#they need a minute or thirty in a quiet dark room

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Just Sam and Bucky, being very tired and needing you to be quiet for a moment, shhhhh, their heads are pounding, turn off the light on your way out, thank you.

[harryspet]

lonely little lamb | r. cameron

[warnings] dark!stepbrother!rafe x stepsister!reader, daddy!rafe x little!reader, dd/lg dynamic, mentions of violence/blood, somnophilia, stalker!rafe, DUBCON, emotional/mental manipulation, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: happy OBX4! This was written before the new season :) Dividers by @/ghoulbloggerrr

In which Rafe knows your secret and just how perfect you'd be together.

word count: 7.2k

rafe cameron masterlist

Rafe didn’t catch on immediately.  At first, he just thought you were strange, his expectations already tainted by what he'd assumed about you. He’d been prepared for his stepmother’s daughter to be a brat, and on the surface, you fit that mold perfectly. But there was something off about the way you acted around him. You never played innocent, never tried to charm him or win him over like you did with everyone else. You gave him sharp glances at the dinner table when he talked back to Ward and even angrier stares when he disrespected your mother. You never hung around after dinner, always rushing to go back to your room, and “call your friends from back home”. Of course, Rafe listened at your door often and he never heard you making any calls. Having grown up in the house, he felt entitled to know what was happening within its walls.

Your behavior puzzled Rafe to the point of obsession. He woke up every morning to check if your car was still in the driveway and easily memorized your schedule. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you attended classes in the morning at the local community college. On the other days of the week you sat through your online classes. You never ate too early, always going for a late breakfast that usually consisted of avocado toast, a bowl of fruit, and you always came down to refill your “sippy cup”. That’s what Rafe had dubbed it. It was clear, decorated with a stencil design of a baby lamb and had a flip-up spout for easy drinking. You didn’t go many places without it. 

It was the small things that fascinated him. The comfort items you clung to, the simple routines that made your life feel organized and secure. You usually took a bubble bath about thirty minutes after dinner, and when you forgot to lock your door, Rafe would slip into your room, drawn by the intimacy of your private world.

He picked up items around your room, like the frame you kept beside your bed. It held a photo of you and your mom: you in your old high school cheerleading uniform, hair pinned back in pigtails, while your mom smiled widely beside you. Despite her cheerful expression, your eyes in the picture looked wistful and lonely. Rafe couldn’t help but imagine you now, with adult curves and eager eyes, wearing that outfit. The thought stirred something in him, making him hard, and he had to tuck himself away, cursing under his breath. At least if you walked in, he wouldn’t be caught in the act.

The more he learned about you, the harder it was to quiet these thoughts. He had always found you pretty, but now his body and mind were becoming obsessed with you. He made a habit of collecting a pair of your panties from the hamper before leaving. He needed them for later, for the release that he craved, driven mad by the scent of you.

The sound of soft, melodic music flowed into your bedroom from behind the bathroom door. Sometimes it was girly pop songs, other times classical, but more often than not, it had the gentle, soothing quality of nursery music. Your bed was always neatly made, draped in a floral quilt, and you kept the same stuffed animals on top, meticulously placed. A small chesnut brown teddy bear, white bunny, and a tiny stuffed lamb. Each one had their own white ribbon wrapped around its neck, tied into a bow. 

One time he caught a glimpse of your nighttime skin care routine. You removed the light makeup you always wore and used about ten different products that Rafe didn’t recognize, nor could he guess their use. The last layer was always a light layer of lip balm and Rafe always leaned a bit closer when your puckered your lips in the mirror. His mind easily wandered to idea of your lips around him. 

You wouldn’t look so lonely, little lamb, if you just let me in. 

He had his suspicions about the secret, kinky things you were into. There had to be a reason you spent so much time by yourself. He didn’t get the answers he was looking for until one night when you’d left your laptop, unlocked on your desk. He took the opportunity to program his fingerprint into it too, just in case he needed to snoop again. 

He combed through your social media, public and private, and started checking your messages daily, keeping track of who you talked to, what you were up to. Your public social media was perfect. A mix of selfies with soft lighting, photos of cute coffee shops, and other things you deemed as your “aesthetic”. 

It was your camera roll that finally gave Rafe the answers he had been searching for. One folder, marked with a delicate pink heart, caught his attention immediately. Inside were photos of you, taken in front of your floor-length mirror. Each picture was eerily similar, the same vacant, wide-eyed expression on your face, as though you were lost in some faraway place.

You wore pajamas he’d never seen before, soft and childlike. Sometimes it was pastel-colored footie pajamas, other times it was nightgowns in soft shades of pink, lavender, or baby blue. In a few, you were bundled up in fuzzy socks or slippers with floppy bunny ears. Your hair was always styled with bows, either pink or white. There was a strange innocence in these details, one that clashed with the tension building inside Rafe as he scrolled through the images.

Sometimes you were biting down on your nails, others your thumb rested in your mouth, but most of the time you were gripping one of your stuffed animals tight to your chest. 

You looked...adorable. But in a way that made Rafe’s pulse quicken with something darker. The softness, the vulnerability you displayed in those photos, fed his obsession.

Another folder marked with a unicorn emoji held more photos that you’d saved. He recognized some of the characters from children’s TV shows he remembered Wheezie watching. Others were pictures from Disney movies, and Rafe quickly realized you had a special preference for the princesses. You seemed drawn to Cinderalla, Belle, and Snow White. It offered a glimpse into your mind, into your fantasies, how you were drawn to things with an air of purity and sweetness. 

Rafe’s heart slowed when a message popped up from someone named Mr. Hayes. Been thinking about you all day, sweetheart. The message said. A moment later, another one came. How was ur bath? 

Rafe opened the text thread and began to scroll. Each word that he read made his blood boil. There were too many messages for him to read. You’d sent him photos of yourself, let him call you pet names, and you’d even gone so far as calling him… Daddy. He’d never sent you a photo but that didn’t seem to matter. You were willing to share the details of your life with him. 

Rafe’s vision blurred with rage. Daddy. This virtual fantasy, a stranger who you didn’t even know, did not deserve your affection. He decided then you were his, whether you knew it or not. 

Rafe decided then to also make it a habit to check your messages. 

Several weeks later, you’d finally convinced Mr. Hayes to meet you in person. Rafe couldn’t let that happen. As your stepbrother and your protector, it would be wrong of him to let some stranger hurt you. Besides, he’d become obsessed to the point where now he was dying to know exactly who this man was. 

You didnd’t know any better, but he did. 

“Hey,” Rafe spoke to you the afternoon before your secret rendevouz, interrupting your fruit cutting, “My Dad just texted. Him and your Mom aren’t going to make it back tonight. There flight keeps getting delayed so they’re going to stay the rest of the weekend.”

“Oh, okay,” You replied simply, returning back to your task again. 

“Wheezie’s sleeping at a friends and I’m probably going to a party at Kelce’s,” You gave him a look, as if it was strange to be conversating with him alone without the presence of the rest of their blended family, “...Do you want to come? It’ll be fun.”

You shook your head, “No, thank you. I’ll just stay in.”

Rafe leaned on the marble countertop, staring across the kitchen island at you, “I don’t think I’ve seen you go out one time since you moved in.” 

Rafe’s sudden interest in your habits had become more noticeable lately, but you figured it was nothing, just him being Rafe, always lurking in the background, watching everyone, everything. Your mother had warned you that she thought something was off about him and living with him over the past nine months had sealed the fact that you didn’t trust him. 

You didn’t trust many people at all, actually, never having had a stable home life. Your mother had always had money, or at least latched on to men who had money, but those men came and went. Even your mother wasn’t someone you could count on. She’d uprooted your life more than once, moving you across states just to be with a man who could give her the lifestyle she believed she deserved.

Mr. Hayes had offered you comfort in this transitional time. You had no one to confide your secret in accept for the communities you found online. It made you anxious to even think about finding a partner one day and having to explain this side of you. Friends on the internet wouldn’t judge you.

But online, the stakes felt lower. The people you spoke with, people like Mr. Hayes, didn’t judge. The risk of being truly seen, and rejected, was something you couldn’t handle. Not yet.

You paused what you were doing, knife hovering over a piece of strawberry, “You really want to spend the night alone. On a Friday night?” 

Rafe sauntered around the kitchen island, his eyes fixed on you in a way that made a shiver run down your spine. He knew he was handsome. With his short blonde hair and blue eyes that always had a raging storm behind them. His gold ring and his gold watch. Most important of all, he knew he intimidated you, his size being enough to make you feel smaller than you actually were. 

“I have to study,” You spoke curtly, trying to cut off the line of questioning you sensed was coming. You moved to keep cutting up your fruit but you paused again when Rafe reached out to grab a piece from the cutting board. You looked up at him as he popped the piece of strawberry into his mouth. 

Your lips parted in shock and Rafe’s lips pulled into a smirk, as if he was thriving on that power, the uncpoken tension in the air. The way he could make your heart race in that mix of fear and something else he knew you’d never admit. 

“Oh yeah?” Rafe placed a hand on the counter, “You have all weekend to study. C’mon, have some fun, princess.”

You took in a breath at the sound of the pet name. He hadn’t ever called you that before and for a moment it looked like he was seeing right through you. 

“I-” Quickly, you turned your head away, refocusing on the task, as your cheeks heated with embarrassment, “I’m okay, thanks.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to come out,” Rafe continued, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, “You got secret plans or something?”

“No,” You said quickly, “I told you, I’m studying.”

Rafe let out a dry chuckle, no real amusement behind it, “You sure you’re not just hiding?”

“It’s not your business,” You snapped finally, your tone icy, “And I… I don’t have to explain myself to you, Rafe. You don’t even know me.”

“I know you, princess,” You dropped the knife, your heart beating too fast, and you quickly picked up your pieces of fruit and placed them in your bowl. Rafe leaned closer, watching your every move, and the intensity of his gaze was starting to unravel you, “You’re so jumpy. It’s just me. No need to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” You muttered but your fingers trembled as you grabbed ahold of your bowl of fresh fruit and your lamb cup. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rafe took another step closer and you backed away from the counter.

“Stop it,” Your frustration flared, unsure of why exactly Rafe was trying to stir you up. Your lips pressed together and you tried to stop your reaction, but with him towevering over you, invading your space, you felt effectively suffocated. It wasn’t until your back was pressed into the stainless steal fridge, your bowl the only thing protecting you from being pushed against Rafe, that you actually flinched. 

“Hey,” Rafe lifted on arm, casually bracing his hand on top of the fridge as he looked down at you, “What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You swallowed hard. His voice was deceptively gentle, “Rafe–”

“I’m not trying to scare you, I promise,” Something flickered in his eyes, something you didn’t recognize, and for a moment, you questioned if you’d read this entire situation correctly, “I know how fragile you are. How scary the world can seem. I’m offering …you know …because I’d be there to protect you. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

You blinked up at him. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of him trying to talk down to you. Rafe Cameon almost sounded caring. “You don’t need to be so on guard all the time,” Rafe continued. 

“I just …” You couldn’t stop the way your voice softened, “I like keeping to myself. It’s not that I don’t want to be around people. I just don’t …fit in here.”

Rafe nodded, his expression understanding, and it was the first time you looked at one another as real people, “I get it. You’re not like the other girls around here. You’re smarter, quieter … softer. You can trust me though, yeah? You don’t gotta hide from me.”

For a moment, everything felt like it would be okay. Maybe Rafe had managed to see you and was willing to understand you, unlike anyone else you had met on this island. It all felt real until you focused more on his eyes. Your expression had softened, melted from frustration to wide-eyed curiosity, and that had caused a shift in his eyes. You saw that flicker of darkness that you’d seen before. 

“I can look after you, ya’ know?” He said, voice dripping to a lower tone, “Help you. You don’t need to worry too much.”

Before you could respond, his other arm lifted, and you felt his fingers graze your cheek, the touch startlingly intimate. 

“What are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Rafe’s jaw tightened, the mask he was wearing beginning to slip, “Don’t be like that, princess.” 

“Stop,” You managed to say, “Stay away from me.”

In just a few hours, you’d finally get to meet Mr. Hayes. None of Rafe’s games would matter then. When you went silent, you watched as Rafe’s hand balled into a fist and he turned his body away. 

“Suit yourself,” He’d said coldly, his void devoid of any of the warmth that was there before.  

You stared down at your bowl of fruit dumbfounded for a moment too long. Princess. How did Rafe know how desperately you wanted someone to call you that?

Rafe stayed at Kelce’s party until eleven He finished his last pabst blue ribbon, said goodbye to only a handful of his friends, before he made his way to his truck. Knowing they would find it strange for him to leave so early, he mad the excuse that he was going to meet up with a girl at the Island Club. 

In reality, Rafe was headed twenty minutes away, towards Winward Beach. Mr. Hayes wanted to meet you at midnight. One of the many red flags Rafe assumed you had ignored. You probably thought it was romantic, meeting at a secluded beach in the middle of the night. Like the two of you were fucking Romeo and Juliet. 

Stupid, Rafe thought bitterly, gripping the steering wheel tightly. 

Rafe parked his car in the small parking lot that sat near the boardwalk, turning off all of his lights, and waited for the creep to show up first. Rafe thought for a moment that neither of you might show when midnight started to approach. Maybe you’d wisened up, listened to your gut instinct that told you something wasn’t right. He didn’t believe it for long, you were too trusting. Too soft. 

When a tan sedan that Rafe didn’t recognize pulled up in a parking spot close to the walkway, Rafe knew who it was. In the dark and without any streetlights, he only saw a dark figure carrying a backpack make his way towards the beachwalk. He waited until the figure made it halfway before he climbed out of his truck. 

The moon was high, casting a white glow over the empty landscape. 

Anger simmered beneath Rafe’s skin as he watched the man from a safe distance. He moved with a nervous energy, often glancing over his shoulder as if he was expecting to see someone. Wooden planks creaked softly under his weight but Mr. Hayes didn’t notice, not until he’d made it to the beach, and Rafe appeared behind him. 

The man turned his head, eyes wide with confusion. For a moment, this was all a coincidence. Rafe was a nobody, just a stranger taking a walk on the beach, until Rafe’s lips pulled into a smile, “Not what you were expecting?”

“Who the hell are you?”

Mr. Hayes was certainly not what Rafe was expecting. A completely unremarkable middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his thinning brown hair, pale skin, lightly freckled and a slight paunch that rested over the waistband of his dreams. A complete creep. Someone completely undeserving of even being looked at by you. 

Anger wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what Rafe was feeling, “You’re Mr. Hayes?”

“What?” Up close, Rafe could see the way the man's eyes started to dart around. He took another step further and the man stumbled back in the thick sand, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just–”

“You’re just a coward?” Rafe finished, his tone mocking, “I mean, I understand now why you hid your face.”

“I don’t know what you’re–”

Rafe interrupted again, snarling, his hand lashing out to grab the front of the man’s shirt. He yanked him forward and the man’s eyes went wild with panic, “Meeting up with an innocent girl in the middle of the night? Sneaking around like a creep? What’s in that fucking bag?”

“Nothing!” Mr. Hayes struggled. Rafe couldn’t believe how weak the man was. Strong enough to overpower you, maybe, but weak. As soon as the though of this man pinning you down in the sand crossed his mind, Rafe’s eyes went wild, “Nothing, I’m sorry!”

Rafe shoved him hard and the man stumbled backwards into the sand. He towered over the man, his shadow casting long across the beach. Waves crashed loudly in the background but Rafe’s voice boomed over the sound, “I don’t think you are! You probably thought you could just take what you wanted, huh? Fucking answer me!”

The man scrambled backwards, hands digging into the sand, backward hanging awkwardly from his shoulder. Why didn’t he just drop it …if he wasn’t hiding anything, he would let it go, “I wasn’t — I didn’t mean, I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t know what? That she was half your age? That she was too good for you?” Rafe’s lip curled in disgust. He knelt down, his face inches from Mr. Hayes’s as his voice dropped to a whisper, “She’s not yours. She never will be.”

“Okay,” He nodded, holding out a hand as if to put distance between them, “I just wanted to meet her. I know I lied. I’m sorry. I won’t …it won’t happen again. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”

Rafe’s head cocked to the side as he looked down at the trembling man. Without another word, he grabbed for the backpack. The man resisted, of course, a series of “Wait, wait, wait,” leaves his lips. Rafe doesn’t leave space to argue because he pushed his palm into the man’s chest, pinning him down, before he lets his fist connect with the side of the man’s face. 

The man gasps, whimpers, as he curls into a ball on the sand, “F-Fuck!” The creep moans. Rafe pulls away the bag, ripping open the zipper, and dumping the contents onto the sand.

A cheap blanket, a cheap bottle of wine, and then Rafe’s eye catches on the condoms and then then the thick, coiled string of rope. Without another thought, Rafe was tackling the man, grabbing a hold of his collar, pulling him up and slamming his head into the ground over and over again. Rafe didn’t stop. He slammed his fist into the man’s face harder and harder. Each blow left a sickening crack echoing in the air. 

Crack. Groan of pain. Crack. Whimper, “You though you could hurt her? Touch what’s not yours? Brutalize her?” Rafe snarled, voice low and vicious. When the man finally went unconscious, his body limp, face bloody and unrecognizable, “Fuck you!”

Rafe’s chest heaved as he stared down at his work. Nothing about the blood and broken flesh bothered him. He looked down at his hand which were covered in the man’s blood and only felt satisfied. 

He’d protected you. His pulse spiked even more as he heard footsteps on the boardwalk. You’d shown up. Rafe watched you kick off flip flops and run towards them. No matter how dark it was, you were easily visible in the baby pink dress you’d chosen. The contrast between you and the violent seen before you sente a surge of protectiveness through him. He stood from where he knelt in the sand and quickly crossed the distance towards you. 

You slowed as you took in the scene before you, “Rafe?” you whispered, “Rafe, what’s … that’s not …oh my god.”

Rafe grabbed you by your arms, turning your shaking body away. It was a gruesome mess, nothing you should have to see, “He’s dead,” You spoke with wide, terrified eyes, “Wh-Why? You killed him.”

“He’s not dead,” Rafe said quickly, “He’s still breathing … I had to stop him.”

You didn’t listen, you turned your head and saw the unnatural position the man laid in, “Rafe, he’s dead!”

Rafe shook you slightly, “He’s not. I promise.”

“What did you do?” You cried, tears beginning to stream down your cheek. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” He tried to assure you, “I had not. He was going to hurt you, Y/N. Look, he brought …he brought all that shit with him. There was rope in his bag, condoms … I did this for you!”

You shook your head, trying to pull away from Rafe’s bloody hands, “You beat him?” Your voice broke under the weight of your fear, “He’s not moving. You can’t …why would you–”

Rafe’s heart twisted in his chest. He wasn’t the one you were supposed to be afraid of, “He deserved it,” Rafe said, voice quiet and serious, “C’mon, we need to get out of here.”

Rafe tried to pull you but you resisted. Easily, he lifted you into his arms, bloody hands staining your skin and now your dress, “We have to call someone!” You shouted at him, hiccuping through your tears, “Rafe, put me down!”

Rafe ignored you, strides long and steady, carrying you back towards the beachwalk. It was better for Mr. Hayes if the police weren’t involved. Undoubtely, a man like that had a record. Rafe was doing him a favor by only leaving him bloody on the beach. 

In his arms, you were powerless. Your mind was reeling. Even in his bloody state, you knew the man there was not who Mr. Hayes had described himself as. Rafe could be right about all of this but it still felt wrong. 

In Rafe’s truck, you sat curled up against the door, your knees pulled to your chest. A dark and empty road stretched before you, yacht rock played at a low volume in the background, and Rafe’s heavy breathing was louder than any of your thoughts. 

Every few minutes, you stole a glance at him. The tension had yet to leave his body, though he was coming down from the adrenaline. His breathing was heavy but deliberate, as if he was attempting to calm himself, “I didn’t want you to see that, you know that, right?” Rafe said suddenly, breaking through the heavy silence, “Like …I know that was fucked up. You believe me, right? About what I said?”

Your throat tightened so much that your words came out strangled, “I don’t know … what to believe.”

“He was going to hurt you. If I hadn’t stepped in — If I-I hadn’t acted proactively, he would’ve hurt you. He would be hurting you right now. You know that, right?” The brutality of Mr. Hayes’s alleged actions began to cloud Rafe’s actions. He said it over and over. You couldn’t help that now you were imagining it. Maybe this was the only way to rationalize the situation. Maybe you had to believe him.

You saw the items in the sand. You saw that he’d lied about his age, about his appearance, and his intentions. He was the monster. That was the better version. Everything was a lot less wrong that way. 

“Y/N,” Rafe spoke again, his deep voice rattling your ear drums, “You know that.”

You finally nodded, “Okay,” You agreed. 

“Good,” Rafe seemed to let out a breath of relief. Hands still tight on the steering wheel, he tilted his head back, “He wasn’t some innocent guy. I swear that to you. Like I wouldn’t lie about that shit.”

You nodded until your head started to hurt. 

“I did this for you,” Rafe said, “I’m so fucking glad you’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you,” You whispered as you wiped the wetness from your cheeks. Your eyes caught on the dried blood that wrapped around in a band on your arm, “...Rafe?”

