#these chapters just keep getting longer and longer

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 7

Hey guys! 💛 First off, I just want to say how much I appreciate all of you—the love and excitement you show for this story means so much to me! I know some of you were hoping for a longer chapter last time, and I totally get it. I love that you’re so invested but it did make me a tiny bit sad seeing those comments eeek but thats me being very sensitive and i just want to please all of you. I truly appreciate all the feedback and love, and I can’t wait to share more with you soon. Thank you for being here and for caring so much—it really means the world. ✨

previous chapters

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the dining hall, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor.

Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the worn tables. Maria sat across from you, her fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug, steam rising in soft, twisting tendrils.

She looked as composed as ever, her expression carefully measured, but you caught the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around the mug before she lifted it to her lips.

“How are you feeling?” you asked gently, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the table. “You know… about Tommy leaving?”

She shrugged—a small, deliberate movement—but her eyes wavered for just a fraction of a second before she blinked, masking whatever had surfaced. “It has to be done,” she said, her voice even, too even.

You realized then that you hadn’t even asked Joel what the patrol was for. The thought surfaced abruptly, pulling your focus. “What’s going on out there?” you asked, your voice quieter now, like saying it too loud would make it worse.

Maria exhaled, glancing down at her coffee before meeting your gaze again. “More infected near the highway,” she said, tone clipped, as if keeping it simple would make it easier. “Tommy’s gotta check it out, see if it’s manageable. If not… we’ll have to call off scavenging runs in that area.”

You nodded absently, but your mind had already unraveled, drifting to where Joel was—wherever that was. Was he safe? Was he warm? Was he hungry? Was he breathing? The thought curled at the edges, dark and treacherous, threatening to bloom into something unbearable.

Despite the anger and the hurt, despite every reason you had to turn away, there was no denying the way he had settled into you, deep and unshakable, woven into the marrow of your bones. No matter how much you tried to push it down, tried to bury it beneath layers of resentment and frustration, the truth remained—your heart was not capable of existing in a world where he did not. You couldn’t bring yourself to imagine it, couldn’t let the thought fester in the corners of your mind, because if you did, if you let it take shape, it would consume you whole.

You refused to picture him as anything but alive—breathing, walking, existing in the same world as you. You would not allow yourself to envision him otherwise, would not let the image of him broken and cold, lost to the same cruel world that had never once granted him kindness, take root in your mind.

The very idea of it sent something sharp and unbearable through you, something that made your chest tighten and your throat close, something that felt too much like grief. So you rejected it, pushed it down and locked it away, clung to the certainty that wherever he was, he was still out there. He had to be.

Maria tilted her head at your silence, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she studied you. “What’s up with you?” she asked, her tone light, teasing. “I’ve never seen you this quiet. What, Joel finally manage to shut you up?”

The words were meant to be playful, but they landed heavier than she intended, lodging somewhere deep in your chest. The air around you felt denser, each breath a little harder to pull in. You sighed, dragging a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temple as if you could knead away the ache building there.

“Look, Maria,” you said, straightening, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I need to switch patrol partners.”

Her smile faltered, the amusement slipping from her face as her brows drew together. “Huh?” She blinked, the sharpness in her eyes softening into confusion. “What do you mean? Did… did something happen?”

“No.” The lie was too quick, too easy, tumbling past your lips before you had the chance to stop it. You shook your head, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the tension in your jaw betrayed you.

“Nothing happened. I just—I can’t—” The words caught, snagged on something you couldn’t name. You exhaled sharply, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest as if the posture alone could make you feel less exposed. “I just need to swap, okay? I’ll take anyone else.”

Maria didn’t respond right away. Instead, she sat there, watching you, eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, mirroring your earlier posture, elbows resting against the worn wooden table. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, quieter, but it carried a weight that pressed down on you like a held breath.

"Tell me the truth," Maria said, her voice steady, unrelenting, her gaze locking onto yours with the kind of weight that left no room for evasion. "What happened with Joel?"

You shook your head, fingers curling and uncurling around the fabric of your shirt, a nervous habit you couldn’t shake, something to anchor you when the ground felt unsteady beneath your feet. "Maria," you said, her name slipping from your lips like a warning, sharp and edged, slicing through the thick, suffocating silence that had settled between you.

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be—there was a weight to it, something final, something immovable, like a door being shut and locked from the inside. A line drawn in the sand, not in anger, but in quiet desperation, a plea wrapped in steel—don’t push me, don’t make me say it, don’t make me open that wound when I’ve spent every waking moment trying to sew it shut.

Her lips parted, poised to argue, to press in the way she always did when she sensed something unraveling just beneath the surface, when she caught the quiet tremble in your resolve and sought to pry it open with careful hands. But whatever she saw in your expression—the silent plea, the raw, unspoken desperation you weren’t even sure you meant to show—stopped her cold. You weren’t in the mood to explain, and for once, she seemed to understand that.

The scrape of wood against wood rang out sharp in the quiet room as you pushed back your chair, the sound too loud, too abrupt, splitting the moment in two.

You stood, movements mechanical, reaching for your coat draped over the back of the chair, fingers tightening around the worn fabric as if grounding yourself in something tangible, something solid, while Maria’s gaze burned into you. You felt it, felt the weight of her questions, her concern pressing against your back like a force you weren’t ready to meet head-on.

“Just… please,” you murmured, the words slipping free before you could swallow them back down, quieter now, the sharp edge in your voice dulling but never fully breaking. It wasn’t a demand, not really, but something close to it—something that held the weight of exhaustion, of quiet surrender. “Do this for me.”

A long beat of silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, before she finally exhaled, a slow, measured breath that felt like reluctant acceptance. Her shoulders dropped, the tension easing just enough, her gaze still searching, still waiting for something you weren’t willing to give. “Okay,” she murmured at last, her voice quiet, careful, as if she were handling something fragile, something that might shatter if she held it too tightly.

You gave her a small nod, barely more than a movement, before turning on your heel and slipping out of the dining hall, the cool air swallowing you whole as you walked away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The decrepit cabin groaned with every passing breeze, little more than a skeleton of rotting wood and splintered beams barely holding together. The air inside was thick, damp with the scent of earth and blood—some theirs, some not. Shadows danced across the peeling walls as the flame of a single lantern flickered precariously on a broken crate.

Joel and Tommy sat cross-legged on the warped floor, a battered tin of something unappetizing between them.

Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against metal, the sound grating in the stillness.

Joel’s hand hovered near his thigh, his fingers curling and uncurling like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. His knuckles were split and bloodied, the dried crimson cracked against his skin, and his wrist bore the faint tremor of adrenaline not yet spent.

In the uneven light of the lantern, his face looked carved from stone—hard and unyielding, his jaw locked tight, the muscle ticking in a relentless rhythm. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, but everything about him was taut, coiled, like a spring ready to snap.

Tommy watched him out of the corner of his eye, his own shoulders stiff and squared, every line of his body radiating tension. The silence between them was louder than words, a pressure building with every passing second.

It had been less than an hour since it happened.

Less than an hour since Joel had fucked up—big time.

They had been tracking through the woods, moving through the underbrush in a silence that should have been second nature by now, but Joel was off.

Sluggish, unsteady, tripping over roots he should’ve seen, his footing clumsy in a way that made Tommy shoot him sharp looks out of the corner of his eye. He had muttered something under his breath—something half-frustrated, half-worried—but hadn’t pushed. Not yet.

Because Tommy could tell.

Joel had been off his game all damn day, his mind caught in the snare of something he couldn’t shake, something that had curled around his ribs and hollowed him out from the inside. You.

It was always you.

The way you had looked at him that night was destroying him.

It chased him through sleep, through dreams that twisted into something unbearable the second he reached for you. It haunted the corners of his mind in the quiet hours before dawn, when exhaustion should’ve claimed him, but never did. You were there—always there—eyes wide, raw, unshielded, just before you had let those words slip past your lips, quiet, reverent, terrifying.

"I love-"

Said into the hush, carried on the breath of a moment too fragile to last. And he—fool, coward, goddamn wreck of a man—had shattered it in his hands before he even let himself hold it. Had told you it wasn’t real. Had let you tuck it away, no—forced you to pretend it had never happened at all.

And now, the weight of it was drowning him.

His head wasn’t where it should have been. It was on you—always on you.

Too busy wondering if you had eaten, if you'd remembered to stoke the fire before the cold set in, if your hands had been warm when you woke up or if the chill had crept beneath your blankets, making you shiver.

If you'd had enough coffee at home or if you'd been forced to drink the one from the dining hall—the one you never liked, too bitter, too weak. He imagined you grimacing at the first sip, pressing your lips together the way you always did when something disappointed you, curling your hands around the mug anyway just for the warmth.

He wondered if you’d taken your time getting ready that morning or if you'd rushed, still half-asleep, fumbling for your boots with that little furrow in your brow you always got when you were running late.

If you'd worn that sweater—the one he knew was soft because he’d brushed past you once, and the feeling had lingered on his skin longer than it should have.

But worst of all—the cruelest, most selfish thing—was that he wondered if you ever thought about him. And he had no right to. Not after everything, not after the way he had left. He had forfeited that privilege the second he walked away, the second he let his fear speak louder than the truth, the second he chose silence over you.

And yet, he still found himself lingering in the possibility. Still found himself wondering if his absence clung to you the way yours clung to him, curling around his ribs like a phantom limb, something lost but never forgotten. If you missed him the way he missed you—with an ache so deep it felt carved into his bones, a hollow, gnawing thing that lived beneath his skin, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

And then—reckless, aching—his mind wandered into dangerous, delicate imaginings of you.

Soft. Small. Intimate.

He let himself imagine it. If you wore your hair to bed in that loose braid like you sometimes did on patrol, strands slipping free, curling at your cheek, at the delicate slope of your neck, swaying with each breath, soft and effortless. Or if, in the privacy of your room, you let it fall completely—untamed, unbound, spilling over your shoulders, cascading across your pillow in quiet disarray. A sight untouched by the world. Untouched by him.

And God—God, how he wanted to touch.

Not just to see, not just to admire, but to feel. His fingers threading through it, slow and reverent, tugging gently just to hear the quiet hitch of your breath.

And then—before he could stop it, before he could drag himself back from the edge—his mind wandered deeper, sinking into something unspoken, something desperate, something reverent in its ruin.

What did you wear to bed?

Something soft, something thin, worn-down cotton stretched over your skin, clinging to the curve of your body, whispering against your thighs when you moved beneath the blankets. Did it slip higher in the night, baring the plush swell of your hips, the gentle dip of your waist? Did it ride up just enough that if he were there, if his hands were on you, he could push it further with the barest brush of his fingertips?

Did the cold make you shiver? Did it pull your nipples into soft, aching peaks, pressing against the fabric, sensitive and untouched, a secret only the night knew? Did you tuck your hands beneath the blankets, pressing your palms over your arms for warmth, sighing softly as you curled into yourself? Or did you stretch out, limbs long and languid, sheets tangled around your legs, the air against your skin cool, your body flushed with heat?

Had you ever—just once—rolled onto your side in the hush of sleep and whispered his name? Had it ever slipped past your lips without you realizing, soft and absent, breathed into the pillow, lost to the quiet? Did you ever wake up gasping, heart hammering, fingers curled against the sheets as if searching for something that wasn’t there?

Had you ever dreamed of him the way he dreamed of you?

Did your hands ever drift, slow and uncertain, down the length of your stomach, lower still, seeking relief from a longing that refused to be named? Did you ever press your thighs together, sigh against the emptiness, the want curling deep inside you, leaving you restless, burning? And if you did—if you had—what did you do about it?

These selfish, cowardly preoccupations had nearly been the death of him today. Had nearly been the death of them both.

The raiders had come out of nowhere. Just three of them. It should have been easy, routine—Joel and Tommy had been through worse, had fought side by side too many times to falter. They moved like a well-worn machine, an unspoken rhythm, a brotherhood forged in blood and war. But today, for the first time in thirty years, Joel had been off.

His timing. His aim. His goddamn instincts.

He had hesitated when he shouldn’t have. Missed when he couldn’t afford to. And the price had been blood—his and Tommy’s both. They had almost died because of him. Tommy had managed, somehow, had stepped in where Joel should have, had been sharp and quick and ruthless, had been himself. But Joel—Joel had been slow. Unsteady. Somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with you.

Now, the cabin bore witness to their silence, thick with tension and the raw weight of two men aching, bruised, barely holding together. The fight had been ugly. Joel could still feel the imprint of a rifle stock against his ribs, the deep-set ache that pulsed with every breath, a reminder of where one of them had caught him hard in the side.

His knuckles were split and bloodied, dried crimson cracked against his skin, and beneath the sleeve of his jacket, his shoulder burned where a knife had grazed too close. Tommy didn’t look much better—a cut above his brow still sluggishly weeping, his jaw darkening with the promise of a bruise, his breathing tight, measured, like he was favoring something in his ribs. They hadn’t left that fight unscathed.

Joel stared hard at the floorboards, fingers twitching against his thigh, a storm roiling just beneath the surface, something barely restrained, barely holding together.

Finally, it snapped.

The sound of the fork clattering onto the tin was jarring, slicing clean through the stagnant air, cutting through the silence like a blade to the throat. Tommy leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his voice low and sharp, rough with frustration, with disbelief, with something dangerously close to fear.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Joel exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out of him like it took effort, like it hurt. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the tension locked deep in the muscle, the ache of exhaustion woven through his bones. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but firm, edged with warning. "Tommy. Drop it."

"No." The word came quick, firm, crackling with barely restrained anger. Tommy’s hands curled into fists against his knees, his whole body tight, shoulders squared, voice raw. "No, I ain’t droppin’ it. We almost fucking died out there. Died, Joel. Because your head ain’t screwed on right."

His breath was coming faster now, anger bleeding into something else—something deeper, something heavier. His voice cracked as he said it, just slightly, just enough for Joel to hear the truth beneath it.

"I gotta get back for Maria, Joel. You know that, right?"

Joel shut his eyes for a long moment, pressing his lips into a thin, unyielding line. He let the words settle in his chest, let them sink in, let them land square in the hollowed-out space where guilt already sat like something rotting. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just took it. Because Tommy was right.

They could be dead. And it was his fucking fault.

But Tommy wasn’t done. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping, no longer sharp with anger but something colder, something edged with realization, with disbelief, like he was piecing it together in real time, like he was staring at his brother and seeing something wrong for the first time in a long time.

"Joel." Tommy's voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, no less cutting. "When was the last time you shot at somethin’ and missed?"

The words landed like a bullet to bone, precise and unforgiving, and Joel felt the weight of them settle deep, heavy in his chest, pressing against something raw.

Finally, Joel exhaled, a slow, fractured thing, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, rough like gravel ground beneath a boot. "Not sure what the hell’s wrong with me." The words came low, almost like they weren’t meant to be heard, almost like they weren’t meant to exist outside of his own head.

Tommy stilled, something shifting in his expression—less anger now, less frustration, something steadier, something careful. He leaned forward slightly, voice quiet, deliberate, like he was stepping around the jagged edges of something fragile, something that might splinter if he pressed too hard.

"Jesus, Joel," he murmured, shaking his head. "What the hell’s goin’ on with you?"

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a rough, calloused hand down his face. "I fucked up." His voice was low, uneven, barely more than a breath, like the words hurt coming out, like they had splintered inside of him before ever reaching the air. "With her."

Tommy froze, his eyes widening just a fraction as he processed the weight of his brother’s words. Joel—tough, unyielding, always carrying his burdens in silence—was admitting something. Something raw, something broken, something that didn’t sit right in the space between them.

Tomym exhaled through his nose, a soundless oh, the pieces clicking into place like a blade sliding into its sheath. His voice, when it came, was steady but careful, the kind of calm meant to keep something from breaking apart. "Alright." He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his words measured, deliberate, like he was talking to someone standing too close to the edge. "What happened?"

Joel’s hands twitched, fingers flexing, "After dinner at yours." The words were gravel, scraped raw and unwilling. "I walked her home."

Tommy gave a slow nod, his expression patient but expectant, waiting, urging. "Yeah? And?"

Joel swallowed, shaking his head like he could shake off the memory, like it wasn’t stitched into every breath, every thought, every restless hour he spent staring at the ceiling, replaying it over and over. "She was drunk." His voice dropped lower, tighter, like the words themselves hurt.

Tommy’s nod was slower this time, his brow furrowing, his voice softer now, careful. "Okay. Then what?"

Joel swallowed hard. "She..." His throat tightened, voice catching, breaking on the edges. He forced the words out anyway, unraveling, fraying, something inside him splitting at the seams. "She said some things."

Tommy didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even breathe, just watched him with that quiet, patient scrutiny that made Joel feel like his insides were being pried open, like there was no hiding from what came next.

"Things she shouldn’t have said."

Tommy tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, cautious. “Like what?” he asked, his voice low, careful—like he wasn’t sure if pushing would make Joel shut down or finally crack open.

Joel exhaled sharply, the breath jagged, uneven, more pain than air. He let out something that might’ve been a laugh in another life, but here, now, in this moment, it was empty, bitter, something worn and threadbare. He shook his head, lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a grimace—just something hollow, something caught between regret and disbelief.

"She told me—"

The words caught. Lodged in his throat like a fist, like they weren’t meant to leave his mouth, like speaking them aloud would make them real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. His chest rose and fell, breath slow, heavy, every muscle in his body tensed like he could brace himself against the weight of it. The pause stretched long, unbearable.

Then—finally, quietly, wrecked—he let them slip free.

"She told me she wanted me to kiss her."

Tommy blinked, his brows lifting, the disbelief settling in his features before the words had even fully landed. “What?”

Joel’s voice was quieter now, rough around the edges, worn. Like saying it aloud stripped him raw, made it worse—made it real. “She asked why I didn’t kiss her at your birthday.” A bitter scoff, a shake of his head, like the memory itself was something that gnawed at him from the inside out. “During that stupid goddamn spin-the-bottle game.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, the movement heavy—weighted not just with exasperation, but with something that looked an awful lot like disbelief. He leaned back slightly, shaking his head. “Jesus, Joel.” It wasn’t scathing, wasn’t reprimanding. Just tired. “What the hell did you say?”

Joel tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second, like he could will himself away from this conversation, from the weight pressing against his ribs, from the ache winding its way through every breath. But it didn’t work. It never worked.

"That’s not even the worst part." His voice cracked—just slightly, just enough for Tommy to notice. Just enough for him to feel it, for his chest to tighten, for the words to stick in his throat like something barbed, something clawing its way out. His breath turned uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides as his mind betrayed him, dragging him back there.

Back to you.

To the way you had looked at him that night—drunk, vulnerable, so damn pretty, eyes glazed over, lips kiss-bitten from too much whiskey, voice soft, slurred, sweet. Sitting there, knees drawn up beneath you, the dim glow of the lantern casting golden light across your skin, bathing you in something holy.

You had ached for him. Had looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, like you were offering yourself up to him completely, giving him something raw and reckless and real, something fragile and too big to be taken back. You had already laid it bare at his feet, already given him everything, and God help him, he had stood there and done nothing.

No—worse.

He had left.

"She..." Joel hesitated, his jaw tightening, his throat working around the words like they physically hurt to say. His breath came short, uneven, as if he was choking on the weight of it, drowning in something too big, too heavy to carry. And then, finally—finally—he said it, the confession tearing from his lips like something jagged.

"She was gonna tell me she loved me."

Tommy stilled. His breath caught, his eyes snapping to Joel’s face like he hadn’t heard him right. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, coiling around them like a vice.

"What?" Tommy’s voice was softer now, quieter—disbelieving, like the word had slipped out before he could stop it. He blinked, shook his head once, twice, his brow furrowing as if he could physically force himself to understand. "She—what?"

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath unsteady as he finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were raw, burning with something unspoken, something heavy and unrelenting, something he hadn’t let himself name.

"I stopped her." The words barely carried in the stillness, rough and uneven, like they scraped against the inside of his throat, like saying them hurt. "Told her she didn’t mean it."

Tommy just stared, his mouth parting slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—disbelief, frustration, something softer, something Joel refused to look at. When Tommy finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm, sharp but not unkind. "Why?"

Joel’s fingers curled into fists against his thighs, his jaw locking so tightly it looked like it might snap. He could feel the muscles in his neck pull taut, the ache spreading down his spine, winding around his ribs like something trying to crush him.

"Because she was drunk, Tommy."

Joel’s voice dropped, rough and unsteady, something raw curling at the edges of his words. "I couldn’t let her say it. Not like that. Not when she’d wake up and regret it."

He shook his head, almost to himself now, voice dropping even lower, "She was drunk." The words weren’t for Tommy anymore. They weren’t even for you. They were for himself, for the part of him that needed to believe it, that needed to hold onto the idea that pushing you away had been the right thing.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just looked at him, long and hard, like he was waiting for Joel to catch up, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface—frustration, maybe, but not anger. Something quieter. Something tired. Then, slowly, he shook his head, exhaling like he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse or just sit there and let Joel drown in his own damn misery. He dragged a hand down his face, let it linger for a second, like the weight of this was just as exhausting for him as it was for Joel.

"Christ, Joel." Tommy tilted his head slightly, studying him, his gaze unreadable, searching Joel’s face like he was looking for something—some sign that he understood, that he knew.

"You really don’t see it, do you?"

Joel said nothing. Just sat there, jaw locked, breath unsteady, staring down at the floor like if he looked anywhere else, this might not matter so damn much.

Tommy huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh, shaking his head again. He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, voice softer now, measured, but dragging something heavier into the space between them.

"That girl," he started, his words slow, deliberate, like he needed them to land just right, like he needed Joel to feel them. "She looks at you like you’re the only thing in this whole goddamn world that makes sense to her. Like you’re the one thing she knows won’t let her down. Like you’re safe, Joel."

"She was drunk," Joel muttered, his voice brittle, strained, breaking in the middle like if he said it enough times, he might finally believe it. "She didn’t mean it."

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head, exhaling slow and sharp, like he was losing patience, like he was done watching Joel twist himself into knots just to avoid the inevitable.

"Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true," he shot back, his voice cutting through Joel’s flimsy excuse like a blade, clean and unforgiving. He leaned in slightly, his stare unwavering, piercing, seeing right through him, through all of it. "And you know it."

Joel’s fingers twitched against his knee, his jaw tight, his pulse hammering somewhere deep in his throat. "Doesn’t matter anyway," he muttered, quieter now, dull with something closer to resignation than he wanted to admit. "I talked to her the other day. She said she didn’t remember."

Tommy blinked, then scoffed again, sharper this time, full of disbelief. "And you believe her?" His voice wasn’t just cutting—it was aching, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Jesus, Joel. Could you be any denser? You rejected the poor girl—of course she’s gonna pretend she don’t remember. What the hell else is she supposed to say?"

Joel’s jaw locked. "I didn’t reject her," he bit out, but there was a crack in his voice, something unsteady, something that settled between them like a wound laid bare.

Tommy arched a brow, unconvinced. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, voice quieter now but no less sharp. "No? Then what’d you do, huh? Did you stay? Did you tell her it was gonna be alright? Did you—"

Joel shook his head, quick, sharp, like he could shove the words away before Tommy could finish them. "No." It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed between them like a punch to the ribs.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, his voice dipping low, wary. "Joel—"

"No," Joel said again, the word scraping out of him, his breath unsteady, his hands gripping his knees like he needed to brace himself, like the weight of it all might finally crush him.

His fingers flexed once, twice, then curled in again. His voice cracked, raw and splintering apart. "I… fuck." He let out a sharp breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, his shoulders curling inward like he could fold in on himself, like if he made himself small enough, maybe the guilt wouldn’t sink its claws so deep.

"I left."

"You left?" tommy repeated, slower this time, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?"

Tommy let out a slow sigh, long and weary, the weight of it settling between them like dust in the dim cabin light. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, gentler, but no less resolute. “Joel.” He said his name like it was something fragile, something worth handling with care. “I know you’ve been through hell. I know you think you don’t got room for anything else in your life. But you’re wrong.”

He hesitated, lips pressing into a firm line, as if he was trying to find the right words, as if they mattered more now than they ever had before. His voice dipped lower when he finally continued, steady and sure, leaving no space for argument.

“You deserve better than this. Better than sittin’ in a goddamn cabin, beatin’ yourself up ‘cause you’re too scared to believe someone could actually give a damn about you.”

Joel stiffened, his hands flexing against his knees, his shoulders tightening like he could brace himself against words alone. He still wouldn’t look up.

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She cares about you, Joel. And you know it.” He leaned in, his tone firm, but not unkind, pressing into the silence, forcing Joel to sit with it. “And if you’re too damn stubborn to let her in, you’re gonna regret it. Hell, you already do.”

The words landed like a blow, cutting deeper than anything else Tommy had thrown at him tonight. And Joel—Joel just sat there, staring at the ground like if he looked hard enough, he might find the answer to a question he hadn’t been ready to ask. His breath was uneven, his body wound so tight he felt like he might snap.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable, then sat back, his voice dipping even lower, quiet enough to be mistaken for something close to mercy.

“It’s alright to let someone care about you, Joel.” He paused, then softer, like a final offering. “It’s alright to let someone stay.”

Joel flinched, so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Tommy did.

Because he knew exactly what was running through Joel’s head now.

Sarah’s laughter—bright, unrestrained, filling every space it touched like it belonged there. The weight of her in his arms, her small hands clutching at his shirt, trusting him to keep her safe. Gone in an instant.

Tess—sharp-tongued, unshakable Tess, standing beside him, never asking for more than what he could give. A life spent fighting, surviving, and in the end, a fate she had chosen, one he couldn’t stop. Gone.

Ellie—her jokes, her sharp humor, the way she wore it like armor. The way she filled the hollowed-out space in Joel’s heart without even meaning to. Still here. Still his. But for how long?

Every person he had ever loved, slipping through his fingers like water, like dust, like something that had never belonged to him in the first place.

His breath hitched, barely audible, but enough. The ache in his chest twisted, raw and unrelenting, pressing up into his throat, threatening to consume him whole.

"I don’t—" His voice broke, rough and heavy, barely there. He shook his head sharply, like he could shake this loose, shake the ache out of his bones, shake himself free of the past clawing at his heels.

He swallowed hard, tried again. “Everyone I love ends up—” The words got caught, sticking in his throat like something jagged, something that would tear him apart if he forced it out. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trembling slightly.

Tommy leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wall Joel had thrown up around himself, slicing through the silence like a blade. “I know you love her.” The words weren’t a question, weren’t a guess—they were fact, spoken with the kind of certainty that left no room for denial. His tone was firm, steady but insistent, forcing Joel to hear him. “Don’t tell me you don’t, ‘cause I’ve seen it. I see it every damn time you look at her. You’re scared—I get it. But, Joel…”

His voice softened, the edge giving way to something warmer, something quieter, something laced with an urgency that settled deep into Joel’s bones. “You gotta stop punishin’ yourself for things that weren’t your fault.”

Joel’s head dropped lower, his fists slowly unclenching, his fingers splaying against his thighs. They trembled, faintly, betraying the storm raging inside of him, the war he had been losing long before he had even realized he was fighting it. His voice was barely there when he finally spoke, the words dragging out of him like they were made of stone, heavy with doubt, thick with regret.

“She won’t wanna talk to me.” The words came rough, dragged from somewhere deep, like saying them out loud gave them weight, made them real in a way he wasn’t ready for. His throat tightened, breath hitching as his hands pressed harder against his legs, bracing, steadying—holding himself together by force of will alone. “Something’s off. She’s—fuck—she won’t wanna hear me out.” The thought sat heavy in his chest, suffocating, a truth he could feel in his bones even if he wasn’t ready to accept it.

Tommy exhaled, slow and even, sitting back, arms crossing over his chest. He studied Joel for a long moment, that quiet, knowing look settling on his face—the one Joel had seen a thousand times, the one that always came when he needed it least but maybe most.

"Then don’t talk."

Joel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, breaking through the thick haze of guilt and self-loathing. He glanced up, guarded, skeptical, his voice rough with exhaustion. "What the hell’s that supposed to mean?"

Tommy leaned in again, his tone deliberate, unwavering. “Write.”

Joel blinked. “Write?” The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign, like it didn’t belong to him.

Tommy nodded, his gaze locked on Joel, refusing to let him look away. "Put it all in a letter—every damn thing you’ve ever wanted to say to her but couldn’t. Everything you’re too scared to say out loud. Everything you regret. Everything you feel. And then give it to her."

Joel shook his head slightly, his hands tightening on his thighs, his breath unsteady. “Tommy—”

"Just let her hear you, Joel."

The words settled between them, pressing down on him, pressing into him.

He could see it now—you, sitting somewhere in the soft glow of lamplight, brow furrowed, fingers ghosting over the edge of the page as you read. He imagined your lips parting slightly, your breath catching, imagined the way your expression would shift as you took in every unspoken thing, every piece of him he had never known how to give you. He imagined your hands shaking, just a little, the way his were now.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel felt something close to hope—raw and terrifying and fragile, but there.

Joel shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line, his eyes dropping again, fingers curling into fists like he needed something to hold on to, something to anchor himself before the weight of this conversation swallowed him whole.

His breath came slow, measured, but it did nothing to steady the ache building beneath his ribs. "And what if she don’t wanna read it?" The words left him quieter than he meant, rawer, catching at the end like they had splintered in his throat before escaping.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, his expression softening, something quieter settling in his features as he leaned back, arms still crossed, gaze unwavering. “Then that’s on her.” His voice was calm, even, but there was something resolute beneath it, something steady, something Joel could feel pressing against the fragile edges of his doubt. “But at least you’ll know you tried. At least she’ll know how you feel. And maybe that’s all she needs to hear right now.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working around something thick, something impossible to name. He turned his face away, jaw tightening as his chest rose and fell in uneven waves, as he wrestled with the weight of Tommy’s words, with the war raging inside of him.

