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agustdsluv · 2 days ago

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IN THE SPACE BETWEEN US - JJK

summary | they grew up side by side. they just didn’t know they were falling in love. years of silence, one moment of truth, and a love that was always there.

paring | jungkook x f! reader

genre/warnings | one shot! childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff with light angst, first love, they’re honestly just blind and idiots for each other, mutual pining, them just being cute, time skip, and again just them being dumb

word count | 3.9K

notes: honestly I debated whether or not I should post this. It’s the first time I’m publishing something of my own and I’ve written a lot of stuff over the years, but I’ve never posted anything like this before so I really hope you enjoy it. It took me a long time to have the courage to post this so I really hope you like it and let me know what you think.

The summer Jungkook turned seven, a new family moved into the yellow house across the street.

Their daughter—shy, messy-haired, with oversized glasses—stood out like a cloud on a clear day. While the other kids played soccer on cracked pavement and scraped knees on jungle gyms, she spent the first week hiding behind her mother’s legs or sitting silently on the front porch with a spiral notebook.

On the second Monday of July, Jungkook found her crying behind the bush next to the schoolyard fence.

He blinked, unsure if he should run or offer a tissue. She noticed him watching and quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, which left a dirt streak across her cheek.

“You lost?” he asked, walking closer with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

She shook her head.

“Then why are you crying?”

She hugged her notebook tighter. “Some girl said I’m weird because I brought dried squid for lunch.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “That’s not weird. I eat squid all the time.”

She peered up at him, skeptical. “Really?”

He nodded confidently. “Wanna see something cooler?”

Before she could answer, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a crumpled bag of spicy seaweed crackers.

“They taste gross,” he said proudly. “But I eat them anyway. Wanna try?”

She took one cautiously, eyes narrowing as she chewed. Then her lips twitched. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Now you have to be my friend.”

And just like that, the thread was tied.

From that day on, they were inseparable.

They walked to school together every morning, side by side with their backpacks bouncing. During lunch, they’d trade doodles in their notebooks and dare each other to eat increasingly weird snack combos—banana and kimchi, yogurt with soy sauce, chocolate-covered seaweed.

“Someday we’ll open a snack shop,” she declared one day, her mouth full of strawberry pocky. “But only sell cursed food.”

Jungkook nodded seriously. “And we’ll call it… ‘Don’t Eat This.’”

When they weren’t in class, they were on the playground or at each other’s houses, building blanket forts and pretending the couch was a ship lost at sea. Jungkook’s mom started keeping extra slippers by the door just for her. Her dad started calling Jungkook “our honorary son.”

By third grade, everyone in the neighborhood knew their names as one: Jungkook-and-YN.

The first time yn got jealous, she didn’t know what it was.

It was a warm spring afternoon. They were playing tag with a group of neighborhood kids when Minji, a girl from the next block, ran up and tugged on his sleeve.

“Jungkook-ah,” she said sweetly. “Do you want to play with me instead?”

He glanced over at her—his her—standing a few feet away, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She didn’t say anything.

He turned back to Minji. “No thanks. I already have a partner.”

Minji pouted, but Jungkook ran off before she could protest.

When he got to her side, he nudged her shoulder. “Hey. Why’d you look sad?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “You can play with other people, you know.”

He frowned. “But I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?”

He blinked. “Why would I? You’re my best friend.”

She looked at him then, a quiet smile playing on her lips. “You’re mine too.”

The bracelet came that summer.

They were sitting under the big plum tree in her backyard, stringing beads together with clumsy fingers and bug bites on their arms.

“This one’s yours,” he said, holding up the blue and green bracelet he made.

She gave him a red and yellow one in return, which didn’t match at all, but he tied it on proudly.

“Now we match,” he said. “Even if you move away someday or go to a different school—this means we’ll still be best friends.”

She touched the beads carefully. “Okay. But you have to promise.”

“I promise.”

He didn’t know then how heavy a promise could be.

But he meant it anyway.

Middle school arrived with an awkwardness she couldn’t quite name.

Hair got weirder. Voices cracked. Kids started dividing into cliques and couples, drifting apart like puzzle pieces that no longer fit. She felt it everywhere—in the way people whispered about crushes, or asked who liked who, like it was the most important question in the world.

But not with Jungkook.

He was still her constant. The one unchanging thread in all the chaos.

Only… even constants begin to shift.

They didn’t play tag anymore. The friendship bracelets they made under the plum tree were too small for their wrists now, tucked away in drawers or lost to time. Instead, they sat side-by-side at lunch, shared earbuds on the bus, and texted late at night about songs and stupid jokes and everything in between.

It was still them.

Mostly.

Until it wasn’t.

He joined choir in seventh grade.

She hadn’t thought much of it at first—until she heard him sing.

It was rehearsal for the spring showcase. She was backstage, helping a teacher organize props, when his voice filtered through the noise. She didn’t realize it was him at first. The sound was too soft, too rich, too careful. But then she peeked around the curtain and saw him standing on the risers—hands in the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes slightly down, completely unaware of how easily he was stealing the breath out of her lungs.

Something in her shifted.

And that was when she knew.

She didn’t just like Jungkook.

She was in love with him.

She didn’t say anything, of course.

How could she?

They’d been friends since they were seven. He’d seen her with grape jelly on her face and crooked teeth. He knew every version of her—sleepy, grumpy, awkward, annoying. Telling him would be like stepping off a cliff with no rope.

So instead, she wrote.

Her journal became her safe place—pages full of things she couldn’t say out loud. Things she wished he knew. Things she wasn’t brave enough to tell him.

March 15

He walked me home again today. I counted 23 sidewalk tiles between our houses. I wanted to ask if he liked anyone. I didn’t.

April 2

His hoodie smelled like citrus gum and laundry detergent. I wore it the whole night. He said I could keep it. I didn’t give it back.

April 28

He smiled at Minji today. I hated that I noticed. I hated that it hurt.

By eighth grade, the space between them was harder to ignore.

They still talked, still laughed, still existed in that same shared rhythm. But something was different. He texted less in the evenings. He looked away faster when she caught him staring. He laughed more with other girls.

And she started wondering if maybe she was the only one holding onto whatever they used to be.

The worst part was how natural it all looked—him fitting into those groups, those jokes, those conversations with other people. With other girls.

She tried not to let it bother her. But the ache in her chest said otherwise.

One night, walking home from a study group, she almost said it.

The air was thick with the smell of rain. The sidewalks shimmered under the streetlights, and the sky still held the blush of a fading sunset.

Jungkook bumped his shoulder into hers as they walked. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he said. “Lost in thought?”

She glanced at him, then down at their feet. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, everything stilled.

“I was thinking…” she began, voice small. “Do you ever—”

Her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring.

It was her mom. A reminder about dinner.

When she looked up again, the moment had already passed. Jungkook had slipped his hands into his pockets, the weight of whatever had just almost happened falling away like sand between fingers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

But that night, as she stared up at her ceiling, the words haunted her.

Do you ever think about us as more than friends?

The school festival came that fall.

By then, they were in high school—and Jungkook had become someone everyone noticed. Not in an obnoxious way. He was just there—always laughing, always moving, always shining in a way that drew people in.

She stayed where she always had: close, but never quite center.

Not the kind of girl he’d fall for. Not the kind of girl people whispered about in the hallways.

But she couldn’t help it—she loved him anyway.

The night of the festival, he was set to perform solo for the first time. She found a spot near the back of the crowd, standing under a tangle of fairy lights strung across the courtyard.

He stepped up on stage in jeans, sneakers, and his worn denim jacket. No drama. No spotlight.

Just Jungkook.

He adjusted the mic, cleared his throat, then looked out at the crowd. “Uh… this one’s a cover,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “It kind of reminds me of someone I’ve known a long time.”

And then he started to sing.

It wasn’t perfect. His voice cracked once. He messed up a chord.

But it didn’t matter.

Because every word felt like it had weight. Like it had a name.

Her name.

And as she stood in the dark, listening, something inside her broke and healed all at once.

She couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not when everything in her heart screamed for more than friendship.

Not when it was him.

Jungkook’s apartment still smelled like vanilla and something faintly citrus—probably his detergent. The scent had clung to her clothes a hundred times, but now it felt different. Louder. Warmer. Like it wrapped around her the moment she stepped through the door.

It was a Saturday night. Late spring. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly two weeks.

College, work, and life had gotten in the way—at least, that’s what they told each other.

But she knew the real reason.

Things had been… off.

Ever since winter break, when he nearly said something and she nearly answered. When their hands lingered too long on the armrest during a movie, and their goodbyes started to feel like maybe’s instead of see-you-soon’s.

Still, she came over because they’d promised they wouldn’t drift.

And because she missed him so much it made her chest ache.

“Hey,” he said when he opened the door, one hand still drying his hair with a towel. “You’re early.”

“I walked fast,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He grinned. “What, to avoid the cold or to see me faster?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.

He looked good. Stupidly good. A soft black t-shirt, sweatpants, and damp hair pushed off his forehead. There was something too intimate about the domesticity of it all. The fact that he let her in without a second thought. The way his presence always settled the noise in her mind.

The air buzzed with unspoken things.

They made dinner together like they always used to—ramyeon with extra egg, dumplings, and one of those pre-made strawberry milk cartons they both secretly loved.

Music played from his Bluetooth speaker, low and steady. Her favorite playlist, the one he made for her birthday last year. The same one she still listened to when she couldn’t sleep.

It all felt so normal.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not with the way her heart twisted every time their hands brushed. Not with the way he kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Something was coming. She felt it in her bones.

And it terrified her.

After dinner, they collapsed on the couch in a comfortable silence.

She tucked her feet under her and hugged a pillow to her chest. Jungkook grabbed a blanket and threw it over both of them without asking.

Her heart leapt at the gesture. He didn’t even hesitate.

The movie playing on his screen was just noise. She wasn’t watching it. Not really. She could barely focus with how close he was—shoulder pressed to hers, knee resting just beside her thigh.

Every part of her was screaming.

Say something. Do something. Touch him.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be the first to break.

Jungkook shifted beside her and let out a breath. “You ever think about how long we’ve known each other?”

She turned slightly, eyes on him. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Feels like… my whole life has you in it.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. She forced a small laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

He didn’t smile. He looked at her, really looked, his voice quiet. “I’m serious.”

Her fingers tightened around the pillow. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just… sometimes I wonder if you remember stuff the way I do. Like the plum tree. Or that dumb squid snack.”

“I remember everything,” she said before she could stop herself. “All of it.”

A pause.

“I never forgot either,” he said.

She looked at him—and her whole body tensed when she realized how close his face was to hers.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a second.

Just one second.

She stopped breathing.

“You know,” he whispered, “sometimes I think I should’ve said something a long time ago.”

“About what?”

He swallowed. His hand moved without thinking, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek.

“About this,” he said.

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t slow, or dramatic, or choreographed like the ones in movies.

It was quiet. A breath between heartbeats.

Soft and sudden, like instinct taking over.

His lips were warm, familiar, and yet completely new. His hand cupped her cheek as if afraid she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him back—shaky at first, then sure. Her hands found the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

It felt like exhaling after holding in a breath for years.

When they finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead resting against his, eyes still closed.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “What… was that?”

He laughed under his breath, soft and breathless. “A really long time coming.”

She opened her eyes, and his were already on her.

“I didn’t want to ruin us,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not after everything.”

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that—the space between them was gone.

Neither of them moved at first.

The kiss had ended, but the moment hadn’t.

They sat there on Jungkook’s couch, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. His hand was still gently cradling her cheek. Her fingers remained twisted in the hem of his t-shirt, as if letting go might break whatever spell had just wrapped around them.

The TV buzzed in the background, completely forgotten.

Her heart was racing in that dizzy, quiet way that always came after something irreversible.

Eventually, Jungkook spoke. His voice was soft, and a little unsure.

“…Was that okay?”

She let out a breath. “It was more than okay.”

He pulled back just slightly so he could see her face, his hand falling to rest between them. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“I’m glad it did.”

He gave a shaky smile. “Me too.”

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. The world outside the window was still, lit by the orange haze of distant streetlights. Somewhere down the hall, his neighbor’s dog barked once and went silent again.

Then, slowly, she turned to him.

“Can I ask something?”

“Anything.”

“How long?” she whispered. “How long have you felt… this?”

Jungkook looked down at his lap. When he spoke, his voice had that quiet weight it always did when he was being completely honest.

“I think it started in middle school. I didn’t know what it was at first. Just that I always wanted you around. That everything felt better with you in it. And then you wore my hoodie home one night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how it looked on you.”

Her cheeks burned, but her heart swelled.

He continued, “In high school, I thought about telling you every time we said goodbye. But I kept thinking—what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin everything?”

She looked at him carefully. “I thought the same thing.”

His gaze snapped back to hers.

She smiled, soft and a little sad. “Jungkook… I’ve loved you for so long. I just never thought you’d look at me that way.”

“Are you serious?”

“I kept a journal,” she admitted, cheeks warm. “It’s filled with entries about you. About how I felt. About how scared I was to lose what we had.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You’re telling me we could’ve had this years ago?”

“Maybe,” she laughed, “but… I think I like that it happened now.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because we’re not kids anymore. And we know who we are now. I think if we had rushed it, maybe we wouldn’t have lasted.”

Jungkook paused. Then, quietly: “I want to last.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—just sitting, holding hands, letting the stillness wrap around them like a blanket. The air between them had shifted, but it wasn’t strange. It felt natural. Like breathing in after a long-held breath.

Eventually, he turned toward her, smiling a little.

“You wanna stay over?”

She raised a brow. “Smooth.”

“I mean, you always stay late. But… if you want. You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

She hesitated. Not because she was unsure, but because she knew this was a line they were crossing—together, willingly.

“Can we just… fall asleep here?” she asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we can.”

Later that night, as they lay side by side under the same blanket, limbs barely touching, her eyes drifted shut with the sound of his breathing next to her.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic or fireworks-in-the-sky kind of love.

It was better.

It was quiet and steady. A love that grew in the small spaces—between laughter and silence, between shoulder bumps and shy glances. A love that waited. A love that stayed.

She smiled into the dark, the weight in her chest finally lifted.

The space between them had collapsed.

And in its place was something real.

Something that had always been there.

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sweetpeaaquarius · 2 days ago

Note

Are requests open? 😅 sorry I just found your blog through your amazing Eris x nightcourt healer story and I tried looking around for a requests open/closed. Would you be open to writing an Azriel x half human/Peregryn fae. She has wings like her peregryn fae mother and minor light magic which is pretty much just for show with how weak it is. But she’s definitely half human as she doesn’t recover quickly so no fae healing, you got that lovely prone to human acne, and she eats well plus exercises (especially swimming, running, and flying) she’s just naturally curvy not willing to starve herself to get rid of that small belly pudge that won’t leave. The bond snaps for her first, at a meeting with the night-court and court of dawn, her father is an engineer and inventor while her fae mother is a warrior. But the insecurity that her human side means she won’t meet Azriel’s expectations means her self image takes a blow especially with him chasing after girls like Morgan, Elain, and Gwyn *sorry you don’t have to write for this if you don’t want to or aren’t taking requests rn. Thank you either way 😄

What the Shadows Don’t Say

Pairing: Azriel x Half Human/Peregryn fae f!reader

Summary: When an unexpected bond drags her into a world that feels too sharp, too powerful, and too distant from everything she’s ever known, she struggles to find her place in a court where power and legacy dominate. But as quiet truths emerge and unspoken fears surface, she and Azriel must navigate what it means to belong, both to each other and to themselves. Deciding to stay when walking away seems easier.

Warnings: emotional vulnerability, insecurity, discussions of self-worth and identity, mentions of past trauma, emotional neglect, body image insecurity, slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on healing), jealousy

Word count: 5,290

Author’s Note: I love this concept, the human vulnerability, fae strength, her light magic, body positivity, insecurity, and the bond snap. I love it! This is a shorter style compared to my other fics, but I enjoyed it. Requests like this refresh my creativity, especially during writer’s block; they give me something new to explore, and that’s always exciting. Let’s see where this takes us!

The task was meant to be simple: a brief, formal meeting with the Night Court, a show of unity, a chance to speak of strategy, of strength, of numbers.

Nothing more.

She sat stiff-backed in the carved stone chair, her wings tucked tightly to her sides, the soft feathers brushing against her arms in quiet reassurance. Around her, other Peregryns murmured, their voices low, laced with unease. The tension hummed beneath the surface, quiet but undeniable. Whispers about the Night Court’s arrival flowed like court gossip, talk of shadows and powerful beings that spoke of more like myths than fae.

The chamber doors opened.

Sunlight spilled into the chamber, golden and too bright, casting long shadows across the floor as they arrived. The air shifted, and every Peregryn went silent.

The first figure stepped through the archway, a tall male, commanding and unreadable. He wore power like a second skin, cool and self-assured, his violet eyes scanning the room with unsettling precision. Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.

Beside him moved a woman, younger, with soft, tanned skin and smooth, golden-brown hair. Feyre, the High Lady, though she had only heard stories about her until now. She hadn’t expected her to look kind while exuding an aura of authority.

Then came another woman, vivid and striking. She wore a red dress, deep and rich. Her golden hair shimmered in the light, and when she flashed a smile at someone in the crowd, the room itself seemed to brighten. Her beauty, her elegance, her effortless confidence, and as she was introduced, her stomach twisted with jealousy, a bitter and unwelcome feeling.

