shield George’s direction so it won’t wake him.

It’s Punz. Punz, in code, telling him he’s finished the reconnaissance he’d been told to do two days ago. Updates on the pet experiments, no luck yet. Their theory about the revive book being exclusive to human souls is seeming more and more solid, but that’s not something he wants to be thinking about at the moment. 

<Dream> thkx

<Dream> domt text me this lat e

He fumbles the buttons, accidentally sending Punz a string of gibberish before giving up entirely on typing a coherent goodbye. He’s about to throw the device down and shove his nose back into the crook of George’s neck when the body next to him begins to tremble.

Dream stares for a moment, wondering if he’s hallucinating from lack of sleep. Then there’s a hiccup, followed by two sharp breaths, both so quiet Dream would have missed them if he wasn’t holding his breath. 

“George?” Dream whispers, voice wrecked from all the yelling he’d done today. He drops the comm on the bed so he can lay his full hand on George’s shoulder. He could be having a nightmare, but he’s not sure. All he knows is that he wants to fix it. “George?”

George gives up on keeping it in and starts crying honestly. Whiny but guttural, more hurt than angry– but it’s with his teeth, not throat. Dream sits up in bed, the exhaustion that had been possessing him instantly chased away. 

“B–by?” Dream whispers, word cracked in two from his shredded voice. “What’s wrong?”

He feels like an idiot trying to catch something that’s about to fall, chasing it around with his arms outstretched. He wants to fix this, but doesn’t know how. George is mad, he can tell, but he’s hugging himself, and that isn’t something George does when he’s mad. It’s something he does when he’s scared. 

“You’re safe.” Dream rubs his arm, pushes those beautiful brown curls out of his face, watches the tears fall over the bridge of his nose. “I’m right here.”

“Why’d’you– why’d you lie to me?” George says, strangled. He seems to decide crying is stupid and embarrassing, because he furiously wipes at his eyes. “Why are you always lying to me?”

Dream bites his lip anxiously. The same guilt from the hallway lacquers his insides again. 

“I didn’t– I’m– I didn’t lie. I lost track of time. I’m sorr–”

“You’re lying to me.” George sits up, eyes red and stubborn. He’s pulling his thoughts together to form an argument, Dream can see the gears turning. “You’re hiding things.” 

“I’m, that– okay, just. What am I lying about?”

“Where you go all day!” George has grabbed a pillow to hug, rocking himself back and forth. Dream thinks, briefly, that he looks cute. He wants to hold him, but the way they’re sitting is classic parley formation, facing each other with crossed legs, knees touching. Neither of them can cross the middle line until the argument is over. That’s just how they do things. “I don’t– I don’t know exactly what, but…”

“I’m not lying to you about where I go. I have a lot of projects, and I’m helping–”

“I know. I know. Helping, helping, helping. Fingers in a lot of pies.” George puts up an honorable fight against the wetness in his voice, still furiously wiping his tears. The skin under his eyes has turned an irritated pink. “But why? Why do you have to do so much? You’re my knight. I’m your king. You should be with me.”

George has a way of shooting arrows straight through him. Dream rubs his eyes as the words dig into his gut. His voice sounds defeated already. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Dream. Like, I– I just don’t understand…”

“Yeah, you don’t.” His voice breaks and turns quiet halfway through, like he could’ve softened the blow.  He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s just tired of this same argument, over and over. It’ll be over soon. So soon. He wishes George would just believe him.

George’s expression screws into desperation, fingers digging into his pillow. “Then tell me! Just, tell me, Dream. I’m not– stupid, I can understand things. I’m not stupid.”

It’s not that Dream is angry. It’s just that he’s tired beyond tired and this is the only time of the day he doesn’t have to wear his armor. The one room where nothing else matters but the people who occupy it. He burrows his head in his hands. 

“Why don’t you trust me, Dream? Did I do something wrong?”

“Why don’t you trust me? Why don’t you just–” 

“Because I can’t even trust you to keep a super simple promise! I’m– you can’t expect me to just, like, be fine with never getting to see you.”

“Well maybe if you tried to be king even a little bit, I wouldn’t have to go do all your shit for you.”

George damn near barks, sharp and angry. Dream watches his mouth form the beginning of a thousand different sentences, hands clenching into fists before his expression breaks entirely. His angry grimace turns into a quivering frown, eyes wet with fear, voice pitched and tight.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Dream feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of ice. His back straightens as he shoots up. Instantly, he regrets antagonizing him. He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s lined with dog teeth.

“No! What? Absolutely not.” He wants to break the rules to touch him. So he does. His side stings as he leans to brush his fingers against George’s knuckles. “Never.”

Whatever angry force of nature George had been channeling before is dying now, Dream can see it fading in his eyes. Fading into some kind of relief. Maybe it was the reassurance, or the touch, but something is pacified.

“Did someone tell you that? Or make a joke?” He knows people don’t have many kind things to say about him these days. George picks at his cuticles, rocking slightly. Dream rocks with him a bit, too.

“No. I guess. Not really…” He sniffles. There’s a stiff silence. Dream searches his eyes, trying to read his mind. “I’m sorry. I’m just crazy.”

“What happened?”

“I just really wanted you to come home tonight. I stayed up.” George shrugs hopelessly, looking anywhere that isn’t Dream. “You have to understand from my perspective. I never see you, and then when I do see you you get into bed and start texting someone else. This isn’t the only time it’s happened.”

“It was just Punz,”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. Not, not my point.” George stresses, “you swore you’d be my knight but you don’t even. Knight. And I guess it’s whatever because I don’t really king either. But I… miss you. I miss you.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say. He opens and closes his mouth like an idiot fish, trying to find a way to comfort him but not make a promise he can’t keep. George waits for it. It never comes. They both feel it when the other gives up on a solution. Defeat on both sides. 