Because he knew what Tommy was saying made sense. He knew the truth of it. But knowing and acting—those were two different things. The thought of putting it all down, of laying himself bare, of giving you every feeling he had spent so long shoving into the darkest corners of himself—it terrified him.

Because vulnerability had always been a weakness. Something to be buried, something to be stitched shut, something to be survived. But this—this wasn’t just fear. It was something worse. Something quieter, something fragile.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

Hope.

And Joel—he knew better than to hope.

Because hope was a slow-acting poison. Hope meant risk, meant loss, meant opening himself up to something he might not get to keep. And God, he couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t stand the thought of reaching for something just to watch it slip through his fingers, of wanting something so much it destroyed him.

"I don’t know if I can do that."

The admission barely broke the silence, barely existed outside of his own head, but it was there. It was real. And it cut him open just to say it.

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He leaned forward, pressing a firm hand to Joel’s shoulder—grounding, solid, steady, the way only a brother could be. “You can.” His voice didn’t waver, didn’t leave room for doubt. “And you should.”

Joel’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his body coiled so tight it felt like he might snap. His breath stuttered as he dragged a hand down his face, his pulse a heavy, uneven thing against his ribs, everything in him screaming to pull back, to close the door before it was too late.

But then—so did the thought of doing nothing.

The thought of letting you slip away, of knowing he had the chance to fix it and chose not to take it—that was worse. That was unbearable. That was the kind of mistake that lived in your bones, the kind you carried for the rest of your life, the kind that haunted every quiet moment, every sleepless night.

And Joel had enough ghosts already.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Patrol had been nothing short of torture.

Toby filled every silence like he was afraid of letting the quiet settle, his words tumbling over each other, meaningless stories and half-hearted jokes spilling from his mouth in a way that made your skin itch. He spoke just to speak, just to be heard, just to push back against the weight of the stillness that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side.

His proximity set your teeth on edge. The way his hand brushed against yours too often, his fingers grazing your arm as he stepped ahead of you on the path. He touched without thinking, without asking, without knowing—not in the way Joel had. Not with quiet certainty, not with careful restraint, not with the kind of gravity that turned the smallest touch into something felt days later.

Your mind betrayed you, pulling you back, dragging you under. Joel’s hands, big, warm, calloused, threading through yours in the hush of the forest, steady, solid, a quiet promise in the way his fingers had pressed between yours, anchoring you, holding you. The contrast of it, of him—this unyielding, gruff man, carved out of war and grief, tempered by loss—offering you something so soft without ever speaking a word. You had felt it, down to your bones.

You missed it.

He didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed beneath the weight of his presence, how your steps edged just slightly faster, carving out whatever distance you could without making it obvious. Or maybe he did notice, and he just didn’t care. Maybe he mistook it for something else, something that suited him. The thought made your stomach twist.

You hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked for Toby to be your new patrol partner. And yet, here you were, suffering through every over-familiar glance, every unnecessary touch, every empty word meant to fill the silence that had never once unsettled you—not when it had been Joel by your side. Maybe this was karmic retribution, the universe righting itself after you had been foolish enough to think Joel might be yours.

By the time patrol ended, relief rushed through you like a breath you’d been holding too long, your lungs aching with the effort. But it didn’t last. Toby, oblivious or persistent—or maybe both—stuck close as you made your way back into town, his voice still filling spaces that didn’t need filling, his presence still too much.

"I’ll walk you home," he said, like it was a kindness, like it was something you should be grateful for, like he was doing you some grand favor.

Your stomach twisted. The irritation in your chest sharpened into something colder, something heavier. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

"You don’t have to." The words left you firm, clipped, sharper than they needed to be—sharp enough that anyone with even a shred of awareness would have picked up on it, would have known to take the out you were handing them.

But Toby just smiled, unfazed, enthusiasm unwavering. "I want to." He shrugged, like your words hadn’t mattered, like he hadn’t heard them at all. His voice was bright, easy, brushing off the steel in your tone like it was nothing, like he was entitled to this, to you.

The streets were quiet as you walked, the echo of your boots against the cobblestones the only sound besides Toby’s chatter. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, hoping even he could read the signal, but still, he stayed too close. His presence was suffocating, clinging like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

When you finally reached your door, you stopped abruptly, your hand hovering over the doorknob as you prayed he’d take the hint. But Toby lingered, his boots scuffing against the ground, his posture awkward as if he were working up to something.

��Hey,” he started, his voice softening in a way that made unease coil in your stomach. “I know the last time we hung out was a bit… weird.”

Your chest tightened, dread pooling in your stomach as the memory surfaced—the movie night that had gone sideways. You’d bolted right after, mumbling something about needing fresh air, and you hadn’t looked back.

Toby chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s no big deal, right? We’re good. I just thought—”

"Toby." Your voice cut through the cold night air, sharper than you meant it to be, the frayed edges of your patience bleeding through. "Thanks for walking me home, but I’m really tired." You tried to make it final, tried to press an ending into the space between you, hoping he’d take it for what it was—a dismissal.

But he didn’t. Didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even hesitate.

"Fuck it," he muttered, barely audible, barely there. But you heard it. And before the words could even register, before you could react, before your body could so much as move—he leaned in. Warm. Insistent. Wrong.

His lips pressed against yours, stealing a moment that was never his to take. Your body locked, your breath stalled, something sharp and sick curling in the pit of your stomach as your mind scrambled to catch up, to process, to understand. His hands settled on your arms, gripping too firmly, his presence suffocating, closing in, closing around you. The weight of it, the sheer audacity, the way he just assumed—

You didn’t kiss him back.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs felt heavy, pinned beneath a moment you hadn’t chosen, trapped in something you wanted no part of. And yet, there you stood, caught in it, drowning in it, the wrongness of it spreading through your veins like a sickness.

And then, it was over. He pulled away, looking pleased, looking satisfied, like he hadn’t just taken something from you.

"See you soon."

His voice was light, casual, like this had been inevitable, like you had wanted it. His footsteps faded into the quiet before you could even find the words to respond, before you could scrape together the breath to tell him how wrong he was.

You stood frozen on the doorstep, the cold biting against your skin, against the places he had touched, against the places you wished he hadn’t. Your fingers lifted to your mouth, trembling, hating that the sensation was still there, that it lingered, clinging to you like something spoiled, something rotten.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, hot and unwelcome, threatening to spill over as the weight of it all settled deep into your bones. This was wrong—all wrong. Every part of you recoiled, your body rejecting the memory of Toby’s lips, the unwanted heat of his breath, the foreign press of his touch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. You didn’t want him, didn’t want this moment, didn’t want the shape of someone else’s hands lingering where they had no right to be. The disgust curled in your stomach like something spoiled, like something taken from you before you could even flinch away.

Because it wasn’t his kiss you had spent countless nights longing for, pressed beneath the blankets, fingers ghosting over your lips as if you could summon the phantom of something that had never been given to you. It wasn’t his hands you wanted to feel, warm and sure, threading through your hair, gripping your jaw, tilting your face toward his like he needed to breathe you in. It wasn’t him you ached for, wasn’t him who had haunted every soft and aching part of you, lingering in the quiet moments where your heart whispered his name into the silence like a prayer.

No.

It was Joel.

Joel, with his impossibly soft lips, so achingly pink, so at odds with the rest of him, always pressed into that thin, unreadable line, always bitten raw when he thought too hard, when he let himself feel too much. Joel, whose touch you had memorized without ever having the privilege of knowing it fully, whose warmth had brushed against your skin in the moments between longing and restraint, in the spaces where your hands had lingered just a second too long. Joel, whose stubble you had dreamed of feeling against your own tender skin, scratching against the delicate line of your jaw, leaving a burn in its wake as he kissed you like he had been starving for you, like the moment had been inevitable since the first time his eyes met yours.

You wanted him—God, you wanted him—wanted to lose yourself in the slow, agonizing press of his mouth, to whimper into him as he took what was his, what had always been his, what you would have given freely if only he had asked. Wanted to feel the way his hands—large, calloused, steady—would cradle your face, holding you there, keeping you close, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers, like he needed to know you were real.

And standing there on the doorstep, the cold biting into your skin, your stomach twisting with the weight of a moment that had never belonged to you, never belonged to him, all you could do was press your fingertips to your lips, eyes burning, chest hollowed out and aching with a grief you didn’t know how to carry.

Because no matter how much you wished otherwise, no matter how desperately you tried to push the thought away, you knew the truth of it.

You only wanted Joel.

And Joel wasn’t here.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Joel and Tommy had made it back from patrol hours ago, boots heavy with dust, the cold still clinging to their skin. But his thoughts weren’t on the ride home or the sharp bite of the wind. They were on you. He wondered if you’d heard—if someone had told you he was back. If you’d been relieved to know he was safe, that he’d made it home in one piece. He liked to think you would be. That maybe, just maybe, you’d been waiting to see him.

He had spent the entire day drowning in the dim, suffocating quiet of his bedroom, the curtains drawn tight, shutting out the world like it might lessen the ache inside his chest. But nothing did. Not the silence, not the solitude, not the weak glow of the half-burned candle flickering against the walls, casting unsteady shadows over the wreckage of his own making.

He missed your face—missed the curve of your smile, the way your cheeks rounded just enough to make you look younger, softer, like something untouched by the weight of this world. He missed the way you looked at him, the way it made him feel something he hadn’t let himself have in too long. And now, sitting here in the thick, suffocating quiet, all he could do was hope—hope that maybe you missed him, too.

Crumpled scraps of paper littered the floor around him, a graveyard of failed attempts, of words that had never made it past the ink, of confessions that had died in his hands before they had ever been given the chance to live. His breath was heavy, uneven, dragging through his lungs as he sat hunched over, elbows braced against his knees, his face buried in his hands. His fingers curled tight into his hair, gripping at the strands like he could reach inside himself, pull the chaos from his skull, drag the words out of his traitorous, treacherous heart by force.

That goddamn heart. The old, battered, useless thing. Beaten down by time, by loss, by grief that had settled too deep into his bones, a part of him now, woven into the fabric of who he was. A heart that should have hardened by now, should have shut down, sealed itself off, stopped making a fool of him. But it hadn’t. That weak, worn-out thing had kept on beating, kept on loving, despite every reason not to, despite the past, despite the certainty that love only ever ended in ruin.

Despite you.

He felt fucking stupid.

Stupid for thinking this would be easy, for believing even for a second that he could lay his heart bare on paper when he had never been able to say it out loud. Not when it mattered. Not when you had stood in front of him, eyes wide and pleading, offering him something rare, something reckless, something he had wanted with every aching part of himself and still—still—he had let it slip through his fingers.

Every letter started the same—I’m sorry—because it was the only truth he knew, the only thing that had burned in his chest since the second he let you walk away. And every letter ended the same—ruined, ripped apart beneath the weight of his own cowardice, of his hands shaking as he scratched through the words until the ink bled so thick the paper tore beneath it.

His gaze dropped to the latest attempt—his last, failed attempt—the ink smudged and uneven, the words unraveling somewhere in the middle, buckling under the pressure of too much feeling, too much of you lodged between the lines. He had started with I’m sorry—because it was all he could offer, because it was all that he was—but the rest had turned into a tangled mess of hesitation, of crossed-out confessions and thoughts too raw to see the light of day.

It wasn’t enough.

Not for you. Not when you deserved more—deserved everything—the world, if he could rip it apart and carve something softer from its wreckage. But no matter how many times he started over, no matter how many times he picked up the pen with shaking fingers and a chest too full of things he didn’t know how to say, it always ended the same way.

He wanted to tell you.

Wanted to lay it all bare, to strip himself down to the rawest parts, to put words to the impossible and make you understand what you did to him—how you had wormed your way into the deepest, most guarded corners of his soul, how you had become something he could no longer separate himself from. But how could he? How could he possibly articulate something so foreign, so unnerving, so terrifyingly real? How could he explain the way you had upended his entire goddamn existence, cracked something open inside him that had been locked away for decades—something he hadn’t even realized was still there, something he never thought he would need?

How could he tell you—his sweet girl, his undoing—that in fifty-six years of being a man, of surviving, of standing on this wretched, merciless earth, he had never felt anything like this? That you had touched something in him that had never been touched before, something that had never even stirred, never even dreamed of waking up? That he had lived his whole life thinking he was past feeling this way, past the kind of hunger that keeps a man restless in his own skin, past the kind of longing that hollows him out from the inside?

And how could he ever admit that every night—without meaning to, without deciding to—the last remnants of his waking mind always belonged to you? That it had become a quiet, unspoken ritual, a habit carved so deeply into him that he barely noticed it anymore, like muscle memory, like instinct, like breathing. That as sleep pulled at him, as exhaustion weighed down on his bones, it was always you who filled the spaces between consciousness and dreaming. You, always you.

How could he tell you that in those stolen moments, when the world had gone quiet and there was nothing left but his own thoughts, he let himself have you in the only way he could? That his mind was greedy, starved, painting images of you in devastating detail—the soft sighs and sweet little whimpers, the warmth of your skin beneath his palms, the way your lips would part beneath his, trembling, pliant, waiting for more?

That in the darkness, in the safety of solitude, he allowed himself to sink into the fantasy, let himself imagine you tangled up in him, pressed beneath him, fingers twisting in the sheets, whispering his name like a prayer, needing him in the way he so desperately, so helplessly needed you? That he could see it, feel it—his hands tracing reverent paths over your body as though trying to commit you to memory, his lips worshipping you in slow, unhurried devotion, trailing from your temple to your cheek, your jaw, your nose, your throat, drinking you in, tasting, savoring, claiming? That he could hear the way you’d gasp his name, the way you’d shudder under the weight of his touch, the way you’d look at him—eyes wide, lips swollen, undone—like he was something worth wanting, worth keeping, worth loving?

And God help him—how could he ever admit that, for all his restraint, for all his goddamn willpower, more often than not, he was just a man? Just a weak, desperate man who unraveled at the mere thought of you, who came undone in the dark where no one could see, where there was no one to witness the ruin you made of him. That he could fight it all he wanted, could curse himself for it, could try to bury it beneath guilt and self-loathing, but it didn’t change a damn thing—because it was you. It had always been you.

How could he tell you that some nights, the ache of you was unbearable, a hollow, gnawing thing lodged deep in his chest? That he would lay there, eyes shut tight, fists clenched, jaw locked, trying so fucking hard to will it away, to pretend he didn’t feel this way, to pretend he hadn’t already lost the battle the moment you looked at him like he was something soft, something safe, something good? That no matter how many times he told himself it was wrong—how many times he reminded himself that you weren’t his to think of like this, to want like this—it didn’t fucking matter.

Because he did.

Because he always would.

And that was the cruelest thing of all—that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to be better, to be stronger, to be the man he was supposed to be, he would always belong to you in ways he had no right to.

Joel swallowed, the weight of everything pressing down on him, settling deep in his chest like something immovable, something that had been there for years—decades, maybe—buried beneath grief and regret and every goddamn thing he had ever lost. But beneath the wreckage, something flickered, fought—a spark of determination catching at the edges of all the things he had ruined, all the things he had walked away from, all the things he still had a chance to fix.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the scattered pages at his feet. He hesitated for only a second, barely long enough to exhale, then wrapped his hand around the pen, lifting it with a quiet, steady resolve.

And this time, he wouldn’t stop.

This time, he wouldn’t let the fear win. Wouldn’t let himself be ruled by the ghosts of the past, by the ugly, vicious voice in his head telling him it was too late, that he had already lost you.

This time, he would give you everything. Every unspoken thought, every aching confession, every piece of himself he had spent years keeping locked away. Because he owed you that. Because you deserved that. Because if there was even the smallest chance that you would read it, that you would understand, that you wouldn’t turn away—God help him, he would take it.

Because no matter how much it terrified him, no matter how much it threatened to unravel him from the inside out, the thought of losing you—of never getting the chance to make this right—scared him more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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[just-dreaming-marvel]

A Princess & Her Knight ~ 1

A PRINCESS & HER KNIGHT MASTERLIST

Word Count: 1,365ish

Summary: You take a midnight stroll around the garden, only to be caught by your father's most trusted knight.

Notes: This is a short chapter. I promise the chapters will get longer. Please send in reactions!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

The moon was high and the night sky was clear as you snuck through the secret passageways of the castle. They were meant for emergency uses only, but ever since you were a young girl, you had used them to escape the confines of your chambers and explore the castle and the grounds surrounding it. Your father always kept plenty of knights around every exit of the passage, but you were still able to get past most of them.

Tonight, you were feeling a bit claustrophobic within the thick stone walls and you wanted to get out. You had successfully snuck past all the knights and into the garden. Most of the time, you would bring a book with you to take your mind off of whatever was weighing you down. Tonight you just wanted to let yourself think of it all.

You had heard the rumors floating around the castle. Your father was close to arranging a marriage for you. As princess, you knew that this was inevitable especially since you were in your twenties. You were also the heir to the throne, so you knew that the royal court was anxious to get you married into a good alliance and hurry and produce an heir of your own. You were the only child of the widower King. 

So you needed the garden to keep you calm and in the right headspace, especially when you knew that your life could change at any moment. You wandered the garden aimlessly, taking in the beauty of the night. You had no idea how long you were out there before you heard the familiar clank of armor. You sighed and rolled your eyes. All the knights wore the same armor but only one moved so stiffly that he made a different sound as he walked.

“Princess,” his tone was firm and serious, just as it always was.

“Sir Logan,” you greeted, continuing your walk.

He caught up quickly. “It is too late for you to be out, Princess, especially alone.”

“Oh, please, Logan, you know very well that I do this all the time.”

“And you know very well that you aren’t supposed to.” His large hand wrapped around your upper arm in a firm but gentle grip. “Let’s go.”

“Get your hand off of me!” You tried to pull free but you were not as strong as your father’s most trusted knight.

“Not a chance, your Royal Highness.” He drug you along towards one of the regular entrances to the castle from the garden. 

“Let me guess, you’re going to tattle on me in the morning?”

“The King must know that you are sneaking out again.”

“He knows. He knows everything and he doesn’t seem to care too much. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Logan grunted as he led you through the castle and back to your chambers. “I’ll make sure that Summers doubles the guard in the morning.”

“I’m so glad you care.” You tore your arm free finally. “And no thanks for anything, Sir Logan.”

Logan watched you as you slipped into your bedroom and slammed the door. Logan was your father’s favorite knight and the one who followed all the rules to a tea. Almost like he was afraid to break any. You were just grateful that he was in charge of watching over your father more than he was watching over you. 

~~~

“Hello, my dear,” your father greeted from behind his desk.

You smiled at him and walked around to press a kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, father.” You glanced at the hardened knight beside him. “Sir Logan.”

“Logan here was just telling me that he found you strolling the gardens last night. I saw the moon through my window before going to bed, it was beautiful.”

“It was. And the stars were shining so brightly.” You smirked as you noticed Logan clench his bearded jaw. “I wish you could have joined me, father.”

“Perhaps another night, my child, if you don’t mind pushing my wheelchair around.”

“You know that I never mind helping you.”

“Yes, my perfect daughter.”

“I’m sorry, your Majesty, but the Princess was out in the garden alone at night,” Logan finally cut in. “It is too dangerous for her to be doing that.”

“Right. Yes, dear, I’m afraid that Logan is correct. It is too dangerous for you to continue to do that.”

“But father—“

Your father silenced you just by raising a hand. “There is no arguing this I’m afraid. Your safety is always my number one priority and now that you are of age to marry, your safety is even more important. People will try to get to you to bargain for a marriage deal.” Your father hated watching your shoulders sink in disappointment. He never wanted to be the one to cause you pain, especially when it came to taking one of our greatest joys away. “There can be no more middle of the night rendezvous anymore. In order to over see this, I’m assigning a new knight to be your personal guard.”

“Who?”

“Logan.”

“What?” You and Logan both questioned.

“Yes, Logan will now oversee your protection. He is my most trusted knight and since he won’t take the head of the guard position, he will guard the most important person in my life.” Your father wheeled around the desk to you and gently took your hands. “I’m only doing this because I love you, my daughter.”

“I know, father,” you responded. “I love you too.”

“And you will listen to Logan?”

Your eyes flickered over to the tense man before landing back on your father. “Of course.”

“Good.” He gave your hands a little squeeze before dropping them. “You are free to go now, my dear. I must talk to Logan before he begins his new assignment.”

“Of course,” you curtsied. “Good day, father. Sir Logan.” Then you left the room.

“Charles, I really don’t think—“ Logan began.

“You are sworn to protect me, Logan,” your father interrupted, “and in order to do that, my daughter needs to be protected. She is all I have and I will not lose her to those who wish to do me harm.” Charles sighed as he wheeled himself over to the window. “As you know, there are people challenging Y/N’s right to the throne because she is a woman. She has no idea that there have been threats made. It is why I must hurry and find her a suitable match with a respected nobleman, a prince, or a king. It will secure her hold to the throne… You have been my most loyal knight since you arrived and you are the only one I trust with this assignment.”

Despite what Logan was feeling over becoming your babysitter, he couldn’t fail his King. “I will do what you’ve asked of me.”

“Thank you, Logan.” He rolled back around to his desk. “You may go now and good luck. My daughter is a free spirit with her own mind. You will need a lot of luck and patience on your side.”

~~~

“I heard the King assigned you to the Princess, Howlett,” Scott Summers said as he and Logan prepared to duel. He was Head of the Guard, only getting the job because Logan refused it. 

“Yeah,” Logan grunted.

“Well, good luck. I don’t know how she does it, but she’s a slippery one. Knows every hidden passage of the castle and is able to find ways around the guards.”

“Maybe we need to do something about that.”

Scott scoffed. “If you follow the Princess and find all the passages, then yes, I’ll make sure that they are all guarded. But she knows more than us all.”

“I’m going to need some help. Anyone you have free?”

“Yes, the young kid, Bobby. He’d be good for this assignment. An opportunity to prove himself.”

“Bobby? That kid almost impaled himself when he was a page.”

“He’s grown out of it. Bobby won’t fail you. What will fail you is keeping the Princess from breaking the rules.”

“I can manage.”

Scott scoffed, slapping Logan’s shoulder. “I’m sure you can, Logan. I can’t wait to see how well it goes.”

next chapter >

[fartistt]

❤︎ five years ago on valentine's day, you left twisted wonderland and left ace behind ❤︎ ace trappola x gn reader ❤︎ wc: 1k ❤︎ content warning(s): spoilers for chapter 7/inspired loosely off of ace's dream, reader is mc ❤︎ farteline prompt day one: see you again ❤︎ happy valentine's day guys -🍝

ace trappola doesn’t consider himself to be a philosophical kind of guy, but as of late, he’s started to detest the growing infinity of numbers.

sometimes in his dreams, he’s still a sixteen year old boy. the biggest concern in his mind is how he’s going to steal part of deuce’s lunch and manage to wiggle his way out of it without getting shoved into a headlock by his roommate, and if his brain is feeling particularly agreeable, he can make out the peals of soft laughter in the distance under deuce spewing insults towards the redhead.

and without fail, the alarm goes off, and ace is left with the humiliation of groggily rubbing his eyes open to an oddly cold bed. 

it’s one extra day that he wakes up without you by his side. without you in this world.

the number of days since you’ve left twisted wonderland only grows bigger. they get further and further away from zero and closer to unending infinity. it takes ace a bit longer this morning to force himself up into a seated position. it’s as if there’s a physical weight in his chest bogging him down, making it that much harder for him to get up.

it’s been 1,825 days. he hates that he cares enough to keep count. if he didn’t care as much, he wouldn’t keep count, and then, it wouldn’t hurt as much to ruminate over it. some days are better than others, and the grief is just a whisper in the back of his mind. on other days, it’s all he can think about, especially when his dreams are so vivid.

ace wants to close his eyes and sink back into the fleeting comfort of his bed again. his version of you in his sober, waking mind is so blurry and hazy, but behind his eyelids, you’re right at his fingertips. it’s almost like if he gathers his courage and reaches out, you’d be right there. you’d melt into his arms and scold him for being so reckless and brazen, and he’d soak up your voice like a spoiled cat throwing a tantrum in its owner’s arms. 

it drives him crazy to think that this is the only way he can have you. 

would you still recognize him if you were to see him after all this time has passed? would you ruffle his hair like you always did and call to him as if he were still nothing more than the stupid boy in your class? or would you get shy about how much taller and slimmer he’s gotten? he can imagine the way your eyes would widen slightly before averting your gaze, fidgeting with the ends of your fingertips, and just imagining the scene before him has ace’s heart reacting noticeably. 

but there’s no point to it. you’re not here. 

no matter how much he runs, fantasy only ebbs away into heartbreak. his veins feel as if they’ve been filled with lead instead of blood, and the grief gnaws away at him until it causes physical pain. ace winces and grits his teeth, recoiling into the plush material of his bed, but even though he tries to hide from the monsters by retreating into the safety of his blankets, reality is far scarier and far meaner than any boogie man he could conjure up.

he can’t even console himself with the thought that you might be happier in your world. he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re doing. maybe everything would hurt less if he could at least see you, hear from you, but as the days tick by, the only answer his desperate prayers have netted him is the silence that he just can’t seem to get used to. time won’t heal him. it never will. 

it makes him feel so helpless. even more inferior to the sixteen year old boy that squandered the one and precious love that crash-landed straight into his lap. everything was easier then, sweeter, since he had no idea of the lifetime of hurt he’d have to face when the idyllic daydream would end. there are no retries for him, no second chances, no do-overs to do the right thing and chase after you and cling to you and beg and beg and beg until his voice goes hoarse in one final futile attempt to force this twisted world to listen to his own selfishness. 

it’s too late. it’s no use. he knows this. he accepts this. but god, he can’t live with this. 

you’re gone now. 

ace is no longer the immature sixteen year old boy that you knew. time has cruelly nipped at his heels, and as his ongoing count of seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years carry on, they’ve caught up with him too. the lively, boyish charm in his eyes is gone, and the lingering baby fat in his face has slimmed down. his once deft fingers are now lifeless, and his smooth palms that would grab at you are calloused and lonely. when ace looks at himself in the mirror now, all he sees are sunken eyes with dark circles and pallid cheeks. 

valentine’s day tastes like regret to ace. the numbers 2 and 14 are a curse you’ve left on him, as punishment for his idiocy and for his lack of action. all the words he’s left unsaid sink in his stomach year after year like tears he can’t seem to fully choke down. his heart is nothing more than a heavy rock in his chest, no longer able to muster the strength to even scream and cry and claw at his skin until he tires himself out physically. all he can do now is to learn how to live with the heartache, to constantly oscillate between the void and the distance that only grows and grows between the two of you.

it’s been five years. 1,825 days since you’ve left his side—left this world.

ace detests the growing infinity of numbers.

rené magritte: time transfixed

[itsgiovanna]

playing for love (chapter 1)

pairing: fem!character x mason mount

summary: injured and lost, mason mount begins his recovery with the help of adeline alderidge, a tough yet brilliant physiotherapist with secrets of her own. he becomes determined to break through the walls adeline has built around herself. but some wounds don’t heal easily, and the closer they get, the more mason realizes she might need saving just as much as he does.

notes: hey, everyone! this is the first chapter and i’m so happy to introduce you to mason & adaline's story. hope you like it! enjoy 🤍

word count: 2.8k

warnings: none

teaser | chapter 1 | chapter 2

The locker room was buzzing with energy — voices overlapping, boots scuffing against the floor, the clap of a teammate hyping up the squad. It was the usual match routine, but to Mason, something felt off. He sat at his locker, elbows resting on his knees, staring at his feet. His stomach was tight, but not in the usual way. Normally, it was adrenaline, that restless hunger to get out on the pitch and play. This was different, it sat heavy in his chest.

Maybe it was just in his head. But it had been there for weeks now — like a weight he couldn’t lift. Since joining United, everything had felt harder. The pressure, the expectations, the constant questioning.

He already knew what people would say if he had another bad game.

“Mount struggling to find his place.”

“United’s number 7 failing to deliver.”

A hand clapped against his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts.

“You good?” Mason looked up to see Marcus Rashford standing over him, adjusting his captain’s armband. His expression wasn’t just casual concern — he was really looking at him, like he could tell something wasn’t right.

“Yeah. Just focused.” Mason forced a nod. 

“Focused, huh?” Marcus raised a brow. 

“I’m fine, mate.” Mason let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. 

“Alright. Let’s do this.” Marcus studied him for a second longer before giving him a firm pat on the back. 

The team gathered around as Ten Hag delivered his final words. “Stay compact in midfield. No sloppy passes, no hesitation. And Mason.” — his gaze locked onto him — “Be aggressive. No holding back tonight.”

Mason nodded, but the unease in his chest didn’t go away.

The first half was a battle. Manchester City were relentless, pressing high, moving the ball quickly. Mason was doing his best to keep up, but it wasn’t enough. He felt a step behind, his touches just a little off. Every mistake felt heavier, like it was adding to the weight pressing down on him.

Then, early in the second half, his moment came. A misplaced pass from City’s defense sent the ball rolling into open space. He sprinted forward, reaching for the ball — but, everything happened at once.

A body crashed into him, full force.

Rúben Dias.

Mason barely had time to think before he was sent flying. 

The pain was unbearable, his knee twisted violently before giving out completely, his body collapsing onto the grass. He gasped, his hands clutching his leg, but it was like a fire spreading through him, sharp and unrelenting. 

The noise of the crowd faded. His ears rang. The only thing he could focus on was the agony tearing through his body.

Then came the voices.

His name. Shouts for the medical team. Hands on his shoulder, his arm — steady, grounding. Rashford and Hojlund were crouched beside him, his face tight with worry.

“Mase, talk to me. You alright?” Rashford put his hand on Mason’s shoulder, but voice cut through the chaos—loud, sharp, and angry.

“What the fuck was that?”

