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mimiiiiiiiiisstuff · 3 months ago

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"BIRDS OF A FEATHER"

Yall I am literally sleep deprived and I'm 90 percent sure im gonna fail my math exam. I wrote this to try and calm down but I feel like it sucks. I literally spent like 3 hours on this so be nice pls. Lmk what you think and if you have any questions! Send in asks! Love yall! Thank you for supporting my trash writing LMAO.

Prologue:,Chapter 1: Chapter 2: Chapter 3: Chapter 4:

The moment you stepped off the plane, a strange sense of dread washed over you. Gotham City. The place you had spent years trying to fit in. Here you were again, bound by some invisible force to the very people you had spent your life chasing after. "The Batfamily". The same family who had neglected you for years. Who had hurt you emotionally, time and time again, making you feel small and invisible. Making you feel worthless. And yet, now, they all seemed desperate to make things right. To make up for replacing you with Traitor Tiffany. Tiffany who stole your life, who copied everything you said and did to a T.

Tiffany who they loved for that year before she was exposed.

You were going to ignore them. For the next two weeks, you would just do your best to make it through, keeping your distance and focusing on the countdown to when you'd be back at boarding school in New York. That was your escape, your sanctuary.

But as you entered the manor, the familiar echo of its grand hall made you feel a strange weight in your chest. The vast space, once cold and intimidating, now felt like it was closing in on you. The walls, the grand staircase, and even the ancient floors seemed to watch you.

You barely had time to drop your bags in the entryway before you were ambushed by them. All of them.

“Hey!” Dick’s voice was light and cheerful, far too cheerful considering everything. You didn’t even look up at him, not even when he wrapped you in a tight hug. You didn't bother hugging him back. You weren’t sure if it was because you were tired, or because you just didn’t feel like dealing with his overbearing presence, but you kept your focus on your phone, fingers tapping away as you scrolled through messages from Ariel, Claire, and Rory

“You’re coming back in 2 weeks right? imy alr” “NYC is lame as fuck w out u. come back now.” “Call me literally everyday. two weeks is wayyyyy too long”

They didn’t know about this—your insanely weird family of spandex wearing losers. They didn’t know about Tiffany, or the spy drama, or how everything had shifted when you were 15 or that you were technically half snake. All they knew was that you were just you, and they loved you for it. This summer was the highlight of your life.

And now, here you were, trapped with them for two weeks, trying to figure out how to survive without completely losing your mind.

“Hey, kid” Dick repeated, taking a step closer, his words coming out strangely awkward and nervous. Good, he should be nervous. “come on. Let’s grab breakfast, yeah? You can’t be all that hungry, but we are. It’s family time. You wouldn’t want to miss it.” He smiled at you like you were a little kid.

You felt your lip curl into a slight frown, but you kept your eyes on your phone. Since when did this whole family breakfast include you?All you wanted to do right now was sleep. “I’m good. Not hungry.”

Bruce appeared from the shadows, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway before you saw his face. The expression on his face wasn’t the cold indifference you remembered. It was warm. Too warm. He tried to hug you, but you quickly dodged him like he had the cooties. He took it like a champ, brushed it off and acted like he was reaching for your Goyard.

“(Y/N),” he said quietly, like he was trying to be gentle. "We’re having breakfast together. You don’t want to miss out on the family time. It’s important that we all reconnect.”

You didn’t even look up at him. You could practically feel the weight of his words pressing down on you. Reconnect? How could they possibly want to “reconnect” after all the years of neglect? The years of pretending you didn’t exist?

“I’m just fine here,” you muttered, fingers still flying across the screen as you tried to walk up the stairs.

Bruce didn’t take the hint. “Come on. You should eat something. It’s good for you.”

You wanted to snap at him, tell him you were tired of being treated like a child. But you didn’t. You were too tired for all that. Instead, you sighed. "I said I’m fine. I ate on the plane.”

Jason’s voice cut through the tension, his ever-present smirk on his face as he sauntered into the room, tossing his jacket over his shoulder. "Damn, it’s already this bad?" He raised an eyebrow at Bruce, then smirked at you. “Come on, little bird, you’re too grown up for us now, huh? Don’t you want to at least pretend to like us? Have too much fun over in St. Tropez? Too cool to hang out with your big brother?”

You rolled your eyes at his antics, suddenly annoyed. "Actually, yeah. Ya'll are lowkey losers." You were harsher than necessary but you wanted to make sure Jason got the hint. Make it known you haven't really forgiven him.

They were all obviously taken aback by your new attitude and mean girl habits, all too shocked to say anything.

Tim followed behind Jason, his ever-curious eyes flicking from you to Bruce, then to Dick. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead just shrugged, settling into a lean against the wall.

“You don’t have to join us, but it’s not like you have a choice,” he added, his voice calm but firm, like he was waiting for you to push back. “We’re not letting you hide in your room forever.”

You scoffed, "So i don't have a choice. Bit of a contradiction there, smartass."

Your sure you heard Bruce mutter something about language but Tim simply side-eyed you and brushed it off, his confidence unwavering.

Cass entered next, moving quietly, as always. But her gaze, there was something in it. A kind of quiet insistence, like she wanted to make sure you didn’t slip away unnoticed. You’d always hated how silent she was, how intense her focus could be.

“Breakfast,” she said, her tone not quite a question, not quite a statement. It was just her way of saying we’re doing this, whether you want to or not.

You groaned, slumping a little as you looked up from your phone. “I’m literally only here for two weeks. I don’t need to sit with you guys at every meal. That's so lame.”

At that, Bruce stepped closer. His hand rested on your shoulder, a touch so gentle you barely felt it, but the weight of it was enough to make your heart skip. “You’re staying here for two weeks, and we’re all going to make the most of this time,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re part of this family. And that means we all spend time together. You don’t get to hide anymore.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, and you could feel the heat of everyone’s attention on you. They were all looking at you—waiting for you to say something, do something. It was unsettling. Unbearable.

You finally snapped, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “I just want to talk to my friends, okay?” You waved your phone at them. “We were actually having a conversation before all of you interrupted.”

A soft laugh escaped Damian's lips, but it wasn’t kind. “You’ve got better things to do than talk to those people. You have to make up for your misconduct from last time. And tell us what you did while in St. Tropez.” There he goes again, speaking like an 80 year old man.

You felt a sudden wave of unease as you glanced at him, then at Jason and Tim. They both seemed to be looking at your phone with a sharp intensity. What was that about?

You tried to ignore it. You had to. But the more you looked at your friends’ messages, the more you realized that even your phone couldn’t offer you peace here. Bruce was standing too close. Dick’s eyes wouldn’t leave you. Tim was still leaning against the wall, his gaze locked on you with that knowing, calculating look that made your stomach twist.

Jason finally broke the silence with a lazy, teasing grin. “Don’t be a brat. You don’t need to text anyone right now, you've been gone two months. You've got me now.”

You rolled your eyes again and you couldn't stop the words from slipping out, "Oh yeah jason? How long have i got you for? Till some shiny new sister comes in? Or will you expire before that? Do I get you for 2 weeks or 3 or-"

Jason's face fell, he obviously thought he was forgiven just because of your conversation the night before you left and because you replied to his messages occasionally.

Bruce stepped forward cutting you off, taking pity on jason, "Enough. I understand your frustration, but we are trying. Let us try before you shut us out." He said his tone stern, he was demanding a chance to redeem himself, not asking.

Before you could protest, Damian spoke up, his voice still a bit too soft for comfort. “You will stay here with us. You’ll see, it’ll be better for you.”

Punk. If he was a normal kid brother, you would've long made him stop talking to you like that.

You gritted your teeth, fangs coming out and stood up from the couch, locking your phone and stuffing it into your pocket. “Fine,” you muttered, “I’ll go to breakfast. But don’t expect me to start liking all this.”

Bruce smiled, just slightly. It was subtle, but there was something behind it. Something that made your skin crawl.

“Good,” he said, his voice almost too soothing. “We’re all here for you now.”

You walked toward the dining room with Bruce close behind you, his hand on your lower back as if ensuring you wouldn't runaway, a small, constant pressure that felt both grounding and suffocating. You wanted to shrug it off, but the thought of doing that in front of the others was too much. The others who were still watching, still waiting. You could almost feel their eyes on you like they were tracking your every movement, waiting for any sign of resistance.

As you passed through the grand entryway, you could hear Alfred’s familiar voice calling from the kitchen, his tone as warm and fatherly as ever. “Ah, there you are, Young Miss. I’ve made your favorite this morning. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and Pancakes” He turned to face you with a soft smile, but it faltered when he noticed the scowl on your face. “I hope you’re feeling well. It’s important that you eat something substantial, especially after a long flight.”

You nodded noncommittally, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Alfred. I’m not really hungry, though…”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll change your mind once you see it,” Alfred said with a knowing wink. “Come now, don’t make me chase you down for a seat.”

He motioned for you to sit at the table. Dick, already seated with a glass of juice, grinned at you like you were a little kid being coaxed into something.

“Come on, just sit,” he said, motioning to the empty chair next to him. “It’ll be fun. It’s family time, remember?”

You could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on you. It was suffocating. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to play along with their sudden act of being a family after years of neglect. But you knew if you didn’t sit, if you didn’t comply in some way, they would only dig in their heels harder.

You sat down, pulling your chair in with a slight sigh. You didn’t want to, but it felt like the lesser of two evils. Jason gave you a little smirk from across the table, while Tim and Damian were already deeply engaged in a quiet conversation, glancing at you occasionally as if waiting to see how you'd react.

He spoke again, voice bright, like he was trying to lift the mood. "So, … what’s new with you? I bet you’ve been busy, huh? Euro summer? Did you have fun?" He smiled at you, but there was something in his eyes, something that lingered a little too long, like he was waiting for a response he had already anticipated.

You felt like a child that stole cookies from the cookie jar, "Yeah pretty fun. Didn't do much though." You shrugged trying to sound casual.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, the others falling into place around you. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, almost searching, before he turned his attention to the food. He wasn’t pushing, not yet. But there was a quiet, insistent presence in the way he looked at you.

“You know, (Y/N), it’s not just about the food. It’s about spending time together,” Bruce said, the softness in his voice unusual, almost too gentle for someone like him. “This is important. It’s part of being a family. We’ve missed you.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t know what to say. It all felt so fake. The kindness, the attempts to bond—it was all wrapped up in a layer of suffocating control.

Dick spoke again, trying to make you crack, to bring out the oversharer in you he remembered, "Any plans? Got anything to do?"

You shrugged, offering him only a brief glance before focusing on your plate. "Nothing much. Just school stuff."

"School stuff?" Bruce’s voice cut through, the sternness returning as his eyes bore into you. "What do you mean by ‘school stuff’? You’re not getting into trouble, are you?"

Your eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, you could feel the weight of his gaze. It was almost protective, but you didn't want that anymore. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You were done with the overbearing dad act. You were 16 now—not a little girl who needed constant monitoring. You didn't need his attention, not anymore.

You picked up your fork and took a bite of the scrambled eggs, more out of habit than actual hunger. They were good, just like Alfred’s cooking always was. But the taste felt like nothing in your mouth.

“I was texting my friends,” you said quietly, breaking the silence, your eyes flicking to your phone where the notifications from your friends were still blowing up. “They wanted to check I got here okay. I—”

Bruce cut you off before you could say more. “We understand that, ” he said, his voice low but firm, like a quiet warning. “But right now, you’re with us. And this time, we don’t want you distracted by those friends. You were with them for 3 months. It's family time now.”

You blinked at him, feeling a little breathless at the sudden sharpness of his words. Was that... affection? It was subtle, but it was there, in the way he spoke. It made your chest tighten. There was never family time before, at least none that included you.

“Don’t be rude,” Dick interjected, his tone light but with an edge of something else. He was looking at you more seriously now, no longer the playful older brother. “You can text your friends later. But right now, you’re here with us. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but your phone buzzed again in your pocket, and this time, it was an unknown number. You pulled it out reluctantly, glancing at the screen. It was a guy from your European trip, the french prince, one you had been texting occasionally during the summer.

But before you could even open the message, Damian’s sharp eyes caught sight of the name, and his expression hardened just slightly. He straightened, his voice suddenly tight. ��Who is that?”

You looked up at him, eyebrows furrowing. Nosy much? “None of your fucking business,” you snapped without thinking.

The room went quiet. Too quiet. Everyone’s eyes were on you now, and you could feel the heat of their gazes like a thousand little pricks against your skin.

“Don’t get upset, (Y/N),” Bruce’s voice was almost soothing, but there was a new intensity to it. “We just care about you. You don’t need to talk to them all the time. You’re not going to be alone anymore.”

It wasn’t just a promise,—it was an expectation. . You realized, with growing unease, that it was a practically a threat.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Again. The sound was a welcome distraction, but you knew exactly what it was: a flood of texts from Ariel, Claire, and Rory. You hesitated for a moment, wondering if you could sneak a glance without drawing too much attention. Should you risk it after what happened not even a minutes ago? But before you could decide, Bruce’s eyes locked onto yours.

“Let me see that,” he said, his voice smooth but commanding. It wasn’t a request. “Who are you talking to?”

You froze for a split second, caught off guard by his intensity. The entire table fell silent, all eyes on you. You hadn’t realized how quiet they had gotten until now.

You hesitated before responding and quickly shoved your phone out of reach. “It’s just my friends from school, the ones I spent the summer with.”

Only after you explained did you realize that you didn't owe him an explanation.

Jason raised an eyebrow, his playful tone dropping just enough to sound dangerous. “Really? Because it looks like you’re texting someone from Europe, given the country code and all.”

Your heart skipped. You had been texting Ariel, and now your friends were practically spamming you in the group chat. "The girls!!" you named it that just to be petty after leaving the one with Barbra, Cass, and Steph. You didn't even think about how it might look to the family, who had all but cornered you into their web of attention. You didn’t want to admit it, but now you felt the pressure. How long would they keep this up?

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you muttered, finally pulling your phone out and swiping away from the notifications, deciding to put it on Do Not Disturb around these psychos. You had a sudden, uncomfortable sense of guilt, like they were expecting you to explain yourself to them.

It was quiet and awkward for the rest of breakfast.

The morning after breakfast felt like an eternity. You had expected them to back off, to give you space after your little outburst, but no. The Batfamily had different plans. They were relentless. They didn’t just want to bond with you; they needed to bond with you. It was like a mission they had assigned themselves, as if they could somehow erase the years of neglect in just two weeks.

You knew better than to expect anything close to normal from them. But this was too much.

It started innocently enough, Bruce knocking on your room door, his usual stoic expression softening when he saw you sitting on the edge of your bed, surrounded by your belongings. You had been trying to shut out the noise of the manor, scrolling through your phone, ignoring the countless texts from your guys you met and the relentless buzz of Gotham in your head.

“Hey,” he said, his voice smooth, but there was a hint of something in it. Concern? Hope? You didn’t want to figure it out.

“Can we talk?”

You didn’t even look up, too busy focusing on the group chat from the girls. You weren’t ready to face him. Or anyone else. Especially not after breakfast. They all thought they had it figured out.

“You can talk to me while I’m on my phone,” you said flatly. “I’m busy.”

Bruce didn’t even flinch at your indifference. He took a step inside, shutting the door behind him as he sat on the edge of your bed. His presence felt heavy, like he was trying to make himself at home in a space that wasn’t his.

“You know, we’ve missed you, these two months felt like two years” he started softly, like that would somehow change the years of absence between you two. “I know this has been hard for you, but we’re trying. I’m trying. I’m just... trying to make up for lost time.” His hand hovered over the space next to you, but you didn’t budge.

“Stop trying so hard. You’re not going to fix anything, Bruce,” you muttered, your fingers tapping away on the screen.

“I don’t need to fix anything,” His voice was gentler now. “I just want to be here for you.”

Your eyes flicked over to him, and for a moment, you saw the guilt in his eyes. He was fighting against something, holding back. He was being real, honest. But you couldn’t let it get to you.

“I don’t need you to be here,” you said, your tone icy. “I’m not some little kid who needs you hovering over me, not anymore.”

He sighed, the disappointment in his voice sharp. "I know. I know, kid. But you are my daughter. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone. Not again. Especially with your..... abilities.”

The words felt like bullets, it hurt, the more he spoke the more you hurt. You just wanted him to go away.

The awkward silence that followed stretched on too long. Finally, Bruce stood up. His eyes lingered on you one last time before he opened the door. “Okay, but just know, I’m here when you’re ready to talk. I'll always be here.”

For the next two weeks, the family got more insistent on spending time with. The only thing that kept you going was that it would be over soon, or so you thought.

Damian was always the silent observer. The kid who knew how to push all your buttons without saying a word, the little brother who constantly attacked and ridiculed you.

One evening, he shows up at your door, a subtle shift in his body language telling you something’s up. His eyes soften, and you can tell he’s trying to break down the walls, bit by bit.

"Move over," he said, his voice devoid of its usual bite. Instead, it carried a strange urgency. He was holding a pillow, clutching onto it like a lifeline.

You narrowed your eyes, a growl rising in your throat. What the hell does he want now?

“No. What’s your problem?” You shot him a glare, rolling over on your bed, trying to make it clear you had no interest in him being there.

He didn’t move. He just stood there, waiting.

"Come on," he says flatly, crossing his arms, a rare hint of vulnerability in his tone. "It’s just for a little while. You used to bother me about this, don’t be so difficult now."

“Why are you always so insistent on being a brat? I've forgiven you for attacking me,” he muttered, stepping closer. “When we were younger, you always insisted on cuddling, begged for it even, always tried hugging me. You’ve grown up, yes, but that doesn’t mean things should change.”

When you refuse, Damian has none of it. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and sits on your bed without asking. His demeanor is as sharp as ever, but his eyes flick to you constantly, waiting, hoping for some sign of compromise.

He walked toward the bed, pulling the blankets aside as if he was entitled to your space. You felt a flicker of that old resentment stir inside you, but the pressure of everything else, the family trying so hard to pretend everything was fine, Bruce’s repeated insistence on your bonding, the suffocating feeling that had followed you since you arrived, made you just want to give in.

You scoffed. “I grew up because you wouldn’t leave me alone when I was younger. You used to beat me up for trying to get close, remember? You literally threw me down a set of stairs. You never wanted to ‘bond’ then.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips twisting into a brief frown. “Because you were insufferable.” His voice softened, a little, but still cold. “But I’m not the same as I was. Neither are you.

And then, without warning, he scoots closer, his shoulders stiff, as if awaiting your wrath. You almost let out a laugh; he still hasn't realized that maybe you don't want the cuddles anymore. But his face betrays something else: a quiet desperation. You could almost feel his need for connection, like he’s trying to make up for all those years.

He shifts awkwardly, a hand touching his hair, trying to mimic what you once did: the slight tap on his shoulder, the gentle nudge. But as he waits for you to break, you just stare at him, no words exchanged.

And that’s when he did something you didn’t expect: he laid down beside you, just like when you did to him when you were younger. He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t even seem to care that you clearly were about to strangle him.

You went still, your heart pounding as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into an uncomfortable cuddle. You wanted to push him off, but you couldn’t, not when he was being so vulnerable.

Instead, you just shut your eyes, and let the anger mix with the humiliation. You wouldn't admit it, but it felt nice.

Dick was the first to bombard you with affection every morning for two weeks straight. He’s like the human embodiment of sunshine, and you can’t help but feel the weight of his unrelenting kindness. He tries to coax you into breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinners... you name it. His tactic? Overload you with so much “family time” that eventually, you’ll give in.

He makes it a point to show you that he’s willing to work on your relationship. Every morning he’s there with a bright, goofy grin, telling you stories of his past adventures. He tries, in vain, to get you laughing with ridiculous anecdotes about the circus, Batman, and his early days in the Teen Titans. He stopped once you asked him for Connor's number and another topless picture if him.

At night, he tries to “reconnect” by suggesting game nights or silly activities like arts and crafts. “Come on, you loved painting when you were younger!” he’d say, pushing a small set of watercolor paints toward you, clearly hoping for a nostalgic response. But you’re not having it. You just roll your eyes and text your friends, but he stays close by, watching. He doesn’t pressure you, but you can feel his eyes lingering, waiting for the moment when you finally break.

But the moments are few, and even though you keep pushing him away, there’s a slight glimmer in his eyes every time he talks about when you’ll finally bond.

You avoided Duke like the plague, hiding everytime he came too close looking to hopeful. His betrayal was too fresh.

Jason tried to appeal to you in ways that are typical of him: snark, sarcasm, and outright bad-boy energy. He brings up old memories he knows you cherish, things that will make you cave. He walks around the manor like he owns the place, tossing out insults and lighthearted teasing every time you pass by. He’ll try to lure you into movie nights, always choosing the most ridiculously bad action movies, or challenge you to random things in the game room.

“Bet you can’t beat me in this game,” he’ll say, tossing a controller at you. “Come on, I’m the pro around here.”

It’s his way of bonding, of trying to “get you” in his own unique, unpredictable way. He also, strangely, gives you random moments of tenderness, moments that remind you of the old Jason, grabbing your shoulder when you least expect it, offering a smirk that’s soft when no one’s looking. But like everything else, it’s hard to believe this is real.

Your trust and abandonment issues ran too deep to believe any of them were genuine, though they all clearly were.

After a particularly annoying spat one day, where you ignored him all day, he jokingly announced, “If you didn’t have that attitude, maybe we could actually have a decent time. Just saying.”

In moments like that, you feel the thrum of tension in the air, the frustration of someone trying to connect with you and the knowledge that you're just too far gone to care right now. Now he felt how you did. Still, Jason's persisted and it’s obvious he won’t give up anytime soon.

Your entire existence had become one giant performance for them. The two weeks finally came to an end and so did your torture. You and the girls spent all night calling as you packed and they planned you a 'freedom celebration' that would start as soon as you got to Rory's house.

The two weeks really were torture, from the moment you woke up to the moment you went to sleep, it was like you were the star of a reality show you never agreed to. Every time you tried to slip away, to find some peace of mind, they were there, trying to draw you back in.

Alfred had begun preparing “family dinners,” encouraging you to join in at the table, asking you questions about your life like they hadn’t been absent for years.

Dick insisted on taking you out on family outings, making sure you were included in everything from movie nights to visits to the Gotham Zoo.

Cass would show up randomly in your room with little presents, a sketchbook, or a necklace. “For you,” she’d say with her quiet smile, a silent plea for you to forgive them.

Tim’s persistent attempts to engage you in every intellectual conversation, trying to get you to talk about everything and nothing at once, began to feel like a strange form of manipulation.

And Jason? Jason kept throwing out random quips, trying so hard to get a rise out of you, until the sarcasm wore thin and left a bitter taste in your mouth. It wasn’t funny anymore.

You couldn't wait to leave.

The morning of your flight, Bruce called you into his office, a serious expression on his face. “Good Morning,” he began, his voice a little too calm. “I need to talk to you about something.”

You stared at him, confused. “What?”

“You’re not going back to boarding school,” he said quietly, locking eyes with you. “It’s not safe. Tiffany escaped and is working with Patience again. They’ll come for you. They’ll come for all of us.”

Your blood ran cold. Tiffany. The girl who had stolen your life. The one who had tried to replace you. The one who had made everything about her and who had tricked the Batfamily into thinking she was you. Now she was ruining your escape.

“No. I’m not staying,” you spat. “I can’t be here. I won’t be here.”

“You have to stay here,” Bruce said, his voice firm, unwavering. “For your safety.”

“You can’t do this!” you screamed, jumping up from your seat, your fangs flashing as your emotions took over. “I don’t want to stay here! I want to go back! I’ll be fine in New York! You can’t keep me here!

But Bruce wasn’t backing down. His tone remained soft, even as the finality of his words sank in. “You’re staying in Gotham. And you’ll go to Gotham Prep. It’s safer.”

“No!” You felt the weight of your anger burst out of you. The room seemed to shrink. “I’m not going to Gotham Prep. I won’t stay here. I won’t live in this—prison!”

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and angry, and you could feel the pressure building inside you, the need to break free. But as your eyes met Bruce's, you realized—he was immune. He didn’t look scared of your fangs. He didn’t fear your powers, he didn't fall into your manipulation.

You later found out from Jason that Tim and Damian had been working on a serum, after what happened with Tiffany. A serum that made them immune to your powers.

There was no escaping now, not till you were 18 and Tiffany behind bars.

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clockwayswrites · 1 month ago

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The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 2, Part 2

Masterpost (Thank you jaythefae for reading over this so that I could post it! This migraine has me writing a lot of swapped words.)

Okay, okay fuck. That wasn’t what Wally was going for at all!

It was a tower! Like Titan’s tower and the lightning bolt was supposed to be him. He was trying to tell them who he was, not spell doom. Who made a tower doom?

Wally put his fingers to his lips and paced. Or paced as much as he could. If he went too far from Danny (and boy had it taken a long time to even learn Danny’s name) he would… disintegrate, for lack of a better word. And wow did Wally want a better word because he did not like disintegrating. People shouldn’t disintegrate!

“Okay, okay, I can work with this! I did go through a major—” Wally leaned in to try and hear the conversation. Danny was clear enough, but anything Mina (or not Danny) said was like listening to the words through wind storm.

“…upheaval and destruction. Change, basically,” Mina said.

He wished she’d shout.

“And… change is doom?” Danny said. He sounded as dubious as Wally felt about that.

Mina shrugged. “People don’t — change. Like — so they get grum— and then— and tada! Change bad.”

“Well, I mean. Of course they went through a change, they’re dead,” Danny said.

Wally winced so hard he bumped into and through Danny’s shoulder. Danny shuddered at the touch.

“Or if not dead, trapped somewhere,” Danny added with a glance towards where Wally was standing.

It was a good sign that Danny was starting consider that Wally wasn’t a ghost. Wally really, really didn’t think that he was dead, after all. But how to get across that he was trapped in the Speed Force? He didn’t think there would be a card for that.

Wally zipped over to Mina’s side, took the cards, and shuffled through them. He really wished that he knew what these damn things meant. A small part of his brain said that messing with the cards like this was messing up the meaning, but fortune telling wasn’t real. (At least not normal human fortune telling.) Once he had finished stacking the spread set with cards he hoped would be useful, he put the cards back and returned to Danny’s side.

The world blurred and crackled around him.

This was using too much energy that he didn’t have. Something had to come from it.

Please.

This had to help.

“Well, that wasn’t any help.”

“Don’t say that Danny,” Mina said, but even she was frowning slightly down at her cards as if they were a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

“Do you want to go grab some food? I’m craving one of those avocado, tofu, and facon sandwiches from that place you love.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds excellent,” Mina said, perking up. She stood from the table and started back towards the kitchen. “But before you go, I want to give you some of a special tea. It will help you settle into a sort of zone so that maybe you can have a better chance of connecting with your spirit without you being hurt.”

“Mina Aleshire, are you giving me drugs?” Danny gasped dramatically as he wandered after her, Hubris held limply in his arms.

She paused in opening the cabinet, as if really having to consider the question. “Well, nothing illegal?”

“Mina!”

“It’s an herbal blend!” she argued. “Just, maybe don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do for a few hours after taking it. You know, just in case.”

Danny sighed. “The worst part is that I’m really considering taking this mystery herb blend.”

“It’s better than having seizures,” she pointed out as she handed him a little satchel.

“It’s better than having seizures,” he agreed and took it.

The tea smelled like rain and honeysuckle. Danny cradled the mug he was using more carefully than the thick, chipped ceramic warranted. The warmth seeped into his palms and bones. He breathed the pungent smell in and then let out the breath slowly.

He didn’t know if this would work.

It was almost certainly a bad idea, what with him being not entirely human, but it was at least an idea. Danny had never seen one of Mina’s readings go so badly. It went so badly that Danny felt certain that the ‘ghost’ had been interfering. The problem was, is that Danny didn’t know if the sabotage was on purpose or from ignorance.

He wanted to believe that it was ignorance. That the ghost had been trying to tell them something, but in doing so had messed up the reading. But Danny always wanted to believe the best in people.

It had gotten him burned too often.

It might get him burned again if the ghost was really out to hurt him. Mina couldn’t give him the clearest answer on what the tea was going to do, but Danny was pretty sure that it was going to make his spirit less attached to his body for a bit so that he could commune with the things not of this realm. A less attached spirit meant one that was easier to sever.

But he was already half dead, so what did it matter?

Or so he told himself.

Before he could run around the logic again, Danny tipped the mug back and took a long, slow sip. It was spicier than he expected, but in a good way. He drained half the cup steadily as he slowly settled into the mound of pillows that made up his bed. It really wasn’t half bad, for magical drug tea.

“I think I can smell that from here. Which, dude, is saying a lot because I’m stuck in the Speed Force.”

Danny hummed. “What’s the Speed Force?”

“What’s the—can… can you hear me? Can you actually hear me? Did the weird tea do something?!?” the words came in such a rush that they were hard to follow. It didn’t help that they sounded like they were coming from a badly tuned ham radio.

“Slower. You have to be slower. I can barely understand you. You’re static. You’re always static to me,” Danny said.

“Sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I am and that I hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t mean to. But you’re the only one that I can hear and see! I need your help!” The words sped up and up again until they were a blur—a roar—a scream—

The mug hit the mattress and bounced onto the floor with a crack as Danny clutched at his head to try to block the sound out.

The talking stopped.

His head continued to ring.

Danny curled up into the pillows with a whimper.

It was a minute or days later when Danny felt fingers running through his hair. They were wonderfully warm.

“—always hurting you. You keep trying for me though, don’t you?”

“Wanta help,” Danny mumbled.

The fingers stilled then picked back up their path. “I need the help too, which is… I’m supposed to be the hereo here, you know?”

“You’re dead,” Danny said.

“Ugh, no! Come on, you were finally moving away from that idea, Danny! I’m not dead! I’m trapped in the Speed Force.”

Danny finally found the strength to roll himself over. Bright blue eyes set among fiery hair and a beautiful scattering of freckles blinked down at him. Danny reached up an unsteady hand to brush over one of the freckled cheeks.

“Speed Force?”

“What gives me my powers. Something went wrong and I’m trapped. You seem to be the only one that can hear or see me and it’s hurting you.”

“Yeah, seizures suck,” Danny said. The world around them was just a swirl of color. Like when a ride at a carnival was spinning so fast that nothing was real anymore. “I don’t think I’m going to be okay when I wake up.”

They laughed, but it was a bitter, choked off sound. “No, Danny, I don’t think you’re going to be okay either.”

“Oh. How can I help you?”

They shook their head, red hair flew about. “You should focus on yourself.”

“Already hurt,” Danny pointed out. “Make it worth it. How can I help you?”

Their blue eyes searched his and then closed as they gave an almost keening whine. Man, they really were worried about him, weren’t they?

“If you can remember, go to Titan’s Tower,” they said finally. “Ask for Nightwing and… and tell him that I said that he's a real dick, okay?”

Danny blinked.

The world spun and spun and spun.

“What?”

“He’ll know what I mean,” they insisted. “He’ll know it’s from me. Tell the Titans that I’m with you and I’m trapped in the Speed Force and I need them to get me out.”

There was an alarm screaming now. Was it time to get up?

“And take care of yourself a little, okay?”

People were shouting.

“Okay.”

The world went dark.

#dp x dc #thodf #danny/wally #danny sees cute person and goes .////.

439 notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 6 months ago

Text

It's a Love Story - Chapter 1

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.

And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Koschei the Deathless Sorcerer was killed by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

It was less dramatic than it sounded. At least Azriel thought so.

And if Lucien hadn’t been a fucking idiot and put himself into a position to be kidnapped by the very same deathless sorcerer…then they wouldn’t even have been in that kind of situation.

But he had been and so it ended with Azriel so magically exhausted that he collapsed the very same moment Truthteller stroke true once more.

At least Koschei was slayn.

And the only reason Azriel had gone to rescue the red-headed male in the first place was the fact that Lucien was Elaine’s mate. Lucien was the male Elain loved. Azriel couldn’t let him die.

Couldn’t let Elain feel the devastation of a mating bond broken by death…so his decision making had been quick. Either he would manage to get Lucien free…or he would die trying. There wasn’t many things that he wouldn’t do for the female he loved. Even when he knew it shouldn’t be.

Azriel had never been very good at knowing when enough was enough after all, wasn’t he?

No price was high enough to pay when it was about Elain’s happiness, as far as Azriel was concerned.

He hadn't expected to wake up, and yet… there he was. Alive and whole.

*I hope it was worth it, Master,* the shadows sniped at him.

He blinked, taking in the dim light of the room, taking in the familiar surroundings. His room in the House of Wind.

“You are a fucking idiot, you know?” Cassian hissed at him from his place at his bedside and Azriel blinked at him.

"Lucien?" he brought out hoarsely.

"Not as much as a fucking scratch on him. Thanks to you," Cassian responded. "You on the other hand...Madja thought you were going to fucking die from pure magical exhaustion!"

Even Azriel he had...it would have been worth it. Lucien had made it out alive - and that was all that mattered in the end. Elain would be happy. That was all he cared about.

He didn't say that aloud though.

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes again. "How long was I out?" he asked.

"Three days," Cassian growled. "Three. Days."

Azriel sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his muscles. It felt like his entire body was one giant bruise, every inch of him pained and sore.

"Lay back down," Cassian snapped.

Azriel shot him a glare, but sank back onto the bed nonetheless. "I'm fine," he grumbled. "Just tired."

"Yeah, well, we'll let Madja be the judge of that," Cassian snapped. "And when you are feeling better, I am going to kill you for going off on your own!"

Azriel just gave him a weary look. "Better me than you," he said dryly. He closed his eyes, feeling a deep exhaustion settle over him. Cassian had Nesta to think about. Azriel didn't. Azriel just had himself.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Cassian demanded.

Azriel didn't have the energy to answer

He dosed off, feeling the shadows twine around him. They were muttering, words he could c quite understand, bitching under their breath but for once it was comforting.

He woke up, feeling groggy and disoriented. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and his limbs were heavy. He groggily blinked at the room, feeling like he was in a haze.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. Cassian was still there, as was Madja.

Azriel groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His head was throbbing, and his vision was a little blurred. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind. "Hey," he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

Cassian and Madja both looked at him, their expressions relieved. "How are you feeling?" Madja asked him, moving closer to the bed and waving a hand in front of his face.

"Like I was hit by a wagon," Azriel admitted. His muscles felt tight and sore, his body heavy with fatigue. His wings felt like they were made of lead, and every movement took a huge effort.

"That's unsurprising considering you nearly magicked yourself to death," Madja said gruffly. "Your body had a tremendous amount of stress and strain put on it. You're lucky to be alive."

He gritted his teeth. "Yeah, well, I didn't have a lot of other options," he pointed out.

Madja just let out a huff and began prodding and poking at his body, running her hands over his wings and checking his pulse. Cassian watched anxiously from the side, his arms crossed over his chest.

Azriel bore her ministrations in silence, trying not to wince as she poked and prodded at him. He knew she was just trying to help, but it didn't make the ordeal any more pleasant.

After what felt like forever, she finally stepped back, nodding to herself. "You're lucky, shadowsinger," she said gruffly. "You're lucky you're so damn resilient," she said, and he couldn't tell if it was a compliment or just an observation.

He looked at her blearily. "I guess I can add that to my list of things to be proud of," he muttered sarcastically.

Cassian barked out a laugh, but Madja just rolled her eyes. The door opened at that moment. "How's he doing?" Rhys demanded.

Azriel wanted to let out a sigh at the sight of Rhys. He loved his brother, but he didn't have the energy for a lecture right now.

Madja turned to Rhys. "He's weak and he's stupid," she snapped. "But he's alive."

Rhys let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Thank you, Madja," he said. "Would you...give us a moment?"

Madja nodded, patting Azriel's leg as she got up to leave. "Rest," she ordered. "And no strenuous activity for at least a week."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Rhys turned to Azriel. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.

"I was thinking that I was saving Lucien's life," Azriel replied evenly, meeting his brother's gaze. "I couldn't let him die, Rhys."

"Wouldn't that have made it easier for you?* Rhys demanded sharply mentally. *You are the one that fancies himself in love with Elain.*

Maybe it shouldn't hurt him as much as it did. He didn't fancy himself in love with her. He was in love with her. Had been in love with her and Rhys had been the one to order him away from her, which had given Lucien the opportunity to swoop in and Elain had...Elain had given in. Given in to that Siren Song of the Mating Bond and was very much in love with her mate now.

It hurt to hear Rhys say it like that, like it was just some passing infatuation that he'd gotten over.

*Lucien is her mate,* he responded simply. He didn't say what he really thought. He didn't say that he would rather have Elain be happy and never talk with him again than to have her wilt like one of her flowers because her mate had died and the mating bond would be broken… He didn't say that he loved Elain enough, that her happiness was more important to him than anything else. He didn't say any of that.

*At least you are recognising that now,* Rhys said with a snort. Azriel didn't flinch. Didn't react.

He hid away in that little corner of his brain he went to when everything became too much. Where he could just shut up all his feelings, all these pesky emotions, and just be...nothing. Nothing. That's the only thing he still had left.

He just shrugged, schooling his face into a careless expression. "I did what I had to do, Rhys," he repeated stubbornly. "Lucien is a good male. He didn't deserve to die."

"Elain wants to thank you," Rhys said suddenly.

Azriel's stomach twisted as Rhys mentioned Elain. He felt a pang of longing in his chest, a desperate ache to see her, to touch her, to hear her voice. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't subject himself to the torture of seeing her with her mate, seeing her happy in Lucien's arms.

So his answer was definite: "There is no need for that," he said simply.

Rhys gave him a sharp look. "Don't be an idiot," he said gruffly. "She's been worried sick about you."

But Azriel just shook his head, even as his heart thudded in his chest.

*You can keep it together for 5 minutes,* Rhys snapped into his mind.

"Rhys," Cassian said carefully. "If he doesn't want to, just let it..."

"He's being ridiculous," Rhys snapped, interrupting Cassian. "Elain is family.”

Azriel grit his teeth but didn't respond. He didn't have the energy for an argument right now. He just wanted to sleep.

*See her for 5 minute snad then you can sulk like a spoiled child until you feel better about yourself,* Rhys bargained drily.

Azriel hesitated. He knew he should see her, knew that it would make things easier for everyone if he did. But the thought of seeing her, seeing her happy with Lucien when he was so miserable, was like a knife to the gut.

"Does it even matter what I want?" he asked, his voice flat.

Rhys let out a frustrated sigh, looking at him with exasperation. "Az, stop being so damned stubborn. Elain has been worried sick about you - the least you can do is let her see that you are alive."