They look at the sheets silently. Their knees rub together. Moonlight makes the room glow, lines the edges of George’s hair in silver.

His voice is small when he speaks next. “Where were you tonight?”

Dream was going to lie so he wouldn’t worry him, but. “I had some trouble with monsters. I got pinned down in the forest. I’m sorry.”

George scoffs. Somehow, Dream knows the frustration isn’t directed at him. “Oh my god. That’s not even your fault.”

“I don’t know. I could have texted you or something. I’m sorry I kept you up.”

George wipes his nose with the edge of his pillow. Dream would think it was gross if it was anyone else. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’m not around. I want to be. This, it’ll all be over soon. Things will settle down.”

“Does it have to be you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

George nods weakly. He knows he won’t get a better answer. Dream doesn’t have a better one to give him. He’s too tired. 

“And you’re not cheating on me?”

“You are the prettiest thing in the whole world. I’d be an idiot.” He doesn’t know if flattery will get him far, but he can see the corners of George’s mouth flicker, and that’s enough. “You’re the only one that would put up with me anyway.”

“Why is your voice so messed up?” George lays his pillow back down on the bed. His legs unfold and he moves to lay back down. Dream wants to scoot closer, but thinks twice. There’s a moonbeam shining there. He doesn’t want George to see his legs. 

“Screamed a lot.”

“Why?”

“Scaring people to cut their shit out.”

“Mmh.”

This is George’s script for end-of-day. It doesn’t have a lot of heart this time. Dream is realizing it never truly did. He feels bad. George lays his hand in the empty space, beckoning him to come forward or lay down. Dream doesn’t move. He sucks in a breath.

“Are you okay? Did… Dream, are you hurt?”

He’s an idiot for thinking he could keep it from George, of all people. But he didn’t want to worry him.

“Uh. Well, yeah. But it’s okay. I promise. I already treated it.” Dream knows this won’t work. He tries to lay down, legs twitching through the pain. George clocks it immediately, propping himself up on his forearms.

“Show me.” 

It’s not a request. So, Dream does. He pulls his legs into the light in all their bruised glory. His foot, the one that was giving him the most trouble, is a far deeper shade of purple than he anticipated. 

George runs his fingers over each bruise, marble white and cold as stone. His expression is stone. He must spot a hint of bandage from under Dream’s shirt, because his eyes flit from his bruises to his side, and Dream knows the jig is up.

“I promise it’s okay. I promise, George.” Not that his promises mean anything. 

George must think so too. He ignores him in favor of gently pulling up his shirt, spying the blood soaked bandages wrapped around his middle. Dream hisses when the fabric of his shirt catches on the gauze. George frowns.

“Why would you let me just yell at you for being late? You should have told me.” 

“To be fair. I was late.”

“To be fair. You were wounded. You literally got jumped.” 

George gives it an apologetic look, tracing the blood stains with the tips of his fingers. Guilt doesn’t look good on him, but Dream doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“Change those first thing when you wake up.” George sets his shirt back in place. He gently tugs on Dream’s neck to lay down. Nothing sounds better. “And don’t jump around and stuff.”

“I know.”

They curl up together, noses nearly pressing. It’s faint in the dark, but Dream can see the pitiable expression on his face. Thin, cold fingers come to rest on Dream’s jaw. Dream holds his hip in return. Equal and fair, reciprocated and even. George searches his eyes for an anchor, something to respond to. He just looks sadder and sadder as the minutes press on.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I just miss you.”

It’s hard for Dream to whisper back. “I miss y–u too.”

“Do you really?”

“This is my favorite part of the day. Getting to hold you. ‘N be held by you.”

The fingers on his jaw twitch. George’s thumbs cradle his face. Dream watches his face carefully. Though he knows every curve and edge and nasty imperfection of George’s being, it only hits him in moments like this just how much he has to protect. The whole world fits in the curve of his arms. The whole world has a kiss like a nine-volt battery and fury like a god. The whole world waits for him to come home every day, hoping he’s in one piece. Dream wonders if the world knows he’s trying to save it. 

“I love you.” George whispers, barely tethered to the waking world. Maybe he realized he hadn’t said it when they were fighting, or after they decided to stop fighting. Maybe it's the last thing he thinks before going to sleep, and the first thing he thinks in the morning. Maybe it was coating the back of his throat like Dream’s guilt coats his, and he just had to tell him.

“I’m sorry.” Dream kisses him. “I love you.”

George falls asleep with tear tracks that have just barely dried. Dream wipes them away with his thumbs, admiring how peaceful he looks. 

Dream sleeps like the dead, but wakes with the dawn no matter what. He lingers in the warmth for a while before the sun’s light is too much to bear. Properly waking up to pain first thing in the morning is beginning to be a more and more common occurrence. His legs pulse with every beat of his heart, and his side isn’t much better. There’s a few droplets of blood on the sheets, which is what finally gets him to untangle himself from the mess of limbs that snaked around him in the night. 

George stirs lightly, but it’s unlikely he’ll truly wake before eight. Dream gently tugs at the arms around his neck, and they retract with a sleepy, confused mumble.

“I have to change these bandages.” Dream whispers against his temple. 

George makes an agreeable noise before moving to hug his pillow instead. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Dream spends the morning planning his mental itinerary. But also, redressing his wounds, and trying to figure out what to do with his legs. Salve, maybe. A healing potion, but he’s running low and wants to save them for an emergency. Besides, he took a few sips when it happened. It should be fine.