Mason barely turned his head in time to see Rúben Dias standing a few feet away, arms raised, shouting at the referee. But he wasn’t apologizing — he was blaming him.

“He threw himself into it!” Rúben snapped, shaking his head. “That’s not on me!”

A wave of anger rolled through Mason’s teammates. Rashford was up in an instant, stepping toward Rúben. “What’s your problem?” he shot back. “He’s on the ground, mate. Have some fucking respect.”

Lisandro Martínez shoved past Rashford, glaring at Dias. “You’re not helping Dias. Just walk away.” The referee quickly stepped between them, telling them to calm down, but Mason couldn’t focus on the argument. The paramedics were already beside him, voices low but urgent.

“How bad?” one asked.

“Looks like ligament damage. Possible tear.”

“Quick, we need to get him off now.”

Mason barely processed their words. His pulse pounded in his ears, the stadium lights too bright, the voices around him distant. The stretcher appeared beside him, and Mason barely registered the hands lifting him onto it.

This wasn’t happening.

He wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Not injured. Not like this.

As they carried him off, pain flaring with every small movement, the crowd’s noise became lower in the background. He shut his eyes, swallowing down the disappointment, the fear.

(...)

The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing lights and muffled voices. Mason lay flat on the stretcher, his body stiff, every bump in the road sending pain through his leg. His knee felt like it was on fire, a deep, throbbing ache spreading through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but it wasn’t working.

“Hang in there, Mason. We’re almost there.” One of the paramedics hovered over him, adjusting the straps securing his leg.

“Male, twenty-six, severe knee trauma. Suspected ACL tear. Pulse stable, high-pain level.“ The other spoke into a radio, relaying updates ahead to the hospital.

ACL tear.

Mason clenched his jaw. He knew what that meant. Months out. Maybe longer.

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the stretcher. The sound of the sirens was distant, drowned out by the pounding in his head.

The ambulance doors swung open the moment they arrived at Manchester Royal Infirmary, one of the best hospitals in the city for sports injuries. Everything moved fast. Bright lights, rushed voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic.

“Took a direct hit before collapsing. Pain’s at a ten.” The paramedics wheeled him through the corridor, speaking to the medical staff waiting for them, prepared to do the scans.

The words barely registered. Mason felt lightheaded, the pain and exhaustion weighing him down. He barely reacted as they transferred him onto the hospital bed.

And then, finally, known voices.

“Mason!” His dad’s voice cut through the hallway.

Mason forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness. His dad, Tony, was standing at the edge of the bed, his face tight with worry. His mom was beside him, arms crossed over her chest like she was physically holding herself together.

“We came as soon as we got the call.” Tony said, his voice steady, but Mason could see the concern behind his eyes.

“They think it’s my ACL.” Mason swallowed hard and the words felt heavy on his tongue. “I don’t know how bad.” Before they could say more, the doctor stepped in, holding a clipboard.

“Mason, we’ve reviewed your scans.” he said, flipping through the papers. “It’s a complete ACL tear.” He met Mason’s eyes. “You’ll need surgery.”

“Dear, God." his mom gasped. "And, the recovery?"

"It'll take at least six to eight months.” the doctor responded.

Silence.

Mason’s chest tightened. Six to eight months.

His season was over. His career, put on hold.

“We’ll get through this.” His dad pressed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Mason exhaled, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. The pain in his knee was unbearable, but right now, the pain in his heart was worse. Suddenly, the disappointment of letting down, the fans, his teammates and his family was greater than anything else.

(…)

The sterile smell of the hospital still clung to the air, heavy and cold. Mason lay on the bed, staring up at the white ceiling, his mind swirling with frustration. The pain from his knee was a constant reminder of everything he’d lost in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t just the injury. It was the weight of the season ahead — the expectations he was expected to carry, the doubts creeping in after another setback. His career, his future, all of it felt uncertain now. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this.

The door opened with a soft creak, and the nurse entered, her steps light but confident. She had black hair and a name tag reading "Charlotte" clipped to her uniform. She smiled as she walked toward him, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Mason.

“Mr. Mount.” she said, her voice sweet, but with a touch of something more. “How are you feeling?”

“Same as before.” Mason barely looked at her, keeping his gaze on the ceiling.

Charlotte moved closer to adjust his IV, her touch is gentle, but there was something about it that felt a little too warm. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, and as she finished, she smiled.

“I bet you didn’t expect your night to go like this. Right?” she said, her voice softer, a little flirtatious, though Mason wasn’t interested.

He could tell she was trying, but he wasn’t in the mood to entertain anyone. Not right now.

“I’ve had better.” he replied flatly, still not looking at her. She laughed lightly, and Mason couldn’t help but feel like she was laying it on thick.

“You’re not gonna stay mad at me, are you?” she said, leaning in just a little, her words dripping with intent.

“Not mad. Just not in the mood.” He shifted uncomfortably, finally meeting her gaze, though it was more to put an end to the exchange than anything else.

She raised an eyebrow, her smile a little less subtle this time. “Well, if you need anything, I’m just down the hall.” she said, lingering for a moment longer before stepping back, lingering on him as she made her exit.

Mason couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. The last thing he needed was someone flirting with him when he could barely get a grip on his own thoughts. After a few minutes, the door opened again, and this time, it was his sister, Jaz, and her husband, Sam. Jaz had that look on her face — the one that always came when she knew something wasn’t right, her worry barely hidden beneath a smile as she walked toward him.

“Mase.” she said softly, pulling up a chair next to his bed. “How’re you holding up?”

Mason turned his head toward her, but his expression remained guarded.

“Just another day.” he replied, though it didn’t sound convincing even to him.

Jaz sat down next to him, her eyes full of concern as she studied him. Her hand reached out, brushing his. “I know this has been tough on you.” she said quietly. “I can see it, Mase. I know what leaving Chelsea did to you... and now this.” Her voice cracked a little, but she quickly recovered, squeezing his hand. Mason didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t in the mood to explain. He wasn’t in the mood for pity.

“It’s fine. I’ll get over it.” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Jaz didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, she leaned in, her voice low and gentle.

“You don’t have to be fine, Mase. Not with me. Not with Sam. We’re here. Always.”

“You know we’ve got your back. Whatever happens.” Sam, standing at the door with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement.

Mason felt a surge of gratitude for them, but it was mixed with anger. He didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want them to see him like this. He hated feeling weak. But Jaz wasn’t having it. She pulled him into a tight hug, resting her cheek against his.

“I know things haven’t been easy for you.” she whispered. “Leaving Chelsea... coming to Manchester. It’s a big change. But you’ve always been strong. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

For a moment, Mason didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to being this vulnerable, especially not with his sister, but the warmth of her embrace made him realize how much he needed this. How much he needed them.

He hugged her back, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I just... I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t know if I can keep going.”

Jaz pulled back slightly, her eyes soft with understanding.

“Mase, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But don’t give up on yourself.” The words hung in the air, and Mason found himself lost in them, his walls starting to crumble a little.

(...)

Adeline stood in the kitchen, wiping down the countertops as the evening light dimmed outside. The small flat in the heart of Manchester felt quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only settled in after Lilith had gone to bed. The last few hours had been spent in the usual routine — dinner, playtime, bedtime stories.

Adeline couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Lilith was the light of her life, the reason she kept going even on the toughest days.

She had fought for Lilith before she was even born, through sleepless nights filled with doubt, through the suffocating fear of wondering how she would do it alone. The father had never been in the picture — he hadn’t wanted to be — and she had long stopped caring. What she had gained was far greater than what she had lost.

Lilith was her heart walking outside her body.

Every sacrifice, every long shift, every moment of exhaustion was worth it.

And it wasn’t just about being a mother. She loved her job, too.

Physiotherapy wasn’t just a career — it was something she was passionate about, something she had worked relentlessly for. Helping people heal, watching them rebuild their strength, seeing them step back into the life they thought they’d lost — it was fulfilling in a way nothing else was.

She had climbed her way up, studying late into the night after putting Lilith to bed, taking extra certifications while balancing work and motherhood. It hadn’t been easy. But she was good at what she did.

She remembered the early days of motherhood, when everything had felt so uncertain. There was a time when she had been terrified — terrified of raising Lilith on her own, terrified of how hard it would be. But there was also a moment, after months of sleepless nights and endless worry, when she’d found the strength to tell herself, don’t give up on yourself. She had whispered those words like a promise, a way to keep her head above water.

Now, years later, she repeated that phrase whenever things got tough. It wasn’t easy, but she had made a life for herself and for Lilith, one small step at a time.

“Mum? Mum!” Her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice from the hallway when Lilith called, her little voice muffled from her bedroom. “Mum, I can’t sleep.”

Adeline dried her hands quickly and moved toward the door, calling out gently, “I’m coming, Lily.”

Lilith was curled up in her bed, clutching her stuffed bunny. “I had a bad dream.” she mumbled, holding out her arms.

Adeline bent down to scoop her daughter up, cradling her in her arms. “What happened, darling?” she asked, brushing a lock of hair from Lilith’s forehead.

“I dreamed the bunny got lost.” she said softly. “Can we keep him close?”

“Of course, my love.” Adeline smiled and settled them both under the covers, letting Lilith snuggle into her arms. “He’s safe now, I promise. No one’s taking him.”

As she laid there, her phone buzzed from the kitchen counter, the vibration loud in the quiet room. Adeline’s eyes fluttered open, and she reluctantly got herself away from Lilith, tucking the blanket around her daughter before heading back to the kitchen.

She frowned when she saw the name of your boss, Dr. Hearst, on the screen. It was nearly 11 p.m. What could he want this late?

“Dr. Hearst?” She answered quickly.

“Adeline, I’ve got an opportunity for you. A big one.” His voice came through steady, direct.

She straightened. “I’m listening.”

“Mason Mount came in tonight. Complete ACL tear. Manchester United is assembling a team to handle his recovery, and they need the best physiotherapist for the job.” Adeline was not a football enthusiast, she’s heard his name a few times, but that’s it.

“And… you’re saying that’s me?”

“Yes. You’re the most qualified in our department, especially with your postgrad in sports injuries. I vouched for you.”

“I appreciate that, but-” Adeline hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter.

“I know what you’re thinking.” he cut in. “But, listen. They’re offering serious money. More than double your salary. This isn’t just about your career, Adeline. This is about securing a future — for you and Lilith.”

Lilith.

Adeline’s gaze flickered toward the closed bedroom door, where her daughter was sleeping soundly, unaware of the weight pressing on her mother’s shoulders.

“When do they need an answer?” She exhaled, running a hand through her hair.

“Tomorrow morning. We’re finalizing the medical team, If you want in, be at the hospital by eight.”

A beat of silence passed.

Adeline swallowed. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long.” Dr. Hearst warned. “This is the kind of chance that doesn’t come twice.”

She ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at her phone.

Footballers. She’d heard enough stories from her colleagues — entitled, arrogant, difficult to work with. But…

She glanced at Lilith’s door again.

This wasn’t just about her. This was about her daughter’s future.

And Adeline always put Lilith first.

(...)

[sailorblossoms-rankane]

Akane begins, quite frankly, as scared to be desired: she’s used to associate men’s horniness with danger and harassment. When she has a horny fantasy with ranma, it’s hundreds of chapters after meeting him, and she’s doing it in the context of feeling like he will protect and be devoted to her.

[this has nothing to do with the Ranma she actually knows, but with fears others (her own sisters) and media (that she’s watching right before this) put in her head. It’s not even subtle: the female character in the show or movie she’s watching that gets assaulted looks just like her. She’s wearing “a cow” fit that is later referenced again in one of the covers of the battle of the busts arc (chapter 361: The Punishment of Perv-Boy!)]

(So both Ranma and Akane are scared of desired. Ranma struggles with being the one feeling it, and Akane of being desired – it's what's expected of gendered roles, for men to want and women to be wanted... I realized this in the process of writing this when it was first a thread. I just keep finding ways they match... It’s a huge turn-off to be scared or feel pressured. Ranma and Akane build comfort and safety with the other)

Akane's fantasies include many things (like protection and devotion) but most notably: she gets horny. In these volumes, when Ranma fantasizes, they are romantic in nature (not horny) and they center on his desire to be with Akane forever (and that Akane will want that too).

[this is part of a longer post: Ranma: gendered expectations, self-image and (sexual) desire]

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

One of my favourite little details in Six of Crows is that throughout the book we have this growing tension and build-up surrounding just how the Drüskelle execute Grisha and we never get a straight answer, not even when Nina directly asks Matthias if not a pyre then what and gives examples (including firing squad and gallows) and Matthias deflects the answer. At the time we think little of it because of the heat of the moment and the high tensions surrounding the argument, plus we’re still fresh from the pyre scene, but ultimately Matthias never actually answers this question because he does not know the answer.

And he does not know, as we learn in chapter 35 straight from Jarl Brum’s own mouth, because they don’t, at least in the typical sense of the word, actually execute the Grisha; for the past fifteen years they’ve been torturing and experimenting on the Grisha prisoners found guilty during the trials.

Anyway I’m tired so I’m not gonna let this post get too much longer but the point is that I think the fact Matthias doesn’t even know the answer to this question is one of the many things that keep him questioning the manipulation he was put through early on in the book and I think that to a certain degree the solidification of every tiny doubt he had in chapter 35 told him not that he was going to turn on Brum, because he already knew he would do that for Nina, but that he was making the right choice for himself by doing it too

[he3ts]

FOR YOUR LOVE , masterlist

( nam gyu x reader (rockstar au), thanos x reader )

warnings: to be consistent with the plot reader is danish, smut, drugs, alcohol, explicit content, lots of music, for this story i was inspired exclusively by the discography of måneskin. i was inspired by one of their songs for this story.

plot: you and nam gyu don't get along. never. he is arrogant, prickly, always ready to challenge you with sharp jokes and fiery glances. you, you are exactly like him, a devil incarnate in a woman figure. you must be perfect, as the guitarist of saurer sarg, a rock band on the rise.

on stage you are a shadow moving between sharp riffs and fiery solos, but out of there the real show is your relationship with nam gyu, the drummer. you prick each other relentlessly, always on the edge between rivalry and something more, something neither of you has ever had the courage to really face.

then there is thanos, the charismatic frontman. when you start writing songs with him, the complicity between you becomes obvious. every note, every word seems to bring you closer and closer, and suddenly nam gyu is no longer just the guy you argue with over every musical detail-he's the one who looks at you in silence when you think you don't notice.

but success brings with it the weight of choices. the tour lengthens, tensions rise, and the distance between you becomes deeper than the music can bridge. as the band begins to crumble, you are faced with a question that is not just about the music: who are you when the lights go out? and who do you really want by your side when everything seems to fall apart?

SAURER SARG ( MEMBERS )

— the guitarist,, you

— the drummer ,, nam gyu

— the singer ,, choi su bong

— the bass player ,, se mi

DISCOGRAPHY ( SONGS )

20 years ( written by thanos )

" i'm twenty years old

and i don't give a shit, i have zero to prove to you

i'm not like you who give your soul to money

from the eyes of the pure you are only cowards "

hate ( written by thanos )

" let's spend the rest of life together tonight

life is being with you in bed, everything else is waiting

we own ourselves only the time we spend together

and to both of us so it fits "

malak ( written by thanos )

" something is moving (euphoria, i'm crazy about you)

it's us against the light (euphoria, i'm crazy about you)

the birth of another venus is you and me "

the essence of the universe ( written by se mi )

" this morning i was on my way to work

i thought i'm not like them

i am a fountain pen

ink on the skin of others, a means of making sense

to the dirt on the hands of those who dig into mental problems "

the man who loved women ( written by you )

" only you, forgetting you is hard

you were a little more

i liked the way you loved

how much of a man you are

if i'm not around

you consume me in a day

waiting for a farewell "

escort ( written by nam gyu )

" come on you are ashamed

we've been here for more than an hour, you get undressed

you don't want to throw your money away

you don't need the eyes excuse anymore

it's not a vice if i do it once in a while

do you mind if i call you once in a while?

i didn't think i liked you so much

if you keep it up I swear i'll have a heart attack "

goodbye ( written by thanos )

" i never really remember how i started

we never really stop when we start

if freedom is a teenager's mistake

to love without asking, to hate without understanding "

i want you ( written by nam gyu )

" you, i feel like you're terrorised

i have a feeling

i feel like telling you now

hey, i feel like love is good

it's such a big deal

i feel like telling you now "

FOR YOUR LOVE ( CHAPTERS )

i. years to grow

new chapters coming soon

[myswans0ng]

As Grief Consumes | Chapter Three

synopsis: An overconfident prodigy, a chain-smoking-alcohol-chugging brunette, a self-righteous hypocrite, a stoic unimpressed blonde, an overly enthusiastic boy and then there's you...A suicidal maniac.

ch. summary: The big dog returns and he’s off the leash…

contents/warning: MDNI, graphic depictions of violence/mature themes, ANGST, mutual pining, eventual smut/smut, slow burn, multiple love interests, character death/s, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, humor, established age of characters is 18yo, jjk x oc, curse user!/jujutsu sorcerer!reader, fem!reader

w/c: 7.3k

index: [masterlist] prev. chapter | next chapter

⋅ ───⊱ iii. bet on losing dogs ⊰───⋅

A gun went off at around 7 am in the morning.

… in school grounds.

And now you and your ‘friend’ Geto, are in Yaga-sensei’s office. 

Both of you knelt down, head facing down before his towering figure as he sat across the two of you, with his arms crossed. 

You’re in trouble. 

Trouble is understatement. This isn’t a slap-on-the-wrist kind of deal, this was probably— most likely a risk of expulsion type of situation. 

And it was your fault.

To Geto, it was abundantly clear that you were to blame but you’ve managed to drag him down with you.

And he’s definitely not hiding the fact that he’s fuming right now.

The air in the room was still and the silence was brutal, to say the least. Yaga’s vivid disappointment looming over you both like children who broke an expensive antique vase. You didn’t dare look up, nor did the person next to you.

You could feel the tension radiating off of Geto beside you. His still and calm posture, betrayed by the twitch in his jaw and the quiet exhale of his irritation. Not at Yaga, but at you, of course.

You’re an idiot. If he could say that to you right now, he would.

“Explain yourselves.” Yaga-sensei’s deep voice felt like a tremor as it echoed in the room. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as sweat trickled down your lower back. You steal a glance at Geto from the corner of your eye. He didn’t move, he didn’t even flinch, but you could tell he was waiting.

Waiting for you to own up and fix the mess you created. 

Yaga’s eyes narrowed, his patience already wearing thin. 

You sighed, finally lifting your head.

How exactly do you explain the turn of events that occurred this morning?

How do you explain to Yaga-sensei that you— who he no doubt thinks of you as the well-behaved, well-mannered and maybe a little outspoken heir of the Kisaragi clan, tried to put a bullet through your brain this fine morning?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

A Few Nights Ago….

As a kid, you remember being told to never touch stray animals that come your way. Whether it was a wet puppy whimpering and pawing your leg for scraps or a lost kitten wandering and searching for its mother. You were always told to stay away and keep your hands to yourself.

You never understood where their concern was rooting from. Were they worried you’ll get fleas or that it’ll bite you and infect you with rabies? Or was it fear that you’d get attached to something fragile, and fleeting, something you couldn’t keep?

Maybe the latter was a little far-fetched but as you grew older, anyone you’ve ever helped or cared for seemed to prove that right. People, much like those stray animals, had a habit of wandering into your life with their broken pieces and leaving just as quietly when they no longer needed fixing.

Toji Zenin.

A stray animal. But very far from fragile, at least you’d like to think so.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Your gaze meets his sunken green eyes. The scar on the corner of his lip, stretching slightly as he smirked. His face is more rugged than the last time you saw him. His sharp canines shining faintly at the dim light casting over him.

A stray… dog.

Toji Zenin is a stray dog.

You noticed what looked like sticky purple residue, presumably from a curse splattered on his clothes and neck, mixing with the blood dripping from the side of his head, painting his ear and cheek red. His disheveled appearance was almost comical if it didn’t look like he was about to die.

A wounded stray dog— severely one, at that. 

“You look like shit.” You said flatly, your tone void of shock or concern.

He laughed at that, a low, raspy, amused sound that echoed in the abandoned warehouse he had told you to meet him at. The sound, too familiar. His body was leaning back against a stack of dusty crates. 

“S’nice to see ya too kid,” he replied, chuckling in short ragged breaths. “Mind helping your favorite sensei out?”

Sensei. He always called himself that, whether mockingly or not, because there was a time where he was and was yours, for four years in fact. Though you loathed addressing him that way.

Toji Zenin was the one who taught you how to fight with everything you had— and then some. 

You could still hear the words he drilled into your head, each one you remember distinctively, each time he managed to take you down because you were being ‘too nice’,

 “Fair fights are for losers and dead men.”

“You want something? Take it, rip it outta their hands if ya have to!”

“Do ya think they’ll stop jus’ ‘cause you’re crying?”

The training was brutal, it had left you bruised and aching more times than your other so-called senseis who were too afraid to disobey your mother’s wishes to keep your training… medium— more like, subpar compared to Toji’s methods.

At first you hated training with him, you hated his guts, you hated his stupid fucking cocky grin whenever he beat you! 

He fought like a feral, cornered, rabid mutt, all teeth and desperation, while you were more like a timid, kicked kitten, struggling to keep up.

But later on, the training made you sharper, faster and unrelenting. The fights where he didn’t hold back, where he forced you to claw and bite your way to victory if you wanted to survive, it was a cruel thing to teach a young impressionable mind but you’d be lying if you said you missed the version of you that didn’t know any better. 

“Are ya really just gonna stand there?” Toji muttered, his hand clutching the side of his abdomen.

Now looking at him, you couldn’t help but wonder if he regrets teaching you his merciless philosophy. 

“You’re lucky I don’t finish what this loser started,” you shot back, walking towards the bloodied dog standing at six-foot-two, even when he was slightly hunched.

Without missing a beat, he lifts his black shirt up to his underarms, the thin fabric bundled, revealing his strong, muscular torso marred with scars, both old and new. But the real kicker was the large jagged hole where his kidney used to be. Your eyes scanned the gory crater, assessing the wound.

“I still got it, don’t I?” he drawled, noticing your gaze. “The ladies love tuh’ see it.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed. “You do know you’re missing an organ right?”

“Still, your sensei’s a fucking machine, ‘m I right?” He smirked faintly. Chuckling slowly as he tried to mask the pain by stroking his own ego. 

You sighed. “Ya know I might just do the world a favor, and let you bleed out.” 

“Nahh I know ya wouldn’t let your favorite sensei die like this,” he rasped, his tone filled with amusement.

You feel your eyes roll again, the habit growing back the more you spoke to him. Without another word, you placed your hand on his firm, toned stomach that was slicked with his sweat and blood, just right  next to the open wound and on instinct, you channeled your cursed technique. Your power surged, weaving itself into the torn muscles and broken tissues in his body. 

You could feel his pain transmit to you, the process was methodical yet excruciating. The worst part was the stabbing ache piercing through your abdomen when your technique started regrowing the missing kidney. It was like knitting flesh out of nothing, your cursed energy burned hotter like molten iron in your veins. 

Every inch of your body screamed in protest, as if it was your organ being ripped from your side. Sweat trickled down your temples, as you clenched your teeth, toughing it out. Though you can’t say this is the first time you’d done this, regenerating loss parts was hard to get used to. 

Toji, on the other hand, let out a low, relieved groan. His head lolling back as the pain began to ebb away, replaced by a strange, almost euphoric sensation. It was like being on morphine but much sweeter and addictive.

“Damn, forgot how good this feels…” He said, his voice thick, almost slurring as his shoulders sagged. You could feel his slow breathing vibrating through his muscles. “S’much better than the stuff they got in hospitals. Ever thought about opening a clinic?”

You snorted, your hand leaving his body as the wound fully closed up like it was never there. “Did you forget my family already has those?”

“Not that legal crap, I mean like doing this typa stuff for people like me?” A lazy grin curved on his lips as he pulled his dirty shirt down. “Where they pay ya with favors or just straight up cash.”

“You mean you want me running an underground operation patching up lowlifes and criminals?” 

“Why not? You’d make bank,” he smirked.

“No you’d bankrupt me.” You retort.

You take a step back, you feel your knees tremble slightly, your eyes seeing dark spots in your vision. The effects of your abilities cause you to falter, but you force yourself to stay upright.

“Easy there, kid,” his grin fell, his tone had a flicker of worry as his hand caught your arm, keeping you from stumbling back. “Need me to carry ya?”

You shot him a glare, huffing out as you regained your composure. You pull your arm back from his grip. “I’m fine,” you muttered, the sensation of regenerating flesh back together still lingered— like phantom pains crawling up your own spine.

“And stop calling me that, not a fucking kid.” 

“Heh, guess you’re right,” Toji chuckled, his voice carrying a teasing tone. “My bad though for having to wear ya out this much.”

“Maybe next time try not getting gutted like a fish, Zenin!” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

Toji chuckled again, this time softer, as if genuinely amused. He glanced toward the warehouse exit, his expression turning distant for a moment before he spoke again.

“It’s Fushiguro now.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

There was a humble little izakaya near the train station where Toji seemed to know well. After the long, exhausting day you had, the takoyaki you had consumed earlier in the afternoon was long digested. You could practically hear your stomach grumble, especially right after tending to your former sensei’s wounds.

The dim lights kept a cozy glow inside the place and there was a rundown jukebox in the corner that still somehow worked perfectly well as it played classic romantic ballads. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was warm, alive and just comfortable enough for its frequent nightly patrons. Toji insisted on buying you dinner, saying it was for old time’s sake and not just to repay you. 

You were still ‘good friends’ after all.

The large gruff man returned to the counter where you sat, the small stool made a noise as it got weighted down by his burly physique. He had changed into a clean shirt and washed off in the bathroom sink, though his damp hair still clung to the sides of his forehead. You on the other hand have been glancing at the menu since you got here, seeing more options than you expected.

You see Toji wave off the cook in the corner of your eye, who immediately took notice of him.

“Lotus root chips, salted shallots and,...” Toji trailed off, scratching his head as if trying to remember something crucial. “Tuna with those sticky soybeans. One for her, two f’me— ‘n’ bring out a bottle of saké while you’re at it.” He held up two fingers lazily to emphasize his hefty portion. The cook gave a curt nod before disappearing into the small kitchen. 

“Don’t worry about it kid, I still know what you like,” he said casually. You scowled at him. “Right, not a kid no more.” Though you were a little surprised that he remembered that maguro natto was your comfort food.

“I’m surprised your little brain can still work, thought that guy got you good when I saw your head bleeding.” You replied.

“Wasn’t my blood.” He snickered, propping his chin on his hand as he leaned forward, pretending to read the menu then tossing it to the side lazily.

Moments later, the food arrived. The cook placed everything in front of you and Toji, with practiced ease, finishing off by setting down a bottle of saké and two tiny ceramic cups.

Toji wasted no time pouring the saké, sliding a cup your way. He raises his cup, gesturing towards you. You picked up yours and mirrored his motion.

You looked at each other for a brief moment, both had nothing to say or celebrate so instead he nodded at you knowingly and you did the same then clinked your cup against his nonetheless. You take a sip of the saké, there was a slight burn that settled in your throat and in your chest, enveloping you in a warm, tingling sensation.

Toji downed his drink in one go, sighing contentedly as he set the cup down. He wasted no time reaching for his food, grabbing a piece of lotus root chip and crunching into it like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. He was starving, just as much as you. You then started digging into the natto and raw fish.

“So… Fushiguro,” you began, your chopsticks fidgeting with the glutinous rice. “Is that like a fake name? Try’na hide or something?”

Toji paused mid-bite, his sharp eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of amusement. He chewed slowly, as if considering how much to tell you. “Nah, it’s not fake. Took my wife’s name.”

That made you stop, your chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Wife?” You repeated, your tone stuck between surprise and curiosity.

He smirked at your reaction, reaching for his sake cup to pour himself another drink. “Yeah, didn’t think I’d be the type, huh?”

“That and…” your mind pondered for a second, searching for the right word to say or where to begin. “I don’t know… I don’t actually know what I thought,” you admit. He chuckled, shaking his head as he took another chip.

“A wife huh? Who's the unlucky woman who had to put up with you?” You picked up your cup and took another long sip.

You hear a hearty laugh rumbling out of Toji. Then he gulps down another cup and let out a deep sigh. “... Late wife.” He said. His voice quieter.

“Sorry to hear that,” you said. “My condolences.”

Is that where he’s been for the past three years? You wondered.

Toji’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Must’ve surprised ya when I disappeared huh,” he said as if he had read your mind. 

“Can’t say I didn’t see it coming,” you said, remembering the chaos that ensued when Toji just up and left the Zenin clan. “I can’t blame you.” You swirled the sake in your cup, staring at the small whirlpool.

His eyes softened at your words, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “So you knew what those shitheads were planning?”

“Of course I knew,” you replied, “My family doesn’t keep their cards close to their chests when it comes to their grand plans. It wasn’t hard to piece things together especially when the elders were mouthy dimwits,”

You set your cup down, leaning forward slightly. ”Said something about you being the perfect candidate for the merger.”

Toji let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, perfect candidate, yeah right,’” he repeated mockingly. 

You were supposed to marry Toji when you’ve come of age. Your clan and the Zenin had carefully orchestrated the arrangement, calling it a union that would strengthen and bring the two families together to further their influence in the world of jujutsu. 

To the Zenin, they were always keen on getting rid of the problem of their family— Toji, but for once, they had an opportunity to make use of the said problem. He became someone they could conveniently offload onto the Kisaragi, all the while it would help build their empire.