Azriel didn't say anything. Didn't respond. He just stared at Rhys, feeling like every fiber of his being was being pulled apart. He wanted to see her. Wanted to see her more than anything. But he knew that once he saw her, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together. He would break. He would shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Just...come on, Az," Rhys said finally. "Let her see you. She needs to know you're alright."

Azriel knew he couldn't say no. Knew he couldn't hurt her like that. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Fine," he said softly. "But just for five minutes."

Five minutes. He could do five minutes. He had to. For her…

She was still as achingly beautiful as she always had been. These devasting brown eyes, the caramel curls...

Azriel's breath hitched at the sight of her, and he felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him. Love, longing, sadness, and that bittersweet pang of being so close to something he could never have.

Behave, Rhys warned him sharply.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Trying to push back that wave of feelings that threatened to drown him. It was just five minutes, he reminded himself. Five minutes. He could do this.

The shadows swirled around him, welling up with intensity, shrouding much of his body in inky blackness and Elain flinched back from them.

She had never quite warmed up to them. Azriel was just thankful for that display, for keeping her away from him as she entered the room, Lucien on her heels.

"How...How are you feeling?" she asked him, her voice soft.

He could tell that she was worried, that she was concerned for him. It warmed something inside him, and he hated himself for it.

"I'm fine," Azriel answered hoarsely. "Just tired.

"I...thank you," Elain said softly, binting her lip. "If you hadn't...if you hadn't killed Koschei and freed Lucien...I...Thank you, Azriel."

Hearing her say his name again was like a punch to the gut. It was both a comfort and a torture, to be so close to her and yet so far away. He swallowed hard, biting back the words that threatened to spill out.

"You don't owe me any thanks," he said quietly. "I just did what had to be done."

"I do owe you my life," Lucien disagreed. "Thank you. Without your interference...I wouln't have survived, " he said flatly.

Azriel just shrugged, feeling a wave of bitterness wash over him. He had saved Lucien, had risked his life to save the male who was mated to the female he loved. It was a strange sort of irony.

"It's fine," he said roughly. "I'm just glad I got there in time."

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at Lucien. It hurt too much. So he stared at the floor, willing the shadows to consume him entirely.

"We are all just happy you are feeling alright," Elain said softly. "I...I was worried about you. Everyone was."

Azriel forced himself to look up at her, his heart clenching at the sincerity in her eyes. She really had been worried about him. "I'm alright," he promised her, his voice rough. "Really. I just need some rest."

Elain hesitated, taking a step forward. He could hear her heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. It was torture to be so close to her and yet so far away. It was torture to know that she was so close and yet so unattainable. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her, but he knew he couldn't. He held onto that last shred of reason he had.

She tugged a piece of hair behind one delicately arched ear...and that was the moment he saw the gold and pearl ring that decorated her ring finger.

"Congratulations." He wasn't sure how he even brought out these words...how he managed to make them sound...appropriately happy for her.

It took a herculean effort to say those words, to offer a smile that barely reached his eyes. Every fibre of his being was screaming in protest, yelling that he should have been the one giving her that ring, that he should have been the one by her side. But he pushed back those feelings, burying them deep down inside of himself. He couldn't let her see how he truly felt. He couldn't let her know how much it was tearing him apart to stand there and look at her. Look at her with her mate, with the male she loved, the one she had chosen.

"Congratulation," he repeated, his voice a little rougher than before.

"It wouldn't have been possible without you," Elain said, with a smile.

Azriel just nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. He couldn't find the words to respond, couldn't find the words to express the tangle of emotions swirling inside of him. He just sat there, feeling more alone and isolated than he had in a long time.

Elain took another step in his direction, seemingly ready to reach out, but Cassian intercepted her. placing a gentle hand on Elain's shoulder. "He needs his rest," he said softly. "Let's leave him be for now."

Azriel felt a pang of gratitude towards Cassian. Elain hesitated, looking torn.

"I wish you every happiness," Azriel brought out his voice hoarsely. Not even a lie. It was the frank truth in these words and Elain gave him a smile, before Lucien's hand came to rest at her lower back, guiding her out of the room.

Thank the cauldron. They were gone.

He slumped back into the pillow. He was falling apart. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He just wanted to be left alone, to lick his wounds in peace.

"Az..." Cassian said carefully, but he cut him off.

“I am tired,” Azriel said, his voice hoarse. “I need to sleep.”

The shadows swirled around him tighter.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look, before Cassian nodded, "Alright," he said. "Get some rest."

He laid down properly, closing his eyes, calling the shadows to him wordlessly. They swamred around him immediately. Damn Near suffocating him. It was the only thing that kept him from starting to sob.

The shadows embraced him, wrapping him in their inky blackness, shielding him from the outside world. They were his only comfort, just like they had been for centuries.

*We are there, Master.* They promised him softly. *It will be fine, Master.*

He didn’t believe a fucking word they said.

*We are not willing to lose you, Master. We aren’t interested in finding a new master,* they told him seriously. He choked out a laugh that turned into a sob.

*Sleep, Master. We'll keep watch,* they promised him.

And they did.

Bone deep exhaustion meant that at least his sleep was dreamless. At least that was given to him. It was a small mercy.

When he woke up again, Nesta was there, sitting in an armchair reading.

Azriel blinked, feeling disoriented and groggy. He sat up slowly, wincing as his wounds protested the movement. Nesta looked up from her book, her expression neutral.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him quietly.

"Fine," he answered, his voice hoarse. He was fine. He would be fine.

"Thank you," Nesta said suddenly.

Azriel looked up at her, surprised. He wasn't even sure what she was thanking him for.

"For what?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“You nearly got yourself killed to save my sister’s mate. I think Thank you is the least I owe you," Nesta said drily.

She mustered him with grey eyes and he knew that she knew. Knew that she knew or at the very least could guess about his feelings for Elain and probably be right. She wouldn't say anything, but she knew.

He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It was over with. Done.

Lucien and Elain could be happy and Azriel…Azriel would hide away somewhere.

"You don't owe me anything," he waved Nesta off weakly, but she didn’t seem to want to take the hint, sticking out her chin.

"Yes, I do," Nesta disagreed. "You are the reason why my little sister is happy right now," she told him fiercely. He swallowed down the unkind words at the tip of her tongue...didn't say anything. Didn't.... He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t…

"Is there anything I can do?" Nesta asked him, her voice soft. "Anything at all, Az?" H knew that he could ask for anything and Nesta would do her level best to give it to him. She was stubborn like that. He had half a mind to ask her to use her silver flames to put him on fire and put him out of his misery.

He didn’t.

Even that wouldn’t fix it.

There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing to make it any better. There was nothing that could...that could fix the ache in his chest.

"Porridge," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Porridge?" Nesta repeated incrediously.

"Porridge with honey. I am hungry," he repeated, meeting her gaze. Food. Food. More Sleep. More Work. He could fill his waking hours with useless things and everybody would be happy.

Nesta just looked at him for a moment, then inclined her head.

"Porridge with honey. Alright," she agreed. Just a moment later a massive bowl of Porridge with honey drizzled on top, appeared on his bedside table, so hot it was steaming. Seemed like the house was in a mood to spoil him. He even got a whiff of cinnamon from it.

"Thank you," he thanked Nesta's creature aloud as the shadows fetched the bowl and held it up for him to eat a spoonful. "What are you reading?" he asked Nesta, changing the topic.

She was polite enough not to say anything about it.

Nesta held up her book. “The newest Sellyn Drake novel,” she replied.

"Is it any good?" he inquired, stirring his porridge gently.

“It’s brilliant," Nesta gushed, her eyes devoured the pages as soon as she looked down to continue reading.

"You seem to really like it," he pointed out, taking another bite of his porridge. "It is brilliant," Nesta agreed readily. “The plot is so intricate and twists and turns and the characters are so deep and complex and their emotions are so real and the romance is so...” she trailed off, blushing slightly.

He opened his mouth to respond...but then he heard her.

Mor. Of course.

He couldn’t deal with Mor. Not right now. But there she was, Rhys hot on her heels.

Nesta heard her too, rolling her eyes, curling back up on her chair, making it very clear that while she was going nowhere, she was letting him deal with it on her own.

And he didn’t want to deal with Mor.

But there she was.

Mor came strolling into the room, her usual confident smile firmly in place. Rhys just looked at Azriel, his expression unreadable.

He didn't say it. But Azriel knew. Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days. Either it was about Elain and Lucien...or about Mor and Emerie. Like Azriel would ever do anything to put that in jeopardy. Like Azriel was a jealous child that wouldn't allow Mor to be happy on her own terms. Like...

Azriel ignored the sharp pang of hurt that shot through him at Rhys's look.

Still it was better than looking at Mor…he couldn’t bear to look at Mor.

Didn't want to look at Mor, in her usual bright red, skin baring dress, that clung to all her curves...didn't want to look at the female he had spent centuries in love with even when he had known that she was never going to return his affections...it hadn't helped him. He had still been in love with her.

And he had still hoped...hoped against all hope that maybe...maybe there would be a time where she would return his affection...that maybe there would be a time where...

But there wouldn't. He knew. He knew. And he had still been in love with her.

Would have given damn near anything for her attention, for that broad smile on her face to be directed in his direction...would have given anything for her to bound over to his bedside and envelope him in her arms...to feel her soft skin against his as she hugged him fiercely, cinnamon and citrus enveloping him.

Now...now it felt like somebody was pouring salt into a gaping wound. Now it felt as painful as the fire and oil on his hands had. She was flaying him alive and she wasn’t even aware that she was hurting him.

"How are you feeling, Az?" Mor's voice was gentle, concerned. He knew it was genuine, knew that Mor really cared about him. But he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not when his heart was bleeding out just from the sound of her voice.

"Fine," he answered, his voice flat. "Nothing that sleep won't fix," he promised her, even as her hands fluttered around him as she sat down on his bedside...

She was so close. He could reach out and touch her, could feel the soft fabric of her dress against his fingertips. He clenched his fists, willing himself to keep his hands to himself.

But he couldn't help it. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He could see the concern there, the worry. He felt a pang of guilt for putting that look on her face. He didn't want to cause her any distress.

"I'm just glad you are feeling better," Mor sighed, gently patting his arm. "You had us all worried for a moment there," she admitted softly.

Even just the touch of her hand felt like she was branding him. He wanted to flinch away and forced himself no to.

It was like a bittersweet poison, the way she touched him. It was so familiar, so comforting. But it was also so painful, a reminder of what he could never have.

He looked away, staring down at his hands. They were shaking, just a little. He clasped them together, the monstrous scars that covered them, standing out starkly.

The shadows trembled around him, pulling nearer, growing darker and Mor watched them with a raised eyebrow. "Worried, are they?" she teased him slightly.

*You are fine, Master,* the shadows promised him. *No more fire,* they promised him fiercely. But it didn’t help. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice cracking.

Mor seemed to sense his discomfort and stood up, her hand slipping from his arm. "Just rest and get better soon, alright?" she said softly, taking a step back.

"Thank you," he thanked her, his voice hoarse.

He risked a glance up at her, just a quick look. Her face was soft, her eyes filled with warmth. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest and he had to look away again. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"We should let him rest, Mor," Rhys said, giving Azriel another look.

"Right, right," Mor agreed, already turning towards the door. "Rest up, Az," she said again, giving him one last smile as she disappeared out the door.

Azriel felt a sense of relief wash over him as she left the room.

Gone. Thank the cauldron. He couldn't take much more of her presence, not right now.

He didn't even want to know why Rhys had accompanied her. Probably because he was worried that Azriel wasn't going to behave.

What was he supposed to do instead? Tell Mor about how much she had hurt him over the centuries? How she had given him jut enough scraps of her affection to make him yearn for more but never telling him that she didn’t love him like that?

He wasn’t going to do that.

He didn't want to look at Rhys right now, didn't want to face the scrutiny of his high lord's gaze. He just wanted to be left alone.

He knew that Rhys was watching him, that the male wanted to say something. But Azriel didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the lecture, the warning. He just wanted to be left alone.

The room fell silent, except for the sound of his own breathing. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the mattress. Maybe if he just pretended to sleep, Rhys would leave him alone.

"He's tired. You should let him sleep," Nesta said flatly.

Leave it to Nesta to tell Rhys to stuff it, he reflected weakly. He heard Rhys sigh, but he kept his eyes closed. And after a moment, he heard the sound of footsteps leaving the room.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

Alone. Safe. Mostly at least.

Life went on. It always did.

The exhaustion went away after a few days... he caught up on Paperwork in the meantime. He sent the shadows off to find him one information or other and they didn't even bitch to him that badly, which told him that even they felt bad for him.

Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days.

So he did. He behaved.

He did his job. He did everything Rhys could possibly want from his spymaster.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He did his job and he trained and he did everyhting that was expected off him.

And then he hadn’t tortured himself enough… and he went to visit Rosehall.

Where his mother lived.

Under the Mountains had it’s own kind consequences. This was one of them: His mother didn’t even want to talk to him anymore.

50 years without him...and his mother had made herself a new family. A family that he wasn’t welcome in. A family that she wanted him nowhere near. He couldn’t fault her for it. Not at all.

She had been half a child when she had had him and it hadn’t been by choice.

So who could blame her for making a new family with people that weren’t as fucked up in the head as he was? Not Azriel.

Azriel didn’t blame her at all. Azriel left her in peace. He didn't reach out. He made sure that she was fine, that she had enough money to never worry about it and otherwise dissappeared from her life.

His shadows kept an eye on her…He shored up the wards around Rosehall and caught a glimpse of her. And then he left it at that. She looked happy. That’s all he cared about.

Happy and safe and…she didn’t need him. She didn’t want him around her either, and he could understand that too.

And still, it hurt. It hurt so fucking much.

But

*You know the rules,* he told the shadows quietly. *You don’t need to report to me about her anymore. Keep an eye on her and only tell me if she is in danger or hurt.*

*Yes, Master,* they agreed readily.

So he went back to the House of Wind. Back to Velaris…Back to work.

He went back to his routine, back to his duties, back to his mask of indifference. He hid the pain behind his usual stoic facade, only letting his shadows know how much it hurt. He threw himself into his work, using it as a way to distract himself from his own loneliness.

And when he wasn't working, he would spend hours and hours in the training ring in the House of Wind, working himself to exhaustion. Anything to try and drown out the ache in his heart.

For gods sake, he even attended Elain and Lucien’s mating ceremony. And gifted them an appropriate gift. He behaved just like Rhys wanted him too.

He even summoned up a smile for them on their special day, hiding his own pain behind a mask of false happiness. He congratulated them both, feeling a pang in his chest at the sight of Elain's beaming face. But he didn’t let it show. He behaved. Like Rhys wanted him too.

He stayed for the whole thing. Stayed for the dancing, stayed for the feast. Stayed until he could physically take it no more. And then he had retreated to that training ring again, beating his pain and loneliness out on whatever dummy he could find.

He was so tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending. Tired of pretending like nothing was wrong. He wanted nothing more than to just scream and rage and shout and cry. But he didn’t. He held it all in. Bottled it up like he was so good at doing.

He was in the bathtub, sluicing off the sweat he was drenched in…shaking off his wings just because he could move them however he wanted to

*You should go out, Master,* the shadows suggested seriously. *Go out and find a female.*

He just snorted. *Not interested,* he sniped back harshly. *I am not getting my heart broken again.*

Everybody could just fuck off and leave him alone. Even when he was aching…aching for somebody in his life that loved him. For whom he could be everything. Somebody he could dote on. Somebody that wanted his attention, that wanted his love…that would like his ruined hands on their body and wasn’t paid to simply acccept it.

*You could let us pick her!* the shadows suggested brightly.

His eyes snapped back open and he glared at the shadows swirling around the room. *Absolutely not,* he said firmly. *I mean it, you stay out of it.*

*We can’t do a worse job than you do,* they sniped at him. *Neither The Seer nor The Morrigan would have suited you at all.*

*Excuse me?!*

*You heard us, Master,* the shadows said, sounding far too smug for their own good. *And you know it.*

Azriel just glared at them, feeling his temper start to rise. *I know I wasn’t good enough for them,* he snapped. *You don’t need to tell me that.*

*You think you weren’t good enough for them?!* The shadows asked him incredulously.

*They deserve better. So much better than me,* he said quietly. "I'm not good enough for either of them. Never was.*

What was he, after all? An Illyrian bastard? A monster? Either? Both?

He had never said it out loud before, not even to himself. But in that moment, lying in the water, his heart so raw and exposed, he couldn't help but speak the truth that he had always known but never admitted to himself. "I'm not good enough for either of them," he repeated softly, the weight of his words settling heavily on his chest.

He knew it was true. Mor was a golden ray of light, the embodiment of beauty and grace. Elain was sweet and gentle and kind, a pure soul in a sea of darkness.

And what was he? Damaged. Broken. Scarred. Inside and out.

He had done unspeakable things, things that would haunt his nightmares for centuries to come. He was nothing compared to them. He was darkness, they were light. And they deserved better than him, far better than him.

Even if he had loved Mor with every fiber of his being, even if he had yearned for her with every beat of his heart, even if he had dreamed of her every night, it didn't matter. It had never mattered. Because he wasn't good enough for her. And he never would be.

He wasn’t good enough for Elain. The mother hadn’t thought it to be prudent to make them mates. Both of his brother had been gifted with a mating bond, but not him. That should tell him everything he needed to know abotu the state of his own soul.

So why…why should he even try anymore.

Why shouldn’t he just stew in his own misery, alone and heartbroken and a monster and expect everybody to just leave him alone? There was no point of putting himself out there again. There was nothing out there for him. Nothing but more pain.

So he closed his eyes again, sinking lower into the water, letting the warmth soothe his aching muscles. He let out a long sigh, his mind already racing with thoughts of his next missions, his next assignments. Because that was all that really mattered now. His job. His duties. His responsibilities. That was all he had left.

Behave. That’s all he was good for.

*Alright, that’s fucking enough,* the shadows snapped. *You are not letting The High Lord talk to you like that any longer, Master.*

Azriel was so surprised by their fucking vehemence that he could just stare at them.

*The Morrigan used you for centuries to make herself feel better about herself,* the shadows snapped. *She used the feelings you had for her and that she was very much aware of to strangle you and keep you in line.*

Azriel swallowed. He knew they were right. He knew that Mor had used his feelings for her for a long time. She had led him on, given him false hope, only to yank it away time and time again. It had been a painful cycle, one that had left him feeling used and broken and worthless.

*She could have stopped at any time but she never did,* the shadows hissed. *But instead she hurt you on purpose. Instead of turning you down, she slept with other males to show you that you would never have her!*

Azriel felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Mor had flaunted her other lovers in front of him, making it clear that he would never be enough for her. She had used his devotion to her as a weapon against him, wielding it whenever it suited her needs. And he had let her. He had been foolish, desperate enough to cling onto any scrap of affection she might throw his way.

*And The Seer?! Granted she has never done that, but her feelings for you weren’t particular deep when she replaced you on her affections with The Fox as soon as you weren’t available anymore! If she had cared, truly cared, she would have thought about what happened during Winter Solstice,* the shadows snapped.

*And The High Lord? Don’t even let us get started on him,* the shadows snapped. *You haven’t even done anything since that Winter Solstice, and he keeps behaving like some kind of despotic Overlord, worried that his orders won’t be followed. If you wanted to punch him in the face, you probably had every right to it,* they mumbled.

Azriel couldn’t help but snort.

*You deserve better, Master,* The shadows told him fiercely. *You deserve somebody that loves you.*

. He wanted to believe the shadows. He wanted to believe that he was good enough, that he deserved more. But the scars on his body and the memories in his mind told him otherwise. He had done terrible things, things that he could never undo. How could someone like that be good enough for anyone?

*Alright,* he finally agreed weakly. *Find me a house,* he told the shadows, as he closed his eyes.

*A house? What kind of house?* the shadows gave back, sounding surprised.

*A house,* he repeated. *A home. Somewhere in Velaris. Find me a home.* Something that could just be his.

A home. The idea sent a flutter through his stomach. He had never…never truly had a home. Had something that could just be his and nobody else’s. Just…a place that was his, where he could be whoever he wanted, where he was accepted and loved...it was appealing. Maybe even more than just appealing.

He closed his eyes, picturing it in his mind. A cozy little house, just large enough for himself. Warm and cozy and filled with light.

*That’s what a male needs to take a wife after all, right?* He asked, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. Was that what he should want? What he was supposed to want? He had never really thought about getting married before. But now, at the mention of it, he couldn't help but feel a pang of longing. A wife...a family...love and companionship. It all sounded so…so nice.

*You want to get married, Master?* the shadows asked curioulsy. *To whom?*

*You pick,* he told the shadows. They swarmed out in pure excitment. Azriel couldn’t even remmeebr the last time they had been so excited.

He couldn't help but chuckle at their reaction. Maybe they would do a better job than him. At least they could probably sieve out females that were in a romantic relationship or preferred females themselves.

*Find me somebody that I could make happy. Somebody that….Somebody that could want me.* Some long-suffering female for whom Azriel could maybe try to be enough. Somebody that would love him.

*What should she look like?* they asked seriously.

*I don’t care. Find me somebody that loves me and she’ll be the most beautiful female to me anyway.*

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #It's a Love Story

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katiascraft · 1 month ago

Note

Hi!! Sorry to bother you with a request. Can you make some angsty with miscomunication with happy ending where lando and reader are best friends and kinda like a thing but at the same time he is kinda with magui and then after a while lando and reader start dating and then dts Its drop and she finds out that magui was there when she trough They were already over? Very specific he he and im not good at english im sorry and thank you!

hey anon! I loved this idea sooooo much. i was already thinking about something like this so thank you so very much for your request! and sorry it took this long for me to write it :( i hope you enjoy it <3 (pss your english is very good and your requests will never bother me, they make me happy!) (also I hope it makes sense)

﹙LN4﹚ ── ❝ almost, always ❞

summary: this chapter of y/n’s life is about how lando said there was nobody else for him but then she appeared.

warnings: i used reckless by madison beer to write this one and traitor by olivia rodrigo :( and cried a lot. very angsty. but a happy ending after all. cursing. cheating. insults. please use your imagination along the ride! not proofread.

blog masterlist

You and Lando have been the best of friends since forever. Your older brother, Dante, went to school with George Russell and he has always been really supportive of his driving career. Since you have memory you were playing around at the karting competitions in different places of england and then europe. All of your family was really close to George's family so no doubt you were going to be there for him when he started racing in F2. and that’s exactly when you and Lando met. He was a cute little guy. But a handsome teenager with the most contagious laugh and sparkly ocean blue eyes. You knew that since then, that very first day of competition, you were in love with him.

And Lando knew it too. He knew the moment he saw your sweet and shy smile directed at him there was no coming back to where things were. You changed his life. You showed him how it was like to love someone. The sun was behind you and it made you look like an angel in his teenage eyes. You were the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. So he knew he didn't have a chance. He kept his feelings and thought that he should be thankful you even talk to him. But you didn’t just talk to him just for talking. You built this magical bond full of love, understanding, admiration. It was healthy. It was safe.

You were inseparable, unbreakable and above all, untouchable. Everyone could see the chemistry. The sparks coming out of you. You had the kind of bond that made people think ‘they must be something more than just friends’. But you both were too scared to do anything about it. You just enjoyed each other's company and it was beautiful that way.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Nowaday things between you two are completely different but you were more than sure that if there was a chance to travel back in time, you would. And you would change everything that ruined everything. All the wrong decisions. All the stupid feelings. Her. you would more than gladly erase her. And maybe even erase him too.

Because even though he brought so much joy and love in your life, he also brought a lot of pain and insecurity. He was once your safe place but now you want to be as far away from him as possible. You’re no longer on speaking terms anymore.

situationships suck ᝰ.ᐟ

(beginning 2023 - middle 2024)

You had convinced yourself what you felt for him was normal. That your heart racing every time he was too close was normal. That the way he looked at your lips when he talked to you was also normal. That the way he looked for you in the crowd every podium was normal. That the way butterflies went in circles in your stomach was normal. That your happiness was coming from his happiness was normal.

It must be because he has a girlfriend. Luisa. And you like her, right?

His touch didn’t burn your skin. His fingers didn’t trace circles in them when he was anxious. He didn’t whisper in your ear everytime he was nervous. He didn't ask his team to specifically be allowed to be at the garage close to him. He didn’t introduce you to every single member of the team and everybody knew you. He didn ‘t do all of that when she wasn’t around… because she wasn’t around and you were.

Lando didn’t know what to do with his feelings. She was his best friend, the girl who got him in and out, through and through. She knew everything about him. She listened. She smiled at him in the sweetest way and made him gifts. When she was around she was the only person that mattered. And sometimes he forgot he had a girlfriend whether she was around or not. It was her, always. But he was a coward and didn’t believe she liked him back that way. She was gorgeous and he was just a dude. He wasn’t special the way he thought she was.

For him, it has always been you. But fear was a cruel thing. He didn’t wanna lose you. He didn’t want to hurt you. He wouldn’t forgive himself.

So he played along as the loving and caring boyfriend with luisa when you were the only thing in his head. He preferred to stay in your safe bubble of almosts and what ifs rather than fuck it up with you.

Until that night. The night he knew he couldn’t keep pretending and lose you. He couldn’t keep on lying to luisa. She deserved better. But seeing you with that guy in that little black dress drove him almost insane. You were so close to him, flirting disgustingly. He was red with anger. He wanted to do something but his girlfriend was there and you were supposed to be just that friend of his. His best friend and that was it. He should be happy for you. But he wasn’t.

So in between the conversation you turned around and saw him staring. Stone face. He was looking straight through you. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The way his jawline was pressed in a way it made his muscles show even more. His shirt unbuttoned. The lights reflecting on his beautiful eyes. You almost panicked. You could feel he was feeling the same. You knew you weren’t crazy.

He felt it too.

You don’t remember how it happened but you ended up on his sheets that night. The way he kissed you so desperately. He broke up with luisa as if it was easy. You didn’t have time to process it at the moment. To see the red flags waving high in the sky. Desire and desperation made it easy to ignore them. He was all your brain could think. His skin against yours. You moaning his name.

You have waited for that moment your whole life. And you didn’t remember feelings of ecstasy ever before.

“It’s always been you, yaknow?” His voice was deep and low. He pressed a soft kiss on your neck sending shivers down your spine. His fingers are tracing patterns in your arm. He felt at ease under your scent.

You remember that night as the most magical night of your life. But you didn’t know that to him it was just another story he would get bored of and throw away.

While you were together, life was the most exciting thing in the world. Road trips, dates at the beach, paddle matches and barbecue with friends, travelling to london to visit his family, party nights, sex, kisses, roses and diamonds. It was perfect. He was the sweetest guy in this world. But there was one thing you wouldn't do. And that was calling him ‘mine’ because he wasn’t yours. You were just ‘friends’. But friends shouldn’t know how you taste, right?

That made you feel so confused. He told you he loved you and made love to you as if it was a promise. But then you were his friend to his family and friends. Just y/n. It was you, yes but not the way you would’ve preferred to be called.

But then, out of nowhere it seemed, he would flirt with girls at parties in your face. And that’s when everything started going to shit. You didn’t understand what was actually going on. Why was he doing that? If you were so important to him, why would he play with you this way? If he cared so much about you, why would he put you under so much shit?

But the breaking point was her. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a smile to die for. She was nothing special, just a blonde girl. But I guess blondes always have more fun than the rest of us, and more with that angelic face of hers. That’s when you lost lando. He started talking about her ‘she is nice, you know? I think you would like her’. And then he would stop inviting you to dates, but she would go with him and watch the sunset at max’s yacht. And she started replacing you in every way she could. And you just watched it happen being unable to stop it. You started realizing he didn’t even care about you. You were just another girl on his list and probably never considered you an actual friend. If he did, he wouldn’t have played with you this way. But he did, and it hurt.

And that’s when everything ended.

just a friend ᝰ.ᐟ

(july 2024)

“She’s just a friend y/n” he said, fed up with your questioning. You can clearly see in his face that he was so done with this discussion.

“Lando, for fucks sake, stop lying to me. She clearly isn't” you insisted on entering his room at his Monaco house.

“I can’t keep up with this y/n. Just stop. I don’t know what else you want me to say” he was getting really annoyed.

“The truth! Tell me the fucking truth! Was I a joke to you? You never cared, did you? You just wanted to laugh in my fucking face right?” your voice expressed how hurt you were.

“You’re not a joke y/n”

You laughed dryly “right, alright. Then what’s her? Max told me lando, you kissed her. And i know you fucked her multiple times, i just know it. Stop pretending you dont know what the fuck is going on when you know exactly what im talking about!” tears started to stream down your face “is this what you wanted? Did you ever care about our friendship? My fucking feelings? I feel so used, it's disgusting lando. I knew you were stupid but I never thought you would be this evil. If you didn’t love me then why did you do all of this?”

“y/n, i love you” you could see in his face he was now scared. But you didn't care anymore. And didn’t want to know the reasons for it either.

“No, you don’t lando! If you fucking did you wouldn’t have hurt me this way! I was there for you for fucks sake, i was fucking there for you all of this time! I gave you everything! Everything! And all you ever wanted was to fuck a fucking model?! I can’t believe I was so damn stupid to believe every lie you fed me! Oh god i hate myself so much”

·y/n, please, calm down. We can talk this-”

“Do you really are asking me to fucking calm down after what you did?! And you didn't even deny it! You’re so guilty of all of it. You knew! You knew what you were fucking doing and you didn’t care! I hate you, lando. I hate you with every gut i have left”

“No, no, no. please, y/n. Let me explain. It’s not like that. I do care about you. I just thought you didn’t want to be with me. You became so close to Max I thought you wanted to be with him and…”

You couldn’t believe your ears. You just couldn’t believe he would really use that as an excuse. “Shut up lando, max is a fucking friend. It was you. It has always been you. Holy shit! I have your fucking letters saying i was all you have ever wanted! How could you? You’re ashamed of me, that's it, right? I'm not as beautiful as I should be for you to call me yours. I'm not a model enough for you, am I? I can't believe it! I'm so stupid”

“No, y/n is not that, believe me. she isn't you.” he was literally begging on his knees.

“Don’t be pathetic lando, i won’t ever believe a fucking word you say. You’re a liar. You played me as a toy. Like I was nothing and now you want me to believe you? Hope you are fucking happy with her, and i hope she can make up for what i couldn’t for not being fucking good enough for you” you were so hurt you just had to run from that bedroom, from that house.

“y/n! Wait! Please!” It was too late. You were already in your mclaren. “I don’t know what I did…” he was left talking alone. And not understanding what he even did. But he knew he already regretted it.

she. isn't. you.

she must be perfect but I hope you both go to hell ᝰ.ᐟ

(august 2024)

After that day, I didn't leave my bed. The way it all happened so fast. The way he would still lie to you. You hated men. You hated him and everything about him. All you knew from that day was what you could see on social media even though you always put ‘dont show this content’ or ‘i'm not interested in this content’. He lied and told everyone at a fan meeting that he was single, when you knew from Max he already asked her out… unlike with you.

She seemed nice. She was very beautiful. But you weren’t that evolved yet. You hated her. If she didn’t exist then he would be still yours. It would be you there on holiday in the alps. Oh god, you fucking wanted to be her. She was all you wanted to be. Skinny, blonde, flawless. You wanted everything she had. She was sunkissed, you felt like a vampire. She was shining and you were drowning. She took everything from you and left no crumbs.

And the worst part is that he seemed to be happy. You are still friends with Pietra and she told you she was nice and that they got along pretty well. And that maybe if you and lando want to fix it, you all can be a huge group of friends. You fucking hated that idea. It repulsed you. But you weren’t so sure if it was because of her or because of him no more.

It should be you, it should be you, it should be you.

You were driving yourself insane stalking her profile. Obsessing with the idea she was everything you were not. You wanted to burn her alive even though the real asshole was him.

But you loved him first, right? That should matter… Did it matter? Did he think of you? Did he regret it? Did he talk to her about his fears and dreams? Did he share the same joke that was only yours? Did he talk to her in her ear the same way he used to do with you? Was he as obsessed with her as he was with you? Did he feel the same? Was he in love?

All the questions weren’t letting you have a moment of peace and your brain was really good at torturing you.

guess my friends were right (you might love her now but you loved me first) ᝰ.ᐟ

(from august 2024 to march 2025)

Life for Lando wasn’t that easy after seeing you walking away from his life. He knew he fucked it up. But he tried to play it cool. As if you were right about everything, because he thinks he deserves to suffer after what he has done. Yes, he was a masochist at this point. He was dating someone he didn’t like at all, he knew. But he couldn’t stop his torture because he simply believed he didn’t deserve to be happy. He saw your eyes, the saw the pain he caused for being such a coward. And stupid. And idiotic. And a fucking loser. He acted like a kid and lost the girl of his dreams. The girl who had been there for him since the beginning. The one that got him by just looking in her eyes. She knew. She knew all of him, the real him. All his fears and dreams and desires and mistakes. He had it all. He had her, all of her to himself but let it fall. He threw her against the floor and broke her into so many pieces. And instead of mending his faults, he just ran away crying. Like a little kid running away from the monster under his bed.

Maggie was doing her makeup at the hotel room’s mirror. He watched her for a while trying to puzzle what he felt for her. But all he wanted to see was you. And he knew it was impossible for that to happen now. And probably like ever again.

The fact he had to pretend every single minute of his life was starting to take a toll on him. He lost that spark he used to have. He lost that characteristic smile when he did well in a race. And his interviews just turned monotone and grey. Something was off people would comment. But he didn’t care. He deserved it. He fucking deserved it.

Maggie always tried to cheer him up and he pretended it was just because he hated the media. And not because you used to be there with him, always. But now it is almost alone.

It almost happened. It was almost you. It was almost the happy ending you deserved but he decided to ruin it. It was almost you and him against the world. But it was almost, though all he wanted was forever with you.

At the beginning he was obsessed with maggi. The way her eyes looked at him, that cheeky smile of hers. She was all he wanted as a fantasy. She was his fantasy in real life. He was so captivated by her looks and sweet voice. Almost like yours. But something drew him to her. He still doesn’t know what it was. Guess some things don't have an explanation. She was soft and shiny. He wanted to touch her everywhere, everytime. He forgot he had the love of his life waiting for him to watch a movie and eat burritos and kinders. He forgot the small things mattered more. He forgot what it was like to feel love during sex. But he was drunk. In her looks, in the way she talked to him. He forgot about you. He couldn't concentrate.

But when you were gone, he pretended maggie was you as twisted as it sounds. He was convinced he became completely insane. People constantly telling him how awful he was to the poor girl. Your brother hates him. Dante didn’t say hi to him ever again since that day.

He saw you at a couple of races at the Mercedes garage. You always pretended to have never known him in your life. He saw fans on twitter theorizising why you didn’t look at him anymore. They also believed it was his fault. And surely it was.

That day you walked past him. He smelled your scent, still wearing the same perfume you adored so much and that made him fall in love the first time he saw you. You were laughing while talking with Carmen in Spanish, because you were the king of languages. You were really good at them and you enjoyed so much learning new stuff. He liked that about you, you are always driven to learn and learn and learn. He wanted to say hi, and even though you ignored him, Carmen looked at him in a really not inviting way. Everybody knew he fucked it up. He felt so ashamed of himself.

said you’d never hurt me but here we are ᝰ.ᐟ

(australian grand prix, 2025)

You were so nervous to be back at the paddock and at the same time so excited for this new chapter for mercedes. You were longing for Lewis but at the same time you were very excited about kimi. Weather conditions were terrible and it in a really sarcastic way showed how you really felt about being there. You didn’t want to come at first but Carmen was a really good convincing person and you were no exception. Plus, you wanted to see your friends George and Alex. The two brits were your best friends since F2 back in 2018 when it all started. It was insane that so many years have passed already. All of the memories you cherished in your heart. They were so precious to you.

Kym illman received you at the gates taking pictures of you, your brother, carmen and george coming into the paddock for race day. You always hated the media because their cameras made you look so bad, you thought. But it was part of your friend’s work so, it was what it was. You were already so wet you thought it was embarrassing. A super big mercedes hoodie covered your body as a dress and some rain boots on. And you called that outfit a day. It wasn’t glamorous at all, but it was so you for sure.

Heading to the Mercedes hospitality, you saw Lando taking coffee with his parents at the McLaren hospitality. Your brother put on his best dog face and didn’t look at them. But for some reason you couldn’t do that to his parents even though you hated their son. Lando’s mom looked at you and waved happily to see you. “Hey!, y/N!” she said sweetly and smiled at her. They were always really good to you. So you got closer and said hi to them properly with a kiss on a cheek and a little hug for each.

“Hi” , you only said to Lando, keeping your distance in a sad and shy smile. He half smiled as well.

“Hi” he said back to you the same way.

“Darling you look so gorgeous, I love that haircut on you. You’re such a pretty girl” his mom said and made you blush immediately.

“Oh, thank you so much… i gotta go… have a great race, lando” you said a bit awkwardly and walked away to the mercedes hospitality to join your people.

Lando was in awe of you. He kept the way you said his name on his head. It’s been the longest time without hearing your voice, that he realized he forgot how it sounded. And he also realized that it was your sweet voice, the only voice he wanted to listen to the rest of his life. He hated himself for that. But after all this time, he had made one thing right. He broke up with Maggi a week ago. He couldn’t keep pretending, he was done.

“She looked really beautiful… it’s sad you don't talk anymore. We really liked her” his mother said and he shook his head a bit.

“i fucked it up, mom. But i will figure out a way to make it right again” he answered but more reassuring himself rather than his mother.

She smiled looking proudly at her son “the good thing is to learn darling, you’re a good boy, let yourself be happy and fight for what makes you happy… you deserve it” she said sweetly sending lando all the energy he needed to go afloat.

the only girl you’ve ever wanted in your life ᝰ.ᐟ

Lando won. Lando won. Lando won. He did it. Of course you were happy for your friend who came out third and kimi fourth! What an amazing race though you were at the brink of suffering from a heart attack for two hours. After a lot of champagne was thrown to George, you were resting in the hospitality building waiting for your brother, Dante and George to come around. Carmen went to talk to alexandra for a bit and Lili was already at the hotel. So you decided to check on twitter all of the memes and opinions on this race. You saw a few people sharing your pics and commenting whether they were happy to see you or telling you looked disgusting as ever. It was hard to get used to this side of the sport but you always tried to brush it off.

You were so concentrated on your phone, you didn’t realize until the third time Lando cleared his throat that he was there standing in front of you in his casual clothes already, and freshly showered, smelling as good as you remembered him.

“Hi,” he said again, sitting in front of you. You smiled a bit shocked that he is here in front of you after so many months of not even seeing pics of him. And he looked really nice in your opinion, but when did he not?