The next male was impossible to ignore. Broad-shouldered, tall, every inch of him battle-hardened. Red siphons glowed at his hands and shoulders like barely-contained fire. His voice was loud, his grin easy, and he was the General of their Illyrian forces.

The last one stepped through the archway, or rather, the shadows entered first, twisting along the floor and slipping through the chamber like smoke, searching for threats.

The room seemed to tilt as he slowly stepped into view, his face set in stone. His skin was golden-brown, his hair dark, and his expression unreadable. Shadows twisted around his shoulders and arms like smoke, seeking an escape.

Their eyes met, and the world snapped.

There was no warning. Just a sudden, violent pull in her chest, as though something invisible had yanked a thread between them tight, and then tighter, until it snapped straight through her ribs.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her lungs refused to fill. Her lips parted slightly, trembling, but no sound emerged. Her fingers clenched in her lap, nails sinking into her skin as she fought to stay still.

Across the room, the man didn’t move. His shadows lashed once, violently, recoiling from her like they’d been burned. He stared, frozen in the archway, not even blinking.

He looked at her, really looked, and all she saw was fear. Not awe. No recognition. Dread.

“Azriel,” Cassian said beside him, quietly.

The name echoed in her skull.

Azriel.

The Night Court’s shadowsinger. The blade in the dark. The spy with a reputation that reached every corner of Prythian. A male forged from silence, from scars, from shadows.

The Cauldron, cruel, chaotic, and blind, had tied her to him.

A half-human girl with just a flicker of magic, more like a dying ember than anything bright. She wasn’t a warrior like the others. Her body was soft where theirs was lean, her curves more evident where theirs were toned. Her skin bore the stubborn marks of human imperfection, acne scars and stretch marks. Her healing was slow. Her flight was strong but not perfect.

She wasn’t made for a male like him, and from the way he looked at her, distant, closed-off, as if fate had betrayed him, he knew it.

Shame bloomed in her chest, slow and thick. She looked away first, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Around her, the Peregryns remained oblivious. The silence between her and Azriel was theirs alone, suffocating and unbearable.

The bond pulsed in her chest, alive and aching, but all she could feel was his horror echoing through it.

She wanted to run. Instead, she sat in silence, her wings curling tighter around her frame like a shield. Azriel moved past her without a glance, as if she didn’t exist, and took the empty seat beside the golden-haired female in red. The woman leaned toward him slightly, their shoulders nearly touching.

He didn’t look her way again.

Jealousy seared through her, swift, sharp, and nasty. It caught her off guard how quick and fierce it was. How fiery.

No one noticed. No one cared.

The meeting began.

She was only there as a symbol, to show the Peregryns were not broken or few. That they had a place at the table, her voice hadn’t been asked for. Her presence was decorative, a formality.

Her fingers clenched the edge of her white and gold robes. The fabric was soft, layered, a thing of beauty and ceremony, but it gave her something to hold. Her thumb found the embroidered edge of her sleeve and traced it again and again. Focus. Breathe.

Her hair had been carefully arranged that morning, half pinned back with a golden clasp, the rest cascading over her shoulders in loose waves. A breeze drifted through the chamber. A few strands stuck to her cheek.

She didn’t move.

She kept her eyes on the table, looking at the maps, the documents, the neat stacks of inked parchment, but none of it registered. The voices blurred into noise, a soft hum through water.

She didn’t look at them.

Especially not him.

The High Lord, Rhysand, she’d heard the name whispered in tense briefings, spoke first. His voice was calm and precise. Beside him, the High Lady offered her own input, sharp and clear. She carried herself as if she were used to silencing a room.

Every now and then, the blonde woman, the one in red, would add something. Her voice was as lovely as her face. Every word she spoke seemed to enchant the room.

Then the Illyrian general spoke. His words were blunt and confident. He spoke of camps, drills and brutal training. Of the Illyrian way.

A few Peregryns exchanged glances. Quiet scoffs. They were warriors, too, fast, clever, sky-born, not brutish Illyrians, but she said nothing. She wasn’t like the others. Her human blood made her slower to heal. She bruised easily. Her body lacked the lean, sharp-edged elegance of her kin; her softness marked her as something less. Her magic was faint, flickering.

She sat quietly, tracing embroidery, pretending the table’s sharp edge didn’t dig into her wrist, and across from her, beneath the table, shadows moved.

They slipped unnoticed between the chairs. Cool tendrils of darkness wrapped silently around her ankles and curled gently around her calves. She tensed, but didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.

She didn’t know if he sent them, didn’t know if he knew, but they touched her like they knew her, like they were claiming her.

The meeting dragged on. Plans were exchanged. Maps were marked. Voices rose and faded. Her heartbeat never slowed, and the shadows never left.

When the meeting finally ended, she didn’t know what came next.

Chairs scraped against stone. Everyone stood. The Night Court prepared to leave, murmuring farewells, adjusting weapons, nodding to Thesan.

Then a voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“I am Azriel.”

She flinched.

He stood closer than she expected, just a few feet away. The golden-haired woman was beside him, as was the general. Both wore the same expression: wary confusion. Azriel’s shadows pooled at his feet like something waiting.

His voice dropped. “Your name?”

Her eyes were still fixed on the floor. Her mouth refused to open. Around them, the room fell into silence. Everyone had gone still, waiting.

Cassian placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. Something silent passed between them, but Azriel didn’t look away from her.

She didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked to the side, to where the Peregryns stood.

“Y/N,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. She stepped backward, closer to her kin.

Azriel stepped forward.

“Wait,” he said, and his voice cracked a little. Not from emotion. From tension. “You’re my mate.”

The words dropped like a stone in the room. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re wrong.”

His jaw tensed. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Her wings curled tighter around her body, wrapping her in feathers. “I’m not your mate, your wro—”

“You know it,” he cut in, softer now. Almost afraid to say it. “You felt it.”

Her mother finally stepped forward, voice shaking. “Is this true?”

Tears gathered in her mother’s eyes, not joy. Dread.

“Mother,” she whispered, the word breaking in her throat.

Her mother, who had raised her quietly, outside of tradition and pride, who had taken in a human man and loved him, despite what it had cost her. But mating bonds were sacred, unquestioned and inescapable.

Feyre, the High Lady, stepped forward gently, her voice calm, careful. “You don’t have to come with us. But if you do, you won’t be alone. A mate of Azriel’s is family to us.”

“And if you choose to stay,” she added, “you will not be harmed. Azriel will not force you to accept.”

Her words were soft, but her gaze flicked to Azriel, firm, a warning, just in case.

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t move, but he was still staring at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

That look. That dread. That stillness.

She looked back at her mother, and her mother nodded, just once.

Encouragement. A silent push.

Go.

Leave.

Do what is expected.

Her stomach twisted. Her hands trembled. The other Peregryns watched her in silence, faces unreadable. Her shame bloomed in her chest.

Her wings twitched at her back.

She took a single step toward the Night Court.

A glance at Thesan, to her High Lord. He nodded.

“Might I visit?” she asked, voice thin.

“Of course,” Rhysand said gently.

Thesan echoed the same. “Whenever you wish.”

That was all.

She stepped forward, one breath, then another, until she crossed the line between what was known and what was not.

Shadows swirled around her, silent and sudden, swallowing her whole.

She didn’t know if they were Azriel’s or Rhysand’s. She didn’t know where they were going.

All she knew was that in the span of a heartbeat, her mother was gone. Her people were gone—her home, her sky, her legion.

Gone.

She vanished into darkness. The world gradually reformed. Wind caught her wings as she floated down to a broad stone platform, her feet touching down almost silently. The others landed nearby, their landings precise and practised.

One heartbeat, she was standing in the sun-drenched council chamber. The next, she was somewhere else entirely, cold, dim, quiet.

The shadows receded, peeling away from her like smoke and folding themselves back into Azriel’s wings and armour. She blinked, disoriented, as the balcony came into focus, vaulted, grand, carved from white moonstone that shimmered faintly with veins of silver starlight.

The silence here felt thicker, somehow, as though the air had weight. As though magic pulsed through the stone.

She swayed.

The robe she wore shifted around her legs, and for a fleeting second, she could still feel the sun on her back, the wind of the eastern peaks. But it was memory now. A warmth already fading.

Azriel stood a few feet away.

Still. Silent.

The golden-haired female was beside him again, poised and radiant. The general, Cassian, watched her with a furrowed brow, unreadable. Rhysand and the High Lady stood at the edge of the platform, their expressions carefully neutral.

No one spoke.

They just looked at her, as though she were something unexpected. A creature dragged out of some quiet place and dropped, uninvited, into the middle of their home.

Then, finally, the golden-haired woman stepped forward, a soft smile forming on her lips. “I’m Morrigan,” she said gently. “This is the House of Wind. You’re safe here.”

Safe.

The word scraped against her ribs.

Nothing about this felt safe.

Azriel hadn’t said a word. His shadows writhed around him, still twitching, uneasy, like they too didn’t know what to do with her.

She swallowed, the silence stretching too thin, too loud.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, voice low. “If you didn’t want me to come with you. I know it’s what was expected. The shame of staying would have ruined my family. More than we already are.”

Morrigan shifted slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing her face. Pity? Sympathy? She didn’t know.

Azriel’s expression shifted. Just slightly, his voice, when it came, was rough with something she couldn’t place.

“Of course I wanted you to come,” he said, pausing.

The rawness in his tone cracked something in her, and based on the glances exchanged around them, that kind of honesty was rare coming from him.

“Let’s give them some space,” Feyre said quietly, but with the unmistakable authority of a High Lady.

“We’ll be in the living room when you’re ready,” she added with a softer smile, guiding the others away. Morrigan lingered for a moment, then followed, her eyes lingering before she disappeared down the corridor.

The moment they were alone, the silence returned, thicker now. Denser.

The mountain wind tugged at her robes and hair, sending loose strands brushing across her face.

She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t move closer.

“You didn’t want this,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I saw it. The dread. The fear in your eyes.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on her. “I was surprised.”

She let out a faint breath. “That’s one word for it.”

He stepped forward, just once. Not enough to close the distance, only to be slightly closer. “I didn’t expect my mate to be there, or to be you. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want it.”

She didn’t believe him. She turned away, arms wrapping tightly around herself, wings curling inward behind her like a shield.

“You looked at me like I was a mistake,” she murmured.

Azriel’s shadows stirred faintly, slipping across the balcony floor like smoke. “I looked at you like I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t.”

Silence settled again. Cool. Unforgiving.

Her voice, when it came, was small and tired. “Neither do I.”

She felt rather than heard him shift closer again. Still, he didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to touch her or force proximity.

“I’ll give you time,” he said softly. “As much as you need.”

She turned toward him then, slowly. “I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

Azriel nodded once. Not in agreement. Just understanding.

“Then I’ll give you more.”

It wasn’t a promise. Not exactly, but it was something.

Behind her, the wind shifted, tugging gently at her golden pin. The sky beyond the balcony had darkened, the sun slipping behind distant peaks.

After a beat, his voice turned slightly warmer, a tentative softness beneath it. “I can show you around if you’d like. The others can be intense.”

She nodded, but said nothing, tucking her hands into the folds of her robe to hide the trembling.

As they walked, he kept a respectful distance beside her. Not leading and not crowding.

“There are a few people who live here, or come and go often,” he explained quietly. “Cassian and Nesta, Feyre’s eldest sister, stay here. They are… you’ll understand when you meet them.”

A strange hesitation in his voice.

“Cassian and I train often. Nesta joins sometimes. Her friends, too, Emerie, a female Illyrian, and Gwyn, a priestess.” He paused again before adding, “And of course… Feyre, Rhysand, Morrigan, and Feyre’s other sister. Elain.”

The way he said those names, careful, restrained, told her there was more to the story, but that was the thing about fae: when you lived long enough, the past and feeling followed you for centuries.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

He led her through the sprawl of the House: the training grounds, the terraces carved into the cliffside, and spoke of the library hidden beneath. She followed wordlessly, absorbing it all but feeling none of it. When he mentioned training, offering it to her, something inside her twisted.

“I can train you, if you’d like.”

Innocent words, but they sank into her like thorns.

She knew why he offered. Knew what he saw. The curves she’d never shed. The softness she’d tried to hone into strength. It didn’t matter how many hours she flew or how long she trained; that softness never left.

She wasn’t the kind of fae he wanted, and that belief solidified when they reached the living room.

It was full, too full. More than the inner circle she’d met back in the Dawn Court.

Feyre’s sisters stood near the arched windows. The one at the far end had a sneer carved into her sharp, beautiful face, Nesta, undoubtedly. The other woman, brown-eyed, warm, radiant in a way that felt more human, met her gaze. Elain. That look, that softness, cut her differently as those large eyes looked to Azreil’s, and her lip twitched in what seemed to be soft affection.

Morrigan relaxed beside Cassian, Rhysand nearby, watching with an unreadable calm. Another woman stood near the fireplace. Short, fierce, silver-eyed, her attitude reeked of judgment. Ameren, she introduced.

Beauty. Confidence. Strength.

She felt it, like a wave crashing into her chest.

You don’t belong here.

They were warriors. Slim, poised, powerful.

She was softness. Curves. Caution.

Jealousy, shame, and old, deep wounds flooded her chest like a rising tide. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

Azriel glanced at her, his shadows curling faintly, as if they, too, sensed her unravelling, but she said nothing. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

She stood just inside the threshold, spine rigid, eyes scanning the room without really seeing it.

Too many faces. Too much beauty. Too much space between her and everything else.

Nesta’s sneer didn’t fade. The warrior female’s icy stare flicked from her robes to her wings, then to Azriel. That look said more than words ever could.

Elain, on the other hand, blinked slowly. Her gaze was unreadable, but not unkind. It slid past her sisters, past Morrigan, and landed gently on her, as though trying not to startle her.

She hated it.

Hated the part of herself that wanted to shrink into the stone beneath her feet. To vanish. To be unseen.

“You must be exhausted,” Feyre said softly, rising from her seat. “I can have the House draw you a bath, or food, if you’d like.”

She managed a small nod. “Thank you.”

Rhysand inclined his head from the armrest he leaned against. “You’ll have whatever you need,” he said, his voice calm but unreadable. “This place is yours now, too.”

That statement rang in her head, hollow and unreal.

Yours now, too.

She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t sure she believed it.

Azriel hadn’t moved from beside her, but his shadows had thickened again, rising and coiling low around his boots, as if they, too, felt the scrutiny, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

“You’ll find the House quite accommodating,” Morrigan offered, rising and crossing the room with elegance.

Morrigan’s golden hair gleamed in the dimming light. Her voice was kind, but not patronising, genuine in a way that surprised her.

“It understands more than most of us,” the female added.

She swallowed and nodded once. “Thank you.”

A flicker of something passed through Azriel’s eyes, but he said nothing.

“Come,” Morrigan said gently, “I’ll show you your room.”

Azriel tensed beside her, almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but she didn’t look back at him. Not as she let Morrigan guide her away.

She felt the gazes on her retreating, the judgment, the curiosity, the cold calculation from some, the uncertainty from others, and Azriel’s.

She felt his eyes follow her until she disappeared down the hall.

The bedroom was beautiful. A little too beautiful. The kind that made her feel like she shouldn’t touch anything.

The windows were wide and framed with gossamer curtains, the sky beyond already veiled in night. The bed was enormous, draped in rich fabrics that shimmered like starlight. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth.

“It’s yours,” Morrigan said, stopping just inside the doorway. “You can move things around if you’d like.”

She nodded. “This is fine.”

Morrigan tilted her head, studying her, but didn’t press.

“I’ll let you rest. If you need anything, just ask. I asked the Dawn Court to send your things; they should be here in the coming days. Until then, I’ve stocked the wardrobe with clothing I thought you might like. As well as some books and other things here and there.”

Morrigan’s voice was warm and sincere.

Then the door closed behind her with a quiet click, and she was alone again.

She stood in the centre of the room for a long time.

Not moving. Not thinking. Just feeling.

The weight on her shoulders was unbearable. Like a second set of wings, heavier, colder, not hers. Not really.

The silence pulsed. Not peaceful, not soft. It was a kind of silence that made every thought louder, every heartbeat harder to ignore.

Finally, she turned toward the bathing chambers.

The water shimmered, a pale silver sheen rippling across the surface. The sunken pool looked like it had been carved from moonlight itself, perched along the edge of the mountain, open to the wind and stars.

Steam curled in the air, carrying the scent of lavender and cedarwood, gentle and grounding.

She undressed slowly and stepped in.

The heat wrapped around her like a cocoon, but it couldn’t reach the ache inside. She sank deeper until only her face remained above the surface. The warmth kissed her skin, humming against her collarbones.

The words haunted her.

I can train you, if you’d like.

They weren’t meant to be cruel, a genuine offer. But now, alone in the quiet, they wrapped around her throat like wire.

Had he looked at her and seen weakness? Softness? A body not carved from war and discipline like the others? Had he spoken those words to be kind? Or to fix something?

Was she broken?

Her fingers clenched the edge of the stone pool. Steam veiled the tears slipping down her cheeks.

She didn’t sob. Didn’t shudder, just silent, painful tears.

After a while, she climbed out and dried herself on soft towels the House provided without her needing to ask.

The wardrobe had indeed been filled, gowns and leathers, silks and wools. All in shades she liked. Soft golds and moonlit creams. Deep blues. Rich earth tones. Nothing too tight. Nothing too revealing.

Thoughtful. Intimate.