For the Kisaragi, Toji fit the criteria for filling the role as your ‘spouse’. Your family was strictly selective in choosing the father of your offspring, given the circumstances of your abilities and the lineage they wanted to preserve, Toji, in your mother’s words, was— an ‘ideal specimen’ because he was practically a non-sorcerer. It was a deeply rooted tradition within your clan, one meant to safeguard the delicate balance of the Kisaragi curse, an inherited curse and technique that grew unstable or inconsistent when mixed with cursed energy users. Toji, in your family’s eyes, was exceptionally better than a healthy, normal, average human male— zero cursed energy but with outstanding physical prowess. 

What started out as a plan where they had hired Toji as your sensei— turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg.

You should’ve known better. It was never just one thing with these people. 

Your mother, along with the elders were convinced that the union would produce an heir who would not only carry on the family legacy, but could redefine a new generation of Kisaragi healers, unburdened by the limitations of your cursed energy and technique, plus an unparalleled set of skills and finally, for the Zenin, they could make use of the runts in their litter and the clan would finally have a more prominent standing amongst the rest. Your family and his shared these ideals.

This idea was ambitious.

And quite frankly… ridiculous. 

But the two clans were eager and too blinded by that delusion. They were practically patting themselves on the back for their so-called brilliance.

Fools.

"Bastards thought they could just pawn me off to get what they wanted.” Toji scoffed. “They sure didn’t expect me robbing ‘em blind, heh.” He let out a low, amused laugh, shaking his head.

Neither of you were consulted in this arrangement, not until a little later when you overheard the elders that both your family and the Zenin offered Toji a rather hefty sum for his cooperation. He would’ve gotten more if he had pushed through with their plans but that was the day you also found out that Toji had vanished. 

And both clans went in cahoots, desperately searching for the man who just stole 250 million yen. 

If Toji had run off with that kind of money, even with the knowledge that he could’ve gotten more if he stayed, that he could’ve finally gotten the acceptance or approval of his clan— then whatever drove him to leave must have been… worth it.

And now you know that reason was to be with the love of his life. The thought of Toji getting married and settling down, almost made you laugh at how… cheesy it was.

Toji leaned back, exhaling sharply. “My bad for not telling ya I was leaving, you probably hate me now,”

You’re supposed to be pissed right?

Furious, even. One of the only people you ever trusted just disappeared without a trace, without so much of a phone call. Now he shows up out of nowhere, three years later asking for a favor as if you hadn’t already given him enough. 

But surprisingly, you weren’t angry. On one hand, a part of you was relieved that he was still alive, though you would rather eat rocks than admit that, while the other— was apathetic.

Toji Zenin  Fushiguro may be a stray dog but he was your only friend. If the tables were turned, you would’ve done the same and he would’ve been proud. 

There was a beat of silence before you continued, your voice softer. “I don’t hate you… If anything, I envied you.”

That caught him off guard. His eyebrows raised slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. 

“You had the guts to leave…” You explained, your eyes staring into space as you spoke. “You walked away from it all— Hell, I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did with those assholes… I can’t say the same for me.”

He let out a long breath, his hand running through his dark hair. “So you don’t think I’m a piece ‘a shit?” “Oh I still do, but for different reasons,” you chuckled, lightening the mood. “You didn’t owe them—or me, anything. And honestly? I was glad you took the money and left. At least one of us got something out of that mess.”

Toji’s smirk returned, then poured himself another drink. “And that’s why you’re my favorite student!” He raises his cup at you, in salute.

“I’m your only student.” You scoffed, grabbing your own cup and clinking it lightly against his.

Toji grinned. “All the more reason.” You rolled your eyes but took a sip anyway.

He was still the same idiot who was sometimes denser than a bag of bricks like that one time he tried to teach you how to dodge by literally throwing knives at you.

“You need to be quicker,” he had said, flipping a knife between his fingers. “If you can dodge a blade, you can dodge anything.”

You had given him a sharp glare. “That’s not how training works.”

“Sure it is.”

You barely had time to react before he actually chucked the knife at you.

Instinct kicked in, and you twisted to the side just in time for the blade to whiz past your ear and lodge itself into the wooden post behind you.

“What the hell, Toji?!”

He grinned, clearly unfazed. “See? You dodged it.”

“That’s not the point!”

“C’mon, kid, you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t. Especially not when he did it again but for some unknown reason you can still see his heart peeking through the cracks even in those moments, if you looked hard enough. 

And if you looked a little closer, you could see yourself in this man beside you, the way he wandered with no direction, ignoring the weight on his shoulders as if it came with him the moment he was born, so ingrained in him that he barely noticed it anymore. 

Were you going to end up like him? 

Would you wake up one day, just like Toji, and realize you had nothing left to fight for? That you were just going through the motions, waiting for something, anything to pull you out of the abyss?

The same abyss you’re in right now. 

Would you go back to pieces of the past just to feel a little less lonely? Because that’s what you were to him. A ‘piece of the past’ that still knew who he was is and didn’t force him to be any other person. 

Or maybe one day… you’d stumble onto something too, because that’s what he did. He found something good, at least that’s what you assumed, something that made him want it enough to climb out of the hole he was sinking into. 

And if you did, would it slip through your fingers just as quickly?

How incredibly… sad.

How incredibly sad this tragic dog’s life is. Did you pity him? No. But you saw him, you got a peek through the shell of a broken man and you saw yourself. 

Do you pity yourself? Hmm.

“What did you do with the money anyway?” You asked, breaking away from memories of the past and your roaming thoughts. “Did you do all of that nice-house-and-a-white-picket-fence thing?”

“Tch, nothin’ much, blew most of it on those damn horses!” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “A’shame, really.”

You scoffed at the man-child next to you. Just as dense. It’s no shock at this point. 

“You’re a dumbass.”

He smirked, his smile hinting that he had no regrets.

“Pff, you sound like my wife.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Present…

You’ve spent almost all your late nights meeting up with Toji. Usually after his secret assignments. Though they weren't really a secret, considering that you were aware that he was a hitman for hire. He just chose to not discuss the details with you, ‘for your safety’, he said. 

You’ve spent those nights training with him again since during the day, Nanami was still hesitant even though he denies it and was back to sparring with Haibara, Shoko doesn’t like to sweat and prefers to just lounge on the grass, Geto wasn’t particularly fond of having you around and Gojo— well Gojo was just Gojo, being infuriatingly annoying with his infinity, no point in fighting him when he already had the upper hand, though you did try and try until it got boring— for you, at least. 

On one of those nights, you had the privilege of meeting Shiu Kong, the handler of that dog you’ve been running with. It didn’t take a second for Shiu to recognize your name, and already he was sizing you up after Toji had introduced you. He may even have a file on you somewhere tucked away in his office. “You’ve got the chops, kid,” you remember him saying the first time. “It’d be a waste not to put your skills to good use.” 

Shiu Kong was an interesting man. A man who had seen too much and cared too little. One night, after sparring with Toji, you both sought respite at the same place near the train station, which was now becoming your usual spot with him. As predicted, Shiu was there and again he was eager to recruit you. Toji couldn’t care less. He even vouched for you in a way, telling his handler that you were a real tough cookie. 

“What’s your price kid? What would it take to get you to consider working with us?”

After almost pestering you quite a bit, you said the first thing that came to your mind.

“A nickel finish, Colt Python .357 Magnum. Six-inch barrel with a custom leather grip.”

It was a joke. Obviously. An answer you didn’t think much of as it was meant to be disregarded. 

But boy oh boy did Shiu pull through, because Shiu— like Toji, took a gamble and was willing to lay it all out on the table just to get a chance.

Because the next time you saw him, he came bearing gifts.

And on the table did it lay, it was oh so shiny resting on the dark velvet cloth, sprawled out on his office desk like expensive jewelry. It was an enticing invitation.

Sleek.

Polished.

Deadly.

It was almost flattering.

You can’t say you weren’t tempted.

Because really, who are you, if not morally… ambiguous?

A week. Shiu gave you seven days to think it over and let him know by then what you’ve decided. You were free to test out your new shiny toy, if you wanted to.

And maybe you shouldn’t have. 

Earlier today, you were in the bathroom. You had just taken a long, hot bath. The steam still swirling around the room like ghostly fingers. Your reflection stared back at you, droplets trailing down your skin. 

Your mind started to wander again. Like clockwork, it took a turn to the deepest and darkest crevices of your thoughts. Slipping past reason, past restraint and feeling, your thoughts festering in the void.

Since stepping foot in Jujutsu High, your routine drastically changed.

Yaga-sensei had sent out your contact information for emergencies— public accessible information amongst jujutsu sorcerers and those who were a part of it. Your phone never stopped ringing or buzzing, calls came at all hours, even in the middle of class or training. You were always automatically excused to leave so you can remedy the problem.

Even when you were sleeping— at those ungodly hours, there was no peace. 

Healing was one thing but then now you had to take into account your academics, your training, and the missions assigned to you then reporting them— which was a separate task altogether. 

A part of you almost missed the times where your family would just ship you off to some war-torn country, leaving you there for months at a time. Almost.

But at least then, you knew what to expect.

At least then it was serious and not some rookie sorcerer who sprained their wrist exorcising a curse. Or one of the higher-ups' overly pampered relatives coming down with a flu, and acting like the world would end if they weren’t personally nursed back to health immediately.

Not to mention, the long trip from here to Kyoto, every now and then.

You weren’t a person to them. You were a service.

Quick and available.

The best kind of health insurance.

This— this is what you had been reduced to. 

You weren’t lying when you said you envied Toji, that you wish you had the capacity to just run from it all.

Not just jujutsu, not just your clan but everything.

But then where would you go?

If you’re not the heir of the Kisaragi clan, if you’re not a healer or a curse user or jujutsu sorcerer— or whatever the hell they taught and expected you to be,

If you weren’t useful,

If you weren’t a tool,

Then who are you?

A nobody?

A ghost?

A stranger with no name to call her own?

A body without a purpose?

A hollow shell masquerading as a human?

Has there ever been a version of you that existed beyond what they made you to be?

Just another sheep…

Bred to serve, trained to obey— never meant to stray too far, never meant to be anything more.

That’s all you’ve ever been, right?

Shut up! 

Shut up!

SHUT UP.

Your teeth clenched, your palms pressed against your temples, your fingers digging into your scalp, clawing at your skin as if you were trying to physically take out the suffocating thoughts— voices in your head. 

You could scream.

You wanted to scream but your voice, much like your heart, was empty.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Because there was no answer.

There will never be an answer.

There was no you.

Not outside of this room.

Not outside of them.

The bathroom mirror fogged over, your reflection disappearing behind it. You could feel the weight of your own emptiness pressing down on you. A feeling so familiar, it was almost comforting. 

Your body moved before your mind did.

Bare feet against the cold tile as you motioned out the door, water dripping on the wooden floors leaving wet tracks. It was like you were watching yourself move but whatever possessed you, took the reins, guiding you with a feeling so sinister, that you can only let it. You were just a spectator.

You found yourself in the kitchen, your hands reached as if it already knew. 

Beneath the sink, behind the cleaning supplies and forgotten odds and ends— there it was.

Your fingertips brushing against the metal. The coolness teetering you closer to the edge. Its cold touch ironically igniting a small spark inside your chest. But there was no warmth, just a small jolt, the feeling you get before you step off the cliff.

The revolver was in your hands, before you even realized you had pulled it out of its hiding.

The weight settled in your grip comfortably like it knew you. Like it belonged to you more so than anything else. 

It was always waiting for you.

Familiar. Comforting.

Before you know it, you open its chamber, letting the bullets tumble out one by one. The sound of iron clattering on the kitchen floors like pennies tossed into an empty well.

But you only had one wish.

A single round remained— your luck of the draw. 

You spun the cylinder, the metallic whir so close to your ear, it almost sounded soothing.

Your gaze drifted to the kitchen window. The sky stretched, so vast and endless, painted in soft shades of blue. It was a perfect day outside. 

What a shame.

Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll be able to soar with the clouds and just wander aimlessly but content.

And fortunately, you’re feeling extra lucky today.

The cold press of steel against your temple was grounding . The weight in your hand, familiar. The silence in your head, finally a relief.

You breathe in.

Hold.

Your finger curled over the trigger, slow, steady—

Bang!

The gunshot ripped through the quiet, deafening and disorienting but there was no pain.

Your ears rang before you could even register that… Geto had yanked your hand just as you pulled the trigger.

The dark haired sorcerer yelled at you but you couldn’t make out the words.

Your eyes widened, surprised at the intrusion that this man had caused. The bullet tore through the ceiling, leaving behind a hole as dust and debris came crumbling down like snow.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. Though the bullet didn’t hit you, the adrenaline remained. 

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

You finally hear his voice cutting through, dragging you back to reality. The ringing in your ear, fading. He ripped the gun out of your hands, by loosening it within your hold as he held your wrist, causing you to involuntarily toss it to the corner.

The sheer force of his pull managed to catch you off guard. Then you feel a whisper of cool air against your skin.

You looked down and so did he. 

Your towel that was wrapped around your body was now on the floor. 

For a brief second, neither of you moved. Both stunned as the air shifted, suddenly becoming awkward but the rage, still there.

You saw how Geto’s eyes flickered down at your bare body. That split-second slip up before he snapped his eyes back at your face, his cheeks turning a flush shade of pink.

Your brow twitched, your jaw clenched as you called him out, pulling your hand from his grip.

“PERVERT!!!” You yelled at him accusingly. 

Geto scowled, ears turning red. “I’m not a pervert!”

“You just checked me out! Pervert!’

“I DID NOT!” His voice suddenly higher, his composure cracking as his face turned to the side, avoiding your gaze— your body.

“YES YOU DID! YOU TOTALLY DID! YOU PERVERT!” You shot back, folding your arms across your chest only to realize,

Right… you were still naked. 

You quickly grabbed the towel back from the floor and wrapped it around you swiftly. Heat rising to your face, whether it was from anger or sheer embarrassment or both, you weren’t sure.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

“Why the hell am I even arguing about this?! I should be the one pissed at you! What the hell were you thinking just now?!”

“Oh, I don’t know! What the hell were you doing in my room anyway, huh?” You countered, tilting your head. “That’s kinda weird, don’t you think? Sounds pretty perverted to me!”

“I- I am not a pervert! Stop calling me that!” Geto groaned, dragging a hand down his face, already regretting every single life choice that led him here.

But what was he doing in your room?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Since Geto made it very clear the other day that he doesn’t trust you. He wasn’t about to let you just walk around at night, going to god knows where. He decided to follow you discreetly, not out of concern but because he was suspicious of you.

He’d be lying to himself if he thought that you were an easy target to follow. You were always looking over your shoulder and stopped every time you would hear a slight rustle in the bushes. It resorted to him using a more obscure method.

Which was flying through the air riding one of his aerial curses because you never bothered to look up. Though the distance from where he was watching you wasn’t ideal. He’d stop in his sleuthing, every time you got into a stranger’s car. It was too risky for him to follow you all the way or too close, especially when you weren’t alone.

He had spotted you for a couple of nights now, leaving the school outside of curfew, then would come back hours later.

He was dead set on proving to your friends that you weren’t what you seemed. This was an itch he’s been dying to scratch and had sacrificed a couple of sleepless nights trying to find evidence for his suspicions. He despised how his friends, even Satoru, were too trusting, not when your family had quite the reputation helping those weird, mindless cultists. Especially when there were words circulating that they were behind the disappearances of some sorcerers. So he had to take matters into his own hands. 

He would wait you out sometimes if time allowed him to and if he wasn’t too tired. Until that one night where he saw you come home  carrying a small case, that looked anything but ordinary. 

Which brought him here, inside your home in Jujutsu High. He had snuck in there the moment you drifted off to sleep. He had been looking for that damn case for god knows how long. He hadn’t expected that you would be up so early when he heard you stirring in your sleep. The sound of your alarm waking you.

He instinctively hid in the broom closet and he stayed there till you walked past the closet door and heard the bathroom door click shut and the sound of water running. He continued his search but was now under pressure, being cautious since you could step out of the bathroom any minute now. He rummaged through every drawer and cabinet, or wherever he thought the case could be hidden. He was so sure that if he found it, it would be enough proof that you’re not to be trusted. 

Not until he saw you take it out underneath the kitchen sink when he hid once again, peeking through the gap of the broom closet’s door.

Which led to this moment, having to stop you from offing yourself again then hearing your accusations thrown at him for having misguided perversions which were far from the truth.

Not that he saw anything.

… That’s a lie.

He admitted to himself. He saw everything. He cursed under his breath as if scolding himself, the image of your damp, glistening skin flashing through his mind once again. 

His grip tightened at his sides, jaw clenching as he pictured the supple skin of the woman in front of him who was yelling at him.

Damn it. Of all the things to be thinking about right now.

Well how was he supposed to defend himself?

What was he supposed to say?

That he had been tailing you for the past few nights, trying to dig up dirt on you? Hiding in your broom closet while he was snooping through your things?

Shit, even admitting that, it wouldn’t help his case.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Geto didn’t have time to defend himself or explain himself to you— hell, he barely had time to process everything because the door suddenly burst open.

Yaga-sensei stormed in, his sharp eyes scanning the room, drawn immediately to the smoking hole in the ceiling. His gaze flicked to the discarded revolver, then to you— completely and utterly shocked, before his eyes narrowed at Geto. 

Now in your teacher’s office, he was watching your contorted face trying to come up with an excuse, an explanation— anything!

Yaga-sensei had an impression that you would be the more sensible one so he granted you a chance— a benefit of a doubt that all of this was just a little misunderstanding. But the way you were acting, was making him think otherwise.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Well,” you finally started, dragging out the word. “You see, I—”

You stammered. Your heart rate rising. You cleared your throat, an attempt to compose yourself as if you were also trying to clear your head and think straight.

You took a deep breath, and decided to do what you do best.

You decided to lie. Isn’t that what your family taught you?

But before you could even answer, Geto interjected.

“It was my fault.” 

What?!

You eyed Geto, confused and caught off guard. Your brow raised, curious what he was going to say next.

“I had run in with an anti-sorcerer—  an individual that didn’t rely on cursed energy. I thought this was just a rumor but I was wrong.” His eyes flickered briefly at you, and you didn’t know what to think of it. Was he hinting at something?

Did he know about Toji? Had he been watching you?

Your thoughts scattered, trying to connect the dots. You knew Geto was lying about running into someone he was describing, because if he wasn’t, Geto wouldn’t be here right now.

Yaga’s expression hardened, the weight of the statement settling over him. “Where did you hear that?” He demanded. The sharpness in his voice confirmed it— this wasn’t just some convenient excuse. This was real.

And you may know a certain someone who may or may not be the cause of why a number of curse users or sorcerers were dropping like flies.

“Still, that doesn’t explain the gun in your possession?” Yaga pressed.

“They tried to use that gun on me, but I managed to snatch it away. I was careless, they were able to escape,” Geto said smoothly. “I came to Kisaragi for help since their bullet nicked my ear.” 

Escape? Toji would never run.

Yaga was quiet for a moment, thinking. His face was unreadable but stern.

“I shouldn’t have brought the gun with me,” Geto continues to explain. “Didn’t expect the thing to go off so easily, it must have a loose trigger or something.” 

“Is this true?’ Yaga-sensei looks over at you, while you were processing all the little details of Geto’s lies.

You nod, playing along. Your lips pressed into a thin line. Deciding it was better to not say anything. 

Yaga’s jaw tightened. “You should’ve reported this immediately.” He tells Geto.

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, since it wasn’t a mission and it wasn’t a curse or if it was really the guy everyone’s talking about, so I didn’t know how I was going to explain it, but I figured getting my injury healed was my first priority.” Geto replied, keeping up the act flawlessly. 

Yaga clicked his tongue, rubbing his temple. ‘Alright, next time I need  you to tell me these things immediately after you’ve taken aid, of course. I’ll be keeping the weapon with me for now for further investigation. We cannot take this threat lightly.” 

Fuck. Well, there goes your brand new toy.

“You two are dismissed.” Yaga said decisively.

You both bow your heads at your teacher. You were already halfway out the door when Yaga’s voice stopped you.

“Kisaragi,”

Your breath hitched. You looked back at him. Your heart pounding in your chest again. Your hand gripping the side of the tatami door tightly.

What did he want from you?

“I know you report to your family about your progress in regards to your duties here in Jujutsu High, I ask that you keep this incident confidential for now, just until we figure out who this Sorcerer Killer is.”

“Yes, I understand.” Was all you said, offering a polite nod before you stepped out of the room. 

You could hear your own pulse, beating in your eardrums. Your mind racing. You were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You weren’t sure if Geto actually knew who Toji was or did he just coincidentally make up a lie so eerily accurate that you almost believe that he ran into that dog?

Shit! Shit! Shit.

[ comment if you want to be added in the taglist for future updates ]

a/n: ok ik this took a while... i am sorry... i had work (im such a loser, i know)... i hope i didn't disappoint... happy valentine's day(?) ily....

also on ao3: here

taglist: @oneofthesevensins, @yatowmotd, @enchantingkitty, @allzballz1, @tid4lwav3

© 2025 myswans0ng, my_swansong. All Rights Reserved. Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize.

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER TEN

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash, competition??

playlist: spotify

You were going to die.

Like, actually, literally, cease to exist because your heart was beating so violently that it was probably about to explode, and your lungs had decided they no longer wanted to participate in the act of breathing.

The girls were staring at you. Correction: three-fourths of the girls were staring at you. Ji-Yeong was standing on the couch, one foot on the armrest, holding a half-empty iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, looking like she was about to deliver a TED Talk.

"You guys," she said, eyes wide, voice hushed. "I need everyone to remain calm."

Se-Mi was already grinning, vibrating with suppressed excitement. "Oh, absolutely not."

No-Eul, who was seated cross-legged on the floor, barely looked up from her book. "Just say it, Ji. Before you combust."

Ji-Yeong took a deep breath, dramatically swiped to refresh the Twitter feed on her phone, and then—

"WE GOT NOMINATED FOR A GRAMMY!"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Se-Mi shrieked, launching herself across the couch to grab Ji-Yeong’s phone. No-Eul blinked once, twice, and then set her book down with an exhale like she was finally accepting reality.

Sae-Byeok, who had been leaning against the counter, arms crossed in her usual unimpressed stance, went still.

You? You just stood there, gripping your clipboard like it was the last tether to reality, trying to process the words that had just been spoken into existence.

"Wait. Wait. Wait." You snapped out of your trance, reaching for the phone that Se-Mi was now aggressively shaking in front of your face. "Are you serious?"

Ji-Yeong let out a borderline manic laugh, pointing at the screen. "Does this LOOK like I’m joking?! We just got nominated for Best Rock Album and Best Rock Performance for ‘ROCKSTAR.’"

Se-Mi was already pacing, hands on her head. "Holy shit. Holy shit. We’re actually going to the Grammys?"

Ji-Yeong dramatically flung herself onto the couch, arms outstretched. "We’re actually going to the Grammys."

No-Eul, who had been quietly typing on her phone, finally lifted her gaze. "The official Recording Academy account just posted the list." She turned her screen toward you. "It’s real."

Your brain short-circuited.

Because this? This wasn’t just big. This was huge. This was career-defining.

This was the moment you had dreamed of for them.

Sae-Byeok, still eerily silent, finally moved. She walked over to Ji-Yeong’s abandoned coffee on the table, picked it up, and took a long sip.

"Guess we need to buy dresses," she said, completely deadpan.

Se-Mi screamed.

No-Eul actually laughed. Ji-Yeong started yelling something about how she was going to fight Harry Styles for best-dressed on the red carpet.

And you?

You just smiled, heart pounding, because somehow—someway—this was only just the beginning.

A little while after the excitement died down to a normal level, the girls (as in Ji-yeong and Se-mi) decided that it would be a good idea to start shopping.

And the boutique was insane.

Racks of designer gowns stretched wall-to-wall, the air smelled like expensive perfume and wealth, and Se-Mi was already trying on sunglasses that she absolutely did not need.

"We are literally shopping for the Grammys," Ji-Yeong announced dramatically, twirling in front of a mirror. "Do you understand how unhinged that is?"

Se-Mi, now wearing a pair of oversized Gucci shades, nodded solemnly. "I think I blacked out the second we walked in here."

No-Eul was flipping through a rack of sleek suits, completely unfazed. "Try not to pass out before we actually get to the red carpet."

You chuckled, trailing your fingers along the fabric of an elegant dress before moving toward the accessories section, letting the others lose themselves in their respective fashion meltdowns.

And that’s when you saw them.

A pair of heels—sleek, timeless, perfect. They weren’t too flashy, just the right mix of elegance and edge, and something about them just called to you.

You picked one up, checking the size.

Too small.

You frowned, scanning the display, but every single one was either too big or too small.

Figures.

With a sigh, you set the shoe back down and turned away, pushing it from your mind. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

But No-Eul had seen.

She had been flipping through a rack of blazers when she caught the way your face fell—the tiny frown, the way your fingers lingered on the shoe before you walked away.

At first, she assumed it was the price. This place was ridiculously expensive, after all. But when she subtly checked the tag, she realized—

It wasn’t the price.

It was the size.

No-Eul, being the quiet observer that she was, didn’t say anything. She just turned on her heel, scanned the boutique, and sought out the store owner like it was a mission.

"Do you have these in another size?" she asked, holding up the shoe. "This size, specifically?"

The boutique owner, a well-dressed woman with an expert eye, nodded. "Let me check in the back."

Minutes later, No-Eul had them. The perfect pair. The right size.

She paid for them without hesitation, taking the sleek designer bag and tucking it behind the counter for later. No grand gestures, no need for attention—just a quiet, simple act of kindness.

Sae-Byeok had seen the whole thing.

She had been pretending to browse scarves (which she did not need) when she caught No-Eul’s little mission. The subtle way she checked the price, the quick decision to buy them, the way she didn’t even tell you.

And it annoyed her.

Not because she didn’t want you to have the shoes—no, that was actually kind of sweet.

But because why hadn’t she thought of doing something first?

Sae-Byeok had spent so much time watching you—watching you be there for them, watching you take care of everything, watching you never ask for anything in return.

And now No-Eul was out here being thoughtful and sneaky, and Sae-Byeok was just standing there like an idiot.

Unacceptable.

So, naturally, she decided that if No-Eul got the shoes—she was going to find you the perfect dress.

"Hey." She appeared beside you, hands in her pockets, her usual unreadable expression in place.

You blinked up at her. "Hey?"

"You found a dress yet?"

You sighed, gesturing at the endless racks. "I have no idea what I’m doing. This is, like, next-level fashion, and I am but a mere mortal."

Sae-Byeok smirked. "Come on. Let’s find something."

And just like that, she took over.

Before you knew it, Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi had joined the search, the three of them pulling dresses from racks like it was their sole purpose in life.

"This one," Ji-Yeong said, holding up something dramatic and covered in sequins.

"No," Sae-Byeok and Se-Mi said in unison.

Se-Mi held up a sleek, elegant gown with a thigh-high slit. "This is hot."

Sae-Byeok gave her a look. "She needs classy, not ‘I’m about to murder my rich husband for his inheritance.’"

Ji-Yeong gasped. "That’s a great aesthetic, though."

You just stood there, watching them bicker, warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just dragging you along for the ride.

They were taking care of you.

And for once—you let them.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[damn-stark]

Chapter 2 Lavender green, lavender blue

Chapter 2 of Sinnerwoman

A/N- Ahhh!! The second chapter is here and I really hope you all like it just as much as I liked writing it!!

Warning- ANGST!! Weapons, blood, light violence. Talks of death! And small SA part. Spoilers for the show!

Pairing- Hwang Jun-ho x fem!reader

Episode- 1x09 & 2x01-2x02

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

——

A decision has been made. It was made the moment the Front Man revealed his identity, but what is the warmth and the sound of your lover's beating heart compared to a lifetime of bitter solitude and agonizing screams?

Nothing…nothing compares to what you have to return to, but you can’t stay or risk waiting. Jun-ho might be in a coma, he might wake up a month from now, and you would have waited a month or all your life if you had to, but you can’t risk it.

You have to leave, he has to forget about you for his own safety. And maybe it is a selfish decision, you got mad at him because he chose to leave you in the dark when he decided to put his life at risk to sneak onto that Island, but this is different. This is a sacrifice you're making to save his life. Does it make leaving him behind any better?

No, you don’t want him to forget about you. You don’t want him to meet someone else, and you don’t want him to live the life you wanted with him with someone else. You want him to only love you, but there’s no other choice. He won’t stop pursuing the Island and that will get him killed, and you don't think you’ll be able to survive this time if you have to watch someone else that you love die in your arms again, so you have to leave.

First, though, you have to snuggle up against him and share his warmth for a little longer. You have to hear the sound of his beating heart for a little longer to memorize its calming beat.

Just a little longer.

“Lavender’s green, dilly, dilly…lavender's blue,” you sing, or try because every word of the lullaby comes out shaky and like you’re out of breath because you can’t help the tears that run down your cheeks and stain Jun-ho’s hospital gown.

“If you love me…dilly, dilly. I will love you,” you continue and maybe you aren’t the best singer, but memories fade or get obscured, especially those of children, and that lullaby is one of the few memories you have of your sister when she would sing it to you at the orphanage. It means so much to you, to her memory and now when you think of that song, besides your sister, you’ll think of the only man you’ll love. The man who loved you; your Jun-ho, so you have to share it with him. Even if he can’t hear it.

Yet those last words uttered were like a pierce to the heart and with each impact, more and more of you was chipped away, leaving no more strength to continue the rest. Thus you stroke Jun-ho’s chest one more time before you shift your head to press a light kiss on the part of his chest that you were resting your head on. You then slide off the bed and sit up to study every inch of his face before you lean down and leave one last kiss on his lips.

Rather than getting up right away, you let the warmth of your lips linger on his to cherish the taste before you force yourself off the hospital bed.

When you’re standing at the foot of the same bed you steal one last glance at him, wishing you could have seen his eyes and talked to him one more time, but you keep telling yourself that what you’re doing is for the best, so you push yourself away with tears crawling down the curve of your cheeks.