“Yeah, baby?” Rafe voice turned gentler as he glanced over at you.

“Did you …look at my messages?”

Rafe’s demeanor grew casual, like the worst of his anxieties had passed, “I did what I had to do,” He said, like it was a simple explanation. He didn’t seem concerned at his obvious breach of privacy. Didn’t seem to understand that the pit in your stomach was deepening. 

“Then you…”

“Then I know,” He finished and you watched a sinister smile pull at his lips, “Aren’t you relieved? I know and I’m not judging you. I’ve been wanting to figure you out since I met you. And now there’s no secrets between us.”

“Rafe…” You began, your voice trembling as you tried to find the right words, “How could you?”

“I had to,” He insisted, “If I hadn’t, where would you be now? What if he had taken you? Killed you? What would that do to your mom?”

Your brows furrowed, trying to process his words, and the vile images that left in your mind, “The stuff on my phone is …private. It’s private for a reason. I don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” He countered, offering you a patronizing tone, “I know what you want, what you need. I’m happy to give you that. And I’d do a hell of better job than that waste of life on the beach.”

You connected the dots the moment those words left his lips. He wanted to be what Mr. Hayes had been to you. A caretaker. Someone to nurture your most innocent idea. 

“Rafe … Ward is married to my mom,” The most logical reason that was a crazy idea came to your mind quickly. 

“So?” He replied dismissevly. 

“You’re my stepbrother,” Not even that registered with him, “I don’t think …it’s not what I want.”

“You don’t know what you want,” Rafe reached across the console, gently but firmly grabbing ahold of your hand. You stared back at him with wide eyes, your fear obvious especially when he took his eyes off the road, “You’re confused. You were willing to trust a man on the internet when the perfect person to take care of you is right here with you. No one else. Me.”

Feeling trapped, your next thought became calming him down. For fear of him crashing the car or never loosening his grip, you forced your expression to soften, “I know you can protect me,” You nodded your head, “And thank you for that …I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was stupid. I’m …I’m glad you care about me like that.”

Rafe squeezed your hand gently, “Yeah?”

“It’s just a lot to take in. I had no idea …I just thought you were usually annoyed with me,” You said and rafe seemed to exhale, his shoulders loosening, “I trust you, it’s just a lot to process right now.”

“I get it,” Rafe let go of your hand, but gave you no time to feel relieved, because next he placed his strong, large hand on your thigh, “I think we’re good for each other. I just have to show you, Y/N.”

Tannyhill was empty except the two of you. Your heart raced as Rafe led you upstairs to your room, hand firmly on the small of your back. When the door to the bedroom softly clicked behind you, closing the two of you in, you felt like throwing up. 

You started to imagine Rafe wandering around, looking through all your things, all without your permission. He felt out of place there in your sanctuary but it was clear he’d made himself comfortable a long time a go. He led you over to the edge of your bed, and shakily, you sat down. He kneeled down in front of you, a position quite to vulnerable and intimate for you. 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” He asked, voice deep in concerning. Lifting one of your heels from the ground, he looked closely at your legs, as if checking for an injury. 

You shook your head, know the most your body had been through tonight had been at his hands, “I’m okay,” You spoke, your voice small. 

Rafe looked up at you, “It’s okay if you’re not, yeah?” Rafe said, voice softening as his hand slid further up your leg. When you pulled your leg back, his grip remained firm, possessive, “Everyone’s gone. I’m asking you to lean on me, princess.”

With no hint of asking for permission, you stared back at your stepbrother. You couldn’t help but feel as if the timing of tonight had worked out eerily in his favor. Everyone in your family was gone for the night and there was no Mr. Hayes to text about your feelings. 

“I’m going to run the bath for you,” Rafe decided, lips parted as if he was deep in thought, “Yeah, stay right here.”

“I’m fine, I can do it–” You began as Rafe made his way towards your bathroom.

He held out a finger and you stopped your movements quickly, frozen by the intensity in his gaze, “Stay.” 

He didn’t have to raise his voice for you to feel the threat in his tone. Somehow, this version of him was scarier than the one that relentlessly struck a man until he was unrecognizable. 

The sound of running water filled the room. Closing your eyes, controlling your breathing, the sound brought you to your routine. That sound of running water was always soothing to you. It was usually how your mind was able to slip into that comforting place on the other side of your mind. Things were lighter there, a place where you had no cares at all, and you enjoyed the things that you’d normally be embarrassed by. You pressed your feet into your fuzzy white carpet, your favorite place to listen to music and do one of your coloring books. You were almost there, the water having tricked you into falling deeper, until you caught a glimpse of Rafe standing behind the door, washing blood away in the sink. 

You tightened your eyes even more, shaking your head. This was certainly not the time to let down your guard. 

He appeared moments later, drying his hands with one of your pink washcloths, “Come on, let’s get you ready,” He said, his head tilted towards the bathroom, his voice deceptively warm. 

Your feet betrayed you and you hesitantly crossed the room. Another door between you and your life before you knew Rafe felt this way. When it closed shut, you realized you’d sealed your fate. How could it be a mistake when this was the place in life where you felt safest? To accept something was wrong meant accepting that you had nowhere left to feel warm, innocent, or child-like. 

Fingers caressed your skin, lifting the hem of your dress, gently raising your arms, until you were standing in your underwear. You hadn’t realized you’d started crying again and it didn’t register how badly your lips were trembling until Rafe’s thumb caressed your bottom lip, “You’re okay,” He assured you, “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

You’d wanted this desperately, for someone to see you and not want to run away. You wanted someone to take care of you, someone devoted to nurturing you. Your eyes locked on Rafe’s and you felt his palm against your bottom, fingers traveling beneath the fabric of your panties. You kept your head tilted up as he leaned down, pressing lips that were softer than could’ve ever imagined, against your neck. 

You melted against him. 

Vanilla and strawberry swirled in the air, strong but gentle hands caressed you, and your tears started to feel more like a release than a burden. He kissed the spot on your throat that had gone sore from all tears. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” He whispered and you felt it everywhere. 

After removing your bra and panties, he helped you into the bath. Quickly, the blood and tears seemed to leave your skin, as if you’d imagined them. He touched you in a way that more natural, human, than expected. With deliberate care, he moved his hands over you, an act that felt practiced. 

Everything dissolved there in the warm bath, the heaviness of the entire night. Bubbles clung to your skin, and your fingers moved lazily over the surface of the water. Rafe washing you, moving a soapy washcloth over your skin, should’ve felt strange but were left in that hazy place where things were simple. 

“This is how things are going to be,” You heard him say, “We’ll make it work, okay? You get to be yourself and I’m the one who takes care of you now. I’m your Daddy.”

You’d never said that word out loud. Daddy. It was a faraway concept, a dream …just like the cloud you were floating in right now. You hugged yourself, mind wandering to that soft bed with all of your plushies. 

“Say it, princess,” you turned your head to him, mouth parted, eyes curious. 

“Say what?” You asked in a whisper, an innocent haze in your eyes. 

He smiled. You had done something right. You gave him a soft smile too. He leaned closer, “Say ‘Daddy’,” He commanded softly, “Please, princess.”

Part of you hesitated, knowing you were giving away something precious. The other part wanted to please him, after all, he’d brought you this sense of peace. And maybe the sooner you made him happy, the sooner he’d tuck you into your warm bed, and let this long day finally end. 

“Daddy,” You tested out the word on your tongue and though it sounded fragile, his eyes seemed to light up, “...since you said please.”

Nothing could smoulder that spark of satisfaction in his eyes. The look made your heart flutter, a sharp contrast from before when it felt like exploding. 

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Your cheeks warmed and you turned your face to hide from him. You couldn’t take it when he looked at you like that. That look made it feel like everything was okay.

“I made a mistake,” Your voice came out in a whine. Rafe ran the warm cloth across your back, a reminder of that peaceful bubble he’d created around you. 

He shushed you, “You didn’t,” He assured you, “You’re a good person, a good girl. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

His words made you sink deeper. The soft strokes of the warm washcloth, the vanilla-scent against your skin, and the pressure against your most sensitive areas. You felt the tension in your body melt away further. 

Slowly, gripping your knees to your chest, you turned your face back towards him, “You can’t tell anybody, Rafe,” You whispered. 

“Never,” He said, leaning closer, “Pinky swear?”

Rafe reached his other hand toward you, his pinky finger extended in front of you, moving like he was carefully dismantling some fragile, like a bomb. You stared for a brief movement, surprised and warmed by the gesture. You had no idea Rafe was capable of being so gentle. You unwrapped yourself a little bit, bring your closest pinky towards his hand. Your smaller finger wrapped around his and you were tethered together. 

“There, I promise I won’t tell anyone, princess,” He looked at you deeply, “Okay?”

Hesitantly, you nodded, your hand falling gently back into the water,  “Let’s get you out of here before you wrinkle up,” He decided and you watched him cross the room to grab your towel hanging from the back of the bathroom door. He walked back with a quiet confidence and his grip was completely sure, deliberate, as he helped you from the tub, “I’ve got ya’.”

He’d wrapped one arm underneath your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, lifting you gently. You imagined pressing yourself into him but a towel soon separated you. You shivered, and instinctually, you wanted to dry yourself but Rafe took responsibility of that as well. He was so close, so protective. It was awkward at first, being able to take care of that mundane task but not having to. You leaned into it, letting your body be soothed by the ritual. 

You kept sinking. 

“Arms up,” He’d said after bringing you back to your bedroom. He chose an oversized purple t-shirt, designed with small pictures of cartoon pandas. For your underwear, he chose a light blue pair decorated with rainbows. Your eyelids grew heavy and after your first yawn, Rafe lifted you onto the side of your bed, “There you go. All set.”

You crawled into your cocoon further, settling underneat your quilt. You watched Rafe as you settled there, as he moved across the room. Your sleepy eyes widened for a moment, realizing his shirt was gone and that he was fiddling with the zipper of his pants. 

It was a threshold you’d never expected to reach, with Rafe or anyone else. The lights flicked off and the bed dipped beside you, your nerves sparked. You grabbed ahold of your lamb stuffed animal, letting that bring you a familiar comfort. Rafe nestled closer to you, his body at ease, relaxed as he wrapped an arm around you. 

You did your best to do the same, trying to lean into that same vulnerability you felt when he was bathing you. Warm skin against yours, strong hands on your waist, warm breath against your ear, it was overwhelming, “I-Is this okay?” You asked, breaking the silence. 

Looking for reassurance, you turned your head until your noses were almost pressed together. 

“Yeah,” Rafe spoke low and smooth, “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, nervously, “I’m okay.”

Rafe pressed a kiss to your forehead and you took a deep breath, letting the feeling sooth your anxiety, “I’ve got you,”  Rafe’s fingers ran down your arm then to your waist. He held you there, feeling your flesh there, squeezing, “Daddy’s got you, baby.”

He touched you in new ways, gripped you hard in some places and softer in others. The kiss on your forehead turned into a kiss on your nose and then he placed soft lips against your cheek, “Relax,” He whispered in your ear, “I know you’re sleepy. I’ll do all the work.”

In your state of mind, his words felt like a riddle. What did he mean? You knew you liked his touch and that you wanted to sleep. Rafe knew more than you, clearly, maybe that’s what makes him a good Daddy. You should trust him. 

You closed your eyes as you let him press his face into your neck. He kissed you there, finding the most sensitive spot on your skin, and it made your lips part in a soft moan, “Call me Daddy,” He spoke against your skin, “Please, baby? Just say it and I’ll make you feel good.”

“Daddy,” You whispered back hesitantly and Rafe groaned, “D-Daddy.”

“Fuck,” Rafe cursed, grabbing a handful of your bottom, “That’s exactly what I want from you.”

You felt hardness pressing against your upper thigh and you gripped your lamb tighter. You leaned into sleep, letting Rafe move your body as he pleased, only moving your lips to whisper, “Daddy” in Rafe’s ear. He seemed please and you felt a warmness in your center that you wanted more of. 

Soon he was on top of you, your legs spread as he sat in between them. He rubbed you there. His rhythm was perfect, his accuracy impeccable, so much that you didn’t have to even move your hips to get the friction you needed. You panted and when you reached your peak, Rafe swallowed your moans, putting his mouth on your lips. 

It didn’t fully register to you when Rafe pushed your underwear aside and started to push inside of you. He was so gentle and you were so tired. He pulled your arms to the side, pressing his front against you, but you kept one hand wrapped around the arm of your stuffed animal, “Daddy,” You mumbled, “Daddy”

You winced when you felt all of him, and instinctively, you pushed at his heavy arms, “You’re okay,” He said, and his voice was louder to you than his heavy breathing or the sound of his skin hitting against yours, “You’re doing so good. Daddy’s almost done. You’re gonna make me cum so fast, Y/N. Shit.”

The satisfaction and pride in his words brought almost enough warmth to mask the pain of being stretched by him. You slowly grew used to the feeling but the feeling was so intense and you had so little energy to withstand it, to take all of him. 

“Daddy,” You mumbled, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…”

His thrust slowed but his weight kept you pinned there. He grabbed ahold of your chin and you blinked up at him with sleepy eyes. His mouth was parted, his eyes holding a darkness that you thought had gone away, “Jesus, baby.”

As he shifted to his side, all you could muster was to turn away, pulling your lamb close to your chest and allowing your eyes to flutter shut. Rafe nestled against you once more, his hands gripping your hips until your bottom was pressed firmly against him. You felt the warmth of his lips against your hair, and then his sleepy voice whispered, “Sweet dreams, princess.”

Reblog and comment if you enjoyed, would love to know your thoughts!!

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

LOGAN HOWLETT 18+ thoughts about late night sex in the kitchen of xavier’s mansion

[fem!reader, mdni]

last one for a bit (this might be a lie bc I have another wip )

It’s late, the school quiet. Everyone asleep for the night. 

Or so you thought. 

Your late night trip to the kitchen for water taking a detour when you see Logan at the island, a secretly bought beer clutched in hand. It’s dark, the kitchen dimly lit by the moon’s cast through the window. You didn’t see him at first, nor did you expect anyone else to be up at this hour – the silk, slinky robe you threw on all evidence of that.

The supposed, simple journey to fetch a drink after some alone time escalating into something else. Something like you were picturing during those thirty-some minutes in your room.

The trip downstairs turning into hushed, hasty sex against the counter – the force of his front against your back pushing you further into the worktop ahead. Your hands situated firmly on the edge, fingers digging into the wood as a means to keep stable. His hold around your middle just as tight – his grasp only further aiding your stability.

He fucks into you testingly, the waistband of his pyjamas tucked just under his cock. His clothing revealing only what it needs in the same way yours does; robe flowing freely, fabric covering all of you except the parts that raise and crumple and ruche with his touch. 

You lift a leg, resting your knee on the counter to make more space for him behind – the new positioning opening you up further. The deeper angle allowing more strangled, hoarse, strained noises to fill the space. His fucking never once faltering with your struggling sounds.

Your back arching away from him and head falling onto his shoulder as a means to feel him just that bit more.

“Keep it down,” he whispers behind your ear. “Don’t want them hearing too much,” he teases, referring to the whole school of gifted individuals.

He was getting under your skin, trying to shame you for your shared urges. But it only made it that much hotter – the thought of being caught making it all the more thrilling.

And he knew that, he could feel it. The unknowing tightening of you around his cock acting as a tell. Like one big giveaway.

“Afraid of how much you like it?” he says, voice low and quiet as he speaks into your ear. Like before, only this time he’s closer. Lips practically grazing at your lobe.

You nod, body reacting before your mind gets a second to fight it. And when he feels you mere moments away from giving up all sense of quiet —your climax in the midst— he places a hand over your mouth, palm large over the bottom half of your face. His other moving to grab a handful of tit, fingers pawing and kneading into the squidge through the thin fabric.

His mouth on the back of your neck, lips pressing the faintest of kisses into your skin. The act spurring you along.

And when you both reach your end, panting over the edge of the counter, you’re quick to pretend as if it never happened —like those dozen secret encounters before— making yourselves busy when you see Scott appear in the doorframe. 

Your uneasy, darting eyes and Logan's messy hair and discarded tank acting as yet another huge giveaway.

this is lowkey ass, sorry guys. forgive me😫🙏

had this idea all week and needed to put it into words before I do a comfort blurb. k cool bye x

[deluboo]

MIDNIGHT INK.

genre: smut — 18+ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ contains: unprotected sex oral sex rough sex heartbreak

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ © DELUBOO 2024.

sitting on your bed, you watched your reflection in the mirror, your fingers tracing the outline of the faded tattoo on your lower back. once a symbol of love, it had become a haunting reminder of heartbreak. you needed to rid yourself of it, something to signify a fresh start.

finally, you picked up your phone from the desk and called the one person you trusted implicitly.

"hello?"

"hey, before you leave, can i get a quick one done on my lower back?" you asked hesitantly. "trying to get a cover-up."

"yeah, sure, be here by eleven-thirty, okay?"

"alright, cool, thanks." you stayed silent for a minute, hoping he'd say more, but the call ended abruptly.

glancing at the clock, your eyes widened. it was 11:20. with a groan, you grabbed your keys and rushed out. the tattoo shop was only five minutes from your home, but october's chill and early darkness made the journey feel longer.

despite the recent breakup with your boyfriend, you always found yourself returning to him—jungkook. he was the man you confided in, sharing all your problems, including tales of your toxic relationship. though he listened, sometimes distant, you sensed he disliked hearing about your ex. yet, he was always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on; truth be told, he was the reason you frequented the tattoo shop.

upon arrival, the sign's lights flickered at the entrance. taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open. jungkook looked up from his station, his sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoo-covered arms. his dark, intense gaze swept over you, making your heart flutter.

"hey," he greeted, a slow smile spreading. "ready?"

you nodded, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach. "yeah, thanks for staying late."

"no problem," he replied, his voice low and soothing. he gestured to the tattoo chair. "take a seat. let's see what we're working with."

as you settled into the chair, a mix of nerves and excitement coursed through you. jungkook moved with practised ease, gathering his tools and preparing the area.

"alright, let's take a look," he said calmly, lifting the back of your hoodie. his fingers brushed against your skin, lingering longer than necessary, sending a shiver down your spine.

jungkook's gaze flickered to yours, a hint of desire in his eyes before he focused back on your skin. "15th of… december… 2023," he murmured, staring at your tattoo.

embarrassed, you leaned your head against the seat. "yeah, that's when we started dating."

he hummed in response, studying the faded tattoo. "this will be a great cover-up. do you have a design in mind, or want me to freestyle something?"

"i trust you," you whispered. "just something that represents a new beginning."

jungkook nodded, his expression serious and thoughtful. "got it. i'll sketch something out quickly."

you watched as he worked, his hands moving swiftly and confidently. the room was filled with the soft hum of the neon sign outside and the quiet scratch of his pencil on paper. after a few minutes, he held up the sketch for you to see.

"how about this?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for approval.

the design was beautiful—delicate yet bold, perfectly capturing what you wanted. "it's perfect," you grinned.

"glad you like it. let's get started," he smiled.

he carefully transferred the design onto your skin, his touch sending another shiver through you. "ready?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

you nodded, unable to find your voice. the first touch of the needle was sharp but bearable. the pain quickly faded into the background, overshadowed by the sensation of jungkook's hands on your skin. each touch, each brush of his fingers, felt amplified in the intimate quiet of the shop.

jungkook worked with steady precision, his eyes never leaving your skin. "you're doing great," he murmured, his breath warm against your back. "just a little longer."

you tried to focus on the rhythm of his work, but your mind kept drifting to the closeness of his body and his hands' warmth. the tension between you was palpable, each minute passing in a haze of anticipation and desire. his fingers occasionally brushed against your skin in a way that felt more intentional than accidental, sending waves of heat coursing through you.

as the tattoo session continued, you found yourself mesmerized by the sensation of his touch. the combination of the late hour, the dim lighting, and the intimate nature of the session made every moment feel charged with electricity. you could feel the heat of his body close to yours, the soft brush of his breath on your skin.

"how does it feel?" he asked softly, his voice a soothing balm with a dark, underlying current.

"it's… it's good," you managed to reply, your voice shaking slightly. "thank you, jungkook."

he smiled, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "almost done. just hang in there."

the final strokes of the tattoo machine were almost a relief, though you couldn't deny the pang of disappointment at the thought of his touch ending. when he finally finished, jungkook leaned back to admire his work, his expression of satisfaction mixed with something deeper.

"all done," he said softly. "take a look."

you stood up and walked to the mirror, turning to see the new tattoo on your lower back. it was beautiful, a perfect cover-up that transformed an old regret into something new and meaningful.

"wow," you said, your voice filled with genuine awe. "i love it."

he stepped closer, his gaze intense and dark with unspoken desire. "i'm glad you like it," he said.

for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. it was just the two of you, standing in the quiet, dimly lit shop, the air thick with unspoken feelings and charged with undeniable tension.