He’s supposed to get up now and meet with Punz. And then work on the book, and then go here and do this, and patrol that. But his legs just won’t move. 

He thinks, maybe for one day, he can spend it doing nothing. Besides, he actually is wounded. He does need to recoup. It’s not an excuse, yeah?

He wants to make it up to George. He’s not much of a romantic, and really he sucks shit at being a boyfriend, but he knows one thing that always makes George smile. The big toothy kind that makes his cheeks pink. He wants to see it before he has to get back to work.

Dream leaves a note on his side of the bed telling him that when he wakes up he should go to the hill outside. The one with the big tree.

Dream hobbles himself to the florist. He hopes that with his mask and baggy clothes, Niki won’t notice his limping. A dozen red roses. By the time he’s gotten there and halfway back, he’s convinced himself he’s walked off his bruising. 

Under the oak tree on the hill overlooking the castle, Dream spies a red cape blowing in the wind, and the glint of gold. The person faraway raises a hand over their eyes to peer, then uses his entire arm to wave at him hugely. It makes Dream laugh. 

They hurry to meet each other. George just seems excited to see him, like he always seems to be, except late at night when he’s already too angry. George doesn’t leave the shade, but he holds out his hands for Dream to take so he can pull him up the hill. Dream gives him one arm, the other holding the bouquet behind his back. 

“Wow. You’re actually in the sun. I never see that.”

“I got you something. I’m, uh, making it up to you.”

George pauses, wide eyed, trying to lean to see what’s behind his back. 

“It’s not a puppy, right?”

“What? No. What? Why would I get you a puppy?” Dream keeps turning to keep him from seeing. He can feel his own smile cracking his face. 

“I don’t know, I got scared! Now gimme.” George tries to blindly reach behind him. Dream grabs his wrist and pulls him close, wrapping an arm around his waist. George smiles at him smugly.

“Not even a thank you or anything?”

“I don’t know what it is yet, idiot. You haven’t given it to me.” George’s busy hands settle for pushing his mask up, instead. The breeze feels cool on the light layer of sweat that’s formed on his forehead. George smiles warmly at his face. It’s a smile Dream doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. But not the exact one he’s aiming for.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Ohh, you want me to give it to you? Here? Outside??”

“Oh, shut up! Show me. I demand it. As your king.” He tilts his head regally, crown glinting in the light that’s casted through the leaves. Dream almost forgets they ever had a fight at all.

Dream pulls the flowers from behind his back and presses them to George’s chest. He tries to give him a smile with it, but knows it probably looks a bit forced. George doesn’t seem to notice at all, face erupting into a smile nearly immediately. The smile. Dream can’t help but stare.

Dream thinks this must be what sunbathing is meant to feel like.

“Dream! I love it. I looove it.” George hugs them close, still beaming. Dream thinks he understands religion. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Huh? Oh. I’m sucking up.”

George laughs. Takes a brief break, then laughs again. “You’re so stupid.”

“I wanted to cheer you up.” Dream rubs his thumb on his side idly, soaking in the feeling. 

“You derailed your whole day just to get me flowers?”

“Uhhh, well. I canceled my whole day to recover from my grievous wounds. My life threatening injuries. Oh no. “ Dream spins them a bit dramatically, just to make George laugh. There’s a few rose petals on the ground.

“Oh, you need someone to kiss it bett– wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. Hey, what was that you were offering just now?”

“You’re not doing anything today?”

Dream shakes his head. George’s face lights up. 

“Stay!” He blurts, “You should stay. Stay here. With me. I’ll kiss the stupid boo-boos better.”

“I don’t have anywhere better to be.” Dream shrugs, casual, aloof. “And I like kisses. Sure.”

Unexpectedly, lips crash into his. All of George’s weight crashes into him, really. Arms snake around his neck, and he tries to support them both before he realizes George is trying to make them fall. He goes limp, letting George tackle him into the grass. George is still kissing him. He pulls Dream’s neck to the side, which Dream allows because he hadn’t realized they were on the edge of the hill.

He yells into George’s mouth as they go tumbling, wrapping his arms around George’s head to make sure he doesn’t hit it. Someone is laughing, maybe both of them, as they spin and spin and spin and leave a trail of petals behind. 

The world finally comes to a stop with George cradled on top of him, gloved hand still covering the back of his head. 

George sits up, looming over Dream’s face, laughing like the whole world is laughing with him. Dream might have gotten the wind knocked out of him. The sun is eclipsed by George’s hair, a halo hanging behind him. His actual crown has probably rolled further away, but neither of them can care about such stupid things when there’s so much in front of them. 

Dream breaks the mirage to sit up and kiss him. Then kiss him again. There’s a buzzing in his back pocket, but it’s tomorrow’s problem. 

Today, the world loves red roses and fits in the curve of his arms.

[neyswxrld]

familiar faces

Reece x gn!reader

summary: After some months of uncertainty, you finally reunite with your loved one.

words: ~1780

warnings: reader is in a depressive state of mind, feelings of loneliness and hopelessness, injuries, kissing

a/n: hello! this is a somewhat special fic and a little thanks for @trixie2023! i really appreciate your lovely and kind reblogs, and now i finally had an idea how to bring reece into a fic with some @summer-of-bad-batch prompts: "it's just a scratch" & injured.

i hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Just a few months ago, everything was fine. You were saying goodbye to the love of your life, Reece, wishing him good luck for the mission you agreed to stay behind and sit out from. 

The two of you were helping Rex and his men out, supporting his clone rebellion as a thanks to how he helped Reece to escape the hands of the Empire.

The mission was supposed to be a rather easy one. A fellow clone called for help, and Reece and some of his other brothers had the task to pick him up.