She slipped into a loose nightgown and padded barefoot across the room. The bed looked far too large. Far too soft. She stared at it for a long moment before crawling in from the far side, curling into the corner like a cat.

The blankets smelled faintly of starlight and mountain wind.

Still, sleep didn’t come.

She watched the sky through the arched window, where the stars glittered above the snow-dusted peaks. Somewhere down the halls, she heard laughter.

She pulled the blankets tighter around herself.

This is not my home.

The thought rang clear and bitter.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but when sunlight touched her face the next morning, the ache in her chest hadn’t faded. It clung to her ribs. Her throat.

The room was still. Too quiet. A reminder of how alone she was.

A tray of food sat near the hearth, still warm, as if the House had kept it so just for her. Toasted bread. Fruit. Tea that never seemed to grow cold.

She ate in silence, in a haze of uncertainty. What was expected of her here? What was she, now?

She spent most of the morning wrapped in the oversized robe she’d found in the closet, curled in the window seat, watching the wind chase snow across the mountain peaks.

Hours passed.

A soft knock. Just once.

She rose slowly, tightened the robe around her waist, folded her wings in, and cracked the door open.

She didn’t need to see his face to know. She’d felt it, the shift in the air, the hush of shadows curling beneath the threshold.

Azriel.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at her. At the unbrushed hair, the thick robe, the tear-streaked cheeks, she hadn’t bothered to wash.

“I thought you might like some air,” he said, his voice low. “The training ring’s quiet this morning. Or there’s a walk along the northern bridge, it overlooks the city.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The silence between them stretched, not hostile, just uncertain.

“You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “I just thought—” He exhaled. “Just checking in.”

He looked tired. Not in the way warriors look tired after battle. In the way people look when they’ve been waiting for something they’re not sure will ever come.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, softer this time.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

“I’ll go for a walk,” she said, and the tiniest shift crossed his face, something almost like relief, though he didn’t move.

She left the door slightly ajar and slipped into the closet. When she emerged, dressed in soft navy, her wings folded neatly behind her, Azriel was still there. Standing like he hadn’t moved, hands tucked behind his back as if he didn’t quite trust himself to reach for anything.

They walked in silence through the winding corridors of the House. Somewhere deep in the halls, Nesta’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Cassian’s laugh followed like a drumbeat.

“Sorry,” Azriel muttered. “They’re… never quiet.”

She didn’t reply, but she didn’t flinch either.

As they passed the training ring, she slowed without realising.

Cassian was leaning against the wall, laughing at something Emerie had said. Emerie stood beside him, stretching out a shoulder. Nesta faced off against Gwyn in the ring’s centre, both blades drawn, focused and fluid.

Then Gwyn glanced up.

Not at her. At Azriel.

It wasn’t a long look. Barely a second, but there was something familiar in it, like a conversation had already happened without words.

The knot in her chest, the one she’d thought sleep might have dulled, coiled tighter.

The stone path curved along the edge of the cliff. The air was sharper here, cleaner, wilder. The city shimmered far below like a dream made of light and glass. Azriel unfurled his wings slightly, adjusting to the wind, and then folded them again.

“Your wings are… beautiful,” he said, his voice almost lost to the wind like the words had surprised even him.

She blinked. Glanced at him. “Thank you.”

They climbed in silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but careful.

Her steps slowed as they reached a ledge carved into the mountain, one that overlooked the river far below. The cold stung her cheeks. Her hands curled tighter into her sleeves.

She didn’t want to speak, but her chest ached with the words that had built up, quiet and sharp, since the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning.

“I know I’m not what you expected,” she said finally, barely louder than the breeze. “And I’m sorry if this bond is… inconvenient.”

Azriel turned slightly, not sharply, just enough to show he was listening.

“I can find work in Velaris,” she went on. “Keep a low profile. Dawn Court will still believe the mating bond is being unified. That helps my family name, and it gives you space.”

The silence between them deepened.

“You can go on with your life,” she finished, forcing her voice to stay steady, though each word felt like splintered glass in her throat.

Azriel came to a stop beside her.

“You think I want to go on with my life,” he said evenly, “like you’re not part of it.”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “I just thought it would make things easier.”

“Easier?” The word came rough, frayed at the edge. “You think watching you walk away would be easier?”

“I do,” she said softly. “I think it would be easier for both of us if I weren’t in the way.”

His brow furrowed, slowly, like he was trying to translate a language he’d never learned. “In the way?”

Her lips parted, then closed again. She didn’t know how to explain it, how out of place she felt here, in this city full of warriors and power, where the women around her seemed carved from fire and steel.

“You don’t have to make room for me,” she finally said. “I saw the way they looked at you, and then at me. Like they were trying to figure out why the mother was so cruel as to gift you me as your mate.”

Azriel’s wings twitched slightly behind him, but his face didn’t change.

“Don’t,” he said gently, firmly. “Don’t do that.”

Her throat burned. Her eyes did, too.

“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” she said. “But I’m not made for someone like you. I’m half-human. My magic’s useless. Just flickers of light that look nice and mean nothing. I’m soft, Azriel. Curved. I bruise easily and don’t heal. And the women in your life? Morrigan. Feyre. Amren. Elain. Nesta. Emerie. Gwyn…” Her voice cracked. “They’re strong. Sharp. Beautiful. Everything I’m not.”

The last words weren’t meant for him; they were whispered to the cold air, bitter truths she’d held far too long.

Still, Azriel didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He just stood there, silent, like each word she gave him mattered.

“You’re not in the way,” he said finally, his voice low and sure. “You’re not some obligation I have to fit around.”

She turned her face toward the horizon, blinking hard. “Then what am I?”

A long pause. Then a step.

He moved closer, slowly, until she could feel the faint heat of him, breaking through the mountain air.

“You are soft,” he said gently. “You are strong. You have curves that make my mouth water and thoughts I should be ashamed of. You are beautiful.”

She blinked at him, stunned.

“You’re my mate,” he added, quieter still. “Mine.”

A beat. Then another.

“I didn’t know what to do at first,” he said. “Not because I didn’t want you, but because I didn’t want to get this wrong. I didn’t want to touch something fragile and ruin it.”

She looked up at him, and he wasn’t the Spymaster, wasn’t shadow and blade and silence.

He was just a man. Tired. Honest. Trying.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

The wind passed between them, curling her hair into her face. She didn’t push it away.

Azriel’s gaze held. “You talk like you don’t belong. Like everyone else deserves this more than you. But I see you. I feel the bond every moment I’m near you. You are not a mistake. You are not a burden.”

She whispered, shaky and small, “But what if I don’t know how to be what you need?”

His shadows softened, his wings folding slightly behind him.

“Then we figure it out,” he said. “Together.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

She just stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, heart thundering in her chest.

Azriel, finally, carefully stepped forward.

He wrapped his wings around her.

“I have been waiting a lifetime for you.”

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goobstars · 2 days ago

Note

REQUEST NUMBER TWO!! trying to put these out at lightning speed so yo girl can get an adequate amount of sleep 🙏

i request reader bringing a sea bunny (love those little guys) as an offering to sebastian because reader once again has no data LMAO

- with love, diamond anon 🫶🫶

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘

summary : in desperate need for supplies, you stop by sebastians shop in hope he'll have what you need. the only issue? you don't have any data, only a seabunny.

tags : nothings.

note : this is one out of the amazing three requests i was given for sebastian, and i am making it my PRIORITY to have all of these done by tomorrow night, so we're starting on this one ! it's kind of short, but enjoy !

there was good news and bad news.

the good news? you were currently in front of the vent that would allow you to enter sebastian's shop, and that meant you could get the supplies you needed.

the bad news? you had no data. you questioned yourself how it was possible, but then you realized that you hadn't really been focused on grabbing files. at first, it was due to you trying to run for your life due to the amount of times angler decided to pop up.

but then it was because you found this seabunny, and with how cute it was, it was impossible to focus on getting files.

you held the seabunny in one of your hands while your backpack was in the other, and you eyed the creature before letting out a sigh. "lets hope your cuteness works on him..."

the seabunny only kicked its tiny legs as you gently placed it inside your bag, and you zipped it up before crouching at the entrance of the vent.

you placed the backpack inside the vent as you pushed it forward, and you crawled inside while you continued to push the backpack.

your gear banged against the metal vent until you pushed your backpack onto the ground of sebastian's shop, and you could hear shifting from inside the room as you crawled out.

you dusted yourself off before picking up the backpack, and you lifted your head to meet sebastian's gaze.

"need to stock up?" he questioned while he crossed his arms, and he tilted his head at you. "let me guess, batteries?"

"everything, actually," you replied as you walked a bit closer to him, and you set the backpack down on the floor while sebastian stared down at you. his fins slightly twitched as he hummed. "everything? don't tell me you've already managed to waste all of your supplies..."

he clasped his hands together while a grin formed on his face. "luckily for you, i have it all, and everything's yours as long as you have the data for it..."

"about that..." you let out a fairly forced chuckle, and his grin slightly faltered while he stared at you in confusion. "i don't have any data."

sebastian stared at you for a second before blinking a few times, and he let out a scoff. "you don't have any data?"

you could tell he believed you were just joking with him, but as soon as you went silent and only peered at him with a serious expression, it seemed to click that you weren't joking.

"how do you have no data!?" his tone was filled with disbelief, and he narrowed his eyes. "are you lying to me? you have a bad habit of doing that..."

you bent your knees a bit as you reached down to grab your backpack, and you picked it up before holding it out to him.

one of his claws slid into the little handle on the top of your bag, and he slowly lifted it to his face as he undid the zipper. you stood there with your arms crossed while you looked around his shop, but once you heard the bag rustling, you turned your attention back towards sebastian.

who now held your seabunny.

"what. is. this?" he questioned as he squinted at the seabunny, and the creature barely fit in the palm of his hand while it slightly squirmed. light noises rang from it while sebastian tossed your bag, and it went behind you while you frowned. "could you not throw my stuff?"

"could you actually do your job? correctly, i mean." his remark only made you scoff as you turned around to go grab your bag, and sebastian only continued to talk. "you've been through about fifty doors, and this is all you have?"

you picked up your bag before turning around, and you furrowed your eyebrows in annoyance as you faced him.

the seabunny was lifted up so you could see it, and the light from sebastian's illicium lit up the creature a bit so you could note how if slowly relaxed in his grasp.

"it seems to like you." your words made him pause for a moment before he slowly nodded, "right, right—why don't i just give you my whole shop because this thing likes me?"

his words were laced with sarcasm, and you frowned. "listen, you're a lonely person! you need a companion!"

"way to put it lightly, kid."

despite his words, he never denied your statement. he did appear to be lonely, for you really only saw him alone in his shop.

you watched as he seemingly debated your words, and after a moment, he gestured to his tail with his free hand.

"i'll give you a medkit, but only because you look a mess..."

despite his insult, you only gifted him a smile. "i'll take it, sebby."

"call me that again and i'll change it to a dweller chunk."

you hastily walked over to his tail before taking off the medkit, and you gave sebastian a quick wave as you headed over towards the vent before he could change his mind. "THANK YOU, SEBASTIAN!"

"goodbye," he spoke as he waved back at you. once he heard your gear bang against the vent for a second before it fell silent, he knew that you had officially left.

now, it was just him and the seabunny.

he stared at the creature before slightly lifting it up, "yay..." his words were whispered as the seabunny was moved back to its original position, and then sebastian lifted it up again. "yippie..."

he liked this thing more than he was willing to admit.

#𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 #⚪ ~ writing #roblox pressure #roblox pressure x reader #roblox pressure x you #pressure #pressure x reader #pressure x you #sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian #sebastian x reader #sebastian x you

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rcvcgers · 2 days ago

Text

City of Stars, 1

Chapter One: We Meet Again

account masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

you're here! | next chapter coming soon!

pairing ; zayne x stuntwoman!reader

synopsis ; zayne hasn't seen you in five years, not after you ended your relationship with a simple note before disappearing. when he learns that akso hospital has assigned him to be the medic on a film set, your paths collide once again as you relive the stages of your failed relationship.

word count ; 9.6k words

author's note ; omg a new series? who would've guessed! i wanna dedicate this to my girl miffy !! <3 love ya pooks !!

content warning ; light bodily harm! mentions of blood

my stunt performers ੈ✩‧₊˚ @miffysoo , @loversobession , @blessdunrest , @traumaramacenter , @lighting-and-shadow , @starshinedusk , @nm4565natty , @juniper-flour , @snowcandyapple , @rchltruly , @makingfanfictionstosleep , @animegamerfox , @vynn30 , @eolivy , @syluslittlecrows , @bidisasterforevermore , @sylusqt , @zainaaryam

want to be on the taglist? click here!

Doctor Zayne Li has never had a break in his life. Well, that’s not entirely true, but he usually uses his mandatory time off to do research and work on reports that he has brought home from Akso Hospital. He has been like this since childhood, never really taking the time to go outside and play as soon as he realized just how complex the human heart is. While his close childhood friends, Caleb and MC, were outside trying to catch butterflies and pretending to be a prince and princess, Zayne remained on a nearby bench with a book about human anatomy, reading away while the other two chased each other around.

It’s not like he doesn’t like taking the time to relax, he just feels stuck in place and unproductive when he sits and does nothing for hours on end. He has tried many times to get out of this habit, especially during his final year of medical school where he was swamped with exams and clinical rotations at Akso Hospital, but was not able to make it a permanent feature in his life.

So now here he is, a workaholic at the age of twenty seven, just five years into his career as a doctor. He has received many awards and accolades, alongside the title of Chief of Surgery at Akso Hospital, and has made a name for himself among the new residents. They flock to him for guidance because they know that Zayne is the one person who will guide them with no judgment whatsoever. Zayne supposes that because of this, being a workaholic has its perks.

Besides, work helps keep him off of a sore point in his life that he just can’t seen to get over and for that he is grateful.

“Dr. Li!”

Zayne turns around, his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, one eyebrow perking up as he watches Dr. Greyson and Yvonne walking towards him with some pep in their step. He sucks in a breath, already knowing that the two of them are about to bug him about unnecessary things such as what he ate for lunch in his office or if he had found a new tie for Akso Hospital’s annual fundraising gala, one that they always try to get him to be the host of just so they can hear what jokes he has kept hidden from them. All of these topics of conversation are a waste of time, especially in a hospital where lives are on the line every second of the day.

“Dr. Li,” Greyson smiles up at the dark haired man.

“Dr. Greyson,” Zayne hums back, removing his glasses from his face. He hangs them from his lanyard where his Akso I.D. hangs, a small snowflake pin from a young girl he performed surgery on fastened to the lanyard’s material. He straightens his posture and looks down at them, metal clipboard in hand. “Is there something that I can help you two with?”

“We were wondering,” Yvonne cuts off Greyson before he can even begin, stepping in front of him, her nurse’s hat pinned into place on her head, “if you would like to take a break. You know…a vacation to reset your mind and body. You performed twenty three surgeries in the past three weeks. You deserve to treat yourself and relax!”

Zayne’s lips flatten into a thin line. He begins to shake his head, Yvonne and Greyson’s once hopeful expressions falling as soon as they see it.

“I do not need a vacation,” Zayne destroys their hopes of taking a break in a matter of seconds. “Akso requires me here, so I am here. Perhaps one of you can take a break instead.”

Zayne nods his head at his two closest friends at Akso, a silent goodbye or see you later that he does not have to verbalize. It is just one of his many quirks he picked up on while working at Akso Hospital. He plucks his glasses from the lanyard and places them back onto his face, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. He turns on his heel and takes a look down at the clipboard in his hand, reading a patient’s file. He begins to walk down the long hallway, nurses and patients passing him by, the occasional ‘Get Well Soon!’ balloon floating right by his head, just narrowly dodging it.

Yvonne and Greyson don’t give up, though. They quickly follow after him, feet scrambling along the freshly waxed vinyl flooring. They immediately take their place at his sides, keeping him trapped between them. Zayne lets out an annoyed huff of air and closes the clipboard, the patient’s name and room number now displayed on the front page.

“What if instead of an official break or a vacation,” Yvonne begins, quickly stepping in front of Zayne, cutting him off of his path. Zayne stops walking and drops his arms to his side, tucking the clipboard between his arm and side. He raises an eyebrow, slightly intrigued about what it is that she has to say. “What if you do something more…casual?”

“More casual?” Zayne repeats her words.

“Yes,” she nods with a bright smile. Greyson opens his mouth to say something but she elbows him in the side, quickly shutting him up as she works her magic. “A job like being a doctor at a carnival or volunteering at an animal shelter. Maybe you can find a volunteer job at a plant nursery! You love plants, right?”

Yvonne can see that Zayne has yet to take a bite the bait she is laying down for him. She lets out a soft sigh when Greyson gently taps her shoulder, moving in front of her so Zayne can now pay attention to him. He clears his throat and places his hands on his hips.

“Did you hear about the film set that is coming to Linkon? They just asked Akso for a doctor to be on set to look out for their stunt performers. Supposedly their doctor had to scheduling conflicts and they wanted to let one of our doctors see what it is like on a film set!” Greyson informs him, knowing that his idea will win against Yvonne’s.

Zayne’s body tenses at the mention of a film set. His grip on the clipboard tightens and the air slowly slips from his lungs. He can feel his Evol creep up his arms, his emotions beginning to overwhelm him. The air around the trio turns cold. He takes a deep breath, though, and calms his nerves, regaining his composure as soon as he lost it.