“Hey” you said. He was nervous, he didn’t like the fact your hoodie wasn’t McLaren but you looked cute anyway.

“It's been a long time,” he answered.

“Yup” you nodded.

Silence.

You stared at each other for a while. If someone walked past, they would think you were playing eyesight war but you were just analysing each other trying to think of what to say or where to begin.

“I’m sorry” you both said in unison. You looked at each other in surprise now and then laughed it away.

“Alright, that was a bit weird,” he said, giggling. “Guess, we still connected somehow…” his voice turning off as the sentence ends.

“I guess in a way we are… I can't stop thinking about you and what happened…” you confessed even to your own surprise.

He smiled a little, feeling his heart start to race “me neither to be honest… i feel terrible about it” you could see how honest he was being. Or at least to want to believe him. He felt different. You guessed that maybe he doesn't know why he lied that much either.

“I miss you” you confessed even though you didn’t want to. But even after everything… you still loved him.

His eyes showed a little spark. It wasn't there when he sat in front of me a few minutes ago. Now his smile got bigger showing his dimples. He was a pretty motherfucker, you thought.

“I miss you too,” he agreed.

Was this the beginning of a second chance? Or maybe you're announced dead?

Or maybe the happily ever after you have always dreamed about, but only time will tell.

THE ENDᝰ.ᐟ

dont forget to reblog, like or comment if you liked it! and follow me so we can be friends <3 (and drink mate together)

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kabuki-writes · 5 months ago

Text

The Laugh of Nero

chapter: 4 chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 5

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: General Acacius faces the consequences of his conspiracy, while his daughter unexpectedly meets Emperor Caracalla alone for the first time.

Note: -

word count: 3.6k

Romans loved the story of old philosopher Seneca. He was once the teacher of Emperor Nero almost 200 years ago and although body was dead, his life continued through writings: one of it being the drama 'Octavia'. It was a popular play in the amphitheaters of Ancient Rome and beyond. And it was a favorite of yours.

The plot focused on three days during which the Emperor divorced and exiled his wife Claudia Octavia and married another, his lover Poppaea Sabina. It was indeed a tragedy, that gave the audience a glimpse into the madness of Nero, the wisdom of Seneca and the tragedy of Octavia. Oh how you could relate to Octavia. The divergence between her fear, hatred and sadness against her will to withstand and be wiser than what was thrown against her, it intrigued you. Somehow you felt the same in your current situation. On the one handside you feared the future and displeased the attention of the Emperors on you, yet you wanted to do everything to persevere. In a way, the stoic nature of Seneca's character in this play gave you some kind of guidance too. Stoicism, maybe you needed to stick to that even more as you were not able to control your surroundings as it seemed?

You took your seat in the upper-ranks of the amphitheater, accompanied by two of your closest friends. Cicero was one of the grandsons of senator Gracchus and now served as one of the senate’s transcriptors for as long as he was not old enough to candidate for a political mandate himself. The other one was Lydia, the daughter of General Britannicus, who fought alongside your father countless of times and was now fighting with his legions in the far north of the Empire. "Oh, i hope Scato is going to play Octavia this time! The last time i saw him in the role of Electra - it was just mesmerizing. He is just so handsome", Lydia sighed, as she always seemed to be that actor's number one supporter. You and Cicero laughed in response before you gave your friend a small pat on the shoulder. "I already heard that you approached him after the last play. Beware actors, Lydia. They might be charming, but they're also free spirits," you explained with a smirk on your lips, before Cicero added. "Oh everyone would run, when they hear about her father."

"Come on! Stop it! I am just daydreaming! I know he will never let me spend time with someone that isn't a boring military officer!" Lydia turned her face away because she turned completely red, but as she did, she noticed the black armory of the Praetorian guards, who escorted one of the Emperors to the royal box of the Amphitheater. "y/n, Cicero, look!"

You quickly turned your eyes to the scene and your face went pale in an instant, when you saw the luxurious decorated robe, the blonde-ginger hair and the golden laurel wreath. That profile, the curved nose and the make up... you instantly noticed, which brother was here to witness the play of 'Octavia'.

Nero.

In that very moment, he turned his head in an attempt to take a look at the crowd and you tried your best to keep your head low, while your sight was locked to the stage in front of you.

"Is everything alright, y/n?", Cicero asked irritated, while he tried to make sense of your sudden change of behavior.

"Yes, yes i just... i've never seen Emperor Caracalla here."

"Really? He comes to the theater quite often to watch plays", Lydia managed to say, before the crowd slowly fell silent as the first actor slowly walked on stage. The young woman next to you blushed and you could feel Lydia's hand clinging on your arm as if she needed something to hold on - the actor was indeed Scato and the costume he wore was 'Octavia' - a flowing robe with a long, curled wig and extravagant make-up that captured the sadness of her character perfectly.

But you couldn't really focus. Your eyes went to the royal box, the best place to watch the play in a comfortable isolation from the rest of the spectators. Here he sat, accompanied by an entourage of 'friends' and a little monkey which sat on his lap. Suddenly his eyes went from the stage over the crowd and suddenly, he saw you. Your heart sunk to your feet and you instantly turned back to the stage to witness Scato's monologue. He had seen you... and what you were not able to witness now was how he turned to one of his Praetorian Guards, to which he whispered an order.

You tried to keep calm as you stared at the stage, where Octavia was now accompanied by a chorus, who wept for the terrible treason she had to endure when Nero decided to take another woman as his wife. Meanwhile your fingers clinged into the fabric of your toga-styled dress as you gathered your thoughts. You still recalled the words you'd talked with him at the Collosseum - the way you had his attention. Women would kill for what you were able to get if you just continue - but then you heard the words of your father, you saw his worried eyes in front of you and you knew something was terribly wrong.

You were so encaptured in your own thoughts that Lydia grabbed your arm again, but this time it was not because she was about to fall for the man on stage, but because a Praetorian Guard was standing right at the side of your seats and pointed at you. "You. Follow me," he ordered in a very demanding tone, while your friends looked at you in shock. They didn't know what you'd witnessed before, so you grabbed their hands and just gave them an encouraging smile. "Don't worry about me, we see each other soon, alright?", you whispered before you stood up and followed the guard upstairs to the place where Emperor Caracalla had his seat.

_________________________________

"y/n, what a pleasant surprise to meet you here! Please, take a seat!", you heard the voice of Emperor Caracalla as you stepped into the royal box of the amphitheater and bowed to him.

"Leave us, Go!", he hissed quickly to his entourage, who - without a word - got up from their seats and left as quickly as they could, but not without giving you a two-faced look. It was almost as if they already knew something you didn't, as if they both pitied and envied you at the same time. You hold their glances to not give in to any mockery they might've had in their minds and would speak out to each other when they were gone. Then it was only you and the young Emperor,... and his pet monkey, which was seemingly busy eating grapes from a bowl of fruit.

With slow, careful movements you approached the seats in the front and sat down beside Caracalla, his eyes never leaving you as you did. "A funny coincidence, is it not? I remember that we talked about 'Octavia' and here we are now", he chuckled, while he leaned back and for a moment, he watched the stage, where Seneca approached Nero about the divorce of his first wife.

"A coincidence, indeed", you answered and followed his glance. There he was, the mad Emperor, who complained about the unfair treatment of him through his own mother, which he cursed over and over again. At that point she was already dead - believed to be murdered by an order of Nero himself.

"You haven't fully answered me back then, when i asked why you see yourself as Nero". The question came from your mouth while you still followed the actor's movements in his luxurious decorated robes, a red wig on his head - it somehow reminded you of Caracalla.

"The play is written to portray him as a monster, am i sitting next to one?"

Maybe it was almost too bold to ask that. You already regretted speaking those words out loud, when his view instantly switched to you, his blue eyes digging into you like a sharp blade. Suddenly, he simply burst into a resounding laughter, that made your lose your breath for a moment, as you stared at him with irritation.

"Gods, you're really amusing", Caracalla grinned wide, showing off his gold tooth. Nonetheless he gave you an answer. "It depends..."

He raised his hand and let his little monkey climb on it. When he reached his shoulder, Caracalla took a grape and fed it to the animal, before it started to groom his wild hair. Not caring about it, he continued. "Everyone views Nero as mad for breaking the chains that his mother and his predecessor layed on him. He never loved Octavia, yet he had to marry her. He never wanted to be Emperor, yet he became one. His mother tried to control him, so much so, that he needed to get rid of this old hag." The last words were almost a hissing tone, as if he was speaking of something he could truly relate to.

"Now everyone is plotting against him, the Gods, his damned first wife, his teacher, all of Rome, only because he started to follow his own path and married the woman he loved. A tragedy, truly - not just for Octavia, don't you think?"

He looked straight into your eyes, waiting for your answer and you sensed that this was a key moment, where you could say something wrong. In a way, you could see what he meant, but there was something he didn't see. Nero broke the chains, yes, but he broke them with cruelty, murder and terror.

"Isn't everything in our lives a tragedy?", you asked and it seemed to please Caracalla, as his bright grin returned, before he turned to the stage once more, crawling his pet monkey while he followed the next scene.

Oh how he could relate to those words. No one could understand the tragedy of his own life, always being seen as the underestimated, 'weaker' and younger brother. But he enjoyed this talk more than he was willing to admit. And he was sure that you were able to understand him to a certain degree, the first woman to do so.

Suddenly, his pet jumped over to you, climbing onto your shoulder and taking a strain of hair to look at your curls.

"Dondus, no! Don't hurt the fair lady!" In an instant, Caracalla jumped from his seat, but before he tried to take the monkey again, he noticed your sudden yet beautiful laugh and how you reached out to pat Dondus carefully, softly, with your filigran fingers. How he wished that those fingers would touch him in that very moment, while his hands stiffened.

"It is fine, please - don't worry", you said quickly, since the monkey didn't hurt you in any way - in fact the way he climbed on your shoulders, touched your hair with his tiny fingers and groomed them with interest in his dark eyes, was very cute. And your reaction was honest.

"I think, he likes you", Caracalla mumbled, while he returned to his seat, still watching you how gentle you were with Dondus, one of his only 'real friends'. It was his own pet, his alone and caring for him often calmed his mind. Just as you did in this very moment since no word came from his mouth - he just watched. Why, just why does he have to share you with Geta soon...

Slowly he reached for his cup of wine and poured it down in an attempt to numb his thoughts over this damn fact.

"You said you see yourself in Octavia, but you could be Poppaea", he whispered, his eyes locked on yours.

"I could be," you responded, the focus laying on 'could', while you were still playing with the little monkey. In a way you started to find your path in this game. "Either way my fate would end in death then."

Caracalla laughed boisterous once again in response to your words, while he raised his cup. "And yet you would live in delight instead of agony. Let us toast to the inevitable death of us all". You took your cup and followed his toast.

"To the tragedy of us all." As you drank a first sip of your wine, you still saw how he looked you straight into the eyes. It was clear that he just waited for the next chance to say something and this time he was closer than before, leaning over the armrest of his throne. The Emperor was close enough for you to smell the scent of his perfumes and the wine on him.

"I just know we will have a lot of fun, once we see each other more often," he chuckled. His words hit you, but you tried your best not to drop your mask of neutrality. You'd almost began to enjoy this conversation up to this point. What did he mean by that?

Should you ask? No, it would be terribly impolite to question something like that in the presence of an Emperor. Only your lips parted, while you searched for your next words. Caracalla was the one to grin again, his gold tooth shimmering in the lights that came from the stage of the theater. And his next words rang through your ears like a bell.

"Don't forget to thank your dear father, once you're back home."

_________________________________

Marcus Acacius walked through the hallways of the Imperial Palace, escorted by the Praetorian Guard. He was not in chains, but wore his dark brown leather armor with the wine red whool cloak and his helmet under his arm - the armor of a General. In fact, he didn't really know why he was even here in the first place. It was quite early for a new war campaign, but he stopped to question them long ago anyways. It wouldn't be a surprise, if the Emperors had already found a new target for their obsession. The mere hunger for expansion was enough to never satisfy both Geta and Caracalla, who simply took military like Acacius and moved them on a map as if they were simple toy figures. The glory of Rome was what they promised the people, yet all the older man had seen was death and despair over and over again - even though he always came back with a victory laurel wreath on his head. What an irony.

The fact that everything was like the last times he was called to the palace, made him unobservant to the fact that he was walking straight into a trap. He was sure that his secret was still a secret - that he and the senators were safe in a way. Maybe safe enough to carry out their plan once the time was ready for it. How wrong he was on this...

When he stepped into the throne room, the guards behind him closed the door and he greeted Emperor Geta according to the protocol in situations like these. "My Emperor", he said with his fist on his chest and his eyes locked on the young man, who stood in front of one of the two elaborately designed thrones, which were placed on a platform at the center of the room.

"General Acacius! It is good to see you again. Come forward...," Geta called and his waving hand was a signal for him to move, to come closer. As he did, Marcus noticed that the other twin was missing, but this wasn't a surprise too since Caracalla was often 'occupied' with other things. In reality, he simply hated politics and rather threw himself into diffent forms of pleasure in an attempt to escape the stuffiness.

They were not alone, a couple of Praetorian guards stood at their distinct positions as they always did and therefore the general simply ignored them.

Meanwhile Geta had to force himself to keep a straight face, when the traitor approached him as if nothing happened at all, as if he was not about to put a sword into his neck with those filthy senators - just as Julius Caesar got betrayed by his kin and the senate as well. The young Emperor would not let this happen again.

"Tell me, General, why did i call for you?"

Acacius brows furrowed, while he looked to the map table, which was standing alone in front of the great window. It was untouched.

"I thought you might answer me that, your Grace. The last time we talked, you granted me a pause before i will regroup my legions in Ostia and start the next campaign in Numidia."

Geta's laughter filled the room in response to the General's words and it took him even more strength to not scream at him.

"Oh, don't worry, Acacius. This plan hasn't changed yet."

Yet. A feeling of unease creeped up his body, as he stood still, his eyes locked on the pale, gingerblonde royal, who stood in front of him in a toga of black and gold.

"But let us be honest now, shall we? I question your loyality to me and my brother, to Rome. As i know, you're meeting with members of the senate," Geta called out and even though this was true, Acacius kept a straight face, hiding his fear in trained perfection.

"As you know, my dear wife is the daughter of senator Galba. Is it now regarded as treason to meet with my father-in-law?"

Geta stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Acacius in an instant, while his jaw clenched in anger. His mind was like a volcano, ready to erupt at any second.

"Do you think we're fools!?", he hissed with an even more aggressive undertone that grew louder with each word. Marcus had to tackle the urge to say 'Yes', in fact there was even so much more he wanted to say right now. That they were tyrants, mad, arrogant and overall spoiled little brats, which he cursed at every given second of his life.

"We know what you're up to Acacius - a snake amongst the men we regarded as the most loyal to our father and to us. How dare you turn against us and plot with those maggots from the senate, even though you've seen that they were not able to rule an Empire for yourself! Have you no respect for Emperor Septimius Severus, who gave you all what you're now!?"

It was too late, he obviously knew. And Acacius was not even able to put in words how much he hated himself for not being able to keep it as a secret long enough. It not only put his own life in danger but the rest of his family too, his wife... his daughter. His jaw clenched at the mere thought of the consequences that might errupt in the aftermath of this audience. Yet he couldn't hold back what was laying under his tongue for so long: "You father still holds my greatest respect and loyalty even after his passing... may the gods grant him peace in elysium. But i've seen your shortcomings many, many times. You lack the wisdom and restraint he had, yes maybe even the love he had for Rome and its people. You and your brother are not worthy of the crowns he placed upon your heads."

Geta's eye twitched and he grabbed a dagger, placing it right in front of Acacius' throat. His whole body trembled in pure wrath at the audacity of that General's words.

"I should kill you now Acacius! I should kill you and all those filthy senators for that treason!", he screamed at him, while his opponent only responded with a cold and collected gaze. This look alone made him Geta even more aggressive and hateful towards Marcus, but killing him would only create another problem - so he went with the path he had already planned in his mind.

"My brother was right, you are a Brutus. But we're not Julius Caesar", Geta hissed against Acacius, leaning his head to the side for a moment, as he studied his stern facial expression. Oh how much he hated it that he didn't fear him. The Emperor wanted to change that.

"We should start all over again, shall we? As a hero of Rome, the people won't be pleased with you being crucified publically... But we can still kill your wife... your daughter?", he started and noticed how - even for a second - the corners of Acacius' mouth twitched, as if he wanted to say something against this. Now there was fear, something Acacius tried desperately not to show, but Geta still noticed.

A wide, knowing smile appeared on his face and he nodded in silent agreement. "Ah, now you see the consequences. Yes, i am not above killing you kin and let you watch... but it would be such a shame, such a waste... especially for your beautiful daughter. I wonder how you will explain to her, that you threw her young life away because of your pride"

The blade of his dagger was dangerously close as the tip touched his skin at his neck, while Acacius stood in an almost frozen position.

"I have a proposal for you, Acacius...it is the only option to safe your own life and the ones of those you love the most - wed your daughter to me."

Geta's word hit Marcus like a lightning bolt. His eyes widened in response to the request of the Emperor in front of him. And his heart broke in that very moment.

"I will not sell out my daughter like this", he answered with a firm tone in his voice, but Geta only smirked and leaned forward, whispering in his ear with an amused undertone. He knew that Marcus wasn't able to say 'No' in any way. He loved his daughter too much to watch her die.

"One option, General. She either becomes my wife - and i will make her Empress of Rome. Or she will be crucified alongside your pathetic senators..."

He would always choose her life, but at what cost.

_________________________________

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#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fic #kabuki writes

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fairytaleendingss · 4 months ago

Text

Room for One More?

Chapter 10

Summary: You finally end up spending some time alone with Remus.

CW: Coughing, Fever, Fainting, Description of sickness, Nightmares, Sirius being emotionally stunted.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9

Hey guys! Sorry for the delay on this one. I've been trying to branch out a bit with my writing over the last little bit to keep the inspiration going.

To be honest, I'm feeling a little lost with this story. I'm going to continue writing it, don't worry! But I really only properly planned up until the Christmas chapter, so if anyone has any ideas of what they'd like to see happen, feel free to send me a request!

The door closed behind you with a loud thump. You leaned your head on it for a moment, panting to catch you breath.

It had been a particularly long day at work. Most of the staff were off sick due to a flu outbreak and it meant that all the more responsibility fell on you. On top of that, you'd felt extremely exhausted all day. You weren't sure if it was from being overworked or a lack of sleep or some twisted combination of the two but your limbs felt like lead and your eyes had kept falling shut from where they were fixated on the screen of your computer.

The walk up the stairs had been torture paired with the fatigue that was consuming your bones and you felt your legs ache as you entered the hall of your apartment.

"Are you alright?"

You jumped as a voice emerged from behind you and you swung around to see Remus seated on the couch with a book in hand.

"Jesus!" you shouted, clutching a hand to your chest.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

You shook your head, sniffling slightly. "No it's fine. I just... didn't expect you to be sitting there."

He chuckled dryly. "Right, well no one is home so I thought I'd make use of the living room for a bit."

"Right..."

James had left two days ago for some sort of 'team building' trip with his workmates and you supposed Sirius had a gig tonight with the band, leaving only you and Remus in the apartment. As happy as you were that you didn't have to interact with Sirius tonight (you were still upset with him and really didn't have the energy right now to put on a happy face), you sort of wished James was there to ease the tension. Things had been more amicable with Remus lately. His Christmas gift had helped to ease some of the animosity between you, but you were still far from friends. You barely talked outside of necessary pleasantries and you definitely never spent time alone together.

You cleared your throat awkwardly but it quickly morphed into a loud cough. Remus looked up from his book once more, his brows furrowed as he assessed you from across the room.

"That doesn't sound good. Are you feeling okay?"

You huffed out a breath, throwing your bag down on the kitchen counter and running a hand over your face.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit tired," you murmured awkwardly. "I think I'll have an early night."

Swiftly, you began moving across the room towards the bathroom.

"Okay but-"

You shut the door with a sigh before Remus was able to continue.

You leaned back against the bathroom door, feeling a drop of sweat trail from your hairline and down the side of your face. If you were being completely honest, you felt like shit. You were just too embarrassed to admit you felt like shit in front of Remus.

You took a deep breath and straightened up, hoping a shower would help you feel a little more like yourself.

You stripped off, shivering in the cool air of the bathroom and turned the shower nob. Then you stepped under the spray, letting the warm water wash over you as the room began to fill with steam.

You didn't know how long you stood under the water, letting it sooth your aching bones but once you stepped out, you noticed that the sky outside the bathroom window had grown dark.

Slowly you trudged from the bathroom to your bedroom at the end of the hallway, pulling on your comfiest pajamas. With the little energy you had left, you shuffled out into the living area in the hopes of finding some leftovers in the fridge to at eat for dinner before you went to bed and inevitably slept for the next 48 hours.

As you emerged from the hallway, you noticed that you had begun to feel substantially worse. You were shivering despite wearing your thickest woolen pajamas, but somehow you were sweating at the same time.

You were glad to see that Remus had retired to his bedroom for the evening, not wanting him to see you in such a pathetic state. Your legs felt like they had cinderblocks tied to them, every step taking an immense amount of your dwindling energy.

As you made your way through the room, you suddenly began to feel... odd. You're head felt heavy, your vision darkening around the edges.

You came to a halt beside the couch, blinking absently and taking a second to catch your breath but it didn't seem to help all that much. Then, without warning, everything went black.

"Y/n?..."

"...hey, can you hear me?"

There was a voice coming from somewhere above you but you couldn't quite place who's it was.

You blinked slowly, awareness returning to your foggy mind. As you vision cleared, the first thing you saw were Remus' concerned chocolate eyes boring down on you.

"Hey, are you okay? You with me now?"

It was then his full face came into frame. Looking around, you realised that you were lying on the floor beside the coffee table, your feet resting on a pile of couch cushions. Remus was on his knees beside you, leaning down with a hand resting gently on top of your head.

You mustered a nod, a wave of embarrassment rippling through you.

"Okay, that's good," he murmured kindly. "Did you hit your head?"

"I- um," you took stock of how you were feeling. You were uncomfortable and still vaguely dizzy. Your elbow was throbbing from where you must've hit it on the corner of the coffee table as you fell but other than that, you didn't seem to have injured yourself too badly.

"N-no. I don't think so."

Remus nodded, his brows pinching in thought as he scanned through the next steps in his head.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

He flashed a peace sign in your direction.

"Two."

"Good, that's good. Do you think you feel ready to sit up?"

"Y-yeah... I think so," you mumbled unsurely.

"Okay, I'll help you. Take your time," he responded in a voice more gentle than you'd ever heard him speak in - to you at least.

He shuffled around a little bit so he was rested at your hip and then with steady hands placed under your back, he helped you sit up. The room tilted as you came upright but not nearly as violently as it had before.

Then, Remus guided you so that you were leaning back against the edge of the couch. He sat back on his knees, observing your form and you let out a heavy sigh, shaking with embarrassment - or maybe that was from the fever.

"Sorry about all this," you mumbled, shutting your eyes in the hopes of blocking out Remus' devastatingly concerned facial expression.

"It's not your fault," he was quick to reassure. "Besides, I'm a med student. You've given me an opportunity to test my knowledge on something practical."

You knew he was joking but your cheeks flushed nonetheless.

"It's really fine," he stated sincerely, upon noticing the mortification written across your face. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Your fever is pretty high."

"It is?"

He chuckled half-heartedly. "Yes. I would recommend that next time you don't take a scorching hot shower when your temperature is already at 39 degrees."

You cringed. "So this whole fainting ordeal could've been avoided then?"

"In theory, yes."

You groaned and covered your face with your hand. "Well on that note, I think I'm just going to go to bed."

You moved to pull yourself up but Remus rushed to grasp your arms on the way.

"Woah, hey, let me help you. You shouldn't be moving around too much yet."

"Right, sorry," you uttered awkwardly.

"It's okay. Here," with gentle precision, Remus got to his feet and lifted your arm around his shoulders. With so little energy remaining, you weren't bothered to be self-conscious as you leaned your weight against him and the two of you hobbled down the hall into your room.

When he deposited you into your bed, you immediately curled up in the sheets, shutting your eyes.

However, they popped open once again when you felt something cool press against your forehead only moments later.

You looked up to see Remus retreating from your room after laying a cool towel across your feverish forehead. As you drifted off into a fitful sleep, your last thought was about how he'd never been in your room before. You wondered if you'd remembered to tidy it.

You were running through a dark dense forest. Something was chasing you. You couldn't quite make out what it was but you knew it was angry.

You tried to move faster but as you ran, the forest grew wider and longer and darker. The branches were becoming thicker, they scratched your arms as you waded through the trees. You could hear the creature growling behind you. It was getting closer. You were panting and sweating, pushing yourself as fast as you could go but it felt as though the forest floor was covered in sand, your feet sinking into it every time they hit the ground.

You pushed on, carrying yourself forward, willing yourself to pick up the pace.

Then the ground dropped away completely. A cliff ledge had emerged in front of you and before you could stop yourself, you'd reached it.

Then you were falling.

You awoke with a start, gasping and panting for air. You were drenched in sweat, tangled up in your crumpled bed sheets. It was too hot, almost unbearably so. You thrashed around frantically for some semblance of relief.

It was at that moment, your door creaked open and a tentative Remus entered your room. He froze when he noticed you were awake and gaping at him with wide eyes.

"I just came in to check on you. How are you feeling?"

You went to respond but were overtaken with a slew of coughing that wracked through your body. Remus was at your side in an instant, a gentle hand placed on your back as you rode out the fit.

"I think it's time for some medicine," he mumbled under his breath, likely directed more towards himself than you.

It was then that you noticed the tray of items he'd placed on the table beside your bed. There was a bottle of water and an assortment of medicines as well as a thermometer which he picked up and proceeded to press into your ear.

You were so out of it, practically delirious with fever, that it took you a moment to realise how unusual this situation was. Remus - the same roommate who had been consistently cold and abrasive towards you in the months since you moved in - was now sitting at your bedside taking care of you while you were ill. It was completely unexpected, although you had to admit, not unwelcome. Something inside you stirred at the care he was showing you.

The pulled away, humming disapprovingly at the reading. You watched him with wide eyes as he busied himself reading medicine labels.

"Here, take these," he told you and dropped an assortment of pills into your hand. Then he uncapped the water bottle and handed it to you.

After you'd taken the medicine he gave you, he encouraged you to nestle back down under your covers and he pulled your duvet up to your chin.

"Try to get some sleep. Hopefully you'll feel better with a bit of rest," he told you.

He then turned, beginning to walk towards the doorway but you grabbed a hold of his wrist before he was able to leave.

"Remus," you muttered weakly, looking up at him with big, imploring eyes. Maybe it was the medicine or the fever, you weren't really sure, but an unwarranted confidence had begun to possess you.

He turned to look at you, his eyebrow raised in concern.

"Will you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?"

He paused for a moment, clearly surprised as he pondered the request. Then he looked back at you, taking in your pathetic form and he sighed, his shoulders relaxing.

"Okay. I can do that."

You wriggled over a little, patting the left side of your bed. Remus hesitantly took a seat on top of the covers, looking very out of place in your bedroom.

Subconsciously, you edged towards him, drawn into his body heat as you moved to a comfortable position.

Your eyes grew heavier as the effects of the medicine began to take hold. However, as sleep claimed you, a few last words rolled off your tongue before you could stop them.

"Why don't you like me Remus?"

He turned to you, raising an eyebrow as his gaze cast over your form.

"I mean, I try really hard to be your friend and I want us to be closer but you always treat me like you don't care. I don't know what I've done wrong."

Remus sighed heavily. "That's not true, Y/n. I do care about you. I just... I was worried that when you moved in, the dynamic with my friend group was going to change and I didn't know how to deal with it. But I'm sorry that I took it out on you. It was my issue, not yours and I should've been kinder. The truth is, I-"

He was cut short when you let out a congested snore beside him. He looked down to notice that your breathing had evened out and you'd drifted off into a semi-peaceful sleep, your warm head pressed up against his hip.

He couldn't suppress the fond smile that crossed his features at the sight. With a feather-light touch, he leaned down and pressed a small kiss to your forehead.

It was just past one in the morning when Sirius returned from a gig with his band at a Pub down the road.

It had been a good night. The crowd was energetic and they didn't mess up any of their set-list. It was a great show and he'd hung around afterwards for a couple of drinks and a bit of flirting with a few of the girls who'd been in the front of the crowd. However, despite the success of the evening, something felt like it was... missing somehow.

Even sitting across from an eager and curvaceous ginger, with a free beer in hand, his mind couldn't help but linger on... you. This was something that had happened more times then he cared to admit over the past few weeks.

To his own surprise, he'd turned down her advances in favour of heading home to your company. He hoped you'd still be awake as you sometimes were at this time on a Friday night. He expected to find you binge-watching Modern Family in the living room with a glass of wine in hand.

However, when he arrived back at the house, he was disappointed to find the space devoid of human life.

He took off his leather jacket and hung it on the rack by the door as his eyes scanned the empty living room. When he walked down the hallway, he was happy to see that there was a faint light coming from under your door.

He carefully pushed it open, not wanting to disturb you if you were writing. To his surprise, the sight he was met with was far from the one he expected.

There was Remus, sitting on your bed, reading a book in the soft glow of your bedside lamp while you were practically curled up in his lap, your breathing ragged as you slept.

Remus looked up to meet his friend's wide eyes as he observed the scene before him.

"Oh, hi. You're back earlier than expected."

Sirius blinked at him for a moment, trying to act nonchalant as he regained his bearings.

"Ah yeah. I guess I just wasn't feeling it tonight," then he gestured towards you. "Is she okay?"

Remus just nodded, sending his friend a soft smile. "Yeah. She's a little under the weather but seems to be a little better now."

He brushed a few fingers over your forehead, stroking some hair away from you eyes in the process as he got a gage of your temperature.

Sirius' heart clenched in a way he couldn't quite make sense of as he watched the moment unfold.

"She had a pretty high fever earlier," Remus explained. "But we managed to get it down."

"Ah, right," Sirius muttered, leaning against the doorframe. "Is... um, is there anything I can do? or..."

Remus gently shook his head. "Thanks for the offer but I think we'll be fine."

"Okay, well... I'll leave you to it then," Sirius stated with a tight-lipped smile.

"Okay, goodnight. Sleep well, Sirius."

"You too, Rem," He responded, closing the door behind him.

He let out a huff of air once he was out of earshot. There were a bunch of unexplainable feelings swirling inside of him. Was he jealous? No that wasn't it. It was something else. An odd sort of ache that lingered inside of him, a yearning for something that he couldn't quite place.

All he knew was that he didn't like it.

Taglist:

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#marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #poly!marauders x reader #marauders au #harry potter

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lightseoul · 3 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 7 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 5.3k (jesus. this is the longest one yet)

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, some minor timeskip manga spoilers, slightly nsfw themes, mentions of food, bakugou katsuki is bad at feelings, feelings—lots of 'em, the true calm before the storm, shit's about to go down!!!

a/n. we're so back, y'all!!! this one took me a while, i have to admit. it even got to a point where i thought i'd just leave this series unfinished for a plethora of reasons. but after clawing through a few sessions of barely being able to write anything, i was struck with the vision of how to get the chapter going in the middle of a massage lol. the rest was history. that said, i'd love to know your thoughts so far, so please don't be a stranger <3 (comments keep me going. btw. not to sound like a slut)

links. masterlist, ao3

You ended up not getting home until past 8 PM that Monday.

After you successfully used your quirk on Kirishima and Hiroto, resulting in the transfer of that fated scrap of paper containing the attack’s details, Kaminari insisted that you hang out after lunch and make the most of your day off until everybody relented. Bakugou was uncharacteristically quiet—you noted—even as the electric hero whisked the six of you away to the nearest mall where you shopped and visited a KTV spot afterward.

You didn’t expect to spend hours watching the four goof off and sing their hearts out while Bakugou sat silently to the side, although time passed by faster than you thought it would anyway. The group eventually parted ways at around 6 PM, after which you and Bakugou decided to eat at a ramen restaurant where you sat yourselves by the counter so you wouldn’t have to force conversation.

Hiroto shadowed the two of you the entire time, up to the instant when you and Bakugou entered a darkened spot in the outdoor parking lot to wait for the twin to message Kouki and have the old man teleport you back to headquarters. You didn’t have to wait for too long—you were gone and right back at the front of your bedroom in a matter of minutes, bug-less and cameras covered another minute after.

And only as you stripped off your going-out clothes for the day in the privacy of the bathroom did it sink in—how you actually did it.

You actually transmitted the message.

And as much as it fucking sucks, the most you can do now—at least until D-Day—is to put your faith in Kirishima and the rest of the pro-heroes who will be tasked with stopping this act of genocide altogether.

Easy enough…

Right.

The next day—Tuesday—starts typically as the others have transpired in the last two weeks-ish of living in the headquarters: violently woken by a twin’s knocking, then scrambling to seem like you were sharing the bed, to promptly getting ready for and having breakfast at the mess hall.

Just like how every day’s been in this supremacist hellhole, everything goes by like clockwork.

That is, up until Omiru walks up to your usual table just as you are about to take your last chug of water after downing your substantial plate of pancakes.

You peer at her from over the rim of your glass, cautious—and rightfully so. Beside you, Bakugou puts down his utensils and straightens up in his seat. Neither of you says anything, opting to let her speak first instead.

And when she finally does, she’s looking straight at no one but Bakugou.

“Follow me.”

At that, you glance at the pro-hero in question, who only shoots the twin a stern look before nodding curtly. You watch him as he gathers his tray and stands up, and you’re about to move and follow suit when Omiru’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“Not you,” she spews pointedly. “Just him.”

From where you are half-sitting with your ass frozen mid-air, you blink at the woman. “What?”

“Masaki-san needs him at the private training facility, pronto,” comes her terse reply, sounding more impatient by the minute. “He’s not to be disturbed.”

Your face contorts in displeasure before you can think better against it. Then, schooling it into a more neutral expression, you shake your head as you finally straighten up, willing your voice to stay firm. “Whatever you have to say to him you can say to me, too.”

Omiru opens her mouth to most likely snap at you for wasting more and more of her time, but she doesn’t get to do that because you’re both silenced by a sudden hand on your forearm. You whip to look at Bakugou, and his lips are pressed into a thin line as he nods again—only this time, at you—as if that was all the explanation you needed.

“It’s okay,” he offers, his voice low. “I’ll come and look for you by the time we’re done.”

You can only stare at him, tamping down the incredulity that’s creeping up your throat.

Since when did he decide to be Mr. Calm and Collected?

As much as you want to, you don’t question him, though, knowing it will cause more harm than good. You’re so close to the day of the operation, and the last thing you need is to blow your cover.

So instead, and with a wary heart, you nod back at him, before leaning in and pressing a quick peck on his cheek.

“Take care, babe,” you say timidly, grateful he took the kiss just now like a champ—with little to no faltering.

“I will,” comes his weirdly soft response, before he steps out of his seat and trails behind Omiru, leaving you and your tray of empty plates.

You move to tuck the stretchy fabric into the rest of the contorted arrangement you’ve got going on—folding your panties was the most you could think of doing to keep your mind off the anxiety that’s been gnawing at you the entire day, after all—and plop it on your pile of fresh undergarments.

Or at least, you were going to do that, when the door to your bedroom suddenly bursts open, and you startle so badly, that the neat stack of underwear crumbles like a poorly built Jenga tower on top of the bed.

You scramble to hide them behind you just as Bakugou emerges from the hallway, and the very first thing that registers when your eyes land on him is that he’s fucking drenched.

In sweat. Drenched in sweat.

And, to your chagrin, he must’ve noticed you gaping at him because his gaze drifts over to meet yours after he closes the door behind him. “What?”

You blink at him, suddenly yanked out of your dumb stupor. “Nothing—it’s just…” you trail off, now trying to ignore the weirdly scandalous way his wet shirt is clinging to his muscled torso. You knew his hero costume accentuated and therefore showcased a built body from the chance encounters about him in the news, but seeing it through an almost translucent cover-up…

“Just what?”

You gulp, bringing your eyes back up to meet his unnervingly scrutinizing ones.

…Why is he looking at you like that?

Instead of dwelling on the thought, though, you manage to voice out the question you and the imaginary mouse in your pocket are wondering. “W-why are you so… sweaty?”

Now, if he’s offended by how that came out just a breadth’s hair away from sounding disgusted, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he crosses the short distance between him and your small wardrobe and flings it open.

“I thought you were smarter than that, princess,” comes his casual reply, and you find yourself stiffening—not just at the nickname, but at what came before that.

You frown, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. “I don’t get how you’re being so nonchalant today,” you say so honestly you shock yourself, voice lowered out of instinct despite having made sure that there are no extra bugs in the room.

Whatever Bakugou expected for a response—it must’ve been anything but that—because he stops rifling through his clothes and whips to look at you, a mild expression of surprise written across his features.

But before he can say anything to that, you beat him to it. “What did they make you do, Bakugou?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but pauses before he can get a word out. You watch the man as he stands there for a second, the metaphorical gears in his head spinning loud enough that you can practically hear them. You can tell they’re still turning a beat later, even as he closes the wardrobe behind him and turns to fully face you.

“I—” he starts, hesitant, “I thought you would’ve figured.”

“Figured what?” You’re getting impatient now.

“That I was called on to start making the bombs.”

Oh.

The realization dawning on you must be evident in your profile because Bakugou nods as if in confirmation. “I was anticipating they’d call me in sooner or later, so I wasn’t surprised when that twin approached us during breakfast.”

Fuck, you feel stupid.

How you’re feeling is none of Bakugou’s business, though, so you will yourself to dip your head to show you understand. “I totally forgot about the bombs,” you admit.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you,” he turns again and resumes busying himself with the cabinets. “They did their research and found out my bombs are more explosive the fresher they are. Explains why they waited ‘til the last minute.”

Huh.

“I guess that also explains why you look like an over-glazed doughnut.”

That makes him bark out a laugh. “More like a wet dog, but I’ll take that.”

You’re about to say that no, he definitely looks more like an over-glazed doughnut, but then you remember you’d rather fail this mission and cause massive destruction before you go off admitting he looks…maybe just a tiny bit delectable in this state.

You’re back to avoiding the sight of…him—altogether—in silence, when Bakugou glances at you over his shoulder. “Can you pass me my towel?”

“Sure,” you say as you fetch it from where it’s hung across the couch’s backrest before padding back toward him.

You hand it over. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

Now it’s your turn to stand somewhat awkwardly behind him as he finishes up gathering his change of clothes for the night. There’s one more thing you need to ask him.

Anytime now.