"thank you," you whispered, your eyes locking with his.

jungkook's hand brushed against your cheek, and your heart skipped a beat. his touch was gentle yet firm, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "you're welcome," he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. "anytime."

as you stared into each other's eyes, the air between you seemed to crackle with electricity, the line between professional and personal blurring beyond recognition. the tension was almost unbearable, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, craving more.

jungkook's fingers trailed down your cheek to your neck, his touch igniting a fire within you. "you know," he said softly, his lips just inches from yours, "i've always been here for you. and i always will be."

his hand lingered on your neck, his thumb gently brushing your jawline as he stared into your eyes. the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, and the air between you crackled with unspoken desire. you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, each beat echoing the growing tension in the room.

"you have no idea how long i've wanted this," he whispered, his voice husky and filled with longing.

your breath hitched, and you leaned in closer without thinking, your lips just a breath away from his. the anticipation was almost unbearable, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body, drawing you in.

unable to resist any longer, you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a tentative kiss. jungkook responded immediately, his lips soft yet insistent against yours. the kiss deepened slowly, fueled by the weeks of suppressed desire and the intimate setting of the tattoo shop. his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss further. the sensation was electric, sending waves of heat coursing through your body.

your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. the sensation of his heartbeat under your palm matched the frantic pace of your own. every touch, every movement was charged, making your skin tingle with anticipation.

jungkook broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he trailed kisses down your neck. "god, i've wanted this for so long," he murmured against your skin, his hands roaming over your back, tracing the newly inked tattoo.

you let out a soft moan, arching into his touch. "me too," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "i've wanted you for so long."

he pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and filled with desire as he looked at you. "then let's not waste any more time," he said, his voice a low growl.

with a swift movement, he lifted you onto the tattoo chair, positioning himself between your legs. the cool leather against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat building between you. jungkook's hands slid under your hoodie, pushing it up to reveal more of your skin. he kissed a trail down your collarbone, his fingers deftly undoing the clasp of your bra.

your breath hitched as he pulled the bra away, his lips capturing one of your nipples in a hot, wet kiss. you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as he lavished attention on your breasts, his hands kneading the soft flesh.

"jungkook," you moaned, the sound of his name a desperate plea on your lips.

he responded by kissing his way back up to your mouth, his tongue parting your lips as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. the kiss was deep and fervent, leaving a string of saliva connecting your lips when they parted. his hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and dip, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

you could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh, and the sensation only heightened your own desire. with a trembling hand, you reached down, palming him through his jeans. he let out a low groan, the sound vibrating through you and making you even wetter.

"need you," you gasped against his lips, your voice breathless with need.

jungkook pulled back just enough to tug off his shirt, revealing the expanse of tattoos that decorated his chest and arms. you couldn't help but run your hands over his skin, tracing the lines of ink with your fingers.

he made quick work of your clothes, stripping you bare before him. the cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but the look in jungkook's eyes sent a new wave of warmth through you. he kissed you again, his hands exploring your body with a fervent intensity.

his fingers found their way between your legs, sliding through your wetness with practiced ease. you gasped, bucking into his hand as he teased your entrance.

"you're so wet for me," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and tantalizing. "i want to taste you."

before you could respond, he knelt between your thighs, his tongue darting out to taste you. the sensation was overwhelming, and you cried out, your hands gripping the edges of the tattoo chair as he licked and sucked at your most sensitive spots.

jungkook's tongue moved with expert precision, driving you closer and closer to the edge. just as you felt the first tremors of your orgasm, he pulled back, his lips glistening with your arousal.

"i want you to come with me inside you," he said, his voice rough with desire.

you nodded, too breathless to speak, and he quickly shed the rest of his clothes. the sight of him, fully naked and aroused, made your mouth water. he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locking with yours as he slowly pushed inside.

the sensation of him filling you was indescribable, a perfect mix of pleasure and pressure. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he began to move. each thrust was deliberate and powerful, driving you closer to the edge with each stroke.

jungkook's hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he moved faster, his breath hot against your neck. "you're mine," he growled, his voice filled with possessive desire.

"yes," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "i'm yours."

the words seemed to spur him on, and he increased his pace, driving into you with an almost desperate intensity. your orgasm built rapidly, a tight coil of pleasure that finally snapped, sending you over the edge with a cry of his name.

jungkook followed you over the edge, his own release shuddering through him as he buried himself deep inside you. he collapsed against you, both of you breathing heavily as the aftershocks of your orgasms coursed through you.

for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. it was just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet, dimly lit shop, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

"that was…" you began, but trailed off, unable to find the words.

"amazing," jungkook finished for you, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

you nodded, a matching smile spreading across your face. "yeah. amazing."

jungkook pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. "i told you," he murmured, his voice soft and tender. "i'll always be here for you."

you nestled closer to him, savouring the warmth of his body against yours. "and i'll always be here for you," you whispered back, feeling a profound sense of connection and contentment.

jungkook pulled back slightly, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "we should get cleaned up," he said, but made no move to let you go. instead, he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle and affectionate.

you smiled, leaning into his touch. "yeah, but maybe we can stay like this for just a little longer," you suggested, not ready to break the intimate cocoon that had enveloped you both.

he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "i like the sound of that."

the two of you lay there for a while, wrapped up in each other's arms, the quiet of the tattoo shop providing a serene backdrop to your tender moment. the reality of the outside world seemed distant and unimportant compared to the warmth and closeness you shared.

eventually, jungkook sighed and pulled away, albeit reluctantly. "as much as i'd love to stay here with you forever, we should clean up and get you home."

you nodded, understanding the practicality of his words even though you wished the moment could last longer. "okay."

jungkook helped you off the tattoo chair, both of you moving slowly, savoring the lingering touches and stolen kisses as you gathered your clothes. he was gentle as he helped you dress, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that made you want to pull him back into your embrace.

once you were both dressed, jungkook guided you to the small bathroom at the back of the shop. he wet a cloth and began to gently clean the areas of your body that still tingled from his touch. the intimacy of the moment, even in such a simple act, made your heart swell with affection.

"thank you," you said softly, your voice filled with sincerity. "for everything."

he smiled, his eyes locking with yours in a way that made you feel cherished. "anytime, y/n."

with a final, lingering kiss, jungkook finished cleaning up and walked you to the door. the cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth you felt inside, but you didn't mind. you knew that the bond you had forged tonight was something special, something that would stay with you long after you left the shop.

as you stepped outside, jungkook held your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "call me when you get home, okay? i want to make sure you're safe."

you nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "i will."

he watched as you walked away, his figure a comforting presence behind you. as you made your way home, you felt a sense of peace and fulfilment that you hadn't felt in a long time. the night had been more than just a tattoo session—it had been a new beginning, a step towards a future filled with promise and love.

later that night, as you settled into bed, your mind was filled with thoughts of jungkook, completely forgetting he was waiting for your call.

the intimacy you shared, the way he looked at you, the feeling of his hands on your skin—it all replayed in your mind like a beautiful dream. just as you were about to drift off to sleep, your phone rang, breaking the silence of the room. the screen displayed jungkook's name, and your heart skipped a beat.

you answered the call, trying to keep your voice steady. "hey,"

"hey," he replied, his voice warm and soothing. "i just wanted to make sure you got home safely."

"i did," you said, feeling a rush of warmth at his concern. "thank you for checking."

there was a brief silence, filled with the unspoken feelings hanging between you. finally, jungkook broke the silence. "i can't stop thinking about tonight, about you, y/n."

"me too," you admitted, your voice soft. "thanks for the special treatment."

"it was special," jungkook agreed. "i've wanted to tell you how i feel for so long, but i didn't know if you felt the same way."

"i do," you whispered, your heart pounding. "i feel the same way, jungkook."

he let out a relieved sigh, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "i'm glad to hear that. how about we make this official? can i take you out to dinner tomorrow night?"

your face broke into a wide smile, your excitement bubbling over. "i'd love that."

"great," jungkook said, his voice filled with warmth. "i'll pick you up at seven. sweet dreams, y/n."

"sweet dreams, jungkook," you replied, ending the call with a smile.

the next day was a blur of anticipation and excitement. as the evening approached, you found yourself carefully selecting an outfit, wanting everything to be perfect. when the clock struck seven, a knock on your door made your heart race.

jungkook stood on the other side, looking effortlessly handsome. he greeted you with a bouquet and a shy, endearing smile. "you look beautiful," he said, his eyes filled with admiration.

"thank you," you replied, feeling your cheeks flush with warmth. "you look great too."

the dinner was perfect. the two of you shared stories, laughter, and tender glances across the table. every moment felt charged with electricity, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second. after dinner, jungkook took you for a walk in a nearby park. the night was clear, the stars twinkling above as you strolled hand in hand.

as you reached a quiet spot, jungkook turned to face you, his expression serious yet tender. "y/n, i meant what i said last night. i'll always be here for you. i want to be with you if you'll have me."

your heart swelled with emotion, and you nodded, tears of happiness brimming in your eyes. "i want to be with you too, jungkook. more than anything."

he pulled you into a gentle embrace, his lips finding yours in a soft, tender kiss. the world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you in your perfect moment.

the weeks that followed were filled with joy and discovery. jungkook became not only your lover but your confidant and best friend. each moment spent together strengthened your bond, and your love grew stronger with each passing day.

you found yourself spending more and more time at jungkook's apartment, where he would cook for you, and you would talk for hours about everything and nothing. the walls that once seemed to contain just his life now felt like a shared space where your love blossomed.

one evening, as you lay in bed together, jungkook traced patterns on your skin, his touch sending shivers through you. "i've been thinking about something," he said, hesitating.

"what is it?" you asked, turning to face him.

"i want us to move in together," he confessed, his eyes searching yours. "i want you to be a part of my everyday life, not just the special moments. what do you think?"

your heart swelled with joy, and you couldn't stop the smile on your face. "i think i'd love that. more than anything."

moving in together felt like the most natural step in your relationship. you merged your lives seamlessly, finding comfort and joy in the little things—cooking together, late-night talks, and lazy sunday mornings.

one evening, while unpacking the last of your things, you came across an old photo album. sitting on the couch, you and jungkook flipped through the pages, laughing at childhood photos and sharing stories from your pasts. it felt intimate and suitable, a testament to how deeply you trusted each other.

jungkook pulled you close, his eyes filled with love and promise. "we've come a long way, haven't we?"

"we have," you agreed, resting your head on his shoulder. "and i wouldn't change a thing."

as the evening wore on, you found yourselves on the balcony, watching the sunset. jungkook wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. "i can't wait to see what the future holds for us," he murmured.

"me too," you replied, your heart full of love and excitement. "with you by my side, i know it will be amazing."

as you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, you felt a deep sense of fulfilment and contentment. the journey began with a simple tattoo, which had transformed into a beautiful love story that would continue to unfold with each passing day.

your past no longer held any power over you; you could embrace a future filled with love, promise, and endless possibilities. together, you and jungkook would face whatever came your way, knowing that your love was strong enough to withstand anything.

as you closed your eyes and leaned into his embrace, you knew this was just the beginning of your happily ever after.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ — © DELUBOO 2024.

[writingmar]

girllll, we need a part 2 for “behave back there”!! it was so good! it could be what happened in their hotel room after the car ride hehe

nsfw ੈ✩‧₊˚ mdni

'𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝.'

𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘥 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

'𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.' 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰.

after you took your time teasing spencer during a car ride back to the hotel, he decides it's time to take what your body has been promising him...

wc: 1.3k

content & tw: smut. this is just smut. dom!spencer, sub!reader, fem!reader, risk of being caught, pleasurable punishment, choking, use of a gag, spence being a munch, fucking the attitude out of you, dirty talk.

a/n: i am honoured people were actually asking for a part two of this so i tried my very best here!!

['shut up,' spencer said, his voice cracking slightly on the nerves, but you know that in about thirty minutes, he will be knocking on your hotel room door and he will be everything but for nervous...] - ending of 'behave back there'.

you know garcia is the true oracle of quantico, but you feel like you deserve an honorary mention in that title, because it is exactly thirty minutes after you left the car that spencer knocks on your door.

you take one quick look thru the peephole, just to be completely sure it's him, and smile as you open the door slightly to see your favorite profiler standing there. 'doctor reid, what are you doing here? do you even know what time it is?' you say, a sly smirk on your face.

'cut the crap, princess. you know exactly why i'm here,' he says, his voice low and husky. you don't even have time to throw back another snarky remark before spencer pushes the door open and slams your back against the wall, kicking the door closed behind him.

he wastes no time, passionately connecting his body to yours, the two of you coming together in a mix of lips, teeth and tongues. 'damn, spence, i had no idea i had this much of an effect on-' you start to speak, but spencer cuts off your breath, wrapping his hand around your throat. 'shut up, brat, you knew exactly what you were doing.'

he holds his hand on your throat, using the other one to lead you backwards towards the bed. when your legs hit the frame, he pushes you onto it. you catch yourself and watch as he undoes his tie and throws his sweater vest to the floor.

he leans down, his body towering over yours as he pins your arms into place above your body. 'fuck, that was the longest car ride of my life,' he pants between passionate kisses. you start to speak, but spencer silences you immediately with a passionate kiss.

'if you know what's good for you, you will shut the fuck up. i am this close to losing my shit already, and if you give me that attitude i fear neither of us will get any rest tonight,' he says. there is a certain darkness in his eyes, a hunger that you know exactly how to still. as much as you love being a brat, you're well aware that now is the time to be obedient.

'i'm yours, doctor. whatever you need,' is the last thing you say before wisely keeping your mouth shut. spencer smirks against your lips, 'fuck, that's my good girl,' he says, his hard length already pressing against you.

he kisses down your body, pulling your shirt over your head and unbuttoning his own blouse as he bites the soft skin of your lower stomach.

he unbuttons your jeans, pulling them off your body with haste, your underwear coming off with them. before you know it, spencer lowers his mouth to your core, licking and sucking like theres no tomorrow.

'oh... oh...' you moan, your eyes shutting instinctively. you feel spencer smile against your sensitive skin. 'i'd try to be quiet, princess. hotch is over in the next room, morgan on the other side,' he says. you look down at him, his hair already messy as he looks up at you with sparkling eyes.

he licks you exactly where it feels good, and you just know he's proud of himself. it's almost like his movements are saying you should have behaved, i can tease you just as good as you can tease me.

you feel your orgasm building inside of you, crashing over your body like a tidal wave before you know it. you cover your mouth with your hands and squeeze your eyes shut as you try desperately not to make a noise. the idea of hotch or morgan, or worse, hotch and morgan, hearing what's going on here makes you nervous, and the nerves make you hornier than ever before.

you're pretty sure spencer shares the same excitement as he doesn't slow down or change his movements in the slightest. not even when your thighs squeeze around his legs as your second orgasm ripples thru you. 'fuck, princess,' he whispers in between strokes of his tongue, 'are you trying to suffocate me? oh well, if this is how i die, i'll die a happy man.'

that sentence is enough to unravel you again, this time not being able to keep quiet. 'f- fuck!' you moan, probably loud enough to be heard thru the walls. you immediately feel your cheeks heat. spencer tsks and moves himself back up towards you, unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his cock from the confines of his underwear.

he kicks his trousers to the floor, but holds his boxers into one of his hands. 'i don't believe this pretty mouth won't get us into trouble, baby... open up,' he commands, and you do as your told, following thru on your previous promise and open your mouth. spencer stuffs the black cotton boxers into your mouth as a makeshift gag.

'how's that, princess?' he asks, and you try your best to form words but obviously, they come out muffled and far from articulated. 'what's that? i can't understand you,' spencer says mockingly before kissing your neck and positioning the head of his cock with your entrance.

'if anything is wrong, tap anywhere on my body twice and i stop immediately, understood?' he asks, and you nod. that was all spencer needed before pushing himself deep inside you. he buries his cock into your body all the way to the hilt, and you bite down onto the fabric, soft whimpers escaping thru it.

'oh my god, baby, you feel so fucking good,' spencer groans softly before settling into a steady but punishing pace. you feel your orgasm building already as he hits the most sensitive parts of your body.

you moan as quietly as you can, but you know if there was no risk of getting caught, you would be screaming his name until your throat hurt. he fills you up completely and you feel him thru your entire body.

your moans climb the scale like a symphony reaching its crescendo, every sound escaping from your lips reaching a higher and higher pitch until your body tenses and you fall apart underneath him.

'i love the sounds you make when you're trying to be quiet,' spencer says, his own breathing becoming more and more ragged. you can barely remember your own name as spencer thrusts into you, the pain and pleasure mixing into a beautiful cocktail.

you feel your fifth orgasm of the night building, a tear rolling down your cheek from the perfect intensity of it all. 'f- fuck, baby, you're so tight, fuck,' spencer whispers into your ear, and his movements grow more and more erratic.

when he finally falls over the edge, his cum shooting into your body, the sound he makes, the low whimper thru his ragged breaths, is enough to send you into an orgasm once again. spencer stills inside of you, catching his breath as he hangs above.

he looks at your face, the mascara stains and his boxers in your mouth and can't help but smile. 'so gorgeous,' he says before pulling the fabric from your mouth and placing a kiss on your lips.

'thank you, doctor, you don't look too bad yourself,' you say, running your hand thru his beautifully messy locks.

'maybe i should tease you more often, if five orgasms is what i get out of it,' you say with a smirk as spencer gets dressed again, ready to go back to his own room.

he looks over his shoulder back at you. 'try that at your own risk, princess, i won't be this nice to you every time.'

[aliwritex]

dad!franco thoughts: baby making 18+ 1.1k

“Do you know what he just told me?” Franco said as he climbed on the bed, cuddling up to your chest “he doesn’t need this chupi anymore”

He scoffed, handing you the pacifier.

“Oh?” you frowned, looking at the object in your hand — it used to be Teo’s favorite ‘chupi’, the blue one that glows in the dark. You were meant to feel relieved that he wasn’t giving you trouble about leaving the habit but lately so many of his actions were making you feel like he was growing up too fast. “Guess he’s a big boy now, huh?” he nodded “I'm gonna miss my baby”

“We can always have another one” he mumbled, drawing circles on your stomach with his finger.

“You want another kid?”

“Maybe? I just feel kinda bad for Teo, not having any kids to play with and I really liked having my sister to grow up with, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s a lot. We got really lucky with this one, he was easy”

“Think about it?”

“Remind me to talk about this another time, yeah? Your son tired me out today”

You did talk more about it. And after multiple discussions of logistics, moving, finances, pros and cons, you were set on making Mateo an older brother.

You moved into a house, somewhere nicer and bigger where two kids would have space enough to run around and have their own rooms. Franco decided that the way to make the new house feel like a home was trying for a baby in every room possible.

You were both restless and now that he had convinced you to have another child, you wanted it bad, but it seemed that now that you were actually trying it was harder. Franco was fucking you at least twice a day, maybe four times when you were ovulating.

“Good morning” you whispered to his neck, kissing the sensitive skin.

He groaned, turning to face you but his eyes still closed “What time is it?”

“About thirty minutes till Teo wakes up”

He hummed, finally opening his eyes to look at you before kissing your lips. Franco kissed you lazily, pulling you closer by the hip. Your lips opened in a smile when his hand traveled between your thighs, pushing them apart.

His fingers danced around your inner thighs, the soft touches making you shiver. Your hands brushed his hair back when his lips brushed against your neck, his warm breath contrasting with your cool skin. You hadn’t really bothered getting dressed after an intense shower the night before so his hand quickly met your naked middle.

Franco moved till you were laying on your back, with your legs spread open. You felt his fingers climb up your legs till he was brushing against your hole. Your hand moved between his legs, reaching for his hard cock that was poking your thigh. Your hands moved slowly, his fingers smearing your wetness around to make sure you were ready for him.

He shifted on the bed again and you thought he was about to go between your legs and fuck you dumb, but no. His fingers were the ones to fill you up, in one swift motion that knocked the breath out of you.

“Fran,” you sighed “I said thirty minutes, not an hour”

“Stop being so desperate and enjoy, okay?”

You just nodded, teasing his tip in your hand as his fingers started curling up inside you. His mouth dropped to your chest kissing down till his teeth grazed your nipple. You moaned at his actions, letting yourself relax completely against his body.

When franco took your nipple into his mouth you felt your orgasm building up. Every curl of his fingers pushing you closer to the edge. You could only try to keep your moans quiet as he worked you to your limit.

He smiled against your tit when you came, feeling the way your walls clenched around his fingers and your thighs closed around his arm. But Franco had to pull away from your chest, just to kiss you, in a — failed — attempt to drown your moans.

“He’s never gonna get a sibling if you keep moaning like that” he joked, slipping away from your side to hover you.

“It’s your fault.” you bit back, arms folding around his neck to pull him down.

He smiled proudly before taking your lips in his. His hard tip was bushing against your cunt, so deliciously close to your clit but not exactly there. Your legs wrapped around his hips to pull him closer but he held himself up.

“Slow down, will you?” he chuckled, pushing your hips down on the bed “I know what I’m doing”

You rolled your eyes and brought your legs back down, completely spread out on the bed for him. Franco watched you for a second, spreading his palm on your stomach just to make you feel small, he loved seeing you like that. Waiting, hoping, wishing, knowing anything he did next would send shivers all over your skin.

When he brushed his tip up and down your lips you gasped, loving the teasing drag against you clit and you hole. Franco would love to tease you more, make you beg and squirm but you had a deadline. So he guided himself into you, filling you up in a swift motion again.