His mind wanders to a figure from his past, an ending to a story that he did not wish to see. He pushes the phantom out of his mind, the skeleton in his closet that threatens to pop out, telling himself to not think about the way he let the love of his life slip through his fingers over a silly, stupid, maybe not to stupid, big argument.

“I will have to pass on that,” Zayne’s voice is somehow even more neutral than before, void of all emotion. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a patient to meet with.”

And with that, Zayne slips away from the two of his coworkers, shaking his head as he heads in the direction of the patient’s room. He remembers as much information as he can from his glance at the paperwork when he pushes open the door, greeting the elderly man who sits inside with a cold expression on his face, unable to get rid of the chill that runs down his spine as his mind floats back to the memory of you.

It has been a relatively calm day for Doctor Zayne Li. It has gone by at an agonizingly slow pace, but he is grateful that his patients actually listened to him and asked helpful questions instead of the classic and cliche scenarios that he always finds himself in.

There is always that one person who asks dumb questions. Now, Zayne has heard some dumb questions in his life, especially from the resident students who follow him for rounds around the cardiac ward where the majority of his patients are. His students, the ones whom he has accepted under his wings after light questioning about what they want their careers as doctors to look like, always ask him to make for sure that the choice the made was the correct one. They knew it was correct depending on his reaction. But the people that truly get under his skin are the patients, mainly the older ones, who always bring up the pharmaceutical ads and commercials that they see.

They always ask if they are allergic to the medicine that he prescribes to them. It dumbfounds him every single time. They should know what they are allergic to — hell, even he knows what they’re allergic to — and they should also know that he will never prescribe them something that will put them in the hospital or kill them. He wonders if the film crew is the same exact way with stupid questions that they could have very easily searched up on the internet.

Maybe Zayne isn’t the biggest people person. That is the exact reasoning he will share with Greyson and Yvonne on why he can’t be the medial doctor on the film set they told him about. He is cold and slightly off-putting. He always says what is on his mind and never spares people’s feelings. He is sure to make enemies on set and nobody will want to come to the medical tent, even if all they needed was a simple band aid.

The truth is, Zayne has been thinking about it all day. He has been more distracted than usual with the prospect of working on something that is close to the world you live in. He knows that he couldn’t possibly accept the role, that it should go to someone who actually wishes to see what it is like behind the shining lights and cameras that they see on the silver screen. Zayne knows that his place is here at Akso Hospital, nowhere else.

So imagine his surprise when his superior, Dr. Jiang Yan, comes marching in through his office door with their hands on their hips and a slightly annoyed look on their face. Zayne’s posture straightens in his chair, his shoulders slightly tensing when his door bounces off of the wall. Zayne’s gaze meets Dr. Yan’s and he moves to stand up from his seat but is immediately waved back down, the doctor taking the seat in front of Zayne’s desk. They place a single file on the desk in front of him. Zayne gulps.

It is silent for a moment. Dr. Yan simply stares at Zayne, slightly narrowing their gaze for a few moments before reaching out towards the file, flipping open to the first page. They sit up in their seat and lean forward, eyes now focused on the contents of the page instead of Zayne.

“It says here that you haven’t had a vacation for the past three years,” Dr. Yan begins, eyes flickering to look up at the stoic man before them. “Why is that?”

“The hospital always needed an extra pair of hands,” Zayne reasons. Dr. Yan shakes their head. Try again. Zayne shifts in his seat and diverts his gaze for a brief moment before looking back at his superior. “I was paged.”

“You were paged?”

“Yes,” Zayne nods.

“You mean,” they clear their throat and flip to the next page, “Dr. Greyson found you sleeping in the on-call room when you were supposed to be gone for a holiday break. One that you requested, by the way.”

“As I said,” Zayne muses with a small hum, “I was paged.”

“You’re a workaholic,” Dr. Yan says with a sweet smile, “and I am ordering you to leave the hospital for a little while.” Zayne opens his mouth to respond, to argue that it will not be necessary, that he does not have a problem nor does he think he will ever reach a point of so called ‘burn out’, but Dr. Yan raises their hand to silence him. “You’re going to leave and work somewhere else for a bit.”

Oh. Oh. Zayne knows where this is going. He begins to shake his head, ready to argue all over again that the film set in Linkon is the last place he needs to be, but Dr. Yan refuses to hear any of his words.

“You will be the official doctor on the set of Death By Bullets!” Dr. Yan announces with a clap of their hands.

“Death By Bullets?” Zayne asks with a perked up eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Yan shrugs and waves their hands at Zayne, trying to help him pass the fact that the movie’s name is fucking ridiculous, “but! It sounds like a fun time! And you are highly qualified for the position. Well, you may be one of the only people here who is qualified on what they need—”

“On what they need?” Zayne interrupts. Dr. Yan nods. “There are plenty of other doctors here. Why don’t you ask Doctor—”

“No, Zayne, you’re going to do this and you are going to accept it, okay? You’ll still be paid for your time away from the hospital, so think of this as charity work. Get yourself a hot chocolate on the late nights they’ll need you for. Just…get out of the hospital for a bit, okay?” Dr. Yan stands from their seat and Zayne follows suit, watching as the doctor exits his office. They stop by the door and take one last look at Zayne, flashing a smile. “I emailed you the address where their stunt rehearsals will be taking place at. They need you bright and early!"

The door closes and Zayne collapses into his seat, a sigh escaping his lips.

The morning is bright and fresh, a slight chill taking over the air as the fall season comes into fruition, the summer heat finally disappearing in the morning just to return hours later when the sun is high up in the sky. The breeze feels nice against your skin as you jog alongside Peter, one of the stuntmen you will be working alongside for the movie. The sound of your footsteps collide with the asphalt below your feet as you round the large warehouse where rehearsals are taking place.

The side door is open, allowing light into the warehouse where a plethora of cardboard boxes, mats, wires, and fake weapons sit. In one corner sits a boxing area with hanging sandbags and a plethora of exercise equipment ready for your disposal.

The two of you had just met a few days prior, the man always having been paired with one of the hottest actors in the industry, while you mainly worked on much smaller films. He got to hang off of the side of airplanes while you mainly got hit by cars…and minivans…and did the occasional fall from a tall ledge. Oh! One time you were set on fire but ended up losing the bottom half of your hair.

You are excited, though, to finally get the chance to show off your skill in front of some of the most powerful and influential producers in the industry, feeling the excitement settle into your bones as the director and stunt coordinator explained to you some of the stunts that you and Peter will be doing before you signed your name on the dotted line.

Now here you are, running alongside one of the best stuntmen in the world, ready to have your safety meeting so you can finally get started on learning the fight sequences.

Peter jogs up ahead, doing one last final sprint, as the two of you approach the director, stunt coordinator, and one of the producers. They all smile at the sight of you two. You place your hands on the back of your head, slowly breathing in and out to regulate your breathing. Your heart pound on the inside of your chest, following in after the trio, taking your seat while other stuntmen and women enter into the warehouse. Peter takes the empty chair next to you, passing off an ice cold water bottle, and you take it with a big smile on your face, quietly thanking him. The stunt coordinator stands in front of a large television screen — well, it’s four televisions merged into one — and it lights up the room as soon as it is turned on.

“Where’s the doctor?” the producer, Emilia, asks her assistant. The assistant immediately begins clicking away on their tablet, immediately freaking out over the small request.

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” the director, whose name is Tally, asks.

“We’re ten minutes ahead of schedule,” the producer’s assistant speaks up.

“Well, you know what they say,” Emilia says with a smile, “you’re early, you’re on time. You’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re late?”

“You’re fired,” the assistant’s face falls.

You raise an eyebrow at the scene, turning towards Peter who shrugs in response. He looks down at his phone, texting someone. You look away, cheeks still flushed from your chilly morning run, your heart now settled and lungs no longer burning. Your legs bounce up and down. Excitement courses throughout your body as the seconds tick away, growing closer and closer to being able to get started.

The room begins to slowly fill up. The main two actors, whom you and Peter will be doing the stunts for, enter in while ignoring each other, sitting on opposite sides of the room. Emilia and Tally talk while Doug, the stunt coordinator, checks in with a few people around the room, the safety meeting ready to begin at any moment.

That’s when it happens. That is when the last person you thought would walk through the door enters into your field of vision, taking the breath out of your lungs in an instant. Your cheeks burn when his hazel eyes meet yours. The man hesitates, his body malfunctioning for just a brief moment, before he continues on his path inside of the warehouse, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over his shoulder. Time moves slow as he silently walks up to the group, taking his spot at the front table.

“Ah!” Emilia claps her hands together, “Dr. Li! You’re here! Everyone, meet Doctor Zayne Li! He will be our medical doctor on set since Bob couldn’t show up.”

The room perks up at the mention of Zayne’s name. You remain frozen in your seat, unable to look away from him as the wounds you thought were healed rip open all over again. He greets the room with a nod, his eyes landing back onto you. He lingers on your face for a moment, taking in the way you have lost all of the baby fat in your cheeks, looking much more mature now than when the two of you were in your early twenties. When he turns his face away, you are able to breathe again, feeling like you were just underwater for an extended period of time.

“Alright! Let’s start the meeting!”

Doug slowly walks through his elaborate powerpoint but you can’t bring yourself to focus. You stare at the back of Zayne’s head, his dark hair perfectly cut and away from his ears, just as he likes it to be. His posture is perfect, which kills you on the inside, and he even asks the appropriate questions when Doug opens it up to the room. You swallow the lump in your throat and slowly sink into your seat, tearing your gaze away from Zayne and onto the screen. Doug goes over set etiquette, how you stuntmen need to be aware of your surroundings at all times and listen for directions either from him, Tally, or the first assistant director.

“When we do a stunt, we are going to call action five times. The fifth one will be the stunt’s signal to begin,” Doug says, clicking to the next part of his powerpoint. “Everyone here knows the basic terminology of the set. But let’s go over it one last time.” The room groans. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I don’t feel like being sued again.”

Your eyes flicker back to Zayne. He turns his head to the side. You catch a glimpse of his eyes, the way they scan the front of the room where the biggest groans come from. He continues to move his head, looking back at you. You sharply inhale, unable to break you gaze away from Zayne’s. He lingers for a moment. Finally, he turns back around, raising his hand.

“Yes, Dr. Li,” Doug calls out and points to Zayne.

“Yes,” Zayne clears his throat, “what do the terms ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ mean when it comes to weapons and props?”

The room groans again. You stifle a chuckle, covering your mouth. Zayne turns around, his eyes landing on you once again. The corners of his lips very subtly perk up before he turns back around, listening intently to Doug’s answer. Once he is done, Doug steps to the side for Emilia, who gestures to Zayne.

“Alright everyone,” she begins, her tone cheery yet stressed at the same time, “it is time for the doctor’s introduction!”

There are a few scattered claps across the room, including yourself, as Zayne stands up, moving to the front of the room. The tips of his ears are a light pink color, the man shaking his head and the color away. He turns to face the room. You fix your posture, wanting at least one person in the room to be interested in what it is that he has to say.

“Hello,” Zayne clears his throat. The room responds with a low greeting back. “My name is Doctor Zayne Li but you can just call me Zayne. I will be your main doctor on set. I apologize if my part of the presentation feels bare. I was made aware of this job yesterday and have not had the time to prepare a formal introduction.”

You watch as Zayne pulls out a few papers from his briefcase, placing them on the table in front of him. He stares at them for a brief moment before turning his attention back to the group that sits before him. Zayne allows his gaze to float back to you, the way you offer him a kind smile and small nod to encourage him. It almost makes his heart skip a beat.

“I will be requiring informal physical examinations of the stunt doubles to ensure that they are in proper health to do the stunts. I do not know what it is that you will be performing, but a basic physical will suffice for now. I was told that there is a room for me to use with everything I need so…I will see you all soon.” Zayne turns to Emilia and nods, moving back to his seat.

“Perfect! Well,” Emilia looks to Tally, who stands up and takes the front of the room with a bright and eager smile on her face, “Tally is our director and she will be walking you through the story and action scenes!”

About an hour passes and, honestly, god bless Tally’s heart. Her excitement is infectious and has you anticipating getting started. You want to desperately hang from the wires, to use the fake guns and swords that lay on the tables, and to get to know the actress you will be doubling for. You cannot wait to be fitted for a costume and be thrown from buildings. This is exactly what you have been working towards for your entire career.

You smile and talk with the other stunt doubles. You make friends with a few of them, even finding out that you’re roomed next to one of them in the hotel in the heart of the city. Every so often, when Zayne calls over the next person, your gazes involuntarily meet for the briefest of seconds before Zayne looked away, greeting the next person before closing the door.

As people come in and out of Zayne’s impromptu office, you find yourself being the last one he needs to check. It has you feeling nervous, unsure if he is going to be warm and kind or cold and off-putting when it is finally your turn to see him.

The group laughs at Doug, who somehow managed to mess up doing a somersault while teaching the lead actress. Peter makes a joke about how Doug must have missed the safety meeting. You chuckle and catch yourself looking around the room to see what Zayne thought of the joke when you stop yourself. Just as you are about to walk over and help Doug out, you hear Zayne call out your name.

Your skin goes cold. You bite your lip and turn on your heel, looking at the tall and brooding man who stands off to the side, the blinds to the makeshift doctor’s office closed shut. He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. Your heart tightens at the sight. Step by step, you slowly walk towards him, your mind slipping into the trance that you were once under all of those years ago. You slip your jacket off of your shoulders, tossing it onto the table where your belongings are, and move back in his direction. As soon as you are close to him, Zayne takes a step to the side, allowing you to slip into the private room.

“Good morning,” you hum.

“Good morning,” Zayne breathes out, closing the door behind you, “please take a seat.”

The room is close to empty. There are two motivational posters on the wall, one with a monkey and the other with a penguin. There’s a table with paper wrapped around it, crumbled pieces stuffed into the metal trashcan. You take a seat onto the table and Zayne makes himself at home on the chair, wheeling himself close to you.

The closer he gets, the more and more your heart races inside of your chest. It feels like it’s the first time the two of you were alone with each other, cramped in your shitty dorm room that you shared with a girl named Gloria. His eyes are even more saturated than before, the hazel hues piercing into your own. You bite the inside of your cheek and watch as he pulls out a piece of paper and pen, passing it off to you after he clips it to a clipboard.

“Please fill this out,” Zayne instructs in his usual neutral tone.

You follow as ordered, your hands growing sweaty from nervousness. You can feel his eyes on your body, the way he watches as you fill out the blanks of the page. The pen swipes across the paper. You fill in your age, weight, height, social security number, allergies, you know, the usual. A quiet sigh slip from your mouth and his body tenses. He diverts his gaze for a brief moment.

Has he made you uncomfortable? Is the situation too awkward to handle? He certainly feels the slightest bit of uneasiness in his body but he pretends to not feel it. He refuses to let show on his face. At least, he tries not to.

Once you’re done, you pass the clipboard back to him, watching as he stands up, quietly taking in the information.

“You grew an inch?” Zayne says with a quiet murmur, his eyes flickering to you. He stares at you from over the thin silver frames of his glasses. You nod and smile, awkwardly chuckling. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” you ask, trying your best to contain the smile that grows on your face. “How so?”

“People rarely grow an inch after they reach a certain age,” he continues without missing a beat, “in some cases, they regress.”

“Oh, well,” you shrug your shoulders and look at the penguin on the poster, “the more you know.”

“Have you had any previous surgeries that will prohibit you from performing these stunts to the best of your abilities?” Zayne’s question makes you look at him.

Without even answering his question, you notice that he is already writing information down on the paper in front of him. His handwriting is still lopsided, slanted as hell, as any doctor’s handwriting is like. A soft chuckle vibrates from the back of your throat. Zayne looks up with a raised eyebrow.

“May I ask what is so funny?”

“Are you—” you bite the inside of your cheek and lean forward, hands resting on the sides of your knees, keeping you attached to the table, “—writing down the shoulder surgery I had six years ago?”

Zayne looks away for a split second before his gaze connects with yours once again. His cheeks heat up. Would it be weird for him to write such things down? He already knows this information up to a point. He knows all about your injuries before you two…parted ways.

“Was that inappropriate of me to do?” he asks with the most genuine tone ever because, well, the last thing Zayne would ever want to do to you is make you feel uncomfortable.

“Not at all,” you shake your head, “I’m just surprised that you remembered.”

“Of course I remember,” Zayne’s voice drops, suddenly earnest and tender.

You go quiet, unable to respond. How could you? What is there to possibly say to the man who sits in front of you, the man you used to run to whenever you needed a shoulder to lay on, the man who you thought you would spend the rest of your—

No…you can’t think about that. The past is in the past. What you need to do now is focus on the present and future.

“Are there…any other surgeries you may have had in the past?” Zayne’s eyes soften. He slowly moves the chair close to you, the wheels scraping against the carpet flooring.

“My, uh, knee,” you slowly nod your head at the joint, trying to get rid of the feeing of your heart and lungs squeezing in on themselves.

Every inch that Zayne moves closer to you, the more and more you want to jump out of your body, to run away from him and his intense gaze that you know you’re going to succumb to. Zayne’s fingers are deft when they connect with your right knee, the one you have always had a problem with. He narrows his gaze and looks up at you, his fingers snaking beneath the loose hole of your sweatpants.

“May I?” he asks. You nod and let out a shaky breath.

Zayne slowly moves the pants leg up, revealing the scar on your knee. It is a single line down the front of your knee, something that has not quite faded away with time like the doctor’s said. Your eyes move to Zayne. His lips flatten into a thin line, the tips of his index and middle fingers gently grazing over the incision line. He hums something to himself — almost as if he is contemplating what he would have done differently if he were in charge of the surgery — then pulls his fingers away, lowering your knee back down.