You didn't exactly know what or how it happened, you just knew that Reece didn't come back.

None of them did.

The loss of him, the uncertainty if he was dead or in the Empire's hands again, maybe even on this mysterious Mount Tantiss place Rex and his brothers were looking for since so long, made you sick.

You felt awful, like your heart was ripped out. Empty. Sad. Upset. Angry.

You felt like someone pushed you into a deep, dark hole, and you weren't able to climb up again.

The light had left your life.

To say you were useless and not a big help for Rex was an understatement.

Deep inside, you knew that he just meant well when he sent you with Echo to that weird island his brothers lived on after the Teth incident. But you couldn't feel any different than like he was pushing you away.

You felt like he didn't want your help, like you were too much, and you were in his way.

It took you some time to grow somewhat accustomed to the tropical weather and the many polite people on the island.

And even though you still were empty inside, you slowly started to feel better.

You were friendly with most of the people, tried to help them.

You lived in your own small house almost on the top of the island.

Life started to become a little easier again.

At least until the Empire reached the island, looking for the girl who was with the Bad Batch, taking her with them.

It felt like your world was tumbling down again.

You pulled back after that. All those feelings you swallowed down came back rushing in.

You missed him.

You missed Reece so much.

His kind eyes, his warm laugh. The way he held you, made you smile. His stupid jokes that always made you laugh, the way time felt like nothing and all when he was with you.

You missed him so, so much.

The Batch went after the girl almost immediately. And even though you didn't have to do too much with them, you felt alone again.

Suddenly, there weren't any clones here anymore. No familiar faces. No one that could remind you of the love of your life and that made everything even worse.

From that point on, you were spiraling downwards.

You felt like no one could help you, except Reece. And at the same time, he just wasn't there.

Until that one day, when a small shuttle landed on top of the island.

You were trying to do your weekly shopping tour for food and things you'll need to survive, when the shuttle touched the ground.

A lot of people were wary at first. No one has been notified of visitors.

But then the door opened, and three (or four, if you counted the baby too) small figures stepped out of it, followed by a tall woman that looked just as unsure as the villagers.

Her name was Emerie, and she was one of the head scientists in Mount Tantiss. The Batch just started an attack, trying to free Omega. Freeing other clone prisoners while they were on it.

For the first time in a while, you felt a spark of hope in your chest. Normally, you would put it out and ignore it immediately, But this one time, you couldn't. Fully aware, that if Reece won't step out of the shuttle with the rescued prisoners, it would shatter you.

It took almost a whole other day, until you could hear a new shuttle approaching.

After the news, Emerie and the kids had, you put your bought stuff in your home, jittery and sloppy, not even putting everything away how it should be.

Since then, you lingered on top of the island, wringing your hands and waiting for the shuttle. The one shuttle that could bring him back to you.

Your nerves are on edge when you catch sight of the shuttle.

It touches down almost too slow.

The doors open.

You take a look at every single person stepping out of the shuttle.

You recognize the Batch, relieved at the way Omega stays close to them.

Echo is climbing down, nodding at you once. He looks relieved, but at the same time he is tense.

All around you are familiar faces, but at the same time you seem to recognize no one.

Your heart begins to crack.

When the last person steps out, you swallow dryly, almost embarrassed about how you could allow yourself to hope so much for such a little chance.

Shaking your head, you turn away, ready to drown yourself in your tears, when you hear a broken, painful gasp behind you.

Someone is calling your name.

No, not just someone. 

You turn back in an instant.

There are two other clones left, now stumbling out of the shuttle slowly.

One leans heavily onto the other, holding on for dear life.

His face is pale, his hair grown out and messy. He clutches his side with one of his hands, a bloody, ripped shirt below.

"Reece?" you ask quietly, unbelieving.

"Yes," he says. His smile turns a bit painful as he starts to wobble towards you.

"H-How-... What?" you ask, still not understanding, that he indeed stands in front of you.

"The Empire got us after we picked him up," Reece explains and nods to the brother who keeps him standing. "Shipped us to Tantiss. But... But now we got out. What are you doing here?" he asks back, finally reaching you and putting his free arm around you. 

"That's a long story," you whisper. His touch is soothing, familiar. And Suddenly you realize that he is really standing here, in front of you.

"Maker... Maker, I missed you. So, so much. I'm glad you're safe," he breathes as he puts some of his weight on you.

"Reece," you whisper again when he leans into your side, groaning with pain. "You're hurt. You shouldn't-"

"It's just a scratch. Everything is fine," he tries to soothe you, but with the way he's talking you just hear in how much pain he is.

"Stop lying, I see that that's not the truth. You need medical attention," you say, unconvinced and lay your arm around his back too, trying to support some of his weight.

"No, Echo already cleaned my wounds. All I need now is peace and quiet. And rest. And you," he tells you, a small smile on his lips as he looks at you.

Unconvinced, you shake your head, swallowing a few times.

He's really standing in front of you.

"Do you want to come home?" you ask him, and his smile grows.

"Yes, please," he nods. Together, you say goodbye to his friend, Nova, and start to walk down the street.

When you arrive, you try to help him as much as you can.

You give him food, something to drink. You help him clean up, wash his hair and look at his wound again.

His whole body is covered in bruises. Here and there are some small bacta patches, and he looks too thin. It makes him look even smaller than he already is, sitting on the edge of your bathtub like that.

You feel nauseous, but Reece just shakes his head. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'll live, I promise," he tries to soothe you.

"You promise?" you ask again.

"I promise."

You look into each other's eyes. Deeply. Loving. Longing.