Before you can leave the room and the hospital, however, you make a stop at the bathroom. You splash your face with water to wipe the tears off your cheeks and any marking they could have left behind. If you had any other clothes besides the ones you wore to the Island, you would have put them on now, but you have nothing. All you can do is disconnect your phone from any satellite that gives you service, and then the wifi to go offline, making the hospital the last place your phone would have been.

Once that is taken care of, you move to leave, but you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, so you stop and slowly scale your eyes to the scar of a skidding bullet above your ear, and every bad memory you have of the island comes rushing in, making you hesitate and dread having to return to that horrible and terrible life.

You almost have the nerve to return to Jun-ho’s bedside and pretend you weren’t going to leave. You don’t want to see it again. You don’t want to live it. You can’t hide behind a mask again, but…it’s a sacrifice you have to make for the man you love, so after a deep breath you make it out of the bathroom. You throw your phone away in the nearest trash can and stride out of the hospital.

No one stops you, and no one looks. You walk out alone under the cover of rain and leave everything behind.

——

*3 YEARS LATER.*

“…IT'S ALMOST BEEN THREE YEARS SINCE THE DISAPPEARANCE…”

Whatever had been said before didn’t matter. It didn’t even register as noise, but these words finally steal his attention. After all, it's been the same words they once repeated daily and then weekly, monthly, and then every year, so like his name, Jun-ho becomes alert when he hears them,

“…OF THE RESPECTED AND DECORATED DETECTIVE KANG…”

Yet when the news anchor begins to say your name he tunes out the news again. He can’t muster the strength to hear your name or see the portrait of you that they display on the screen without feeling agony pierce his heart. So with memorized timing, he tunes out those few seconds and then focuses again to hear the rest of the news bit.

“…SHE WAS LAST SEEN LEAVING THE HOSPITAL. IF YOU HAVE INFORMATION ON HER WHEREABOUTS PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIES. THANK YOU.”

Yet no one ever does contact the authorities. It’s like you just vanished in the rainfall that supposedly hit that night.

Maybe if you hadn’t been seen at the same hospital he was taken to it would be easier to pass you off as dead, but you were seen. You made it out of the Island, just like he did, so how could he possibly forget you? You of all people. You out of every soul he knew. You…his epic love.

Just like his brother was his life. You were also all of his life and so much more of it. He would have to be dead to forget you.

Maybe death would be good though. That way he would forget what he saw his brother become. That way he could stop blaming himself for your disappearance, but when he looks up at the picture of you and him that he has attached to his locker mirror, he thinks to himself, “How can I possibly die without knowing where you are, or…what happened to you?”

He can’t die yet. He has so many questions, and so much unfinished business that also has nothing to do with you, but, you…

“You,” he thinks to himself as he pulls the picture off the mirror, catching at that moment the wandering eyes of his colleague before he quickly looks away and walks off without saying a word.

At first, the first few weeks of your disappearance, when he returned to work, all he would get was pitiful consolations. After that, anytime you were brought up they just passed him pitiful stares that were also mixed with curiosity as they wondered if he still cared.

He would tell them to fuck off, but he doesn’t want to waste his breath so he lets them think what they want. He’s still searching for answers and he’s the only one that needs to know that.

“I won’t stop looking,” he thinks to himself as he folds the picture so you and your timid smile are the center of attention.

After he strokes his thumb over the image of you he sticks the picture back on his mirror and tries to continue changing back into his normal clothes, but then the scar his brother left on his shoulder steals his attention.

Just like you, how can he possibly forget about In-ho? Sometimes he forgets what he saw, but when he sees his scar, when he feels the shape under his fingertips, he remembers what happened that day In-ho shot him and he’s hit with a wave of different emotions and questions.

One question he has is if In-ho has anything to do with your disappearance. You escaped the Island, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t find you after you escaped.

Maybe In-ho…took you away from Jun-ho’s life?

He doesn’t like that possibility, he can’t imagine that his brother is the one who stole the woman he loved from him, so he finishes changing. Once he’s done, like every day that came before, he leaves the department and heads to his car.

Yet this evening as he’s walking to his car he feels this sensation like someone is staring, so he stops walking, and lifts his gaze to look in the direction he felt the stare coming from.

However, when his eyes find the spot, there’s no one there. There’s just an empty street. So after a couple of seconds of lingering, he continues to his car. It’s only once he’s driven off that you come out from behind a pillar, and keep your eyes where you had seen him last before you take a deep breath and collect yourself to check your phone.

When you see what time it is you groan in annoyance and set off. There’s no hurry in your pace, or an urgency to get a ride to where you’re meant to be. You go on as if you’re taking a stroll through the city, enjoying the sights like a tourist, and enjoying the sounds of everyday life because that’s the one thing you like; the commotion of the busy city life.

Where you live now is like living in a construction site, or sometimes it feels like an office. In the off-season when there’s not an army of workers, there is a stillness that you appreciate, but with it comes a silence that drags on and if you weren’t used to it you would be driven insane.

That’s why you soak in the everyday commotion while you can. Even if it makes you late to your meeting.

“Hi, I’m here to join a party already at a table. Under the name, Oh,” you let the hostess know, and right away her eyes search the list on her screen. In a matter of seconds, her finger stops scrolling and she faces you with a perfectly practiced smile.

“Follow me,” she says and walks away from her podium to guide you to a secluded table at the end of the room, still nicely lit, but secluded to offer privacy.

Thus the walk is longer than usual, but when you reach the table the party waiting for you stands from their seats to welcome you to the table at long last.

“Here you go, ma’am, do you know what you want to order or should I leave the menu?”

“No,” one of the party members interjects. “We already ordered ahead for her. Let the waitress know she’s here.”

The hostess offers him a smile and nods in comprehension before she backs up and walks off, leaving you alone to face your rather patient dates.

“Forgive me,” you announce with a small smile. “I’m late. I know. There was some business I needed to take care of.”

You proceed to take your seat that faces the party you met up with, and they then take their seats after you, letting you meet them at their eye level and offer them a wider smile. “Shall we?” You suggest.

——

*2 YEARS AGO*

“…I don’t like to see you get hurt and if something had happened to you, or if something happens to you because of me, I…don’t think I could ever in my life forgive myself. I…love you.”

“I…love you.”

“I…love you.”

Jun-ho’s words are the commotion that keeps the quiet lobby from truly being deafening so late at night. While the picture in your hand keeps you company in a lobby where you’re the only one occupying it.

That is until you hear the glass front doors get pushed open and a single pair of wet footsteps walk in and change the occupation from one to two. Or so that’s what it sounds like.

You peer back thinking you’ll catch more people walking in with the person you’re waiting for, but alas, it’s a single man. A homeless man…maybe? He looks ragged with his beat-up clothes, his shoulder-length unkempt hair, and his dirty face.

But who are you to judge his appearance?

“The elevators are down the hall,” you share as you turn your head away from the man who seems lost. “If not. The receptionist start their shift at six. You’ll have to be gone by then.”

The man begins to walk down the hall while he offers you a response. “Oh…thank you. Goodnight.”

“Good night,” you deadpan and keep listening in. It’s not until you hear the elevator doors close that you bring up your picture again and keep admiring Jun-ho’s image, his heartwarming smile that he only showed to the camera because you were posing with him. Otherwise, you would only catch him in a picture alone if it was off guard. It’s why you have a lot of pictures of him off guard, and that’s why the ones with him actually looking at the camera and smiling are your favorite, but the one you hold in your hand is a picture you cherish the most because decorations from your favorite holiday adorn it, and he’s holding your little black Scottish Terrier, Gentleman.

If only you could be with them, especially now, but if you picked up your dog the moment you left the hospital that night, it would have made your disappearance questionable, so you left him behind with your neighbor the day you left for the Island. And Jun-ho…there’s hundreds of reasons why you can’t be with him…

That’s why you’re here alone, watching the snow start to fall and stick to the ground with a solemn look that will probably never leave. Once the snow is thicker you put the folded picture away and step outside where you break the snow’s path so some part of it can fall on you instead.

It takes a while for you to look up as you stand in your solitude and let the snow weigh you down first as if you’re just another object on the street. When you do finally break from your stupor, you slowly look up at the white sky intermingled with the night, and notice two perfectly shaped snowflakes dancing down from the sky in an attempt to reach the ground, so you put your hand out and try to catch them on your palm.

Nevertheless, one snowflake breaks away from its path and continues barreling to the ground, while the other lands on your palm all alone and melts right away.

Perhaps if the other snowflake had also landed on your palm, the lonely snowflake would have lived longer, but it was no good alone. Thus you fist your hand with disappointment and attempt to head back inside, but in that moment you then catch a man across the street.

He doesn’t seem conscious, he seems to be sleeping with the way he’s slumped on the ground, but you can’t be sure from where you are, so you make your way to him.

The moment you reach him you call out to him in hopes of gaining his attention. “Sir? Are you okay?”

You wait for a few seconds but there’s no response. His eyes remain closed and his breathing heavy, so you get closer and catch a whiff of alcohol, but you don't let that matter. You still shake him gently, causing him to slip.

When he doesn’t wake up that way you back away and immediately pull your phone out to call the police. And rather than staying there and waiting for the police out in the open, under all the street lights, you choose to walk off to a bench across the street and wait there where you won’t be seen.

You continue to wait and wait until finally a siren sounds and police show up to take the man out of the cold. And even then you don’t leave the cold yourself, you stay on the bench, letting the snow continue to pile up on your slouched figure as you wait and lose yourself on the untouched sheet of snow already covering the ground.

After some unknown time passes the headlights of a car break you from your stupor and you look up, noticing black SUVs with dark tinted windows pull up to the apartment building you had been waiting in. Thus ending your waiting period and making you dust the snow off your body before you get up to look like some creep waiting just outside the car.

Thankfully who you’re waiting for doesn’t leave you waiting too long, but the moment your eyes land on him your breath catches in your throat. And when his eyes fall on you, he comes to a stop and has the nobility to look at you in the eyes.

There’s no softness and no agitation. He doesn’t pass you a firm or deadpanned look. He seems curious about you, just as you are about him; Hwang In-ho, the older brother of the love of your life, and the Front Man.

Even so, neither of you exchange any words on any matter, he just says your name so you counter by stating his own name. “Hwang In-ho. It’s nice to meet you in a calmer environment.” You scoff and he just looks at you before he turns his body to face the car.

“Are you coming?” He asks and walks away without waiting for an answer as if he knows what you’re going to choose. Yet you still linger where you are to hesitate as if you have a choice when your mind's made up and has been forcing you to follow through with that decision for a year now.

It’s just…if you get that in that car, you officially go back to that nightmare. You leave your life behind. You leave Jun-ho, and trade it for…a life that turned its back on you?

“Your father is dead,” In-ho shares from inside the car as if he can read your mangled thoughts only getting more and more twisted—“you have a chance to start over. Not where you started, but by my side. Just as we discussed. Get in the car.”

You put your hands in your pockets to grab the picture and debate for a second longer before you choose not to live a lifetime secluded. If you’re going to be alone you might as well be alone there where you can be a piece upon the board. So you get in the car and watch your decision get sealed when the door closes.

“Is the host dead?” You ask first and foremost, skipping formalities because you already know each other's names.

“The flower arrangement was inappropriate,” he says in a deeper tone that could be passed as scolding.

“Well,” you respond with a growing malicious smile. “Look at it this way, now my flowers will be the first to decorate his grave.” You snicker and look over at him with a smile, but he looks at you nonchalantly.

“You can’t see Jun-ho anymore,” he changes the subject bluntly, causing your smile to fall and your amusement to fade right away.

“I know that,” you mutter as you turn your head away to look out the window. “That’s why I disappeared because I saw you. I knew who you were and what you meant to the games, and I…knew,” you pause and swallow back a lump of emotions that had begun to form in your throat. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie to his face.”

You see your eyes water through the reflection painted on the window, so you avert your gaze and continue. “He really cares about you…you know. He looks—looked up to you. It wasn’t long after we met that he told me about you, so…seeing you take that mask off…” you trail off and peek over at him, seeing that he can't look at you, his eyes are on his hands, and his jaw is clenched, giving away his discomfort on the matter.

“…was when I knew what I had to do to protect him because if he knew that I knew how to find you, he wouldn’t stop. He would get himself killed to get back on that Island again. To reach you, and,” you pause and feel the tears break away to fall down your cheeks.

“I can’t lose him. He means everything to me. And coming from someone with nothing, losing everything is like losing one's own life.”

In-ho hums, and you take that as a simple form of acknowledgment, but if you could understand the deeper meaning behind that simple acknowledging hum, you would know that he also knows what it’s like to lose everything.

“I already lost everything once. I can’t lose it again. So I know I can’t see him again,” you finish stating and then wipe the tears off your face to slowly look over at him.

“Are you sure there will be a place for me there?” You make sure to ask.

In-ho’s eyes drift to you to catch a glimpse of you before he reaches down and grabs a black box decorated with a pink bow to give it to you.

You don’t wait or question him. You pull at the pink bow to pull it off and then pull the lid off the box. When you reach inside you pull out a shiny silver mask of the top half of a crane’s face.

“This is where you belong,” In-ho assures you as you keep looking at your mask and realize there’s no turning back. This is you now. Again.

Another piece on the board…

Or the piece that ends it all.

——

*NOW*

“I’m glad that we are meeting in the city,” you muse as you pull your coat off and hang it on your chair. “The island tends to suffocate me.”

“You insisted on meeting here,” In-ho quips as he studies you as if that will give away where you were. “Annoyingly so.”

You shrug and flash him a sweet smile. “And you accepted. You had the power to deny my suggestion but you caved, so my point still stands.”

In-ho sighs deeply in annoyance before he snaps his gaze away to look at your third guest, the man in charge of recruiting the players for the games. “Anyway, considering some of us are meant to be missing, we're short on time. Tell us what you know,” he directs at the recruiter.

“Well,” the recruiter doesn’t leave you waiting. “As I’ve mentioned, player 456, Seong Gi-hun, and his…hired lackey,” he adds without masking his disgust. “Are trailing me.”

“What else is new,” you mutter and sit back as the waitress walks over with your cup of coffee just the way you like it. “Aren’t they on the subway lines every day?”

The recruiter sighs whilst he also picks up his spoon to mix his coffee. “On the dot. Which leaves me surprised that…such low lives are so loyal to their boring jobs.”

You pick your cup up and raise it to quip. “Money. Maybe we can offer them more to act like they don’t see you. That will keep player 456 chasing after his own tail.”

The recruiter laughs and you flash him a smile as you take a sip of your coffee. Albeit In-ho doesn’t share your amusement. “That won’t be necessary. You will let Player 456’s lackey find you.”

The recruiter lets his spoon go and blinks repeatedly in confusion before he questions the command. He’s not one to question any command given to him. If In-ho or anyone above him says bark, he will do so without hesitation, but he questions this command this one time. “Are you sure?”

In-ho nods. “Play with them or be straightforward. It doesn’t matter as long as Player 456 gets this key,” he shares before digging in his suit pocket and pulling out a brown card that he hands to the recruiter. “He won’t want any other thing but to see me. That key will have all he needs to find me.”

The recruiter doesn’t read the card. He blindly tucks it away and nods in comprehension.

“How many players have you recruited?” You interject now as you take a longer sip of your coffee.

“I’m close to getting all the players we need. I have of course left three spots open.”

“Good,” In-ho mumbles.

The recruiter licks his lips and leans forward. “Will you still go through with it, Captain?”

In-ho grabs the cup of his almost-finished coffee and leaves the question unanswered for a moment before he nods and then takes his last drink of coffee. Once he's done he proceeds to answer. “As long as player 456 does.”

You set your cup down and keep your eyes lingering on the coffee in your cup to avoid anyone’s potential stare.

“Will you?” The question gets passed and you know the Recruiter is looking at you. “It’s hard to imagine you getting your hands dirty. All those people.”

You swallow thickly and simply steal a glance at him before you take a sip of your coffee and keep your eyes on the cup rather than him to avoid letting him read any part of your current thoughts.

The Recruiter is no mind reader, but he’s crazy enough to know what’s lurking in the shadows of your mind. He always has.

“I’ve been a cop,” you argue. “I know how to get my hands dirty. It doesn’t bother me, and neither do the people.”

“Right,” he snickers. “You’re a lone wolf. With no social skills.”

You sit the cup down hard and snap your eyes to him, catching that stupid taunting smile plastered on his stupid face.

Just like when you were young he always finds a way to pester you.

“If you weren’t number two. You would die. There’s a difference between watching and actually playing. Did you ever play those games in the orphanages you—”

“My brother and I played all the time,” you cut him off before he can tick you off. Which is hard to do. You know how to keep your cool, but he just knows how to press your buttons. “Don’t worry about me,” you deadpan and then look at in-ho. “Shall we?” You press.

In-ho nods without fret, letting you grab your coat before you get up. In-ho mirrors your actions, and before he heads out he does add one last thing to the Recruiter. “Do you have us covered?”

Without a doubt the Recruiter tries to please In-ho by agreeing, letting In-ho then point his hand ahead to let you lead the way out of the cafe.

“See you soon,” the Recruiter throws at you as you walk away without giving your goodbyes, but there’s a reason you didn’t so you just offer him a feigned smile over your shoulder before you roll your eyes away and leave. Once you’re in the car you lean your body toward In-ho and don’t forget to complain.

“Why don’t we change recruiters? This one’s psychotic,” you grumble as you prop your elbow on the armrest and rest your chin on your hand. “He’s always been missing a few bolts in the head.”

In-ho grabs the newspaper of the day from the seat pocket and begins to read the articles. “Some will say that’s what makes him perfect for the job. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

You roll your eyes but keep watching him. “I know someone who will be better at the job. And he’s got a charm to him.”

“Who?” He immediately counters. “I never see you talk to anyone besides me.”

You sit up and look at him like he’s wounded you, while he hides his faint smile by keeping his eyes on the newspaper.

“Oh. Funny.” You grumble and turn away to look ahead with your body slumped in the seat.

“If you’re going to join the game you’ll need to socialize. Gain their trust. Or you’ll be a burden to me.”

“I’m not asking you to take care of me. We can pretend not to know each other.”

“That'd be impossible, who would you talk to then?” He teases you dryly. He’s teasing you!

It seems like you're starting to prefer when he was standoffish and blunt.

“Just be a player. Gain their trust and sabotage Player 456,” he puts it simply without long explanations because this is a matter you already discussed.

“No, no.” You shake your finger. “My job is not to crush Player 456 and destroy his last flicker of will. That’s your job. I am simply joining to not die of boredom watching the games.”

Or so you say out loud.

“Well whatever the case, there’s no fun in it if you isolate yourself,” he disregards you to keep insisting, making you sit back again and look out the window this time. “Do you want me to tag along on the 31st?”

“If it’s what you want,” he says while the newspaper in his hand rustles as he sets it down. “I’m gonna have snipers posted on the route. And two men that will walk in the club.”

You nod in comprehension and share what you already have planned. “Well, I’ll be your lookout then. I’ll have your back. Secure the perimeter, and figure out how many people Player 456 brings with him.”

Through the reflection on the window, you see In-ho nod before he turns his head to look at you before he bluntly changes the subject. “You went to see him didn’t you?”

You stiffen and slowly meet the reflection of his eyes. “You had me followed?” You snap.

“You’re making it harder on yourself,” he says without denying or admitting to the accusation which means it is true—“let him go. What if he had seen you? What if any of his colleagues had seen you?”

You roll your head his way to look him in the eyes with a firmly pointed look. “But he didn’t and he never does!” You argue with your voice raised higher than usual.

“It doesn’t matter if he never has. He can and he will,” he counters with no raise in his voice. He’s just trying to sound firm. “If he sees you, what then? You’ll throw away everything you sacrificed for him and for what? To see him dead?”

You furrow your eyebrows and puff out your chest, but can’t form any argument to throw back at him because you know he’s right. “He was all I had,” you say instead as your eyes wander down.

In-ho sighs and his voice is now softer. “I know, but you’re only hurting yourself more.”

You swallow back thickly and huff as a response. While In-ho steals a glance at you and lets his eyes linger on your drooped frown, your watery eyes, and your furrowed brows. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t show any emotion, he’s still, and providing a deafening silence that is…odd and uncomfortable. There was once a time when he could sit in the silence without it bothering him, but now?

He’s made a mistake welcoming you back on the island and allowing you to have a spot in the innermost circle, but he didn’t know what your presence would bring to his life and now that he lives amongst it, you are his new normal. So when that normal is disturbed it always feels so odd.

Like he’s upset the scales of life.

——

*LATER THAT NIGHT*

Maybe it’s because when you were growing up you were never asked for forgiveness from the man who called himself your father, so you learned to move on and not expect it; live like nothing happened in the first place and shove that problem away. Or maybe it’s because In-ho was/is right about you hurting yourself more by continuing to see Jun-ho, but now as dinner has rolled around, it’s like he didn’t make you upset to the point you haven’t talked to him since the car ride home hours prior.

As is your new normal, you set the dinner table for two, just him and you. It makes for quite a lonely dinner, but there isn’t anyone else either of you care about on the Island to have seated with you for dinner. Plus, after the awkward stage passed, it’s actually nice having dinner together. You look forward to it when you’re not upset at him.

Therefore once you finish setting the table you have the intention to go get him, but when you leave the dining room, there he is just outside the door. It seems like he was passing by the moment you opened the door.

Albeit, unbeknownst to you, he had been outside the door debating whether to come talk to you in order to balance the scales or not. Nothing he said was wrong, he was right and he was going to stand by that, but he also knows there could have been a kinder approach and he was going to explain that.

However, he also debated whether there was a point in asking for forgiveness. He isn’t your brother or your father, he’s your superior, your colleague, and your friend so he was leaning toward that choice. Yet you walked out before he could leave.

“Dinner is ready,” you let him know with a glass of wine in your hand. “But if you want sad ramen that’s okay too.”

In-ho is stuck again. You’re giving him a way out to do as he had chosen to do, but there you stand across from him with a tiny smile tugged on your lips, a pleading gaze you couldn’t keep discreet no matter how hard you try, a warm plate of food already expecting him, and no one else to fill the silence. You’re waiting and asking for nothing in return even if there is something he wants to offer you.

Thus, he accepts your invitation. He walks in, washes his hands, and sits down with no forgiveness to offer you in return. And it's not like you bring it up either. It's like you knew how not to expect it just to please him.

“My sister,” you offer him some more information on a past that you rarely share. “…Was older, so we were separated for most of the day at the orphanage, but when dinner rolled around we always made it our tradition to eat together. It was always my favorite part of the day and something I always looked forward to.” You pause and take a bite of your food, making sure to chew it well and swallow before you take a long drink of your wine and then continue.

“When I was adopted by my family, I was glad that I could continue that tradition with my mother and my brother and on occasion my father. And then…after Jun-ho and I became close, every day after work we would have dinner together. Whether it was in the park, in a car, or at one of our houses. That’s why I learned to cook so well. You’re lucky I’m not six anymore or we’d be having banana sandwiches.”

In-ho scoffs with amusement, letting a small smile appear on his lips as he chews. When he’s done with that bite he interjects. “I can’t imagine your sister was too pleased with your meal choice.”

You laugh softly and shake your head. “Never. She always scolded me, but they were my favorite and the only thing I was allowed to make at a young age, so on days she expected me to make them, she always had boiled eggs for us to eat after.”

In-ho’s smile stays on his face for a moment and it’s in that comfortable silence that was made by the fact that you could make him smile, that you bring up the matter that left a strain between each other.

“You were right, you know,” you say after you take a couple bites of your food. “About Jun-ho.”

You pick up your wine glass as you also lower your head.

“But,” you argue in your defense.

“No,” he cuts you off, and as you bring your eyes up to look at him, you notice that his smile and any sign of amusement is completely gone, leaving him…as always, nonchalant—“You need to completely cut him off. You need to forget the life you had on the mainland. That life will only drag you down and be your worst enemy.”

Tears slowly fill your eyes, but you’re tougher on yourself this time. You don’t cry, you simply snap back with no sign of spite, just nonchalance. “So should I be like you?”

In-ho clenches his jaw as he doesn’t know how to take that, but there’s also no other way to be. “Yes,” he deadpans.

You blink and look down at your food to take a couple of bites and then a longer drink of your wine, managing to finish it and serve yourself more as you think about what he said and that it's not what you want

You know what you yearn for, or so you tell yourself and you don’t want to become everything you despise. You know what you want and you don’t want to be the person that the masks turn you into.

Is he everything you loathe though? If you look at him in the eyes. Really look at him, will he be the reminder of the father you loathe? That’s who he wants you to be…is that who he is?

“Do you think that the workers here will obey me if I am more like you?” You fill the silence as you sit back with your new glass of wine in one hand, and a firmer look that isn’t like that warm look you carried moments ago. “I mean when I’m not in your shadow that is.”

In-ho sits up and holds your gaze as he nods with reassurance. “They’ll no choice will they?”

You tilt your head slightly and scoff.

“When your father was the Front Man…”

“He ruled with an Iron fist,” you continue for him since he wasn’t here when your father was the Front Man. He only knows stories. “Yes, but that’s a thing of the past. Done by different old men. I am no man. I left a different regime behind shall we say, and then I came back under you donning a position of power right away. Do you see where my doubt comes from him?”

“They don’t get to ask questions,” In-ho says. “They have to listen to you. Now if they catch you slipping they will take the chance to do what they want. And with that comes chaos that will eat you alive. Never falter.”

You slowly look down at your wine and begin to gently spin it. “I suppose it is easy to get rid of those who don’t listen here isn’t it?” You ask with a faint smirk.

“You don’t want to overstep either. Easy or not,” he interjects.

You slowly look up at him as you stop spinning your wine and nod stiffly. “I know,” you mutter.

He holds your gaze for a couple more seconds, letting you look him in the eyes and search for what you need.

Right away you see that his eyes are kinder, he is kinder—or was, from what Jun-ho has told you, and from the rare times he metaphorically takes his mask off. Albeit if you look deeper will you see everything you despise? Or something different?

You…don’t know.

But does that change anything?

——

*A FEW DAYS LATER*

“Can you hear me?” You ask for assurance after you made a discreet sweep down the street.

“Yes,” In-ho responds right away in his distorted voice. “We can hear you.”

“There’s nothing that stands out specifically, but I spotted two vans full of men who have not moved or left the car. Both the driver and the front passenger have earpieces on in both cars as well. Let me pass you the license plate,” you direct that last bit to the pink guards before you share what you mentally noted in your quick scouting trip around the block.

“I’m heading back toward the club now,” you follow up by announcing as you pick up your pace, but not in a way that will pique anyone’s interest. You’re fast enough to return to the club quicker.

“We spotted player 456,” a guard shares. “He and a companion are getting out of the car and are en route inside.”

“Wait for them to get inside and then go after them,” In-ho orders.

“There’s also a man in the driver's seat. It seems like he’s waiting.”

In-ho answers with a hum before he passes an order. “Get the license plate and share it with The White Crane,” he refers to your alias. “Take note of who he is, White Crane, and if he gets out of the car to go after player 456, stop him.”

You press the button on the earpiece to give your response. “Understood.”

You keep your pace with a new task in mind. No one stops you because you blend perfectly with everyone else on the busy street celebrating Halloween.

However, you do have to admit you are a bit envious that people seem to be having so much fun. It makes you want to walk into the club and get plastered to have fun too, but you’re on the mainland on a mission, so you’re strictly forbidden to even drink, you can only be envious.

Then again when you finally approach the club, you catch sight of the club and the giant line formed outside, and you admit that maybe being inside doesn’t sound as tempting.

“They’re inside,” a guard shares.

“Alright move in.” In-ho demands.

You finally reach the street where the Pink guards said the car and the man are, but there, in a black car parked in the exact spot you’re on the lookout for, sits Jun-ho. He’s in the driver's seat of the car that matches the license plate the guards told you about.

You could be mistaken. This could be some delusion, but you’re not sick and you can see perfectly fine through your mask, so no, he’s not some fever dream, it’s Jun-ho in the flesh.

Does he notice you?

Your heart stops at the sight of the man you love, making it feel like you’re about to be hit with a heart attack, so you stupidly stop in front of the car and look in wondering if he sees you too.

But how can it be if you’re wearing a fucking mask…

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!

Of course, he’s involved. Why wouldn't he be in the middle of this ordeal?!

With or without you he didn’t let the Island go and now…you have to confront him and do what In-ho told you to do. There’s no other choice, but will you tell In-ho that it’s his brother working with player 456?

No.

Will you tell him that now that you know he’s here and once again involved in all this, that you have an absurd plan to confront him after 3 years of disappearing from his life?

Also no because he doesn’t need to know.

“I found the car and the driver,” you share through the earpiece after you manage to unglue yourself from your spot before Jun-ho can find you suspicious.

The moment you finish crossing the crosswalk though, the sight of Jun-ho getting out of his car catches your attention.

“He’s out of the car in pursuit of his friends,” you let your people know.

“Stop him,” In-ho deadpans with no clue that you’re referring to his brother.

“On it,” you assure him and cross the street properly, unlike Jun-ho who runs in the middle of a busy street like a madman, forcing a car to break.

He does make it across unscathed, but when he tries to just walk inside he’s stopped by the bouncer, so you have to pretend that you’re taking a smoke break so you don’t look like a stalker, or so he doesn’t spot you before you can stop him.

“Hey, no cutting. Go to the back of the line,” the bouncer tells Jun-ho off, which more than likely aggravates him knowing how impatient he can be.

“Police. Move,” Jun-ho snaps bluntly and once again tries to walk in, but again, the bouncer pushes him back.

“See your fellow officers waiting in line?” The bouncer points out to the line of people waiting. “It’s Halloween. Go put your uniform on first.”