“Where did you get the surgery?” Zayne quietly asks, grabbing a new piece of paper from his briefcase, attaching it to the clipboard from before.

“Skyhaven University Medical Center,” you nod, knowing that is the place where Zayne did his clinical rounds when he was still in medical school.

Zayne’s breath hitches. He unconsciously places his hand back onto your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. The funny thing is…you already know exactly what it is that he’s thinking. He’s thinking that you should have gone to Linkon instead and had him handle everything like the knight in shining armor he is.

You lean forward and gently place a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his jaw unclenching and his brow softening. You let out a quiet sigh.

“Would you be disappointed if I told you that I let a first year surgical student do the operation on me?”

“Why would you do that?” Zayne looks horrified, just taken aback by the balls that you have on you. “You should have come to Akso Hospital. You should have told me.”

“What would I have said, Zayne?” your voice goes quiet, tired. “Would you have even given me the time of day? Especially after how things en—”

“You know I would have,” he interrupts you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s because I…” he pauses. You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, the wheels in the back of his head turning, trying to solve the puzzle that lays in front of him. “The oath I took would have had me help you.”

Zayne abruptly stands up, turning his back to you. You let out a sigh and look away, making eye contact with the monkey. You glare at it, unsure what is so motivational about “hanging in there” but you digress. Zayne turns back around, stethoscope in hand. He takes his place behind you standing beside the table. He flattens his palm against your back, feeling for the best spots available to listen to your lungs through the fabric of your shirt.

“Breathe in,” Zayne murmurs.

You follow his words, taking in as much air as possible before exhaling when he tells you do to so. You repeat this process a few times, allowing Zayne’s hands to travel across your body. It’s only when he moves the stethoscope to your chest to listen to your heartbeat when you tense up.

“What’s wrong?” Zayne quietly asks, “your heartbeat is erratic.”

“I’m nervous,” you softly admit, staring straight ahead at literally anything else that isn’t related to Zayne just to get your mind off of the fact that he is back in your life and has somehow ended up as the medic on set.

“Why is that?” he continues. Zayne holds his hand to your chest and the other makes itself at home on the table behind you. You can feel his body heat mix with yours, sending chills down your spine, making your heart skip a beat. “Are you nervous about the stunts?”

You shake your head, unable to breathe properly. Zayne leans in. You can smell his cologne, the scent of jasmine mixed in with cedar making you close your eyes, wishing to desperately go back in time and reverse every choice you made in your previous relationship with Zayne.

“Then what is it?” Zayne whispers.

“You,” you immediately respond, opening your eyes just to meet his.

“Me?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, nodding. The stethoscope is removed from your chest, the burning sensation from the metal now leaving your body. “You make me more nervous than any stunt has,” you continue, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Zayne slowly pulls away from you wrapping the medical instrument around the back of his neck, allowing it to hang from his shoulders. He looks down at you. A hint of confusion flashes across his face before it mixes in with the taste of bitter disappointment.

You are clearly telling him the truth. Zayne knows all of your tics and tells, the way you instinctively reach for the hem of your clothing or the way you begin to fidget with the ends of your hair. He knows when you’re telling the truth versus when you lie, the way your eyes light up when you see something you love and the way your posture slouches when something doesn’t go your way. He knows everything.

It doesn’t matter that five years has passed between the two of you. Zayne will always be there for you no matter what.

How can he respond to your words, though? The way you’ve become so quiet around him. What happened to the confident woman he has grown so fond of? What happened to the loud and proud woman who would always speak up for him when he didn’t want to cause any trouble?

Do you not want to see him? Are you wanting for him to leave? For you, he will. He only wants to do what makes you happy and comfortable, not the other way around. All Zayne has ever done in the past five years was what you wanted him to do. Will you deny him the pleasure and pain of seeing your face again after all of this time?

“If you want me to leave, I’ll leave,” he lets out a quiet sigh, having to tear his eyes off of you. He looks down at your papers, noticing new developments in your health and what it is you are allergic to.

“No,” you shake your head, the words falling out of your mouth before you can stop them, “I want you to stay. It’s…nice seeing you again.”

“It is?” Zayne turns back around. You nod as soon as his hazel eyes meet yours. “It’s nice to see you as well.”

Zayne’s gaze drops back down to your knee. His mind begins to wander, wondering what daredevil trick you attempted that earned you a torn ACL. Were you with your friends that enjoyed jumping from building to building? Was it for work? Did you injure yourself doing a dangerous stunt for someone else? All the man can do is stand there and hope that you took every necessary precaution before jumping directly into danger…but you never were one to do things the safe and easy way, right?

Beside the ACL scar sits a darker mark, one that Zayne remembers all too well. A faint smile ghosts his lips at the sight of the imperfect circle, the way it has remained for seven years now.

The sound of skateboards skating around the small cement area is loud and wild with a whole group of rowdy college kids gathered around the impromptu skating area. It sat beside an on-campus convenience store, one that was cramped and small with no space between the aisles, and you always found yourself towards the back where the ice cold drinks were, the door hanging open as you stick your head inside of the refrigerator, cooling down under the heat.

“Damn, girl,” some guy named Tony comments, leaning his forearm against the cold fridge door, “are you hot or somethin’?”. He looks down at you with a smug smile, his canine tooth bedazzled with a single jewel.

Ugh, what a douche…and what the fuck was that line?

You raise an eyebrow at him and reach inside of the fridge, plucking out a sports drink from the rows. Pushing past him, you pick up your backpack from the ground, slinging it over your shoulder. You press your foot down onto the edge of the board, popping it up into your hand. Tony follows you towards the counter where you scan your student I.D. where the student employee lazily points. As soon as you turn around, Tony corners you once again.

“Leaving me hangin’, girl,” Tony licks his lips when he looks down at you. It makes your skin crawl from just how gross freshmen college boys are.

Well, you’re also a college freshman, but that’s a secret you’re keeping to yourself.

“Oh am I?” you ask, making puppy dog eyes at him. He nods and leans in. “Yeah, I don’t really care.”

You push past him, roughly bumping your shoulder into his, an irritable groan escaping your lips. How can men be so dense? The audacity of this bitch to corner you twice in the tiny convenience store. How could he not get the hint just once?

You exit the store and look around, using the bottle to shield your eyes from the sun. The blue from the drink reflects on your face as you look around. The crowd is slowly growing by the second with students leaving classes from nearby buildings. You met a girl by the name of Alivia in one of your classes, just one of the non-special general ed ones that everybody has to get out of the way. She mentioned liking hanging out with a group of skaters she met in her dorm room and offered for you to come since you had your board with you in class. Now here you are, looking like a weirdo standing in front of the convenience store where a ‘no solicitors’ sign hangs.

The skateboard drops to the ground and you step on top of it, pushing away from the store. You twist open the sports drink, taking a few sips before lowering to your side. You skate through the gaps, apologizing to people when you come a little too close for comfort, swerving out of the way at the last second. With one last push, you think you’re in the clear and heading away from the growing crowd, ready to take a nap in your shitty dorm b—

Something hard collides into your side. The skateboard is launched into the air, slicing through the air. You gasp, a pair of hands trying to attach themselves to yours as you fall to the ground in slow motion. A pair of hazel eyes meet yours, his shaggy black hair blocking the sun out of his face. Your butt connects with the ground, the sudden connection causing you to turn in a circle, your knees scraping against the floor as you brace for impact. The fabric of your thin shirt is immediately destroyed as your body skids across the asphalt. You come to the stop in front of a tree, the shade helping the searing heat from your injuries feel just slightly cooler.

The man immediately runs up to you, dropping his bag before he drops to your side. You wheeze, whiplash taking over your body as you struggle with getting air back into your lungs. His navy blue scrubs come into view as you roll onto your back. You lift a hand up, covering the sun that slips through the green lanes. That’s when his face comes into view.

His handsome, pretty, and oh so blurry face blocks out the sun. He leans into focus, the slight curve of his nose catching your attention. You tilt your head to the side, the pain in your body slowly slipping free from your body, a sense of weightlessness overtaking your senses. Perhaps this is the concussion talking or the intense aching in your knees and elbows, but this stranger looks like an angel with his dark hair and sharp eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Oh yeah,” your voice is breathy, raspy, “you’re an angel alright.”

“Excuse me?” his eyes widen, tips of his ears turning red. He presses two fingers against your neck. Your pulse thumps against his fingers. “You’re not dead. Your pule is elevated, though.”

“Oh yeah?” you let out a breathy chuckle, leaning your head back against the grass. You close your eyes. The air slowly begins to return to your chest, slowly breathing in. He gently taps your face and you open your eyes, your eyelids feeling extremely heavy. “I wonder why.”

He chuckles, a faint smile cracking his stoic expression before it falls back again. He reaches for the back of your neck, leaning in, making sure he meets your eyes. You goofy grin spreads across your face.

“Can you sit up?” You nod in response. “Good. Now, let’s move slowly. Tell me if it hurts.”

He slowly sits you up. Over his shoulder, you watch as the skateboarding crowd watches you, making ‘ooh’ sounds when they look at your disheveled appearance. Embarrassment floods your body and your cheeks grow hot. The man reaches out and tilts his head in your line of sight.

“You may have a concussion. You should try your best to stay awake,” he quietly informs you.

“What about the symptom of ‘dying of embarrassment’? What would you prescribe for that, doctor?”

“I would suggest hiding under the covers,” he says in his neutral voice. His eyes flicker to you, though, and the corner of his lips barely perk up as he les out a breath of air.

Did he just make a joke?

A small laugh leaves your lips. Okay, maybe you snorted since your lungs still haven’t opened up all the way. He found it wildly adorable, though.

“Can you tell me your name?” You do so with a loopy smile on your face. “I’m Zayne.”

“Hi, Zayne. It’s nice to meet you. Do you know where my skateboard is?” you ask, leaning you body into his touch at your waist. His fingers are so slender yet strong, holding your firm, spread out along your sides, basically swallowing you whole. It sends chills down your spine but you attribute it to the near death experience you had.

He looks away. You follow his gaze to where the colorful skateboard sits. Its wheels are up in the middle of the road with a bus coming directly at it. His face falls and he turns to you to try and distract you from your skateboard’s imminent death but is met with the horrified expression on your face. The bus runs it over, a loud crack echoing across the quad.

“I’m afraid to call the time of death,” he comments. Your gaze turns into a glare at him. He shakes his head, eyes widening. “Bad joke. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, “I think you owe me a new one now.”

Zayne slowly helps you to your feet. You wobble around a bit but he catches you. He plants his hands on your hips while you inspect your torn up elbows despite your knees looking far worse.

The skating crowd has evaporated now, the campus quad now empty. You raise an eyebrow, unsure as to how much time has passed. You spin around in his grip, his hands hovering over your sides. You stop and look up at him, brushing your hair out of your face. Zayne matches your head tilt and your gaze drops to his scrubs. There’s a pen tucked into the chest pocket of his shirt and just to the side you can see his now destroyed lunch scattered across the concrete sidewalk.

“I…I think I owe you lunch,” you glance back up at him, suddenly feeling another wave of embarrassment crossing your face. “Call it even?”

“Sure,” he nods, “but I must take you to the hospital. You clearly have a concussion and need to seek medical attention.”

You don’t respond. His fingers are cold. You like the way they cool your burning skin. You bite your bloodied lip. Did you bite it during the fall? You can’t really remember.

“Can you get my…” you point to the road where wooden splinters lie, two halves of a board that you don’t think superglue or hot glue will help keep together. Not even duct tape could bring it back to life.

Zayne nods and slowly removes his hands from your waist. You watch as he walks to the empty road, looking both ways before leaning down topic up some of the pieces. He quickly makes his way back over to you. Zayne steps behind and opens up your backpack, gently placing the pieces inside. You stare at his discarded lunch and frown.

“What’s wrong? Does something else hurt?” he asks, urgency filling his voice.

“No,” you shake your head, “maybe a little dizzy but I feel bad about your lunch.”

“We should clean those off,” he murmurs, changing the conversation.

His breathing is short. Choppy. His eyes are attached to where your skin on your elbows has been rubbed off. The two lopsided circles alarm him with the vibrancy of the red color, the top layers of your skin peeled off, leaving behind two big red spots that drip with a slow trail of blood. It is nothing compared to your knee, though, where Zayne swears he can see the asphalt buried into your flesh. “We may need to use a metal brush for that.”

“What?!” your eyes shoot up to him, your hands shooting to his arms, your grip on his bare forearms tightening. “Metal brush?”

“Yes,” Zayne nods, voice completely neutral, “the dirt can cause an infection. We need other get as much as it can out and only metal can do so.”

You shake your head no, horrified of that idea.

“It’ll be okay. Follow me, let me take you to the hospital. I’ll make sure we won’t use it. I promise.”

Zayne helps you to the nearby medical center that is connected to Skyhaven Medical School. Many students like him live in this hospital, their residencies having taken over their lives. Zayne found himself the most here, always learning from the Attending Doctor that was on that shift. He has already performed plenty of surgeries in his specialized field of study in the cardiology department, even a few of which were through the emergency room after devastating tragedies.

He carries you through the sliding doors. You hang from his back, arms lazily draped over his shoulders, your head hung low because the light has become just a bit too much. You also told him that your legs felt like jelly and he insisted that he carry you, claiming that there could be an injury to your spinal cord or perhaps there is something wrong with you nerves.

Zayne effortlessly crosses through the emergency room like it’s no big deal. The layout is like second nature to him. He could walk through it with his eyes closed. His nostrils are numb to the smell of bleach and cleaning supplies. The dark haired man nods his head at a nurse in scrubs as they pass in the wall, your head trying to keep up with the quick pace he walks. Soon enough, you’re sitting inside an empty patient’s room in the cardiology department, one that is away from bright lights and is close to a vending machine.

He gently sits you down onto the bed, swinging your legs over the edge and slipping your backpack from your shoulders before laying you down. He places it into the single chair and reaches for the curtain, drawing it closed to keep the harsh fluorescent lights out of your eyes. He leans over you, his voice deep and quiet. It stirs something inside of you.

“I’ll get you acetaminophen for the pain. Would you like something to eat?” Zayne memorizes your face, the way your eyelashes flutter as you fight off sleep. “Try your best to stay awake. I will stay with you until a doctor from neurology can come see you.”

“What would you suggest?” you ask. Zayne raises his eyebrow. “You should know the vending machines pretty well by now, right? I have a sweet tooth.”

Zayne swears that for a spit second, he thought that his life wasn’t so bad. The way you awkwardly smile at him, squinting through your lashes. A pair of nurses approaches with a cart of tools and the twitch in his face dies. He nods to the nurses, who have brought supplies to clean your rashes alongside gauze and bandages to cover them up. He straightens his posture and turns back to you.

“You have a concussion—”

“I do, yes,” your smile grows.

“—it would be best to eat something healthy,” Zayne doesn’t even feel annoyed that you’re so vocal, that you always have a comment to make when he tries to be serious. It is just the slightest bit irritating but at the end of the day, he can’t even find it in himself to get mad at you for it.

“A little sweet treat never hurt nobody, Doctor Zayne,” you comment with a tired breath of air, sitting up in the bed as the nurses begin to sterilize your elbows. “I would love some powdered donuts. This is my treat, after all. I owe you lunch.”

“No,” Zayne shakes his head, matching your light-hearted banter with you, “you owe me a meal from the cafeteria.”

“It’s a date,” you say, feeling quite bold in the moment. The pain feels like nothing despite the tears that sting your eyes when the nurse begin to flush them out.

Zayne diverts his gaze for a brief moment, his breath hitching in his throat. You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, his hands instinctively fixing his disheveled scrubs in front of you. He nods in confirmation. If he is to be truthful, he is unsure of when he will actually be free to go on this said ‘date’ that has just been made, but he is still just a bit unsure if you will actually remember making this date with him.

He doesn’t let the thought nibble at the back of his mind. He nods and with a turn of his heel, he disappears around the corner, quickly finding himself in front of the vending machine. The man feels light on his feet, as if he can work another twelve hour shift, completely energized after talking with you. He loved the way you furrowed your brow when he said something that clearly annoyed you. The way there’s a slight wrinkle next to your eyes when you smile.

It’s something that he’s like to see a lot more of in his future.

Your eyes are locked on Zayne’s face he fondly stares at your knee, his face unable to hide the care that he holds for you. It always manages to break free whenever he’s around you, his heart pounding on the inside of his ribcage, clattering against the bones. You swear you can heart it, always have just to mess with him. He turns his chin to you and you break your gaze away, sharply inhaling a deep breath, trying to act as if you weren’t memorizing the way he has aged over the last five years. He used to have a baby face, slightly chubby cheeks whenever he chuckled.

“Let’s keep a close eye on it,” Zayne mutters just loud enough for you to hear. You nod, swallowing the lump that forms in your throat. “If it bothers you, even if it feels the slightest bit off, you will tell me, okay?”

His face is as serious as his voice is. You let out a small breath of air, suddenly aware of his eyes on the side of your face. You nod once again, swiping your tongue over your teeth, trying not to react as he gently moves the fabric of your sweatpants back into place. The fabric feels hot as he pulls away. The last touch of his warmth lingers on your skin. It burns for just a moment’s notice, a small reminder of what you once had, bother it withers away, smothered beneath the weight of your conscience.

“You’re cleared. We’ll have weekly check-ins to make for sure your body remains in good shape,” Zayne pulls away.