And it was just as magical as the first time, like you two hadn’t been fucking at least twice a day for the past month. You could swear you’d never get tired of that feeling, and Franco would say the same.

“Fran,” a soft reminder, to bring him back from the state of ecstasy “please”

You didn’t need to ask twice, his hips started fucking deep into you, brushing against all the perfect spots as you molded around him. Your mouth traveled down to his jaw, following the line to his neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin till you placed a kiss on his scar, then another on the mole next to it before you got interrupted by a moan.

Your jaw dropped when his thumb met your clit, slowly circling it to build your pleasure. His head dropped to your shoulder as his hips lazily worked back and forth. You whispered sweet nothings to his ear, mixed with your moans as your nails ran through his hair.

It didn’t take long before Franco was spilling inside of you and you were coming around him, cunt swallowing all he had to give you.

You kissed the side of his head and hugged him close, wrapping your legs around his hips to make sure he wouldn’t move.

“Love you so so much” you whispered.

[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

A knock on the door was not what Danny was expecting that evening. In the two weeks of observation and one week of actually staying with the man, Danny had figured that Dick, for as friendly as he is, did not have many friends. And if he did, they didn't visit him a lot, if at all. So, a knock on the door exactly thirty minutes before Nightwing was set to go out was a suspicious surprise.

He answered it anyway.

On the other side of the door was a kid about his age, an inch or two taller. He had dark hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes, and eyebags dark enough to rival Danny's own. He also smelled faintly of coffee.

"Um," Danny started dumbly. "Hello?"

"I'm looking for Richard Grayson." The kid's accent was stronger than Dick's, putting him as a born and raised Gotham resident. There was also a hint of something that reminded Danny of Sam's parents. This kid comes from money.

"And you are?"

Obviously upset about being stalled, he huffed, "Timothy Drake. Are you going to let me in now?"

How does someone sound so rude and so polite at the same time? Obviously a skill Danny needs to learn. "Why-"

"Who's at the door, Danny?" Dick called from the hallway, making his way closer. He was in his Nightwing costume, minus the mask, but had covered it with a hoodie and sweatpants.

"Tim Drake," Tim introduced himself again, pushing Danny out of the way and entering the apartment to greet Dick with a handshake. "You're Bruce's Wayne's kid, Richard 'Dick' Grayson."

"Yeah, that's-"

"You need to come back and be Robin again."

There was a moment of silence as Danny closed the door softly. Then, "Excuse me?" Dick's smile was strained and his eyes narrowed slightly.

"You need to come back and be Batman's Robin again. You don't have to don the suit, but he needs you." There was a hint of desperation in Tim's voice now. "He's been spiraling since Jason died, and he's starting to hit harder. Most of the guys he beats up end up in the emergency room! Some of them have even died from their injuries! Batman needs your help! He needs a Robin."

Dick was quiet for a moment. "No."

"What?"

"I won't- I can't go back to being Robin. I can't go back to being in that house."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. Now, I don't know how you found me or how you found out who I was, but you need to go back to Gotham, Tim."

"But-"

"Now, Tim. You're parent's are probably freaking out about where you are right now."

Tim didn't say anything for a long moment, he feet rooted in place. Just as Dick turned around to go to the fire escape, he spoke, "My parents don't care where I am." Louder, he said, "Bruce is going to start directly killing people if you don't go back there and help him."

"Why should I help him?" Dick demanded. "He didn't even tell me that my little brother had died! I didn't even get to go to his funeral! And then Bruce had the audacity to punch me in the face and blame me for not being there! I'm not going back to Gotham, I'm not putting on the Robin suit again, and I sure as hell am not going to help Batman. he made it clear that he works alone, so let him." With his peace said, Dick took his hoodie and sweatpants off, donned his domino and escrima sticks, and left through the window fifteen minutes early.

Neither Tim nor Danny said anything for a long few minutes, neither bothering to move. Too many thoughts in each of their heads with no way to properly form words.

Finally, after nearly seven minutes, Danny's voice broke through the air. "I'm sorry he yelled at you."

Tim, having forgotten Danny was there, jumped and turned to face him. "What?"

"He hasn't been the same since Jason died, not that I know what he was like before."

"What do you mean?"

Danny moved into the kitchen, pulling down two cups, filling them with water before offering one to Tim and leading him to sit down on the couch.

"I don't know a lot about the situation, I've only been here for three weeks now, but I know that Dick is still hurting. Nightmares, hallucinations, the works. He's been more violent recently, too, but obviously not as much as Batman has been."

"You, uh, you know?"

"Yeah. Kinda hard not to figure it out while living here, and you coming in today didn't help that." Tim blushed and sipped his water. "Though, like you, I showed up on Dick's doorstep already knowing he's Nightwing."

"Oh? And how well did that pan out for you?"

Danny shrugged. "I offered him help and refused to leave until he accepted it."

Tim laughed. "That's what I did to Bruce!"

They shared a smile. Danny lifted his cup as if to toast. "Here's to a couple of goblins with hero complexes." Tim lifted his cup to join Danny's toast and they both took a drink.

Giggling, the two finished their water in relative quiet, the air around them comfortable.

"Say," Tim asked, putting his cup down on the coffee table, "How old are you?"

"Fourteen. You?"

"Same."

"Cool."

"You're parents know where you are?"

"Nope. I would ask if yours do, but you already answered that."

"Yeah, they aren't really around much. I did tell Alfred I'd be gone, though, so he knows I'm not home."

"Yeah, but does he know you're here?"

"No."

"Hm." A beat. "Who's Alfred?"

Another laugh startled out of Tim. "Bruce's butler. Did Dick tell you nothing?"

Danny shrugged again. "I haven't pushed for answers about anything; I'm not a therapist. I'm just here because he's going to end up killing himself at the rate he's been working himself."

"So is Bruce," Tim admitted softly, "But he's going to end up taking Gotham down with him if no one stops him."

"So what are you going to do?"

He thought for a long minute, weighing options in his mind before saying, "I guess I'll have to be the help he needs me to be."

Danny tilted his head sideways like a dog. "What do you mean?"

Tim squared his shoulders, though he was still hesitant. "Batman needs a Robin, and if Dick isn't going to be that for him, then I guess I'll have to be."

Another beat. "But do you want to be a vigilante?"

"Does it matter if I want to be?" Tim asks, "If I don't then no one will." He took a deep, steadying breath. "Gotham is my home. I can't let Bruce destroy it in his grief."

"I understand." Danny nodded, "But what you want does matter. I know I can't stop you, so I'm not going to try, but I'm going to make you promise me something." He made sure to hold Tim's gaze. "You ask for help when you need it." He held out his hand and waited.

"What?"

"You're phone. Give it to me." Reluctantly, he did so. As soon as the flip phone was in his hand, Danny put his number in it before giving it back. 'You don't have to do this alone, okay, Tim? Promise that you'll call me when you need help, okay? Any time of day, I'll answer."

Tim stared at his now closed phone, the weight grounding him for a moment. "Are you going to be a vigilante to help Nightwing?"

"I already am."

"Huh?"

"It's why I'm here, It's why I know I can't stop you and why I'm making sure you know I'll be here to help you."

Nothing else was said between the boys. Nothing else needed to be said.

Part 7 Part 9

Tag List: @flame-343 @ghestie93 @anarinette @aglmry @peachtreewriter @evix-syne666 @loudlypanickinginvenezolano @lumosfeather18581 @blueliac @talia-scar123 @cyber-geist @violet-foxe @currentfandomkick @jaguarthecat @moonchild0924 @tonicmii @bushbees @idekwutoput @justalittleghostkid

[xetlynn]

arcane imagines- silco

Uptown Girl

[main page] [arcane]

prompt: in which reader is from piltover and is over the rich, everyday loop-lifestyle. sneaking out and going to the undercity to where she finds the last drop. (Inspired by the song Uptown Girl by Billy Joel)

inspiration and idea made by: @s1lc0luvr

Sitting quietly at the dinner table, tapping your foot in a bored motion. Antsy for the food to be served while your parents sit across from you. Sneakily glancing at one another due to their daughter’s incredibly dark makeup. “What happened to your new makeup kit we bought, dear?” Your father was the first to speak up which surprised you as it had always been your mother to call out your rebelliousness.

“Hm? Oh, it was too light.” You answered, peering back into the kitchen, ready to scarf down the food and head right back up to your room. “That um- that was the point, sweetheart.” His voice was sharp even with the short stammer. “It washed me out, I’m going for a darker look now.”

You weren’t really giving him the time of day, curt and simple responses as your eyes wandered over everything. As if you hadn’t lived here your entire life. The same thing every night. Dinner with your parents at 5, sometimes 6 if they were caught up in their work. Normally it’s quiet except for the few questions about your grades in school- now university.

Forced to wear neat and tidy clothing, dressed as if you were going out somewhere instead of the comforts of your own home. No elbows on the table. Posture straight, head up. Head down and it was a thirty minute lecture. “Darker is a bit… bold even for you. [Name].” Uh oh. First name. You were in for it now.

“Boldness is intriguing, I’m intriguing.” You hum, your face told them how uninterested you were. “You can be intriguing without the devilish makeup.” Your mother spoke up this time and finally your eyes snap in her direction. “Devilish? It’s just black eyeshadow.” You roll your eyes in annoyance. She always knew how to make 10 to 100.

“It’s the way you wear it, it’s not right on that beautiful face of yours.” She exclaims but you ignore her, the servers placing down the plates of food. Putting the leftovers onto the middle of the table. “Wash it off immediately after dinner.” Your mom asks- no, demands. “Planned on it. Gonna go to sleep early.” You lied, stuffing your mouth with the bland food that was similar to every other night.

“I don‘t think you understand me. You are not to wear it again.” She tells you, you look over at her for a moment, then back down to your food. “Understood.” Normally you’d argue but you knew it was a lost cause. Instead you were lying, telling her what she wants to hear and then you were to do it all over again.

At the end of dinner you excused yourself, thanking the cooks and servers for the meal before heading up to your bedroom. The same steps you take ever since you were a child. Dinner, then bed. Sleep then breakfast in silence like the night before. School, extracurricular, back home. Study, dinner, then back to bed.

A loop that was never ending.

A loop that you were getting sick and tired of.

Entering the bedroom you quickly lock the door behind you. Dropping to your knees beside your bed and pulling out a box filled with dark clothing. Carefully picking out a cute set and then shoving the box back underneath your bed. You knew tonight was going to be the night you finally snuck out.

Over this white bread lifestyle.

You needed to experience something new, something different than what you were used to.

You change out of the tight, pretty clothing. Roughly putting on the dark red tank top, ripped up black jeans with these spiked belts. Topping it off with leather boots that were a little ragged down.

•••

It wasn’t difficult to sneak out, climbing out of your window that had a small roof leading to a good ole climbing tree. Wandering into the Undercity, that was a bit more challenging. You had no idea where you were. Where you were going, no clue. But you needed to venture out. Experience more than what your parents had planned for you. Living inside a planner with no true grasp of the world outside.

And somehow, you were now standing outside of a bar. Hearing voices and clatter from the outside. Music and big booming voices of older men cheering for something.

Only time you’ve heard anything similar is when your parents threw a gathering with their work buddies. The men cheering for some sport they were into and the women gossiping about whatever… Leaving you alone with the children that didn’t have nanny’s or babysitters for the night. Anxiously you opened the door, your feet seemingly moving subconsciously further into the building.

A few eyes peered onto you, but instead of slouching you confidently lift yourself up. Steps more quicker and you sat down on the bar beside an unknown person.

You didn’t even look over at them. Staring straight ahead as if you were on some sort of mission. “What can I get for ya, lil lady.” A gruff voice comes from the rather large man in front of you. Your eyes flicker up to him.

“Surprise me?” You smile, eyes half-lidded. He snickers. “Got just the thing.” He nods his head, he glances over at his friend that was right next to you. Letting out a small snort before heading off to make your drink.

You didn’t notice that said friend had his eyes on you ever since you walked in. His eyes bulging out of his head, mouth going dry at the sight of you. You were quite possibly the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

And when you sat next to him it was as if his heart dropped to his stomach. Childishly it was like fate to him.

Now he kept sneaking little peeks your way, sipping on his own drink. Wondering if he should say something. He just couldn’t stop looking at you. Your very presence has him weak.

You fidgeted with your fingers as you patient wait for your first bar-made drink. Of course you’ve had alcohol, trying pathetic sips from your parent’s wine collection. Some of your father’s whiskey he head in his office. But never a full on drink to yourself.

Taking a deep breath you turned your head to the left, looking straight at the man who has already been staring at you for a while. His jerks a bit to look away but he fights himself. “Hi.” You breathily say, not expecting your neighbor to have been so… attractive.

Even his air was knocked out of him from actually seeing your face so close to his own. Accidentally spilling his own drink down the sides of his mouth. It dribbles down his chin. “Hello.” He rasps as he quickly wipes up the liquid.

“I’m [Name].” You stick a hand out, smiling at him. You didn’t know how to start this, this environment was all new to you. “Silco.” He takes your smaller hand into his own, giving it a firm shake. His hand was surprisingly cold but you kind of enjoyed the feeling. Letting him go felt heartbreaking almost. “Do you come here often?” It was a cliche, and common question that he had half the mind to make fun of you for but instead he answers truthfully.

“I do, the bartender, the owner is my friend. So I come in for the free drinks” He points to the large man who was talking and laughing with a customer as he continued to make your drink. “Oh, that’s cool. He’s the owner as well?” You inquire, going to lean your elbow on the counter to mirror the man beside you but stopping yourself in habit.

He catches that but ignores it, focusing back on your face. Observing every crevice and curvature of it. “Mhm, his name is Vander- I haven’t seen you around here before, you’re not from Zaun, are you?” He quizzes and your body stiffens.

“Is it noticeable?” You murmur, the corners of his lips etched upwards. “Only a little bit, to ones paying close attention.” He answers and you gaze up at him. “And you’re paying close attention to me?” It was bold.

And as he was about to respond a heavy glass smacks down in front of you.

“A good Old Fashioned.” He says, Silco lets out a small huff, glaring up at his long time friend who had a smug smirk of his own. “Thank you! How much is it?” You reach into your pocket but he shakes his head. “On the house for the first timer.” He winks at you before walking away. Leaving you and Silco alone once again.

“Oh! Your friend is quite nice.” You grin, taking a small drink of the alcoholic beverage.

Silco watches as your eyebrows scrunch together, along with your nose as you dislike the drink before quickly trying to cover it up with another smile.

“So, Silco. You were paying close attention to me?” You ask in a flirty tone. He was amused by you, the way you continued to drink down the wretched liquid you obviously didn’t like. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” He answers, taking the glass from your hand and replacing it with his own.

“You’ll like this better.” He promises, you raised a brow but decide to trust him. Trying it, your eyes instantly light up. “This is a lot better!” You say and he chuckles. “It’s a favorite of mine.” He informs you as you take another drink. “What is it?”

•••

That was the first night of many, making an effort to come and see him at least two times in the week. Silco was a breath of fresh air that you couldn’t get enough of, wanting to know more about him.

Dressing in edgier and edgier clothing, making sure to match the colors you saw him wearing the last time you saw him. And once he noticed that, he’d attempt to do the same.

You were head over heels for him, talking about him to friends from University. Telling them how sweet he was to you. How even though he’s from the Undercity he was quite careful with you. Gentle in the way he spoke.

And Silco couldn’t get enough of you, counting down the hours until he saw you. The way his heart raced thinking about you. His eyes dilating each time he spoke of you to his best friend. He didn’t even mind being teased by the big lug.

He knew you were out of his league but he didn’t care. He selfishly kept talking to you. Entertaining the thought of being with you.

•••

“Silco!!” You sang, placing down a box. His face scrunched in confusion, looking down at what’s in front of him. “Open it.” You excitedly beam, clasping your hands together. “You don’t have to get me anything, [Name]. This is the fifth gift you’ve given me.”

The way your name rolls off his tongue makes you want to melt right then and there in the spot. The feeling making you giddy. “Open it.” You repeat, ignoring his words. He lets out a short breath through his nose. Doing as told. It was a bracelet.

Lately it’s been things he’s told you he’s been meaning to get from the market. Never having the time to get them so you’re sure to make your own time and grab them each time your parents make you go out. And every time you gift them he’d say the same thing. “[Name], you didn’t need to do this.”

This time it’s a bracelet. This shocked him, he lifted it out of the box. Admiring the black leather that had yours and his names engraved into it. “I hope it’s not too bold of me. But I really like you.” You take the bracelet from him, unsnapping it open. “We even have matching ones.” You show him your own wrist. Waiting for him to give you his own wrist to snap on the leather.

“It might be a little childish, if it is. I apologize. I can understand.” You sheepishly say, fiddling with the bracelet in between your fingers. Instead of saying anything he shoves his wrist out in front of you. Seemingly speechless. “You like it?” You tilt your head.

“Put it on.” He says and you giggle, taking his wrist and gently placing the bracelet underneath, bringing each side over and snapping it. He watches as you do so. His eyes filled with admiration.

“Perfect.” You tap it three times, your eyes now catching his.

“Perfect.” He repeats softly.

[baekchelor]

Off Script

pairings: Drew Starkey x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, Drew Starkey, discovers an undeniable truth: that the line between fiction and reality is thinner than he ever imagined.

◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

One | Star-Crossed from the Start

The first read-through for Dharma takes place three weeks later at a film studio in Los Angeles. Although Drew let Maddie crash at his place last night, he didn’t even bother to say goodbye when he slipped out of the apartment early that morning. She was still fast asleep on the wrong side of the bed, and he had no reason to stay. He liked to be early, and leaving a pot of coffee ready on the kitchen counter didn’t fit with a no-strings-attached situation.

When Drew arrives, the only people there are Greta Gerwig and a few staffers. The crowd outside, however, is another story—his fans have gathered, screaming declarations of love and waving signs.

“Y/N’s not here yet,” Drew remarks as his tired blue eyes scan the room. He’d hoped to catch her before the reading. Since they hadn’t done a chemistry test, he wanted a chance to introduce himself before diving into the scene.

“She’ll show,” Alma reassures him with a knowing smile, already handing him a cup of coffee like she does every morning. Drew chuckles—his manager’s predictability is comforting. “I heard Joe Burrow’s private jet landed from Cincinnati last night.”

That gets a laugh out of Drew. Alma’s a great manager, but she’s also the biggest gossip in Hollywood. When she called to tell him he’d landed the part in Dharma, she filled him in on every juicy detail the media had published about Y/N and Joe Burrow’s notoriously private relationship.

Alma shrugs, feigning innocence as she watches him sip his coffee. Lowering her voice to a whisper meant only for his ears, she adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept with him last night. But she won’t be sleeping in.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Alma’s lips curl into a sleepy yawn. “Apparently, she’s always on the dot. Never early, never late.”

Amused, Drew checks his phone. Nine o'clock. “Thirty more minutes, then,” he says, placing the phone down next to his script. “Let’s time her.” Alma chuckles, shaking her head, and Drew plays it cool, pretending to savor his coffee with exaggerated delight before flipping open the script.

Dharma is set in 1857 India. The story focuses on Aakesh, a penniless Hindi boy—played by Dev Patel—who believes his low social status is a consequence of bad karma from a past life. Y/N is playing Marina, a wealthy Spaniard, whom Aakesh imagines to be his reincarnated lost love, the very person responsible for his quest to redeem his karma. Drew’s character, James Barlow, comes into the picture when Colonel Edmund Thorn (portrayed by Michael Fassbender), Marina’s concerned fiancé, assigns him as her personal guard when the Indian rebellion ensues. James and Marina fall in love.

As Drew thumbs through the middle of the script, where the plot thickens, it hits him just how demanding this role will be. His character’s love for Marina is expressed not through words, but through quiet, intense glances and subtle gestures—he’ll need to convey a deep, unspoken devotion, stronger than anything he’s played before.

INT. JAMES' ROOM - MIDNIGHT, 1857 The room is cloaked in darkness, save for a faint sliver of moonlight that slips through the heavy curtains. The shadows of two figures are etched upon the wall, their forms entwined in a moment that feels both eternal and fleeting. MARINA, delicate and ethereal in her simple nightgown, stands enveloped in the arms of JAMES. Her braided hair spills over her shoulders, catching the pale light. She is a vision of vulnerability, her small frame trembling against his solid, unyielding presence. JAMES, his eyes shut tight, clings to her as though she might vanish into the night. His grip tightens, his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest. The air is thick with the weight of unspoken words and the ache of impending separation. MARINA (whispering, her voice trembling) I do love you. Tears slip silently down her cheeks, glistening in the moonlight. She does not sob, but the quiet sorrow in her voice is enough to shatter the stillness. MARINA (softly, almost pleading) I am in love with you. James exhales sharply, as though her words have struck him to his core. His eyes remain closed, but he leans down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head in a kiss that lingers—a silent vow, a desperate plea. His hand rises to cradle her face, his touch tender yet urgent. He tilts her chin upward, his lips hovering just above hers, the space between them charged with longing. The kiss begins softly, a tentative brush of lips that speaks of reverence and fear. But then, as if some unseen force has unleashed their restraint, it deepens. Their mouths meet with a hunger that defies reason, a desperate attempt to hold onto what they know they must soon lose. Marina’s tears mingle with the kiss, but neither pulls away. The moment is too precious, too fragile. JAMES (whispering against her lips, his voice trembling) I shall return to you. I swear it. There is a pause, heavy and suffocating. The room seems to hold its breath, the distance between their hearts already widening despite the closeness of their bodies. JAMES (voice breaking, barely audible) I love you.