You take a sharp inhale just as he whirls to face you, expectant. You muster a small smile, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I was just gonna ask—they didn’t hurt you, did they? You were treated okay?”

Your stomach instantly drops when the expectant look just now morphs into a smirk. “I think you underestimate my ability to protect myself, princess.”

You feel yourself flame. “I—” you stammer, wildly caught off guard, and his grin widens. You then frown, resigned. “Come on, man, not cool.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, sounding far from apologetic, “‘m sorry. Though, you should’ve seen the look on your face.”

“That’s it,” you raise your hands in mock surrender, spinning to gather your folded underwear that are still scattered on the bed. “They can go ahead and snip off your balls, for all I care.”

“Damn, that escalated quickly.”

You only toss him a sarcastic smile as you take up the spot beside him, opening your tiny drawer and dumping the articles into them before he can get a closer glimpse. The last thing you need is for him to see your threadbare, granny panties.

Bakugou chuckles again, the indication of his mirth the last sound that echoes in the room before a quiet envelops the two of you, the atmosphere taking a sudden shift.

“How about you, huh?” he suddenly asks, almost making you jump. You raise an eyebrow at him, still not quite past his earlier teasing.

He doesn’t react with hostility, though, only shrugging in response. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” you parrot lamely, shocked at his query.

To your disbelief, he doesn’t roll his eyes or shoot you a derisive quip, only nodding—an unmistakable, serious glint in his crimson gaze. You gulp despite yourself.

“It was pretty much the same for me, I guess. Except there weren’t as many people around…”

You falter, debating whether or not you should tell him the more incriminating truth. But then you make the mistake of meeting his penetrating stare and then suddenly, it all comes tumbling out.

“I—I was worried about you.”

That takes Bakugou by surprise, his brows shooting up in a profound display of bewilderment. An abrupt pang of embarrassment shoots through you at the sight, and you scurry to save face.

“Looks like there was no need, though, considering how you’re joking around and being an ass and all,” you jest, taking the hoodie you were meaning to get from the rack and closing your side of the wardrobe.

“I—”

“Good night, Bakugou,” you cut him off, plopping yourself on the couch with your back turned against him, effectively shooting the conversation down.

Needless to say, you struggle to sleep that night.

As if she knew you fell into a fitted slumber and needed more goddamn sleep, Omiru was already up and banging at your door five minutes earlier than usual the morning after, ripping you out of your sluggish haze. It didn’t help that it was your turn on the couch that night—which, even after all this time of dozing there, still proved to be quite unforgiving to your neck and lower back, especially. Once you were all ready and had opened the door, though, your usual routine was done but not before a rundown on what was to happen that day. You were to pack your things and prepare to leave the headquarters by the time Bakugou was done producing the last batch of bombs.

She conveniently didn’t say when that was, opting to whisk Bakugou away instead.

So without any idea as to when you were making the move, you tried your best to keep busy—a task that proved to be herculean, seeing as how the number of people present had dwindled significantly, you could count them with just your fingers and toes.

It didn’t take you long to figure out why that was. The people who’ve gone—they were all teleported to their posts to prepare for tomorrow’s attack.

By batches.

Because, as it turns out, you were right. Kouki’s quirk does have a limitation.

He can only muster enough power to teleport a certain number of people—across a certain distance—a handful of times a day. It all depends on three factors: number, distance, and frequency.

And because Bakugou’s got important business as the organization’s very own human-bomb factory, you two will be transported later in the day as part of the last batch.

You mull over this newfound information—again and again, mainly because there really isn’t much else to do other than pack—until, unbeknownst to you, the clock on the wall strikes five. You jump from where you are seated on the sofa when, as if on cue, the door bursts open, revealing a yet again sweaty Bakugou, with Kouki and the twins tailing closely behind him.

“Just let me take a quick shower and finalize my stuff,” Bakugou offhandedly says, eyeing you as he picks up his towel, not wasting even a modicum of a second. “Then we’ll get going to my place.”

His what?

“Sorry?” you manage to ask, acutely aware of the panic that’s rising in your throat—fast.

Bakugou peers at you for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. But then he’s chuckling—oh so naturally, like your reaction was adorable to him rather than potentially detrimental to your covers—as he walks toward you.

And then he’s leaning down and into your space, a warning look in his eyes. You barely catch a glimpse of it before he leans even further and kisses your cheek, smiling as he pulls away.

“My place, baby,” he coos, “Where we’ll stay the night.”

“Here we are,” Kouki announces just as the floor beneath you rematerializes, light and markedly spotless as compared to the nicked, hardwood floors you’ve grown to be familiar with over the past weeks. You look up, a faint trace of dizziness clouding your mind still, although it’s quickly replaced by awe as you take in the rest of the room.

Dropping your luggage to the side, you make quick work of what can only be Bakugou Katsuki’s living space.

Well, it’s just what you’d expect from the guy. Purposively designed, no-nonsense, and exceptionally pristine.

And closer to the Prime Minister’s Office. At least, as compared to your more modest home, which is why you’re even here in the first place.

Regardless, you were about to compliment the man for being an outlier of the male population when you suddenly remember that you’re supposed to be well-acquainted with his high-rise apartment unit. You know, as his girlfriend?

You slam your mouth shut, just as Kouki steps forward and turns to face the rest of you like a commander in the military. You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“Big day tomorrow,” he declares, his trademark haughtiness heavy in his tone. “The four of you, review your assignments and be ready by 6 AM sharp. I’ll pick you up here.”

Then, a pointed look toward you and Bakugou. “Don’t be late.”

And just as quickly as you teleported into the pro-hero’s unit, Kouki vanishes, leaving the two of you with the twins.

Silence.

“That man’s got a bug up his old ass, that’s for sure.”

You whip to face Bakugou, surprised and equal parts amused. He only tosses you a smug look, as if daring you to question him.

You don’t, similar to how you don’t dare spare either of the twins a worried glance.

“We should order,” Bakugou says not a minute later, effortlessly picking up your belongings and transferring them to an empty spot beside a door. “I cleared out the ref two weeks ago. ‘m out of groceries.”

“Sure,” you reply, seating yourself comfortably on his sofa like you’ve been here countless times. You sense all three pairs of eyes studying you as you burrow into the plush cushion, willing every neuron in your system to relax. “How ‘bout from that restaurant we went to with the squad? I’m craving some curry.”

“Aha,” Bakugou smirks as he walks over and throws his butt down way too close beside you. “So you did want to switch.”

You bristle, if not at being unceremoniously caught then at how he just slung an arm over the backrest behind you. “T–That’s beside the point,” you argue, before swiftly turning to Hiroto. “Can we have our phones for just a sec, please? We need to order.”

If Bakugou noticed your smooth segue slash redirection just now, he doesn’t point it out, instead letting you take your smartphones from the absurdly tall man without much of a hassle. You quickly place your orders—even asking the twins what they want despite how badly they’ve treated you since your first meeting at that dingy club.

You’re not a monster, after all.

They seem to think you are, though, because they blatantly ignore your kind offer.

Well, then. If they have a hard time falling asleep because of hunger later then that’s not your problem anymore.

Not even thirty minutes after ordering, your food arrives, and the twins end up allowing Bakugou to go down the lobby by himself to fetch the delivery. You almost groan when he walks through the door with the goods in tow, the strong waft of curry sauce filling the air and making your stomach churn in budding anticipation.

“You’re not helping your case, babe,” Bakugou teases as you excitedly pore over the takeout bag, reaching into it to grab your share and then his.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over this glorious smell,” you quip, which grants you a chuckle.

No more words are exchanged as you get started on your feast, too wiped out from today’s activities—Bakugou and his bomb production and your…well, trying not to go crazy—to even start, let alone maintain, a steady conversation. The room is silent aside from some slurping and quiet chewing here and there, with neither Omiru nor Hiroto saying anything to break the monotony.

And you think it must be that—the quiet—that spurs the abrupt observation mid-spoonfeed of how domestic everything is. You wouldn’t have ever thought you’d be eating a meal with Bakugou in his dining room—high schooler you definitely wouldn’t have—but as it turns out life’s got a funny way of pulling the rug from underneath you and messing with your head.

Just like these muddy ass feelings.

No, you think to yourself. Now’s not the time.

Not when you’re barely able to stomach your food, anyway. You were—are hungry—if the incessant rumbling of your abdomen since late afternoon was any indication—but you forgot you’ve been sickeningly nervous the entire day. Still, you force each bite down. The last thing you need is to be frail tomorrow.

“Here,” Bakugou reaches out from across the table a few moments later, “Give me your plate.”

“No,” you say as you lift the empty ceramic further from him, “Let me help.”

Your plea falls on deaf ears, however, because Bakugou leans closer and snatches the dish from your hands before you can even scream a strangled wait! You must be looking stupefied, because Bakugou only smirks at you as he quickly gathers the dishes, beaming with pride as if having a ridiculously wide wing span is something he earned rather than was unjustly given.

“Unfair…” you mumble as you resort to gathering the trash instead, collecting it in the bag that the delivery came in.

“Just leave it there,” he calls out from the kitchen a few feet away, scraping the scraps off the platters. And when he’s realized you’re not listening: “Babe.”

You lift your hands like you’re a contestant in Master Chef and Gordon Ramsey just called time’s up, a petulant frown on your face. “Jeez, I’m just trying to help.”

“And I’m trying to be a gentleman,” comes his snarky retort. You bite back the urge to snort. “Go unpack in the bedroom while I finish up here,” he orders, “I’ll be quick.”

Please don’t be is your visceral reaction, although you manage not to say it out loud. You need at least ten minutes—give or take—of being alone in his bedroom to come to terms with this precarious situation you’ve been dealt with. You manage to reply with a small ‘okay’ before heading over to grab your things, very much cognizant of the ticking clock.

But then it dawns on you that you don’t have any idea where his fucking bedroom is.

You pause mid-bend, pretending you’re studying the hard case of your luggage for non-existent scratches. You know that there are three doors, not counting the one Bakugou went in and out from to get your food. One has to lead to the common restroom, another to his home office slash gym that you’ve heard him talk about once during your lunches at the headquarters, which leaves the last one as his bedroom’s entryway.

Hurry up, your brain tells you. You’re getting suspicious.

Wait.

You let your mind flash back to a while ago, a few moments after you arrived here. ‘We should order,’ was what Bakugou said, as he conveniently hefted your bags to this spot here, which must be right beside…

The bedroom door.

Bingo.

You repress a sigh of relief when you’re greeted with the sight of a massive mattress upon turning the knob, wasting no time as you squeeze into the threshold with your belongings. You were about to shut the door behind you when a female voice calls out your name out of nowhere, and you startle. Turning to face who must’ve been Omiru, you’re quick to put on a nonchalant facade, as if she didn’t just scare you in your metaphorical boots.

“Your tracker,” she says flatly when you don’t move an inch.

“O–oh. Right.”

You stand in place as she goes over the motions while Hiroto does the same with Bakugou. You’ve gone through this so many times that you don’t even wince when she rips out the device, instead only giving her a quick thanks and a rare good night when she steps away.

She doesn’t say it back.

You take that as your cue to go back into Bakugou’s sleeping quarters, and only when the weighty slab of wood is closed behind you do you let out a heavy exhale, suddenly feeling the fatigue that’s been looming over you since last night in its entirety.

But then that’s immediately booted out with a shot of adrenaline when you see it.

The couch.

Or the lack thereof.

You're still standing there—mortified—by the time Bakugou enters the room with his stuff, shutting the door and consequently granting you your first semblance of privacy for the day.

“What,” he says more than asks a minute later, when you still haven’t said anything.

“There’s no couch,” you croak-whisper.

You were not about to sleep on the floor.

You were not about to share a bed with Bakugou, either.

Not after you’ve spent the last two weeks slaving over your high-maintenance sleeping arrangement.

“Relax, dumbass,” comes his fluid retort. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man is finding this shit funny. “I have a futon.”

Turns out, he wasn’t lying—what feels like a huge burden lifted off your shoulders when he opens a cabinet to his right and pulls out a moderately thick cushion. You waste no time in assisting him, taking two corners while the pro-hero handles the other two, coordinating as you place the futon perpendicularly, right at the foot of the bed.

“Thanks,” you tell him when you’re done, dusting off your hands. “Do you have a blanket I can—”

“Too late,” he cuts you off, lightly diving into the mattress.

You gawk at the man. “Wha—”

“It’s your turn on the bed tonight,” he says as a matter of factly, not even bothering to look you in the eye. You splutter, but ultimately relent. As much as you want to argue, you do need some proper rest, especially after last night’s sorry attempt at recharging.

Thankfully, though, Bakugou doesn’t rile you up any further as you each go through your nightly routines and take turns in the built-in bathroom, careful not to invade each other’s spaces. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes and you’re already both plastered and tucked in your respective beds, the occasional noises from the traffic tens of floors below you the only thing filling the otherwise empty air.

But as it turns out, the getting ready for bed part isn’t the problem.

By the time it’s 10 PM, you’ve already tossed and turned roughly twenty times, agonizingly nowhere near asleep despite the luxurious bedding beneath your limbs. It’s after the 21st time, though, that you finally let your mind wander to the man on the floor and whether or not he’s asleep. He must be—having been tuckered out from producing explosives for two days straight. Still, your mind refuses to let go of the thought—brimming with boredom-fueled curiosity that’s begging for visual confirmation.

Sitting up carefully, you strain to peek at Bakugou. He’s been awfully quiet, you think to yourself.

Just a little bit more—

“Can’t sleep?”

You freeze. Shit.

“Uh, no,” you reply, aborting mission and lying back down as silently as possible. “Not really.”

“No shit. I heard you, the last twenty times.”

“Twenty-one,” you correct him. “But who’s counting?”

That earns you a laugh. “What, you scared?”

Your face reflexively contorts in offense, although it’s quick to fall when you realize you’ve actually no right to be offended. “If I told you I was, would that make me a loser?”

To your surprise, his answer is instant. “Nah.”

At that, your brows furrow. “That’s it? Just nah? No what do you think, princess, or some other equally lame taunt?”

“Oooh.” Jesus, you can practically hear him smirking. “You want me to call you princess?”

“There it is. Welcome back, Bakugou.”

A chuckle. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

You snort. “So I’ve been told.”

Then, a pause.

“Hey,” you start again a few beats later, gaze fixed—unwavering—on the gray ceiling, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

You gulp. “Are you scared?”

This time, the answer is not as instant, but it appears to remain the same. “…No.”

“Really?” you ask, voice inadvertently teeming with incredulity.

You hear some rustling, like he’s shrugging against the bedsheets. “I’ve gone through much worse.”

Oh…

Right.

He did die and came out as one of the most important heroes of the Great War, alongside formidable people—the very people you tapped to help you just a few days ago. Maybe he’s right not to be scared.

“Is it my turn now?” he pipes up suddenly.

Huh? “Your what?”

“My turn to ask a question.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were taking turns.”

“Well, we are now.”

You roll your eyes, comfortable in the knowledge that he can’t see you. “Okay, then. Go ahead.”

Now—don’t go ahead, is what you would have said, had you fucking known what he was going to say next.

“That day before winter break—” he begins, and you find yourself instantly tensing.

Fuck, no.

He huffs. “—You were gonna confess to me, weren’t ya?”

Fuck.

A deafening silence falls upon the room.

A silence that goes on for what must be a decade.

Then—

“…Is this some hidden camera prank or something?” you laugh dryly.

“No,” he says so seriously your eyes widen. “I was just…thinking about it.”

Well, fuck. Now he’s done it.

What are you supposed to do? Or say to that? Deny it and say, dude, no, you’re delusional? Or ask him where he got the motherfucking audacity and call it a day?

But then the strangest thing happens and an inexplicable feeling washes over you, one that is too nostalgic it’s almost painful.

Ah, yes.

You remember this one.

It wasn’t the first one to show up in the scene, but it was quick to envelop every other emotion afterward, lingering with you until the soothing balm that is time did its magical work and helped you forget.

The regret of not being able to admit your feelings.

And now, a full ten years later, you’re suddenly thrust with the opportunity to finally do what you failed to do then.

You don’t even have to think about it.

“Yes,” you rasp out, heart thrumming frantically against your chest. “I mean, the answer is yes, I was going to. Luckily you didn’t let me get to the embarrassing part, though, huh?”

“Look, I—”

“If you’re gonna apologize,” you cut him off, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Bakugou. That thing’s in the past now. I’ve moved on, as fucking cheesy as it sounds.”

You then chuckle, ignoring the way your hands are stubbornly shaking. “That was just a silly high school crush, anyway.”

“Yeah, well—” he clears his throat, “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it. But…I do still want to apologize, though. For that first day, around two weeks ago.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t remember? I was an ass to you.”

First day? You don’t—

But then it all comes rushing to you—the intimidating looks, the backhanded remarks, the outright insulting comments.

He sniggers. “You just remembered now, didn’t you?”

You blanch. “I—”

“Don’t try to be nice,” he preempts. “I know I fucked up. It’s just—it was a lot to take in, and I took it out on you.”

He heaves a heavy sigh. “First it was having my past rehashed, and then when I met you I got reminded of how arrogant I was as a kid and it just felt like—”

“A slap to the face?”

Another huff. “Exactly.”

You smile—genuinely—this time wishing you were face to face so he could get a good view of it. You try to let it show in your voice instead.

“Thank you for telling me, Bakugou. Apology accepted.”

A sigh of relief. You feel your smile grow bigger.

“Now go to sleep, dumbass,” he spits, the vulnerability from just a second ago long gone, now replaced by his signature snark. “You heard the old geezer. Big day tomorrow.”

You can’t help it—you laugh.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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pazziescapism · 1 month ago

Text

Break Our Ice - Chapter 4

pairing: paige x azzi

wc: 12.1k

au fic what??, figureskater!Azzi x icehockeyplayer!Paige

fake dating, just like playful banter teasing relationship to lovers, basically paige and azzi dancing around each other

a/n: HI GUYS!! i am truly sorry for the wait i have no idea why this chapter took me so long, honestly this is definitely my least favourite chapter and sorry if it seems choppy i took out and rearranged heaps of scenes i don't watch ice skating or ice hockey so i didn't really think about how i would write about it... AHAH anyway i guess this is kinda the last chapter?? i think id be down to do some bonus ones but i am working on something new so we will see, again thank you for reading! ps, did u see that wc?? 12k, yes im very proud

Someone is pulling Azzi to the side, a hand digging into the meat of her upper arm, hard enough to bruise. She’s having a hard time registering anything over the noise and lights. It feels like there’s a hundred people surrounding her, pushing her off to the side, crushing her by the borders.

Then the crowd falls away, and Paige’s in front of her looking harried. The press continues to shout from the side, the noise a little quieter now that they’ve moved, a crowd of people in front of them like a barricade.

“Ah, man,” Ice says, next to the two of them. “Bad luck.”

“I’ve got to go back out and do press,” Paige says, and she looks upset, running a hand jerkily through her hair. “Can you get someone to take Azzi out the back way?”

“It’s only the tabloids,” Azzi says and stays where she is. The situation is mixing badly with the insecurity in her chest, her head. Something selfish and angry has taken up residency in her, curling and twisting unpleasantly.

“That’s the problem,” Paige says, not even looking at her, her face scanning the crowd, like she’s already searching for a way to get Azzi away.

Like a picture of them together would be something so dreadful.

“They’re already here,” Azzi points out, not moving. “Who cares if they get a picture or two?”

Paige frowns. She’s gotten fully ready to act within seconds, Azzi’s coat clutched in her hands. “They’ll come to the wrong conclusions,” she says, and Azzi’s heart sinks.

The unpleasant feelings in her stomach give a sharp twist, and Azzi feels herself smile and knows it must look off.

“As long as they’re here,” she whispers, leaning in closer to Paige. “Let’s give them a show.”

Paige’s eyes drop to her lips, like Azzi knew they would; for an instant, their faces are inches apart. She hears someone yell, and the camera’s go off again, too many bright lights to see, photographers moving around the crowd in front of them to get a picture. Paige steps fully away from her, panicked expression twisting into something sharper.

“For fuck’s sake, Azzi,” Paige says, viciously angry, and Azzi steps back too, taken aback by the reaction.

“I didn’t mean to,” she starts, and she isn’t sure what she didn’t mean to do so she lets that sentence trail off and starts again. “I didn’t mean it.”

This doesn’t seem to make Paige feel much better, judging by the volume of her retort, her eyes angrier than Azzi’s ever seen them, as she shoves Azzi’s jacket into her arms. “You can’t just fuck around with my life when you get bored. Those pictures are going to be everywhere by tomorrow.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Azzi says back, her face burning hot with what might be anger, or might be shame. She’s off-balance, tilting too far one way and then the next. I don’t understand, she wants to yell. She wants, selfish as it seems, for Paige to understand her, without Azzi having to explain.

Is it that awful to be seen with me? Azzi thinks, her head buzzing miserably.

Ice’s got her by the arm, then and they’re both heading down a dark little hallway, leading out to the parking lot.

“I practice here too,” Azzi snaps, and yanks her arm away. Her jacket is gripped in her arms, and the jersey suddenly feels tight and humiliating on her skin. “I know the way.”

Ice doesn’t seem to take offense, which makes Azzi feel worse, just nods good-naturedly, her head ducked to avoid stray cameras. “That makes sense.”

Azzi swallows, hard. “I’m sorry,” she says, and that at least, is sincere.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ice tells her, and then hesitates as they exit out into the employee’s only section of the parking lot. Someone must have told Caroline, because Azzi can see her car heading towards them. “Hey, and- um, Paige just kind of hates cameras more than the rest of us, so, I mean, try not to-”

“Whatever,” Azzi says, cutting her off. She doesn’t really need the reminder.

It’s freezing outside, thick dark clouds rolling over the sky, threatening snow at any minute. Azzi shivers, and then steps away from Ice as Caroline pulls up, nodding goodbye stiffly.

To Caroline’s credit, she doesn’t ask any questions as Azzi angrily peels the jersey off the second they get onto the road, leaving her in only the thin sweater she had been wearing underneath. For good measure, she throws it on the floor and stomps on it, her dirty sneakers creating a bizarre black mark over the fabric, before throwing it to the back of the car.

She considers slipping on the jacket, which at least doesn’t have Paige’s name written on it, but the image of Paige’s white knuckles around it as she tried to usher Azzi out as quickly as possible rises to mind and she chucks it to the back too.

“So,” Caroline says casually, reaching over to turn the heating up in the car. “After game jitters?”

“Fuck you,” Azzi says bitterly. “Actually, fuck her. Let’s turn around so I can go slash her tires.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Caroline says, like a hint.

“No,” Azzi says. “I already told you what I wanted to do, but you missed the turn.”

White flurries are starting to drift down outside the window, the wind picking up speed. Some of the flakes drift against the glass, individual specks so that Azzi can get a brief glimpse of the small symmetrical patterns making up each snowflake before they melt away against the window.

“I’ve been trying so hard to make her like me,” Azzi says suddenly, into the quiet of the car, “and she doesn’t.”

“I’m sure she does,” Caroline says, accepting this too, without question.

“She was such an asshole, just now,” Azzi seethes. “It’s one picture, will the world end? Will the sky fall?”

“I’m sure you already know this,” Caroline says, “but it was probably a bigger deal to her than it was to you.”

“I piss her off all the time,” Azzi points out. The anger is separating into hurt, a needle digging under the skin of her ribs. “She’s never reacted like that.”

Caroline doesn’t respond to this, as they pull into their neighbourhood. “You want to come over?” She offers. “Kaitlyn’s away for the day.”

Azzi is still considering this when her phone rings in her pocket, making her jump. She keeps meaning to set it to vibrate. She looks at the caller ID and considers hanging up. It would make her feel good, she reasons, give her a little vindictive pleasure. She’s aware of Caroline’s eyes still on her.

“Yes?” She says tersely, answering the phone.

“Hey,” Paige’s voice sounds a little hoarse on the other end. “I ditched the press conference. I’m on my way home. I thought, maybe we could talk?”

Azzi stares out the window. The temperature’s dropped fast, and the wind has picked up, white snow starting to cover the sidewalks, clinging to the window and the windshield.

“Talk about what?” She asks, forcing herself to lean back against the seat.

“Um,” Paige says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like- I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t want an apology, Paige,” Azzi says coldly. “I want to finally lay this humiliating chapter of my life to rest.”

“Azzi,” Paige says. “We won’t get anywhere if you refuse to talk about it.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” Azzi snaps. Her split lip stings as she speaks, newly scabbed over skin starting to split again. “We were never going anywhere to begin with.”

There’s a silence over the phone, only Paige’s breath filling the space, still so fucking steady. “You don’t mean that,” she says finally, voice charged with a bone-deep tiredness.

“This was always temporary,” Azzi says, always clawing her nails into wounds that are already bleeding, both her own and other people’s. “Sorry that you thought otherwise.”

“Fine,” Paige says into the phone, frustration jagged in her voice. “The dating part is fake, yeah, but- Christ, Azzi- I thought we were at least friends.”

Azzi is breathing too fast, too heavy. She wants to cry. She wants to scream some more. She wants to put her head on Paige’s shoulder and just breathe in the familiar smell of her, until they’re in sync again, inhaling and exhaling in the same rhythm. She doesn’t want to be friends.

“Go home, Paige,” she says, and feels the cavity in her chest split open a little further. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, so vulnerable it nearly rips her determination into shreds. The next thing she hears is the dial tone.

The car is horribly silent. Azzi doesn’t look, but the sound of Caroline’s disapproval is nearly audible.

“Don’t start,” Azzi moans. “I just- fuck, do you think I fucked up?”

Caroline is quiet for a moment, long enough for Azzi to turn and see hesitation lining her face.

“I think you would feel better if you were honest about your feelings,” she says finally. “Even if it doesn’t end up getting you what you want.”

Azzi lets her fingers fall, tracing over the material of her sweatpants. “It was going so well too,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s whining, and not quite succeeding.

“It’s not a real relationship, though,” Caroline says, and Azzi’s head snaps up in irritation.

“Thank you for that,” she says, curt. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”

“What I mean is,” Caroline sighs and then starts over. “It’s not real. It’s easy to have a great relationship if you don’t have as much to lose. You’ve been living in fantasyland.”

“This is like, the most unhelpful you have ever been,” Azzi tells her. “And that is saying something.”

“All I’m saying is, if you want to have a relationship with her after this whole thing is over-”

“I don’t,” Azzi interrupts, and Caroline closes her eyes like this whole thing is horrible for her, personally.

“Sure. But if you do, you need to figure out whether this is all it’s going to take before you give up.

“Ugh,” Azzi says. She glares out the window again. The snow is starting to blow in heavy gusts outside, and when Caroline parks, she can see that it’s piling up on the staircase leading up to their building. The snowfall is starting to pick up speed, thick, soft heaps of white beginning to form, deep enough to get in your shoes, sink into your socks.

The cab driver stops before turning into the long, narrow street leading to Paige’s building, and tells Azzi that with the current road conditions, she’ll either have to pay extra or walk the rest of the way. Azzi looks at the storm starting to rage outside, the snow swirling on strong winds, until she can barely see anything other than white through the window. She looks at the still-running meter. She decides to walk.

About thirty seconds in, she’s regretting it. She didn’t bring a jacket with her, so the snow is flying everywhere, landing in any available gaps in her clothes and melting into ice cold water on contact with skin. Her feet are suffering the worst, the snow piling up inside her shoes, melting and then piling up again until she can’t feel her toes anymore.

“Paige,” she says when she reaches the building, hitting the buzzer for Paige’s apartment. “Paige, if you don’t let me in, I’ll die. I’ll die, seriously.”

“Azzi?” Paige says over the intercom, static blurring her voice, and she says something that sounds like a question, but the locked door clicks and unlocks, and Azzi misses the words as she shuffles eagerly into the heated building.

It’s only once she’s in the elevator, a minute away from Paige’s door that she realizes that she has no plan, she’s forgotten her speech, and the snow collected in her hair and clothing has melted, leaving her sopping wet and creating a puddle of dirty water where she’s standing.

It’s all she can do to keep herself standing when Paige opens the door, her eyes widening as she takes in Azzi, sniffling only a little pathetically in her doorway, soaked to the bone in a thin sweater and sweatpants.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi says, before Paige has the chance to say anything. “I didn’t mean to say- I just- we are friends and I want to keep being friends and I don’t want to fake break-up, and I’m a really terrible fake-girlfriend, but I want to keep being your terrible fake-girlfriend.”

Paige’s mouth opens. Closes again. She seems, for the first time since Azzi’s met her, to be at a total and complete loss for words.

“And I’m sorry for pushing it about the picture thing,” Azzi continues nervously. A patch of melting snow is sliding down her back. “I didn’t want to- You hurt my feelings, a little, so I wanted to hurt your feelings and now I feel bad about that-”

“You are the dumbest person alive,” Paige says, and she grabs Azzi’s wrist and yanks her inside.

She closes the door behind them, almost as an afterthought, her hands fluttering over Azzi’s body, her fingers, her neck, her cheek, bringing a moment of blissful warmth wherever they land. “You’re shaking, Jesus Christ. How far did you walk like this? There’s a blizzard warning out, are you stupid?”

Azzi peels her shoes off and then stands in the entranceway, unsure of where to go or what to say, her hair dripping water onto her already wet socks.

“Unbelievable,” Paige is saying, already halfway across the living room before she realizes Azzi isn’t following. “Go, sit,” she says, and gestures at the stools across the kitchen counter.

Azzi obediently takes a seat.

It isn’t long before Paige returns to stand in front of her with a towel in her hands, and chucks it over Azzi’s wet hair, her hands scrubbing at it like she’s planning on taking Azzi’s whole head off.

“What is wrong with you?” Paige is asking her, though it seems to be rhetorical, her hands still busy drying Azzi’s hair, none too gently. “No jacket, no scarf, not even any decent shoes. Did you look outside before you decided to come running to apologize? You know how long it takes to get frostbite?-”

“Paige,” Azzi interrupts and Paige stops, both the lecture and the scrubbing, tilting Azzi’s face up so their eyes meet. Azzi’s tongue flattens at the expectant look in her eyes, and it’s with considerable effort that she manages to start again. “Paige, you forgive me, right?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Paige looks absolutely floored by the words out of Azzi’s mouth. Azzi can’t explain it to herself, any more than she can explain it to Paige, but she needs to hear the words, needs to see the shape of them in Paige’s mouth.

“Yes,” Paige says finally. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I know,” Azzi says, a shaky smile lifting the edges of her mouth.

Paige doesn’t move for a second, just watches Azzi, her green eyes contemplative. Then she starts drying Azzi’s hair again, a gentler set to her mouth, if not to her technique.

“You have qualifiers in a couple days,” she continues, as if nothing had happened, Azzi’s neck aching from the directions it’s being pushed and pulled in. “What would you have done if you’d gotten sick? Would you have sat out? Idiot.”

“I would have won anyway,” Azzi mumbles, a little guiltily, and then screeches at a particularly rough yank on her head. “But I won’t if I go bald! Paige!”

“Oops,” Paige says, not sounding very regretful. “Was that one too much?”

“Obviously, you fucking-” Azzi wails as Paige does it again. “Paige, my hair!”

Paige snickers, and pulls the towel away completely, tossing it into Azzi’s lap. “Drop this off in the laundry. And find some clean clothes and take a warm shower. I’ll get you some hot water with lemon and honey, so you don’t catch a cold. Silly girl.”

Azzi doesn’t answer, busy trying to feel her aching scalp for possible bald patches.

“Don’t worry,” Paige tells her, pushing her off the stool. “I promise you’re still pretty.”

Azzi whips around, beaming, ignoring Paige’s increasingly forceful attempts to shove her in the direction of the laundry room. “You think I’m pretty, Paige?”

She says it as half a joke, mostly expecting Paige to roll her eyes and push her away. It catches her by surprise when Paige’s expression softens instead, as she reaches up to push a strand of damp hair behind Azzi’s ear, the pad of her fingertip brushing softly over the shell of Azzi’s ear.

“You’re very pretty,” she says indulgently, her hand falling back to her side, Azzi staring at her wide-eyed. “Even when you’re at my door looking like a drowned puppy.”

Azzi goes to take a shower without further comment.

When she pads out, significantly calmer, in barefeet and a soft bathrobe, Paige is squeezing some lemon into a glass, the hot water creating condensation along the sides of the glass, fogging it up. It tastes honey-sweet going down Azzi’s throat, warming her up where the heat of the shower didn’t reach.

She feels warmer still when Paige presses her up against the kitchen counter, rough hands slipping inside the bathrobe, spreading across her back, as she licks into Azzi’s mouth like she can taste the remnants of honey and lemon lingering on Azzi’s tongue.

“Your lip is bleeding,” she murmurs, pulling away from Azzi, kissing the corner of her mouth in apology. “Sorry.”

Azzi licks over her lower lip, tastes metal in her mouth and grimaces. “Oops.”

Paige is already grabbing a tissue, and running it under the tap. She squeezes water out into the drain and presses the damp tissue to Azzi’s mouth, wiping away where the blood has smeared. Azzi winces at the contact, and Paige holds her chin between a finger and a thumb, keeping her in place. “Stay still, baby.”

Baby, Azzi thinks delightedly, lets the sound echo inside her brain. She’s still thinking about the word choice when she realizes Paige’s stepped away.

“Does it hurt?”

Azzi blinks. “Huh?”

Paige stares at her. Azzi stares back.

“Your lip?” Paige prompts, after it becomes clear that Azzi won’t be answering, a small smile playing at her own mouth. “It’s bleeding.”

“Oh,” Azzi says. She’s lost it. “Yes. The lip. It was bleeding. Still bleeding?”

Paige just looks at her, her eyes blinking slowly, like Azzi is the most fascinating person in the world. If this was anyone else, Azzi thinks, she would probably be embarrassed. But Paige just smiles at her, and Azzi can only muster up the smallest hint of sheepishness at being caught out so directly.

“Yes,” she amends, and wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. “It hurts lots. Kiss it better.”

Paige groans, her hands landing on Azzi’s shoulders, resisting her attempts to pull them back together. “You are insufferable. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Azzi says again, honestly, and she nudges her cold nose into the space between Paige’s shoulder and collarbone, drinks in the smell of Paige’s perfume (which she thinks is actually a cologne) “But here you are. Suffering.”

Paige’s eyes meet Azzi’s and hold eye contact, her face unreadable. Then she sighs. “You have no idea.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to make of this insult that doesn’t sound like an insult. She doesn’t respond, she presses cold feet against Paige’s shin in retaliation, grinning at her put-out expression.

“I can’t believe your toes didn’t fall off,” she says, and tugs Azzi over to her fireplace using the belt on her borrowed robe.

Azzi settles cross-legged in front of the blazing heat, lets it sweep over her back, feeling thrillingly, deliriously happy, sparks running up her still damp skin, making her heart beat faster in her chest.

“What do you look so happy about?” Paige asks, when Azzi grabs her and tugs her closer. She goes willingly, her head settling in Azzi’s lap, wincing as Azzi’s cold hands come around to pull at her cheeks.

“I’ve accepted my fate,” Azzi tells her.

“Your fate as what, exactly?” Paige says, the words mumbled as Azzi tugs on her face.

Azzi doesn’t answer, just leans forward and plants a kiss on her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose.

Has Paige’s New Relationship Gone Cold? Hockey Player ‘Iced Out’ by Figure Skating Fling!

Azzi’s Out On Her Ass! ‘Hit the Slopes!’ Says Paige! “On Thin Ice” Says Exclusive Source.

Azzi, Cold on the Ice, Colder in Bed?! Insider Sources Speak Out About Skating Couple’s Frigid Romance!

“Kaitlyn,” Azzi says, interrupting Kaitlyn’s dramatic reading. “You could read these in your head.”

“Good literature deserves to be shared,” Kaitlyn tells her, and holds up a new one. “A source close to the couple reveals the relationship has been on the rocks for months. Did you know that?”

“Where are they getting all these sources from?” Azzi wonders out loud.

“Beats me,” Kaitlyn says mournfully. “I’ve been calling offices all day to tell them you’ve got mad cow disease. Nobody even cares.”

Azzi pauses, looking up from the suitcase she’s packing at Kaitlyn, who’s draped over her bed. “You know humans can’t get mad cow disease, right?”

Kaitlyn, who is ostensibly meant to be helping Azzi pack, stops flipping through tabloids to look at Azzi, horrified. “Are you serious? I’ve wasted so many phone calls, man.”

“It’s literally called cow disease,” Azzi says, and Kaitlyn is still complaining when the door swings open, creaky hinges announcing Caroline’s arrival.

“There was a whole section about you guys on my way home. Like a whole section of a newsstand with just your faces on it,” she calls, already halfway into Azzi’s apartment. Azzi does not remember giving her a key.

“Did you bring any back?” Kaitlyn asks, already bounding up in excitement.

“Breaking!” Caroline reads, walking into the bedroom. She hasn’t changed out of the branded shirt she wears to work, a cartoonish smiling skull peering down at Azzi from under her own face, pressed against Paige’s on a magazine cover, bold lettering over their bodies. “Azzi, Withholding Her ‘Icicle’ From New Girlfriend?! ‘Not Until Marriage’ New Sources Report.”

“Who is writing these?” Azzi asks in amazement.

“And who is doing their fact-checking?” Kaitlyn says, peering down at the page over Caroline’s shoulder. “They should be fired.”

“Are you guys breaking up?” Caroline asks, and both her and Kaitlyn are staring at Azzi, expressions nauseatingly similar. “I need to know where to place my bets.”

“How’s the casual sex going for you?” Kaitlyn adds, looking irritatingly knowing. “Still no feelings?”

Azzi looks back down at her suitcase. It’s too full. If she adds anything else to it, she won’t be able to get it closed, but she hasn’t even packed any clothes yet. “No,” she says to the peanut gallery, an answer to both questions. She adds her folded clothes and takes the performance makeup out. She can probably put that in the carry-on.

“I’m starting a six-year plan to make her fall in love with me,” she says casually. “Can one of you come help me close this?”

“I love being friends with you,” Kaitlyn says, neither of them moving. “Every decision you make is worse than the last. Like a slow-motion car crash. Thrilling.”

“Why is it taking her six years to fall in love with you?” Caroline asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Azzi says. “At the end of the six years we get married. The suitcase?”

“Thrilling,” Kaitlyn repeats, and comes over to plant her full body weight on top of the suitcase so that Azzi can zip it closed.

Azzi is staggeringly drunk. Mind-bendingly drunk. Everything is swirling into pieces around her and then swirling back together, the noise pounding in her eardrums reverberating through her entire body. It’s loud, sweaty, hot, crowded. The smell of alcohol is stinging her nose, a too-expensive bottle of champagne still staining her clothes, sticky where it touches her skin.