It’s like you can breathe again. His back remains turned to you. Zayne’s shoulders are wider than they were before. You tilt your head to the side, taking in the muscles that shoe beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. You look away, having to push the blush off of your face before he can notice it. He turns around, passing you the clipboard with a new piece of paper on it.

“Sign here and you’re good to go,” his tone has lost the passion to it, the bittersweet taste being forced out of his mouth. He refuses to focus on it, the way it makes his brain want to think about the days you have shared together. It’s a constant reminder of what he lost. The day he realized that it was too late when he walked through the door of his apartment. You help him out by ignoring it too.

You sign slowly. Your signature comes to life on the page. Even it is different than it once was, just another thing in your life that evolved without him there to witness it. You place the pen on the clipboard and he takes it back, placing it on the table beside him. You step towards the door but it is Zayne’s voice that keeps you from leaving.

“I’m glad to see you again,” Zayne’s words send chills down your spine. The same exact tingle that always happened when he whispered into your ear late into the night. The same one that soothed your aching muscles after a long day.

“Yeah,” you nod, holding back all of the things that you left unsaid, all of the things that made you fall in love with him instead of leaving him, “it’s good to see you too, Zayne. I’m glad you’re going to be the one saving me again.”

You don’t wish to hear his response. You push through the office door and jog to the center of the room where the small group cheers as their final member joins its ranks. Zayne watches you from the doorway, leaning against the wood. He fixes his tie, straightening and tightening it from when it got loose. His hazel eyes stare at you from behind his glasses, tilting his head ever so slightly to look at you from over the metal rims instead, already wondering if you still refused to believe in fate, preferring the comfort of coincidences over what is meant to be.

as always: likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! support your favorite writers! <3

#zayne x reader #zayne x non!mc reader #zayne x non mc #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #zayne li #zayne fic #zayne love and deepspace #zayne lads #lnds zayne #lads zayne #zayne fanfic #love and deepspace #lads x reader #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace zayne #rcvcgers writings #city of stars ੈ✩‧₊˚

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wosofootballfics · 3 days ago

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Oh my Sweet Angel(KikaNazarethXBabyReader)

A/N: this Is short & sweet.

Warning: Google translate used

Summary: you get sick and just want your mami to hold you. Which is hard with it being time to practice.

Kika was really glad for the Support she got from the other Barcelona Girls. They all loved Babysitting you and you loved them so much. But today all you wanted was your Mami. So whenever Kika tried to put you down ,four month old you wasn't having it. You were crying and screaming. It sounded even more sad cause you had a stuffed nose.

"why is the little princess screaming?" Ingrid wanted to know as she entered the changing room.

"she is a little sick and i tried to put her down into her stroller. She is not a Fan!" Your Mami explained.

"poor prinsesse!" Your auntie Ingrid replied. Alexia and Irene walked in as well.

"La princesita está infeliz. ¿Por qué?" Alexia asked. Frowning softly. (Little princess is Not Happy. Why? )

"Ella está enferma." Your Mami admitted. ( She is sick. )

"¡Pobrecito! ¡Mateo también se ponía quisquilloso cuando se resfriaba de bebé!" Irene explained. ( Poor thing! Mateo used to get fussy when he caught a cold as a baby too! )

"Ella está bien cuando la abrazo. Tan pronto como intento bajarla, comienza a llorar y a gritar." Your Mami explained. Gently rubbing your back which did help cause you calmed down and closed your eyes. ( she is fine when i cuddle her. as soon as i try to Put her down she Starts crying and screaming. )

"No puedo culparla. ¡Tener un resfriado apesta!" Pina replied. Gently stroking your head for a moment. ( can't blame her. having a cold sucks! )

"Si necesitas llevarla a casa, está bien. Incluso puedo ir contigo para ayudar, ya que no puedo hacer mucho. Gracias a esa lesión de tobillo." Caro offered. This got a smile from your Mami. ( if you need to take her home that's okay. i can even come with you to help since I can't do much. thanks to that ankle injury. )

"¡Gracias! Lo tendré en cuenta Caro!" Your Mami stated and offered her a soft smile. ( thank you I will keep that in mind Caro! )

"Tengo malas noticias para ti, tienes que dejarla para poder ponerte las botas de fútbol." Jana said gently. ( i have bad news for you, you have to put her down so you can put on your football boots. )

"y tienes que bajarla para poder practicar. ¿Quieres que la sostenga?" Patri offered. Your Mami was a bit unsure but gave in. ( and you have to put her down so you can practice. want me to hold her? )

"Podemos intentarlo. No te decepciones si ella empieza a llorar de nuevo. No es personal." Your Mami said. ( we can give it a try. don't be disappointed if she starts crying again. it's not personal. )

"anotada." She replied and your Mami handed you over to Patri. It took you exactly four seconds for you to wake up and cry again. ( noted. )

"Pequeña princesa, tu mamá necesita ponerse las botas de fútbol." Your auntie Patri explained. Gently rocking you in her arms. ( little princess, your Mami needs to put on her football boots. )

"A ella no le gusta ese concepto de que yo trabaje." Your Mami said and sighed softly. ( she isn't a fan of that concept of me working. )

"Åh, søte prinsesse, alt er bra!" Ingrid told you, gently taking your tiny hand in hers. Her talking Norwegian to you seemed to calm you down. So Caro gave it a try as well. ( oh sweet princess it's all okay! )

"Det stemmer, søte engel. La tårene tørke." She said and you even started smiling at that. Patri handed you over to Caro. Who carefully took you into her arms. ( that's right sweet angel. let those tears dry. )

"Ustedes dos son los encantadores de bebés." Alexia stated and smiled a little. ( you two are the baby whisperer. )

"Parece que encontramos a la niñera para el día para que Kika pueda asistir a la práctica." Ona spoke up. ( looks like we found the babysitter for the day so Kika can attend practice. )

"de acuerdo, suena como una buena idea, ¿estás bien con eso Caro? ¿y estás bien con eso Kika?" Irene wanted to know. ( agreed. sounds like a good idea. are you good with that Caro? and are you okay with that Kika? )

"¡Estoy más que bien con eso!" Caro stated. Smiling down at you and you smiled back. Your Mami kissed your cheek and smiled as well. ( i am more than fine with that! )

"¡A mí también me parece bien! ¡Y el pequeño bicho también!" Your Mami answered. You made some happy noises and then yawned again. ( i am fine with it as well! so is little bug! )

"¡Me está dando fiebre de bebé!" Ona admitted. ( she is giving me baby fever! )

"¿Lo sabe Lucy?" Pina asked. Chuckling softly. Ona shook her head.

"¡Aún no, pero lo mencionaré pronto!" Ona stated. Your Mami laughed softly. ( not yet. but I will bring it up soon! )

"No esperes demasiado. Mi dulce ángel necesita un amigo." Your Mami answered. ( don't wait too long. my sweet angel needs a friend. )

"¡Antes de que nazcan más bebés, deberíamos ir y comenzar a practicar!" Alexia stated. Putting on her captain voice. ( before any more babies will be born we should go and start practice! )

"¡Sí Capitán!" Everyone said and they walked out to the Pitch. Your Mami carried your stuff with her. In case you needed anything. Caro sat down on a bench with you, cause you were still very much asleep. When you started to wake up she talked to you again and Norwegian really seemed to calm you down and make you Happy. Even though you obviously didn't understand a thing.

After practice your Mami took you back into her arms.

"thanks for watching her." Your Mami said and kissed the top of your head.

"it was really nice. She is such a sweet baby. Even when she is sick!" Caro stated.

"are you getting Baby fever as well?" Your Mami asked with a small laugh escaping her lips.

"maybe a little." Caro admitted which made you smile almost like you understood what they talked about.

Surprisingly your Mami didn't have a hard time to put you to bed this time. You slept most of the night apart from two Times you were hungry. The next morning your little cold was gone as well. Which was good for everyone involved.

#woso fic #woso x reader #fc barcelona femeni x reader #kika nazareth x reader #alexia putellas x reader #caroline graham hansen x reader #claudia pina x reader #irene paredes x reader #patri guijarro x reader #jana fernandez x reader

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7-wonders · 22 hours ago

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Sing No More This Bitter Tale

Summary: After months spent apart, Calliope and Morpheus must reunite when you, the mortal who has somehow become dear to them both, go missing.

Word count: 11.5k

A note from the author: You know that I'm terrible at summaries BUT the long-awaited true sequel to To the world we dream about (which you'll need to read first if you haven't yet) is finally here! This has been such a labor of love, and I'm so excited for you to get to read it. Is there any romance in this? That's up for you to decide. I'm very much looking forward to hearing thoughts on this—likes, reblogs, comments, and asks are so appreciated and cherished!

My thanks as always to the lovely @ivandra-winters for all of your help and support.

Suggested reading before you dive into this is the aforementioned To the world we dream about, as well as In Waking Hours (which gives a glimpse into more of Reader and Calliope's dynamic) and this blurb (which goes into Reader and Morpheus's dynamic).

Content warnings for this work include kidnapping, psychological torment, and mentions of firearms. Reader discretion is advised.

When one is entrusted with the collective unconscious of humanity, one sometimes finds oneself busier than one would like. Not only are there dreams and nightmares of seven billion mortals (and scores more of those for whom mortality is not an affliction) to oversee, but the dreams and nightmares themselves must be kept in order. Further still is the fact that the entire realm of the Dreaming must be ruled over. It would be a near-impossible task for any one person, but for an Endless, it is merely existence.

Still, Dream of the Endless manages to keep a keen ear out for those that he…has been known to share an acquaintance with. He has banished nightmares meant to torment Johanna Constantine about mistakes she has made in her colored past. Solace and friendship have sometimes been found in Hob Gadling’s dreams, where the immortal man and Lord of the Dreaming keep company with one another. Rose and Jed Walker—Jed in particular, who deserves nothing but kindness after what he had been through—are sure to receive good dreams when Morpheus can tell that they are becoming weighed down by their Waking lives. It is his own way of being present for those he has a connection with, even when he cannot do so in the human sense of the word.

So when Morpheus begins to sense that a number of people suddenly dream about Calliope in earnest one night, he finds himself immensely pleased, for that must mean that the Muse is open to bestowing inspiration on humans once more. Though Morpheus continues to remain extremely wary of the human race, he knew that Calliope would be unable to stay jaded for long. She and her sisters loved nothing more than serving humanity, being worshipped in return for gifts of music, song, poetry, and knowledge. Calliope’s mortals have always been particularly creative with their endowments, and even at his most contentious moments with the goddess he once called wife, he still enjoyed reading the stories that filled the library of the Dreaming.

(Morpheus is of the belief that, were he not to encounter young Will Shaxberd in the White Horse in 1589, Calliope would have found him soon after and ensured humanity had the opportunity to read the works of William Shakespeare)

The works of mortals are at their best when they allow the caring and talented hand of a Muse to guide them. He cannot resist and thus dips into the dreamscapes of those who have come to know the name Calliope.

Instead of finding humans dreaming up new works of art, poetry, or song, Morpheus finds to his surprise that they’re dreaming Calliope herself. He recognizes these mortals after a moment—friends of yours. Friends of Calliope’s, too, he supposes. One, Evangeline Rodriguez, sits at a computer that is open on multiple social media sites and search engines. On each webpage, she types in every possible variation of Calliope’s name and scrolls fruitlessly.

“How hard is it to find one woman’s social media or contact information in the twenty-first century?” she laments. “Calliope deserves to know…they were roommates, after all.”

A mental alarm begins to go off in Morpheus’s mind at the last statement. Evangeline must be talking about you. But what is so important that you couldn’t reach out to Calliope yourself using the method she described to you in her last letter? Morpheus moves to the next dream to investigate further.

Ethan Day takes a stack of papers from a police officer. His face is ashen as he thumbs through them, but there’s a look of determination in his eyes that says that he refuses to let any hesitance stop him from facing facts.

“How far is this going to be distributed?” he asks the officer. “We have a friend who’s overseas right now, and none of us has her current contact information to reach her.”

“Where is this friend currently?” the faceless officer questions.

“Greece. We’re hoping that she’ll be able to see that her best friend’s missing and reach out to us.”

Morpheus glances down at the papers in Ethan’s hands and feels the earth fall from under his feet. The papers are missing posters. Missing posters with your name and face on them. The discovery is so jarring that the dream ends without his full consent, and he finds himself sprawled on the floor of his throne room, gasping for breath that he doesn’t need.

Although he would like to chalk both dreams up to nightmares and leave them at that, Morpheus knows that there is likely truth to them. Why would two separate people be dreaming about the same occurrence, hoping to reach the same person, without there being any correlation? Further, now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember the last time that he felt you in the Dreaming.

A visit to you in the Dreaming after Calliope had first returned to Greece fulfilled what Morpheus saw as his obligation to give you the boon you had earned, but he soon found himself returning time and time again. It was…freeing, in a way, to spend time with somebody who had already found out what he considered to be some of his closely-kept secrets and did not expect anything of him. Though he usually saw you weekly, sometimes business kept him away for multiple weeks at a time, which is what had happened recently. Even then, he tried his hardest to feel for you in the Dreaming, seeing it as his duty to ensure that you were enjoying his realm. When was the last time he had consciously made the effort to check in? It must have been almost two weeks ago.

Morpheus’s first thought is to go immediately to the library to find your book, or perhaps to the Waking so that he might find out for himself what has become of you. Before he can do either, he’s reminded of who it is that has unwittingly brought this information to his attention. No, if he’s to do anything, then Calliope must be involved as well. And unlike your mortal friends, he knows just where to find her.

(Lucienne watches the skies rapidly darken as her Lord brusquely explains that he is visiting the lady Calliope and leaving the realm in the Librarian’s capable hands, and she knows without a doubt that whoever is the source of His Majesty’s anger should, perhaps, be praying to whatever deity they believe in for salvation.)

Unfortunately, the easy trip to Mount Helicon that Morpheus was hoping for is immediately dashed upon arrival when he’s met by multiple muses, none of whom are Calliope.

Euterpe, never one to keep her emotions to herself, scowls as she abruptly ceases playing music and sets her flute down. “Ugh, Oneiros? I thought we were rid of you millennia ago.”

Morpheus has to fight to keep his expression level. He never did like Calliope’s sisters, and it appears the feelings are still very much mutual. “A pleasure, as always, Euterpe. Is Calliope available?”

“For you? Never,” Urania taunts from the star she’s resting on.

“Stop that, sisters.” Calliope descends from a set of stairs, as radiant as she’s ever been now that she’s free from her metaphysical shackles. “Oneiros is no enemy of ours.”

“No enemy of yours, maybe.” Clio levels him with a glare, one that Morpheus can’t help but return. There’s only so much patience one being can have, after all.

“That’s enough,” Calliope chides. She wraps her arm around Morpheus’s and begins to walk him down the path. “Come, Oneiros. We shall talk in private.”

Though it has been many thousands of years since he last visited the lands of Greece with any regularity, there is still a sense of comfort and familiarity in the verdant hillsides he and Calliope wander down to escape prying eyes. These were the landscapes that nurtured his own son when he was not with his father in the safety of the Dreaming, after all, and he will always be thankful for that.

Morpheus kisses Calliope’s hand in a friendly greeting when they are sure not to be disturbed. “I wish that I were here under happier circumstances, my dear Calliope.”

“I know why you are here.” Calliope’s eyes reflect the same dread that Morpheus has carried since finding himself staring at your smiling face under a harsh red ‘MISSING’ banner.

“You do?”

“I have heard the desperate prayers of my mortal friends as they tried to figure out how to get in contact with me, but hoped that it was for a different reason. Something is wrong?”

“I believe so, though I, too, continue to hope it is nothing.”

He proceeds to explain the dreams that he found himself witness to; the desperation, the unusual vividness for dreamers who do not typically dream in such a manner. Calliope listens intently, keeping her face neutral during the deluge of information. Once Morpheus has finished his tale, she closes her eyes to think. One deep breath passes, then another, and another, until finally…

“I must go to them,” she says, her chiton being replaced by a white sundress and a denim jacket before she can even finish the sentence.

Knowing that she’s mere seconds away from making good on her statement, Morpheus grabs her hand to stop her. “I will come with you.”

“You will?” She doesn’t hide the surprise on her face, and Morpheus feels himself becoming flustered;

“I have…struck up an acquaintance with your mortal roommate,” he finally says. “Though I originally went only to fulfill the boon I owed, we have found camaraderie in each other in the months since.”

Morpheus does not need to say aloud what it is that makes you good company, for Calliope knows exactly the same, and smiles at the memories of your friendship. “That comforts me. We shall go together, then.”

She closes her eyes once more, searching for the source of those who call upon her. When she finds them, she flexes her hand in Morpheus’s and allows the inspiration to pull them both through space and time. They arrive outside of a bar that looks just like any other bar in the world, but it’s one that Calliope seems familiar with (Morpheus finds himself growing more curious at just what you and she had gotten up to when she was inadvertently your prisoner) by the way that she zeroes in on a woman talking on the phone.

“Evie,” Calliope calls.

When the woman looks up from a spot on the ground she was kicking at, her jaw drops before she hurriedly says something into the phone and ends the call. “Oh my god, Calliope!”

Her gaze is exultant as she looks at Calliope, as most humans are when meeting someone of a Muse’s stature. Only this time, it’s recognition that brings her joy—friendship instead of worship. Calliope tears away from Morpheus to meet the mortal—Evie—in the middle, both crashing into each other in a tight hug.