With no warning and zero patience, you watch Jun-ho pull out his gun and point it at the bouncer as he shoves him back against a wall. “Does this look like a toy?” He threatens him, making you smile with amusement.

This time around the bouncer has nothing to say in return. He’s speechless, so Jun-ho is able to walk in, whilst you wait a couple of minutes before you drop the cigarette and stomp on the barely used stick to walk in without any resistance. Not because the bouncer was left shaken up after Jun-ho, it’s because they know who you are. That’s why In-ho chose this specific club.

Once you’re inside, you’re immediately enveloped by all the commotion, the raging music, and the bodies of people crowding the entrance and every step you take, making it hard to find Jun-ho, but not impossible. Luckily enough he didn’t make it far so you’re able to find him just on top of the metal stairs that lead to the main floor before he descends them and joins the madness.

With no other choice but to be like some haunting spirit you trail after him rather than being a part of the madness.

Every step he takes you take not so long after. Every turn he makes you do the same, and every person he shoves aside, you carefully slip past. There comes a point where he stops at a bar and shakes an unconscious man with a bright green horse mask, so you finally stop trailing after him. Instead, you pull your mask off and walk in the crowd of dancing bodies to find a way around Jun-ho.

“Dance?” A drunk man shouts and grabs your waist to try and pull you, but you shove him back harshly and snap at him while glaring at him.

“Do that again and I’ll tear your fingers off your hand to shove them up your ass.”

The man is left bewildered so he backs away, letting you disappear in the sea of bodies. And for a moment, because of the interruption, it seems like you lost sight of Jun-ho. You can’t find him again, but as you keep pushing through, you catch a glimpse of him so you run to get ahead. When you finally find an opening, you exit the crowd and stop across from him, making him come to an immediate halt as he notices right away.

You, the person who has been missing for three years. You, the woman he loves and has been searching for relentlessly. You stand there looking him in the eyes, unscathed, healthy, and just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

Yet it’s because he sees you so clearly in your flowing white robes that show off glimpses of your figure when the lights flash on you, that he can’t believe it’s really you. You have to be some divine spirit brought by stress.

“Come,” you wave him over with your hand without letting go of those dark eyes that glisten with brimming tears every time the flashing light basks his face. His jaw then drops slightly and his eyebrows rise as his eyes widen with shock. You proceed to not wait and turn to start walking away.

“Wait!” You hear Jun-ho call out after you.

You peer over your shoulder and see him do just as you want; he follows you, so you lure him to an employee-only door. It is hard making sure that he doesn’t lose sight of you or that actually reaches you since there’s so many people and it’s so crowded, but you manage to stay one step ahead and reach the employee-only hallway without having him stop you.

When Jun-ho sees that you disappear in the hall, he calls out your name and turns cautious when he approaches the door, letting you rush up the stairs to position yourself just around the corner and take out your taser gun.

Jun-ho continues to be cautious when he walks inside, but as he’s climbing the stairs he breaks into a run. In doing so, turning the corner hastily and not being able to stop you from hitting his neck with your taser gun that doesn't leave his flesh until he's knocked out.

Before he can hit the ground you catch him in your arms. “I'm sorry,” you whisper as you admire his face now that you can finally be close to him again. “I had to do it, but it will be okay,” you assure him before you lean down and press a kiss on his forehead. “I promise,” you whisper one last time against his temple.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Ahhhhh xD

[leighsartworks216]

A Bargain Struck

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Chapter One

I almost forgot to post this today!! When I say it's been a day y'all, it has been a day

Warnings: swearing, fear of infection, intimidation, child death (mentioned), implied murder

Word Count: 923

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AO3

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You think this is some joke to him. He’s walking ahead of you, albeit incredibly slowly, while you shuffle along the wall, scraped hands guiding you through what you can only assume is a cave. The walls are rough and jagged, not to mention winding. You think you feel doorways, but every time you start to turn into one to try getting any vague impression for what’s inside, he chastises you with an amused, “Over here, pet.”

You huff when your toe hits stairs. “This is your home?” you bite. You shuffle one foot forward to feel for the next step. What a nightmare. “Were you raised by Wanderers or something?”

He chuckles deeply. It reverberates around the hall. “It’s much worse than that.”

“Oh, yeah? How?”

“Hmph. Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

“Asshole.”

“Careful, pet. Your god is watching.”

The cave is cool, seemingly untouched by the sun outside. The chill numbs your feet, bites at your fingertips. Even your ceremonial garb does little to keep you warm. You just bite your cheek. You’re already a prisoner here, best not allow yourself to be too weak around him. A difficult task, indeed.

You misjudge one of the steps. Your toes just catch the edge, but it’s not enough to support you and they slip. With no railing to hold, you cannot grasp for support. You tip backward with a shout.

Something hard wraps around your waist again. It holds you tightly, shoving you forward and onto a solid platform. Had that been the top step? You’re sick and tired of landing on your hands and knees like this.

You’re released as you sit up, back finding a solid wall to lean into as you cover your heart and will it to stop racing. “Ah,” you pant, “thank you.”

The “wall” suddenly steps away from you, and you catch yourself in another heart-stopping moment to save yourself from tipping backwards. “I won’t save you next time.”

“Let me go and there won’t be a next time.”

He chuckles, but it lacks any real mirth. “Get up. Or do I have to drag you the rest of the way?”

You sigh. Still, he doesn’t rush you when you sit a moment longer to calm your heart. Ever since you were a child, your health was of the utmost concern. You couldn’t do anything with the other kids, and not because of your lack of sight. Even braille books were considered too dangerous. The risk of a paper cut getting infected and killing you was a risk nobody was willing to make. As such, this much excitement was a shock to your system.

And suddenly, you find yourself worried about the tiniest cut getting infected and killing you out here.

You reach out, feeling for the real wall this time. Loose sand scrapes beneath you as you bring yourself to your feet. “Do you have any medical supplies here?”

He starts walking again and you follow.

“Would you be able to use them if I said yes?”

You wish you could see, just so you could smack him upside the head. “You keep underestimating me. I suggest you stop now before you embarrass yourself.”

“That’s a gamble I’m willing to take.” He sighs, sharp and tired, annoyed. “I might have some around.”

“Well, do you have water, at least? Clean cloth?”

“You’re a demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

“And you’re an insufferable bastard. Neither of us are too happy with each other, but if you won’t let me go, I suggest you do the bare minimum and allow me to clean my injuries,” you hold out your palms, unsure if he’ll even see them, “so I don’t get sick and die.”

His steps come to a stop. You stop with them. Your skin prickles and crawls, unsettled and on edge. His steps approach. You lean your shoulder into the wall, holding your ground rather than being backed up to some other possibly dangerous or deadly area in the cave.

“Tell me a prophecy, and I’ll get you your medical supplies.”

You scoff. “It’s not that simple. It’s Astra who picks and chooses what futures I see. I know nothing of you. All the prophecies I know right now are for the people in the city.”

Is that his breath fanning across your face? You flinch back at its heat. You feel like an injured rabbit facing down the maw of a starved wolf.

His voice is low when next he speaks. “Then tell me one of them.”

You turn your face away. His breath hits your cheek, though tendrils of the air brush down your neck. You suppress a shiver. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “There’s a scholar there. He studies the heavens and tracks their movement. His parents are anxious for him to conceive an heir. His wife is pregnant now, but…”

“But…?”

“... The child… will be a stillborn. They won’t know the cause of death, and that shame will fall to the mother. She won’t live long after, either, once the scholar crumples under the disappointment.”

He hums. The heat of his breath disappears. “I’ll get you your medicine. Next time, I’d be interested in hearing a prophecy of my own future.”

“Then you’ll have to pray to Astra. Only he can grant you the knowledge you seek; I’m just the messenger.” “Well, messenger,” he steps around you and nudges you with an elbow, “this is where you’ll sleep. Try not to fall down the stairs looking for me.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Stan sometimes to collect his own bounty and “rescue” himself from Dragon Ford. Unfortunately he would need to get Dragon ford to agree first.

How did dragon ford get cursed? (I’m guess it had something to do with Bill?)

Also what is happening from Ford’s/dragon perspective? What are dragon habits that Ford has, that Stanley subconsciously picks up, because he ends up being in close vincitity of Ford a lot of the time? (Kinda like how I pick up some mannerisms my brother has or how he sometimes picks up mine. Was wondering if it’s the same thing with dragon siblings)

Does Dragon Ford Like to kidnap supernatural creatures and also put them as apart of his hoard?

Or artifacts or books?

I’m assuming Ford is the type of dragon who while zoinkers in his instincts, still likes to collect knowledge of all kinds. Does Ford’s instincts treat Stan as a fellow dragon? Like a denmate? Or does he see Stan as like apart of his treasure (needs to keep safe, and clean and precious?)?

Or something else?

Also does Ford throw shiny clothes and dress Stan up in gold? Because Stan is part of his hoard? I think?

Really, Stan wouldn't mind the dragon kidnapping if it wasn't terrifying, still kidnapping, and the dragon let him do anything fun. Man's locked inside all day bored out of his mind. The life of princesses must suck truly.

Alas, although I did say it was a one shot, I've already started thinking about the second chapter 😔. Can't help it.

Yes, Bill cursed him. He was trying to get Ford to be his pet attack dragon, but due to circumstances failed to get the pet part and only got the dragon part.

From Fords perspective he's almost the same. He still wants to be human and study magic, but he also can't control the urge to gather things for his hoard, hunt for food, and roll around in gold. Since he's been like this for some time, he's less embarrassed of his dragon instincts, leaning into them is easier then fighting himself all the time. Stan already likes rolling around in gold, but he'd probably start snarling and growling more the longer he hangs out with Ford like this.

Dragon ford doesn't kidnap supernatural creatures here, just twin brothers lol. He doesn't study anomalies in this universe, he studies the fading art of magic and how to bring it back. His hoard def has books and magical artifacts, just not hanging loose in his gold pile. He keeps them separate.

Ford is an academic dragon yes, but he has to have people read to him now. He can't flip pages or handle books with his claws :(

Stan is a weird mix of small dragon, denmate, and also his treasure. He understands Stan is a person with needs and wants, and that he can't control him. But also Stan belongs to him. He needs to keep him safe and protected away from prying eyes that might want to take him away. His scales are too soft to protect him like Fords are. Stan has free reign to go wherever he wants in Fords den, and Ford will do his best to get him whatever he wants, but he's not allowed outside without supervision. Never know if maybe another dragon might want to steal him.

The moment Ford can he's drowning Stan in better quality clothes and jewels. Stan's a part of his treasure hoard now, and that means he needs to be well taken care of and looking his best.

[nephilimeq]

Nobody Knows Me Like You

Prompt: Valentine's Day

@bucktommyfluffebruary

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62721625/chapters/161567005

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Howie muttered as Tommy swept past him to put his phone in front of Maddie, showing her the blender he’d found, saying, “So this is what I was thinking about, but I’m still not sure if Evan will like it,” feeling a flicker of apprehension as he tried to figure out what to buy for his boyfriend for Valentine’s Day.

Oddly enough, it was their first one. They had been together for six months and then had broken up for a few months—during which had been over Christmas and Valentine’s—which meant that they were celebrating together for the first time, and he had never been more nervous in his life. He had to find Evan something perfect. It needed to say that he knew him, loved him, and wanted to show him that he was planning on keeping him in his life for as long as he could…

…but without buying him a ring.

At least, not yet.

“It’s…nice,” Maddie said, sipping at her tea, and Tommy groaned and dropped his head to the counter with his arms out in front of him, holding onto his phone rather pathetically.

“Ugh, I’m gonna end up not getting anything for him at this rate,” he muttered. “Valentine’s day is in four days, and I still don’t have anything for him! Flowers and chocolate are too cliche. Jewelry is too much, a stuffed animal is too childish,” he began to list. “Clothes are too impersonal, a mixed tape or cd is too juvenile, fixing his car is something I would do anyway, and something handmade from me is like a 911 call just waiting to happen.”

At that, Howie laughed and interjected, “God, you’re pathetic! Look, you wanna know what to get him? I’ll tell you, but you’ll owe me…”

Tommy looked at his friend and simply let out a long sigh.

“You know what, I don’t care what I have to owe you, just help me…please.”

He knew he looked and sounded pathetic, but the airman no longer cared about saving face—all he cared about was getting Evan something that would make him happy. And if that meant owing one of his best friends an unknown favor, then so be it.

Howie then gave him an unnerving grin and said, “You’re gonna love this…”

--

Buck was scrambling. It was only three days before his first time celebrating Valentine’s Day with his boyfriend and he was terrified he was about to fuck it all up.

“I’m telling you, Eddie, I don’t know what to do!” he whined, and his friend rolled his eyes and said, “It’s just Valentine’s, man! It’s a commercialized holiday! I mean, sure, I’m a romantic at heart, but I’m also a pragmatist, and so is Tommy. He won’t take it personally if you don’t get him the ‘perfect’ gift, you know.”

He stared at his friend, trying to figure out why Eddie was being so blasé about the entire thing.

Buck was at his wit’s end trying to figure out what to get Tommy.

Helping Eddie with the hose, he explained, “Look, you need to understand that the two of us are celebrating our first Valentine’s Day together, despite us already living together, so it feels really different, you know? Instead of the low stakes of a first Valentine’s like most couples get to have, it’s more than that because we’ve been through so much already and we’re living together!” He tugged the last bit of the hose with a bit more force than necessary to emphasize his point. “Do you get that?”

“Okay, yeah, I kinda see your side of this,” his friend conceded…but then he added, “But at the same time, is there even a real reason to worry all that much? I mean, because you’ve been through so much together, you know you love each other, and so anything you can think of will surely be enough…”

Ugh. He hated it when Eddie made a good point.

He rolled his eyes and followed him into the rig, the warehouse fire put out behind them—and then had to deal with Chim and Hen attempting to give him advice on the way back, and he regretted ever opening his mouth.

“If you wanna get him something special, you could always go for some new cleaning supplies for his car,” Hen suggested, and Buck glared at her and replied, “It’s Valentine’s Day, not a random Saturday afternoon, Hen. That’s really the best you can come up with?”, which earned him a hard glare and Chimney suggesting, “What about a gift certificate to one of his favorite restaurants?”, which wasn’t a bad idea, per se, but it also felt a bit cheap considering he could probably cook him a better meal at home.

Deciding to incur the ire of another friend, however, he said, “Eh, maybe,” and decided to drop it.

--

Tommy stared at the wall of chocolate in front of him, wondering what Evan would like the most, feeling a rush of insecurity as he tried to decide between four different types of dark chocolate, feeling like a cheapskate because he genuinely couldn’t think of anything else.

Howie had told him what to get Evan—and he’d bought it—but it still didn’t feel like enough.

Actually, he wondered if his friend was pulling his leg because what he’d bought him had been far too simple and easy (though not something he would have thought of on his own), and so there the airman stood in the middle of the aisle of some fancy chocolatier shop in downtown L.A. that he had heard about through Sal’s wife, Maria. He had complained enough to Sal, that he had apparently complained to his wife, and she had called him earlier that day while on shift and told him about the place.

He stared down at the 72% dark chocolate bars, the aisle split up by percentages, and debated which flavor Evan would like the best.

The ones with chile and lime definitely seemed like something he would like…but then there was the blood orange, the blackberry medley, and the chicory, too…

…and Tommy finally snapped and got one of each, wincing as he thought of how much it was going to cost him. Four chocolate bars from this place was the equivalent of almost three quarters of a tank of gas and seemed wasteful—but he knew that Evan would at least appreciate the gesture, if nothing else.

“This better be worth it,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way to the register.

A minute later he was done, and he let out a sigh of relief as he got back into his truck and then headed back home. It was odd to go out and do things without his boyfriend now that they lived together, and he felt a faint tugging in his chest at the thought that he now had someone to come home to—though not at the moment, as Evan was still on shift and wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours, which gave him just enough time to wrap the chocolate bars and hide them away.

The second he walked through the front door, however, his phone rang.

“Hello?” he said, tucking the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he locked the door behind him, and a voice said, “Hey, Tommy. Have you already bought Buck his Valentine’s Day present?”

Eddie.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he answered, “Yes, I have. Now, why are you really calling me?” as he shuffled the items around in his hands so he could talk to him without dropping anything, already moving towards the closet where he kept the gift wrapping, and his friend replied, “Your boyfriend is panicking. Doesn’t know what to get you, so he’s been asking all of us for ideas, and I think he’s still sorta…you know…freaking out in the way that only Buck can freak out…”

Of course, he was, he thought to himself, feeling a flicker of concern over his boyfriend’s state of mind, wishing he wouldn’t worry so much. Tommy honestly didn’t want anything, he just wanted to spend the day with Evan and enjoy the fact that they had each other.

“Of course, he is. What else would he be doing?” he said, putting a pink and red bag onto the counter and pulling out a random pile of white tissue paper, automatically wrapping as he continued to talk on the phone.

Eddie chuckled.

“Yeah, you know Buck—but at the same time, it’s kinda cute seeing him all worked up about what to get you. So, I’m biting the bullet and asking: what do you want?” he pressed, and Tommy could hear in his tone that he was being serious and was trying to do his friend a solid…and he felt rather useless as he admitted, “I just want to spend the day with him. Wrap him up in my arms and forget the world for a while, you know?”

There was a long pause, and he was suddenly afraid he had said too much.

…but then Eddie said, “Yeah, I get that, but still: what do you want?”

--

“Okay, you’re sure this is the right thing to get him?” Buck asked, shooting a glance at Eddie over his shoulder as they stood in front of the array of flowers in the flower shop, and his friend let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his head on his shoulders.

“For the hundredth time, yes! Now, will you just pick one so we can go? Also, why am I here for this?” he said as he reached out and looked closely at one of the tags on a bundle of roses, shaking his head.

Buck gave his friend a look.

“You’re here for this because you said you’d help me with Tommy’s gift. Now—roses or carnations?”

Eddie shook his head and said, “Neither. Both are overrated and Tommy would want something…different,” and Buck felt his irritation rise even further than before, the urge to turn around and punch him rising with every passing moment. “I mean, think about his favorite color—he goes for blue a lot, you know? So maybe something like…these,” he said, reaching for some blue flowers that shimmered enticingly, and Buck read the label, which said delphinium elatum.

“Blue? Really? But…it’s Valentine’s Day. I kinda feel like I should go for something pink or red, or even white, you know?” he hedged, still glancing over at the roses—and then was taken off guard when his friend suddenly bit out, “God, why are you so dense? He likes blue flowers because they remind him of your eyes! Fuck!”

Wait…what?

He felt an odd sensation on the back of his neck as he put things together, and he said, “Hold on, have you…Eddie, have you been talking with Tommy?” and his friend nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, I have, and can I just say that he has the patience of a saint putting up with you? I mean, my god! You have two days before Valentine’s Day and you’re freaking out over-over-over flowers, Buck!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide and causing a scene in the middle of the flower shop. “Do you have any idea how in love with you Tommy is? That man would be happy if you just showed up! I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so ridiculously in love as you two! You don’t need to do anything except show up!” he repeated, looking borderline pissed.

Buck shrunk in on himself slightly, once more feeling like the insecure eighteen-year-old who had run way from home, feeling equal parts chastened and grateful. While it hadn’t been the best way to say it, he could hear what Eddie was trying to tell him: that Tommy didn’t care what he got him because he loved him more than anything else.

“I think I’ll get the delphiniums,” he finally said with a grin, clapping Eddie on the shoulder.

“Oh, thank god. Can we go, now?”

Buck laughed and nodded and added, “Yeah, we can go. And thanks for putting up with me,” and Eddie snorted and shook his head and quipped, “Yeah, well, someone has to.”

--

It was Valentine’s Day and Tommy was putting the finishing touches on the present that he’d purchased, feeling a frisson of nerves at the thought of Evan not liking it—even though Howie had told him probably about a hundred times that his boyfriend would love it.

He stared at the ribbon that he’d tied around it, remembering the ribbon he’d put on the oven before he had surprised Evan with it.

“You’ve got this,” he muttered to himself in a pathetic attempt at a pep-talk. “You’ve got this…”

He moved over to the mirror and checked himself over, making sure he looked presentable as he listened to his boyfriend in the bathroom finishing getting ready. They were going out to dinner and so he had put on his black suit with a white button up underneath, not bothering with the tie. Evan had told him the last time that he had worn a suit that it had been the hottest thing he had ever seen, so he was indulging him and making sure that the evening would be a memorable one.

He had made reservations at a small place that he knew Evan had been wanting to try for a while.

…and just as he thought about possibly changing his jacket, Evan emerged from the bathroom fully dressed in his own charcoal suit with a deep red shirt that made his eyes pop, curls looking fresh, and he let out a low whistle and said, “Look at you, babe…damn. I can see that look in your eyes, don’t even think about changing! Those pants are awesome for your ass and that suit jacket makes you look good enough to eat…”

Tommy chuckled and turned and reached out to his boyfriend, pulling him in.

“Good to know. Speaking of eating, you ready to go?”

Evan nodded, his blue eyes sparkling, and the airman knew that it didn’t matter what he gave him, he was happy enough to have him in his life. Evan could give him the worst present in the world, and it wouldn’t have mattered—because he had him.

Smiling, he said, “Good, let’s go,” and quickly ushered him down the stairs and through the front door, present tucked inside his jacket.

His boyfriend had already greeted him with flowers when he’d come home, blue delphiniums that were the exact same shade as his eyes, and it was easily already the most romantic present that he’d ever been given, and he had told him that—and continued to tell him that as he drove them to the restaurant.

“Seriously, Evan. Those flowers are the most beautiful things I’ve ever received,” he repeated one last time as they dropped off the truck with the valet, and Evan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you’ve said that, like, ten times now.”

“So?”

He rolled his eyes a second time and drawled, “Sooo…can we please move past it? I just wanna have a romantic dinner with my boyfriend and talk about something stupid for the next couple of hours,” he said as he tugged at his hand, pulling him into the restaurant, and Tommy smiled indulgently at him and nodded and said, “Okay, sure. That sounds good to me,” and let him lead him into the restaurant, loving it when Evan took charge and said, “Two for Kinard,” and he felt his stomach flip at the thought of him having his last name one day.

Someday soon, he hoped.

--

Buck grinned as he made his way to their table, holding his boyfriend’s hand the entire way, feeling a giddiness about being out on Valentine’s Day with him. They had celebrated a few holidays as a couple, but Valentine’s Day was different from the rest—and they both knew it.

Actually, it was the first time he had ever been in a relationship during the holiday, and it made him feel an excitement he’d never felt before.

“And here’s your table,” the waiter said, and he nodded his thanks, and they sat down across from each other, a candle on the table.

Buck admired his boyfriend as he sat across from him, barely keeping himself in check. Tommy looked damn good every other day of the week, good enough that both men and women regularly hit on him…but right now?

Goddamn, he was barely keeping himself in check.

Tommy looked like pure sin sitting there in a pristine white button up that had the first few buttons undone, exposing the long column of his throat, and as he glanced down at the menu, Buck was completely distracted by the way the angle of the older man’s collar emphasized the sharp jut of his jawline and the exquisite cut of his cheekbones, his steel blue eyes glowing in the candlelight that lit the table between them, his black suit coat a stark contrast to his shirt.

Fuck, he wanted to jump him right then and there.

Marshalling what little control he had, he said, “So, uh…the appetizers look good, don’t they?” even though he hadn’t even glanced at the menu, the weight of it heavy in his hands as he kept on drinking in the sight of the man in front of him.

“Evan, you haven’t even looked at the menu,” Tommy said without even glancing up at him, and he nervously laughed.

“Yeah, yeah…good point.”

He looked down at the tiny font and pretended to scan it for a moment…but then looked back up and leaned in and whispered, “You look so damn good right now, I can barely concentrate, so is it alright if you just order for us?” and smiled when Tommy snorted and shook his head and said, “Oh, you are adorable…but, no,” and finally looked up at him. “If you let me order, I will purposely get you something you don’t like just to teach you a lesson, but I don’t want to do that because it’s Valentine’s Day, so please—please—just look at the damn menu.”

Buck slowly smiled and nodded and then actually took a good long look at the menu, his eyes alighting quickly on two things that he knew he would enjoy without having to deal with any unexpected surprises, and by the time the waitress came back to them, they both put in their meal orders, along with their drinks, and then he settled back in his chair and began to trace a finger around the edge of his water glass as he admired his boyfriend one more time.

“You really do look gorgeous tonight,” he said, thrilled when he saw a faint pink tinge in the other man’s cheeks.

“And you seem determined to make me make a fool of myself tonight. What about you, Mister Buckley?” he retorted, giving him an appreciative look over the edge of his water glass. “You are cutting a fine figure in that gray suit of yours…”

“It’s charcoal.”

Tommy arched an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, my bad.”

They shared a look…and then both broke out into giggles, and as they did, Buck felt Tommy’s real present burning a hole in his pocket and decided that he couldn’t wait until the end of the meal and quickly pulled it out and slid the slim box across the table and said, “I can’t wait until later. Here. This is for you.”

--

Tommy stared at the slim black box Evan had just pushed towards him, beautifully tied with a deep red ribbon into a slightly asymmetrical bow that felt delightfully ‘Evan’.

Curious enough to not ask him why he wanted to exchange gifts right at that moment, he simply nodded, and pulled the box towards him, gently tugging on one of the ribbons before lifting the lid…and then let out a soft gasp at the sight that greeted him.

Resting in a deep red velvet that matched the ribbon was a beautiful watch that he immediately recognized.

“Is that…Evan. How on earth did you…? How…?” was all he was able to get out as he gently removed it from its velvet cushion and brought it closer to the light of the candle so that he could admire the craftsmanship of it—as well as confirm that it was what he thought it was. “This…this is a Bell & Ross BR-03. This…is…it’s a work of art! How did you even afford this?” he found himself asking, hating that that was the first question he could think of, wincing at how it sounded.

But before he could correct himself, Evan was grinning and saying, “I, uh, I found a widow in the area who was selling her husband’s watches—he used to be a pilot—and saw she had one that looked exactly like one of the ones you showed me a couple months ago that you were saving up for, so I…I haggled with her a bit and I got it. You…you really like it?”

He shot him a look.

“Evan, I love it. It’s perfect,” the airman declared as he slid up both the sleeve of his coat and his shirt to put the watch on immediately.

He kept on glancing down at it and then back up at Evan, trying to understand how he had gotten so damn lucky to have a boyfriend like him. The watch was literally the most perfect thing that anyone had ever gotten him—everything down to even the material of the wrist band was exactly what he wanted.

“Yeah, well…I hoped you’d like it,” his boyfriend added with a bashful smile. Fuck, he was perfect.

…and now Tommy couldn’t help but feel that his own gift paled in comparison (even though Howie had told him several times over already that it was perfect).

Still, he managed to marshal his courage and pulled out a similar box from his own suit jacket and cautiously slid it across the table, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Evan carefully untie the pink ribbon he had used…

…and his heart stopped when he lifted the lid.

“Tommy…”

The silence stretched. Oh, god. Was that good? Or bad?

“You got me a behind-the-scenes tour of Aquarium of the Pacific?!” he practically shouted, and he watched as his boyfriend nearly stood from his chair—but then suddenly remember that they were in a public place and stayed sitting, his gaze glued to the tickets in his hand, eyes wide as he pulled out the folded piece of paper underneath it that explained what all he would be seeing and when it was taking place (in exactly one month).

He quickly scanned it and then said excitedly, “Oh my god, this isn’t just a tour, this-this-this is a full private showing with their head trainer and their head researcher that works with the National Wildlife Foundation! Oh my god, Tommy…” He lifted his eyes back to his, and for a brief moment he swore he could see twelve-year-old Evan Buckley sitting in front of him. “…this is literally the best gift that anyone has ever given me in my life. Ever,” he repeated emphatically, reaching across the table with his free hand to grab at his own, their fingers tightening almost painfully. “How...how did…how did you know?? I’ve, I’ve never told anyone…wait. You talked to Chimney, didn’t you?” he accused, and Tommy nodded.

“Yeah, I talked to Howie. And apparently I now owe him one. Or two. Honestly, I don’t know what I owe him at this point,” he said, shaking his head and reaching for his water with his free hand. “But apparently it was the right call…”

They exchanged a look.

And then his boyfriend said, “This is gonna be hard to top. What are we gonna do next year?”

Get married, he thought to himself…but out loud he said just as Evan took a sip of his water, “Hole up in a hotel for two days and fuck each other silly, of course,” grinning when the younger firefighter coughed and nearly choked on his water, thrilled that he’d managed to garner such a reaction.

“That…that’s not a bad idea.”

Tommy shrugged and said, “Yeah, I occasionally have good ones from time to time, it’s been known to happen,” and right as he said that, their food arrived and they shared a quick grin and began to eat, tangling their feet together under the table as they did so, and the airman relished the intimacy and closeness, feeling like he had finally found the person who knew him inside and out, in every sense of the word, and made the mental note to start looking for rings.

God, he couldn’t wait to be married to that man.

--

Buck noticed his boyfriend giving him a dopey smile and asked, “What’s that smile for?” and he just shook his head.

“Nothing. Just…thinking about how much I love you.”

He suspected that wasn’t the entire truth…but he was okay with not knowing what he was really thinking. Hell, this was probably the most perfect night that he had ever experienced in his life, and he didn’t want to ruin it by pushing anything too hard. Besides, Tommy would tell him if something was really on his mind.

They finished dinner fairly quickly—and then Buck was thrilled when Tommy ordered them both dessert in fluent French, something that sounded decadent and sinfully good.

“Fuck, it’s hot when you pull out the French,” he said, unable to help himself, curling his ankle around the back of his, and his boyfriend gave him a look.

“Hot, huh? Want me to start using it in the bedroom? I can start calling you mon petit garçon,” he said as he smirked at him, and Buck felt his stomach flip and he knew that his eyes had dilated, and he tried his best to glare at him.