Every now and then, the realization comes back to her and then she’s smiling again, her cheeks aching with the force of it, her throat raw from screaming.

“I made it!” She yells to Caroline. The two of them are so close together but her voice is carried off in the noise regardless, and she can see Caroline blink as she tries to process.

Then Caroline is grinning back at her, just as wide. “We made it!” She yells back, and Azzi throws her head back to laugh, giddy.

Someone pulls her away and Azzi goes willingly, out of her mind with joy and nearly deaf from the music.

The quiet of the evening, when she stumbles outside, is an ice-cold shock. The sudden stillness surrounding her, the indiscernible noise of screaming teenagers in the background. It had been a struggle to extricate herself, a tugging push and pull until she made it out into the night air. She’s pressing the call button before she can talk herself out of it.

“Azzi?” She hears Paige say, only a dark blurry shape on the small screen of her phone. There’s rustling movement, the click of a lamp, and then Paige’s face is peering blearily at her, illuminated by soft yellow light. “Are you wearing bunny ears?”

“I think I got them from a fetish store!” Azzi tells her, and it’s only when Paige flinches away from the phone screen that she realizes she had been yelling. She lowers her voice abashedly. “They wouldn’t let you in without a costume,” she whispers, like she’s letting Paige in on a secret. “But I didn’t have one.”

Paige falls back and Azzi can hear her laugh tiredly, voice still gravelly with sleep. She must have set the phone down, because all Azzi can see now is the ceiling of the hotel Paige must be staying at. Her team had left for a series of away games, both of them now far from home.

“Paige,” she says to the ceiling. “I can’t see your face anymore.” Her words are starting to blur together, but she can’t concentrate enough to pull them back apart.

“Sorry, sorry,” Paige mutters, and there’s another rustle before her face returns, now with headphones. “Are you out celebrating?”

The word celebrating reminds Azzi why she called to begin with and she beams back at the camera, exhilarated once again. “I made it! I’m going to the Olympics!”

Paige is laughing again, though Azzi isn’t sure why. “I know,” she says. “You texted me.”

“Oh,” Azzi says. Then, “What did I say?”

“Um,” Paige says, and then her video is paused. “Hang on. You said ‘i made it’ and then ‘Olympics baby’ and then ‘can alcohol absorb through your skin?’ and then there were a bunch of letters.”

“Oh,” Azzi says again. “What did you say?”

Paige’s face returns to the camera once more, her smile fonder than usual, the planes of her face carved out soft in the mellow light. “I knew you’d make it.”

Azzi thinks that if it’s possible to be crushed by sheer affection, she’s feeling it now, a building pressure in her chest that pulls her accelerating heartbeat back to ground level.

“Thank you.” Now that she’s calmer, she notices for the first time how Paige’s eyes are fluttering closed, how her voice is sleep-rough, and she feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Paige says, clearly lying. “I couldn't sleep anyway.”

“Liar.” There’s that soft, tired laugh again, and the phone shifts to a view of the ceiling again, like Paige has set it down beside her. Azzi can hear the sound of her breathing, each breath slipping slowly into a steady rhythm.

“S’Okay,” Paige mumbles. “I like the sound of your voice.”

This is enough to stun Azzi back into silence. Her brain feels slippery from how much she’s had to drink, the hot pink lighting of the club she had been in still dancing across her feet, a glimmering haze over her field of vision. She’s so aware, all of a sudden, of how cold the night air is, biting into exposed skin, how tightly the headband of the bunny ears is pressing into her scalp, of the hair falling over her forehead- of how much love is piling up inside her, scrubbing her raw and threatening to drown her under its weight.

If Paige liked the sound of her voice, Azzi would read her a novel, would read her a dictionary, would write her a new love letter every morning and recite it to her every night.

As it is, she whispers into the phone, “Goodnight, Paige,” and lets herself wait five full seconds before hanging it back up.

That night Azzi crashes on the sofa of a hotel suite she could have never afforded by herself, legs too wobbly to make it to a bed. She doesn’t sleep, she just lies there, the bright glow of her phone across her face the only light in the dark room, and she drafts drunken texts and deletes them, writing out confessions she’ll never send.

Are you still awake? She writes to Paige, and deletes it.

Good luck tomorrow.

Recently, you’ve been in all of my dreams. Do you think that means something?

I wish you had been here today.

In a hazy space of her brain, it starts to register to Azzi that this is possibly a little bit embarrassing. She doesn’t feel embarrassed- she feels giddy in a way she hasn’t for years, caught up in the middle-school thrill of having a crush, something that reminds her of drafts of love letters on pink stationary, of leaving gifts in lockers and roses on desks. It’s the indulgent happiness of allowing herself to get caught up in the push and pull before a relationship, both of them on edge, neither willing to slip first.

It’s enough, she tells herself. For now, it’s enough. They’ll have time.

The sun is just beginning to set when Azzi walks back to her apartment days later, a plastic bag of groceries crinkling in one hand, the other holding Paige’s hand. The heat is starting to return after a long winter, and there’s sweat collecting between their hands, but neither one moves to disentangle their fingers.

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Paige is saying heatedly, and Azzi scoffs but doesn’t interrupt. “You have no idea how much I’ve suffered because of this. It’s the worst possible-”

“Not the worst,” Azzi interjects. “I’ll take a lot but I won’t let you lie to me right now-”

“It is the worst, it’s the laziest way out, it never makes sense, it creates so many plot holes-”

“I think it’s fun and creative,” Azzi says, and passes the bag of groceries to Paige, who takes them unquestioningly, as Azzi fumbles one-handed with the lock. “And the plot holes wouldn’t exist if you didn’t think about them.”

“That’s the target audience,” Paige says grimly, as Azzi pulls her into her apartment via their connected hands. “People who don’t think. Like you.”

“Time travel is an old, respected, trope,” Azzi says. “Just because you don’t understand it-”

“Boo!” Paige says, setting the bag of groceries onto the counter. She starts unloading them without Azzi asking her to, taking out the eggs to place them into the fridge, not even pausing in the flow of conversation. “There’s nothing to understand, because it sucks.”

“Not enough things getting blown up for you?” Azzi asks snidely, and pulls out a cardboard pink box, wrapped with matching pink ribbon before Paige can respond. “Are you ready for your present?”

Paige comes to stand beside her, reaching out a hand to pull at the strings of ribbon and pouting when Azzi slaps it away. “I don’t know why you had to make me stand outside the bakery. It’s not like I can’t guess it’s a cake.”

“Hush,” Azzi says. “As long as it’s not open, it could be anything.”

They had only had Valentine’s Day cakes available at the bakery, so when Paige opens the box, it’s to a mess of pink and red frosting over a small heart-shaped cake. In cursive script over the top, white lettering reads ‘C U @ O.V.’

“They were charging per letter,” Azzi says. “O.V. stands for-”

“Olympic Village,” Paige says, grinning. “I get it. I love it.”

Azzi beams at her. Paige had cleared the team selections for the national team yesterday, when she had still been away for a game. She had made it back last night, the pair of them reuniting for a private celebration that left bruises that ached pleasantly along Azzi’s hips, her chest, her thighs.

“Here,” Paige says, in a suspiciously innocuous tone. “Taste.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “What-”

Paige runs her finger through the icing as Azzi starts talking and then sticks her finger into Azzi’s open mouth.

Azzi clamps her teeth down around the finger immediately, glaring at Paige. She’s hoping the look in her eyes communicates something like a threat, like I could bite through your finger like a carrot right now and not holy shit, I want to eat you out. It’s always so hard to figure out the line between the two with Paige.

Paige tries to pull her finger away, teasingly, and her eyes widen as Azzi bites down a little harder.

“Hang on,” she says, her wrist falling a little limp. “I’m trying to figure out if this is turning me on or not.”

Giving in is against Azzi’s principles but this is beginning to seem torturous, so she lets her mouth close, keeping her teeth back to let her lips close gently over the first knuckle. Paige makes a strangled noise and it feels like victory.

“Yeah. Definitely turned on,” she says decisively.

Azzi can’t speak, just swirls her tongue around the pad of her finger, tastes sugar and strawberries, lets it dissolve in her mouth, relishes in the way Paige’s lips tug up in exasperated acceptance.

She’s thinking of abandoning the cake entirely and starting up those celebrations over again, or maybe just dropping to her knees in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.

“Ugh,” Azzi says, pulling away reluctantly, turning toward the door.

She’s stopped by the firm grasp of Paige’s hand around her jaw, bringing Azzi’s face back to her own. Azzi thinks about complaining about the hand Paige’s using to do it, feeling her own spit touching her cheek, sticky and off-putting and gripping hard enough to bruise.

But Paige’s lips are already on her, tongue slipping into Azzi’s mouth with a proprietary confidence that makes Azzi’s hands clench tight around the edge of the countertop, keeping her on her feet.

The doorbell rings again, and Paige pulls away with a sigh and a wet parting of mouths, Azzi’s eyes fluttering back open in slight shock.

Paige is watching her lips, looking all too pleased with herself. “Yum,” she says, letting go of Azzi’s jaw with a pat on the cheek and a wink. “Strawberry.”

The doorbell rings for a third time, aggressive in how long it lasts, like the person outside is leaning on it, impatient.

Paige’s eyebrow twitches slightly at the noise but she steps fully away from Azzi, looking entirely regretful at her own actions. “Tell them to go away” her eyes flicking down to Azzi’s lips meaningfully.

“Stop saying words,” Azzi says, flustered beyond measure, and tries not to rush to the door in order to do exactly as told.

She opens the door, flushed and still half-laughing, the remnants of a smile on her face fading away as she sees Jayden outside her apartment, still in that ugly fucking coat, the human personification of a cockblock.

“Yes?” Azzi asks, leaning against the door. She doesn’t want Jayden taking a step inside. She doesn’t want Jayden here at all, encroaching on a moment Azzi was enjoying, his presence a reminder of a truth Azzi would rather forget. She very selfishly hopes Paige doesn’t see him. She wants Paige to forget about Jayden all together, forget that two of them had ever been together for a reason that wasn’t so they could watch old science fiction and argue about director’s cuts.

“Just thought I’d drop by,” Jayden says. “You’re not going to let me in?”

“I’m a little busy,” Azzi says coolly. “You should really text first.”

“Busy?” He’s smiling a condescending little smile that makes Azzi’s eyebrow twitch. “You aren’t at practice?”

“I’m hanging out with my girlfriend.” If she places more emphasis than is strictly necessary on the last word- well.

If Jayden is surprised to hear this, he covers for it well, only a slight blotchy red flush to his cheeks giving away a reaction. “I thought- I heard that you’d broken up?”

“Been reading a lot of tabloids recently?” Azzi drawls, letting her head fall to rest on her door frame.

“You haven’t brought her around for dinner,” Jayden counters, still mostly placid. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

“We’ve both been busy,” Azzi says, eyes narrowed. “It’s the season for it.”

Jayden smiles a little wider and it feels like an accusation. “I’m sure my dad would love to meet her.”

They will never find your body, Azzi says with her eyes.

With her mouth she says, “We’ll see you guys Wednesday.”

Once the articles had come out, it had become impossible to ignore Geno’s hints about meeting her new girlfriend. Azzi hadn’t expected to be able to avoid it for long but she had gotten away with it for longer than she expected.

She didn’t know how she felt about the dinner now that it had arrived. Somewhere inside her, something was screaming that this was too serious, too much, too fast. That the unsteady foundation of their little show couldn’t hold up under any more serious inspection. Another part was screaming that Azzi hadn’t been acting for a long time.

A month and a half had passed easily under the guise of their fake relationship. A month and a half, so much time and almost none at all.

At no point during those forty-five days had she prepared herself for seeing Paige waiting in her apartment for her to finish getting ready, complaining on Azzi’s terrible couch, wearing a white sweater, the thick knitted pattern against the pale of her skin.

She’s used to seeing Paige in sharp angles and hard muscles. Like this she looks almost soft. Huggable.

“I bet you’re just a natural-born parent pleaser, aren’t you?” Azzi says, eyeing the gentle cling of the fabric to her shoulders.

“What are you ever talking about?” Paige responds. “Come on, I brought some flowers and they’re going to wilt if we don’t hurry.”

“Flowers,” Azzi says, to herself, as Paige takes her hand and drags her along. “Of course she brought flowers.”

“Listen,” Azzi says, once the two of them are in the elevator heading down to the main floor. “We need to bring our best game tonight.”

Paige does not seem to be listening, her eyebrows a little furrowed as she responds to a text on her phone. Azzi can feel her blood pressure spike.

“Paige,” she says, and Paige’s head lifts immediately, the look she sends Azzi endearingly nervous. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a competition,” Azzi continues, very seriously. “And if I lose to Jayden of all people, I’m killing you and then myself.”

Paige slides her phone into her back pocket as the elevator doors open, and takes Azzi’s hand again instead, pulling them both towards where her car is parked. Her thumb is tracing small circles over the back of Azzi’s palm, a motion that she assumes is meant to be calming. Insultingly, it works, the tense slope of Azzi’s shoulders relaxing into a less rigid line.

“It’s fine,” Paige says. “I’m sure we’ll nail it.”

“That’s a lot of baseless confidence,” Azzi says. “Especially for someone who can’t lie.”

Paige only sends her that familiar exasperated look as she starts the car, like she can see right through Azzi’s bullshit but likes her anyway. Azzi smiles back, a little helpless in the face of that familiar affection.

By the time they arrive at Geno's house, the effect has worn off, and Azzi is a stretched out ball of nerves all over again, her leg bouncing against the floor of the car so fast it’s nearly vibrating.

“Seriously,” Azzi says again, grabbing onto Paige’s sleeve as she moves to open the car door, the two of them still parked in Geno’s driveway. “If they ask any serious questions, I’ll take it. You just- tell the truth unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’m not that bad at lying,” Paige complains, but Azzi isn’t amused, her hand still tightly gripping Paige’s sleeve.

“Hey,” Paige says, a little softer, and extricates her sleeve from Azzi’s grip, just to replace it with her own hand. She lifts Azzi’s hand up, and presses her lips to the knobby bone at Azzi’s wrist, looking back up at Azzi with a smile. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”

Azzi tries to maintain a scowl, but her hand untenses in Paige’s grip, against her will and she gives in.

“Fine,” she says, ungracious but accepting. “But if this all goes wrong, the murder-suicide is still in the plans.”

“Like you could kill me,” Paige snorts, and Azzi makes a sharp dissatisfied noise as they both finally exit the car, a large wrapped bouquet of orchids in Paige’s arms.

“I so could.”

“Maybe if I let you,” Paige says.

“Paige, please you would let me do anything to you.”

“Oh my god Azzi! We are just about to go inside, and you insist I’m the vulgar one” Paige complains as she rests her head on the wheel before they get interrupted.

“I thought I heard yelling,” the old man says, the sharp clean lines of her white haircut unforgiving against the bright light shining from behind her, the doorway lit up against the darkness of the night sky. “Azzi, is the impression you want to make on your guest?”

“Sorry,” Paige says instantly as Azzi scowls, her head bowed.

Geno’s expression changes so fast it’s almost comical, a beaming smile overtaking the thin, wrinkled face as she turns to Paige.

“No, no,” she says dismissively. “Don’t apologize. I know an Azzi antic when I see one. It’s good to meet you. Please, come inside.”

“She started it,” Azzi mutters, only a little sullen as the two of them enter the large house, the foyer illuminated in white by bright lights set into the high ceiling. Her breath leaves her with an ‘oof’ as Paige elbows her gut in silent response, smirking at the betrayed look Azzi sends her.

“Nonsense,” says Geno, who has apparently decided to miss that entire interaction. “Here, let me take your jackets.”

“It’s alright,” Paige says quickly, and smiles that white smile again and Azzi is suddenly struck by the image of a newspaper ad, ‘Perfect Girlfriend’ scrawled in large expansive lettering over the top. $9.99 a month.

“I brought flowers,” Paige says, doing nothing to dispel the image, and holds out the bouquet. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh,” Geno says, and takes the offered flowers. “These are lovely, thank you.”

Azzi is expecting Geno to return to the kitchen to put away the flowers, leaving her some time with Paige in the hall before the trial begins, but the man just lingers, watching Paige hang up first her jacket, and then turn to Azzi for her.

“You’re so polite,” Geno croons in a voice that Azzi considers unseemly for a man of his age. “Not at all like the last girl Azzi brought home.”

Both Azzi and Paige freeze, Azzi in the middle of handing her jacket off to Paige.

“I was fifteen,” Azzi splutters, blood rushing to her face. She feels hotter now than she ever did with the jacket on.

Paige places the hanger with Azzi’s jacket into the closet, her voice seemingly casual, but Azzi can hear the glimmer of laughter underneath her words. “Oh, really? What happened?”

“What didn’t?” Geno sighs dramatically, leading them into the kitchen where Jayden is seated at the stools lining the kitchen island, slicing up cucumbers for the salad. “Never said thank you or please, stared at the wall the entire night. She wouldn’t have brought flowers. Actually, I think she stole my vase.”

“She did not,” Azzi says, and then pauses. “She probably didn't.” She amends.

“Do you see?” Geno says, and Paige nods. Azzi takes the opportunity the instant the older man turns her back to elbow Paige, returning the favour from earlier with a bright smile on her face as she drives her elbow into Paige’s stomach.

Paige wheezes and manages to disguise it as a cough when Geno turns back around. The wide table is already set, and the four of them start to settle around it, Jayden bringing over the salad, surprisingly quiet.

They manage to make it to the end of dessert without incident.

“It’s alright,” Geno is saying graciously, now empty bowls sitting in front of them. “Now is the time to make mistakes. Around your age, I got engaged to this lovely young woman. Turned out, she was already married.”

Paige gasps and Azzi thinks about banging her head on the table.

“Not this story again,” Jayden says glumly. “Please.”

“She was married,” Geno says, and pauses for dramatic effect. “To an Earl. In England.”

Jayden and Azzi groan in unison. Paige, damn her, seems genuinely interested, her mouth dropping.

“No,” she says, hushed. “And you had no idea?”

“None,” Geno says, puffed up with the pleasure of a willing listener. Both Jayden and Azzi exchange long-suffering looks over the dinner table, and for a moment it feels normal, for the two of them to be complaining light-heartedly as the old man relays a story both have already heard too many times. Then Jayden’s eyes cut to the side, where Azzi’s hand is resting next to Paige’s on the dinner table, their pinkies interlocked. His expression hardens, leaving Azzi blinking.

“So, how did you two meet?” He asks loudly, cutting off a question Paige had been asking. Geno frowns at the interruption, but also turns to the two of them, looking between expectantly.

“We skate at the same rink,” Azzi says, taking a careful sip of water. “We ran into each other all the time. Practice times overlapped sometimes.”

“Ah, go on,” Geno says, looking unfortunately engrossed. “Tell us the details.”

Azzi forces a little laugh, her hand on the glass tightening. She’s talking to Geno but she can feel Jayden’s eyes on her, stinging wherever they reach.

“It’s nothing interesting,” she says. “We got along, I asked her out, we went to dinner.”

“Ah,” Geno says, lying back in his chair a little. “How unromantic.”

“It’s still pretty new,” Azzi says. She thinks she might be starting to sweat.

As if on cue, Paige’s hand wraps around her fully, squeezing a little before letting go.

“Azzi is answering all the questions,” Jayden says, a sharp smile directed at the two of them. “We could at least let the paige talk a little.”

Azzi thinks about propelling herself over the table, and slamming her fist into that smug little face. It’s a comforting image, if nothing else.

“Hm?” Geno says, looking between them. “How did you meet Azzi, Paige? What did you think?”

“I don’t-” Azzi starts, her voice a little high with nerves, but Paige just squeezes her wrist again, gently.

“I thought she was beautiful,” Paige says, before Azzi can start to panic. She smiles at Azzi and adds, “And very talented, of course. Maybe a little sharp around the edges, but it was part of the appeal. And I knew I had to talk to her that day, or I’d regret it forever.”

Azzi’s face feels burning hot. She thinks it’s probably a good thing Paige isn’t holding her hand anymore, because her palms feel clammy.

“What?” She asks and her voice sounds shaky in her ears.

“That’s romantic,” Geno says, nodding. She says something else and Azzi can hear Jayden’s voice, but it’s all faded a little to background noise, as she stares full-on at Paige’s profile, turned away from to address a comment Geno made, and Azzi feels like her heart is going burst entirely out of her chest.

“I’m going to go take a breath,” she says abruptly, standing up. “Outside. Be right back.”

She can feel everyone staring at her, but at this point, she’s pretty sure her face can’t get any more red than it already is.

She steps out into the night, the glow of the porch light dancing across the wooden slats at her feet. It’s happening again, she thinks, where just as soon as she’s starting to feel like she’s got everything under control, scheduled neatly into her calendar, Paige comes along with that honest little smile and her dimples flashing and Azzi starts to feel like she’s swirling apart again.

Footsteps sound behind her, and Azzi turns, mostly expecting to see Paige or maybe Geno, come out to fetch her again.

“Hey,” Jayden says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looks uncomfortable, standing just outside the door, shorter than Azzi remembers him being.

He doesn’t say anything at all, just raises an eyebrow, leaning back to brace his elbows on the porch fence behind him.

“You guys make a good couple,” Jayden says finally.

Something flutters in Azzi’s chest. “What?”

“You look right together,” she says, and motions with hi hands. “You fit.”

Azzi can’t think of anything to say. Oh God, it’s over, she thinks, with a burst of relief. And then again, with an overwhelming panic. It’s over.

“I-” Jayden rubs at the back of his neck, and Azzi just stares. “I’ve been a little overbearing, I guess.”

“Overbearing?” Azzi repeats scathingly. “You mean the blackmailing me into hanging out with you?”

Jayden seems like he’s trying to put on a good show of repentance. “I just, I didn’t want to lose, so I kept pushing.”

Azzi tilts her head back and stares at the sky. A month and a half of effort, gone in two minutes. What, her mind whispers to her, do we do now? A bright star twinkles down at her unhelpfully.

“Whatever,” she mumbles out loud and pushes her way past Jayden back into the house.

Azzi returns to the dining room and starts clearing the table without being asked. She stands in the kitchen and doesn’t wash a single plate, just stares at the delicate china Geno had brought out specially for meeting Azzi’s girlfriend and thinks about how unfair and awful life is. Bitterness is creeping up her throat, long tendrils threatening to choke her out entirely.

Paige comes to meet her in the kitchen after a few minutes, her arms wrapping around Azzi, enfolding her entirely as her chin comes to rest over Azzi’s shoulder.

“Hi,” she says.

It’s always been in Azzi’s nature to poke at barely formed scabs, ripping her cuts open before they’ve had a chance to heal. She doesn’t pull away from Paige’s arms.

“Hi,” Azzi whispers, turning her head to plant a small, clumsy kiss to her forehead.

Paige pulls away, and stands beside Azzi instead, her back leaning against the edge of the counter. “You good?”

Azzi grins, and swallows down the acrid taste at the back of her tongue. “Are you? I thought you were a bad liar, what was all of that back there?”

Paige flushes slightly, red creeping up her neck. Her eyes leave Azzi’s to look at the plate in her hands instead. “All that hanging out with you has made me a worse person, probably.”

Azzi sets the plate down and pretends to swoon dramatically into Paige’s chest, who rolls her eyes, but grabs her arms anyway, steadying her.

“Oh no,” she warbles piteously, fluttering her eyelashes. “What will your teammates think of me, now that I’ve tarnished their precious golden girl?”

Paige reaches up and pinches Azzi’s nose. “Gold doesn’t tarnish,” she says, ignoring Azzi’s nasally protests.

Azzi pulls away and pouts, rubbing at her nose. “I’m just a special influence, Paige.”

“You’re a special something, for sure,” Paige says dryly.

Azzi makes a face at her, and turns back to the dirty dishes, still waiting for her.

“Are you alright?” Paige’s voice asks again from behind her. “I saw Jayden follow you out. I didn’t want to step in. What did he say?”

“Oh, you know,” Azzi says feebly. She gives up, and turns on the warm water, starts scrubbing the dishes. “I’ll tell you later,” she says to Paige.

She wonders, not for the first time, if Paige’s got a superpower that lets her know how far Azzi can be pushed at any particular moment, because she doesn’t say anything else. She just nudges Azzi a little to the side with one heavy hip, until both of them are standing side by side, washing dishes in the silent kitchen.

A clock in Azzi’s head is keeping time in the car ride home, tick-tick-ticking away the moments before they’re back and Azzi has to confess. It’s over, she thinks again. It was always going to be over, she reminds herself, but it doesn’t help. Even if she keeps this quiet, the two months will pass.

Azzi’s dreams have always been so huge but recently they’ve started to seem so small. Not the far away pressure of a medal around her neck, only the image of a kitchen in the early afternoon, warm hands around her waist, gentle lips on her. A breakfast set out for two. She isn’t sure what she’ll do if that slips away again.

“Paige,” she says when the car finally stops in front of her apartment. “Guess what?”

There’s a terrible sort of lingering stillness in the car, like Paige can sense that something is wrong.

“Jayden said we were a cute couple,” Azzi says, as casually as she can manage. She’s watching Paige’s face carefully, searching for a reaction, but she can’t tell if her expression really changes or if Azzi’s just seeing what she wants to see. “I think she’s going to back off. So we’re good now.”

“Oh.” Paige says. And that’s that.

She expects, despite herself, for Paige to follow her out of the car, maybe just to talk, maybe to say a goodbye.

She hasn’t even made it into the building before she hears the car start to move, driving off.

Sure enough, when she turns around, the street is empty.

Because the world is conspiring against her, the elevator is out of service.

Azzi climbs up five flights of stairs slowly, thinking about what she’s going to do now. The stairwell is abandoned this late at night, everybody else in the building already asleep.

She had known this was going to happen. She had planned for this happening. Their relationship had come with a deadline and she had known it was eventually going to run out. She had made a plan, and the plan was fucked now because Paige had said not a single thing when Azzi had told her they could end their fake relationship, hadn’t even stuck around to watch her leave.

“If she doesn’t even want to be friends,” she says to a bleary-eyed Kaitlyn, standing on her doormat. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Kaitlyn isn’t wearing any pants, and her eyes are halfway to closing before Azzi’s even finished her sentence.

“Hang on,” she says, and turns her head to the side to yawn wide, jaw cracking. “Okay, come on.” Ushering Azzi back into her own apartment.

Inside her apartment, Kaitlyn hears her out, splayed out on Azzi’s floor, nodding sleepily as Azzi explains.

“This problem is stupid,” Kaitlyn says, like she always does. Azzi is lying on her couch, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling again. It really is such an ugly ceiling.

“Tomorrow,” Kaitlyn is saying. “Just talk to her.”

“But-” Azzi starts and Kaitlyn cuts her off.

“If she really doesn’t want to be friends at all, I’ll call all the magazines I can think of and tell them she’s really bad in bed or something.”

Azzi pauses and contemplates this. “Promise?” She asks eventually, and Kaitlyn groans where her face is half-mashed into the floor.

“We can do it together,” she promises.

“Ugh,” Azzi says, and rolls over on her couch and gives in to sleep. If she’s going to cry, she tells herself, might as well do it tomorrow.

When she wakes up, it’s not to the shrill piercing noise of her alarm, but to the equally shrill and piercing sound of her phone ringing. She’s still on her couch, and the apartment is still dark, the sun not yet risen. It could only have been a few hours since she got home. The ringing cuts off, and then starts up again.

“Azzi,” Kaitlyn says warningly, her eyes still closed, her face still buried in Azzi’s carpet. “Either you pick up that fucking phone, or I’m going to shove it so far up your ass, you’ll feel it ringing in your throat.”

Azzi leans off the couch to pick up the phone, rubbing the sleep crust out of her eyes.

“Hello?” she says into the phone, not bothering to check the caller ID, more irritable than normal.

“Azzi?” Paige’s voice says over the phone, and it’s so unexpected that Azzi almost misses that she’d said her first name.

“Paige?” She asks, wide-awake now.

“Can you let me in?” Paige asks. “To the apartment building, I need to-”

“Yeah,” Azzi says, stumbling over to where the buzzer sits. She presses. “What are you- Paige?” The line’s gone dead.

“Oh my God,” Azzi says, staring at the phone in her hands. Her phone log is open in front of her, confirming that it hadn’t been some kind of longing-induced dream. “Oh my God,” she repeats.

“What’s happening?” Kaitlyn asks from behind her. She hasn’t moved at all, as far as Azzi can tell. If she wasn’t speaking, Azzi would worry that she was dead.

“You need to get out,” Azzi says, still staring at her phone in disbelief. She looks over and Kaitlyn is still unmoving. “You have to get out,” she says again, running over to pull Kaitlyn up and out of her carpet.

“You are-” Kaitlyn scowls as Azzi tries to push her out the door with both hands at her back. “You are ungrateful, that’s what.”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Azzi says desperately. “Anything, seriously, but you have to get out.”

“Hm,” Kaitlyn says, ignoring Azzi’s attempts to throw her bodily at the door. “Alright. If you insist.”

Just before the door closes behind Kaitlyn, Azzi hears her whistle. “Hey Paige,” she hears Kaitlyn call cheerfully, just outside her door and before Azzi’s had the time to process what that means, someone is knocking at her door.

When she opens it to see Paige, she starts to wish that she had spent her time brushing her hair instead of kicking Kaitlyn out. Or maybe her teeth.

Her only consolation is that Paige looks equally haggard, hair even messier than usual, her eyes looking wild as she takes Azzi in, her chest heaving with exertion.

“One more date,” Paige says. She’s breathing hard. “Rule number four. You still- We still have one more.”

Azzi’s eyes couldn’t open any wider if they tried. A painful hope is springing up in her chest, pushing against her ribcage until it aches. “Did you run all the way up here?” She manages to ask, her head still in a daze.

“Your- fuck-” Paige is still panting, bracing her hand against the doorframe, but she laughs, breathless and a little nervous. “Your elevator was broken.”

Azzi can’t tell if she wants to laugh with her or cry. “I live on the fifth floor,” she says, instead of doing either.

“I just needed to tell you,” Paige says, straightening up fully and Azzi thinks that she looks dazed too. “I had to tell you-”

It’s all Azzi can take, all she needs to hear, her heart hammering in her chest. “Wait, stop!”

Paige is staring at her, and it’s an awful expression on her face, one that Azzi’s never wanted to see, like something is falling apart in front of her.

Azzi doesn’t bother trying to explain any further. Azzi grabs Paige’s face and brings their lips together, so hard it hurts.

Paige makes a sound against Azzi’s lips as their teeth knock together, her pointy canines digging into Azzi’s lower lip.

“Okay,” she says, pulling back. She’s laughing again, the soft puff of air hitting Azzi’s skin. “Okay.”

She cups Azzi’s face in one hand, hardened calluses meeting soft skin and gently, so gently, tugs her back in, smiling against Azzi’s mouth.

This kiss is easier, in that it tastes less like blood. Paige’s lips are sweet, soft and plump and red, and she’s hesitant in a way Azzi’s never known her to be before, as she licks over her bottom lip, pulls Azzi even closer with a hand on her waist. Until they’re pressed up tight together, one of Azzi’s hands bruising her shoulder, the other tight on the back of her neck. Until Azzi’s tongue is in her mouth, tasting coffee and mint, feeling Paige’s body shudder against her, her hand opening and then closing tight around Azzi’s waist.

When they pull away, Azzi keeps one hand on her sleeve.

“I like you,” she says defensively, and Paige looks like the breath in her lungs has left her all at once. “I like your face. I like your arms. I like it when you wake up before me and you get ready without turning the lights on so you don’t wake me up. I like it when you carry my bags without me asking even though I’m a professional athlete and carrying heavy things is like, 45% of my life. I like the way you put your hand on my thigh when you’re driving. I like that you have piles of tickets in your car and I like that you call your mom every Sunday-”

“I get it.” Paige says, looking mortified.

“Do you?” Azzi says. “Because, just so you know, you are completely ruining my six year plan.”

“Okay,” Paige says, her voice muffled from where she’s covered her face with her hands. “Maybe I don’t get it.”

“My six year plan,” Azzi wails. “You aren’t supposed to confess until the second year.”

Paige’s hands lower as she considers this. It’s a testament to how well Paige knows her, maybe, that she manages to piece together what’s happening, regardless of how objectively batshit it is.

“Do you want me to wait a year?” She asks, grinning again. Her ears are bright red.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Azzi says, “You are ruining my life. Just- hang on. I need to show you something.”

Azzi’s got one hand on Paige’s wrist, leading her into her apartment, and Paige comes easily, like she has nowhere else to be. Azzi swallows down the lump in her throat, and takes them both to her bedroom, opening up drawers until she finds the notebook she’s looking for, passing it over to Paige who takes it, confused.

Those furrowed lines between her eyebrows only deepen as she opens the book, scanning down a long page covered in Azzi’s handwriting.

“Every time you did something that made me think I loved you, I wrote it down,” Azzi says, her eyes burning holes in her stupid worn out carpet. “So I wouldn’t say it out loud.”

Silence settles over the two of them like a heavy blanket, stifling and hot. Azzi lets it sit, doesn’t dare to move, holds her breath, until she can’t take it anymore and looks up.

“Are you crying? ” She asks, her eyes widening.

“I’m going to kill you,” Paige snaps, not even bothering to wipe away the tears resting in the corners of her eyes, poised to fall. She’s still looking through the second page. “Why would you- why wouldn’t you say any of this before?”

“I don’t know!” Azzi says, slightly alarmed by the tears that are now fully rolling down Paige’s cheekbones. “Please don’t cry. It makes me feel icky.”

“You stupid- God, I don’t even have a word for you right now,” Paige tells her. “There are- you’ve written pages in here.”

“I only started writing in it about a few weeks ago,” Azzi says helpfully. “Otherwise I would have more.”

“At no point,” Paige asks incredulously, “did it occur to you that maybe it would be easier if you just said these things to me?”

Azzi frowns. “I didn’t know if you- you know. Are you?”

“Obviously I’m in love with you,” Paige says, and Azzi feels like all the strings holding her up have been cut at once. “Who would agree to this whole fake-dating thing if they weren’t?”

Azzi thinks that that is almost insulting, but she doesn’t have it in her to feel offended, just feels a bone-melting relief, sagging against her bedroom wall. “You said you couldn’t think of a better solution.”

“There is always a better solution,” Paige tells her, and she’s laughing as she says it, finally wiping her wet eyes, which makes Azzi laugh with her.

“Sorry,” Azzi says, and because she’s pretty sure she’s allowed to, she presses her hands to Paige’s cheeks, and kisses the divot right between her eyebrows. “Sorry,” she repeats.

Paige puts her hands up to Azzi’s face, and they must look ridiculous, both of them holding the other’s face between their palms, grinning like children.

“Azzi,” Paige says, very seriously. “Do you want to be my-”

“Agh!” Azzi cries, and tackles Paige onto her bed. Paige groans as she falls heavily onto Azzi’s covers, her hands flying up to Azzi’s wrists, Azzi’s hands on her chest, Azzi’s knees digging into the mattress on either side of her thighs.

“You already ruined my six-year plan,” Azzi says, pressing down on Paige’s chest. She pretends that she is not effectively groping Paige’s tits right now, but she’s not sure if she’s fooling anyone. “Just let me do the asking.”

Paige’s hands move from Azzi’s wrists to her shoulders, and she pulls Azzi down towards her, rolling them both over, a hand cradling the back of Azzi’s head. She looks down at Azzi from where she’s straddling her thighs and grins at the flustered expression on Azzi’s face.

“You asked for the fake relationship,” she reminds Azzi. “It’s my turn.”

“It’s not a competition,” Azzi lies. “And fake isn’t equal to real. That was more like a business pitch.”

Paige only smiles at her, sharp and knowing, and that wasn’t what Azzi had wanted at all because she can feel her slick stir at the sight.

“It was all business to you?” Paige asks, bending over Azzi, a mocking tilt to her lips, to the arch of her eyebrow. “Really?”

Azzi opens her mouth to respond, but Paige’s already got her mouth on Azzi’s skin, her tongue darting out at the sensitive spot under Azzi’s ear until she’s got Azzi arching up underneath her with a strangled cry, grinding against Paige’s thigh to try to get some friction. Paige’s hands are pushing her shirt up, fingers rough against her abdomen, a sharp contrast to the soft kisses she’s leaving down Azzi’s neck.

Azzi has the sudden, vivid thought that if she comes just from this, she’ll never forgive herself.

Then Paige’s mouth is at the creases of her thighs, teeth digging in just a little into where the flesh is softest, and Azzi stops thinking all together.

Once the sweat and cum are drying on their stomachs, Paige looks up at her, and Azzi thinks that she’s lost the battle and the war.

She moves in for a kiss, but Azzi pushes her face away with one hand, the other draped over her eyes, too jittery for her own good.

“I’m not going to lick my own cum out of your mouth.”

She can feel Paige twitch against Azzi’s thigh at that and Azzi lifts her arm to squint at her, levels her with the best unimpressed glare that she can manage with her body still feeling so jelly-like and her heart still beating so fast. “Really?”

Paige just laughs, and pulls Azzi’s hands away and to the side, so she can look her straight in the face, can see her own expression reflected back in Azzi’s eyes- a little nervous, but grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. She places a gentle kiss on the soft skin of Azzi’s cheek.

“Go on, then,” Azzi says, the glumness in her voice offset by the brightness of her eyes as she looks up at Paige. “I know when I’m beaten.”

“Azzi,” Paige starts. She stops, and tries again. “Azzi.”

The Azzi in question groans at the sound of her name, and Paige keeps her hands around her wrists.

“Azzi, I love you,” she says, and Azzi huffs, the warm air hitting Paige’s chin. “I’ve loved you for a while now, I think.”

She lets go of Azzi’s wrists, moves her hands to cradle Azzi’s face instead. Azzi knows how she must be feeling, because she’s feeling it too. Her throat feels scratchy, the culmination of so much longing suddenly real and staring her dead in the eyes, her eyelashes casting a shadow over her cheeks. It’s almost overwhelming.

“Be my real girlfriend, okay?” Paige finishes lamely, sweeping Azzi’s hair out of her face, the tips of her ears burning hot.

“That was terrible,” Azzi says, but her voice sounds suspiciously wet. “Go brush your teeth so we can kiss properly.”

Azzi makes them both breakfast, and burns the toast when Paige distracts her halfway through. She doesn’t mind, the blackened bits can be scraped off, and the eggs still taste good.

She’s expecting the doorbell, when it comes. Honestly, she’s impressed they managed to hold off so long.