“Hello, my friend,” Calliope says softly, though not softly enough that Morpheus doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on a special moment.

“Hi. I’m so happy you’re here, that you somehow managed to find out about—” Evie cuts herself off, unable to truly say what has happened, and confirms Morpheus’s fears with her silence. “We’ve been trying to find out a way to let you know, but none of us has any updated contact info.”

“I’m afraid I have not had the chance to get my own phone yet. But I saw on the news, and knew that I needed to be here.” Calliope looks Evie in the eye. “What happened?”

Evie’s face crumples, tears already shining in her eyes as she tries to find something to say. “You and—um.” She looks at Morpheus as though he hasn’t been standing just behind Calliope the entire time.

“Morpheus,” Calliope supplies.

It’s obvious from the shock that Evie is unable to contain for a second before schooling her face back to its previous expression that Calliope has divulged some manner of their relationship to this human, likely at the same time she told you. Lovely. “Right,” she says finally. “You and Morpheus should come inside. Kiara and Ethan are here, too.”

Once inside and seated at a table in the back, the three mortals assembled—three of your closest friends, Calliope explains needlessly, forgetting that Morpheus both knows you and has seen two of the three’s dreams—cobble together a timeline through their grief.

The last anybody had heard from you was Tuesday night, four days ago. You were sending messages to various friends until about 6:30, and then all contact ceased. Nobody thought anything of it—merely chalking it up to becoming busy, or perhaps an early night—until you missed meeting your former roommate for breakfast. Even then, your absence could be excused by a missed alarm or a family emergency. After attempts to reach you failed and the location services enabled on your friends’ devices were unable to track your own, however, the authorities were called.

When they were able to track your phone’s last location to a local park, what they found was chilling. Tire marks scuffed a harsh line in the pavement and across your now-shattered phone. Accompanying surveillance footage showed you being dragged, kicking and screaming, into a car with the windows tinted so dark that there was no chance of seeing the perpetrators inside—not that it would have helped much, since the two physically abducting you wore masks. Calliope watches the computer screen with a shocked hand over her mouth, and Morpheus can barely keep a hold of his human form as the lights flicker dangerously overhead.

From there, it’s as though you and the vehicle disappear into thin air. None of the surveillance cameras in any direction surrounding the park capture the car’s movements—a virtual impossibility, considering there were street cameras at every exit. The mortal authorities believe that this must mean your kidnapping is the work of a sophisticated crime ring that could hack into security cameras, or perhaps a stalker who had managed to map out a little-known alternate route away from cameras and enlisted a few people with dubious morals to help.

Beyond the initial clues about what happened to you, the trail had gone frustratingly cold. Rewards were introduced, then increased as hours turned to days. Police made the rounds on traditional media networks, while your friends and those who cared for you most undertook a grassroots effort to get your story out across social media. Hundreds of thousands of people knew that you were missing, looking at their personal security cameras and asking friends to do the same in vain. There was no trace of you, as though you just disappeared into thin air.

For all of the mortal theorizing, one shared look confirms that Morpheus and Calliope know better: you were taken by someone, or multiple someones, who knew how to wield magic. How else would one explain the complete lack of clues in a modern world? Further, there is no reason why you would be targeted but for your association with two immortal beings of immense power and stature. No, whoever abducted you knew of your friendship with Calliope, and perhaps even knew that the Lord of Dreams had visited you in an attempt to free his former wife.

“We shall help with the search as well,” Calliope assures her friends.

“Great! I have a bunch of posters in my bag that you can have.” Ethan begins to reach under the table for his bag before Calliope stops him with a gentle hand on top of his.

“You will get more use out of the flyers if you keep them; Morpheus has many connections. He and I will start there first.”

By ‘connections,’ of course, Calliope means the collective human unconscious. Optimistically, Morpheus believes that they shall only need to use the Library of the Dreaming to begin to put together the puzzle of where you might be. After all, how hard can it possibly be to find one mortal?

•••

People often wonder how they’ll react in times of crisis. Will they shy away from the situation, shutting down to try and make the trauma as minimal as possible? Will they cry, weeping and begging, at what they’re experiencing? Imagine all one might, they cannot truly anticipate how they would react until they’re in such a moment.

You, apparently, react with anger.

In your defense, how else are you supposed to feel after being dragged into a car and forced to breathe in what was presumably chloroform, if the subsequent unconsciousness was anything to go by, when you were just trying to enjoy a nice evening in the park?

Maybe it’s your own fault. Left with a goddess-sized hole in your life after your best friend and former roommate, Calliope, revealed herself to be a literal Muse and returned to Greece upon your freeing her from the servitude you were involuntarily sentencing her to, you’ve been trying to find new hobbies to pass time and avoid thinking about how much you miss her. You tried starting a new video game, learning how to knit, and attempting recipes you’ve always wanted to make. But all of these activities took place in your apartment, where you were regularly passing the empty room that had once belonged to Calliope (and, before that, Avery, whom you also missed—the main difference being that you could call Avery up and hang out with them at any time).

So you decided that getting out in the world would help to cure your melancholy. Visiting coffee shops and perusing book and antique stores was your therapy for exactly one weekend before you looked at your bank account and remembered that you did not make nearly enough money for this to be a habit. Experts always say that exercise releases the same endorphins as shopping, though (at least, you think they do), and you took the opportunity on a beautiful Tuesday to go for your first jog.

The last thing you remember is heading back to your car because your earbuds died. When you wake up with a pounding headache from a sleep you don’t remember closing your eyes for, you scowl. This is what you get for trying to be healthy. Kidnapped! You’re never going on a run again.

The room that you find yourself in is almost completely bare, save for odd, runic-looking paintings along the baseboards, a moderately comfy bed, a little dresser, four chairs—and four people occupying those chairs. You scramble into a sitting position, taking note as you do of the fact that there’s a literal shackle on your ankle keeping you tethered to the bed. Two men and two women stare back at you, silence stretching on until you grow frustrated enough to break it.

“What the fuck do you want?” you snap. One of the men and both of the women look surprised, as though they had expected you to start crying and begging for your life immediately. After a moment, one woman recovers her poker face and stands.

“I think we’re starting out on the wrong foot. My name is Violet, and these are my associates, Stephen, Jonah, and Marie.” Violet looks at you expectantly, and you scoff.

“Oh, do you want me to introduce myself? My bad, I assumed you already knew who I was based on the fact that you kidnapped me!”

Violet’s smile grows tighter on her face. “We did, and though I won’t apologize for that, I will apologize for the unfortunate matter of having to knock you out. You were just doing too much screaming for us to get anywhere productive at the time!”

The halfhearted laugh she lets out, as if to say ‘what can you do?’ is not reciprocated by you. The others in the room try to follow her lead and let out little chuckles, but it’s quickly becoming obvious to you that the tall woman with the sleek blonde ponytail is the ringleader here.

“We’re a part of a society called the Order of Ancient Mysteries, and we need your help and expertise.”

So you’ve been abducted by a cult, then. “How could I possibly help your…order?” you ask, hoping that you’re not about to be some sacrifice.

“Our founder, Roderick Burgess, sought to capture and imprison Death. His beloved son, Randall, had recently died, and the Magus could not bear to imagine life without him. One warm June day in 1916, he captured and imprisoned something. When he found that it was not Death, but rather Death’s brother, he became irate. This being could not bring back the dead, nor could he offer immortality or riches beyond anyone’s comprehension.

“The Magus didn’t see the potential of what he captured. His other son, Alex, didn’t, either, and let the creature escape after a century. But we do. We understand what we could accomplish were we to have the powers that this being possesses, as well as the powers of those associated with him. We could change the world, usher in a new age with a few words and some help from some very powerful beings.” Violet’s smile, which has slowly spread onto her face through her literal villain monologue, stretches to a bright grin. “Which is why you are going to summon Dream of the Endless and Calliope, the Chief of All Muses.”

Oh no. Oh, this is so much worse than a random cult kidnapping you. Morpheus doesn’t talk often about his hundred-year absence, but you’ve learned enough from him to know that it was unwilling, that he was captured similarly to Calliope. Similar to you, now. And not only does this Order know that Morpheus and Calliope aren’t just myths, but they are somehow aware of some semblance of your proximity to them.

Play dumb, your brain supplies. “Who?”

As quick as a crack of lightning, Violet’s proud smile turns sour. Yikes, maybe you played too dumb. “Lying won’t help you here. We know that you once enslaved Calliope, and that you were convinced to release her after a visit from the Dreamlord.”

“I did not enslave her!” At least, not on purpose. “Look, I don’t know how to summon them. And even if I did, I wouldn’t help you.”

“I find it very hard to believe that they wouldn’t tell their little human pet how to contact them in times of need.”

The insult thrown your way is definitely petty, likely a result of the frustration of this grown woman not immediately getting what she wants, but it still makes you bristle. “Why can’t you just do it? Since your Magus managed it last time?”

“After being freed from their respective prisons, both Dream and Calliope made sure to rid the world of any knowledge as to how either of them could be captured once more. A shame, really. The Magdalene Grimoire contained wonderful spells and knowledge that are now lost to history,” Violet laments.

“Then what makes you think I know? Because I don’t, and I’m sorry that I can’t help you. I may have been lying about knowing them, but I promise that I’m telling the truth now.”

“I have no doubt that you are; I can sense your honesty. But though you might not be aware of it, they’ve told you. Gods and goddesses love nothing more than speaking in riddles, and those who spend the most time with them are often unknowingly privy to their secrets.” Violet checks her watch with a sigh, and though she seems to make no cue, her three co-conspirators rise from their seats. “No matter. You’ll remember soon enough.”

They file out of the room that’s to be your prison cell one at a time, until Violet’s the only one remaining. Her manicured hand—cherry red nails, how cliche for a villainous woman such as she—flexes against the doorknob as she stares at you with the cold, calculating eyes of a snake watching the mouse she’s trapped in her den, that uncanny valley smile remaining on her face all the while.

“In the meantime, go ahead and get settled in. We’ll see you in the morning.” The door closes behind her, and you hear the lock turning from the outside.

The angry bravado that’s been fueling you since you woke up begins to leach out of you once you’re left alone, the reality of your situation sinking in. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever imagined yourself in this sort of scenario. With the true crime industry as prevalent as it is, it’s all too easy to fall into a game of ‘what-if’ every now and then. What if you were out at a store and somebody brought a gun? What if a stranger with a cast on their arm asked for help loading something into their car? What if something’s slipped into your drink when you’re out at a bar?

What if you’re snatched from a park when you’re going for a run?

Maybe it’s a side effect of living in a society where one is always getting updates about terrible events happening whenever they turn on their phone. Or perhaps it’s simply that ancient, primal instinct that warns humans to constantly be aware of threats, updated for modern times. Yes, you had imagined what would happen if you were ever kidnapped. In some scenarios, you fight your assailants off before they can actually kidnap you. In others, you charm your way out of your situation. In all of these made-up fantasies, you never took into account how fast a kidnapping would actually occur, nor did you ever wonder what somebody’s motive for kidnapping you would be.

Now, as you sit alone and chained to a bed in a glorified prison cell, panic rises in your throat at the reality of your situation. You’ve really been kidnapped by a bunch of psychos belonging to a cult that once captured Morpheus for over a century, and now they want you to summon him again. Not only that, but they know about Calliope and want her powers too. That explains the paintings along the baseboards, then; runes that are likely meant to trap both of your friends here along with you.

Your kidnappers were pleasant…ish during your first meeting, but it’s already evident that Violet is quickly losing patience with your attitude and your refusal to do what she wants. Visions of all the terrible ways they could hurt and kill you start to play through your mind against your will, and you have to force your eyes to close as you slow your breathing.

Moonlight shines inside from the small window across the room (too far away for you to reach in your current predicament), and the reminder of the time of day brings you some semblance of peace. After all, what does one do at night but sleep? Your way out is right in front of you, and it’s a simple one: you’ll just fall asleep and find Morpheus so that he can come and show these idiots what happens when they want to summon one of his kind. With the knowledge of your rescue being so near, you shakily pull the blankets of the bed over you and try your best to fall asleep.

Only…something’s wrong. It’s not like you’re not tired—you are, and you’d bet that the lingering after effects of the chloroform have something to do with it. But every time your body begins to feel fuzzy, every time the lines between Waking and Dreaming start to disappear, it’s as though something is physically pulling you back into consciousness. A harsh tug on your consciousness has you gasping awake every time, shocked as though a bucket of ice water has been poured on you. By the time the clock on the wall says 8 a.m., you’ve been through this routine four separate times.

When Violet and one of the men (Stephen, the smaller and more diminutive of the two) enter the room, you’re sitting up on the edge of the bed, already wide awake.

“Good morning,” Stephen greets, setting a tray of bland food down on the small desk.

“What did you do to me?” You ignore the pleasantries and go straight to accusing Violet.

Her lips turn up into a smirk. “What do you mean? Did you have trouble sleeping last night?”

“You know I did.”

“You didn’t really think we would let you escape through your dreams, did you? No, the only way you will be reaching the Dreamlord is when you physically summon him here.”

It dawns on you in horror what she’s done to you. “You took away my ability to sleep?”

“Yes, but don’t worry—I’ve taken great care to ensure that you won’t lose your mind or anything of that effect.” She waves her hand as though it’s a small inconvenience, like a line at the bank or unexpected construction. “No, your body will rest in a state of twilight sleep until you get just the bare minimum to keep you sane, and then you’ll wake once more.”

Your mouth opens as you prepare to loudly voice your indignation, only for Violet to bend down to meet your eyes in a flash and harshly snatch your jaw in her grip. A gasp rips from your lungs as she digs her nails into your flesh, your blood surely welling to the surface to match the red of her nails.

“This is just a taste of what the Order can do to you,” she says, eyes blazing and locked onto yours. “You have one week of sleepless nights to produce a way to summon your friends. If next Tuesday doesn’t bring us what we want, then…I suppose we’ll have to show you what else I can do to you. Care to take some guesses as to how long you’ll last when subjected to the types of spells in my personal grimoire?”

Violet releases you from her hold with a sharp push, and you scramble backwards onto the bed and as far away from her as you can get. When your hand comes up to your jaw in an attempt to rub away some of the pain, it comes away streaked in red. There’s no need to play a guessing game as to what Violet can do to you, for you know in your bones that she’s being deadly serious.

Days pass quicker than you’d like, as they always seem to do when you’re dreading something, with the routine the same. A sleepless night spent rotating on the bed so that you can change scenery from one wall to the next until you inevitably succumb to thirty minutes of the weirdest, awake-yet-not sleep you’ve ever experienced to keep you from losing your mind. Breakfast at eight—usually oatmeal or toast—along with a raised brow and the question, “Are you going to help us today?”

Your refusal remains steadfast no matter the time of day, and the door inevitably slams shut as Violet leaves the room in a fight to keep her cool, with whoever accompanies her awkwardly waiting around for a bit before leaving after her. Curiously, the three henchmen always carry guns with them—likely because they don’t have any magical abilities. Whether they’re armed in an attempt to stop you from escaping or to potentially stop Morpheus and Calliope remains to be seen (you almost hope that they do try to fire a bullet at Morpheus, if only to see the looks on their faces when he inevitably turns it to sand).

After that, you’re always left on your own. Every two hours, somebody comes to check on you—to see if you haven’t bashed your head into the wall out of boredom or desperation, if you need to use the bathroom, if you’ve changed your mind. Violet returns with dinner and threats, having decided that a “good cop/bad cop” routine works best for her, before reminding you of how many days there are left until a week has passed and cruelly wishing you a good night’s sleep.

Besides the doom that’s become your constant companion in your imprisonment, the worst part of being kidnapped is feeling the way that your mind is beginning to crack and fray from the sleep deprivation. Though Violet had given you her word that you wouldn’t be truly and irreparably harmed (lest she lose the knowledge that she thinks you have hidden in your brain), there are still plenty of symptoms of missing sleep that don’t harm you. Tremors occasionally wrack through a limb or two, and it’s easy for your mind to wander and become distracted while Violet attempts to cajole you into summoning Morpheus and Calliope. You find that you’re talking to yourself semi-frequently, or that you don’t remember who it was that came to check on you last (Noah? Marie?).

Maybe Violet lied to you, and you are actually going mad, though. Colors sometimes dance at the edges of your vision, and you can hear the distant laughter of a woman as you stare at the rainbow. Every time you turn your head to see her, she’s still just out of eyesight, leaving you with an otherwise-empty room and the sinking realization that you may very well be crazy.

Come Monday night, you’re at your wits’ end. Violet is going to do terrible things to you in a mere 24 hours, all because you can’t bring her Morpheus and Calliope. You request a shower from your captors, if only to get you out of the room and hopefully relieve some nervous energy by scrubbing your skin raw—you proceed to spend twenty minutes doing exactly that, if only because it allows you to physically feel something harsh and real and not at all like this weird in-between, dazed state you’ve been living in for the past four days.

Swathed in a large towel after the water goes cold and you force yourself to leave your sanctuary, you stand in front of the mirror after the shower and wipe your hand over part of the glass to clear the condensation from it. Dark, sleep-deprived circles under your eyes greet you; all of the showers in the world couldn’t make you less haggard—no, that would only come from getting out of here and being able to get some sleep. You smile weakly at yourself and draw a matching smiley face in the remaining condensation in the hopes that it provides you just a little bit of whimsy.

It comes to you as you’re finishing the upward curve of the smile, and you stagger back at the realization. Suddenly, you’re back in your apartment, Calliope standing in front of you protectively and confronting her former husband.