"I never said it back earlier, but I really missed you, too. I felt so lost and incomplete. I'm so glad you're with me again. A-And I hope you can stay here for a while. I don't-" you begin, but Reece stops you.

"I'm not leaving you again," he breathes, promises you. "Never."

You look down at him, into his warm, brown eyes, and put your hands on his cheeks, stroking them with your thumbs.

"I'm not leaving you either," you assure him. He puts his hands on your hips, pulling you slightly closer, between his legs.

It's like the world slows down, and then there are just the two of you.

You bend down to him, he tilts his chin up, and then - oh so slowly and carefully - your lips touch.

And suddenly you know, how lonely you really felt in all those months.

Suddenly, you're complete again. Whole.

His beard tickles your face, his breath makes you feel alive again, and his lips on yours feel like heaven.

You missed him so much.

Only when he puts his hands on your face too, and wipe away some tears, you realize you started crying.

They're not tears of sadness or loneliness- They're tears of relieve and happiness. Of thankfulness. You're thankful he's here, and he's alive.

You know that the next days, weeks, or even months won't be easy. He sure as hell will have some fears and traumas to work through, but you know the two of you could put up with it. Could pull through. You would help him heal, and you are ready to give him everything he needs.

You're going to be fine, as long as you stay together.

Later that night, you lay in your bed together.

Carefully to avoid his wounds, you try to cuddle up to him. Like so often, he puts his arm around you and pushes you into his side.

For the first time in so long, you smell him again. Feel him again. He's laying here in bed with you again.

He's here again.

You still can't really believe it, almost too scared to close your eyes and fall asleep, only to open them again and realize it was just a dream.

His whispers soothe you, and you try to do the same with your gentle touches.

He's home again.

He's home, and he'll never leave you again.

Not able to fight sleep any longer, you close your eyes.

When you open them again, he's still there.

TAGLIST

@isthereanechoinhere96 @trixie2023 @freesia-writes

[alizha]

𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 | 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤

—Zeke Yeager x Reader | NSFW

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: Now - Zeke invites himself over to your family home. Then - Zeke is curious about regular Eldian school, so you convince him to tag along with you.

❖ click table of contents for full list of tags, CWs, and chapters. 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗋: 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖽𝗇𝗂 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐/𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾.

table of contents | masterlist | cross posted to ao3 ← previous chapter | next chapter →

Chapter 2: Stella

Now

You walk along the familiar path home, pools of light reflecting the gold of the evening sun between the cobblestones. They light your way from the clinic, where you’ve just submitted Zeke Yeager’s psychological evaluation. Of course, Marley can’t be bothered to allocate their doctors to the care of Eldian soldiers’ mental health. Not even their Warriors.

All they really care about is that their soldiers are fit enough to head back out and follow orders well enough to fight. When you have your sessions with regular Eldian soldiers, the questions are straightforward and barely scratch the surface. The evaluation you’d been given for Zeke, however, had certainly been… interesting.

Question after question about his loyalty, commitment, and personal values. That isn’t exactly your wheelhouse. Still, you had gone in with a clear agenda, ready to assess whatever the brass had deemed necessary for you to assess, and it had all spiraled anyway.

Your chest coils tightly at the recollection. Zeke had easily started shifting the dynamics between the two of you from the very start, like he’d believed you never had a chance. Leaning back with that insufferable smirk, coaxing you into a back-and-forth that had you questioning your own authority. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

You were supposed to be the one in control. You’re the one with the training and the experience. And yet, there he’d been, the celebrated war hero, effortlessly deflecting your questions with charm and confidence.

It’s easy to forget he’s always been like this. You saw it from the very beginning—an enigma, Zeke’s capacity for irresistible allure. He simply used to be too enamored with you, too nervous and stumbling, for that side of him to come out. But it unsettled you then, and it unsettles you now.

You recall the way he had stared at you over your desk, those piercing eyes seeming to see right through your professional facade. The hint of a challenge in his tone when he asked you about your life, your past—it had disarmed you too smoothly. And what had been his goal? Simply to make you uncomfortable by establishing some kind of familiarity between you?

When you were both young, you'd towered over him. Now, he’s the one making you feel small, literally and figuratively. The scales of power are shaky and unclear. He’s the war hero, the Beast Titan, Marley’s spear. You’re his psychiatrist, the one who holds his reins. Or, that’s how it’s meant to be.

You frown, shaking your head as you walk past another streetlamp, barely flickering with light. Even though you thought you’d been prepared, Zeke’s presence had unraveled your composure in ways you hadn’t anticipated. What bothers you most is not just his attempts to wrest control away from you, but the fact that you had let him.

You take a deep breath. It’s just a job, you remind yourself. Zeke is just another patient, albeit a complicated one. You despise herself for dancing to his tune, but you won’t let it happen again.

The wooden steps creak beneath your feet as you climbs the narrow stairs to the third floor of your building. Your parents’ apartment, the place where you’d grown up, is old but well-loved and well-kept. You unlock the door, step inside, and call out a greeting,

“Mom? Dad? I’m home.”

The sounds of animated conversation filter in from the kitchen. You furrow your brow, recognizing your own mother’s laughter and another voice—warm and smooth and unmistakable since you heard it just yesterday. Zeke.

Your steps quicken as you reach the kitchen door. There he is, standing with ease in the middle of your family’s small kitchen and chatting with your mother as if he’s been a part of the household for years. He looks entirely at home, sipping from a steaming cup of tea your mother has no doubt made for him.

“Oh, Stella, you’re just in time!” Your mother beams, oblivious to the surprise—and slight alarm—in her daughter’s expression. “Look who stopped by!”