“How’s it going?” Kaitlyn says in Azzi’s doorway, attempting to sound casual, while leaning around Azzi’s body to get a glimpse inside.

“Kind of early for a visit,” Azzi says, but Caroline is already pressing her way inside, curiosity blatantly etched on her features.

“It’s fine,” Kaitlyn says, also stepping inside. Azzi sighs and moves to the side.

“So, why don’t you want to real-date Azzi, huh?” Caroline is asking, clearly trying to loom intimidatingly over Paige. The effect is damaged by the flowery embroidered shirt she’s wearing, short at the ruffled cuffs, cropped to her midriff.

“Stop-” Azzi starts to say, trying to pull Paige away from the two of them.

“She has good bone structure,” Kaitlyn interrupts, her hands reaching up from behind Azzi to grab her face, smushing it between her palms. “Have you seen her bone structure?”

“You guysh are th’ worsht,” Azzi says, her face still clutched in Kaitlyn’s iron grip. She pulls, until Kaitlyn releases her, and rubs her now sore cheeks, scowling. “We already- we fixed it. Jesus.”

“We could try a shovel talk,” Kaitlyn mutters to Caroline, both of them looking slightly disappointed, and Azzi scowls harder.

“Get out already!”

“I have actual shovels,” Caroline tells Paige as a parting statement.

“Okay?” Paige says, bewildered. She turns to Azzi once the two of them have left. “Why was she telling me about her shovels?”

“It was probably meant to be ominous,” Azzi sighs. “Caroline is terrible at ominous.”

“It came across a little more like she was bragging about her shovels,” Paige says.

Azzi watches Paige- her girlfriend, her mind supplies, thrilled- get her stuff together, searching for keys in the pockets of pants that had been discarded. They’ve still got practice, Azzi thinks, a little loopy. After all that, and they’ve still got practice. Azzi will show up to the rink in the evening, and see a crowd of hockey players taking up space on the rink- always too slow to clean up- and one of them will be Paige. It seems too much to process. The sun has risen outside, painting Azzi’s apartment in golden light, her ugly ceiling and her cheap carpet, and the girl in the center of it. Azzi wonders if she should tell her her shirt is inside out.

Paige looks up to see her staring, her eyes even more blue under this lighting, and that animated flash when she smiles- bright and bold, like she's just seen something good.

#nat’s anons #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn huskies #wcbb

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bettystonewell · 8 days ago

Text

IF YOU LEAVE

Chapter 1: Pretty in Pink

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Reader

In the spring of 1988, Dean meets the girl of his dreams. He just doesn’t know it yet. 2k words

Tags: fluff, angst, young Sam and Dean, slow(ish) burn romance, childhood sweethearts, friends to lovers, 80s, 90s, season three, spans three decades, eventual smut, Rufus - crotchety at any age

@chevroletdean is celebrating 500 followers with a writing challenge! Liane made the beautiful mood-board above for me to work with. You can find more about the Milestone Celebration HERE. I’m gonna try and finish this before the 18th, but consider this chapter my piece for the challenge 😘

Next Chapter

April 1988

The first time Dean saw you was in third grade, Mrs Petersen’s class, but it wasn’t until during recess on the second day that you spoke. Your hair in pigtails, him with dirt on his knees, and a simple exchange over a juice box, because you were yet to learn how to filter.

At that point, as children often do, you didn’t think to ask for each other’s names, and when both boys walked through Bobby’s front door that afternoon, and he asked “How was school? Did you talk t’any other kids today?” He got a smile and a grunt as both boys ran up the stairs to their room.

“That great, huh?” He scratched his forehead under his cap, and went back to the kitchen to continue supper, and the hex bag he was making up for Rufus. The idjit had shown up on his doorstep earlier that day.

“I thought you didn’t have any Rugrats?” Rufus thumbed to the hall he’d come out of. A bottle of Jack in the other.

“I don’t,” Bobby said. But just as Dean didn’t realise the significance of you in his life at the time, Bobby hadn’t realised the boys in his either.

Dinner was simple that night. Bobby wasn’t a chef, but he was determined to give the Winchester boys something normal for once in their young lives. It’s why he’d enrolled them in the local school in the first place. Bought them bags and shoes. New clothes for Sammy because Dean’s hand-me-downs were far too big for the little tyke.

He’d even taken them to a barber, somewhere he never took himself, and signed Dean up for the school lunch program.

Yeah, he was growing soft. Lucky he had Rufus to point out the fact further with his outright stares and grins.

He was just doing a good deed. Looking after the future. Wasn’t that a part of being regular folk? Never mind the lady ringing up his groceries at the supermarket had frowned at him when he didn’t have a valid excuse for why they weren’t at school that day or two days before that.

Balls. That’s what it was. And he’d kick Rufus’ if he were close enough to reach with his boot.

Comments about him getting old, also balls. If Rufus was dumb enough to keep hounding him, he deserved a gun to his sack. Don’t worry ‘bout his steel caps.

He cleared his throat. Took a swig of beer and then settled his eyes on Dean. The kid was a smartass, but he was respectable, and had to open up, eventually. “So, did you learn anything today?” he asked. Tried to force a smile onto his face.

But Dean only shrugged, still defiant he should’ve been out there with his father.

“Well, what about your teacher? What’s her name?” He knew she was a she from the paperwork, Mrs Peters, or something like that. He just didn’t bother to remember in front of Rufus.

It didn’t matter though, because Dean shrugged again and shoveled another bite of meatloaf into his mouth.

Kids.

“My teacher is Miss Reeves,” young Sam piped up. Kid was smart for a four-year-old.

“Yeah? And what’d you do with her?” It’d been a long time since Bobby had graduated high school. Had no idea what kids in preschool did, besides the ABCs, he supposed. “Did you, ah,” he looked at Rufus for guidance, but the idjit had none. “Did you colour…or…sing a song?”

“I used blue, and red, and green for the grass I draws.” Sam beamed.

Okay… “That’s great, kid,” Bobby said.

Rufus downed another shot of Jack. The glass, sharp against the table when he hammered it onto the linoleum top. “Real great.” His tongue clicked. “What about you Dean? You colour, too?”

But when Dean said nothing, “Didn’t think so,” tumbled outta Rufus’ mouth.

“You could’ve given him a chance to answer.”

“Didn’t need to. He’s not gonna. Look at him.” Rufus swiped his hand out in front. His brow raised when Dean opened his mouth, though, and then he looked interested.

“I met a girl,” he said, resorting back to his former slouching when he noticed both men frozen and staring at him.

It was the loudest he’d spoken since living under Bobby’s roof. The first time he’d shown emotion other than attitude, and Bobby couldn’t help but smile. Until he thought harder about the issue.

Did he have to give these kids the bird and the bees talk, too? Hell no, he wasn’t!

His fingers scratched through his beard. That smile of his fell to a thin, pursed line. Bit of teeth spiking through the gap.

“A girl, huh? Like a girlfriend?”

“No!” Dean lost his chin to his neck. “She’s my friend, and she’s a girl.”

Simple. Obvious. Bobby felt the fool. Until he asked the all important question.

“What’s her name?”

What was your name?

Dean couldn’t answer that because he didn’t know. You were a girl, you’d been nice to him, and you didn’t like orange juice. That was the extent of it. You’d played your game after that. The one where he chased you, and you ran, much like what hunters did. Only, you weren’t a monster, and he didn’t hunt.

Not allowed to. Too young to do anything more than babysit Sammy and stay with Uncle Bobby.

He knew they weren’t related.

When he stepped into the classroom the next morning, books in hand, his eyes swept the room. No, he wasn’t interested in the US map, or the globe in the corner. He didn’t care that Mrs Petersen was scribbling sums on the board ready for the day’s lessons or for the tall boy with the extra tires whose farts created a war zone as he walked through the dust cloud.

No. He focused on you. Hair once again in pigtails, hot pink t-shirt and matching nails, which he thought little of because it was all too…girly, but then you smiled at him and his nose tingled as a result.

“Hi Dean,” you even said, and it was all he could do to not smile back as he took his seat in the row behind you and the Bat-signal drawn onto your right heel.

He needed to learn your name.

Of course, to a nine-year-old, “You like Batman?” was far more important. He asked you that when he sat down next to you at lunch that same day. The pale green plastic of his lunch-tray, just fitting in between yours and the boy’s to his left.

Your look of disgust was apparent even from your side profile, and unlike his smile, Dean couldn’t hold back his laughter when you turned. Not only did you spit out the word, “No,” but a sliver of strawberry jello came with it.

You wiped at your chin and poked your tongue out, which made him laugh harder.

“I like Michelangelo more, but my brother says he’s stupid.” Your head and eyes dropped to look under the table. “Didn’t like it when I told him the Ninja Turtles would beat Batman up.”

“Well, Leonardo might,” Dean said, and you frowned. “With his help,” he added.

His nose tingled again.

There was lots of that over the course of the week and the one that followed. Dean learned your name, and that your mom’s middle one was Mary - it only took a couple of extra days - but from the moment you bonded over your favourite cartoons, the two of you became inseparable, and Bobby was pleased.

Both Winchester boys had a chance at normal life. Well, semi-normal due to the talismans and arsenal in his basement.

And while Rufus refused to show his face again, as long as Sam and Dean lived under his roof, Bobby didn’t mind. He rather enjoyed that. But it didn’t stop other hunters and their problems from showing up on his doorstep, and on one particular Saturday morning after hearing from Bill Harvellle, he dug deep into his wallet for a couple of dollar bills and handed them to Dean.

“Why don’t you take your brother and that friend of yours to the arcade or somethin’,” he said, then narrowed his brows at the boy. “Call the house line ‘round five. Make sure it’s safe to come home.”

Dean took the money and shoved it in his front pocket. “Yes, sir.” He nodded once, and then grabbed Sammy by the hand and pulled him to the door.

The air was warm when they stepped outside. As Dean always did, he put the needs of his baby brother first, pulling off the four-year-olds jacket, then tying it ‘round his waist. He did the same with his and they were off. Sam on the handlebars of the bike Bobby had fixed up for them, Dean peddling with all his might into town.

It was hard work, and by the time they reached your house, he was out of breath, but it was worth it to feel the wind in his hair.

Cheeks puffed, neck hot and sweaty under the collar of his T-shirt, he knocked on your front door with a tight fist, and took a step back.

The dark wooden floorboards creaked underneath his sneakers. Footsteps from the other side moved closer, and he was soon met with your grinning smile and a bright pink scrunchie in your hair.

He scrunched his nose up, but that turned upside down when he saw the Ninja Turtle action figures in your hands.

“Hi Dean,” you said, peeking around him to look at Sam standing next to their bike. “You guys wanna come in and play?”

But they didn’t. Just as Bobby had suggested, Dean had other plans, and after checking in with your mom, the three of you headed to the local arcade.

Whirs. Dings. Whistles. The electronic piano jingles and a rocking soundtrack that tried its best to overcome everything else greeted you when the tinted glass doors rattled open. Lights, as far as the eye could see, of neon pinks, greens and blues and a carpet, littered with stains of mud and grass from the other kids already there, matched all that was overhead and surrounding.

Sammy clung to Dean even tighter. His little hands tugged on the base of his shirt. While on the other side of him, your face reflected the excitement hammering up his legs.

Until this stage in his young life, Dean had only been to an arcade once. The lucky timing of a classmate’s birthday party at a different school he spent all of two weeks in, well before being dumped here at Bobby’s.

That place was awesome, but this? It was awesome, too. There was just something about not being accompanied by adults that made it better.

Pacman and Donkey Kong called his name. Q-Bert, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Space Invaders. Pin-ball and claw machines.

“Look! They have a Ninja Turtles one!” You pointed towards the back where a large machine plastered with their now fluorescent green faces stood out amongst the rest. “C’mon Sammy.” You grabbed the youngest boy’s hand and ripped him away from Dean.

“Hey, wait,” he called, but under all the noise, it was a lost cause.

With a huff, and one eye on you both at all times, Dean jogged over to the change machine by the door and swapped his money for quarters. You guys were the worst. Annoying. Impatient. Yet the way you grabbed the chair for Sam, and held it steady for him while he climbed up, had Dean’s nose buzzing again.

His nose buzzed like that every time he saw you. Playing games, eating lunch in the cafeteria. Riding your bikes through the streets of Sioux Falls, side by side, that same wind in your hair.

It’s just a shame it didn’t last long.

Never did.

Sam and Dean Winchester flew through towns as many times as there were months in the year, sometimes more. The Spring of ‘88 a rarity. Their stint at the local school and preschool, even rarer, and one soon forgotten.

Until 1997 when Dean found himself enrolling at another school in Sioux Falls.

He didn’t know the significance of that either, but he soon would. You’d make him.

Next Chapter

Am I shooting myself in the foot by releasing this part when I haven’t finished the rest? Probably, but I’m used to it. We’ll be diving into three stages in Dean and readers life in this one - up next - 1997.

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skimmingmilk · 27 days ago

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aughhh sonic going back in time to visit little two yr old tails as been in my brain for what feels like forever! like how many dots does he end up connecting? how does he have the strength to not travel back further and knock the daylights out of tails’s mom? how does he react to the whole kukku invasion and forest fire? so many questions…aaaaa im so excited for this fic i will be in ruins. in ruins, i tell you

also with the whole sonic punching tails’s mom thing: you were talking about tails and his parents, but like sonic interacting (or just seeing) tails’s parents is always something ive thought about. idk, im curious about what your take on that would be, if you have one. (sorry if you’ve already answered something like this ahshhshs)

your boys are just spinning around in my brain constantly. they are living in there completely rent free. i adore them sm, they make me sick. anytime there’s a reference or parallel to something in their past, it hurts. these boys need therapy immediately. maybe even before immediately. your portrayal of them is such a huge inspiration istg

anyway, sorry this is kinda all over the place 😭 i just had a bunch of thoughts and threw them together in the most coherent way i could lol. hope you have a good rest of your night/day! stay safe out there 🩵

So, I was saving this because it really inspired me to write a little something, and it felt fitting because I live for your baby Tails and Sonic art, it's seriously the best boost of serotonin for me xD I'm sorry it took a minute to get to this, and I'll address the second idea you had in another ask (someone else was on the same wavelength as you around this time, and also asked about Sonic and Tails and Tails's parents xD).

But for now, please accept a continuation of the back in time shenanigans <3

Sonic Back In Time Shenanigans WIP #2: Back for the Luggage

Tracking down a second Chaos Emerald so he could skip back in time for an afternoon wasn’t how Sonic saw himself spending the past few days. Though, to be fair, he spent a good chunk of them trying to ignore the very itch encouraging him to give into this particular whim of the week, but impulse control wasn’t Sonic the Hedgehog’s claim to fame. Not by a long shot.

His curiosity had been piqued. New insight into the lore of his little brother’s life before he’d ever crossed his path niggled at his mind no matter how far and fast he ran from the temptation to take a peek. The glimpse he’d got on that rainy night hadn’t been all that reassuring, with Tails so small and sick and the time Sonic got to spend with him in that dusty, stuffy cabin all too brief.

Cocoa Island. He’d looked it up after he and Silver returned to Sonic’s present, their respective futures stabilized for the time being, but he couldn’t find much information on it. If it wasn’t for the fact that Sonic could chart it on a map, it almost seemed like it didn’t even exist.

Historic records mentioned studies of the volcanic activity on the island more than a decade ago. Mines had also been dug out in the cave systems throughout the island long before Sonic had been born, in search of potential esoteric energy sources.

The Chaos Emeralds, no doubt.

But other than that, it seemed the island had never been properly settled. Sonic could’ve flown over in the Tornado for a quick jaunt—running to small islands never boded well for him, they were always tricky to aim for—but he knew it wouldn’t have the answers he was itching to find out.

And sure, the big one was already answered. The sick baby fox he’d had to leave behind in the care of some flickies after that rainy night obviously made a full recovery, or else Tails wouldn’t be alive in Sonic’s present, off on his own adventure. Flying solo. Alone.

But knowing that without actually seeing it, experiencing it for himself, didn’t satisfy Sonic in the slightest. He was all about experiences. And he wanted to experience this mysterious chapter of his best bud’s life, one he never really let himself think all that hard on.

So, that was how Sonic found himself on a nearly deserted island eight years in the past with two Chaos Emeralds in hand. It was warmer than in his present, willing to bet they were somewhere in spring or early summer as opposed to late fall, but the dense cover of pine trees kept the forest floor cool in its shade. Allergies tickled his nose, prompting Sonic to scratch at it as he took in his surroundings. Flickies sang throughout the branches, their chirps a comforting song accompanied by the steady hum of insects hidden in the brush. With his own curious hum, Sonic picked a direction and ran with it—er, walked with it. He took it slow for the moment, trying to find his way back to the cabin from that night. It seemed like his best bet to start his search for Tails.

Until a child’s voice somewhere in the forest caught his ear, both perking up and flicking towards the sound with an instinctive pull as everything else faded into the background. A breath Sonic hadn’t realized he’d been holding lifted from his chest. The child sounded light, healthy. No coughing or crying as far as he could tell.

Sonic followed the voice to a clearing. Unlike the stormy day he’d first stumbled in on, sunlight flooded the patch of grass between the trees with its warm beams. One fell across a tree stump where a two-tailed fox kit lay sprawled across on his tummy, bright-eyed and bushy tails further confirmation that he’d made a full recovery. Sonic’s shoulders sagged with relief as he observed him from the brush, his own green eyes lighting up as he realized he was playing. Making motor sounds with his mouth, Tails rolled a toy airplane through the long, wild grass. His tongue poked out as he accidentally blew raspberries amidst his very serious airplane noises.

“Pfft—” Sonic’s laugh nearly sputtered out of him, cut off only by the fact that the kid heard him and froze.

Ears swiveled in his direction, but Tails couldn’t see him through the trees from his spot on the stump. The toy airplane fell to the grass with a soft thump as the baby fox squirmed and tried to hoist himself up into a sitting position, his two blue boots dangling just over the edge as his bare hands planted themselves on the wood between them to support himself. One tail flicked up and down with excitement while the other twitched limply against the tree stump, like it didn’t know it could lift itself up like its twin.

“Mom?” he called out, and the hope in his voice ensnared Sonic’s heart in a vice. “Mom!”

“Ah, sorry, little guy. Not mom.” Sonic stepped out from behind the brush with his hands up, a sheepish smile on his face. “Just me. Long time no see.”

His tails immediately wilted as the bright-eyed, eager expression on his face retracted into something shy and pensive. But not scared, Sonic noted. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his eyes.

“Remember me? I stayed with you during that rainstorm the other night,” Sonic added, hoping to jog the little guy’s memory, but he didn’t actually know how long it had been since that night.

He didn’t have Silver’s neat little time travel gizmos. His comm couldn’t pinpoint where he was in time, only in space. Which meant he couldn’t stay long, because if Tails or anyone else tried to ping his location, it’d probably come up blank.

The Tails sitting in front of him drew his legs up, curling into himself a bit the closer Sonic got. Okay, well maybe he was a little afraid. Sonic stopped short of reaching the tree stump, hoping a reassuring smile would get him the rest of the way.

“My name’s Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog. What’s yours?”

Tails stared at him for a moment, until his gaze slowly slid past him to focus on the tree line behind him. Sonic planted his hands on his hips and canted his head back to see if anything was there, but aside from the buzz of insects and rustling of flickies in the leaves, the forest was still. No one else but the two of them smack dab in the middle of it.

“…Mom?” Tails whispered, grabbing onto one of his tails to hold.

Sonic’s smile slowly slid off his muzzle. In all the time he’d known Tails, he’d never once called for his mom. Not a single cry. By the time he came into Tails’s life, whatever innate trust he’d had for this faceless person had completely evaporated. There was only one person Tails had ever called out for, ever cried for, ever searched for when he was lost or scared or lonely.

Sonic swallowed thickly. “I don’t know where your mom is, bud. You waiting for her?” Tails nodded with the most intense certainty, his ears flopping forward and back with the force of it. “Did she… did she say when she’s coming back?”

This time Tails pursed his mouth as he thought carefully about his answer, his pensive expression the same one he’d still make to this day when he debated how to explain something to him. If he should explain something to him. If he should give his big bro a glimpse into the inner workings of his big brain, or if it’d be easier—safer—to keep it all to himself.

And just where’d he pick up that particular trick?

But this Tails was young enough—hadn’t been hurt enough—to trust someone who looked like a grown-up, so he slowly shook his head in response, wide blue eyes gazing up at him like there’d be some sort of prize if he answered all the questions correctly.

Sonic’s brow furrowed. “Do you know how long it’s been since you last saw her?”

“Long.” The small, squeaky voice was so matter-of-fact, Sonic nearly fell over with the sheer amount of joy a single syllable filled him with; his little bro’s attitude had been baked into him from the start.

“I’ll bet,” he huffed out a chuckle, choosing to sit cross-legged in the grass so he wasn’t towering over Tails like some kind of threat. “You like planes?” Sonic glanced meaningfully at the toy plane still discarded in the grass.

Tails glanced down at it, the tip of his tail in his mouth as he gently chewed on it. “Mmhm.”

Though Tails had long-outgrown the habit of chewing on his own tails, Sonic would still occasionally catch him nibbling on the ends of pens and pencils when he was deep in thought or starting to get hungry. Or, at least, he used to. Back before Sonic had been captured and Tails had been out on his own for six months…

“I like ‘em, too,” Sonic piped up with a grin. “Probably my favorite way to travel! Second to running, of course.”

Tails blinked at him, head canting to one side. Sonic’s smile grew and he scooched forward a couple inches, steadily closing the gap between them.

“Y’see, running’s sort of my thing. What kinda things do you like to do?”

Tails glanced down at the toy plane again, then up at the sky. He pointed shyly at the white, puffy clouds slowly floating by overhead. Sonic followed his gaze, unable to help the way his smile crooked to one side.

“You like to watch the clouds?” Sonic filled in for him, beaming when Tails nodded. “Me too. You ever look for shapes in ‘em?”

The little guy’s brow furrowed. “Shapes?”

Sonic laughed as the perplexed, and ultimately unconvinced, expression remained fixed on Tails’s face. “C’mere, I’ll show ya!”

Unceremoniously flopping onto his back, face turned towards the sky, Sonic patted the grass beside him. Though they were mostly shielded by the thick cover of trees, a light breeze still wafted down into the clearing and carried the salty scent of the sea with it. The stands of grass tickled Sonic’s side as he laid back and took a deep breath, listening for the familiar patter of eager footsteps following his lead.

Except they didn’t come.

Sonic pushed himself up onto his elbows. Tails was still curled up atop the tree stump, chewing on the tip of his tail as he watched him with worry in his eyes. Worry that had no place being there in a kid so young.

So Sonic cracked another smile. “Don’t worry. The floor’s not lava,” he teased, but it was something the toddler obviously didn’t understand. “It’s safe, bud. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Promise.”

Tails’s gaze darted to the treeline again, searching amongst their thick trunks and low-hanging branches before snapping back to Sonic. “Mm… s’pposed to wait here,” he mumbled, his words sounding a little thick as some of his syllables slurred together in a mouth that was still so small, but ultimately what he’d said was clear enough for Sonic to understand.

His smile slowly faded as he processed the simple explanation; the same feeling rising in the back of his throat as when he sat with a sick Tails in the cabin while the kid asked if he could go home. “Your mom tell ya that?”

Tails nodded. “Wait here. Be good.” His little face scrunched up in a look of pure, earnest determination. “Wait here an’ be good, then mom will come back. She said… she said.”

But she wouldn’t.

No one would.

And maybe Tails already knew that. Even if he didn’t want to believe that someone he loved would leave him, he’d always been a smart kid. Tails’s tiny claws caught in the fur of his tail as he clung tighter to it—like he could physically cling to the hope that his mom would still come back if he did this one thing really well.

If he did his very best.

“Look Sonic, I made this for you!”

“Sonic, I’ve made some adjustments to the Tornado’s aerodynamics, so her base speed has more than doubled! Pretty cool, huh?”

“I made a radar to help us track the Chaos Emeralds faster!”

“I still need to optimize your Extreme Gear’s turning radius and acceleration for your next race. It’s not good enough.”

“The Cyclone still has a ways to go in terms of balancing its different modes of transport. It’s just not good enough at land or air travel yet.”

“I’m wildly inconsistent. I’m just a burden to you. I’m not good enough.”

Not good enough.

Sonic’s fingers dug a little firmer into the soft, damp soil beneath the grass. “Well, I mean, ya gotta get off that stump sometimes. What about when you get hungry? You leave to go get food, dontcha?”

Tails stiffened, fur frizzed up like he’d been caught with his hand in the proverbial mint chocolate chip cookie jar. “Don’t tell,” he pleaded, eyes wide as panicked tears welled up. “I’m sorry—”

“Woah. Hey, hey, hey,” Sonic sat up straighter so he could lift his hands, using them to make a calming gesture as Tails’s little chest started to heave with each little gasp. “Easy there, bud. I’m not gonna tell her.”

“…Not?”

Despite the storm brewing just beneath the surface, faced with further confirmation that Tails had never truly felt safe or wanted, he refused to scare the kid with its intensity. Offering up a kind smile and reassurance, Sonic held up a finger to his mouth. Like they were keeping secrets from some nameless authority figure they’d never shared.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Tails’s ears perked up and the grip on his tail eased up. “M’kay…”

“M’kay,” Sonic mimicked, smile growing as he watched Tails scrub at his face with the fur of his forearm. “C’mere, kiddo. Watch the clouds with me.”

Tails looked at him for a moment, then scooted closer to the edge of the tree stump. He swung one leg over, then the other, his little boots scraping against the bark as he eased himself down. He was a little off-balance as he toddled over. Both arms splayed out to steady himself as one tail flicked up and the other was dragged behind him, still as limp and awkward as it had been on the stump.

Sonic’s gaze narrowed in on it immediately. “Didja hurt your tail?”

Tails paused and craned his neck back, wobbling a little as he tried to look behind him. “No,” he answered simply.

“Then how come it’s not up like your other one?”

Tails reached behind him and picked up the limp appendage, hugging it to his chest. “Doesn’t do it.”

Sonic’s frown deepened. “Let me see it.”

Tails didn’t even hesitate. He let go of his tail as he waddled right over to him. He turned his back to him, giving him complete access to the part of his body he protected the most. Sonic was the only one he’d learned to trust with them over the years, but he’d had to earn it.

Sonic gently ran his fingers through the fur, watching his baby brother’s posture for any sign of discomfort. He didn’t flinch, but his good tail started wagging almost immediately, thwacking Sonic in the side of the face.

“Careful with that,” he chuckled, catching it in a loose hold when it smacked him again. “You could take someone’s eye out with one of these bad boys. Here, hold onto this for me.”

He waited for Tails to grab onto his eager tail, hugging it hard when it wiggled uncontrollably. “S’tryna get away,” he giggled.

“Oh boy, better get a good grip. It’s a slippery one, that tail,” Sonic laughed, using the distraction to his advantage as he palpated along the base of the weaker tail with his fingertips.

There was barely any muscle to it, and the fur was patchy and matted, flattened in a way that his other tail clearly wasn’t, even though his fur overall could’ve used a good brushing. But it wasn’t injured, no welts or bruises or cuts. It was just… weak. Like it was developing slower than its twin. He’d caught a glimpse of it that night where he was sick, but now that he was getting a good look at it, the differences between the two were stark. He couldn’t imagine why; Sonic’s brain literally wouldn’t let him conceive of a situation where this would happen—where Tails wasn’t allowed to use one tail to the same extent as the other.

Whatever had caused this had reversed itself by the time Sonic met Tails, both little propellers of equal strength. At least, he thought they were. To be fair, he’d only been eleven and he hadn’t looked all that closely at them. And Tails barely let him patch him up from where he’d been smacked around by bullies or badniks in those first few weeks.

Idly petting along the length of his tail, Sonic stilled when it spasmed against his palm. Just looking at it, he’d have thought he accidentally pulled on it or snagged his fur, but there was a gentle rumbling sound emanating from Tails’s chest that assured him otherwise. Sonic flicked his gaze up to see Tails watching him, a smile on his face while he purred openly. His tail jerked in his hold again. It was trying to wag.

Sonic’s shoulders sagged, his own smile lopsided as he let his tail slip from his grasp. “All clear. Time to park those two tails of yours right here on the runway.”

Tails squeaked as Sonic nabbed him around the middle, but dissolved into a fit of giggles as he was lifted up and plopped down on the grass next to him. Kicking up one leg over the other, Sonic laid back once again, arms pillowed behind his head as he let out a contented sigh. Beside him, Tails laid back and wiggled a bit to get comfortable, both tails swept to the same side so they wouldn’t get pinched underneath him. He tilted his head up to look at the sky, the same color reflected back in his eyes.

“Shapes?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re gonna look for shapes, little buddy,” Sonic hummed. “Go ahead and tell me what ya find.”

Tails considered the sky for a moment, then pointed at a blob above them. “Oval.”

A sharp laugh burst right out of Sonic. “Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed when Tails pouted at him. “Not those kinda shapes, pal. I’m talking things like flickies or flowers or chili dogs! But good first try. I’m thinking that one looks more like… a whale.”

“Whale?”

“Uh-huh. See the tail?” Sonic removed one hand from behind his head so he could trace the oblong cloud as it faintly curved upwards at the end, making sure Tails’s eyes followed where he pointed. “And there’s its fin. And the wispy bits at the top are like the water shooting out of its spout.”

“Spout,” Tails echoed, blinking up at it like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Yeah, you know. Like when they come up from the water and all that mist sprays from that hole on top of their heads like…” A devious grin spread across Sonic’s face before he looped his arm around Tails and dragged him close enough to blow a raspberry against his cheek with a loud, “pbbbbbbfffft!”

Tails squealed, legs kicking as he squirmed about instinctively, but made no move to pull away entirely. The ticklish sensation buzzed through him like a bunch of tiny butterflies; the feeling silly, unfamiliar, and almost overwhelming all at once. He eventually pawed at Sonic’s muzzle, pushing it away from the fluffy, baby fur of his cheek, but he was smiling and laughing as he looked over at him, eyes shining with delight.

“Was that funny?” Sonic snickered.

“Yeah!” Tails beamed at him, his tails beating an inconsistent rhythm against the grass. “You’re funny.”

“I’m funny?” Sonic feigned offense. “Excuse me, but seems to me like you’re the funny one, wiggling around over here like a cup of sparkle gelatin!”

“No!” Tails squeaked, curling up when Sonic poked him in the tummy.

“No?” Sonic eased back, reminding himself to reign it in a bit so he could figure out if the “no” was just in play or if he was serious.

As much as he wanted to give this little guy something to smile and laugh about while he was out here on his own—and it was so easy, it was almost intoxicating when he hadn’t seen his brother’s smile in weeks—he didn’t want to overwhelm the kid. But as he let him go and pulled back, a panicked look flashed in Tails’s eyes. His smile fell and a fear that was too big for a guy so small replaced it as he froze up.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Sonic lowered his voice, but even that didn’t stop the tears from suddenly sprouting in the corners of his eyes. “Was that too much? Sorry, kiddo. Not really used to you like this. I don’t know your limits.”

Tails didn’t answer him, probably because he didn’t know how. He was a baby, after all. Four-year-old Tails had often had trouble expressing how he felt or what he wanted. And heck, even ten-year-old Tails was still facing that particular issue. He couldn’t expect a maybe-two-year-old to know…

Tails’s tiny paw reached for Sonic’s arm, the light touch barely registering as anything other than an itch before his fingers curled into his fur. Sonic stared at his hand for a second, then immediately darted to his face. Tails sniffed, muzzle quivering as he held back his tears.

Always sucking it up. Always putting on a brave face. Always trying to be a big kid, like his big bro.

Even when he was just a baby.

“It’s okay,” Sonic repeated, his arm curling around Tails again. “I’m right here, it’s okay.”

Tails nestled against his side, nuzzling his face against him with a shiver and a barely suppressed whimper. “Mom… dad…”

The storm returned with a white-hot flash of frustration and resentment. Sonic directed his glare at the cloud whale lazily floating past them, since he couldn’t look the people responsible for this in the eyes. Not that he particularly wanted to. If they never crossed paths, his and Tails lives would only continue on for the better. That was one thing he was still certain of. There was nothing in the universe that could convince him otherwise.

Not even the baby who desperately wanted them.

But he didn’t know any better. They were all he knew.

Releasing a long sigh, Sonic let go of the past and pulled himself back into the present—or, well, two-year-old Tails’s present anyway. He patted Tails’s side, then ruffled his fur a bit when he cuddled closer. His fur tickled as he rubbed his little face against his ribs, so Sonic scooched him up a bit more until his cheek was pillowed against his shoulder.

“Sorry if I scared you, bud,” he hummed, watching as one of Tails’s ears twitched from the lull of his voice. “Didn’t mean to. You’re safe with me, okay? When I’m around, I’m always gonna do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Tails tipped his head back to watch him, silently absorbing his words, even if he didn’t understand them. But as Sonic looked down at him, he saw his four-year-old brother snuggling up to him in a storm and his six-year-old brother falling asleep on him during a movie and his eight-year-old brother trying to be strong for Sonic as they lost another friend… He could see all of Tails in the way he looked at him, every moment where he let Sonic see a little of that vulnerability he always tried so hard to hide.

He could even see his ten-year-old brother, hundreds of miles away, determined to bury that vulnerable little kid for good, somewhere Sonic would never find him. And that was fine. If that was what Tails wanted, then Sonic wanted that for him. He wanted Tails to feel confident and capable and every bit the hero Sonic saw in him every day.

“And even when I’m not here… when you can’t see me? I’ll still be with you. Wherever you go, whatever you face, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Tails sniffed, then lifted his head to gaze up at him. “Pomise?”

Sonic’s breath hitched, his eyes as wide as saucers as the fox kit who’d only known him for a few minutes at most looked at him with nothing but trust. “Yeah. I promise.” He had to clear his throat, then tugged Tails up to sit on his chest. “You’ve got no idea just how stuck with me you are, keed.”

“No idea,” Tails repeated, shaking his head with the utmost seriousness a two-year-old could express.

Sonic’s laughter traveled through him and right up into Tails, the two of them shaking with it. The feeling of being bounced about coaxed a few giggles out of Tails and he nearly slid off his unsteady perch. But Sonic’s hands supported him, holding tight so he wouldn’t fall.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Sonic choked out as his laughter petered out on a breathless sigh. “Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“M’kay,” Tails agreed.

“M’kay.” With one hand remaining on Tails’s waist, Sonic lifted the other to poke him on the tip of his nose, grinning at the way he went cross-eyed from following his finger. “I’m gonna follow up on that in eight years, y’know, so better work on committing that to memory, stat.”

“M’kay.”

“I mean it. There’ll be a test and everything.”

“M’kay.”

“You’re so agreeable,” Sonic sighed, closing his eyes as he laid his head back, leaving the comfortable weight of the baby fox on his abdomen. “I don’t think I know what to do with a little bro that actually listens to me.”

He felt Tails squirm a bit, one knee digging into his ribs as he attempted to scoot further up, then a finger lightly tapped Sonic on the tip of his nose. One green eye cracked open, immediately greeted with a pair of pleased blue ones and a wagging fox tail. Despite the fact that it was pinned beneath him, pressed into the grass, Sonic felt his tail give a jerky little wag, too.

“Shapes?” Tails asked.

“You wanna look for more shapes in the clouds?” Sonic waited for Tails’s eager nod before turning him around and laying him back in the grass beside him. “You got it, bud! You need a redemption round, after all. Let’s see what kinda shapes you can find this time.”

Tails hummed, contemplative gaze fixed on the clouds for a good minute before he pointed slightly to his left. “Floor!”

“Floor?” Sonic squinted up at the cloud, making sure he was looking at the right one. “Oh, ‘flower!’ Yeah, that does kinda look like a tulip flower. Good eye, kiddo.”

Tails nodded proudly. “Mmhm. Floor.”

“Flower,” Sonic repeated, and even made the sign for it, touching each side of his nose with his fingertips, like he was smelling a flower.

“Floor-er.”

“Close enough,” he chuckled. “Oh, okay, now that one looks like a crab claw. Like from a crabmeat.” Grinning devilishly, Sonic made a claw-like grabby motion at Tails with his hand while the little guy laughed. “Or, y’know, an actual crab.”

They watched the clouds, picking more shapes out of them until Tails’s stomach started growling. Sonic quickly sped through the forest to gather up whatever kind of fruits or vegetables were available on the island, eventually settling on some peaches, plums, and cherries. He grabbed them from the other side of the island, so as not to take from anywhere Tails was likely to forage on his own. He liked the plums and peaches, the sticky juice staining his muzzle as it dripped from his hands. He kept trying to lick his fingers clean while Sonic wiped the fur around his mouth so it wouldn’t bother him later when it dried. He didn’t care for the cherries as much, but Sonic still left a small stash of them and the leftover peaches at the base of the tree stump.

With a full tummy and sticky paws, Tails let out a big, squeaky yawn before he curled up on top of the tree stump. His tails covered him like a blanket as he settled down for a nap, giving Sonic just the out he needed. He’d been debating how to head back to his present time without sounding any alarms for Tails. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to if the kid just looked at him with those sad eyes, like he was being abandoned all over again.

But if Tails was asleep, then maybe this would all have felt like just a dream. Sonic had just wanted to check on him after leaving him so abruptly that first time, and then he figured it couldn’t hurt to give him one good afternoon. There would be so many days where he’d be on his own after this, so many months before their paths would cross. One afternoon where a stranger showed him kindness and played with him wasn’t going to break the time stream, but even Sonic knew it couldn’t really go further than that.

“I’d break time lines for that kid.” His own words echoed at the back of his mind, the certainty he’d felt at the time faltering when faced with the sleepy face of a baby fox who wasn’t supposed to have met him yet. It wasn’t so simple.

Sonic waited until Tails’s breaths were deep and steady, arms wrapped around the weaker tail while the stronger one blanketed him with its fluff. Smoothing down his bangs with his thumb, Sonic gently stroked the top of his head and scritched behind his ear.

“Love ya, little bro,” he whispered.

Things would be okay, Sonic reminded himself as he backed out of the clearing, picking up the two emeralds that were his ticket back to his time. Because they were okay in the present. Even if Tails wouldn’t be there when he returned, they would still be okay. Eventually. They always came out on top. Sonic still believed that.

If there was anything he still believed in above all else, it was Tails.

So, to be fair, when he left the Poloy Forest that afternoon, it had been with the intention that this wouldn’t happen again.

But then, Sonic the Hedgehog’s impulse control wasn’t his claim to fame, was it?