The words hang in the air, soft yet final, as though this moment is all they will ever have. The moonlight bathes them in its cold glow, a silent witness to a love that dares not speak its name.

Drew closes his eyes, trying to immerse himself in character. He imagines speaking to someone he desperately loves, picturing Maddie—her thick, ash-blonde hair, her smiling eyes, the pink warmth of her cheeks, and the heat of her mouth when they kiss.

It feels almost like cheating, though, because his character is supposed to be in love with Marina, and though Maddie is a girl he enjoys spending time with, he’s not in love with her.

Drew sighs, the breath escaping him in a long, labored stream.

“Everything all right?” The voice is sweet, with a slight upward lilt—a little hesitant but trying not to show it.

Drew looks up. There she is. Y/N Y/L/N stands before him, dark-haired and flushed, her shy expression soft and warm.

“Oh, hello there,” Drew says, shaking himself from his thoughts. He stands and extends a hand, his smile easy but his eyes curious. “Drew.”

“I know,” she giggles, shaking his hand. Her palm is warm, while his is cool. “Y/N. I’m very, very pleased to meet you.”

Drew feels a bit sheepish at that, though he tries not to show it. “Likewise,” he says, his voice warm as their hands fall back to their sides.

“Drew’s been pacing around all morning,” Alma cuts in, her tone dry but teasing as she steps forward. She extends her hand to Y/N, her sharp eyes flicking between the two of them. “I’m Alma, by the way—Drew’s manager, babysitter, and occasional therapist.”

Y/N laughs, a bright, genuine sound that seems to light up the room. “Nice to meet you, Alma. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“You have no idea,” Alma says, shooting Drew a pointed look before turning back to Y/N with a smirk. “But don’t worry, he’s on his best behavior today. Mostly.”

Drew rolls his eyes, though there’s no real annoyance in it. “Thanks, Alma. Really selling me here.”

Y/N's eyes twinkle as she shrugs, playfully coy, “Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse.” Her tight little skirt, which Drew is sure Daisy owns too, looks far better on Y/N. “Look at us getting along,” she says, her eyes transforming into crescent moons. “I must confess, I came prepared to break the ice.” She pauses, pursing her lips, then laughs. “Sorry, that sounded like we’re going on a blind date or something.”

Drew laughs too—her giggles are infectious, and it is kind of funny. “We kinda are? We’re playing star-crossed lovers and didn’t even do a chemistry test. I’m pretty much going into this blind.”

“Aren’t we?” Y/N says, clearly relieved to find someone in the same boat. “I was talking to Dev earlier—apparently, he thinks we’ll have great chemistry.”

Drew chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “My friend Chase said the same thing. He’s convinced we’ll be the next big on-screen couple.” He pauses, his tone turning teasing. “Though I think Joe might have something to say against it.”

Y/N laughs, her hand instinctively flying to the “J” pendant hanging from her necklace. “Oh, please. Joe doesn’t care about Hollywood gossip. Especially not during football season.” 

Drew raises an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “You sure about that?” 

Y/N rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Trust me, he’s fine. If anything, he’d probably just joke about it and say I’m downgrading from a Super Bowl champion to… well, you.” 

Drew clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. And here I thought we were bonding. Guess I’ll have to step up my game.” 

Y/N grins, her fingers still brushing the pendant. “Good luck with that. He’s kind of a big deal.”

 Drew leans forward, his tone playful but curious. “Big enough to handle sharing you with the world for a few months? Because if this movie hits—and it will—you and I are going to be everywhere.” 

Y/N’s smile softens, and she shrugs. “He’ll be fine.” 

Drew nods, his expression thoughtful. “Fair enough. But if he starts giving me the stink eye at premieres, I’m blaming you.” 

Y/N laughs, her hand dropping from the pendant. “Deal. But don’t worry—he gives the stink eye to everyone.” 

Before Drew can respond, Greta chimes in, appearing seemingly from nowhere. “I knew you’d have natural chemistry,” she says, her hand gently squeezing Y/N’s cheek. “Still on time, huh? You never change.”

“It’s all on Sal,” Y/N giggles, referring to Salvatore, her very Italian manager who’s laughing in the far corner, talking to the staff. Drew is only half-listening, his mind still occupied with Y/N's easy charm. He can’t seem to shake the feeling that she has some sort of magnetic presence.

The conversation shifts toward Y/N's last movie, The Selection, where she and Tom Holland bring the bestselling book to life. Drew remembers vaguely that Holland plays a prince, while Y/N's character competes for his heart. It’s not Drew’s kind of movie—he’s pretty sure it’s a bit cringe-worthy—but for some odd reason, he’s decided to watch it when he gets home. Maybe Maddie won’t be there, and he’ll grab some beer and popcorn, settling into the couch for a few hours of forgettable entertainment.

Drew checks his phone discreetly. Nine thirty-five. He and Y/N have been talking for about five minutes. He smirks inwardly.

Right on the dot, he thinks, recalling Alma’s words. Then he hears his name.

“Pardon?” Drew asks, a little startled.

Y/N smiles sheepishly. “I’m going to go sit with Dev. Catch up with you later?”

“Yeah, of course,” Drew says, his tone betraying a hint of reluctance,“Do what you need to do.”

Greta calls for everyone to take their seats around the actors’ table. By luck, Dev and Y/N’s seats are right across from the one labeled Starkey. Drew slides into his chair and places his phone back on the table.

As Y/N walks toward Dev, she turns over her shoulder with a playful smile. “Talk to you later, then, Heartbreak Prince.”

“Heartbreak Prince?” he says, flipping back to the first page of the script. He folds the cover back neatly, his eyes asking the question.

Y/N gestures toward the window where the sound of fans chanting his name still echoes through the street. “Seems fitting.”

Drew laughs softly,“Seems fair.” Then, rubbing his palm over the script, he decides, on a whim, to give her a nickname, too. But he abandons the idea last minute. So, he just laughs.

“Okay,” she says, walking backwards, her hands entwined. “Let’s have fun today, Heartbreak Prince.”

EXT. GARDEN - MORNING, 1857 The garden is a sanctuary of tranquility, bathed in the soft golden light of the morning sun. Tall palm trees stand sentinel at the edges, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. At the center, a grand basin of emerald water glistens, its surface catching the light like a jewel. Paths lined with blooming pink roses wind through the garden, their fragrance perfuming the air. The scene is serene, almost otherworldly, as though time itself has paused to admire its beauty. EDMUND and MARINA stroll side by side, their steps unhurried, their presence a quiet harmony. Edmund’s hands are clasped behind his back, his posture upright yet relaxed. His gaze is tender, fixed upon Marina with an affection that is both gentle and unwavering. Marina walks with her eyes lowered, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. A soft, almost shy smile plays upon her lips, betraying the contentment she feels in this shared moment. As they walk, Edmund’s eyes catch sight of a single blossom clinging to a nearby tree. He pauses, bending gracefully to pluck it from its branch. He holds it out to Marina, his smile warm and sincere. EDMUND (softly, with admiration) No flower in this garden is as fair as my beloved. Marina’s gaze lifts to meet his, her smile deepening as she accepts the blossom. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but carries the weight of genuine feeling. MARINA (gently) And no heart in this world is as kind as thine. The words hang in the air, sweet and sincere. Yet, unbeknownst to her, in but a few weeks, she will come to learn the bitter truth of her own words. Edmund halts their walk, his expression growing more earnest. He gently takes her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. With deliberate care, he presses her hand to his chest, right over his heart. His gaze never wavers from hers. EDMUND (solemnly) This heart is no longer mine. It is thine. His voice is steady, but there is a depth of emotion in his words that cannot be ignored. He pauses, as if to ensure she feels the truth of his declaration. EDMUND (continuing, his tone softer) In all my thirty years, no woman has laid claim to it. But you, Marina... you have claimed it entirely.

Marina looks up at him, her eyes searching his. For a moment, the world around them fades—the garden, the breeze, the distant rustle of leaves. There is only the two of them, and the unspoken promise that hangs between their intertwined hands.

A spark of love passes between them, silent yet undeniable. The moment is tender, fragile, and brimming with the hope of what could be.

“Flirty Thirty.”

A gleam in her eye, a quirk of her lip, and it’s no longer Marina speaking. It’s Y/N, tittering playfully.

The room erupts in laughter. Drew laughs the hardest of all, his amusement genuine.

“Y/N,” Greta chides half-heartedly, her tone more fond than strict. “Don’t break character.”

“Sorry, G,” Y/N replies sweetly, her smile full of innocent mischief. “I just thought I’d break the ice.”

Somehow, Drew finds himself smiling too.

_

Today marks the fourth official Dharma read-through, and the tenth time they’ve gone over the entire script. Drew understands why Y/N is antsy; he feels it too. He can’t wait to start filming in Mumbai—to inhale the chaotic, spicy air of the streets, to hear the fast-paced hum of Hindi in the background. He’s eager to feel James settle in his bones, the character enveloping him, becoming flesh and blood with each take.

The fact is, read-throughs are dull. So damn repetitive. Drew is just glad he has the perfect distraction in Y/N to make things bearable.

Gerwig sighs in resignation. “Let’s break for lunch,” she announces, addressing the entire group. “Reconvene in an hour.”

Drew catches Y/N’s eye and mouths, Padella? Y/N nods vigorously, flashing two thumbs up and a bright, infectious smile—the one Drew’s grown especially fond of.

“I'm starving,” Drew mutters a few minutes later as they walk toward the nearest Italian restaurant.

“Same here,” Y/N agrees, grinning. “Two more read-throughs, then India, here we come!”

“But we go through the script three times each meeting,” Drew half-whines, half-sniggers at Y/N’s dramatic eye-roll. “We’ll probably take even longer than usual today because of your little adlib.”

“Sorry...” Y/N shrugs playfully.

“It was fun, though.” Drew’s hand instinctively reaches to ruffle the hair at the top of Y/N’s head. He’s not sure why he does it, but the impulse is too strong to resist. He just hopes it doesn’t make her uncomfortable. “Not a lot of laughs in this love story of ours.”

Y/N doesn’t bother smoothing down her messy hair. “Have you ever loved someone that much?”

“Uhm…” Drew hesitates, his fingers instinctively brushing through his fringe. He can feel the strands falling just a little too long, and the thought of needing a trim before the live shoots nags at him. Shifting uncomfortably, his gaze drops for a moment before meeting Y/N's eyes again. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly, his voice softening. “Their love… it’s not something you see every day. It’s like—I don’t know—it’s hard to even describe.”

He pauses, his mind drifting to the script, to the quiet intensity of James and Marina’s connection.

“It’s the kind of love that consumes you, you know? It’s not just about passion or romance—it’s deeper than that.”

He doesn't comment further, Drew’s thoughts are already elsewhere. He’s thinking about Y/N, about the way their own dynamic has started to blur the lines between fiction and reality.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmurs, watching him absently. Her voice is soft, almost wistful, as if she’s caught in the same current of thought. “It is.”

He wants to say something, to break the silence, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he offers a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that she returns with a quiet understanding.

When they reach the restaurant, the waiter, clearly a fan of Y/N’s, greets them enthusiastically.

“You two are so good-looking,” she gushes, but Drew knows the compliment is aimed at Y/N. The waiter, whose name tag reads Flo, is just being polite by including him in the praise. “You get more and more dashing every time I see you.” Y/N offers her the prettiest smile, and Flo beams, thrilled at the reaction she got out of her. Drew would be thrilled too if Y/N smiled at him that way...

<<What?>>

Padella has become a familiar haunt. After the first read-through—when Drew discovered Y/N’s favorite food was any type of pasta—it became their regular spot. Always ordering something new to try and two glasses of wine. Not exactly keeping in line with their diets, but Drew figures these cheat days won’t hurt.

In record time, Flo brings their dishes, leaving a courtesy starter on the table. Drew twirls his fork through the fettuccini, the satisfying, gooey sound as the pomodoro sauce mixes with the pasta making his mouth water.

“Oh, right, if I may,” Drew says. Y/N hums in response, mixing the contents of her own plate. “Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? I’m having dinner with Madelyn Clyne—she’s a very good friend of mine—and she’s cooking carbonara.”

“Oh my god,” Y/N looks up from her dish, her mouth practically watering at the thought of her favorite food. “She won’t mind me crashing your dinner?”

“No,” Drew replies, slouching over his bowl. “She asked me to invite you.”

“Really?” Her brown eyes widen a little in surprise. “Why?”

A mouthful of bolognese slides into Drew’s mouth with a slurp. “I might’ve mentioned your love for Italian food.”

Y/N takes a sip of her rosé. “Won’t you mind me crashing your dinner?”

“Nah,” he smiles, though his heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. “We’re friends.” He swallows the food he’s been chewing on the side of his cheek, then tries to avoid her eyes. “I kind of like hanging out with you.”

“Oh,” she answers instantly, so casual, yet pink paints her cheeks. Drew adores it. “I kind of like hanging out with you, too.”

Drew glances up at her then, and they share a knowing smile before going back to their food. The pasta is oily, red, a little salty. Drew knows he’ll need to brush his teeth and throw a box of mints into his mouth before they return to the read-through, but right now, he doesn’t care. The food is delicious.

Their comfortable silence is interrupted when Y/N’s phone rings from inside her bag. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, then gestures to Drew that she’s going to take the call outside.

"I’ll be right back.” 

Drew nods as she answers the phone and walks toward the door.

"Hey, Joe," he hears her say as she slips outside.

Burrow, he thinks, poking another strand of fettuccini into his mouth.

Fleetingly, he wonders if he should tell Y/N to bring Joe along—after all, it’s a friendly dinner. But the thought drifts away when Flo comes by their table to offer more wine. The question doesn’t resurface, not even when Y/N strolls back in from her private call. Joe is in Cincinnati anyway.

_

In her pale silk blouse and snug skirt—the same one Y/N owns—Maddie looks every bit as stunning as she does in her basic house ads. Drew has to admit it. Yet, there’s a faint itch of discomfort when he looks at her, something that nags at him. To distract himself, he shifts his attention to the other Madelyn in the room: the friend, not the fling.

She’s setting down a plate of sourdough bread on his dinner table, her hair tied back in a casual ponytail. Drew watches her lazily, admiring the elegant table setting. It looks like something out of a high-end restaurant—far superior to Padella’s.

“Since when did you become a chef?” he teases, his tone playful. Madelyn giggles, her focus entirely on the preparations. She wants everything to be perfect—no, better than perfect.

Only then does Drew glance back at his lover, noticing she’s staring at him, her pretty red lips forming a pout.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice tinged with frustration. Drew resists the urge to roll his eyes, too polite to indulge the impulse. He lets her continue her little tantrum. “You know I had a poster of Joe Burrow in my old dorm, right? The whole time I was in university?” Drew gives a barely perceptible nod, though he knows she’s lying. There’s no way she knew who Joe Burrow was back then. “So, please, please, please, please… Please, Drew. Let me meet his girlfriend, hmm?”

“No,” he replies flatly. The hurt in Maddie’s green eyes tells him he’s been too harsh. He reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and she lets him, her lips curling into a small, sweet smile. “I’ll get jealous, baby,” he lies, trying to soften the blow.

She laughs, hiding her face as it flushes a flattering shade of crimson. She’s always been easily flattered by such comments, though Drew doesn’t quite understand why. After all, they’re not a couple.

“Okay,” she says, circling the table. Her fingers lace into Drew’s as she settles onto his lap, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “I’ll get going then. Call me later?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pecking the tip of her nose. Her eyelashes flutter in response.

The moment Maddie leaves, her namesake, Madelyn, pops her head out from the kitchen.

“You know, Joe Burrow is my crush too,” Madelyn says, her tone light and teasing. Drew isn’t sure if she’s mocking him or if she means it.

“Why is every girl I know infatuated with him?” Drew asks, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Madelyn shrugs, a playful smirk on her lips. “He’s the most handsome quarterback in the league. What’s not to like?”

Before Drew can retort further, the doorbell rings. His eyes flick instinctively to the wall clock. 8 PM. Right on time.

“She’s here,” Madelyn says, her tone casual but warm. She smooths her hair back once, a quick and effortless gesture, before heading to the kitchen to finish setting the table.

Drew walks to answer the door as Madelyn places the pasta on the table. Y/N stands in the corridor, a bottle of red wine in hand.

“Look who decided to show up,” Drew says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “And here I thought you’d gotten lost on the way.”

Y/N laughs, shaking her head as she steps inside. “You wish. I’m always on time, Starkey.” She rises on her tiptoes to hug him in greeting, and Drew chuckles, taking the wine. As she steps back, her necklace—the one with the “J” pendant—gets tangled with his earpiece. She laughs, but Drew hates it. He hates that “J” around her neck almost as much as he hates everyone’s obsession with Burrow.

“Right on time, as always,” he says, his tone teasing but his smile genuine.

“Come on in,” Drew adds, waving her inside. “Madelyn’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

Y/N steps into the living room, her warm smile spreading evenly across her face. “Hey, Madelyn. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Madelyn turns from the table, her expression relaxed and welcoming. “Hey, Y/N. Likewise. Drew’s told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully all good things,” Y/N replies with a laugh, her tone easy and friendly.

“Mostly,” Madelyn teases, shooting Drew a quick glance.

_

Save for a few streaks of pancetta, the serving plates look as though they’ve been licked clean.

“That was incredible, Mads. The best carbonara I’ve ever had,” Y/N compliments the cook. “Thanks for letting me try it.”

“Anytime,” Madelyn replies, her smile warm and genuine. Drew smiles at her, pouring both women another glass of wine.

The night has gone well. Madelyn, ever the outgoing host, wasted no time making Y/N feel at home. She’d seated her next to Drew at the table, and the conversation had flowed effortlessly. At one point, they drifted into a lively discussion about last week’s Bengals at Chargers game, which Madelyn had attended.

“That touchdown Burrow threw in the third quarter was insane,” Madelyn says, her eyes lighting up as she recounts the play. “The way he dodged that sack and still managed to get the ball to Chase—it was unreal.”

Y/N nods, her expression a mix of pride and amusement. “Yeah, he’s something else. I still don’t know how he does it. Every time I think he’s about to go down, he pulls off some ridiculous play.”

Drew, who has been quietly sipping his wine, can’t help but chuckle. “Sounds like you’re describing a superhero, not a quarterback.”

Madelyn laughs. “That game was wild, though. The Chargers almost had him a couple of times.”

“Almost,” Y/N says with a smirk.

Madelyn raises her glass in mock salute. “Touché. How many games have they won in a row?”

“Ten,” Y/N replies, her smile unwavering. “I hope they keep it going. He’s not exactly fun to be around when they lose,” she adds with a laugh.

“I can imagine,” Madelyn says, joining in the laughter.

_

Drew offers Y/N the last bit of burgundy in the bottle. When she declines, he pours it for himself.

“So, Y/N,” Madelyn says, leaning back in her chair with a relaxed smile, “what’s it like dating a quarterback in postseason? Does Joe ever turn it off, or is it all football, all the time?”

Y/N laughs, her tone light and easy. “Oh, he tries to turn it off, but it’s hard. It’s kind of endearing, honestly.”

Drew can’t quite put his finger on it, but he thinks she’s lying. It’s not endearing—not really. There’s something in her voice, a faint edge that makes him wonder if she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

“So he just never … relax?”

“Sometimes,” Y/N says, her smile softening, her gaze lingering on what Drew presumes are those rare moments Joe isn’t talking football. “But it takes a lot to get him out of football mode. I have to remind him that there’s more to life than touchdowns and interceptions. Like, you know, me.”

She says it without any bite, but Drew can tell it hurts her. There’s a quiet resignation in her tone, a hint of something she’s not saying.

Drew swirls the wine in his glass, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. “Sounds like a full-time job.”

“It can be,” Y/N admits with a laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I don’t mind. He’s worth it.”

Is he? Drew thinks, the question slipping into his mind before he can stop it. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the way Y/N’s smile falters for just a second makes him wonder if she’s asking herself the same thing.

Madelyn nods, her expression thoughtful. “I get that. It’s not easy being with someone who’s that driven.”

 “Exactly. But when he’s not in football mode, he’s actually really sweet.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, his tone teasing but with a hint of something sharper underneath, “Lucky guy,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masks by taking a sip of his wine. Blue eyes lingering on Y/N for a beat too long.

“Okay, enough football talk,” Drew says, clearing his throat. He tells himself it’s not jealousy that makes him speak up, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. “I’m just gonna step out for a smoke. Anyone care to join me?”

Madelyn’s face pinches in disapproval. “I wish you’d quit. Those things are horrible for you.”

“Just one,” he bargains, his tone sweet as honey. He pats his belly, producing a compact sound. “I need it. You fed me too well, Mads.”