“Don’t…don’t do that. Not here.”

Tommy chuckled, the sound low, warm, and promising, and he felt it as if his boyfriend had just run his stubbled jaw along the inside of his thighs, the tone of his voice having the same effect on him, even from a distance, and he shifted in his chair to try and hide the effect that it was having on him. As he moved, however, his boyfriend shot him a knowing look, and Buck knew that he knew the effect he was having on him.

Smug bastard, he thought to himself.

Still reeling from the present Tommy had given him, he said one last time, “Seriously, this gift, it’s really…it’s really the most amazing thing anyone has ever gotten me,” and reached out for his hand across the table, feeling a sense of relief when his boyfriend squeezed his fingers and gave him a soft smile.

“I’m really glad you like it, Ev.”

He looked like he was about to say something else—but then dessert arrived, and Buck stared at the chocolate concoction that was placed on the table between them with two spoons and he marveled at it for a moment before saying, “Okay, now this…this looks like the best thing I’ve never had. What is this?”

“It’s called gâteau royal,” Tommy explained as he dug his spoon into it. “It’s made from almond meringue, praline feuilletine, and the top layer is dark chocolate mousse. It’s also sometimes called a Trianon because it has three layers…”

Buck took a bit and moaned at the rich flavor that exploded across his tongue.

Tommy shot him a look, one eyebrow raised.

“Evan…save those sounds for later.”

He smirked.

Yeah, this was the best Valentine’s Day ever.

[thisisjustfanfic]

Cleaning up the Timeline

{Rafayel and Sylus have a chat. You go for a walk. Zayne answers some questions.}

Read on ao3.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Maid AU, Eventual Smut. SFW (For now)

Chapter 6: Answers

“Naughty, naughty,” A cool voice rumbles when Rafayel slinks out of your room just as the sun rises. He’d only fallen asleep for an hour at most, and spent the rest of the time convincing himself to leave. 

The violet-haired man turns, already knowing who to expect. Only one member of the house had that gravely drawl. Sylus is rarely on this floor— preferring to keep to the low darker floors—and there’s only reason why he would be. 

“She woke up.” Rafayel defended in a whisper, “I kept her in bed.”

Sylus was moving. Not fast, but with purpose. His thick soled boots hardly making a sound as he closed the distance between them. Stepping across the hall to grab Rafayel by the back of the neck, and hauling him into the bedroom down the hall. 

Rafayel’s bedroom was no different than his studio– a mess. Sketchbooks and discarded papers covering the floor. Clothes piled in the corners and untouched shopping bags with the goo Sylus kicked the door closed as Rafayel let out a growl– too rough to be fully human. 

“What are you–?” Rafayel demanded, but Sylus was already shoving him up against the wall and shoving his face into his neck. 

“Its not fair.” Sylus snarled, sharp teeth dragging against Rafayel’s pale throat. “All  of you get to spend time with her. See her. Touch her. What do I get?”

Rafayel hissed at the contact, baring his teeth and grabbing Sylus by the hair to pull him away, “Don’t take it out on me that you hide in your den all the time.”

“Just let me–” Sylus groaned, less commanding and more plaintive now that Rafayel had him by the hair, “Just let me scent for a little longer. You reek of her. I can’t…I can’t go in there.”

Rafayel felt a thrill run up his spine. Sylus was always such a needy thing when it came to you. Desperate for even a little taste. Even when he had sharp claws, scales and an obsidian tail, Sylus was rendered puppy-soft for you. Imbibing on your scent and taste like an unapologetic addict. 

“So pathetic,” Rafayel hissed without any heat, letting go of the panting man’s hair so that he could dive back in. At first it was just his nose, dragging up Rafayel’s neck and inhaling the long forgotten scent of those bodies combined. 

But then there was his tongue, a white-hot streak painted from collarbone to up behind Rafayel’s ear, and the violet-haired man snapped out a growl, pushing Sylus back. Rafayel was not Sylus’ toy, and he would not let the fiend get confused about the power dynamic here. 

If Sylus wanted to play with dynamics and have something beneath him, he could go to confused little Zayne or fight for it with Xavier. Rafayel was not the one to be pushed down, or manhandled into the shapes Sylus desired. 

He missed the days with you between them. Beneath them. A feast with enough to go around. Nothing but exposed skin for Sylus to dine upon, the prettiest little sounds escaping your lips while Sylus got lost between your legs. Your eyes would go hazy, and you’d reach out like a lost little herring away from the school. 

Rafayel would let you cling to him. His perfect worshipper. He’d reward you with his own devotion. Hold you up against his chest with his hands in the crooks of your knees so that your pet dragon could devour you. Present you for slaughter while you sing for him. 

Rafayel would let you dedicate yourself to his cock with your tongue while you struggled to take both of Sylus’. Soft little mewls of delirious pleasure, and Rafayel would watch the domino effect that happened when he praised you. 

A simple word of praise, and he’d watch your face flush, your teary eyes brim, and then Sylus groan like he was being strangled as your body tightened like a vice. Torture for the both of you. 

A god. A dragon. And a divine supplicant. A sublime treasure both hoarded and shared. Simultaneously endless in your love and affection but none of them were ever satisfied.

For Rafayel, it had been close to a century since he’d last had a taste. Since he’d been anointed with the soft touch of your fingers or enthralled with the music of your voice. 

For Sylus, it’d been but a lifetime. But that youth made him hungrier. Gnawing at something he could only recall as if from a dream. Had it ever been real? Had any of it been real?

Rafayel let Sylus take what he needed, something carnal but deep as marrow satiated inside the both of them. They were more than men— more than mortal. Xavier and Zayne would never understand the things they did. The way their bodies craved you as much as their minds or hearts did. Beasts of lore and myths—dedicated to a single soul.

Sundays are your day off. A day of rest and recuperation— that’s what it’s supposed to be. So, when your alarm sounds, you promptly shut it off. Rolling away like a roach scurries away from the light, hiding your face in your pillow and letting your hand reach out to—-

To whom?

The realization of the halted movement makes you lift your head. Had someone been here? Who had you been wanting to reach out to? The other side of the bed was empty, the blankets barely shifted, and the pillow only slightly dipped. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never have noticed it.

In a stroke of insanity, you leaned over to press your nose into the other pillow, inhaling softly and taking in any lingering scent. It was faint, barely clinging to the soft cotton but it was there. Something fresh and clean— like a masculine shampoo, tinged with salt and smoke. Warm like a campfire burning sappy pine. 

Rafayel. Your mind supplied, though you weren’t sure how it made that connection. Vaguely you recalled an image of him, rimmed in moonlight and smiling. His violet hair looked navy in the darkness, but his eyes still shine like multicolored amethysts. 

You were now fully awake— awake and confused. Why had he been in your bed? Did that cross some sort of line? Had you violated the contract??? Wait, no. There wasn’t anything in the contract about fraternization— not that you were going to fraternize! 

He was probably just lonely. Rafayel was odd, and you wouldn’t put it past him to come in, just to see if he could.

You collapsed back against your bed, wondering what you would do to fill your day off. It was tempting to just go back to sleep, or just scroll on your phone in bed. Zayne had already deposited your first month's pay in advance so you could afford a taxi to go get some things from your storage unit. Or even go get your bike? 

None of the options were sticking in your mind and so you found yourself lingering in bed aimlessly. The rest of the house was quiet, almost eerily so for home many people lived in it.

A part of you argued you should at least go downstairs and interact with the others,  but another reminded you that you aren’t their roommate. Aren’t their friend.

You weren’t sure whether you fell back asleep or not, but the smell of smoke pulled you back to life. Sharp and acrid, you were on your feet before you could think about it.

The smell only grew as you scurried down the stairs and the haze of smoke clouded your vision as you entered the living room. 

Flames flickered from a small skillet on the stove, producing more smoke than the poor vent above it could pull out. Xavier stood a foot away with a wooden spoon in his hand, the tip of it a dark carbon black.

You rushed over to the kitchen and from one of the cupboards grabbed a large flat lid and placed it on top of the flaming skillet, choking out the flames.

Xavier stepped back a bit, looking comically innocent as you literally put out his fire. When the flame was dead and the stove was off, you turned to him with an aghast expression.

“I was making breakfast.” Xavier explained as he wiggled his ruined spoon. “Omelets.”

You sighed and plucked the spoon from his hand and tossed it into the sink, “I think you bypassed the omelet and went straight for charcoal. I thought I told you last night not to put it past medium heat!”

Xavier shrugged, “I was worried you would wake up before it was done. I thought it would be faster.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll make some omelets. Just….give me a minute to get dressed.”

“No,” Xavier’s voice was stern, “It’s your day off. I should make it.”

“How about you mix and I’ll cook?” You offered, hoping this weapon of kitchen destruction would agree. You pointed to the skillet and then back to him, “Don’t touch it. I’ll be right back.”

You scurried back up the stairs, changing out of your thin sleep clothes and then pulling your hair out of your face. While in the bathroom, you paused, looking at yourself in the ostentatious mirror and taking it in. 

Who were you? Did you even look like yourself anymore? You weren’t particularly high-maintenance before…well before, but things looked different in you now. Routines disrupted and it showed on your face, a sense of exhaustion clear from the smudges of discoloration beneath your eyes. 

If they were still alive, would they even recognize you?

It was a horrible thought, one that you quickly tried to push away. Bracing your hands on the smooth stone of the countertop and hoping it would keep you grounded. It had hit you like a bullet. Striking you somewhere deep and vulnerable that you felt like you’d staggered. 

The fear of not being recognized was new. This rising panic as you wondered if one day you’d wake up and not recognize your own face. It felt wholly irrational but solid enough it could grip you. Clench around your throat. 

You inhaled again. In. Out. In, and out. You forced yourself to stand back up and look yourself in the eye, focus on the features of your face you knew to be yours. The curve of your nose and the angle of your jaw. The shape of your eyes and the color of your iris. No matter what depressive hole you fell into, those things wouldn’t change. Those who loved you would recognize you. You would recognize you. You didn’t realize how terrified you were to lose yourself until you were almost gone. 

Existential crisis bypassed, you returned to the kitchen. Focusing on the moment and not the past. 

Xavier was standing in the same place, having moved the charred skillet and pulled out another one. Only he had listened and not touched the stove again. The carton of eggs was still out as well as some containers of veggies and some cheese. 

“How do you like them?” You ask as you sidle up to him, a gentle hand on his arm putting him in front of the cutting board and away from the stovetop.

“Ham and cheese.” Xavier replied, “But Zayne says I should include something green, so…scallions?”

You chuckled softly, “Zayne rarely follows his own advice, I doubt his omelet has any greens in it.”

The two of you worked in tandem to make breakfast; his cut veggies varying wildly in shape and size but that hardly mattered. You cooked the eggs and set each omelet on its own plate, until five plates sat in a line on the counter. 

Xavier took yours and his and sat them next to each other on the bar, and then pulled out his phone to send a quick text. 

Zayne was the first to arrive after receiving his breakfast call. You noticed his still damp hair as he adjusted his shirt collar. A glance down and you noticed the lack of ID tag and smiled– so it was his day off too?

Xavier lifted his head, and like before Zayne came over– though his eyes were examining the food– and reached out to place a hand on Xavier’s shoulder. Sliding down in a lingering way that was more than roommates. 

It made your stomach flutter. Your imagination taking this train ticket and riding with it for all it was worth. You’d seen Zayne and Xavier share two instances of affection– once is an instance and twice is a hobby. Were they together? 

You were quiet for the rest of breakfast, offering the two of them a little morsel of conversation while you flip flopped between denial, curiosity, and dejection. If Zayne was with Xavier, that meant you didn’t stand a chance. It was fine. It wasn’t like anything had happened between you and Zayne that wasn’t painfully platonic, besides that mistaken goodbye kiss to your forehead. 

Despite your hopefulness, that hadn’t happened again. 

You hadn’t realized how much you had been riding on the idea of something potential between you and Zayne, and it settled like a stone in your gut. The omelet lost its appeal, as well as the idea of spending the day in this house. You needed some air. Some space. 

So, when you were done, you grabbed your coat and decided to go for a walk. Rafayel caught you on your way back down the stairs and followed you, and when you passed by Zayne and Xavier in the living room, they also approached. 

Like magnets being drawn in, they questioned where you were going. How long would you be gone? Did you need a ride? Did you have your gloves?

The attention only made your frazzled nerves feel more raw, and you hastily answered their questions to make your way towards the front door. Insisting it was just a walk. That was all. You’d be back soon– you just wanted to see the neighborhood.

Xavier went to grab his coat, mentioning kindly that they would join you, and you had to stop. Turn and insist a little harsher that no, you would be fine. Just a little walk. You needed some air. 

You tried not to look at them as you left the house, shutting the door behind you as gently as you could. You had tried to not see the incredulity in Rafayel’s eyes, or the concern in Zayne’s. 

Snow still covered the flat areas of the city, but the roads and sidewalks were clear. You ducked your head down, hoping they weren’t watching you leave through the window, but imagining them lined up like sad little puppies with their nose pressed to the glass anyway. 

You didn’t have a direction in mind, just the movement. You needed to keep moving, keep your feet moving, and your mind at least a little preoccupied. 

You felt like you were going a bit insane. Sensations that felt like being remembered in a dream arising unprovoked and unwanted. Why did it hurt so badly? To realize there was no potential with Zayne?

Maybe because it had always felt inevitable, in a way. Even as children, he was always just there. Although his family and yours didn’t run in the same circles, you always found him some way. At the park, or at a festival. Orbiting each other like asteroids careening through the void, spiraling alongside each other in a coiling parallel. 

It made it worse that Xavier was so good. That Xavier was kind and gentle and something that felt like a familiar blanket– fuzzy and warm. You couldn’t even be jealous. Couldn’t even pretend that Xavier wasn’t good for him or that you weren’t almost equally as disappointed that Xavier was out of reach too. 

“What the hell was that?” Rafayel bit out the minute you’d closed the door. He turned to the other two imbeciles standing in the entryway and crossed his arms, “What’d you do?”

“Me?” Xavier looked offended, “We made breakfast. She seemed happy enough until you showed up.”

Zayne placed a plaintive hand between them, “She is a rather independent person. She was likely telling the truth– she just needed some space.”

Zayne’s voice was still calm, explaining like he explained a treatment plan or directions. Precise and void of emotion, but his eyes were tight. His brow a bit furrowed in confusion, because you were an independent person but you also were social. You always had been. Connecting to people in that effortless, confounding way that Zayne had always marveled at.

“Which reminds me,” Rafayel turned his attention to the soft-spoken doctor, “You never mentioned her. How long have you two known each other?”

Zayne looked caught off guard, “She’s a friend. We’ve known each other for years. Since we were children.”

“ Children?” Rafayel was nearly seething now, “You hear this?” He snapped, turning to Xavier, “They’ve known each other since they were children! So what? A decade? More?”

“You can’t blame him,” Xavier defends with a stern expression, “He has no idea. And he doesn’t understand.”

Rafayel clenched his teeth together and pointed angrily, steaming, but unable to find more words. Evol brimming at the edge of his control, buzzing like a sheathed weapon ready to be unleashed.

“Do you two know her?” Zayne asked, his expression a touch darker than it was before. 

Xavier and Rafayel shared a glance, silently debating the next remark. They hadn’t exactly discussed what to do if you showed up. They’d all assumed you didn’t exist. Of course, amnesiac Zayne would be the one to find you first. He had no idea what he’d run into, and could hardly be blamed for not sharing with the others. 

But– But they couldn’t necessarily be honest with him. His sanity teetered sometimes– consciousnesses crossing over from one reality to the other. Xavier had argued that keeping Zayne in the dark was for the best, while Sylus had tried to argue the opposite. While Zayne may not understand all the time, it was better for him to know. 

Rafayel had been the deciding vote, and he had decided to keep Zayne in the dark. Let him believe they were just a group of four individuals that got along really well and understood each other better than most. Let it be an unconventional relationship but all in good fun, and not the truth– which was they were clinging to each other for survival and holding onto what remained of the life they had lost. 

It felt like a mercy to not remind Zayne of what he would never have again, but lo and behold! He’d had it the whole time! You were by Zayne’s side, hidden behind him and behind that block on his memory like a duckling beneath its mother’s wing. 

“She just seemed upset– when she left.” Rafayel grunted, turning to look towards the window and not at the incredulous Zayne. “I like this one, and I don’t want to have to find another housekeeper.”

“If she was truly upset, I’ll talk to her when she gets back.” Zayne said benevolently– his blatant spark of jealousy soothed for the moment. “I need her to want to stay here, and if she quits I– Let’s just say I will not be happy.”

Xavier chuckled and clapped his hand onto Zayne’s back, “Of course. We’ll let you handle it, alright?” The blond turned to Rafayel and continued, “Right?”

Rafayel huffed and turned on his heel, “I’ll be in my studio. Let me know when she gets back.”

“If she’s not back by lunch I’ll go get her myself.” Xavier answered. 

So, you were definitely being followed. 

That wasn’t a fun feeling nor a happy realization. It wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with some shady character, but that had been on missions. When you were active duty and sent to infiltrate or to sniff out an informant’s tip.

You had always liked those missions. The ones where you were dealing with bad people and their illegal syndicates. Smuggling, trafficking, illegal experimentation. It felt like justice. It felt like making a change and doing good. 

Fighting Wanderer’s was good, but it felt like an uphill, endless battle. Sisyphus and his boulder, continually pushing but always ending up back where you started. 

This guy had followed you down three left turns. He was a good distance back, but you could see him in the reflection of your phone screen. At least he was halfway decent. You would have never noticed him if you hadn’t stopped to stare at some  geese in the canal alongside the walkway for a few minutes. 

You’d been so preoccupied with the geese as they attempted to find the water beneath the ice that you’d almost missed it. A man in a grey coat and black hat, the lower half of his face was covered by black mask– not too odd for such cold weather, but he kept his hands in his pockets, looking down at the canal like you were, but there weren’t geese there. And he kept shifting on his feet like he was eager to get moving. 

So you kept walking, typing nonsense into the notes app of  your phone so you could keep it out and looking in the reflection of it every so often, and there he was. Always there. Even after you turned once, twice, three times. You were now walking down a narrower street, the sidewalk barely populated and the shops mostly closed. 

You didn’t bring a weapon. That sucked. And you didn’t have a convenient knife aisle to grab one either. 

It could be a coincidence: a really, really suspicious coincidence, but your gut told you that wasn’t the case. He didn’t look to be heavily armed, but he could have anything on under that coat. A gun was one thing, but a tranquilizer could be another. A switchblade. Mace. Taser. He could even have some half-assed homemade bomb under there. Not knowing was dangerous, and so you kept walking. 

It was one thing for you to get hurt, and another entirely for the innocent people around you to get pulled into whatever this was. 

You were walking further into the city now. More cars. More crosswalks, and you found yourself standing and waiting at one with two others. They weren’t looking at you, too busy in their own lives and their own business to care about you. 

The man approached, standing that socially acceptable distance away and waiting for the light. The numbers counted down, and you felt your heart begin to race. He was closer now. Close enough he could grab you if he wanted to. Close enough to press a gun to your back and fire before you could even turn around to see his face. 

You should bolt. Wait until it turns green and then run. That’s it. That was the plan. As soon as you could, you would take off and lose him down an alley or something. Climb up a fire escape if you had to. 

“There you are,” A warm voice said the moment before a hand slid across your back. 

You jumped and whirled to the side, ready to strike your stalked in the throat, only you found it much higher than you thought it’d be, and he grabbed at your wrist before your fist could make contact with his adam’s apple. 

“I’ve been looking for you. Is this how you greet a friend?” His carmine eyes danced with mirth, and you moved to step back but found his arm had familiarly wrapped around you, holding you close. 

The light for the crosswalk turned green and the others began to cross, but Sylus held you in place. 

“Sylus?” You blurted out, confusion overtaking you for a moment before you noticed your stalked stride by, unable to find a good enough excuse to wait for you and so he had to cross. 

Sylus’ eyes were on your face, but flicked up as the man passed. His arm shifted around you, moving you to be standing next to him as he let go of your wrist. “That was peculiar. How long were you being followed, kitten?”

You scowled slightly, “I’m not a kitten.”

Sylus chuckled and you could feel the rumble of it in the shoulder you had pressed against him, he turned the both of you down the corner and away from the intersection, his steps making up two of yours. Though, he seemed to be walking slower to compensate. 

“I can almost hear the hiss in your voice,” Sylus taunted, the hand on your waist squeezing slightly, “Come one, you can tell me. Who was that?”

You sighed and let yourself be led down the sidewalk, passing into the shade cast by a tall building, “I have no idea. I caught him following me a few blocks away from the house. I was trying to lose him when you showed up.”

“Do you find yourself the attention of strange men often, kitten?” You could hear the way he tacked on the pet name at the end, a clear barb to see if you’d react. You refused to. 

“Only recently.” You replied, “I took a job and suddenly I’ve got all sorts of attention.”

You made Sylus chuckle again, and you watched as he began typing at his phone with his free hand. You couldn’t see what he was typing, but it looked like a text message. 

“Here,” Sylus said as he stopped suddenly, and when you turned you found yourself in front of a luxury store, the shiny glass windows edged with frost and showcasing a winter line of watches on one side and neckties in the other. You half expected to be dragged into it, but instead Sylus turned to a motorbike paked just outside of it. 

“Is this yours?” You asked, already knowing the answer. Sylus walked over and removed the helmet coming back to your side and silently putting on your head, “Are you allowed to park here?”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission.” Sylus answered. He took your hand and led you to the edge of the sidewalk. He mounted the bike and then shifted forward, motioning with his head, “Get on.”

“Why would I do that?” You ask, as you place your hands on the sides of the helmet to remove it. “I was just out for a walk, I can walk back.”

Sylus reached out with his long arms and his leather jacket shifted so you saw the pair of handguns at his hips. It wasn’t threatening but it was surprising. Though, after the initial shock of seeing them, you realized it wasn’t all that surprising actually. If anyone was going to be concealed carrying, it would be a man like Sylus. All leather jackets and jackal smiles. 

“I’ve gotten six texts from Zayne alone about you,” Sylus said, his grin showing just a bit too much canine, “Let me take you home, before the poor doctor faints.”

You paused in removing your helmet and instead let it hide your face from the blush that rose there. While you hadn’t meant to, it was almost endearing to hear Zayne was worried about you. You had left in a rush, and you were poor at hiding when something was wrong. 

Though, with a stalker on your heel, you hadn’t actually spent much time digesting your morning revelations. You didn’t get the air you needed to come to terms with your lost fantasy. Though it might only be a silly crush, it still stung to see it squashed. 

“He’d be fine. He’s just worried because I left in a rush.” You argue, more to yourself than to him. “Did he send you to find me?”

Sylus sat up, “No. Did you want him to?”

“No.” You partially lied. You were a big girl and didn’t need Zayne or anyone else sending out search parties and dragging you home like a petulant child. It was that pathetic part of you with rose-colored glasses that fawned at the idea. 

“Did you get into an argument?” Sylus probed. His voice was less serrated, and his grin gone. 

“No. Nothing like that I just–” You stopped yourself and took a deep breath. “Fine. Take me back.”

You saw the spark of intrigue in Sylus’ eye and all but pushed him forward on the bike to place yourself behind him. Though you tried to just hold onto the leather strap along the back part of the seat, Sylus wasn’t having it, and grabbed your arm, pulling it around his waist. He did the same with the other arm, and then reached back again, placing his hand on your lower back and sliding your butt up until you were as flush as you could get to him.

“Hold on, sweetie.” His drawled as he started up the monstrous bike, and took off. 

He drove like you drove. Faster than you should and weaving around traffic as if it had personally offended you– only, if it was possible, Sylus was more aggressive at it. He streamlined down the streets and around corners like a bird of prey. Like a Peregrine falcon, careening at breakneck speeds to capture prey. 

You clung to his waist and let the sensation of the thrill ride thrum your speeding heart. You were glad for the helmet, which muffled your gleeful squeal when Sylus pulled around a corner and it caught at your tummy. 

Though, just after that, you felt his chest rumble with a soft laugh of his own. 

He slowed down as you entered the familiar block of the house, and was surprised when he didn’t pull into the garage, but instead stopped in front. With a few gentle pats to your arm, he let you let go of him, and stepped off the bike. 

Before you could take off the helmet yourself, Sylus was there and plucked it off your head. You blinked at the sudden brightness which had been dimmed by the tinted visor. Sylus cocked his head at you and laughed, low and soft. 

“Now you really look like a kitten.” He teased as he placed the helmet back onto the seat of the bike, “All fluffed up.”

You began to try and straighten your hair and scowled at him, “Thanks for the ride, and for getting that guy off my tail.”

“You don’t seem as concerned as someone should be that you were being followed.” Sylus said with amusement as he opened the front gate, letting you enter first before following behind you. 

“I am concerned,” You argued back, “But I’m not exactly in a place to do much about it. He didn’t do anything. Didn’t hurt me or threaten me. Even if I went to the police I don’t have anything to really report.”

“What was your plan exactly?” Sylus crooned as he opened the front door and led you inside. The warmth immediately enveloping you and melting the ice that had begun to form on your toes and fingers. 

You huffed out a laugh, “Run? Well, I was going to bolt. I couldn’t tell if he was armed–”

“He was.”

“Well I didn’t know that. And so I didn’t just want to turn around and confront him. There were too many people around, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt either.”

You went to remove your coat and Sylus was suddenly behind you, sliding it off your shoulders and hanging it up on the rack. 

“So, the plan?” Sylus took off his leather coat and hung it next to yours, then placing his broad hands on narrow hims and you found yourself a little tongue tied for a half a second.

“I was going to run, like I said.” You crossed your arms, hoping to block whatever leather-magic he head that made your eyes seem to draw down his body. From broad shoulders to the wide expanse of his chest. All of the men here were tall but Sylus was big. What was in the water here?

You cleared your throat and continued, “As soon as the light turned I was going to run as fast as I could. Either he’d let me, realizing I’d caught him. Or he’d chase me, which is where I’d try and lose him in a store or in an alley or something. Worst case, I face him head on behind some dumpster.”

Sylus so hard he tilted his head back, “A kitten and an alley cat?”

“Call me kitten some more and I’ll scratch your eyes out.” You huffed, turning on your heel and leaving the entryway. 

“Oh I might,” Sylus’ voice was in your ear as he stepped just behind you, leaning down to purr too close to you, “Just to see you try.”

“Y/N,” Someone else called before you could whip around and hiss something a little more colorful at your silver-haired savior. You were beginning to think his benevolence would come with a price. 

You turned and saw Zayne approaching from the couch. Had he been waiting on you?

“Hey Zayne.” You greeted as sweetly as you could, though the sight of him made your tummy hurt. 

“I was hoping we could talk,” Zayne said, his expression stony and unreadable. 

“No, thank you?” Sylus asked from behind you, leaning over to place his elbow on the top of your head to lean on you like one leans on a counter at a bar. “I found your housekeeper, Zayne. She was almost six miles away.”

Zayne looked over your head at Sylus, and then where he was leaning on you. His hazel eyes turned a little more icy than usual. In a show of boldness he usually didn’t show, Zayne stepped forward, placing himself in your space and removing Sylus’ arm from your head with a firm hand. 

“Thank you,” Zayne bit out, though it hardly sounded sincere, “What were you doing there?”

Sylus’ brows rose and then fell, “I was buying a few things for the auction coming up. I got you something too– you’re welcome, by the way. I happened to see her walking by, and I said hello.”

You looked at Sylus in mild surprise, stunned that he hadn’t mentioned the man following you. Was it a secret? You hadn’t planned on mentioning it only because there wasn’t anything Zayne or the others could do, but why would Sylus hide it? What was his motive?

“Thank you,” You said to Sylus with a slight nod, “Again, for driving me back. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“Hardly,” Sylus replied. His eyes shifted back towards you and you felt like the red there might actually burn you alive. There was something all-encompassing there. Like the beacon of his attention weighed a thousand tons, and to take the brunt of his undivided attention, it left you a bit breathless. 

“I was hoping to speak to her alone,” Zayne said, inserting himself again.”If you don’t mind.”

Sylus paused, looking at Zayne and examining him for a moment. Like two grey wolves crossing paths in a forest. Eyes of predators sizing each other. There wasn’t malice or aggression there– yet. Only the assessment of someone formidable, and a conversation happening that only they could understand. 

“Alright then,” Sylus said, letting the hand he had shifted to your back fall away. It cut in between you and Zayne, grabbing the dark-haired man by the side of the neck and pulling him in until their faces were but a breath away from each other. 

Zayne grunted, ears turning red, but he didn’t pull away. Sylus’ grin was predatory, amused by the easy way he moved the other man as he whispered almost against his lips, “Be careful, Zayne. Be nice to the kitten. I’d hate to have to go catch her again.”

Sylus let got of Zayne, and he gasped. The white haired man admired his handiwork for a moment, shooting you a look that had you breathless before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall. 

Zayne turned, dragging his middle finger across his lower lip and going back to sit on the couch, “I…apologize, for his behavior.”

It took you a moment to gain your bearings, and when you felt like the blood had returned to your brain and not your pussy, you whirled on Zayne, “What the hell was that Zayne?”

Zayne sat on the couch, hands on his knees and eyes avoiding looking at you, “What do you mean?”

“Are you with Xavier?” You demanded, “Or Sylus? Or both? I don’t understand what this is, and I– I know it’s none of my business but…”

Zayne sat up and shifted, clearly uncomfortable, “We aren’t…it’s hard to explain…”

Your face was burning with heat, and you immediately regretted asking. But this was going to drive you insane if you didn’t get some answers. So, in an act of peace, you went and sat down. Not next to Zayne, but across from him on the loveseat instead of the couch. 

“We aren’t together.” Zayne said, looking down like he wasn’t sure of the words he was saying, “But we aren’t…. not together, either.”