---

A/N: Anyway, just wanted to say thank you again, 0vergrown, and that I appreciate you so much! I'm so happy you're interested in this little side plot I've got brewing and all the angst potential that it holds <3 I have so many little scenes I want to write for them, you have no idea! Hope this scratches a bit of the itch for more of these boys who need so much therapy. So much...

And thank you everyone else who's also interested in this idea! Much love to all of you!

227 notes · View notes

wonwoosmagnetic · 28 days ago

Text

I'll Remember, for Us. | csc

ONESHOT!

Pairing: sad! seungcheol x sad! oc Warnings: heartbreak, angst, shit ton of grief, mention of deaths, accidents, loss of memory. Word count: 6.1k words. Synopsis: He was the peace you found while losing everything else. Author's Note: A little (big) drabble I wrote in between drafting my newest no saints here chapter! that's why it took me double the time to update that LOL. But, till the story builds in NSH, I need to feed the people the angst. Honestly, this one was a little hard to write because no matter the amount of media one can consume regarding the emotions of grief, it can never, ever be put down in mere words. So if in anyway, this might seem underwhelming to you, I understand.

The wall behind his head was cold.

Seungcheol didn’t notice it at first—just felt the pressure where his skull met the plaster, the steady thud of his pulse echoing behind his eyelids.

He wasn’t asleep. He hadn��t slept.

Not since the night of the crash.

The hallway reeked of bleach and despair. The kind that clings to your clothes no matter how many showers you take. He didn’t remember the last time he left the hospital. Just that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not while she was still inside that room, wires in her skin, machines breathing for her.

The silence around him wasn’t peaceful. It was loud.

The clock ticked. Someone coughed. A nurse laughed too brightly somewhere down the corridor.

And then— A shift. A quiet one.

Someone sat beside him.

The air changed. Just slightly. Like it exhaled.

He opened his eyes.

You are staring straight ahead, as if looking at the same nothing he was. No makeup. Tired eyes. Vending machine coffee clutched between both hands like you were afraid it might disappear.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But your presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… company.

The kind you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. He wondered what brought you here. Wondered if it was worse than what brought him.

“Long night?” you asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.

He blinked. Nodded.

“Yeah.” A pause. “You too?”

You gave a breath of a laugh, humorless and low. “Been a long week.”

Your fingers tapped against the cup, rhythm like a heartbeat. He noticed the way your knuckles were red, raw in some places. You hadn’t been sleeping either.

“Family?” he asked.

“Grandmother,” you said. “Yours?”

He swallowed. “Girlfriend. Car accident. Three days ago. They’re still not sure if she’ll—”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

You didn’t push. Just nodded like you understood. Like you didn’t need the end of the sentence to feel the weight of it.

And they sat there again. In silence. In something heavy and unsaid.

---

You didn't cry.

That was the first thing he noticed.

There was a glassiness in your eyes, sure. A kind of far-off fog that only people in hospitals seemed to wear. But no tears. Just a tightly held composure, like if you let go even a little, you might unravel.

“She was diagnosed last year,” you said after a while, still looking ahead, not at him. “Stage four. It came fast.”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

“She raised me,” you added, like that explained everything. And maybe it did.

He shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The vinyl of the hospital bench creaked under him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.

You nodded, like you'd heard that a hundred times already. “It’s okay. Or it’s not. I don’t know anymore.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a heart monitor beeped steadily.

Neither of them looked at the other. But neither moved away, either.

It was you who broke the quiet again.

“You’d think after three nights of this, I’d learn not to buy the coffee,” you said, wrinkling your nose as you sipped. “But here I am. Still pretending it helps.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was the first one in days.

“Try the tea,” he said. “Tastes like cardboard. But at least it smells like something real.”

That got a soft huff from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

They fell back into silence again, the kind that started to feel less like strangers and more like a truce.

And then—

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said, quietly.

You turned to look at him for the first time. Her eyes were a soft brown, tired but warm. Your lips twitched into something like a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Seungcheol.”

But you didn’t offer your name.

---

The second night, you brought the coffee.

Seungcheol was in the same spot. Same posture. Same wall holding him up. Eyes closed, head tilted back, pretending for a moment that if he stayed still enough, time might stop moving without him.

Then the scent hit him.

Not bleach. Not hospital.

Coffee. Cinnamon. And… something soft. Vanilla, maybe.

He opened his eyes.

You were there again. Sitting beside him. This time, you were the one holding two cups.

“I upgraded us,” you said, offering him one. “The café on the second floor has actual espresso. A miracle in this place.”

He took it with a quiet thanks, fingers brushing yours. Warm skin. Cold fingertips.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice still rough from disuse.

“Me neither,” you replied honestly. “But here we are.”

He took a sip. It was actually good. Strong, a little bitter, the kind of taste that settled in your chest like something solid.

They sat in the same silence, but this one felt different. Familiar. Comfortable, almost.

“I found her talking to the air yesterday,” you said softly. “My grandmother. She thought I was my mom.”

Seungcheol turned to you. Your jaw was clenched, throat tight with the weight of the memory.

“She kept calling me by her name. Begging me not to leave again.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Really listened.

“I never met my mom. She left when I was a baby. Gran raised me alone. She’s… the only real family I have.”

Your voice broke on the word only. You blinked quickly, but didn’t wipe the tear that finally escaped.

Seungcheol shifted closer. Not touching you, just… near.

“I haven’t gone home in three days,” he said after a moment. “I sleep in the waiting room. My parents keep telling me to rest, but how do you rest when you don’t know if she’ll ever open her eyes again?”

Your head tilted slightly. “You love her a lot.”

“I do.” He stared at the floor. “But I don’t know if she knows it. Not the way I should’ve shown her.”

And just like that, the air between them cracked open. Two strangers, stitched together by grief, regret, and stale hospital air.

You held out your hand—not for a handshake, but just to hold.

No name. No promise.

Just presence.

And this time, Seungcheol took it.

---

The room was too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that brought peace—but the kind that screamed in his ears.

Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, too steady. A reminder that the only thing keeping her breathing wasn’t her.

Seungcheol sat beside the hospital bed, fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap. He’d been sitting there for an hour. Maybe more.

She looked the same. Pale. Still. Like a painting that hadn’t been finished. Like if he blinked too fast, she might disappear altogether.

His throat ached with all the words he hadn’t said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

He let the silence answer. Let the emptiness respond.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say anymore,” he admitted, voice cracking. “They tell me to talk to you, that maybe you’ll hear me, but I…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard.

“I miss you,” he said finally. “I miss your laugh. The way you’d tease me when I left dishes in the sink. I even miss your bad singing.”

His eyes burned. He looked away.

“I wish I’d held you longer that morning. I wish I’d told you not to rush out. I wish I—”

He stopped. Breathed.

And then, like a thread pulled loose, something surfaced. Your voice. Not his girlfriend’s—

Yours.

The girl from the hallway. “You’ll break if you keep holding everything in.” “You don’t have to be strong every second. You’re allowed to fall apart.” “Let her feel your love, not just your guilt.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t guilt that guided him.

“I love you,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “I’ve always loved you. I just… didn’t say it enough.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I’m saying it now. I’m here. And I’ll keep being here. Just… if you’re somewhere in there, please… come back to me.”

The machines kept beeping. Steady. Relentless.

But for the first time, his heart felt a little lighter. Not because things were better— But because he wasn’t holding it all alone anymore.

---

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers.

It was the kind of day where time felt sticky—too slow to bear, but too fast when you blinked.

Seungcheol sat outside Room 203, the plastic cup of coffee cooling in his hand, untouched. He hadn’t gone in yet. He didn’t know if he had the strength.

Then he heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

He turned slightly, just enough to peek through the glass panel in the door across the hall.

You were in there—curled in a chair beside your grandmother’s bed, knees tucked to your chest, a worn book in your lap. The afternoon light spilled through the window, gold and forgiving, catching in the strands of your hair.

You were reading aloud.

Not loudly. Not for anyone but the two of you—yourself, and the woman who couldn’t speak anymore.

“‘And even in the darkest parts of the woods,’” you read, your voice barely above a whisper, “‘the girl remembered the sound of home. Not a place. A person. The way they said her name, the way their hand lingered on her back before a goodbye.’”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop.

Seungcheol didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just… couldn’t walk away.

It was like her words reached through the walls and found something buried inside him—something aching and wordless.

He closed his eyes and listened.

“‘She missed them every day, even when she swore she’d stopped. Even when the world told her to move on. But grief doesn’t work that way. It’s not a thing you carry. It’s a thing that lives with you.’”

You stopped. He could hear the turn of a page. Your breath shaking. Your grandmother didn’t move, didn’t respond. But the you smiled anyway, like maybe that silence still meant something.

After a while, you spoke—not from the book, just from your heart.

“You’d hate this hospital, Gran. The tea tastes like sadness and cardboard, and they keep the lights on too bright.”

A pause. A sniffle.

“But I found someone,” you said, her voice suddenly gentler. “Not in that way. I mean… maybe. I don’t know. He’s hurting, too. Quietly. Like you used to say I did when I was little. Like he's trying to keep everyone else from seeing him bleed.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the book, knuckles white.

“I think I want to be around him. Is that wrong? I feel guilty for looking forward to anything when you’re…” You stopped again. Swallowed. “When you’re going.”

You laughed suddenly. Broken. Real. “God, I sound like a cliché. Falling for someone in a hospital hallway while my world’s falling apart.”

And still, Seungcheol listened. Still frozen. Still holding onto a breath he hadn’t meant to take.

Your voice dropped lower, softer.

“I don’t want to forget how your voice sounded when you laughed. Or the way you made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs even when I was fifteen. Or how you braided my hair when I was too tired to get out of bed.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Something shattered quietly inside him.

Before he knew it, his legs moved. His hand touched the door frame.

You looked up. Startled. Eyes wide and glassy.

“I—” he said, throat thick. “I wasn’t trying to… listen. I’m sorry.”

You wiped your cheek, fast. “No, it’s okay. You’ve probably heard worse here.”

Seungcheol stepped into the room slowly. His voice barely carried. “Your voice... it’s steady. Like a melody.”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s how I learned to survive.”

He looked at the book in your lap. “Would you… mind reading in her room too? For my girlfriend?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. “Your voice feels like… home. And I think she’d like that.”

Your eyes searched his for a long moment. Then you nodded.

“Okay,” you said, standing, holding the book close to your chest. “I’ll read for both of them.”

---

It’s late.

That kind of late where the vending machines hum too loudly and the only light in the hallway flickers like it’s tired too. Seungcheol stands near the window down the corridor, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding his phone like it weighs more than it should.

He should be sleeping.

Instead, he dials.

Again.

The phone rings twice, and then—

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun. I’m probably dancing somewhere or stealing Seungcheol’s fries, so leave a message after the beep and I promise I’ll get back to you… eventually!”

Beep.

He doesn’t speak.

He just closes his eyes and breathes. Listens to that sliver of her voice that still exists, somewhere safe, somewhere untouched by tubes and machines and the cruel silence that’s overtaken Room 203.

Call ended.

He dials again.

Same ring. Same smile in her voice. Same beep.

Still no words.

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe for her to pick up. Maybe for the universe to reset.

By the fourth call, his hands are shaking.

By the fifth, he finally speaks.

“Hey.”

It’s hoarse. Barely there.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I just… I miss you.”

His voice breaks on the last word. He coughs, wipes at his face like it’ll make a difference. The hallway is empty. He’s glad. No one should see this.

“I brought the stupid green grapes today. The ones you hate but pretend to like because they’re healthy. I even peeled them. Like you always wanted me to. They’re still in the fridge.” A bitter laugh. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He hangs up.

Redials.

Sixth call.

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun—”

He doesn’t wait for the beep this time.

“I had a dream last night. You were wearing that yellow dress you said made you look like a banana, and we were dancing in our kitchen. No music. Just your laugh.”

He pauses.

“God, I’d kill to hear you laugh right now.”

He ends the call.

But he dials again.

Seventh.

Eighth.

By the ninth call, he’s on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, phone pressed against his ear like it’s all that’s keeping him together.

Beep.

His voice is quieter now. Smaller.

“Please.”

Just that.

Just please.

Please come back. Please wake up. Please tell me how to keep going.

He doesn’t say it all. He doesn’t have to.

The phone slips from his fingers. His eyes are red. There’s no sound in the corridor except for the faint buzz of electricity and the way he breathes like the air hurts going in.

And then a whisper, almost like a prayer.

“She’s not dead. She’s not dead. She’s not dead.”

He repeats it like maybe if he says it enough, the universe will make it true forever.

But the truth is— She’s not alive either. Not in the way he needs her to be.

And maybe the worst part of it all isn’t that she’s gone.

It’s that he’s still here, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

---

It was late again.

The hospital lights were dimmed to a muted hum, the world outside the windows blurred into inky blue. Seungcheol had just returned from Room 203, hands shaking, heart heavier than his footsteps. He turned the corner toward the waiting room, expecting silence.

But there you were.

Curled in on yourself on the narrow couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, arms hugging them like you were trying to hold yourself together. Your face was buried, but the tremor in your shoulders gave you away.

You were crying.

No—you were breaking.

He froze in the doorway.

"Hey..." he said softly, unsure if he should come closer. "Are you okay?"

A stupid question. You didn't look up.

So he sat down beside you, far enough not to touch, close enough to offer warmth.

You wiped at your eyes, but the tears just kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “God, I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this,” he murmured.

That got a small, bitter laugh from you. But it faded fast.

Then you said, quieter than before, “I left her.”

He turned, brows furrowed.

“My grandmother,” you clarified, breath catching. “Before all this… before the cancer... I stopped coming around.”

He waited. Didn’t push. Just listened.

“I was busy. I moved to another city. Work was stressful, and I kept saying I’d visit next weekend, next month, next—” You swallowed hard. “But she always called. Always left voicemails. She'd tell me she made pancakes, the ones with blueberries, the kind I used to beg for as a kid. And she'd say she was waiting. Just... waiting for me to come home.”

Your voice cracked.

“I didn’t come.”

His chest ached.

“I told myself she was fine. Independent. Strong. I told myself I was allowed to live my life.” Your eyes welled again. “And now I come every single day. Now I sit next to her bed like if I do it long enough, she’ll forgive me. But she can’t even say my name anymore.”

Seungcheol reached out then—tentatively—placing a hand over yours. You didn’t pull away.

“She used to sit by the door,” you whispered. “Like clockwork. Every Sunday morning. Dressed in the sweater I bought her three Christmases ago. Just waiting. Because she thought... maybe today I’d come.”

The tears wouldn’t stop.

“I was dancing at some bar. Laughing. Kissing someone I don’t even remember. While she sat by the door making pancakes for no one.”

Your voice broke open then, sobs slipping through like glass cracking beneath pressure. Ugly and honest and full of a grief that had nowhere to go.

Seungcheol turned toward you fully, pulling you into his arms. You fought it at first—because that’s what guilt does—but he held on.

“You came back,” he murmured. “You’re here now.”

“But what if it’s too late?” you sobbed into his chest. “What if she never knew how sorry I am?”

He rested his chin against your head, eyes burning.

“She knew,” he said. “She knows.”

They stayed like that. In the stillness. In the mess. In the pain.

Two people broken in different ways, holding each other like they could keep the world from falling apart again. No promises. No solutions.

Just presence.

And sometimes—that was everything.

---

The hospital room was too white. Too quiet. Even the ticking of the clock felt like an accusation—steady and cruel. A reminder of every second you had not been there.

You sat beside the bed, your hands wringing the hem of your sweater. The chair creaked beneath you, but your grandmother didn’t look.

She was staring out the window. Blank. Soft. Eyes that used to twinkle with laughter now just... drifted.

“Hi, Grandma,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

No response.

You leaned in, trying again with a gentle smile. “It’s me. I brought your favorite. Blueberry pancakes. From that little diner you like.”

Still nothing.

You swallowed down the lump rising in your throat and set the small to-go container on the bedside table. The smell of syrup and warm sugar floated through the air, but your grandmother didn’t even flinch.

Silence. Thicker now.

“I remember when you used to wake me up with the smell of these,” you tried, eyes burning. “Every Sunday. You’d hum while you cooked. Said blueberries were brain food.” A sad laugh slipped out. “Guess they weren’t enough, huh?”

The silence felt like punishment.

You reached out slowly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her grandmother’s forehead. She used to braid that hair. Used to play salon with it as a child, while her grandmother pretended she was being pampered in a palace.

“You used to wait for me,” you whispered. “Every week. In that old cardigan I bought you. Remember that one? With the missing button?”

Nothing.

And then—finally—your grandmother blinked, slowly turning toward her. Her eyes focused on your face.

Hope rose, sudden and aching. “Grandma?”

The old woman tilted her head. Confused.

Then, softly: “Are you... the nurse?”

It felt like being stabbed.

You forced a smile to your lips, even as your heart shattered. “No... I’m—”

Your grandmother smiled faintly, distant and kind. “You’re very sweet, dear. Just like my granddaughter. Beautiful girl. Works too hard. Never comes home, though.”

The breath caught in your throat. Your vision blurred instantly.

“She... she sounds great,” you managed, voice trembling.

“She is.” Your grandmother looked out the window again, a ghost of a smile on her face. “She used to sit on the porch and sing while I made breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Said they were her favorite.”

You clutched the side of the bed, your knuckles white. “Do you remember her name?”

“No,” your grandmother said, softly. “But I know I love her. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

A sob escaped before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking.

Your grandmother turned again, blinking slowly. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’ll make me sad.”

You shook your head, biting down on your lip. “I’m okay,” you choked.

And in that moment, you didn’t care that your grandmother didn’t know who you were. Didn’t care that your name was gone, that their memories were tangled and buried.

Because the love—that was still here.

Even if it was misdirected. Even if it was broken.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around the frail woman, holding her tightly, burying your face into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry I left.”

Your grandmother patted your back, gentle and absent-minded. “There, there. You’re a good girl. I can tell.”

You cried harder.

And outside, the day went on like nothing had changed.

But inside that room, everything had.

---

It was late. Past visiting hours.

But the little courtyard garden behind the hospital didn’t care about time. It was overgrown in places, the stone bench cracked, the flowerbeds mostly dirt now—but there was a kind of comfort in its forgotten state. Like it belonged to the night. Like it understood people who didn’t fit in the daylight anymore.

You sat on the bench, your knees tucked under your chin, a paper cup of hospital coffee cradled in your hands. Seungcheol joined you without a word, sitting close enough to feel the same night breeze, but not enough to crowd you.

For a while, they just sat. Listening to the wind brushing through brittle branches. The distant siren of an ambulance arriving. The faint hum of machines behind walls.

Then, quietly, you asked, “What was she like?”

He looked down at the cup between his hands. “You mean... before?”

You nodded.

He took a breath. “Loud. In the best way. She used to sing to the radio even if she didn’t know the lyrics. And she’d burn toast every morning because she always forgot it was in. Once, she put our house key in the freezer because she thought it was her phone.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds chaotic.”

“She was.” He laughed a little, and then the sound faded. “But she made everything feel... alive. Like the world was just a little brighter because she was in it.”

The silence settled again, heavier now.

“She sounds like someone I would’ve liked,” you said, softly.

He nodded.

“What about you?” he asked. “What were you like before all this?”

You let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the cracks in the stone path.

“Busy,” she said. “Too busy. I thought I had time. That I could always go visit later. I kept putting it off. ”

Seungcheol didn’t speak, but she felt him listening.

Your voice broke, raw and exposed.

“And now she doesn’t even know my name.”

You turned your head, wiping your cheek roughly with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I was so selfish.”

“No,” Seungcheol said immediately, turning toward you. “You were living. That’s not a crime.”

“But I left her behind.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You came back.”

You didn’t reply.

He reached over slowly, fingers brushing your. Not holding. Not pushing. Just offering.

And you let him.

Their hands stayed there, barely touching, as if the warmth between them could rewrite time. Could pull them out of the past and plant them firmly in the now.

After a moment, you murmured, “I used to love dancing.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smiled, sad and sweet. “Just... before all this. I’d dance in my kitchen. In my socks. Spill coffee, stub my toes. I haven’t done that in forever.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “You should. You should do that again.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“What about you?” you asked. “What’s the one thing you miss most about yourself?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear:

“I used to dream.”

The words hung between them like fog.

You turned your hand, finally holding his.

And under the pale light of the moon, with bruised hearts and paper coffee cups, two people who had lost everything began to find something again—

Not peace. Not yet.

But maybe the possibility of it.

---

It was just after midnight when the nurse called him.

"Mr. Choi? She's... she's showing signs. You should come."

Seungcheol had stared at his phone for a full minute before he moved. Then he ran. Down the silent corridors. Past the quiet night-shift desk. Past the vending machine and the courtyard and everything that had held him up for weeks.

Room 203.

His hands shook as he pushed the door open.

She was there. As always. Pale. Fragile. But her fingers were twitching. Her lips parted slightly, a rasping breath falling from her throat that sounded like a word caught halfway to being born.

He stepped in slowly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast.

“…Seung…cheol?”

He froze.

Her voice.

So faint. So broken. But there.

“Yeah,” he choked out, stumbling forward and falling to his knees beside her bed. “Yeah, I’m here.”

She blinked slowly. Her eyes were heavy with confusion, still swimming in a haze, but they found him. Like she was clawing her way back to the surface and he was her anchor.

His hand found hers, trembling. “You’re… you’re awake.”

She gave the smallest nod. Barely there. But it was everything.

And he wept.

Outside the room, you sat on the hallway floor with two cups of coffee—yours long cold. Your legs were cramping, your back sore, but you didn’t move. You had watched him go in and hadn’t followed.

He needed this moment.

And even though your heart ached—throbbed, even—as the sounds of his voice broke through the crack in the door, you stayed. Because you knew what it meant to finally get a piece of someone you thought you’d already lost.

You lowered your head, pressing your forehead to your knees.

And when he came out an hour later, his eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with tears—but smiling for the first time since you met him—you looked up and gave him one back.

It was small. Wobbly. But real.

“She said my name,” he whispered.

You stood slowly, offering the cup to him.

“I’m so happy for you, Cheol.”

He took it, their fingers brushing, his smile faltering just a bit.

“And your grandma?”

“She’s…” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat. “She’s getting worse.”

The silence held everything that couldn’t be said. A strange mirror. One of them rising. One of them falling.

Seungcheol reached out and touched your wrist. Gently. “You’ve been so strong.”

You looked down at the floor, then back up, your eyes shimmering. “I’m trying. It’s like... I don’t want her to go, but I also don’t want her to keep hurting. And I don’t know how to exist when she’s not in the world. So I stay. And I hope she sees me, even for a second.”

He nodded, his heart splitting open at the seams.

You looked at him, then—really looked. At the hope blooming behind his tears.

You smiled through your grief. “I think she would’ve liked your girl. The way you love her. It’s rare.”

Seungcheol's lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing into each other. “You helped me hold on. Even when I didn’t want to anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

“You held me, Cheol,” you whispered. “When I needed it most.”

He stepped closer.

The air between them was thick with everything they hadn’t said. And everything they couldn’t say.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. It wasn’t about choosing. It wasn’t about perfect timing.

It was about love in its rawest form—grief, joy, loss, connection—all tangled together in this broken little hallway.

“I don’t want you to disappear now,” you whispered.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

You took his hand, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

And in the silence, there was music. No instruments. Just hearts— Beating beside each other. Still aching. Still healing. Still hoping.

---

Seungcheol stood in the stairwell.

It was quiet there. Sterile concrete, humming fluorescent lights, the faint clinking of a janitor’s cart on a lower level. The kind of place where you could fall apart and no one would notice. Maybe not even yourself.

He ran a hand down his face, the skin beneath his eyes raw from crying, not just today but for weeks. And now—she was waking up. His girlfriend. The love of his life. The person he had sat beside, begged, bargained for.

And he felt like a fucking traitor.

Because all he could think about… was her.

Not the girl in the bed, trying to find her voice again. But the one who sat beside him at 3AM with vending machine coffee and bruises beneath her eyes. The one who whispered broken memories about pancakes and absence and a grandmother who forgot everything except love. The one who never asked anything from him except presence. And somehow that made him want to give her everything.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. Right over the place it hurt most.

What if she knew?

What if the woman inside that hospital room opened her eyes fully, smiled at him with her old self again, and realized—

That while her world had been on pause, his had kept moving.

And somewhere along the way…

He’d started to fall.

The guilt came in like waves. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He thought of your laugh—that small, sad, brave thing you'd let slip in front of him that day in the courtyard.

He thought of you telling him, “You held me.”

He thought of how you never reached for him first, never asked for comfort, never once tried to cross the invisible line between grief and want. And yet he was the one who blurred it, every time he caught himself staring too long, hoping too hard, wishing things were different.

A voice broke into his thoughts.

“Cheol?”

He turned.

You stood there in the stairwell doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your palms, hair a little messy, eyes a lot sad.

You.

Of course it was you.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

You stepped in slowly, not expecting anything. Not demanding anything. Just there.

Like always.

“I’m happy for you,” you said softly.

“I know.”

A beat.

“You don’t look happy.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I should be. Right? This is what I prayed for.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I feel like I’m… cheating on her,” he finally admitted, voice cracking. “Even just standing here with you. Even thinking about you when I’m with her.”

Your gaze fell to the floor.

“I never meant to,” he said. “It just… it happened.”

You nodded. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do, Seungcheol,” you said, meeting his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything. I knew this wasn’t real. I knew I was just… the wrong place, the wrong time.”

He stepped forward, something desperate in his expression. “You were the only thing that felt right.”

Your breath caught.

“I just don’t know how to live in both,” he whispered. “The before and the after.”

Silence settled between them.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “I don’t want to lose her. But losing you—”

He broke off, choking on the words.

You blinked back tears, chest rising and falling with the weight of every unspoken thing.

“I won’t ask you to choose,” you said gently. “But I won’t lie either. You matter to me. And if this is all it is—a hallway, a few coffees, a handful of broken nights—then I’ll take it. And I’ll let go.”

Your voice cracked like glass.

“Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes shining. “I could never.”

And then—

A breath.

A heartbeat.

His forehead dropped to yours, just barely, as if touch alone might anchor him to something real.

Neither of them kissed.

But something inside them did.

And it broke. Quietly. Beautifully.

Right there on the stairwell steps of a hospital neither of them wanted to be in.

---

The hospital smelled the same as always—like antiseptic, old coffee, and waiting.

Seungcheol moved slowly down the corridor, step by step, clutching the small plastic bag of belongings the nurses had packed for his girlfriend. Discharge papers tucked beneath his arm. A bouquet of tulips from her mother poking out the side.

She was getting better.

She was going home.

And still… he felt like he was leaving something behind. No—someone.

He paused at the end of the hallway, where two paths met. One to the exit. One to the oncology wing.

The bag crinkled in his grip as he stood there, torn in a silence that pressed into his ribs.

He hadn't seen you since that night on the stairwell.

You.

The one who’d cracked his chest open and shown him he still had a heart, even while it bled.

The one who sat beside him when his world was ending, and gave him pieces of her own shattered one just so he wouldn't drown alone.

He’d meant to go back.

He wanted to go back.

But life has a way of moving without asking if you're ready.

The next morning, the room was empty. Your name scratched off the whiteboard. No answers. No goodbye.

He’d asked a nurse. She looked away. "I'm sorry. The patient in Room 204 passed away in the night. Family discharged shortly after."

And that was it.

Just like that, you were gone.

And he never got to say goodbye.

Now, days later, as he stood there at the fork in the hallway, everything in him screamed to turn around. To check. To hope that maybe somehow, somehow, you'd still be there.

But you weren't.

You had left.

And so had your grandmother.

All that remained was the memory of that last vending machine smile—the one with the tears hiding just beneath.

The sound of your voice when you said, “Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

God, if you only knew. If you knew what you meant. If you knew what you took with you.

“Seungcheol?” his girlfriend called softly from behind, her voice weaker than he remembered but full of cautious hope.

He turned slowly.

She was standing just outside her room, hair brushed back, wearing the soft hoodie he used to sleep in when she first went under.

Her eyes searched his face. “Are you ready?”

He looked at her.

This girl he’d loved. Still loved, maybe. But not in the same way.

Not in the way that twisted and broke and healed. Not in the way that made him want to live again.

He offered a small nod and walked toward her.

They exited the hospital slowly, carefully, like the world was something they weren’t sure how to re-enter.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray.

A car waited at the curb.

He placed her bag in the trunk, then helped her into the passenger seat.

But before he closed the door, he glanced back.

One last time.

Toward the entrance. Toward the hallway. Toward a girl who wasn’t there.

And in that one look… everything ached.

You would never know how often he still looked for you in crowds. How sometimes he woke up wanting to tell you something, only to remember he couldn’t. How even in someone else’s recovery, he felt like he lost something irreplaceable.

He closed the door gently.

And with it, their story.

Not with fire. Not with fanfare. But with a quiet kind of sorrow. The kind that lingers.

The kind that asks, What if?

And never gets an answer.

---

#kpop ff #kpop fanfic #seventeen ff #seventeen angst #scoups ff #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #wonwoo angst #scoups angst #seungcheol angst

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romancherry · 24 days ago

Text

caged in silk (4) — false alarm

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ after a false dissapearance gave them quite the scare, joel loses control in his task to teach you a lesson.

warnings ➝ explicit smut, dark!fic, dubious consent, unprotected p in v, rough vaginal sex, missionary, squirting, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, breast & nipple play, hickeys and marking kink, posessive and dominant joel, submissive reader, sub space, daddy kink, heavy makeout session, crying kink, praise kink, pet names, pussy pronouns, aftercare, manipulation, dirty talk, swearing and other explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 4.111

author's note ➝ hello again! it took me more time to motivate my lazy ass to write this chapter than actually finishing it. i hope you like it and if you do please leave a comment or motivational reblog 🌸 if i missed any warnings let me know.

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

it was almost midnight when the men realized it has been quiet for far too long. they were so deep in their thoughts and work that they hadn’t realized just how fast time has passed.

joel was fixing the dripping, rotten faucet in the kitchen. marcus was cleaning some rifles, tending to them as if they were the most precious pieces of porcelain. he was so very focused as he tried hard not to lose count on the ammunition. javier sat on his laptop, chain smoking and looking up surveillance cameras in the DEA office in medellin. the only pause between drags of smoke was when he lifted the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips while listening very carefully on what the american ambassadors discussed – debating important classified cases, blissfully unaware of the hidden microphones javier placed right under their noses before resigning from this god forsaken job almost 3 years ago.

joel glanced at his watch and scoffed when he realized just for how long he’s been working on fixing the faucet. he muttered a low good night to the boys, his voice grumpy and heavy with sleep, before making his way to his bedroom, already dreaming about how good he will sleep tonight with you in his bed.

he expected to find you under the covers, maybe reading, maybe already curled into your pillow like you usually were by this time of night. but when he pushed the door open and found the bed untouched, the lights off, and your scent faint in the air — not warm and recent, but old, like you hadn’t been there in hours — something in his chest coiled tight.

“sweetheart?” he called.

nothing.

he checked the bathroom next, knocking once, pushing open the door. empty. no sound of water. no used towel.

he paused, brow furrowing.

“marcus?” he called out, already stepping back into the hallway. “you seen her?”

marcus freezes his actions entirely and puts the rifle on the couch next to him, his expression already serious. “i thought she was in your room.”

“no,” joel said, jaw beginning to grind. “she’s not.”

footsteps echoed on hardwood as javier came from the kitchen, still holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. “what do you mean she’s not?”

joel turned to face him, voice edged now. “i mean she’s gone.”

the silence that followed was sharp — thick with tension, panic, anger.

javier placed the glass into the sink without looking. “check everywhere. right now.”

they split like shadows in motion — no yelling, no chaos, just the kind of cold, calculating urgency born from fear.

marcus hit the basement first, flashlight already in hand. he searched every corner like he was clearing enemy territory — eyes sharp, movements efficient. no sign of you.

joel moved through the rest of the first floor. he checked the pantry, the garage, the laundry room. doors were still locked. windows undisturbed. “nothing,” he muttered into his radio to the others.

javier moved fastest, pacing the perimeter outside barefoot, his phone already out, checking security cams and motion sensors. “no alarms triggered,” he hissed. “no movement out here in the last hour.”

joel stopped in the hallway, hand gripping the molding beside the doorframe like he needed to steady himself.

you wouldn’t try again, he told himself. not after last time.

he closed his eyes, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and stop the panic from building his heartbeat rhythm until the point of explosion. he tried to think. to bring reason to light – to convince himself that you wouldn’t be so stupid and naive to run away during the night.

why would you want to run? what did they do to you this time? was the picnic too much? have you learned nothing from your last mistake?

his instinct dared to snap his own self out of the building panic and overwhelming thoughts. a wandering, fleeting thought which almost left his brain as quickly as it entered.

the last door in the hallway which led to a guest bedroom none of them ever used.

the door was not even shut. it was slightly cracked. joel pushed it open with slow fingers, the old brass hinges creaking. and there you were.

fucking. sleeping.

your chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, soft little exhales brushing the pillow. the blanket was wrapped around your body, one arm tucked underneath it and the other loose at your side. a book you never finished reading lay on the nightstand. the lamp was off. you’d gone to bed hours ago — quiet and unbothered.

joel didn’t say a word.

he stepped back into the hall and leaned against the wall for a beat, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. relief poured over him like a wave, heavy and thick. he called it in over the radio.

“guest room.”

a few seconds later, marcus appeared, and behind him, javier — barefoot, heart pounding, eyes wild. they stopped in the doorway and stared.

“she’s fine?” marcus asked, voice hushed.

“fast asleep,” joel said. “like she didn’t just take five years off my life.”

javier ran a hand down his face. “fuck.”

you stirred, a little frown tugging between your brows as if you sensed their presence even in sleep. you turned onto your back, hair fanning across the pillow, lips slightly parted, still unaware.

joel walked in quietly and knelt by the bed. his hand reached out and brushed your cheek gently, thumb ghosting across your temple.

“jesus,” he whispered. “you don’t even know what you did to us.”

your eyes fluttered open, groggy and dazed. “…joel?” you murmured, blinking slowly at the sight of all three men surrounding the bed.

javier’s brows lifted, and he huffed a short breath. “you scared us shitless.”

“i — what? why?” you asked, throat rough.

“why did you have to fall asleep here, sweetheart? you know we never enter this room,” javier asks.

“tired. jus’ wanted quiet…”

javier knelt beside joel, his hand resting over your ankle beneath the blanket. “you could’ve said something, cariño. we tore the damn house apart.”

“yeah. thought you took off again,” joel added.

you blinked, then winced, voice still sleepy. “s’rry. didn’t mean to freak you out.”

marcus crouched on the other side of the bed, his gaze hard and unforgiving despite the quest to find you turning out successful. “we’ll lock every fucking door in this place from now on. don’t pull a stunt like that again, sweetheart.”

joel leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and tight. “he’s right, baby. you gave us one hell of a panic attack.”

you mutter one last tiny apology in joel’s ear before he lifts you off the bed and gently carries you to his bedroom, the place where you’ve been sleeping every night since they kidnapped you. each time was more comforting than the last; joel didn’t present himself as a threat and always kept a respectable distance between you two, although he always ached to touch and hold you tight against his chest.

after he places you on the mattress, you notice marcus giving him a suggestive glance.

joel leaves your side and makes his way to his brother’s side. out of your eavesdropping range.

“teach her a lesson. know you got a soft spot for her, but she needs to learn," marcus whispers in joel’s ear, his instructions clear. joel hesitates. doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments. he isn’t a fan of his older brother’s demands. he doesn’t want to break you in. not like this.

marcus senses joel’s second thoughts and scoffs at his brother’s weak spot for you. “if you don’t, i will.”

that made joel’s eyes darken. not with thrill or hunger, but with the overwhelming need to protect you from marcus’ roughness. he failed to do so after your escape attempt and had no choice but to let marcus punish you. this time, he’ll carry the burden himself, in the only way he knows how.

joel nods his head once and gives marcus a look of reassurance and cooperation. once marcus is convinced that joel will keep his promise true, he steps out of the doorway and shuts the door behind him.

joel turns slowly towards the bed, watching the curiosity in your eyes mix with a potion of anxiety. you can tell. his tense stance. the way he won’t look you in the eye – not quite. his mind races. his hands tremble slightly, and you’re not sure why. is it because of anticipation or the tethering loss of control?

“take off your clothes.”

the order makes you flinch, your instincts telling you to back away slightly. your mind is fully alert now. the exhaustion and gentle yearning for the comfort of a warm and soft bed have been gathered together and thrown out the window.