Y/N snickers, and Madelyn rolls her eyes. Pointedly, she asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Sometimes,” Y/N admits. “But keep it a secret. Joe would kill me.”

Drew raises an eyebrow, his tone teasing but with an edge that makes Y/N’s cheeks flush. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Come on, keep me company.”

Y/N hesitates, glancing at Madelyn, who shrugs. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

“Fine,” Y/N says, standing up. “Lead the way.”

_

They take the elevator down to the pool area on the fifth floor, where smoking is permitted. He offers her a cigarette, but she declines, so Drew places one between his lips, holding his lighter in front of it until the flame ignites.

Y/N takes a long look at him, the wind tousling his hair across his forehead, the cigarette glowing between his lips. She almost reaches out to touch his face, her fingertips lingering near his stubble, but she decides against it. Instead, she brushes his hair back into place. “I love your earpiece.”

“Thanks,” Drew exhales, his blue eyes locked on hers as smoke curls into a diaphanous ribbon. “So, everything’s going well with Joe, huh?”

Y/N tears her gaze away, her voice softer now. “You say that like you know for sure.”

“Alma likes gossip,” Drew says, licking his lips. They taste of wine and olives.

The girl shrugs, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s been a little chaotic.”

“Oh?” Drew blows a few smoke rings, rounding out his mouth and flicking his tongue to create the hole in the center. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Football season, this movie…” Y/N rushes to answer, her words tumbling out as if she’s been holding them back. “I’d rather not talk about it. Sometimes it’s just… hard to make it work, you know?”

There’s a pause, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them. Drew studies her, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. Without thinking, he makes an offer he didn’t realize was on the table. “Whenever it doesn’t work,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you should just hang out with me.” He quickly adds, “And Mads. Me and Mads.”

Y/N looks at him, her eyes searching his for something he can’t quite name. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence stretching thin but not uncomfortable. Finally, she smiles, a small, tentative thing that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I might take you up on that.” There's a pause, and then she says, “But I’m flying to Cincinnati tomorrow, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

Drew nods, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long before he takes another drag of his cigarette. “When you're back,” he says, his tone light but his words carrying a weight that surprises even him. “You know where to find me.”

Y/N watches him smoke in silence for a few more minutes, the faint glow of the cigarette casting fleeting shadows across his face. When she yawns, Drew stubs it out, the ember dying with a faint hiss. He steps closer, his arm looping around her waist almost instinctively.

Unconsciously, she leans into the touch, her shoulder brushing against his chest. “It’s weird,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, “that we didn’t know each other two months ago.”

Drew’s lips curve into a faint smile, though his eyes remain thoughtful. “Really weird,” he concedes, his voice low and tinged with something she can’t quite place. He’s slightly buzzed from the wine, the edges of his thoughts blurring, but there’s a clarity in this moment that feels undeniable. “But I’m glad it’s two months later.”

Y/N tilts her head, studying him. The faintest hint of a smile plays on her lips, but there’s a question in her eyes, one she doesn’t voice. Instead, she says, “You’re not so bad yourself, Drew. For a guy who hates Joe Burrow.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t hate him. I just… don’t get the obsession.”

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” she teases, her tone light but her gaze steady.

“Maybe,” he admits, surprising himself. His hand shifts slightly against her waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her blouse. “Or maybe I'm just more of a Patrick Mahomes type of guy.”

Y/N’s breath catches, just for a moment, before she laughs softly, the sound mingling with the cool night air. “Careful, Drew. You're talking about my boyfriend's worst enemy.”

“I am,” he laughs, his voice dropping lower. “But I’ll let you decide if I mean it.”

She looks at him then. “You’re full of surprises,” she says finally, her voice soft but steady. “I’ll give you that.”

Drew’s smile deepens, and he doesn’t pull away. “Stick around, Y/N. You might find there’s more where that came from.”

_

She returns from Cincinnati the morning of their second-to-last script reading, the “J” necklace still clinging to her neck like a stubborn reminder.

Nonetheless, in the days leading up to Mumbai, dinners at Drew’s become a regular occurrence. Every other night, Y/N shows up with something to contribute to the table: a bottle of wine, a box of pastries, a six-pack of beer, a flour-dusted baguette wrapped in paper, or even a basket of fresh fruit.

Sometimes, Madelyn joins them, and the conversation flows effortlessly, like blood through veins. But more often than not, Y/N excuses herself early, citing a late-night or early-morning flight back to Cincinnati. Drew pretends he doesn’t care, though the empty chair beside him feels heavier than it should.

Other times, when Madelyn is out with her boyfriend and the other Maddie isn’t bombarding Drew with texts—asking him to dine with her, catch a movie, or join her at the theater—or when it’s not Sunday, Thursday, or Monday football, Y/N and Drew find themselves alone. On those rare occasions, they chat idly until the wee hours of the morning. The ice in their drinks crackles and melts, diluting the colors of their beers as they delve into childhood dreams, the winding trajectories of their careers, and the shared fears of an industry that chews up and spits out even the brightest stars. They laugh about their management teams, who have long since given up on damage control when it comes to their love lives.

Drew tells her more about Alma—caring, candid Alma—and Chase, his co-star turned best friend. In turn, Y/N opens up about Joe, her voice softening as she speaks.

“It’s not always easy,” she admits, her gaze dropping to her glass. “I mean, he’s amazing—driven, passionate, everything you’d expect from someone like him. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’m competing with football for his attention. And football always wins.”

She also opens up about how the pressure and expectations of both their careers harm their relationship—and the fact that her dad loathes him.

"Keep that to yourself," Y/N adds after a brief lull, her voice softer now. "I’ve never told anyone about it."

"They won’t hear it from me," Drew swears, taking a gulp of his watered-down Pilsner. He doesn’t even tell Chase.

_

Dharma begins its live shoots three months after the first read-through. Y/N and Drew are scheduled to film in Mumbai for three months, but Alma informs Drew it’s likely they’ll extend to four due to Greta Gerwig’s infamous obsessive compulsiveness. Her actors often end up filming simple scenes over and over for days, all because the director doesn’t think the natural light, the color of a couch, or the overall feeling is quite right.

“Already cleared it with the boss,” Alma shares brightly. She means the head of his management, who happens to adore Drew—as all CEOs adore their biggest star.

“Fine with me,” Drew says with a shrug. “I don’t mind staying in Mumbai a little longer.” He’s worked with far less pleasant directors than Greta before, and a little OCD won’t take the fun out of filming with Y/N.

He’s pleased to discover she feels the same way.

“Let’s press for four months,” Y/N says as they climb into the luxury car waiting for them at the airport. Her voice is calm, almost serene, as though the chaos of screaming fans outside the vehicle doesn’t exist. But Drew barely notices the noise; his attention is fixed on the absence of the “J” around her neck. “I can’t wait to discover India. Have you ever been?”

“Never,” Drew replies, sliding off his sunglasses and running a hand through his hair. He glances at her, a small smile playing on his lips. “But I’m looking forward to it. Especially if you’re the one leading the tour.”

Y/N’s eyes soften.

Quietly, with her voice carrying a warmth that settles deep in his chest, she says. “I think we’ll make a good team, Heartbreak Prince.”

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: You struggle to focus during your morning shift after a restless night, thoughts lingering on the evening before. A text arrives, set to alter the course of your weekend.

Word Count: 4.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

You wake up with a start, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your heartbeat pounds in your ears. The room feels stifling, your skin is damp with sweat, and a faint shiver runs down your spine despite the warmth of your tangled sheets. 

For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, clutching at the fading fragments of a dream that slips through your grasp.

Images of Agatha flash in the haze of your half-formed memories, vivid yet blurred. You can almost see the teasing curve of her smile, the glint of her icy blue eyes catching the light, and the cascade of her dark hair falling untamed. Her voice echoes faintly, curling around you like a spell, though you can’t remember what she said. It’s maddening, this lingering sense of her, the indelible mark she seemingly left on you.

The night has been nothing short of unbearable. Each time you’d stirred awake, it was as if her presence still clung to the air around you, intangible but oppressive. You tossed and turned, trying to shake her loose, but she always crept back in. A shadow in your subconscious, drawing you deeper every time you closed your eyes.

Your bed feels heavier than usual, like it’s trying to hold you down. Your body begs for another hour of sleep, just a little more time to recover, but your brain is already awake, unkindly replaying the events of the previous night.

“Maybe, I should ask you out next time.”

Agatha’s words echo in your head and you groan, pressing your palms into your eyes in a futile attempt to block it all out, as if willing the memories away could undo the knot in your stomach.

You check the clock: 6:30 a.m. The shift at the café starts in thirty minutes. A tired chuckle escapes you—there’s no time to process anything, no time to wallow, just time to get up and keep moving.

For a brief moment, you consider calling in sick. Would it be so bad to stay in bed, avoid the world, and pretend that none of this happened? But the thought of lying there, alone with your thoughts, feels worse.

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself to sit up. The dream, the memories, the exhaustion—they’ll have to wait.

You shuffle out of bed with all the grace of a zombie, your limbs heavy and reluctant to obey. The cold floor jolts you, drawing a sharp breath as you force yourself toward the bathroom. A quick shower will have to do, there’s no time for anything more, even though what you really want is to stand under the steaming water until you feel human again.

The spray of lukewarm water stings your skin, a poor imitation of comfort, but you bear it. Shampoo, rinse, towel—everything feels mechanical. Your mind is still clouded, replaying snippets of your restless night and the weight of her voice, her presence, her gaze.

The mirror fogs over as you step out of the shower, and you stare at your reflection with a faint grimace. You look as exhausted as you feel, the bags under your eyes a testament to the chaos in your head. You wrap a towel around your hair and shuffle back to your room, pulling out the first set of clothes you can find: a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers.

Still towel-drying your hair, you glance at the clock. Shit, it’s already 6:50.

You hurl the damp towel on top of your bed as you shove your feet into your sneakers, barely tying one while the other remains stubbornly untied. Grabbing your bag, you throw it over your shoulder and head for the door.

The crisp morning air bites at your damp hair as you step outside. A chill runs through you, but you tell yourself you’ll warm up on the walk to work. Westview may be small, but it’s convenient. The café is only a few blocks away, and you almost never need your car.

Your steps quicken as you make your way through the quiet streets, the town still waking up around you. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in pale shades of gold and pink. Normally, you’d take a moment to admire the view, but not today. Today, you’re too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about how unprepared you feel—both for your shift and for the emotions swirling in your chest.

But work doesn’t care if you’re tired. Work doesn’t care if you didn’t sleep. And work definitely doesn’t care if your thoughts are consumed by someone you probably shouldn’t even be thinking about.

You push the door open and step inside, bracing yourself for the morning rush.

The café is already buzzing, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeting you like an old friend. You grab your apron from the hook in the back and tie it around your waist, fingers fumbling slightly as your body struggles to keep up with your mind.

“Morning!” your coworker greets, already busy steaming milk for a cappuccino.

You manage a small smile in return, mumbling something resembling a greeting before slipping behind the counter. The machine hums steadily, blending into the chatter of early risers and the clinking of mugs. You know this rhythm by heart—take the order, pour the coffee, hand it over with a polite smile. Repeat.

But today, your focus is nowhere to be found.

“Two lattes and a muffin, please.” a customer says, pulling you back to reality.

“Right, uh, coming right up.” you stammer, forcing a smile. 

Your hands move almost on autopilot, scooping grounds into the espresso machine and steaming milk. You should feel at ease here, this is muscle memory by now. But your thoughts keep slipping away, drawn back to her.

You can’t shake the image of Agatha from last night: the way she moved through every room with effortless grace, like she owned every inch of space without even trying. Her voice was a contradiction—smooth and lilting, yet sharp enough to cut through the air, through your thoughts, through you. 

And her eyes… God, her eyes. The way they always seem to linger on yours for just a heartbeat too long leaves your mind in chaos and your cheeks burning with heat just thinking about it. There’s something about her gaze that never fails to make you feel exposed, as if she sees right through the practiced smiles and careful words, unraveling every layer she can find. 

But it’s not just how she looks at you, it’s the way she always seems to know, to touch something buried deep within, something you’re not sure you want anyone to find.

You let out a quiet sigh as you finish the lattes, sliding them across the counter to the waiting customer. “Here you go, enjoy!” you mutter, though the words feel hollow.

The minutes stretch into an hour, and the café grows busier. You try to focus, really, you do. But every so often, your mind drifts back to her. And to the couple of days ahead.

Normally, you’d welcome the weekend. For the past four months, weekends have been predictable—Agatha never asks you to babysit Nicholas. Saturdays and Sundays are her time with him, and you stay out of the way. It’s been that way since the beginning, and you’ve never thought much about it. But today? Today it feels… different.

You wipe down the counter during a lull, the rag moving in slow circles as your thoughts wonder. 

The idea of not seeing her for two days feels inexplicably strange. You tell yourself it’s a good thing, that you won’t have to face her again so soon after last night, after the way she made you feel—like you were living in some wild parallel universe where Agatha would actually ask her younger babysitter out so casually. 

But there’s another part of you, a quieter, more desperate part, that hates the idea.

You picture her at home with Nicholas, probably reading or cooking something together. You’ve seen glimpses of their weekends before, little clues in the way Nicholas talks about them on Mondays. It’s their time, just the two of them. No babysitter needed.

You should feel relieved. Relieved that you won’t have to navigate the weight of her presence so soon. Relieved that you’ll have space to breathe.

But… what if you don’t want space? What if relief is the last thing you feel? What if the only thought consuming your mind is the pull of her orbit, the irresistible gravity that is drawing you back to her, no matter how much you try to resist? What then?

Your coworker’s voice breaks through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. “You good?”

“Y-yeah…” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.” 

They raise an eyebrow but don’t push it, which you’re grateful for.

Tired. That’s an understatement. But it’s easier to blame exhaustion than to face what’s really gnawing at you.

You glance at the clock, counting the hours until your shift ends. Until you can go home, close your eyes, and maybe, just maybe, find some way to keep her out of your head.

It’s nearly halfway through your shift when your phone vibrates against the counter. You glance at it, expecting a spam notification or a weather update, but your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.

For a moment, you just stare at the notification, frozen in place. 

Agatha never messages you outside of scheduling changes, and even then, it’s rare. You wipe your hands on your apron before picking up the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen for a second longer than necessary before you unlock it.

Her message is brief and straight to the point, as always, but it’s enough to send your mind spiraling.

-Morning, hon. I’ve got some work to catch up on this weekend. Think you could keep Nicholas company for a few hours this afternoon? Let me know.

Your heart skips a beat as you read it, then reread it, and then—just for good measure—read it again. She’s never asked you to babysit on a weekend before. Weekends are her time with Nicholas, untouchable and sacred. Why now? Why today?

The rational part of your brain tries to take control, telling you it’s probably nothing. Maybe she’s really just busy, or maybe Nicholas asked for you. But the other part of you, the part that’s been living rent-free in your head since last night, is already racing ahead, imagining every possible subtext and intention behind her words.

You glance at the clock. Five minutes have passed since the message arrived, and you haven’t responded yet. She’s probably expecting an answer.

Quickly, you type back, your fingers fumbling over the keys.

-Of course, just let me know the time.

You hit send and immediately regret the phrasing. Does it sound too eager? Too formal? You shake your head, trying to push the doubts away.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

-Perfect. 4 PM?

The casual ease of her response does nothing to calm you. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you quickly type your reply.

-Sure, see you later.

You slide your phone back into your pocket, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. But it’s no use. Your thoughts are already drifting to the afternoon, to her house, to her.

You spend the rest of your shift caught in a whirlwind of emotions, memories and anticipation creating a deadly mix that throws your usual rhythm at the café completely off balance. Every time the bell above the door chimes, signaling a new customer, your heart jumps, half expecting to see her walk in, though you know she won’t.

You try to focus on the tasks at hand, but your thoughts keep pulling you back. You catch yourself biting your lip as you replay the messages in your head for the tenth time. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. She just needs a little help. But a tiny, most definitely delusional, part of you refuses to believe it’s as simple as that.

By the time the shift ends, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re overthinking it. It’s just a normal day, just a normal message. And yet, as you clock out and head home, the weight of anticipation settles heavier in your chest. 

The walk home doesn’t do much to clear your head. If anything, the crisp air only sharpens the edges of your thoughts, making it impossible to push them aside.

Once inside, you toss your bag onto the couch and collapse beside it, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. The message from Agatha keeps playing in your mind, looping endlessly, until it’s almost like you can hear her voice saying the words instead of you reading them.

You tell yourself to relax, to just sit down, maybe eat something, and stop overthinking. It’s just babysitting. Just Nicholas.

You try scrolling through your phone, but the screen blurs as your thoughts drift. You grab a book from the coffee table, but the words don’t stick. After twenty minutes of pacing the living room, you give up entirely and head to your bedroom, determined to at least figure out what to wear.

It should be easy, you’ve done this many times before—picking comfortable, practical clothes you can move around in while keeping up with an energetic eight-year-old.

You pull a few options from your closet, laying them out on the bed as you stare at them like they hold the answer to some unspoken question. A hoodie and jeans? Too casual. A sweater? Maybe, but which one? You catch sight of a blouse tucked in the back of the closet and hesitate. Too much?

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself for even thinking about it. Agatha’s not going to care what you wear. She’s probably too busy with her work to even notice.

But then again…

Your fingers brush over the fabric of the blouse, and for a brief moment, you imagine the way she might look at you. Would she say something? Would she even notice?

You groan, tossing the blouse back onto the bed and grabbing your favorite sweater instead. The soft, worn, deep purple fabric feels like a quiet reassurance as you pull it over your head. It’s familiar, it’s reliable, comfortable without making a statement. It’s a safe choice. Just what you need.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your stomach is in knots, twisting in ways you didn’t think were physically possible. When you woke up this morning, you’d told yourself nothing could feel worse than how you felt then. Turns out, the day had other plans, and it’s really outdoing itself.

The house looms ahead as you walk up the path, your heartbeat quickening with every step. You tell yourself it’s just the cold air or the anticipation of dealing with Nicholas’ boundless energy, but deep down, you know better.

When you reach the door, you hesitate for just a second before knocking. It’s a firm, polite knock, nothing too eager. You shift your weight, staring at the faint glow from the windows as you wait.

The door opens a moment later, and there she is.

Agatha is on the phone, her gaze flicking to yours briefly as she raises a finger, gesturing toward the device by her ear to signal it’s a work call. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she steps aside to let you in, her tone clipped yet composed as she discusses deadlines and budgets.

She gives you a small nod, gesturing toward the living room, before closing the door behind you and disappearing up the stairs, her heels clicking softly against the steps.

You can’t help but marvel, briefly and absurdly, at the fact that she’s wearing heels. At home. While working. For no one but herself. Who does that? Then again, it’s Agatha. Of course she’d find a way to make “business casual at home” look not just effortless, but devastatingly good.

You stand there, the faint echo of her voice drifting down from the second floor as you awkwardly toe off your shoes. It’s not the first time you’ve been greeted by her while she’s on the phone, but today it feels… disappointing.

For a moment, you linger in the entryway, half expecting her to finish the call and come back down. But minutes pass, and the only sound is her voice murmuring faintly in the distance.

Nicholas barrels into the room, breaking the silence. “You’re here!” he says, his face lighting up as he grabs your hand, already tugging you toward the couch. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you!”

His enthusiasm is a welcome distraction, and you let him pull you along, trying to focus on his chatter instead of the constant awareness of Agatha somewhere above you.

But even as you sit down and try to focus on the toy he’s enthusiastically explaining, her presence clings to the edges of your mind, refusing to let go. Her voice seeps through the ceiling like an uninvited melody, pulling your thoughts upward when they should be grounded here, with Nicholas.

You’re here for him, after all. And yet, no matter how much you try, you can’t seem to fully tune into his chatter. A pang of guilt settles in your chest as you realize how distracted you are today, how unfair it feels to him. He deserves your full attention, and instead, all you can think about is the woman upstairs. His mother nonetheless.

Nicholas doesn’t seem to notice how distracted you are—at least, not at first. He’s too busy running circles around the living room, bouncing between a pile of toys on the carpet and his favorite spot on the couch.

“Look at this!” he says for the fifth time in ten minutes, holding up a plastic spaceship with a proud grin.

You smile and nod, mustering a “Wow, that’s so cool!” reaction that you hope sounds convincing. But even to your own ears, it feels off, like the words don’t quite land the way they should.

It’s not his fault. Nicholas is as bright and full of energy as ever, his enthusiasm spilling into every corner of the room. But your mind keeps slipping. Every time he holds something up for you to see, you catch yourself glancing toward the ceiling, half-listening for the faint sound of footsteps or the low murmur of a voice that isn’t his.

Nicholas plops down beside you, tugging at your sleeve. “You’re really distracted today.” he says, his tone more observant than accusing, though it still hits like a punch.

“Am I?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though the knot of guilt in your chest tells you he’s right.

He tilts his head at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Yeah. Usually, you’re way more fun.”

You let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair to hide the fact that the comment stings more than it should. 