Zeke turns to you, smiling as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “I thought it’d be rude not to check in on some of my favorite people before heading off. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve had your mom’s tea.”

He raises his cup, casting a playing wink in your mother’s direction. She looks positively delighted, eager to dote on Zeke like he was the polite young boy she’d known years ago. And he’s playing right into it, his charm turned up effortlessly, his voice calm and respectful. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You didn’t mention you two still kept in touch,” you say, schooling your face into a polite smile.

“Oh, we see him now and again,” your mother replies with a wave. “And just look how he’s grown! Such an impressive young man.” She turns to Zeke, eyes twinkling in a way that makes you feel sick. “I remember when you used to come around with that baseball mitt, always bouncing with energy.”

Zeke chuckles. “Hard to imagine now, right?” He sends a sly glance in your direction, eyes gleaming behind his loathsome glasses. “Time flies.”

You give him a look, one that you hope carries all the silent reprimand you can’t voice with your mother in the room. But Zeke’s expression remains placid, content as he accepts a shortbread cookie and settles with his hip against the kitchen counter.

“So, how’s everything at the clinic, Stella?” he asks, as if genuinely interested. “I imagine they keep you busy.”

“Oh, you know,” you reply curtly. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Zeke grins, and it makes your stomach clench. “Good to hear.”

“Well, I’ll let you two catch up,” your mother says, bustling around the kitchen. Something savory seems to be baking in the oven.

You gesture stiffly for Zeke to follow you, and he does, already knowing the familiar path you're taking, the steps leading down the hall, through the cozy living room, and to your bedroom.

“What are you doing here?” you mutter under your breath as soon as you’re far enough out of earshot.

“Just dropping by to see some family friends. Is that so unusual?”

“Yes, actually,” you scowl. “Especially given, well…”

“You didn’t tell them,” Zeke says with a hint of amusement. “Relax, Stella. I’m not gonna say anything if you don’t want me to.”

“Zeke!” your father calls from the armchair in the corner of the living room. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Zeke glances at you, and you raise an eyebrow, shaking your head just enough for him to see.

“Thank you, sir,” he says smoothly, slipping back into the polite guest role. “I’d be honored.”

You stifle a sigh and continue down the hall, Zeke trailing close behind. Once inside your room, you go straight for the window, pushing it open to let in the warm evening air. The sun is just beginning to dip below the buildings outside, casting a soft orange glow into the room that brushes over old sketches and notes still pinned to the walls from your teenage years.

You keep your back to him, leaning against the sill with your eyes fixed on the sky. “Zeke, you’re too reckless. What are we gonna do if the brass finds out about this? They’d have a field day if they knew you were here—,”

Before you can finish, something fragrant and dry is being pressed against your lips. You blink, words lost, and glance down. Zeke’s holding out the last of his shortbread cookie, right up to your mouth.

“Oh, c’mon,” he murmurs from right behind you. “You can’t say no to the last bite.”

Heat rushes your face as you force back a shiver at the nearness of his voice. You can practically feel the vibrations of it at the nape of your neck, sending prickles spreading across your skin and down your spine. With a huff, you open your mouth just enough for Zeke to slowly push the morsel past your lips, catching the crumbly bite.

The tang of his fingertip brushing against your tongue bursts bright through the rich, buttery flavor of the cookie. Your heart thumps as Zeke swipes his thumb against your bottom lip, sweeping away a few leftover crumbs before pulling away. Ire flares within you as you twist to glare at him, but he’s already positioning himself by the open window next to you and fishing a cigarette from his pocket.

You've barely had time to regain your composure, eyeing the flicker of his lighter. “Seriously, Zeke? That’s a nasty habit.”

He takes a long drag and blows the smoke out the window, utterly unbothered. Then, he extends the cigarette toward you, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Your lips part, a half-formed refusal ready on your tongue. But you swallow it, giving a small, reluctant sigh as you take the offering.

It’s warm from his fingers as you raise it to your lips and take a shallow drag. Immediately, you regret it, the sharpness of the smoke hitting the back of your throat. You cough, trying to play it off as subtly as possible, and hand the cigarette back with a slight grimace.

“Charming,” Zeke teases, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fuck off,” you rasp. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

You content yourself for a moment to simply watch the tendrils of smoke curling out of the window as Zeke takes another drag. The faded sunlight casts a glow around him, softening his edges and bringing out the gold in the blond of his hair.

“During your psych eval,” you say, turning your shoulders square toward him, “you said that with only five years left, you wouldn’t waste any time on emotions that won’t make a difference.”

He shrugs indifferently. “What, are you surprised? You’ve known that about me for a long time, Stella.”

His gaze flicks from the skyline to yours, containing the glint of a dare to challenge him. But you know full well he’s not bluffing. Zeke’s always known the cost of becoming a Warrior and accepted it, and his unwillingness to engage in anything that didn’t matter in the long run had been the impetus for your estrangement in the first place.

“Then, why are you here, Zeke?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest. “Why the small talk with my mom? Why dinner? Why reconnect at all?”

He holds your gaze, expression unreadable as he offers the cigarette out to you again. You look at it skeptically but take it anyway, feeling the need to keep up your own calm front. The bitter smoke fills your lungs just enough to dull your frustration, and you rest your arm on the sill to flick the ash from the cigarette down to the darkened street below.

“You know me, Stella. Even after all these years,” he chuckles softly. “You know I’m good at using what I have when I have it. I don’t have time for distractions.”

The word stings. ‘Distractions’. As he leans back from the window, crossing his arms, the shade of your bedroom temporarily throws his face into shadow. Without the glare of the sun against his lenses, you can see his eyes clearly, staying fixed on you as he rocks back into the light.