“i won’t ask again.”

shivers crawl up your spine at his intimidating tone. if he was trying to inflict fear upon you, to make you forget about all the times he was gentle and careful with you as if you were a porcelain doll — he has done it. with minimal effort.

you carefully lift yourself off the bed and stand in front of him. there were only a few feet between you. he could take two large steps and you’d be done for. clothes ripped off, a hand wrapped around your throat while he did as he pleased.

you try to banish these thoughts out of your head and presume it’s best if you try to hurry up slightly. you don’t want things to come to that. you still believe that if you cooperate, he’ll be gentle. a part of you tells you that he doesn’t want to do this.

but that part of you is so wrong, my dear. because while joel doesn’t want to scare you away and force you into submission like marcus wants, he is still, at the end of the day – a man.

a man who has built a life out of butchering people for money since his daughters died. a god among men who ripped the soul out of living and well breathing creatures and never felt sorry for it.

until the day you came into his life. when he saw you for the first time and figured you are not a thing to be broken and burned alive. but to be molded and carefully guided into a lifestyle he and his brothers crafted specifically to force you to accept them as your new reality.

in conclusion; he wants you. oh, how much he wants to give into his carnage and tear you apart with his cock. only when he remembers the way your moans filled his ears like a melody when your orgasm flooded his mouth the last time…

god, it’s maddening. infuriating.

but he must not act on primal instincts and think with his cock. no matter how painful it feels. no matter how the majority of the blood in his brain now flows in his cock right now. and he can barely resist anymore.

he watches your lip tremble and eyes grow heavy with tears as you quietly do as instructed.

you start with your socks, quickly discarding them on the floor so you don’t keep him waiting. so you don’t let him think you’re dragging this out to think of an escape.

your loose sweatpants come off next. when you reveal your bare thighs to him, he swears he feels like a medieval man who saw ankles for the first time.

skin so soft. flesh so plump and glowy. his mind drifts off to when his head rested in between them to devour your pussy. how good it was when he felt the pressure of your muscles against the sides of his skull. an orgasm so intense he was worried you’d crack his head like a watermelon. but he loved it so much he made a promise to himself he’ll experience the same pain again when he made you ride his face and smother him with your thighs.

your t-shirt was next to drop on the floor. it belonged to none other than joel. he felt a sense of pride and ownership each time he saw you wearing his clothes around the house. knowing your scent mixed with his drove him crazy because he yearned to inhale directly from the source.

tonight, he would achieve this and more.

the sight of your bare breasts made his heart skip a beat.

he has never seen such work of art in his life. your full chest looking as if it’s been crafted by the gods themselves. like aphrodite chose you as her avatar.

he doesn’t wait for you to take your panties off. in two long strides, he breaks the barrier between you two. his hands immediately jump at your breasts, cupping them in earnest.

he weighs and plays with them in his calloused palms. he is not being a gentleman at all – rough fingertips graze over your buds until they swell. the moment they rise to angry little peaks, his mouth latches onto one while the other is being tended to vigorously.

you quickly grow overwhelmed by his lustful attack. his warm, wet tongue lapping hungrily at your nipple, sucking and drinking as if the elixir of life itself courses through it.

the other poor, tortured nipple – red and aching from the relentless pinching and twirling between his thumb and index. you squirm in his hold, hands grabbing a tight hold of his salt and pepper hair.

you moan, but you don’t think it’s because of displeasure. yes, there is pain. but there is also beauty.

beauty in the way he makes you feel so wanted. so worshipped. he kisses and bites and marks every inch of your chest. he groans in both relief and pleasure when his mouth runs a path upwards on your body and finally stops at the nape of your neck.

not only does he pull a bit of flesh in between his teeth to paint your skin in bruises – he also inhales deeply at the same time as he sucks.

your natural scent – finally flowing through his nostrils. so sweet and musky at the same time, with notes of a warm sleep and the masculine scent of his t-shirt.

when he is satisfied with his work over your neck, his lips trace a path towards your jaw. not once do they depart from you.

you’re both breathless when he pulls you in for a kiss. he didn’t even look at you before he claimed your mouth. he needed to do this before he could stop himself.

his hands are everywhere on the lower half of your body now. he keeps you flushed against his chest, your nipples grazing uncomfortably against his blouse. he grinds and ruts himself against your thighs like a stray dog. makes sure you have nowhere to go too – his hands presenting themselves as a tight and sure anchor over your buttcheeks; smothering, kneading and occasionally slapping the tender flesh until it jiggles like jelly in his palm.

you give up on trying to put space between you. no matter how much force you channel into your hands and wrists, you can’t move this brute wall off of you.

instead, you accept him. pull him closer, even. the act makes him moan into your mouth, deep and rough.

the kiss bruises you. makes you shake in his grip and you’re sure that if he wasn’t holding you now, you’d fall.

he is not here to make love to your mouth. at least not yet.

he kisses you as if he’ll never get another chance to. he needs to explore your hole and claim it with his teeth and tongue before he can soothe the ache he caused.

it’s possessive. controlling. desperate and needy. you don’t bother fighting for control and dominance. you just let him take what he wants in order to indulge himself in the pleasures he has been denying and ignoring for too long.

he shocks you when he takes you into his arms. gathering a handful of your asscheeks before using his sheer power to lift you in his lap.

he drops you both onto the mattress. your back pressed between a soft cloud and a massive brick.

not even once does he break the kiss. he swallows every moan and gasp that comes out of your mouth and greedily licks every corner with his tongue, teeth occasionally lathering attention to your bottom lip to drag and nip it.

his hands move from your ass to fumble with his own sweatpants. he is so thankful to just drag them down his thighs along with his boxers; his cock finally having enough room to breathe.

you try to break the kiss to get a look, but to no avail. he keeps your head in place with his free hand resting on your neck. his fingertips firmly pressing into the sides, a silent command to stay still. his mouth still makes out with yours hungrily as if he’s trying to keep you busy and not allow any anxiety creeping in your pretty little head.

the hand he used in order to free his cock from his boxers moved directly to your clothed pussy. his index ran one trail up your slit to feel the cool wetness sink into the material before gathering it in between his fingers and pulling it to the side.

he didn’t waste any more time. as soon as he cleared the way, he grabbed himself by the base of his cock and gathered your juices on his own leaking head before sliding home in one smooth thrust.

you both broke the kiss at the same time to fill the room with your own moans. once he bottomed out and felt the dangerously addicting way your walls squeezed him, he didn’t know how to stop. he just lost every last drop of control he thought he had and unleashed all the pent up desire he felt for you.

“oh god, babygirl,” joel chanted as he threw his head back, eyes shut in bliss. “fuck, i can’t stop. i’m so sorry.”

he moved his hand from your throat to the back of your head, gently lifting it a few inches to bring you closer to him. his other hand made its way under your knee. making sure to keep your legs as open as possible for him to fuck you as hard and deep as he liked.

“joel, n-no! oh my god – fuck!”

the burning sensation left your tight channel as quickly as it came. it was soon replaced by complete and utter pleasure as your already soaking wet pussy gushed and clenched around him as he pistoned in and out of you.

your walls presented no restraint. your pussy greedily welcomed him as if she has waited her entire life for this moment. to fulfill her duty as nothing more than a cocksleeve – a hole to serve him warmth and pleasure.

your broken moans ambitioned him to sink deeper inside you. he plunged in deep, hard and fast, not giving you any time to adjust as he took whatever he wanted from your willing body. god, he hoped it wouldn’t come to this. he hoped his restraint and control would not shatter so quickly. but when he saw your beautiful naked body and felt you soaking wet through your panties, he knew you were made for him. he knew this pussy had a mind of her own.

“atta girl. pussy knows what she wants, huh? t’be fucked and destroyed by a nice, big cock. fill her up with cum and never let her go.”

he tears his gaze from your swollen pussy to your face and really looks at you.

blabbering, crying, moaning and utterly ruined.

pink sore eyes filled with glossy tears. flushed cheeks. mouth slightly open in a round shape with a string of saliva dripping in the corner. your own finger resting on top of your tongue. a physical guardian to stop more moans and pleas from making their way out.

“fuck, look at my girl,” joel praises. he presses a soft plump kiss in between your eyebrows – an unusual contrast to the way he ruts roughly between your thighs, assaulting your poor pussy as she gushes her release all over his cock and the sheets beneath. he lost count of how many times he made you cum until now. he’s more than convinced you never actually kept count, your mind too blank and pliant to bother yourself with too much thought.

“what’s wrong, baby? cock so good it fucked ya stupid?”

you shake your head in approval, your eyes wide and glossy like precious pearls and diamonds. there’s no coherent thought behind those eyes – he scared them all away. no insecurities or anxiety in the way to stop you from feeling him at full intensity.

and he’s so proud. so so proud he made all the voices in your head shut down for once. his heart swells with how much trust you put in him to break you apart and put you back together.

“that’s a good girl. mhm, the best girl in the whole damn world. my good girl gon’ let me cum deep inside her? hm? swell her belly full a’ babies?”

you nod in earnest, a big bright smile creeping up your face like it’s the best deal in the world. like it’s your whole life purpose.

“y-yes, d-daddy. p-please fill m-me up. wan’ your babies!”

your innocent little plea does it for him. his rhythm wavers as he buries himself to the hilt and cums deep inside you, filling your belly up with a big load.

he stays attached and connected to you both physically and spiritually. he swears he can feel your hearts beating in sync as he holds you close to his chest and soothes your nerves by placing a few wet gentle pecks on your cheeks and forehead.

“shhh, baby. my sweet baby. gotcha now. did so, so well for daddy. my perfect lil’ girl.”

he forces himself to remove his softening cock from between your legs. once he does, he makes sure not to leave you alone and sweaty for too long. he takes off his damp blouse and uses it as a makeshift rag to clean you up. he soothes every cry and unintelligible word that comes out of your sweet mouth.

“here, honey. drink. you did perfect. so proud of ya," he praises as he helps you drink a much needed glass of cold water.

after he’s done cleaning both of you up, he joins you under the blankets. his fingers trace the side of your arm as he looks at your relaxed form. so obedient, full and content.

“bet ya enjoyed your lesson, huh?” joel murmurs, aware of how close you are to drifting off to sleep. “don’ ever scare us like that again, sweetheart.”

“mmmm,” you nod while keeping your eyes closed, although you’re not so sleek in hiding your small grin of mischief, “no promise."

he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement at your little attitude. “you’re trouble, sweetheart. what are we gon’ do with you?”

oh, he knows exactly what they will do with you.

and in the bedroom next door and the living room respectively, javier and marcus have figured out a few plans in their mind themselves.

because you may not realise it yet, but joel had just paved the way for his brothers. made their life easier. broke you in and gave you a taste of what your future will be with, under and on top of them.

without needing to even speak to each other, they all know you’ve just become addicted. soon enough, one man will not be enough to satisfy the burning hunger inside you; you’ll need all three to satiate your needs and take care of you.

and honey, they will. in each of their own, unique ways – they will make you forget why you even fought them off in the first place.

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moonshapedbox · 2 months ago

Text

swan shaped heart

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter

a/n: whew! this story is finally leaving the confines of my drafts and i’m so happy!!! it’s longer than I anticipated it would be but ultimately decided that this will be a series. longer chapter to start with to set up the storyline. extremely self indulgent bc i want a man like this. reader is pretty freaky but we’re all adults here okay sdfjkf special shoutout to @dilf-luvr-4evr who wanted me to tag her, tysm to u and to my other dear moots for hyping me up and encouraging me to write !!! ok i think that’s everything! :D

tags: reader is in her twenties, lots of fluff, hint of age gap, ton of romantic tension. no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 hands..lots of hands (you’ll see) no smut but heavily suggestive, lots of religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), read at ur own discretion !!!

wc: 6.5k

part one | part two

He arrived in a little town 15 minutes outside Valentine– couldn’t remember the name of it nor did he care. Hell, he didn’t know why he was riding there or what he was going to do when he did get there, but he was exhausted from casing banks and stores, or sizing up the potential jobs in the area, he needed a place to rest.

He looks up at the sky, the sun had just gone behind the mountain; he was too far from camp to head back now, there was no reason to risk being caught in any attacks from rival gangs if he were to travel during the night. The slight breeze was cool and wet, there was rain coming. He needed to find shelter–and quick.

The town hardly changed at all since he last visited 4 years ago, maybe a fresh coat of paint on the post office or the new signage on the general store–it was like time stood still. As he rode into town, there were a few people who knew him, giving him subtle nods as he rode past, others not at all. He found some lodging to stay in overnight and took inventory of his saddlebags, counting all the things he lacked. He decided it was smart to make a run. Soon enough, he secured his horses outside the general store, only buying a couple things before he left town again in the morning, enough food to last on the trip and a new pack of smokes.

He got what he needed and packed his saddlebags– when his eyes met with the church. He wondered how she was doing, what she looked like now, if she even remembered him at all—the preacher’s daughter. He heard a lot of stories about preacher’s kids; lascivious, wild and unruly. Although she was different– an honorable woman, who took everything her father taught her to heart, and tried to be her best when the Bible instructed it. Her even-tempered and friendly demeanor was like a calming balm on his aching soul. It was something so refreshing, so sweet in comparison to the life he was living. If life was a long and painful drought, then this woman was the rain– and he needed rain desperately.

“Mr. Morgan?” a voice broke him out of his train of thought. Mr. Morgan. That voice–he’d know that voice from anywhere. He looked back and sure enough there she was, standing there with her ruffled white dress, burgundy boots with laces wound up snug against her ankles, and a dainty swan pendant necklace that adorned her neck, glimmering in the western sun.

He inhales into a small grin, “Well, I reckon I know you from somewhere” he smirks. “How you doin’ little lady?” She squeals loudly and hurries over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace, “I can’t believe you’re here I thought you’d never come back,” she says, holding onto him for a moment longer before he pulls away. “Can’t have you be huggin’ me like that in the street or else people’ll think we’re sweet on each other” he jokes. She finally steps back to look at him and there’s a beat of silence, so short that if you were to exhale you’d miss it, but Arthur picks up on it. It’s awkward, in a sweet way. She looks down for a moment before looking up at him again, “Town missed you Mr. Morgan, where you been?” she asked.

He felt guilty at the question. He’d been robbing, scheming, hurting, killing. Although he couldn’t tell her all that, she’s a preacher’s daughter. He felt so surely that if she ever found out what he did for a living she’d shun him for the rest of his life, “Uh, work mainly. You know how it is darlin’,” he replied, putting a lit cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag.

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’ for?” she questioned, looking at his face for any clues to why he’s here. He shrugs, honestly he wasn’t planning on staying for long at all but since she’s standing right in front of him, with big glossy eyes and the hint of her sweet orange and vanilla perfume catching every now and again with the slight breeze– he couldn’t say no.

“Not long darlin’, just for the night and then I leave in the mornin’,” he explains, that should give him enough time to visit without raising suspicions. She flashes him a melancholic smile and nods, wishing that he’d stay longer. She never got a chance to spend any time with him when he came to visit for the first time.

Arthur Morgan–what a man, it would be an honor to get to know him behind his mysterious and aloof nature. To know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she wanted to be the one to break his walls and scoop into his soul. Her mind starts to race with thoughts as her eyes gloss over his features: warm dark blonde hair, big blue eyes and scruffy beard–he was perfect.

He gets even more handsome than the last time I’ve seen him. He must have a girl–there’s not a woman on earth that hasn’t claimed him for herself yet. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty…Lord, he’s so much older, so much more experienced– what am I thinking I ain’t got a chance.

“You okay darlin’?” his voice broke her train of thought, she watched him put the cigarette back to his lips. She nods, “You was always an inquisitive one.” she teases, trying to change the subject. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs playfully, he never thought of himself as the inquisitive type. “I could say the same for you missy…’sides why’s your Daddy lettin’ you in town all by your lonesome?”

“I’m just going to get a couple things, we ran out of some food back at the house,” she explains, kicking some of the dirt on the ground with her foot. Arthur nodded slowly, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Words not coming to him with such ease, that beat of familiar silence encompasses the air again. She looks over at the entrance of the general store, “Well, I guess I must go now, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Morgan.” she softly bows her head and turns away. The sight of her leaving pains him, even if it’s just for a moment. There is something stirring in Arthur. Something big and explosive —yet strangely familiar. Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he hears the words leave his mouth, “Wait– I’ll go in with ya.” he says, stamping out his cigarette and catching up beside her, “it ain’t safe… a young lil thing like you by yourself.”

She stops and looks up at his big looming figure standing next to her, “I can manage just fine Mr. Morgan, but I will not turn down your company.” She quietly thanks the Lord under her breath and enters the store with him. She greets the shopkeeper while he follows her around, making mental notes of the stuff she’s buying, looking over her shoulder for trouble so she doesn’t have to.

“Y’know Mr. Morgan, you were our hero 4 years ago…helping us round up all our missing cattle that those awful Montgomery boys stole from us.”

Hero? A title that he rarely heard attributed to him. Her words transported him back to that time. He couldn’t believe it had already been 4 years since a trembling, fresh faced, beautiful young woman begged him to take care of some seemingly rotten men. Men that did nothing but terrorize the town by fighting, stealing, and getting into all sorts of debauchery– including looting and descrating her father’s church. As the tears ran down her soft and supple cheeks, she didn’t know that the man she was pleading to help save them from misery– was planning to rob her townsfolk and shoot them dead if needed to. A plan that would inevitably fail, all because his heart got the best of him.

He blinked back out of thought, “It was nothin’ really. It was nice spendin’ the week in only one place for once– speakin’ of them boys; they been givin’ you any trouble lately?” he exhaled, scanning over her features. “No, you must have scared them real good Mr. Morgan, ‘cause I haven’t seen them since.” she replies, checking the pears for bruises.

Of course, because he shot them dead.

“Well…maybe they moved away.” he gestures vaguely. She smiled politely and continued to shop for the ingredients she needed. She fidgets with her swan pendant necklace and he picks up on this small habit too–trying to etch every aspect of this woman in his mind so he’ll never forget. When she had gotten all she needed, he offered to pay for her groceries. A gesture that restored her faith in man. She insisted it wasn’t necessary but Arthur paid for them anyway. As they walk back out, they loiter around the front of the store for a moment.

“Thank you for courting me Mr. Morgan, y’know you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh sure, I wanted to, really.” he smiles softly.

They gaze at each other for a moment before she smiles back, “It was nice seeing you again Mr. Morgan. God bless you.”

He nods and smiles back, watching her walk away, wicker basket of groceries cradled in the crook of her arm. He sighs to himself, it was all so soft and so sweet, truthfully, he needed this. As he began walking over to his horse, thinking over the interaction, a soft ping of metal reverberated against the wood paneling on the steps. He looks down by his foot and a glimpse of something bright catches his eye, he picks it up and studies it.

It’s her swan pendant necklace.

“Shit…” he mumbles to himself. He looks around the building to see if he can catch up with her but it’s too late. He sighs and gives it another look over. The picture of the elegant swan on the pendant with gold trim perfectly catching the sunlight stared back at him. It was a beautiful pendant– while her family wasn’t dirt poor, he knew her folks were certainly not rich, especially given her father’s profession. There was no way she could have the money to buy this on her own–this must have been a family heirloom. He shoves it in his pocket for safekeeping.

That evening, the rainstorm he predicted was currently pounding against the glass of the window in his room. He shuts the door behind him and thuds himself down heavily on the side of the bed. He starts to rub his eyes, watery from exhaustion, with his index finger and thumbs. The events of the day weighed heavy on him, from having to stay overnight, to having to go back to camp empty handed, it was like a weight of stress was congregating in his chest. Despite all of this, the image of her stayed in the back of his mind. She looked well off and healthy, getting to see her after so long was pleasant to say the least. He sighs deeply and kicks his boots off.

He lays on the bed, adjusting his weight to the mattress to get comfortable. He feels something in his pockets that prod at his hip, before reaching back in only to pull out the preacher’s daughter’s necklace. While he knows it’s just an object, he shares a moment with it— reminding him of its owner. Oh how pretty she looked today, like an angel. She smelled so sweet, her smile so soft, she was divine in so many ways. He thought of how the cool enamel of the pendant would touch her warm skin. His mind starts to wander, thinking about her only wearing the pendant, how it would glimmer under the low light of a bedroom, as he caresses her soft, untouched skin. Guilt stops him for a moment, and he curses himself for thinking such a thing– this was the preacher’s daughter he was thinking about. It would never work and he knows it, she’s forbidden fruit–but there’s something that courses in his veins, something that makes his mouth water for just a small bite.

He lovingly caresses the pendant with his thumb, the ghost of a smile visits his lips. Strangely enough, he found himself dreading to give it back to her. The pendant was expensive enough that he could have just sold the damn thing and went on his way–or at least that’s what Micah would insist him to do. Although he would never inflict such cruelness on this innocent daughter of the Lord. No–he didn’t want the pendant for monetary gain, all he wanted a little memento to remember her by. He closes his eyes and places the softest kiss on the enamel of the pendant before opening his eyes again.

“The preacher’s daughter, of all women–,” he mumbles to himself, “you sure know how to pick ‘em…don’t ya?” He exhales as he rolls over, before placing it on the nightstand. He stares at it once more before putting out the candle.

“Goodnight girl.”

The next morning, Arthur finds himself on her porch, the sun barely cracking the sky open. He knocks a rhythmic pattern on her front door, and clears his throat. He’s nervous–strangely enough. He sniffs a few times and clears his throat again. He looks down at his hands and takes another glance at the pendant, he’s shaking just a bit. He should have been back on the road by now, but here he was, waiting for the preacher’s daughter to answer the door. What was taking her so long? Maybe this was a sign from God that he should just leave and take the pendant with him–the door swings open, he shoves the pendant back into his pocket before she can see, her eyes widen at his presence.

“Mr. Morgan!” she smiles with bewilderment. Arthur looks her over– she’s stunning even for so early in the morning. He takes his gambler's hat off and holds it against his chest, “Morin’ little lady,” he responds, “I–uh, found something yesterday,” he reaches into his pocket and extends the pendant out in his hand, “I think it might be yours.”

She audibly gasps and places her hand on her chest before clutching the pendant, “Oh my stars, I have been looking for this everywhere I was sure it got lost forever!” she beams with excitement, “Praise God you found it! Where was it?”

“Outside on the steps in front of the general store,” he replies. She lovingly stares at the pendant before looking back up at Arthur. She pauses and opens her mouth to say something, before closing it again. He cocks his head at her in confusion, she exhales and starts over, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head, before exhaling, “Ah, I don’t know about that darlin’, I’ll gotta be gettin’ a move on. Besides I ain’t wanna intrude on y’all’s activities.”

“Oh I insist! I know, Papa would love to see you,” she explains. Her father would love to see him? He mentally rolls his eyes at her naivety. While it was true that the preacher didn’t actively hate Arthur, he wasn’t fond of him either. She frowns at his disbelief that laid evident on his features, “Really Mr. Morgan! I’m serious, let me repay you for finding my necklace.”

“Just a little bite before you go,” she smiles and sways her hips innocently. “I’m sure you’ll have a long journey back and you gotta eat, right?”

He sighs and smiles softly in return, “Okay. I guess I do gotta eat…just as long as I ain’t intrudin’.” He shifts his weight on one hip.

“Not intrudin’ at all. Breakfast is almost ready, come on in and make yourself comfortable.” she stands by the door and watches his big and broad figure walk through the threshold, “You’ll have to forgive Papa for his temporary absence, he’s in his room finishing the last part of his sermon. so I’m afraid it’ll be just us for now.” she says, closing the door behind them as she leads him into the kitchen. He was more than okay with that. It was already nerve wracking enough sitting alone with her, he didn’t need anymore stress from her father picking him apart in his head, cataloging all the sins that he’s riddled with.

He looks around the living room as he follows her into the kitchen. The house is quaint yet congenial–just how he would imagine a pastor to live. The scent of breakfast wafting through the air was wonderful, he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He does what she says and makes himself comfortable at the table as she returns to the stove to gently stir the contents of the pan before joining him.

He sees the Bible open on the kitchen table, assuming she was reading it while she was cooking, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your routine,” he gestures to the table. She adjusts herself at the table and meets his eyes, “Nonsense, you’re not interrupting anything,” she picks up the Bible, and quietly continues to read, “I just like to read a little bit of scripture in the morning to get my day started. Let me finish this passage real quick.”

Arthur didn’t mind, he sits and fidgets with his lighter for a moment. After a few beats of silence, he puts his arm on the table and leans, trying to see what she was reading on the page, “So what’s it say?”

She giggled at his curiosity before clearing her throat, “It says, ‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,’ that’s Esphesians chapter four, verse thirty-one and two.” She smiles softly.

Arthur nods, it all sounded lovely to hear. Although bitterness, wrath, and anger was all he was filled with– he couldn’t remember the last time he felt any differently. He felt like his whole life was one big sorry situation, tired of the ache of ruminating over the things that had gone wrong, people he lost, and regrets that plagued him. He was mad at everyone and everything. In Arthur’s case, forgiveness felt like water that was just out of reach for him. The thud of her closing the Bible jostles him back into the moment, he watches her get up and place the book back on the shelf in the living room.

“Y’know, you’re good at that.” he calls out to her, adjusting himself in the chair, his hips bucking forward a tad to get comfortable.

“What. Reading?” she calls back from the living room before walking back to where he was.

“Sure. If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.” he smirked.

A rosy pigment of blush spread across her cheeks, “Now Mr. Morgan, what exactly is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know Papa has wonderful sermons.”

That’s not what he meant– her obliviousness to his gentle flirting was endearing, he chuckles to himself. “I don’t doubt it darlin’” he mindlessly fidgets with his lighter again.

“--Hey, that’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to church with me this morning?”, she inquired, “You can sit next to me the whole time.”

His eyes widened before grimacing at the idea, that really wasn’t the best move considering who he was–although she was none the wiser, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, darlin’...” He hadn’t stepped foot in church since–well since the last time he saw her 4 years ago. “Why not?” she asks innocently, her big eyes gazing back at him. “If it’s about how you’re dressed the congregation won’t mind.”

He looks down at his attire and exhales a chuckle through his nose, mentally rolling his eyes at her assumption, “It ain’t about the clothes… it’s–” he sighs in between his words, “you know church..ain’t my thing,” he rubs his jaw, thinking over how awkward it would be to sit at one of those pews.

“How do you know if it ain’t your thing if you don’t try?”

He scans her soft features, “I been around a lot longer than you, trust me on this.”

She gazes back at him and nods, walking back to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. There was a significant amount of silence that unaccounted for, Arthur who usually didn’t mind the stillness of the morning, grew restless in his chair.

“So…uh..whatcha makin’?” he asked, trying to find something to talk about.

“Biscuits and gravy” she replied, stirring the gravy in the saucepan to keep it from burning.

“Sounds good, ain’t had biscuits and gravy in a long time,” he taps his fingers against the table rhythmically.

Arthur was never good at small talk– he wasn’t like Dutch in that respect. That man could talk his way out of a death sentence, and God did he wish he had Dutch’s silvertongue right about now. Instead, he silently watched her cook, as a warmth spread in him. She’s wearing her Sunday best– and he notices the way her dress hugged her body and her bodice cinched her beautiful figure, how concentrated she looked when she was taking the biscuits out of the wood-burning oven, it strangely felt like home. For a moment, he forgot he was some outlaw, but just a simple man in the kitchen with his beloved.

“Mrs. Hawthorne was askin’ about you yesterday. She saw you ride into town” her voice snapped him out of his trance, he grunted an acknowledgement, “The lady who was convinced her dolls were talkin’ to her?” he replies.

“Well she– now wait there Mr. Morgan she certainly does no such thing,” she explains, “That was just a rumor.”

“Ain’t a rumor if I seen her do it,” he laughs, “Sometimes she talks back to ‘em. Gives ‘em funny voices.”

“That’s not funny Mr. Morgan,” she frowns, trying not to laugh, wooden spoon still in hand, “Besides it’s not right to gossip.”

“What’d I say?— Oh so it’s not okay to gossip but it’s okay to laugh at her expense? I get it now…” he jokes. She turns away, hiding her face from him. He stands up and saunters over to her, “Don’t think I ain’t seein’ you fight back a laugh. You think it’s funny too.” He chuckles. She eventually bursts out in laughter, the original joke not even that funny, it was something about his tone that tickled her. Suddenly, they both erupt in big laughter together.

The atmosphere in the room is light and airy–like both of them could breathe for once. “I think the gravy is done, you wanna taste?” she asked, her voice easing from laughter into a normal speaking pattern, wiping tears with the back of her wrist. Still grinning, he nodded in response, and leaned his hip on the side of the counter. She pulls open the silverware drawer and sighs, “Oh darn, I thought I had a spoon but I guess they’re all dirty.” she shrugs and fixes the issue by innocently tapping her finger into the saucepan, holding it out for him to taste. In her mind, she thought he would have a quick taste and tell her his opinion. Oh to the contrary.

His heart jumped at the sight of her outstretched hand, slowly but surely he wrapped his lips around her finger, licking the sauce. The pent up desire that was bubbling deep inside of him started to rise to the surface, and before he could catch what he was doing, he began to deliberately yet gently suck on her finger. The feeling of his tongue wrapping around and in between her two fingers, made her lightheaded, electricity ran through her body and caused a heat to pool in her stomach. After licking her fingers clean, he pulled away and gazed into her eyes for just a moment.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly shaky. She gazes into his eyes for a moment, before responding with a small and trembling voice, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected. “You sure? Does it need more pepper?”

He knew exactly what she was doing, whether she realized it or not; and he couldn’t help but find her innocent curiosity endearing. A small smile appears on his face, “I don’t know, let me taste it again.”

A justification to have her fingers in his mouth.

Without a second thought, she taps her two fingers in the gravy again and holds them out for him, this time her hand trembles at the thought of re-experiencing the feeling. His big, calloused hand wraps around her soft wrist to steady her fingers for him. He takes them in his mouth again, gently caressing them with his tongue, silently wishing to himself that he could kiss her with this much fervor and passion. He looks into her eyes before closing them, letting out a soft groan of contentment before pulling away. “Tastes amazing.” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

Her fingers miss his mouth, they feel cold and incomplete without him. She felt lightheaded and breathless. There’s that beat of silence again, but this time it's longer than before. She pants ever so slightly, and he notices, “You alright?” he smirks.

“Fine…breakfast is ready then,” she replies, her voice trembling with this new feeling coursing through her body. It was warm and soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before, she turned away and faced the stove again, “Go sit down, I'll fix you a plate.” refusing to make eye contact with him. They finally sit down to eat, although this time it’s different. She stares at him while he eats, trying to figure out this newfound warmth pooling in her, why everything he does makes her heart race.

“Missed your cookin’, forgot how good it was.” he says, before taking another bite. “It ain’t that good, I appreciate your kindness though.” she replies, pushing her food around with her fork. “Compared to the stuff I gotta eat, this is like society folk’s meals.” She flashes him a small smile in return, her thoughts are loud and her heart is racing, “Society folk, huh?” her voice warbles, she tries to continue the conversation, but her thoughts are clouded by him. The way he ate was almost bewitching to her, she stares at his hands and looks away trying not to get caught. Her own fingers twitch watching him take bite after bite, reminding herself of the feeling of his mouth around her.

“When you leavin’ town?” she asks, not really wanting to know the answer. The soft early morning light starts to peer through the kitchen window. The atmosphere is still, yet full of meaning. He puts the cup up to his lips to drink long enough to ponder her question, before swallowing the warm liquid and placing the cup back down. “In a couple hours, most likely. Why you askin’?”

She shrugs and continues to eat, her left hand resting on the side of her neck. Her eyes refused to meet his, scared that he might see the disappointment in them. He exhales, something is off about her, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?”. She shrugs again and stares at her food, moving it around with her fork once more, “Why you leavin’ so soon?” she asks in an exhale, worried that she might be overstepping.

He sighs, she didn’t need to know the real answer. “Work, darlin’...I’m on a...business trip,” he gestures vaguely. She doesn’t meet his eyes purposefully, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t fair that he made her feel things she never felt before, only to walk out and leave her forever. She prided herself to not be one of those girls that cry over boys. She always believed there were bigger and better things to fuss over–yet here she was. But what was the crime in missing someone? “Business trip…” she repeats under her breath before clearing her throat.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Arthur scoffs incredulously.

“It’s not that…you ain’t given me a reason to think otherwise but…” she pauses, trying not to overstep. “...But what?” He crosses his arms over and leans in closer against the table, the buttons of his work shirt pulling from the broad of his chest, she can’t help but pan down for a glance, her heart rate picks up at the sight of him. He was such a man– in the best ways possible. It was in his essence, his scent, the way he walked and talked, it drove her mad— it was so heavenly it agitated her.

“I don’t know, I ain't see why you gotta hightail it outta here. It’s been 4 years since you last been here and I mean for pity’s sake you just got here–”

“--And that bothers you?” he interrupts, slightly cocking his head at her.

She stammers, “I-I mean I feel like it’s not polite–”

He scoffs loudly, “Sorry I didn’t know you looked at me and saw the pinnacle of manners,” he places the cup of coffee back down,“Tell me what’s actually goin’ on,” he was starting to get to defensive. What had she heard about him that was making her so skittish?

The bantering conversation dies down and there’s a shared, intense silence between the two of them.

Oh. Oh.

He felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner–or more accurately making a wrong assumption about how she felt and potentially wrecking a beautiful friendship. He stares at her across the table as she continues to eat.

“You gon’ miss me when I’m gone?” he murmurs low, studying her face, his voice shattering the silence in the air. His words suspended in the air like a fruit ready to be plucked. “We’ll all miss you,” she replies softly, trying to avoid what he’s implying. He shakes his head and grunts loudly in response, “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them... I’m talkin’ ‘bout you.”

She nods silently, before looking back up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, just a single, solitary moment–he forgot about the war raging in his mind of whether he was a bad person, or feeling like he wasn’t good enough for her. It was just him and the preacher’s daughter, sharing a meal and a loving silence.

“Mr. Morgan–”

“You ain’t gotta be so formal with me hon, just call me Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

He perks up at her statement, his curiosity giving her permission to ask. “I know you ain’t comfortable goin’ to church and I respect that,” she pauses to search for any discomfort for where the conversation was going, there was none, so she continues, “but I was wondering’ if you’d come to our annual picnic, this week. If you’re apprehensive about it being a church event– it's not. The whole town is gonna be there. It’s a town event, but I thought you'd like a bite to eat before you leave.”

He exhales and grins, “First breakfast and now a picnic? You’re really worried I'm gonna miss a meal huh?” he jokes, but she stares back at him, searching his face for an answer. His thoughts all align and he prepares to explain his reasons as to why he can’t come and that he’ll be back on the road in a couple of hours, but his words betray him, and he hears himself say something unlike him,

“I’ll be there.” He looks at her free hand resting on the table, and gently envelops it in his.

“I’m glad, it means a lot.” she murmurs, a sparkle of joy in her eye. She stands and starts to clear the table, placing all the dishes in the sink.

There is a deep well of feeling and connection between the two of them, one could cut the chemistry with a knife. It pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if he should act on his instincts–but dammit if he wasn’t going to at least try to do something about it.

He rises from his seat and approaches her, standing as close as he can to her. Feeling his presence, she laughs, “ain’t they ever taught you about personal space?” She looks over and he’s smiling back, but there’s a seriousness to him. She does a double take of how close he is, her smile faltering a bit, realizing he’s not kidding.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been this close to a man before, huh?” He ghosts the side of his finger against her chin. She shivers, goosebumps rise on the back of her neck and down her arms, before shaking her head.

“Why you tremblin’ doll? I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” he murmurs.

“I know,” she pauses, trying to find the words, “I just—never been looked at in this way before.”

He scoffs playfully, “Oh you’re more naive than I originally thought,” he looks over her face and down her body once more, “Men are definitely lookin’-- they just ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re the preacher’s daughter–and they have a hell of a lot of sense to not say anythin.” he leans closer to her.

“Well…what does that make you then?” she shifts against him.

“A fool–probably. But it ain’t stopped me from sayin’ anythin’ before,” he exhales and continues to gingerly stroke her chin, admiring her beauty.

His voice becomes low, “You ever think ‘bout a man lovin’ on you baby?” The question vibrates in his chest. Her heart rate quickens, a beautiful shade of crimson spreads across her cheeks at the idea of something so scandalous, “Lovin’ on me?” she repeats.

“Yeah, you know, what married people do.”

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. She often would imagine in vivid detail, what she would do if she found herself in a scenario such as this. It was essentially drilled into her mind from a young age– that a man making advances was to strictly be condemned. That her purity was to be intact for her husband and only for her husband. The script of her imagination playing in her head, she’s seen it a hundred times–”sorry sir, I’m flattered but I ain’t interested”. It’s all she had to say…although for some reason she was rendered speechless, hanging onto his every word like her life depended on it.

in this moment– in some sick and twisted game of life, it was almost as if Arthur was forcing her to pick between which sin to commit– lying: claiming to not be interested in him; when in reality, the curiosity was gnawing in the pit of her stomach, or lust: throwing caution to the wind and letting him carry her bridal style to defile her in the bedroom that she grew up in.

She decides lying would weigh less on her soul.

“Mr. Morgan this ain’t proper…it’s immoral. I-I don’t entertain thoughts like that. I ain’t got a reason to.” she denies, refusing to acknowledge something so foul. It pained her to lie, she felt the guilt starting to creep in. Arthur smirks at her response, he doesn’t buy it, although her defiance and naivety makes his own pulse quicken. “Mmph, I see. So you don’t ever think about what your wedding night would be like? To finally have a man to warm your bed? Touching you all over and keepin’ you satisfied?”

Her breath hitches at the idea, never considering that a thought so filthy could have a moral loophole; but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, she continues to shake her head. The improperness of the conversation and her willingness to lie starts to make her feel sick with guilt. She shouldn’t be talking like this, not with a man no less. The mix of good and bad emotions swirl in her stomach like a bittersweet concoction about to boil over. As for Arthur, that insistent attitude of hers turns him on even more, and he can’t help himself to gamble how far he could go, “Oh c’mon darlin’, not even how it would feel? To have a man take his time with you and run his hands up your–”

He found her limit, she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. “No Arthur!” she barks, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore! You will not bring this–this debauchery in this house; especially with my Pa in the next room, have you no shame?!”

He knows he should take her seriously but the way she’s yelling at him is getting him even more worked up. He laughs a hearty chuckle, “yeah for somethin’ so repulsive to ya– ya sure are flushed!”

“Stop it Arthur it’s not funny.” She frowns, the guilt washes up in her like a shoreline. This must be what Papa was warning about on Sundays, the sin that drives a person crazy, to commit crimes and all sorts of deeds all in the name of passion. Arthur was creating new emotions she had never experienced before, the only cost of receiving it was with a backing note of remorse. Although, there was a cadence to Arthur that beckoned her to his presence. Like a siren beckons the sailor out to sea–only she was the sailor.

They gaze into each other’s eyes, unwavering and raw, “Arthur,” she exhales, leaning softly into his touch. He grunts in response, gazing lovingly back at her, his index tracing down her neck, making its way down to her collarbone, the other hand resting gently on her hip. She squeaks at the sudden weight of his hands on her, newfound warmth spreading in her. He scans her face for any hesitation, when suddenly she finds the words she’s looking for.

“I’m waitin’ til marriage…”

He figured as much. What was he even doing? He knows this already. Lightly removing his hand, his palm hovers over her hip. He treats her like glass, scared he was gonna break her if he touched her at all– what a delicate little thing gazing up at him. He blinks and clears his throat, staggering a couple steps back. “Right. I know…I don’t know what I was—I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, miss.”

She crosses her arms and as if she is trying to warm them, her fingers finding a way to the pendant Arthur rescued for her, fidgeting with it between her fingers, “You didn’t…I’m not upset… I just– I think– it would be best for you to leave now. For both of us.” she murmurs, “I’ll give Pa your regards.” He nodded in response, pressing his lips into a fine line, “Okay” he says barely above a whisper.

“Mr. Morgan?” his heart sank at her sudden formality— a fear that he ruined everything between them began swirling behind his chest, he came to a halt at her words.

“You still coming to the picnic?”

He stands by the backdoor, loitering around the frame, before looking back over his shoulder, he exhales and gives her a small, sad, smile, “Thank you for the meal, darlin’. It was nice seeing you again.” The door hinge squeaks before he walks outside, the sound of boots shuffling against the gravel becomes quieter and quieter before it dissipates completely. She’s left with the burn of his shadow haunting the doorframe and the ghost of his touch printed permanently on her frame.

thank u sm for reading it means so much to me truly <3 hope you all enjoyed part one !!!

#this is my first full fic i’ve ever posted im so scared #i’ve proofread this 40 times i’m sick of looking at it #if i missed anything lmk!!!!#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #— rinnie writes ♡

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