“I’m sorry, buddy. I guess I didn’t sleep great last night.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

Nicholas doesn’t press the issue, already leaping to his feet to grab another toy. He’s resilient like that, bouncing back faster than you feel like you deserve.

For a while, you try to lose yourself in his energy, letting him pull you into his games and stories. He shows you his drawings—one of which features the two of you as stick figures, standing side by side under a cartoonishly bright sun.

“See? That’s you!” he says proudly, pointing to the taller figure with messy hair.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked better.”

His giggle is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, the weight in your chest seems to loosen.

By the time you hear the soft rhythm of footsteps on the stairs, a couple of hours have slipped by. Nicholas has kept you busy, his enthusiasm boundless as always, but your focus has been flickering on and off, caught somewhere between him and the occasional echo of Agatha’s voice from upstairs.

Agatha appears with an effortless grace that borders on unfair, one hand resting lightly on the railing as if she doesn’t actually need it. Her dark hair shifts with each step, a wild, natural wave that catches the light briefly before falling back into place. The heels she’s wearing—a sleek, elegant pair that look more suited for a runway than a staircase—click steadily against the wood. You can’t help but think about how you’d probably twist an ankle just trying to stand in them, let alone descend a flight of stairs with such poise.

Her face, illuminated by the warm glow of the overhead lights, carries a quiet fatigue. There’s no irritation, no sharp edge to her expression, only a subdued calm, like someone who has carried the weight of a long day and has decided not to let it show. It’s Saturday, and you know she’s been working, but somehow, she looks composed, refined, and entirely unbothered, as if the very concept of exhaustion has learned to negotiate with her.

You try to busy yourself with the blocks Nicholas has scattered across the carpet, but it’s impossible not to steal another glance as she steps into the room.

Her gaze sweeps over the scattered blocks, the half-built castle, and finally settles on Nicholas, who is still enthusiastically adding to his masterpiece. 

“Everything alright down here?” she asks, her tone smooth and even, though there’s a touch of warmth in the way she looks at her son.

“Mom, look at my castle!” Nicholas exclaims, waving toward his creation without missing a beat.

Her lips curve into the faintest smile as she nods. 

“Impressive.” she says, the word carrying a weight that makes Nicholas beam. Then, her attention shifts to you, her smile curving just slightly deeper, with an edge of amusement that feels as though it’s meant just for you.

“And you?” she asks, her head tilting slightly. “Are you surviving?”

You clear your throat, trying to ignore the way her gaze makes your pulse stutter. 

“Yeah, I think so.” you manage, a warm smile forming on your lips as you glance affectionately at a very busy Nicholas, though your voice feels too small for the space.

She hums softly, the sound thoughtful as it drifts through the room, before turning and heading toward the kitchen. You take it as your cue. Standing, you brush your hands against your sweater.

“If you’re done for the day, I can head out now.” you say, keeping your tone polite, casual. “Give you two some time to catch up.”

Agatha stops mid-step, turning her head just enough to glance at you over her shoulder. 

“Head out?” she repeats, her voice carrying a note of surprise, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“I just thought…” you falter under her gaze, your words tangling. “Since you’re done working, you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

She turns fully now, leaning against the counter, her movements as composed as her expression, her eyes scanning you like she’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re not saying.

“It’s getting late.” Agatha says, her tone deceptively casual as she ignores your reasoning entirely. “You probably have plans for the evening. A date, maybe? It is Saturday night after all.”

The question rolls off her tongue with practiced ease, airy and playful, but her gaze fixes on yours with unsettling intensity, as though she’s already unraveling your reaction before you can form it.

“No!” the word bursts out of you, too loud, too fast, and you immediately feel the heat rush to your face. 

“I mean- no, I don’t. I wasn’t- there’s no date.” You’re rambling now, tripping over your own words, each one more unnecessary than the last. “No plans. Just me. Alone. Tonight. At home.”

Oh my god. Please, stop talking! Your brain is screaming now, waving an emergency shutdown flag you’re clearly ignoring. Forget a facepalm, you’re ready to dig a hole in the floor and disappear forever.

Her lips curve into a satisfied smile, the kind that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. She tilts her head slightly, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent. 

“Well, then.” she says, her tone steady, laced with a quiet finality that makes her next words feel inevitable. “Stay for dinner. It’s only fair after pulling you away on a Saturday.”

It’s not a question—it’s a statement, smooth and effortless, like the decision has already been made for you. And before you can find a way to respond, she turns back toward the counter, pulling open a cabinet to retrieve a bottle of wine.

You’re left standing there, frozen in place as your mind races to catch up. She’s never invited you to dinner before—or any meal, for that matter. Sure, she’s a human being and eating is, obviously, a basic necessity, but the thought of Agatha Harkness doing something as casual as sharing a meal feels almost surreal.

Your plans for the evening are rewritten in an instant. You weren’t planning on doing much, just collapsing on your couch and replaying the last twenty-four hours in your head. But this… this is something else entirely.

You glance at the clock, as if grounding yourself in the reality of the moment, and then back at Agatha. She moves through the kitchen with her usual grace, completely unfazed, her movements as fluid and intentional as her words.

It feels like a door you didn’t even know existed has been cracked open, and you’re standing on the threshold, unsure of what’s waiting on the other side.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It��s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[nayaacknndy]

"as long as i'm here, no one can hurt you."

The sound of the keyboard echoed in the quiet room, the light from the laptop illuminated the face of the man in his late thirties in that dimly lit room, the glasses provided a reflection of the screen as he did the rest of his work, The silence of the night was deafening, but it made his hearing senses sound clearer to be alert.

A sound of the door creaking was heard, making him turn towards the source of the sound, thinking it was his wife, but it turned out to be just their cat, it meowed softly, approached him and climbed onto his table.

"There, buddy." He stroked its head, making the cat purr, but soon after, the cat meowed, looking at him with its gray eyes.

Leon didn't really understand or realize that look, until he heard the sound of breaking glass, making him jolted and immediately rushed out of his study, ran down the stairs in a hurry, and saw her there, his wife, one hand gripping the edge of the table, and the other touching her face.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, babe." As soon as Leon pulled her into his arms, he could feel Noah's body shaking, her skin felt cold, he could already guess what she was feeling right now. Anxiety and possibility of PTSD.

Ignoring the broken glass to calm her down first, their cat who had been following Leon now climbed onto the dining table, sitting quietly watching them as if it had previously told him something was wrong with her.

"It's okay... I'm here now, always be right here with you." Leon kept trying to calm him down. While Noah remained silent, as if her emotions were struggling inside her head.

The warmth of Leon's body warmed her body and heart, making her lower her own ego, with hands still trembling and hesitant, she returned Leon's hug, burying her face in Leon's chest. Leon stroked her hair, while his hands were still tightly hugging her.

Leon cupped Noah's face, staring into the red and amber irises he admired. "I'll clean up the broken glass and let you have your hot chocolate, just wait a minute for me, okay, honey?" Leon smiled, giving Noah a small peck on her cheeks.

Leon did his job, cleaning up the glass shards and wrapping them safely for disposal, then made Noah the drink she wanted. Meanwhile, Noah, who was watching Leon silently, felt a soft touch on her shoulder, turning her head to see their black cat trying to get her attention by gently rubbing its paw on her cheek too, so Noah carried the cat in her arms, her expression was still hard to read, as if Noah herself was still confused about how she should react.

Some time later Leon finished making Noah hot chocolate, leading Noah to their bedroom as a comfortable place for Noah to calm down. Once inside, Leon closed the door softly, leading Noah to sit on the bed after which he put down the mug of hot chocolate, stroked Noah's cheek to keep trying to calm her down while Leon sat beside Noah, holding her hand in an attempt to let her know that she was not alone.

"You're not going to keep silent, are you?" Leon asked, his eyes still glued to her face while Noah looked pensive as she held the cat who kept looking at her face too. "You sometimes forget my duties as a husband."

Those words managed to make Noah turn her head towards Leon, a little confused look, a warm smile on Leon's face indicated that Noah didn't need to hide herself anymore, telling her that it was okay to involve him, it's okay to be herself around him.

The dark and dead gaze told him that Leon was right, the gaze that had no sparkle made his heart ache, with a faint smile of understanding, Leon shifted to adjust his position on the bed, pulling Noah into his arms as he half leaned against the headboard.

"Leon." Noah called, his voice soft, Leon hums softly, letting her know that Leon was listening.

"Am I Lycus?"

"No, you're Noah." Leon said, stroking her hair, his lips kissing the top of Noah's head, the woman did not take her hands off the cat. "You're still Noah to me though you're as strong as a goddess."

"You are stronger than you think, though you feel fragile." Leon said, his voice and breath were enough to calm Noah down at this moment.

"I am weak–"

"No, you're not, darling." Noah was silent, letting Leon's words sink in, her expression starting to weaken, but she didn't cry, her heart was pounding and her body felt hot and cold again.

"they said–"

"Mhm, not them." Leon cut her off, not letting Noah belittle herself. "You are special, you are strong, don't deny that."

Biting her lower lip, Noah took her hands off the cat to circle Leon's waist, closing her eyes, letting her ears rest on Leon's chest to listen to his heartbeat, making her calm down slowly.

Slowly, the images of her past faded back into Leon's arms, the burden on her shoulders fell off instantly, allowing her to surrender to Leon's love, allowing Leon to see her fragile side, allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of Leon, her husband.

His kisses, his voice, his breath, his heartbeat soothed her soul, makes her want to leave everything just to be near him, to feel the warmth that soothes her.

"As long as I'm here, no one can hurt you." Leon said, resting his cheek on the top of Noah's head once his woman had finally fallen asleep, followed by their cat who also seemed to calm down when it saw Noah getting better, lying between them.

"It's okay... Noah, don't worry, i'll be right here when you need it."

"Don't pretend to be strong in front of me when you're not, you are allowed to be weak in front of me, I love you for who you are and however you are."

—a/n : lmk if I misspell something, English is not my native language—

i bring a fanfic from oc x canon that i have (Lyceon is the ship name), im posting it here cuz usually on Insta, well... let's just say Insta hates me for typing long like this lol. so hope you like what i wrote, im not that good at writing, and made this in a hurry because it was already midnight, i'll revise this if there is something wrong :3

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

“Oh, do you mind if we take a little break?” Clemensia asks almost as soon as you’ve begun working on the task she gave you. You blink, a little confused as your gaze roams across the table. There’s still so much to do. You’re not sure if the girls are just that slow but it’s clear that it will take at least a few hours to get all of it done.

But Clemensia is in charge of the ball committee. You don’t picture yourself telling her what to do or how to do it. After all, you are an outsider. A foreign element infiltrating their ecosystem. You have to play by their rules.

If they want to take a break, who are you to argue with that?

You begin to rise.

“Oh, a break, sure…”

Clemensia’s lips pinch as you try to follow them. “It’s just that…we’ve been doing this for so long, all by ourselves. I even broke a nail.” She pouts, showing you her hands. “But it needs to be finished today.” She nibbles her bottom lip and sighs, eyes pleading yours. “If no one stays behind…”

You mull it over. While you’re not thrilled over the idea of working on the decorations by yourself, you did just get here. You suppose you could hold the fort while they stretch their legs…or whatever Clemensia and her friends like to do when they hang out.

“I guess I could stay,” you concede.

Clemensia flashes you a broad grin.

“You’re so sweet,” she chimes. “Thank you. We won’t be long, promise. Ten minutes tops.”

You shrug and return to your chair. Ten minutes. That sounds reasonable. You pick up the scissors and start cutting more of the tree shapes. 

“No problem.”

But one issue arises. 

The promised ten minutes expand into thirty. Then an hour. Then two. At first, you don’t let your mind dissect it too hard. It’s a stupid thing to overthink, isn’t it? A silly thing to chop into pieces until your mind bleeds with doubt and insecurity. You surmise it was more of an approximation. People do that all the time, say something while meaning another. At least you believe they do. Besides, you find ways to keep yourself busy, even getting started on the sparkly globes lying on the side of the room. You figure out how to use most of the tools on your own and get wrapped in your own bubble of quietness. 

Silence is a familiar companion, the one constant that never judged you, never asked for more of you. In your Silence, you get to be you. Nothing more; nothing less. So you let yourself sink in its warm, snug embrace.

Still, somewhere in the back of your mind, thoughts meander passively… What is taking them so long? You steal a glance outside the window. Orange and purple hues are already bleeding into the sky, a sign of the evening nearing its end. 

You retrieve your pocket watch from inside your skirt. A frown wrinkles your brow. At a time like this, you would usually be home, curled up with Walter on your bed as you go over your notes for the week. It often takes you hours just to decipher the course transcripts. 

“Wow, you did such a great job,” Clemensia whistles from behind you. 

You gasp and whirl. All smiles, the girls fill your sight.

They approach the table and examine some of the decorations you put together on your own. Realization sweeps through you as the fog of your thoughts clear. It didn’t hit you before, not until you absorbed the current state of the crafts table, brimming with the results of your solitary labor. You’ve been busy. Spinning crystal balls, pine cones, silvery garlands and a heap of snowflakes meant to hang on the walls and ceiling. Clemensia admires your handiwork, seemingly impressed. 

A little peeved, you point out, “I mean…had you guys even started? Most of the decorations needed to be cut, glued or assembled…”

“I have delicate hands,” Livia sighs, examining her manicured nails. 

“I’m very slow, sorry,” Ivy says apologetically.

Your frown deepens. Was this whole thing a setup? You sacrificed precious time to be here and you shudder to think the entire purpose of your presence is some kind of childish prank. 

Coriolanus’ words echo in your mind. He argued the girls weren’t like that and that they left the immature tricks back at the Academy. You truly want to believe that none of this is designed to embarrass you, that perhaps, again, all of this is in your head. But your aching fingers, sore from doing crafts most of the afternoon, suggestotherwise.

Unleashing a sigh, you gather your satchel and head towards the exit. 

Clemensia obstructs your path, holding up her hands in apology. 

“I know we should have been back earlier. I’m so sorry. We ran into the Dean and it turned into a whole thing.” She seizes your hands, remorse twisting her pretty features. “I feel so horrible. I invited you so we could do it together as friends.”

Your shoulders slump. As you soak in the look of genuine contrition on her face, doubts lurk inside you. Your confidence about being the victim of some prank wavers. Perhaps, you overreacted. Incidents happen. Besides, the chances of you joining Clemmie’s committee are slim, as you’re already swamped with assignments. A promise was made and you kept it. But this likely will be a one time thing. School dances are at the bottom of your priority list right now.

So you discard it all with a wave of your hand and a contrived smile.

“It’s okay. No apology needed. It’s not your fault.” You note how much darker it’s gotten outside. “I should go back home though. It’s already so late-”

Clemensia stops you again, her hand tightening around yours as she offers excitedly, “Wait, you should come to game night at Liv’s.”

“What?” Livia snickers. Clemensia shoots her a withering glare and the blonde clears her throat, correcting herself, “I mean…yeah, you totally should come.”

You fidget and adjust the strap of your satchel. You may have heard whispers of those game nights. Mystique surrounds them as only a few chosen people are invited to attend. You, of course, were never invited. And it isn’t hard to gather how Livia feels about you coming from her reaction. Why force your way into places where you aren’t wanted?

“I’m already behind on my revising for the day. If I don’t go over my Molecular-”

“Boring,” Ivy sings sarcastically.

“Don’t be mean, Ivy,” Clemensia scolds, elbowing her in the rib.

Clemensia tilts her head, her tone turning beseeching.

“Please…I really want to get to know you better.” She huffs out a long breath as she seems to sense your hesitation. The brunette leans closer, hands clutching your forearms. Sympathy twinkles in her onyx orbs. “You know, I used to be a lot like you. Always striving to be the best at everything I do.” A hollow giggle slips through her lips. “It’s how I got in trouble with your mother actually…I wanted to win so badly and she decided to teach me a lesson.” Sadness pinches her delicate features. “But by always striving for greatness, you miss out on life. I learnt that during the Games...”

“...Surviving isn’t living.”

She studies you before saying, “And it’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Surviving.”

Eyes on the ground, you chew on your lip. You never imagined someone like Clemensia Dovecote - the most beautiful, popular girl at the University - could feel this way…let alone relate to you.

“Clemmie…”

She hunkers a little so your eyes meet.

“Come on, I really want to make up for today.” She laughs. “Show you I’m not a bitch.”

“I don’t think you’re a bitch,” you say.

She places her palm on your cheek. “See? You’re so nice. That’s why I want us to be friends.” She bends over your ear, the words she mutters almost too quiet to be heard, “I can barely stand those two on most days, but appearances must be kept.”

Your gaze swings upward, shock pulsing through you.

She beams at you. “It’ll be an intimate gathering of just a select group, close friends. We play cards, chat, and have a few drinks. That’s it.”

Your forehead creases.

“I don’t drink.”

Squeezing your shoulders, she assures you, “Then I’ll make sure not a drop of alcohol passes your lips. Promise.”

“It’s casual, I swear. You can even leave early if you want.” 

This grabs your attention, as you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night without craving to return to the safe, familiarity of your apartment. The potential for escape makes the offer far more enticing.

Obviously, Clemensia cares about you showing up. While you don’t fully grasp why, you also never had anyone go out of their way to spend time with you. During the Academy days, everyone avoided you like the plague, either finding you odd or fearing you were as terrifying as your mother. The University doesn’t seem much different so far, groups having already formed from previous camaraderie. Bonds that were forged years ago and cemented over time while you endured in the back of the class. The forgotten one. And you always figured it is the most you can aspire for. Being ignored and left alone.

Until now.

“Really?”

Clemensia’s smile widens.

“Yes. You can stay as long as you want and leave.”

“I don’t have anything to wear to a party,” you muse, pursing your lips. Your tiny, limited wardrobe has always prioritized function over fashion. There are your Academy uniforms, a few loose, unflattering clothes you rotate between. A single formal dress more suited for a funeral than a game night. Nothing impressive because you never had anyone to impress.

You also have no sense of fashion, the trends shifting too quickly for you to keep up. So you’ve stopped trying to. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out,” she chimes. “The girls and I always get ready at each other’s house anyway. And you’re one of the girls now.”

You peer down at you and Clemensia’s entwined hands. One of the girls. No one’s ever spoken about you that way. As if your mere presence made something better, uplifting it instead of leading it to its ruin. As if you were solid, more than a wisp of air, a waste of breath. As if you mattered. So, despite the sizzling weight of Livia’s blue eyes on you, you smile back at Clemmie and give a bashful nod.

Your eyes feast on every detail of Clemensia’s living room as you enter her home. Her parents’ apartment is every bit as large and opulent as you imagined. Every exquisite detail screams wealth. The unabashed, showy kind that stoked the embers of bitter unfairness in the Districts, leading the Capitol to where it is today. A city risen from the ashes. Your attention lingers on the expensive artwork exposed in glass cabinets. A lot of it appears to be memorabilia from before the war. You’re willing to bet the combined value of every overpriced trinket in the house could feed an entire District. Paintings of Clemmie’s illustrious ancestors hang over the damask walls, their stern stares seeming to follow you. Almost as if they were ready to leap from the eroded gilded frames and berate you for being an intruder in their family home.

Clemensia tugs you along.

“What are you dawdling for? Come on,” she urges. 

You trail behind her as she takes you to her bedroom. You smile when you see it. The somber, tasteful hues are so very her. The hinges of her wardrobe whine as she opens the large, wooden doors. A vertiginous row of clothes crowd your sight. You gawk, a little amazed but also slightly terrified. Who needs this many clothes? A sour expression scrunches her features.

“I know,” she sighs, placing a hand on her hip. “This is a little embarrassing. Most of these are soo last season.”

You tilt your head at her dizzying collection of shoes, clothes, accessories…the kind a legion of girls would kill for.

“Right,” you blindly agree. Nevermind you can’t even tell the difference. You glance around. “Shouldn’t Livia and Ivy be here too?”

Her brow twitches as she sits on her massive canopy bed. She pats the spot next to her and you awkwardly plop down. The plush silk and soft mattress dip under your weight.

“We decided to meet later,” she reveals. She pauses, a heavy sigh fluttering through her painted red lips before adding, “Besides, I told them to be nicer to you and they got upset and pretended not to know what I was talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

She waves her manicured hand dismissively.

“No, don’t be. This isn’t your fault.” Clemensia licks her lips, her face etched with reflection, as if she were assessing the weight of her words before releasing them. Her hand settles on your arm.

“Look, here’s the thing. Livia’s had a crush on Coriolanus since he returned and they had a sort of fling.” Your mouth drops open. This is news to you. You didn’t catch any hint of lingering longing between the two back at their lunch table. But now that you’re mulling it over, perhaps…Perhaps, Livia’s eyes kept seeking Coriolanus’, while his treaded their own path, never crossing hers. “Things were going pretty well...for a little while. But then, you came along.”

Your brows furrow. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Clemensia’s bell-like laughter resonates in the room.

“God, you’re a sweet thing…just like Snow said.” She beams at you. “Don’t worry. Liv will get over it. She’s all bark and no bite, trust me.”

Her attention travels to the dark fabric peeking from your bag.

“What’s that?” she asks, pulling out the garment.

“The only dress I have.”

She inspects it with a displeased frown.