“Maybe I just feel there are things worth revisiting. Moments I’d rather not leave behind just yet,” Zeke says.

You force yourself not to look away, leaning a bit more of your weight on the window sill. He’d never been one for romantic entanglements. Not ones that mattered, anyway. But he’s gotten good at miming them. Too good.

“So, you’re here for nostalgia?” you say with a weak scoff. “That’s what this is?”

Zeke tilts his head, echoing your posture. Or trying to, at least. He’s a little too tall, having to bend a little awkwardly at the hip to lean his elbow against the window sill.

“You’re the psychiatrist. What does it say if I just wanted to see what I missed while I was so busy being Marley’s star Warrior?”

You lean in slightly, sensing an opening to regain control. You let your voice sharpen, a tone of scolding you reserve for only the most difficult of patients.

“Well, if that’s the truth, then maybe you should be honest with yourself about what all this posturing is doing for you,” you say. “You walk around with this bleak outlook, as if nothing’s worth investing in personally because you’ve got five years left, but I’ve dealt with people who’ve had to face terrible things and still see a future.”

Zeke raises an eyebrow. “You’re scolding me now?”

“Isn’t that part of my job?” you counter, confidence surging. “You’re so busy acting like some tragic figure, giving everything he has for the glory of his motherland. But all I see is a man who’s afraid of giving himself anything real to lose.”

For a brief second, there’s something almost vulnerable in his gaze. His fingers tap lightly on the windowsill. You glance at the cigarette still in your hand. You brush your palm against his knuckles, holding what’s left of the smoke back out to him.

“You see right through me, Doctor,” Zeke murmurs.

And then, as you turn back to look at him, he puts his face close to yours and tips forward. Your breath hitches at the first graze of his lips against yours, surrounded by the soft rasp of his beard. When you tense, his hand quickly curls at the hinge of your jaw, gently holding you in place.

Zeke wastes no time parting his lips, coaxing yours open, licking into your mouth. You’re too focused on cinching your throat around a moan to put up any resistance, painfully conscious of the door to your bedroom sitting wide open to the hallway beyond. His tongue slides against yours, and it feels like your chest is about to burst.

Sensing he’s got you right where he wants you, Zeke removes the hand beneath yours on the sill and wraps it around your waist to pull you up until they’re both standing straight. Well, straighter . Zeke’s neck is craned down to meet your lips, and you’re arching your back, precariously braced against the strength of his arm.

Your face burns as you desperately push at him to move the both of you out of the line of sight of the window, even though there’s not enough light in the room for anyone to peer in properly. Zeke holds you firmly still, the hand at your jaw slanting your head to allow him to deepen the kiss.

“Stella!” your mother’s voice floats in from down the hall, immediately jolting you as your eyes fly open. “Dinner’s ready! Bring Zeke with you!”

You can feel your heart racing in your throat, whining softly against his mouth. Zeke isn’t letting up, the arm around your waist dragging you in even tighter. Head spinning, you shove at his chest to no avail until you gathers your resolve and bite down hard on his bottom lip.

The gasp he lets out goes straight through your core like a shock of electricity, but you bury that feeling under a scornful look. Zeke looks at you in a daze, fingers lightly touching his lip, then down at the drop of crimson on his skin. Then, he flashes you a sly grin.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s dangerous?” he says.

“I could say the same to you,” you huff, trying to catch your breath.

Zeke rolls his tongue over his lip, intentionally slow. Then, with a small crackle of light, the cut you’d given him disappears. “Wouldn’t want to keep your mother waiting, would we?”

You wipe one hand over your face, fingers cool across your flushed cheeks. With a final, pointed look, you put out the cigarette and turn on your heel, motioning for him to follow.

Then

You're fifteen on that early autumn morning after you’d convinced Zeke to come to school with you. The chill nips at your cheeks, and the air smells faintly of damp leaves and earth as you wait on the stoop, watching the house with eager anticipation. When the door finally creaks open, Zeke peeks out at you with a mixture of excitement and trepidation in his gray eyes.

“You’re actually here,” he whispers, glancing behind him as if his grandmother might appear any second to catch you in the act.

“Of course, I’m here. Did you think I’d bail?” You roll your eyes and grab his hand, tugging him gently off the stoop. “Relax, Zeke. No one’s gonna find out you faked being sick for one day. I told you, we’ll be back before anyone notices.”

Zeke still looks uncertain, but he falls into step beside you, his hand slipping out of yours. Together, you walk down the narrow path deeper into the internment zone. He’s quiet, gaze darting around as if half-expecting a cadre of his Warrior trainers to leap out at any moment and drag him away.

You give him a once-over, taking in the sight of him in the neatly pressed school uniform you’d borrowed from your cousin. It’s slightly oversized, but close enough. You tug at the collar, fussing to make it sit right, and smooths the wrinkles around his shoulders.

“Well, you look the part enough, I think,” you nod. “Maybe a little short, but it’s not that strange.”

He scowls, straightening up to his full height. “I’m not that much younger than you. And people always say I’m mature for my age.”

“Sure,” you reply, suppressing a laugh. “But if you really wanna pass as one of my classmates, maybe loosen up a bit. Smile a little.”

You continue down the winding streets, dodging carts and piles of leaves gathered from the trees lining the cobblestone streets. The autumn colors are vibrant, reds and yellows catching in the morning light and painting the internment zone in much-needed cheery tones.

Other students are already filtering in as the two of you reach the school’s entrance, laughter and chatter floating through the crisp morning air. You tug Zeke toward the building, grinning as he tries to imitate the relaxed, easygoing gait of the other students.