You tried to keep your expression as even as possible. Heart pounding, and mind reeling. You weren’t even sure whether the news hurt or not. “You and Xavier.”

Zayne looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His face and ears were crimson and he had to clear his throat again before he spoke, “A-all of us.”

The conservative posture you had crumpled, “ All of you? Like you and Sylus, and Xavier. Even Rafayel?”

“I know it's peculiar.” Zayne said as he adjusted his glasses on his nose, “It isn’t– I certainly never thought I’d find myself in this position, but it– ahem, I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable. I understand if you wish to leave. I can find you an apartment nearby– I’ll pay for it of course.”

Zayne was rambling? You were so caught off guard by seeing Zayne’s disposition so flustered that you wondered if you were dreaming. Zayne, for as long as you’d known him, had never been rambled on like this. Defensive , your mind supplied. Vulnerable, it added after that. 

He was afraid of what you thought. 

You stood up and went to sit beside him, but kept your hands to yourself. “Zayne, it’s fine. It’s…it’s surprising, but I don’t judge you for it. If this is what makes you happy, then I’m glad. I…This morning I was just confused. I didn’t understand, but now that I do I’ll be fine. I don’t want to leave, I promise.”

Zayne bridged the distance between you, taking your hands in his and squeezing. Your hands are only slightly warmer than his. 

“I can’t lose you,” He said softly, “I don’t think any of us knows what we’re doing. What this is, but I know…I know that you matter to me. Deeply. And I don’t want to lose you.”

The confession stung. Words you would have given your soul to hear if only in a different context. How could you even pretend at this point that they meant anything more than kinship? Sweet and affectionate as they may be, they didn’t mean what your heart wanted them to, and so your face fell. Unable to hide the disappointment. 

“You mean alot to me too,” You whisper, voice raw. “I’m happy for you. If you’re happy.”

Before he could reply, you unlatched your hands from his and stood up. You avoided looking at him as you went to leave, the pit in your stomach heavier than ever.

“I’m going to go take a nap.” You said as gently as you could, “I’ll be down later.”

Zayne stood up, “Y/N.”

You didn’t turn. Escaping away to your bedroom with heavy feet. You spotted Rafayel at the door to his studio, and he paused to look at you. Damn him and his pretty face, because by that point your eyes were misty and stinging. 

You rushed into your room and shut the door behind you, locking it for good measure. The room was warm, but your skin felt cold. You shook your head. You had no right to be sad. Zayne was never yours, and it was better to know the others were off limits too. It was better this way. 

You continued to repeat that for the rest of the day. Hiding under your covers and sleeping the day away.

<- Previous Next ->

[ancha-aus]

Bitty Surprise - Chapter 1 - Pov Cross

Hello! What is this? This is something I normally only do on my AO3. My normal uplaod day is Sunday over there and I try to upload a chapter of a completed series every Sunday.

The thing is. This one is a short one and I figured everyone here could also appreciate the bitties. So I am cross posting.

The link to the AO3 story is Here.

Enjoy the bitty madness :)

---

Summary:

With the truce in place Killer, Cross and Nightmare are free to travel around the multiverse. They never expected to come across some Bitties who proceeded to steal their souls. They hope they at least did the same in return.

*---------------------------*

Cross can honestly say he is happy with the truce.

And no Killer that has nothing to do with the fact that they now are included in the council meetings and that Dream has been talking to him again.

Cross can admit it is nice to be able to try and repair his friendship with Dream but the eye brow wiggles from Killer has to stop.

Seriously, they are skeletons how does he even do it?

Cross just loves the fact that they can now actually go to neutral universes for their shopping without having to worry that someone is going to act weird.

Well they still act weird but now they can’t refuse service as easily or raise the prices because the Stars will be mad at them.

At the moment Killer and him are doing some grocery shopping. They had found this new neutral universe and it is perfect!

The monsters were never locked underground. They are chill about skeletons. They hadn’t even met the ‘main cast’ just yet! It is a large enough universe and world that they just, hadn’t ran into their own alternative and honestly it is a nice change of pace. Cross is getting tired of always having to explain that ‘yes technically he is Sans’ and ‘No they aren’t the same person because environment and nurture affects how a person shapes,’ and ‘It is more like having the same name and coming from two different countries.’. Cross can’t even count all the times people in universes have gotten weird about their own universe version of him after meeting any of the universe travellers.

Either way he is getting off topic.

The shops are all up to date and modern and have a large amount of styles.

Hell! Even boss had been treated neutrally here!

Instead of the fear and distrusting glares shot his way, this universe had been kept completely out of the loop! Which means they just see Nightmare as just another monster. Hell at most someone asked Nightmare if he was part slime monster.

Cross had managed to keep it together but Killer had wheezed and fallen over laughing.

Cross is also unsure how Nightmare had managed to keep a straight face before giving a charming smile and telling them that he got that a lot, but that it was just an expression of magic which caused the form. The monsters who had asked had quickly apologised for being rude. Nightmare however had just continued to smile and reassured the other that it had been alright as they hadn’t meant it as rude or negative but from a place of interest and respect.

Cross sometimes wonders if the war could have been over quicker if Nightmare had used his charms instead of the intimidation strategy but he isn’t going to finish that thought.

Either way it means that Killer and Cross have been doing most of their shopping in this universe and they tended to go to the same city, mostly because they knew the way at this point and where to get the best deals.

The truce did mean they didn’t have as much… disposable income anymore. No longer going on raids cuts back a lot in your pocket money.

It isn’t as if they have issues, Nightmare is a great boss and doesn’t let them have issues like that. It just means that now they actually have to pay for everything they want and that makes them more aware of prices again.

And honestly it is worth it as Cross can just enjoy spending time with Killer and Nightmare both without someone attacking them. It gives Cross time to really enjoy the experience and their company-

A snort and Cross looks over before biting down hard to stop himself from laughing “Killer.”

Killer grins as he leans against a doorway of a random shop, a large pink feathery boa around his neck and even bigger and brighter orange sunglasses on his skull.

“Killer? You must be mistaken! I am the fabulous Killster!! The real diva of the land!”

Cross knows he is going to lose this fight, especially with some kids nearby giggling before rushing back to their parents.

Cross rolls his eye lights as he turns away and starts walking “I am leaving you! And I am not going to get those snacks you want! Or maybe I will just get the wrong ones on accident! You are soooooo picky about them!”

“Hey! You don’t mess with the Crunchables!”

Cross snorts as Killer joins his side again, sans boa and sunglasses. Hah, sans, Cross may actually get better at this punning thing.

Cross looks around and realises he walked into another street parallel to the one holding the store they had been going to. Oh well, the long way it is. It is sunny anyway and a nice day to enjoy it.

Killer catches up and huffs “You are no fun.”

Cross answers with a deadpan voice “Of course not. They don’t train humour in the army.”

Killer snorts “Explains why XGaster was such a tool.”

Cross laughs and nods. It used to hurt, thinking about his past world. But he has made peace with his loss. He has a new home now with Nightmare and Killer and he is happy.

He knows that the Stars invited him to live with them after the truce had been made but… Cross hadn’t wanted it. He had wanted to just remain with Killer and Nightmare. Cross had found a certain peace in the silent and isolated castle. A happiness with being near Nightmare and Killer.

Cross could still remember how so many had come to him. Asking him if he had been okay, if he was sure about this decision, if he was being threatened.

Funny.

How even with a truce in place and Nightmare keeping his word to the dot people still mistrusted him.

Cross remembers how he had asked Killer about it. Why everyone still looked at them in that way. While they hadn’t with Cross. Even with Cross having been the reason half the multiverse had gotten into a war and XGaster had gotten out. Killer had snorted and looked so amused as he explained “You look like a hero. You behave like people expect a hero to be. Of course you are forgiven.”

Cross hadn’t liked it at all. Because it had been Nightmare who had even figured out that Cross hadn’t been in full control of himself. Nightmare had been the one who managed to at first lock XGaster out, then later lock XChara away and later remove them completely. Making it so that Cross was truly free to be himself again.

Yet everyone acted as if it had been the Stars. All while Ink had had a direct hand in bringing XGaster back and giving him his overwrite power back.

So Cross now just ignored most people and much preferred his own home. Where people didn’t question how he felt or thought the whole time. Where he had his new family.

Killer nudges him “Hello~ Crossy boy~ time to wake up again~” and he stares at him with those dark sockets “You good…” he glances to the side and kicks a rock “Didn’t meant to… like… trigger stuff I guess.”

Cross snorts and bumps their shoulders together “Nah, just my own mind wandering.” He looks around for a distraction when he feels himself freeze.

Oh.

My.

God.

That is.

He grabs blindly and tugs hard. Killer makes a choking sound “Cross!”

Cross just keeps tugging “Kills. Kills you need to see this. Kills. This day just became amazing.”

Killer grumbles but Cross feels him freeze under his hold “Holy shit… is that a…”

“Bitty store.”

They share a look and rush over to the store.

Only to pause by the window.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god they are so tiny!” Killer jumps in place as he has both his hands on the window as he stares at the tiny monsters.

Cross can’t actually recognise these monsters. Normally the bitty stores seem to specialise in monster types and have all kinds of bitty versions of other multiverse goers.

This seem like… just bitties. Just really tiny cute little things. Cross feels his soul melt at the sight of a tiny tiny lion like monster yawning before rolling up. A tiny shirt and pants on and all kinds of plushies around it as the bitty hugs one of them close.

Cross’s skull is turned back around and Killer stares at him with the most serious look Cross has ever seen on his face “Cross. If I don’t go in there and hold at least one bitty I will fucking die.”

Cross blinks before remembering. Bitty universes tended to not allow anyone access and least of all them. Saying it is too much of a risk to have any bitty of either the Stars or the Crescents given out. At least the Stars weren’t allowed versions of them either.

But these… these didn’t look like versions he had seen before…

Cross grins widely “You wouldn’t be able to stop me from holding one.” And he ducks under Killer’s arms and enters the shop.

A pleasant little bell rings out as Cross lets his eyes go around the store. It is chaos and overfull and should be overwhelming but it is beautiful and Cross never wants to leave.

The walls are covered with shelves and even more shelves all filled with all types of colourful items, tools, tiny house expansions. All for bitties. There is a bookshelf by the cash register that holds books all about bitty care.

But most importantly. To the other side by the window, which is cracked open to let some fresh air in. Are the bitty containers.

“Oh shit.” And Killer rushes straight there and falls to his knees to be on eye level with some of the glass containers as he coos that the miniature monsters.

Cross rushes to his side and just stares in awe.

He is unsure how long they just stare until they hear someone laugh softly behind them.

“I take you never saw a bitty before?”

Cross turns around and sees a ram monster behind him. Cross feels slightly embarrassed as he looks back at Killer, who has yet to stop staring at the bitties, before he looks back “We… we euh… We know of them of course. We just never had the chance to… see them ourselves.”

The ram laughs as they look at Killer who has actual hearts in his sockets as he stares at two tiny bitties starting to interact.

The ram looks back at him and grins “If you want you two can hold some of them.”

That shakes Killer out of his staring as he looks up in awe at the ram “We can!? But I thought… They bonded quickly and stuff?”

The ram huffs “Only when not treated right.” they look apologetic “I am sorry. I just know that a lot of people keep those poor bitties isolated. Makes them more likely to quickly bond to a new owner. But that is cruel. The little guys are happiest and healthiest if they can interact with one another and form a bond or two with fellow bitties.”

Cross nods along “I never heard that before but it makes a lot of sense.”

Killer nods “Yeah! Cats have it too! Cats bond with fellow cats! Which is why it is advised to adopt two or a bonded pair when you adopt a cat. I assume the same counts for bitties?”

The ram smiles brightly “It does! Come! I will show you some of the older bitties, they are more likely to let you hold them in peace and won’t mind it too much.” The ram leads them away from the front and to a larger container, Cross glances down and spots about sixteen bitties.

Killer gasps as he stares “They are so small.”

The ram laughs “Yeah you never get used to it.” they open the container which causes a few of the bitties to look up. The ram smiles “Hey you guys. Any of you okay with letting some new visitors hold you for a bit?”

The bitties share looks before a goat bitty rises and easily walks over to the opening and holding their arms out. The ram lowers their hand and the bitty climbs up themselves.

The ram takes the bitty out and doesn’t even close the container behind them.

Killer has his hands in a cup and the bitty is carefully transferred. Killer just stares in awe and gently pets the bitty. Cross looks nervously at the container “euh… shouldn’t you like… close that?”

The ram hums and looks over his shoulder “Oh no it is fine. Bitties, once comfortable, don’t tend to run away or explore beyond the area they see as home. I mostly keep those closed and locked to make sure customers don’t just remove bitties from their areas without permission.”

Cross nods and feels Killer nudge him with his shoulder “Cross. Cross. You gotta try this man!”

Cross looks at the ram monster and they laugh as they ask for another bitty to volunteer which another bitty answers, a dog monster bitty this time. One transfer later and Cross has an adorable tiny dog monster in his hands. Staring up at him and wagging the tiniest little tail when Cross pets him.

Eventually both bitties seem to have had enough and start to fuss, which the shop keeper sees and they quickly take the two bitties back and put them with the others. In the container one little cat like bitty runs to the goat to check them while three other dog bitties rush the returned dog bitty.

The shop keeper grins “See? Bonded pairs and groups. They are adorable when they snuggle together and sleep.” And they point to one pile of three bitties all sleeping peacefully together in the afternoon sun.

Cross can’t help but coo at the sight. Killer turns to the shopkeeper with a begging look “Can we… hold more?”

The ram laughs but nods as they keep retrieving bitties for them to hold. Cross thinks his favourite is a little cat one who had been nuzzling the tips of his phalanges, even when he got scratched by the little guy.

They spend their whole afternoon in that little shop. Talking to, holding and snuggling tiny bitties. Some are friendlier than others and Cross still isn’t sure just who his favourite is. Maybe the shy little guy that kept hiding his face. Or the sweet bitty who would hug his finger. Or the bitty that bit his phalange as soon as Cross tried to pet them. Oh Cross just can’t decide.

“Oh… my… god!”

Cross blinks away from the tiny sleeping bitty in his hands as he searches for Killer, only to see Killer disappear behind a shelf near the windows.

“Oh are you kidding me! This is the cutest ever! Hey! Sir! Can I please hold this skeleton bitty?”

Oh. My. God.

Cross very carefully returns the bitty he was holding to the right container before running towards where he saw Killer disappear. The moment he gets to Killer he saw what has the other enchanted.

Perfectly at eye level for them. Right by the window near the cracked open side. Is a container with a lone skeleton bitty inside.

The bitty is bigger than the bitties they had seen until now but that mattered very little because it was still a bitty and still not even as big than their own hands.

The little thing is munching on some pieces of fruit and seems completely uninterested in the noise they are making or the fact that Killer is pretty much plastered against the side of their cage. The little thing just munches on their fruit as they look out of the window.

Cross can’t help but notice the caved in skull and how one socket is completely black while the other socket is red with a tiny spot of black. The bitty is wearing this large, for them, jacket with a fluffy hood and some shorts.

The shopkeeper catches up to them and Cross hears them pant “Please no running in the store!”

Killer only turns a tiny bit, his own empty sockets not looking away from the bitty “Can I please hold this one? Oh they are just adorable!”

The ram monster frowns before seeing where Killer is looking and they look apologetic “Oh… euh… I am sorry but no… that little guy isn’t really for holding or anything… Not even really up for adoption for that matter.”

Cross frowns before once again noticing that the little guy is all alone… No other bitties with them. “Where is their bonded bitty?”

The ram sighs as they looks sheepish “Well, the little guy is bonded! It is just… Bitey is… bitey… and he can’t be with other bitties… Mostly because he tends to steal the food from the other bitties and stockpile it.” The ram walks over with some food and very carefully unlocks the actual little gate.

As soon as the lock unlocks the bitty turns around and the large red socket stares at the ram. Cross can see the bitty study both Cross and Killer before dismissing them and staring at the one holding the food.

The ram very slowly moves a hand closer and into the container.

The bitty glares and starts to show their fangs and a low growl starts to leave the tiny thing.

The ram speaks softly “It is okay. I know you are stressed. I am just giving you some food. I won’t take anything from you.” the ram slowly fills the food dish before the hand leaves the cage and the cage is relocked.

The bitty continues to stare at the gate for a bit before slowly rising from its spot and taking a few steps closer. He looks up to check the gate and ends up grabbing the filled dish and pulling it over with him. Back to the spot he had been sitting at. The one closest to the window.

Killer just coos loudly as he stares at the bitty. And Cross gets it. It is so fucking cute.

The ram sighs.

Cross turns to the ram and frowns “So… where is their bonded bitty? Wouldn’t the little guy feel relaxed and happy if his bonded or bondeds are near?”

The ram sighs again as they rub their face “We know! The problem is… we don’t… actually have the other bitty that he bonded with?” They wave at the open window “There is a bitty somewhere here in town… just going around in the alleyways… we don’t know who they are or how they are, they were not originally from this store to begin with!” they sigh and look sadly at the skeleton bitty “We would… like to let this little guy go to reunite with his buddy but… well… the skull, as you no doubt know better than anyone… it needs constant treatment…” they sigh sadly.

Killer frowns “Why not catch the other little guy?”

The ram chuckles “Oh we tried. We tried everything but the little guy is smart and slippery and… well… the last time we tried to catch him he made a run for it and we didn’t see him for five weeks.”

Cross feels himself freeze. Five weeks? From what he understood not being near their bonded for a few days was already rough for the bitties…

The shopkeeper sighs “This little guy was beside himself. Whining and staring out of the window. Trying to escape multiple times. Not even eating his own food and just stockpiling it all. We were so worried. When the other guy came by for a visit again we just… we decided it was for the better to just leave them an easy way to interact.” And they wave at the open window.

Killer frowns “What about cats? I thought cats hunt bitties?”

Cross feels his soul speed up with panic. There is a tiny bitty all alone outside and there are cats and what if those cats get the little guy and-

The ram holds up their hands “No! Well… yeah… But we have yet to see a cat try to get in but we have security cameras. Bitey’s friend tends to only come when there is no one in the shop at night.” they nod towards the cage where the little bitty has been sorting the food and between moving it he keeps looking up at the window, as if waiting.

Waiting for his equally tiny friend.

The ram smiles as they point back to the other bitties “Either way, this bitty isn’t for sale or adoptable. Want to look at the other bitties again? There are many more in all shapes and forms!”

Killer looks back at the tiny skeleton “Fine I guess…” he stares for a moment longer before going back to the other bitties.

They spend a while longer holding the other bitties in the store. But Cross knows his soul isn’t in it. He can’t help but keep thinking about a tiny bitty outside. All alone and having to take care of himself. About the tiny bitty who is alone in a cage, hoping for his one friend and family to come back for him, while all the other bitties dislike him. Cross is reminded of the empty space he had been, all alone. He is reminded of Killer who had been in his own dead AU for a long time. About Nightmare, who no one seemed willing to try and understand or even bother to talk to, to try and understand why he did what he had to.

Killer and him end up leaving the store in silence as they continue their track to the grocery store. They are lucky it is still open and they quickly grab the things they need. Neither of them say anything as they collect the things they need and pay.

They don’t bother to explore the streets anymore after getting the stuff they needed and Cross uses his, well it used to be XChara’s but now it is his, knife to cut a doorway for them.

They step through and Cross feels himself relax.

Home sweet home.

Hah!

Strange how before it was just a place of work but now it is his home.

Killer had called it Nightmare’s hideout once. But Cross likes to think it is more than just that now. It is their hideout, their home. A place where the multiverse can’t get to them and they can just be. A place perfectly safe with nothing that can hurt them anywhere near.

Honestly it would be the perfect place to have two tiny bitties run around, nothing would hurt them as they explore-

Cross shakes his skull and goes straight to the kitchen after entering the castle. He opens the bag and starts putting things away. Killer looks into the bags and takes out some frozen pizzas which he puts in the oven.

They are quiet as they clean up and wait for the timer to run out.

“You two are oddly quiet.”

Cross looks up as Killer grins “Sup boss!”

Nightmare rolls his eyes as he looks unimpressed “Not much of a boss anymore. Why do both of you feel disheartened? I thought you two were going to one of the universes that we had already called clean?” he frowns.

Cross feels touched by the worry as he shrugs “We did! We went to the usual place.”

Nightmare’s frown doesn’t disappear “That doesn’t explain your emotions.” he looks between the two of them.

Killer huffs as he leans on the counter with crossed arms “We were just walking through town and- Wait! Nightmare!” Killer stands upright with a large grin “They have a bitty shop in that universe!”

Nightmare blinks and looks surprised “But it is a neutral universe…”

That is when Cross remembers. Cross himself and Killer may have had the chance to see bitties once or twice from a distance… but Nightmare wouldn’t have had the chance, ever. As Nightmare at first hadn’t been able to enter positive universes and later it was just too much of a risk as he would be weaker and the Stars stronger.

Killer seems to have thought of the same conclusion as he grins widely “Mare you need to come with us next time! There were so many bitties! They were all so cute and were so well behaved but not afraid or anything and it was all clean and well taken care of!” and Killer starts explaining with wide gestures what they saw and how they held some bitties.

Cross keeps an eye on the oven and by the time Killer winds down talking the pizzas are ready for them. They all get their own and get comfortable at the table to eat their dinner.

Killer grins widely “Oh and Nightmare! They had a skeleton bitty! Not any other multiverse goer or anything! The little guy was straight up just his own person! He was cute and was just hoarding food and such a big little guy!”

Nightmare chuckles as he eats a piece “If this whole conversation is just a windup to ask if you can adopt a bitty you could have started with that.” He eats another bite.

Killer’s grin falls and he sighs “Not like it is possible… little guy isn’t up for adoption.”

Nightmare frowns “Why not?”

Killer just stares sadly at his plate and Cross speaks up “Well, bitties bond to other bitties for like stability and mental health and stuff. Well the little skeleton guy does have a bitty he is bonded to, but that bitty isn’t actually in the shop but a wild bitty.”

Nightmare stops and frowns at them “I thought bitties couldn’t live in the wild?”

Killer pouts as he lays on the table on crossed arms “They normally can’t… guess it is just a very crafty bitty.”

Cross thinks “I think there are some AUs where they can but that are the special cases. In general they can’t…” he sighs as he pushes at his pizza “We are just worried about the two little guys…”

Nightmare looks at them thoughtfully before nodding “I see. And while adopting isn’t possible you could always visit him and sponsor him.” and he eats.

Killer shoots up and stares in shock “What?”

Nightmare pauses as he looks unimpressed “You can visit the bitty still. Not to forget you may be able to make a deal with the shop that you at least adopt him in name. That way you can still spoil him but the shopkeeper will be able to make sure everything is still fine. In some places it is called sponsoring.”

Cross blinks confused “That is a thing?”

Nightmare nods “It is often done with endangered species, at least in quite a few universes. It makes the people feel more involved and attached to them. Maybe you can make a deal with the store and work something out?” and he turns back to his pizza.

Killer jumps up “Yes! We can totally do that! Oh! And tomorrow we can show you where the store is! That was you can also see the bitty!”

Nightmare chuckles “It is fine Killer.”

Killer pouts “Come on boss, it will be fun!”

Nightmare sighs as he shoots Killer a look “I thought we already agreed I am not technically your boss anymore. At most I am your landlord.”

Cross snorts “Being a landlord implies we are paying you, which we aren’t.”

Killer nods “In matter of fact you still pay us.”

Nightmare sighs but Cross can spot a small smile on the other’s face.

Cross smiles as he turns to his own food and finally eats dinner.

--

"… Hey."

“Bunny.”

“Who were that?”

“… Don’t know. Left quickly.”

“Okay… stay safe?”

“I am fine bunny.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

[kathlare]

we don't talk anymore

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: A brief interview response from Amelie sends shockwaves through social media, reigniting speculation about her past friendship with Lando.

Wordcount: 1.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

December 3rd, 2021 - Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

liked by f1wagsgossip, laneliemyship, and others

f1gossippage: Amelie’s new interview is out, and of course, that question came up… When asked about her past connection with Lando, she brushed it off with a polite smile and said, ‘We don’t talk anymore.’ 👀 This isn’t the first time either of them has confirmed they’re no longer friends—looks like that chapter is well and truly closed. 📖🚪

View all 5,482 comments

f1teaqueen: Seven months and still no contact? Damn, that fallout must’ve been BAD. 😳 → paddockmess: @f1tequeen Right?? And the fact that they were literally inseparable before? Wild.

f1fangirl23: Oof, that was cold 😬 wonder what really happened... → speedyboi44: @f1fangirl23 Fr, she didn’t even try to sugarcoat it 😂

racingfanatic88: Not sure why people are acting surprised, they’ve been distant for a while now.

racedayvibes: Why do interviewers always bring up Lando? Like, leave her alone. → formula1fan99: @recadayvibes Because they know we’re all waiting for that answer. 😂

drivetounite: Can we please stop with the ‘are they or aren’t they’ stuff? It’s clear they’re over it. → f1daredevil: @drivetounite Yup, they’re both moving on. But can’t lie, I wanna know the full story!

trackdaydreamer: Amelie’s smile said it all—‘Don’t ask me about him again.’ → speedracer77: @trackdaydreamer I feel like she’s tired of people bringing it up. Let her be.

f1fan_for_life: Can we just appreciate how calm she was in that moment, though? The self-control is real. → fasttrackkidd: @f1fan_for_life I think she just didn’t want to give anyone more fuel for the fire.

f1_queen22: I don’t get why people are so pressed. If they’re not friends anymore, so be it. 🤷‍♀️

f1obsessed: Not her just casually confirming (again) that they’re done done. 😬 → speeddemon44: @f1obsessed At this point, they remind us every few months like we might forget 😂

checkeredgossip: The way they keep confirming they’re not friends anymore makes me wonder just how bad the fallout was.

-------------

The roar of the engines in the Qatar paddock was a dull hum in the background as Lando scrolled through his phone, trying to distract himself. He was due out for practice in a few minutes, but his mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was replaying a short interview clip he’d just seen. Amelie.

She’d been doing some press for the new season of Euphoria, and, as always, the interviewer had asked about her connection to Formula 1. Inevitably, his name had come up. Lando had braced himself. He knew it was coming. It always did.

He’d seen other interviews where she’d been asked about him. She’d always been… polite. Vague. Something along the lines of, “We were friends,” or “It was a long time ago.” Enough to shut down the conversation without being overtly hostile. He could live with that. He preferred it, actually. It was better than her airing their dirty laundry, even though he knew he was the one who screwed everything up.

But this time… this time was different. This time, there was a coldness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A finality in her voice that made his stomach twist.

“We don’t talk anymore,” she’d said, her smile tight, almost forced. Just four words, but they hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d known, of course he’d known. They hadn’t spoken in months. But hearing her say it, so casually, so dismissive… it stung. More than he cared to admit.

—Fucking hell,— he muttered, tossing his phone onto the table. He knew he was being stupid. He knew he should just forget about it and focus on the race. But he couldn’t. Her words echoed in his head, a constant reminder of what he’d lost.

He thought back to their last conversation. Or, rather, their last argument. It had been brutal. Tears, accusations, slammed doors. He’d said some things he regretted. She’d said some things that still made his blood run cold. They’d both been angry, hurt, and probably a little bit drunk.

He’d thought, at the time, that they’d eventually get over it. That they’d find a way back to each other, like they always did. But they hadn’t. And now, hearing her say those four words, he knew they never would.

He glanced at the clock. Time to go. He grabbed his helmet and gloves, trying to shake off the thoughts that were swirling in his head. He needed to focus. He needed to push Amelie and her cold dismissal out of his mind. But it was hard. Damn hard.

—Lando, you alright?— Will, his race engineer, asked, noticing the tension in his posture.

—Yeah, fine,— Lando mumbled, pulling on his balaclava. —Just… thinking about the track.—

Will gave him a knowing look, but didn’t push it. He knew Lando. He knew when something was bothering him. —Alright. Just remember the plan. Focus on the tires, get some good data.—

Lando nodded, forcing a smile. He knew Will was right. He needed to focus. But Amelie’s words were like a barbed hook in his brain, digging deeper with every lap he drove.

He climbed into the car, the familiar scent of fuel and leather filling his nostrils. He buckled his harness, his movements automatic, his mind still replaying the interview.

“We don’t talk anymore.”

He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, a surge of anger coursing through him. —Fuck her,— he muttered under his breath. —Who cares what she says?—

But he did care. He cared a lot. He’d tried to convince himself that he was over her, that he didn’t think about her anymore. But the truth was, she was always there, in the back of his mind. A ghost of what they’d been.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on the lights on the steering wheel as they counted down. He needed to be present. He needed to be fast. He needed to prove… prove what? That he didn’t need her? That he was fine on his own?

The lights went out, and he floored the accelerator, the car leaping forward. He attacked the first corner, pushing the car to its limits, trying to channel his anger into speed. But even as he shaved milliseconds off his lap times, her words echoed in his ears.

“We don’t talk anymore.”

He knew he was driving recklessly. He could feel it. He was pushing too hard, taking unnecessary risks. But he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to prove something. To her, to himself, to the world. He just didn’t know what.

—Lando, easy there,— Will's voice crackled through the radio. —You’re pushing too hard. Bring it back a bit.—

He ignored him, his focus narrowed, his vision blurred. He was chasing something, he wasn’t sure what. But he knew he wouldn’t find it at the bottom of a champagne bottle or in another girl’s arms. He knew, deep down, that the only way to escape the ghost of Amelie was to face it. But he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

He crossed the finish line, his lap time a new personal best. But it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt hollow. Empty.

He pulled into the garage, the mechanics swarming around the car. He climbed out, feeling drained, exhausted. He knew he needed to talk to someone. Max, probably. He’d understand. He’d been there.