“Were you planning on wearing this?” She shakes her head as your mouth clamps shut. “Oh, this will not do.”

She takes your hand and drags you to her wardrobe. Brow wrinkled in concentration, she rummages through a numberless heap of garments.

“I have some clothes that my cousin left,” she explains while frantically searching. After a while, victory flares in her orbs. She unhooks a sleek, crimson dress with a tight bodice and flowing sleeves from a hanger. She holds it against your body, chiming, “She’s about your size so they should fit you.” 

“I can’t accept this, Clemmie.”

You attempt to push her hands away but the brunette shoves it in your arms, insisting on you at least trying it on. You press the soft fabric between your fingers. It’s more revealing and form-fitting than you’re used to. You gather it would cling to your body like a second skin…one you aren’t used to wearing. Still, you must admit that it’s a lovely dress. One that could look good even on you. Temptation claws at your resolve, digging deeper and deeper grooves, right into every insecurity you ever had. That thing other girls had that always eluded you. That little secret you were never privy to. The key to that door that never opened. The dress is the key. And you find yourself unable to resist turning the lock to find out what secrets lie beyond that mysterious door.

Beneath Clemmie’s eager stare, you remove your clothes and slip on the dress.

Smug satisfaction hovers on her lips as you peer at your reflection. Words fizzle out on your tongue. You are looking at a complete stranger.

Clemmie rests her chin on your shoulder. “See? I knew it.”

She then has you sit at her vanity to help you do your makeup. Do your makeup…The words sound alien even in the private confines of your thoughts.

As she draws a neat black line over your eyelids, she says, “It hasn’t been long since makeup’s returned to the Capitol again. It used to be near impossible to find.” When she’s done, she turns you towards the vanity mirror. “Those colors will bring out your eye shape and color.”

The air leaves your lungs in a quick rush. You lean closer to the mirror, once again in disbelief that you are truly looking at your own face.

Fingers twisting the delicate fabric of the dress, you pivot to Clemmie.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you blurt out.

Her eyes widen briefly before her expression softens.

“You remind me of me.”

Confusion surges through you. There is an ocean of glaring differences between you and Clemmie, one you couldn’t swim through if you tried. 

“What?”

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this confident.”

Your brows knit, Clemmie’s statement making little sense. If confidence wore a face and had a name, it’d be Clemensia Dovecote’s.

Gripping your shoulders, she turns your focus back onto your dolled-up appearance.

“Alright. Look in the mirror, what do you see?”

You blink. You see a girl playing dress-up, pretending, but you don’t utter those words aloud. They sound lame, even in your own head.

“Nothing,” you tritely respond, dipping your head.

She lifts your chin, moving her head to disagree.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes twinkle. “I see infinite potential. So stop selling yourself short.” Covering her mouth, she laughs. “His jaw is going to drop.”

“Whose jaw?”

She smirks at you. “You know whose jaw.”

Heat sneaks inside your face.

You fidget in the chair. It’s not like what he thinks matters, right? He is no one to you, just that boy with the unsettling blue stare who won’t leave you be for some strange reason. 

So why is there a tiny shiver of excitement coursing through your veins when the thought of him seeing you like that permeates your brain?

A vigorous gust of common sense sweeps away your wayward musings. 

You don’t care what he thinks. Of course you don’t.

“I-It’s not really my style,” you stammer as you get to your feet.

The sparkle in her onyx orbs doesn’t waver.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have a style yet…so how would you even know?”

“Shouldn’t we be at Livia’s already?” you ask, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction.

She considers you as if you were the most endearing thing in the world. She grabs your hands. “Here’s another rule. Never be on time for anything.” A haughty smirk creeps upon her red lips. “Make them wait for you, not the other way around.” She cocks her head. “One of the things about confidence is knowing that you are the sun, and standing in your orbit is a rare privilege.” She scoffs, “People should feel lucky you even bothered showing up.”

 She approaches you and touches up parts of your hair, visibly elated with the result.

“Perfect,” she trills. “Like I said…potential.”

She herself finishes getting ready. As you absently meander about her room, the doorbell chimes. 

Clemmie pauses as she applies powder on her face. She sets aside her makeup tools and escorts you to the lobby, arm threaded with yours.

“Must be our chauffeur,” she states.

Your eyes round. “You have a chauffeur?”

She cloisters herself in cryptic silence, humming as she drags you along.

When the brunette swings the door open, a towering, familiar figure darkening her doorway, time hangs still for a few seconds.

Your mouth opens wide enough to catch flies.

A smug smile unfurls on his lips.

“Angel,” he greets, gaze locking with yours as he completely ignores Clemmie.

Her sharp irritated tone shatters the spell.

“You’re late, Snow.”

Coriolanus snickers. 

“As if you’re ever on time.”

You trail behind Clemmie as she and Coriolanus keep bantering, his presence still swaddling you in sheer shock. When she tries to take the passenger seat, he drapes a placating hand over hers.

She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly heads to the back of the car.

He opens the car door for you. Recalling the fruitlessness of arguing with him, you climb into the seat. Still, saying you feel awkward riding in the front while the brunette is sulking in the backseat would be a massive understatement.

Few words can accurately describe how peculiar all of this is for you.

“You look surprised,” Coriolanus notes as he takes his own seat and slams the door shut. Your heart misses a beat when his hot breath caresses your earshell. “I did say I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

You look down at your lap. Breathing is laborious, the air in the vehicle coated with the lingering smell of his pricey cologne. You are literally choking on Coriolanus Snow with every breath you take.

“Will you just drive, Snow?” Clemmie snaps, crossing her arms.

“Relax. Patience is a virtue,” he says, not sparing her a glance, zeroing in on you instead. The drumming of your heart swells to an uproar in your ears when he reaches across your body. You hold still while he ties your seatbelt for you. Blue eyes rake over your form in brazen appraisal, his deep voice lowering. “And good things come to those who wait.”

[super-who-locked-me-in-here]

I've been seeing some articles online about how now would be the perfect time to revive NBC Hannibal because Bryan apparently has ideas and Mads wants to finish the story and also we're coming up on the 10th anniversary of The Wrath of the Lamb in 2025, but how, because of the time between seasons, they'd most likely have to do a time skip in the show.

And I just have to say that I love that idea and I think that's how season 4 could thrive if it happened. Because the fandom has had nearly 9 years to think about and create their own post-fall headcanons, and there are bound to be people who maybe made art and fics and are in love with their post-fall idea and the show wouldn't turn out the way they wrote it in their fic or drew in their art and they'll be upset.

But what about 5-10 years after the fall? I don't know about y'all but I don't see a lot of fan works about that. And I think it'd be interesting to see what the NBC Hannibal team would do with a Will and Hannibal who are fully realized as murder partners, if not murder husbands.

If I could throw out an idea for what I think would be a funny way to show us Hannibal and Will in a timeskip season 4:

~~~~~

We're getting a moving view through their house in Cuba. It's dark outside and dark in the house, too. We can hear the sounds of Will and Hannibal somewhere else in the house, grunting and breathing heavily.

Will pants out, "Move faster."

"Patience Will. I'm not as young as I used to be."

A laugh escapes Will and he grunts again, "You didn't seem to have much trouble thirty minutes ago."

"That was thirty minutes ago. This is now. Perhaps if you're so spry then you don't need my assistance finishing this." Hannibal remarks.

There's a loud thud. "Hannibal!" Will accuses, although he sounds more annoyed than angry.

The camera finally pans to a hallway in the house where we see Will carrying a dead man by his underarms and his lower half is dropped unceremoniously at Hannibal's feet.

Will sighs and looks at Hannibal. "Will you help me with the cuts? Please."

The corners of Hannibal's lips turn up. He's never been able to deny Will when he uses that word. He bends down with another quiet grunt and picks up the corpse by its feet, and the two of them move into a room at the end of the hallway and shut the door.

~~~~~

[rebelliousstories]

Girl’s Night

Relationship: Emily Prentiss x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Drinking and Alcohol

Word Count: 838

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Summary: When Emily invites another girl to the BAU’s girl’s night, no one is expecting this girl.

Consider Donating: Here

“They’re gonna love you. Stop fussing.”

“Em, these are your friends and the ones you work with. I have a reason to be nervous.” This had been the argument for the last thirty minutes from their shared apartment to this new one.

Emily Prentiss had not only spent the last thirty minutes arguing with her girlfriend, but the better part of the day trying to convince her to come along on her annual B.A.U. girl’s night with her friends. This would be the first time that anyone from work would be meeting someone special to her. It was nerve wracking enough on that qualification enough. Not to mention the fact that she was officially coming out; Emily might be a bit more nervous than her girlfriend. But one of them had to be calm.

Holding a bottle of wine in one hand, she turned to her girlfriend. “Listen, honey, I know it seems scary right now. But they’ll love you, okay?”

“Yeah.” She replied, but did not sound convinced. Sensing this, Emily went over and captured her jaw in one hand, while planting her lips onto hers.

It got her girlfriend to calm down long enough to be stable again. Releasing her, Prentiss waited till she got a nod from the woman, before knocking on the door. A bubbly blonde yanked open the door, far too energized for how late in the day it way.

“Emily! And friend, hello. Come on in ladies.” Penelope ushered them in. Looking back at her girlfriend, the dark haired woman smiled and nodded her head towards the apartment.

“Jay-Jie, Em and her friend are here.” Garcia called out into the room. Another blonde came out to find their new guests arriving with some more wine, which got her to smile even bigger.

“Hey, glad to see the party is finally here.” JJ came around to hug Prentiss tightly before setting her sights on the new woman.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer. Everyone calls me JJ. And that bundle of unicorn sparkles is Penelope Garcia. It’s so good to meet you.” Holding out her hand, the new woman provided her name to the rest of the group.

In the meantime, Emily and Penelope were pouring the new bottle of wine to go with the rest of their snack type foods. JJ led her over to the couch, letting her take it easy for her first girl’s night. She, along with her other two friends, brought food over in waves. Popcorn, candy, pretzel bites, chips and dips; you name it, they had it.

When everyone finally planted themselves on the couch, the questions began.

“So, how do you know our fair brunette bombshell?” Garcia asked, in between bites of popcorn.

“Oh, uh…” she trailed off, looking at her girlfriend. “We met at a makeup store. I was working the counter and Emily needed help finding a new lip liner. Her old one was discontinued cause they stopped making it like ten years ago.”

Her tease made the brunette near blush as she hid her face behind her glass of wine. Emily started up just as soon as she recovered, “hey, I want to remind you that I got you to change from a flip phone to a smart one. There was no way I was going to be calling on that ancient piece of tech.”

“Yeah, sure. There was nothing wrong with my flip phone. Anyways, after I helped her find a new lip liner, she passed me her number. And from that day, it was history.” The woman shrugged, taking a sip of her wine.

“I love that she is getting some more lady friends. Honestly, the B.A.U. is a testosterone nightmare sometimes.” JJ commented, not putting too much thought into her words. However, everyone noticed how quiet the other two women got. This caused both blondes to also pause.

“Everything okay?” Jennifer asked, eyes darting between everyone in the room.

“Yeah, um, she’s not just my friend. She’s my girlfriend.” Emily stated, setting down her wine glass. There was a pause as they processed the information.

“I think we need something extra to celebrate our beloved Emil Prentiss finally getting a date! I think I’ve still got some cake in the fridge.” Garcia was gushing over this, while JJ sat there stunned.

“Is everything okay?” The woman piped up, unsure as to how her girlfriend’s colleague was taking it.

“No, yeah. I’m fine. Trust me, nothing to do with you being lesbian, I just… I’m amazed that you’re dating someone.”

“Well, believe it.” Prentiss chuckled.

However, JJ happily leaned over the coffee table towards the other woman, catching her attention. “I can tell you wonderful stories about all the different people that have tried to tame this mare.”

“Okay. You know what, I think we should be going…”

“I have cake!”

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you." A. A. Milne

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

It's thirty til midnight 'n the house is crowded with the hot press of bodies. Someone's shoutin'. Actually, most of 'em are shoutin'. The living room stinks like the spilled beer Two's ground down into the carpet. The TV's playin'. Some New Year's special that Pony's glued to. The record players skippin' its way through a Christmas album. The tree's still up 'cause none of them would let Darry take it down 'til after New Year's.

Darry checks his watch once, runs his thumb absently over the face, compares it to the little glowin' clock above the stove, stands up 'n shifts past the card game Johnny has been creamin' Dallas at for the last half hour. Darry wasn't sure how he had any money to his name left. He steps over the coffee table 'n catches the hand of pure shit Dallas grins 'n ups the bet on. Good lord Johnny was gonna have the shirt off his back before the night was over.

Soda's bouncin' back 'n forth between the holiday special 'n the card game, offerin' commentary only Johnny seems to enjoy. Steve's got a huge bowl of popcorn Darry had fixed balanced on his lap, pitchin' kernels at Two's mouth as he dives for 'em.

Darry sighs, snatches one out of the air 'n pops it into his own mouth, steppin' out of the way so Two falls unceremoniously onto his knees with a grin.

"Hey! I was gonna catch that one!" Darry rolls his eyes, absently grabs Pony from where he had his nose three inches from the tube 'n hauls him back, much to Pony's indignation.

"Sure you were. Just like you were gonna catch the other thirty or so that I'm gonna have to vacuum outta the carpet." But he doesn't really mean it. The mood's high 'n Darry's just pleased to have 'em all together. Outta trouble 'n safe.

"Hey it ain't my fault Steve can't throw straight! He ain't exactly got your arm, Dar." Two wraps both hands around Darry's bicep 'n Darry hauls him up, danglin' like a monkey with his knees all bent.

"Hey!" Steve takes his opportunity 'n dives off the couch, nearly dumpin' the entirety of the bowl onto Dallas' head. Dally yowls, drops his cards onto the table 'n snatches for Steve's ankles to drag him back across the floor. Johnny leans over, tips the cards up, 'n grins to himself, then promptly sprawls to the side to avoid Darry shakin' Two off him 'n onto the floor.

Soda, never to be left out, throws himself into the mess of limbs until they're all a tangled mass of carpet burn 'n sharp-toothed peels of laughter. Darry disentangles himself, hovers in the doorway 'n watches them for a moment. Then he checks his watch again, adjusts the worn leather strap, peers at the clock on the stove glowin' softly through the darkness of the kitchen, 'n slips out the back door.

He knows his time is numbered 'cause Pony 'n Soda have always been herders. Had to know where everyone was at all times. But Pony's sleepy 'n zoned in on the TV like a lifeline 'n Soda's had two shots (both hastily over the kitchen sink 'cause Pony still thought Soda was drunk on the plain idea of bein' alive 'n they all liked to let him think it) so he had maybe just a few more minutes than usual.

It's fridged outside. The kinda cold that burns along his bare arms 'n makes his breath hang in low clouds around his face.

He can't really explain it. He's never been real good about the holidays. They're just... heavy. Even before, well, everythin'.

He crosses the porch, sinks down on the stair 'n blinks down the empty street. There's a light or two on. One house or the other still holdin' out for midnight. Most are quiet 'n dark 'n Darry's heart does an odd little flip in his chest.

He doesn't know why he thinks about the winter he was twelve 'n had been the best of friends with the boy that lived on the corner. Or why his stomach sinks when he thinks about how hard he'd cried when they had moved out. Inconsolable even when their mama had pulled him up into her lap (though he was too big for that. Too big for needin' his mama.) (that last bit was never true. He still needed his mama. Maybe more than he ever had before.) 'n had just cried 'n cried 'til Soda 'n Pony had come home from wherever they'd been 'n that had been that. 'Cause he shouldn't cry in front of his brothers. He should be strong for them.

Somethin' shatters to the ground inside 'n jerks Darry outta his memory.

"Sorry!" Someone hollers 'n Darry chuckles to himself. Man, maybe he shouldn't have had that last beer. He must be in too good of a mood 'cause he doesn't even think about goin' in to reem out whoever was breakin' shit. But he knows that's not true 'n it ain't the beer to blame.

He runs his hands up 'n down his arms, stands up 'n crosses the lawn, dead 'n dry in winter, leans against the fence 'n hisses when the metal bites into his arms. He sighs, kicks at the hole ripped in the bottom, smiles absently to himself.

Soda 'n Two had put that there. Had run one of those push petal cars so hard into it they'd both flown off 'n scraped knees 'n elbows 'n come crawlin' up the steps with, not two, but three missin' teeth between the two of them.

God, they must have been in middle school then. When had they grown up so much?

"Agh put me down you sonofabitch!" Somethin' else hits the ground but this time Darry's mostly sure it's a person. No one wails so he figures he's still safe. 'N he ain't ready to go back in yet.

He checks his watch, fiddles with the knob on the side, a nervous habit he's had since he was eighteen. Fifteen minutes to go. Plenty of time.

A breeze kicks up, swings the gate open 'n closed so it lets out a low, mournful squeal. It hadn't hung right since the summer Darry was ten. They'd always just jumped the fence, givin' each other the boosts they refused to ask for, gigglin' when their mama had called them coyotes, takin' runnin' starts 'n laughin' off when they misjudged it 'n came down hard on their knees. Their daddy had sworn he was gonna fix it every summer since.

He never got to.

Last month they'd had a real bad wind storm that pushed that old gate forlornly back 'n forth for hours, wailin' 'n moanin' until Darry had scowled 'n muttered he was gonna fix that goddamn thing if it was the last thing he ever did. 'N then he'd looked over at Pony 'n they both suddenly felt sick to their stomachs.

He never did get around to it.

The wind howls 'n Darry flexes his fingers, realizes suddenly its the only sound he can hear. He checks his watch again. Five minutes to go. He should go back inside.

But then he's runnin' his fingers around the face 'n thinkin' about the people not waitin' for him back in that hot 'n crowded living room. Thinkin' about how it ain't really his watch.

It had been his daddy's. His pride 'n joy. Thick leather strap 'n gold platin' around the face 'n it had been his granddaddy's before him. God, Darry had coveted it. Could remember bein' thirteen, runnin' fingers around 'n around it til it shone. Fifteen 'n askin' his daddy if he'd pass it down to him one day. Eighteen when he had put it in his hands on his graduation day.

You gotta watch out for it. The time flies, kiddo. Be careful how you spend it.

Darry doesn't hear the screen door slam, or the patterin' footsteps across the lawn, or the creak of the fence as someone leans against it til Soda's there, head restin' down on Darry's shoulder. Darry jumps, scrubs the back of his hand against the tears so hot against his flushed cheeks they burn. 'Cause he shouldn't cry in front of his brothers. He had to be strong.

"I figured I'd find you out here." Soda wraps a blanket, stolen from the couch, around Darry's arms 'n he suddenly realizes just how cold he is. He sighs, pulls Soda in 'n tucks him under his elbow.

"C'mon, Soda. You shouldn't be out here." 'N he shouldn't. 'Cause he shouldn't ruin everyone else's good time with his stupid achin'. "Let's get you back inside."

Soda tilts his head back 'n blinks up at Darry. Or, no he doesn't. He doesn't need to. Hasn't needed to look up to Darry in a long time, long since hit that final growth spurt that had their mama lettin' out all his jean hems 'n hopin' they stopped below his ankle. "You shouldn't be out here alone, Dar."

"I'm fine-"

"Oh, I know. You're fine. You're good. You're peachy." Soda sighs, drops his chin back down to Darry's shoulder. "You thinkin' about them?"

'N he is. But not really. He's thinkin' about all of them. About breakin' promises 'n not bein' careful enough. About turnin' around one day 'n Pony's not six years old 'n followin' Darry around 'cause he was still young enough to think Darry was the coolest person alive. That Soda's not ten years old 'n missin' his front tooth 'n a permanent bandaid on his knees 'n bringin' home one kid after another until their house was always full. That Johnny 'n Two 'n Dallas 'n Steve ain't just his brother's friends or strangers hangin' around his living room or even just good buddies.

"I'm thinkin' about my resolution." He pulls Soda in closer 'n somewhere down the street someone bangs pans together. A lone firework bangs off into the sky, lightin' his brother's face in a way that makes him look like he was a kid again, pressed against the window 'n tryin' so hard to stay awake.

"Well, don't leave me hangin'." Soda yawns, presses his face into Darry's chest to shield it from the wind.

Darry smiles softly to himself, runs a hand through Soda's hair, the lamp light bouncin' off the watch face when he lifts his wrist.

"I'm gonna keep some old promises."

I ain't gonna let time slip me by. The back door bangs open 'n when Darry turns he can see the shinin' grin on Two's face, his arm draped around Steve's shoulders. Pony leanin' hard on Dallas though Darry knows he'll claim he ain't tired. Johnny shiverin' in his too-big jacket.

"Come on, Dar! You're gonna miss it!" 'N Darry knows he means the ball drop or the announcer on TV or the end of the special but Darry can only smile ruefully, shift Soda closer to him 'n sweep him right off his feet to carry him inside.

You're right. You gotta be careful or you will. You'll miss it all.

tags 'cause y'all were so sweet in my other post I was like well I simply gotta finish this right now😭@trekkiehood @strxwberry-julius @marmaladedcroissant @wildestdreamcatcher @sarcasticallyexplicit11 @scalls @greasernamedbug