He blends in well at your side at first, drawing little more than a few curious glances from your peers during your first class. Bright, too. Enough to follow along and keep up through several subjects.

By their first break, you’ve gathered a small crowd of inquirers, faces alight with fascination. Zeke’s presence alone seemed to have piqued their interest, but once they hear he’s a Warrior candidate, they’re practically hanging on his every word.

“So, wait. You actually get to train with Marleyan soldiers?” one of the boys asks. “What’s it like?”

Zeke shrugs casually, but you can see the pride flickering across his face. “Yeah, we have facilities that are pretty top-notch. You know, state-of-the-art equipment, training grounds with everything you’d need. It’s pretty different from here.”

The students exchange looks of awe.

“Is it true that the training is really hard? You must be so athletic.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty intense,” Zeke says, pleased at the interest. “They test everything there. Strength, speed, even how you handle heights. Weeds out anyone who doesn’t have the guts to make it.”

Tickled, you watch your classmates murmur amongst themselves with a measure of amusement.

“What about the instructors?” another boy pipes up. “Aren’t they really strict?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Zeke replies. “They don’t hold back. Not even a little. If you mess up, you’ll know it. But that’s the point, I guess. They want you to be tough, to be able to handle anything.”

He pauses, glancing around, clearly reveling in the sense of authority he holds over the crowd. You can see the satisfaction in his eye—the satisfaction of being seen. You nudge him lightly with your elbow, a small smile on your lips.

“And here I thought you came here to blend in.”

Just as he shoots you a smirk, a teacher passes by in the hallway. His stern gaze sweeps over all of you, and immediately, everyone straightens. The students all shuffle apart to look as casual as possible. The teacher nods to himself before continuing down the hall. As soon as he’s out of sight, the group exhales in relief and breaks into hushed giggles.

“Guess I’m not so bad at this school thing after all?” Zeke says to you in a low voice.

Sometime after lunch, you pull Zeke outside to cut your last few classes, taking him to the ragged school field where a few other students were gathered. They had insisted after hearing about Zeke’s love of baseball, raiding the equipment from the storage house.

It’s all worn and mismatched at best, scuffed and peeling gloves and baseballs and wooden bats that had seen better days. The field itself is pocked with uneven patches of grass and dirt. Likely not at all like the facilities Zeke is used to, but good enough for the kids here in the internment zone.

He frowns when you first arrive, glancing around with clear disdain, but he lightens up quickly when you roll your eyes at him. You hand him the ball, and he hesitates for only a moment before taking his place on the makeshift pitcher’s mound. Soon enough, he’s into it—squaring his shoulders, fixing his stance, that familiar, focused look in his eyes.

When he throws the first pitch, the ball zips fast and clean, snapping into the catcher’s ratty mitt with a satisfying thud. Your friends murmur in surprise, exchanging impressed glances. Zeke shoots you a look over his shoulder that seems to say, told you .

His grin only grows as he leans into his role, throwing another, even faster than the first. The batter at the improvised home base barely gets a swing in before the ball lands in the catcher’s mitt again. As they continue, Zeke’s pitching remains consistent and skillful. One by one, he strikes out half your friends, all while maintaining a slightly smug confidence.

Finally, you and your friends wrap up the game, laughing and brushing dust off your clothes as the final bell rings across the schoolyard. Mara wanders over to you, a sly smile on her face.

“Your boyfriend’s got a pretty good arm, you know that?”

Before you can even process the words, you’re already blurting out, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

The response was automatic, rolling off your tongue like an instinct, but you feels a slight twinge at her own quick denial. Mara gives you a knowing look before jogging off with the others, leaving you feeling slightly awkward.

You glance over at Zeke, who’s standing close enough to have overheard. His cheerful demeanor has vanished, replaced by a quiet, almost hurt expression. You both gather your things and begin the walk home in silence.

The air between the two of you fills instead with the quiet sounds of the late afternoon. There’s the occasional bark of a dog, and the distant voices of children playing in the neighborhood. You steal a look over at Zeke. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Unsure of what to say to bridge the silence, you bite your lip and turn away. After a while, though, you try anyway.

“You did great today. My friends could barely keep up with you.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, barely looking up. Any of his earlier enthusiasm is now all but gone. You walk a few more steps before he adds, “You didn’t have to correct her, you know. About… me being your boyfriend.”

You stop, thrown by the directness of his words. You’re not sure how to respond. You’ve only barely just begun receiving any kind of attention from boys your age, at least that you’ve noticed, and it’s just not something you know how to handle with grace yet.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” you say quietly. “I just—I don’t know. It just slipped out. Besides, you’re not, anyway. Right?”

Zeke’s shoulders slump slightly. “No, I’m not. Just thought…,” he trails off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You and Zeke continue on in the uncomfortable quiet. You can’t shake the nagging feeling that you’ve let him down somehow, but you don’t know how to reach him right now. Not in a way that doesn’t feel strange or forced. By the time you reach Zeke’s house, your own feelings are a tangled mess, and you stand at the bottom of the stoop, fidgeting.

“See you around, Stella,” Zeke mumbles finally, slipping through the door without another word.

You watch him disappear inside, feeling a strange emptiness where his presence had just been. You turn and slowly begin the walk home, wrestling with a confusing swirl of emotions you can’t fully explain. It’s not like you can just brush off Zeke’s attention—he’s your friend, and you don’t want to.

As you step into your own neighborhood, you shove down the part of you that wants to go back, to reassure him that you care about him, because you don’t even know what those feelings mean. Maybe you’ll never fully understand why your quick denial had hurt him, or why his quiet disappointment lingers in your mind now. All you know is that something between them feels different, like a shift you can’t quite put into words.

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