“You called for me again, did you not?” Morpheus asks.

“I did no such thing!”

“Really?” he questions with a raised eyebrow. “You did not write my name down prior to burning it?”

Calliope falls silent, because apparently that’s exactly what she did.

Then, you’re waking up after she left for Greece, for her sisters and her function, reading the note that she left on your nightstand. “Should you need me, you need only pray to me, and I shall hear you,” it read in part.

Was Violet right? Has that knowledge truly been here all along, just waiting for you to remember? Probing into the memories a little further proves that you’ve been unintentionally lying to yourself.

“Oh my god,” you mutter to yourself in disbelief, “I do know how to summon them!”

The woman with mismatched eyes, one blue and one green, standing next to your reflection in the mirror grins and claps excitedly, as if she’s been waiting for you to figure it out all along. Your finger moves from your side to the mirror without you being conscious of the movement, starting to write out their names and getting as far as the ‘M’ in Morpheus before stopping. Your time out of the room that’s become your prison is reaching an end; Marie had already knocked once five minutes ago, which meant there would be another one in another five. If you were to summon them now, chances are they’d appear in that bedroom ringed with runes meant to capture and bind them. You’d play right into Violet’s hands.

No, there can’t be any chance that they might get trapped here right along with you. But you’ll need to buy yourself some time, some way to ensure that you won’t be going back to your room. Further, it needs to be done with enough time left that Violet can’t do horrific things to you. How to accomplish it, though?

“I think I need a plan,” you say to the woman. Her red hair, which had been defying gravity and floating around her head, comes to rest normally as she nods solemnly, agreeing with you without speaking any words.

She’s not there when you turn away from the mirror, though she never is. No matter. You have twenty-four hours to formulate your plan, and for the first time in your weeklong imprisonment, you’re thankful that you won’t need to sleep for any of those hours. By ten the next morning, you’re prepared, and it’s only a matter of picking up on your captors’ schedules for the day before it’s go time.

Is it the best thought-out plan? Absolutely not—you’re running on maybe four hours of sleep in the past week, and your mind is surely being held together at this point by nothing but bubblegum and Scotch tape. But you’re far too valuable to the Order for them to kill you, and you’ve decided that potential torture is a fair price to pay for a shot at freedom.

At two, Stephen comes in to pick up your plate from breakfast, and you fight to keep a smile off your face. Having seen the way that Violet mauled your face that first morning, he’s by far the most sympathetic to you, which is why you’ve been waiting for him to show up. It’s not at all hard to let the control over your emotions slip (because you truly are scared) as you begin to shake and tears well in your eyes.

“Stephen, do you think I can take a shower? I’m stressed about what Violet’s going to do to me tonight, and a shower would help calm me down a bit.”

He falters with the plate when he sees your face, eyes growing sad. Violet isn’t shy when it comes to complaining, and you’ve heard her berate Stephen for his “caring attitude” multiple times and rant to Jonah and Marie about how “he shouldn’t have agreed to this if he didn’t have the balls” countless more. He told you a couple of days ago that none of this was his idea—the only reason he even had ties to the Order was because his great-great uncle, Paul, had been in a relationship with the Magus’s son. He was roped into your kidnapping with Violet positing it as his familial duty, and he seemed far too meek to ever say no to that.

“Of course,” he says, taking a key out of his pocket as he kneels to unlock the shackle from around your ankle. You flex your foot upon its freedom, doing circles simply to enjoy the sensation.

Stephen holds a hand out to help you off the bed, and you almost feel bad about what you’re going to do. A jolt of pain upon putting weight on your ankle quickly sends that feeling running, and you grab a random shirt and pair of pants from the little dresser in the corner before hurrying after your captor.

You follow behind him closely, and when he stops in front of the bathroom, it’s only too easy for you to collide into his back. His hands hit the closed door from the force, and yours fumble against his lower back as you ostensibly attempt to find balance.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize, sliding the gun from his holster. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No worries.” He turns to look at you just as you’re shifting the weapon under the clothes you’re holding, seemingly oblivious to the theft. “Happens to all of us.”

Did this really work? You hold your breath as you pass by him into the bathroom, so sure that at any moment he’s going to stop you and the jig is going to be up. Yet Stephen simply shuts the door behind you and locks it from the outside (as there are no inside locks in any of the rooms you’re allowed to occupy), as he always does, and leaves you alone.

“You get twenty minutes!” he reminds you unnecessarily through the door.

None of those twenty minutes is going to go to waste. The shower is turned on immediately, and the handle is cranked to the left until the water coming from the spout is the hottest it can go. You don’t make any move to take a shower, though. Instead, you go searching through the large linen closet, finding the old bathrobes that were first discovered last night and snatching the strings from two of them. After you hide them under the clothes, you stand at the sink, watching the mirror as it slowly begins to fog over. The waiting is agony, but eventually, your reflection disappears, and a test smiley face shows up clearly on the mirror. Your heart jumps, both ready and not for this plan to truly begin.

With a shaky finger, you write both of their names across the mirror, one after the other—“Morpheus,” and right underneath it, “Calliope.”

“Please,” you whisper under your breath. “Please hear me, Morpheus and Calliope. Please find me. I’m about to do something that’s probably really stupid, and I’d appreciate some backup.”

Minutes pass without an answer, and you stare determinedly at the mirror until Stephen’s knock at the door lets you know you’re almost out of time. Phase 2, then, you think, and pull the gun from the counter. It’s a standard Glock, one that’s so user-friendly it would be more difficult to get it not to fire than it would to fire. You slide it into your waistband and arrange your shirt over it.

“Hey, I think there’s something wrong with the shower! It won’t turn off,” you call through the door.

“Okay, I’m coming in.” A pause. “Are you, uh, decent?”

You roll your eyes at the stupid question. “Yes.”

The door unlocks, and Stephen walks to the shower. He doesn’t seem to clock that you’re still wearing the clothes you came in with, nor does he hear the door shut quietly behind him. When he finds that turning the shower off is as easy as, well, turning the shower off, and looks your way to question why you didn’t try that in the first place, he’s met with the barrel of his own gun staring back at him.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this. You’re going to sit quietly and let me tie you up, or else I’m going to shoot you.” Stephen looks terrified as you explain this to him, but you turn the safety off anyway to drive the point home, and he lets out a frightened squeak as your finger moves over the trigger. “Don’t think I won’t. Do we have an agreement?”

He nods hurriedly, and you gesture with the gun for him to sit in the bathtub. The weapon is placed within your reach, but out of his, as you grab the strings from the bathrobes and a pair of socks. One string is tied around his wrists tightly, knotted three times. The other is meant to go over his mouth, right after you shove the socks in to create a gag.

“I truly am sorry,” he apologizes, with tears in his eyes. “I didn’t even want to be a part of this.”

Stephen has always been the one with the most sympathy. On your end, however, you feel none. “Then maybe you should have stopped them all before getting in that car,” you say cheerfully, shoving the socks inside his mouth and tying the string around his head.

The last order of business is to grab his keyring, which you locate clipped to his belt. Before you leave, you survey the scene. Something is missing, and you quickly realize what it is. The bathrobe string tying Stephen’s wrists together is just long enough for you to tie him to the mobility bar in the shower. Petty, yes, and it’s probably an action that you would never resort to prior to this ordeal. But you’ve been through hell these past seven days, and you want at least someone to understand what it feels like to be shackled to something.

The sink goes on to provide noise in case he tries to scream, and you grab the gun again. Then, for the first time in seven days, you get to lock a door. You’re giddy as the key turns, laugh coming out a little more maniacal than you’d like for somebody who’s still supposed to be sane. There’s no time to dwell on that, though, not when you’re technically on the run.

It’s almost disappointing when you realize you haven’t been kept in some castle or fortress of evil where you have to fight through an obstacle-riddled labyrinth to find the exit, but rather a pretty normal house whose hallways lead right to the foyer. With all of the protections in your room and on your captors themselves, a single, standard lock on the front door is a major relief to you, and you happily flip it unlocked and begin to pull the door open—only for a heavy gust of wind to shut it and flip the lock back in place. Spoke too soon, you think to yourself.

“Let me guess, you singled Stephen out? Smart,” a displeased voice says behind you.

You turn around slowly, gun raised, to come face to face with Violet. “How did you—”

“With how much fight you’ve had in you and how steadfastly you’ve withstood your sleep deprivation, I would have been far more surprised if you hadn’t tried to have your own Shawshank Redemption moment. Unfortunately for you, there will be no escaping.” Violet walks towards you fearlessly, not thinking that you’ll really use the weapon you have pointed at her. “Now, let’s get you back to your cell—I mean, room—and we can keep—”

You cut her off by firing at the ground in front of her, the bullet lodging itself in the wooden floor. Her face, always so expressive, flickers through emotions as she processes the scene: surprise, then admiration, followed by rage.

“Oh, you’re going to regret that.”

“I’m the only one here with a gun,” you counter.

“You fool. With the magic at my disposal, you think I need a gun? I don’t even need you,” she realizes with a laugh. “Just your brain.”

Latin falls from her lips, and in a matter of moments, the room begins to shake as a horrifying tightening sensation begins to build in your head. She’s doing this, you realize. Violet must be rifling through your head right now, going through every vulnerable thought, every memory, both happy and sad, to try and find out how to summon Morpheus and Calliope. The pain is sharp and blinding, your foe’s figure doubling, then tripling when you manage to see her through the whiteouts to your vision that the agony brings with it. She promised you wouldn’t go mad from a lack of sleep, but did that promise extend to her forcibly extracting information from within your brain?

If she keeps up with it, you don’t know that you’ll be alive to find out. Gasping for air, you squint through the forced blindness and point the gun at what you believe to be her head.

Violet drops right as you pull the trigger, and when the pressure in your head blissfully, simultaneously releases, for a sickening moment, you think that you’ve just killed her. But the window behind her shatters as the bullet hits the glass, and a quick scan of her now unconscious body says that there’s no sign of blood coming from her. So what made Violet fall?

Someone says your name, and you turn to your left with a scream, gun pointed at the source. Staring back at you is a woman, her eyes dark…and familiar.

“Calliope,” you whisper, so sure that what you’re seeing isn’t real. Out of the shadows materializes another, and though you only see pinpricks of light at first, they’re easily recognizable as well. “Morpheus.”

On the night that Calliope inadvertently summoned her former husband, the night that regrets were shared and shame burnt to ashes, you thought that you had seen her furious. And she was; you’ll never forget the way she steadfastly put herself in front of you to protect you from danger as she demanded to know what the intruder in your apartment was doing. That anger must have been nothing compared to now, where she seems to embody the very word fury. Unlike that night, where her anger had been in her words, now it seems to be a core part of her very being. Her eyes shine as they look you up and down, making sure you’re not grievously injured. For the first time since you’ve met, you understand why mortals have revered her and trembled before her for thousands of years, for in front of you now stands a goddess who should be worshipped like ancient humans once worshipped the ever-present sun.

Morpheus, too, is a mass of whirling shadows and whispering voices, so incensed is he that he doesn’t yet remember that becoming corporeal is necessary for communication in the Waking. This raw display of power is unlike any that you’ve seen from him before; the few times that you’ve seen him use his power in the Dreaming, it’s been minor tricks. Books retrieved from out of thin air, objects recreating themselves seemingly at will. Nothing this…eldritch.

“You can drop your weapon. You are safe now,” Calliope says softly with a smile to match. It’s a tone that one would use when trying to coax a frightened, half-feral cat out of a drainpipe—belatedly, you realize that you are the frightened, half-feral cat in this situation.

The gun falls to your side, though you refuse to let go of it. Is this some sort of trap? Has Violet infiltrated your mind and started making you see what you’ve desired most? “I didn’t kill her?”

“No.” The voices all echo over each other until Morpheus materializes into a singular being once more. “Violet Andersson and the others in this house have been rendered unconscious by my own hand.”

“They’re all a part of the Order that originally captured you,” you explain to Morpheus. “They somehow knew that Calliope was bound to me, and that you had something to do with freeing her. I was kidnapped so that I could summon you both—the Burgesses didn’t know the power that they held when they captured you, she said, though supposedly this group did—but I said that I didn’t know how. I thought I didn’t know how.”

Calliope has been drifting closer to you since you began explaining your predicament, until she’s able to take the gun out of your grip and place it on a side table. With both of your hands now empty, it allows Calliope to hold them in her own. “But you remembered,” she says proudly.

You let out a sob as she gathers you into her arms. “I remembered.”

It’s imperative that you don’t completely break down—you are, after all, still technically kidnapped and needing to escape—but it’s impossible not to let a few tears fall and a few cries to shake your shoulders, especially when Calliope whispers, “You are so brave, dear one.”

“Is this real?” Although this is the most grounded you’ve felt in days, you still need to ask. You don’t know that you could bear this being a mere mind trick, just one of the terrible things Violet promised she’d do to you.

Even as the words leave your mouth, you know that it is. You can smell Calliope’s signature scent, honey and pomegranates and sunshine, cloaking you like a favorite blanket. A cold hand touches your shoulder lightly, and you pull away from the hug to see famously touch-averse Morpheus doing his version of a hug; he even allows you to put your hand over his own for a moment, the faintest of smiles on his lips as you squeeze lightly before giving him his space once more. No, this is all real. Never in a million years could some magician even hope to recreate these little details that only you know.

“Did you not believe that we would come when you summoned us?” Morpheus asks gently.

“I did, but couldn’t let them take me back to that room. There were runes all along the baseboards—I don’t know a ton about your world, but you’ve told me enough that I think they would have been able to keep you trapped in there as well. I had to do something, and that something was fighting my way out of here and hoping you’d meet me along the way.”

His eyes turn black with stars for pupils, as they do when he’s in the Dreaming. After mere seconds, he’s back to blue, with the declaration of, “These wards have power no longer.”

You didn’t need him to tell you that, for you can feel the moment that every spell and ward cast by the Order of Ancient Mysteries is wiped away. Fatigue like none you’ve ever felt washes over you, and your knees buckle as sleep tries to claim you almost instantly. Calliope and Morpheus both grab for you, making it impossible to tell if it’s one or both of them that catch you and lower you to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Calliope’s panicked as she tries to find an injury that she surely missed.

“Violet cast a spell,” you mumble, a yawn breaking your sentence up, “so I couldn’t sleep.”

Understanding dawns on Morpheus’s face immediately, as does rage. “She took away your access to the Dreaming?” He’s apoplectic at this gross invasion upon his domain, and casts a heated glare towards the still-unconscious body of your main captor.

“The spell let me get the bare minimum to keep me sane, but even then it was just a ‘twilight sleep’, and now I’m so—” this yawn is so large that your jaw pops, “—tired.”

You attempt to fight sleep with the ferocity of a toddler refusing their naptime, while Calliope and Morpheus share a look above you. “Let us take you to the Dreaming, so that you may recover,” Calliope suggests.

You’re already nodding before the elephant in the room stops you. “Don’t we need to call the cops? I’m still technically kidnapped, and they could wake up any minute.”

“You need rest far more than you need the authorities. Time works differently in the Dreaming—you shall go there and rest as long as your body needs. When you are ready to return, mere hours will have passed here, and I assure you your captors shall remain in nightmares of my own making.”

“Okay,” you say, as if there’s any possible way you could come up with an argument right now. Instead, Morpheus and Calliope help you struggle to a sitting position before a cloud of sand envelops your trio. There’s a split second where you’re admiring how soft the surface underneath you is (it’s called a bed, genius, a snarky part of you snaps) before your body physically can’t hold out any longer.

Then, for the first time in a week, you sleep.

And sleep.

When you do finally resurface from the depths of unconsciousness, it takes you a couple of moments to orient yourself. The bed you’re lying on is just as soft as you remember it from the twenty or so seconds you were awake upon arrival, and a quick run of your fingertips over it reveals that the sheets must be something akin to the finest satin. The ceiling above you isn’t a normal ceiling like you’d find in your room or even the prison you were recently spending your nights in, but is instead all stone and high arches. You can feel the warmth of somebody sitting next to you, and when you look up, you find your best friend staring back at you.

“Good morning,” Calliope greets warmly with a smile to match.

“Hi.” You blink harshly, holding back tears at how comforted and loved you feel. Though your captivity lasted only seven days—the longest seven days of your life, and yet a captivity that’s a mere blink compared to those of your friends—you wondered if you would ever feel such a friendly touch again. Calliope helps you to sit up, and you rub at your eyes with a yawn. “How long was I asleep?”

“We have only been gone from the Waking world for three hours,” a sonorous voice that could only belong to one being says on your left. Turning your head from Calliope, you look to see Morpheus sitting in a large armchair next to the bed. “In the Dreaming, you have been asleep for what would be sixteen mortal hours.”

“Damn.” Somehow, it feels both like you’ve been asleep for far longer and way less than that.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Everything feels a lot…clearer now.” Truly, it’s as though you were at the optometrist and they were flipping the lenses around during the eye exam. Where before, life itself seemed to be fuzzy and off-kilter, now you’re seeing the world in startling clarity.

“Were you physically harmed?” Calliope asks. “I did not want to touch you without your saying so.”

“Not too much. Violet got mad at me on the first day and grabbed my chin too harshly,” you gesture to the small, half-moon cuts on your jaw that have scabbed over, “and my ankle hurts from them chaining me to the bed, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“They…chained you?” Calliope shifts the covers until she locates your right ankle, bruised and a little swollen.

“Yeah. There was a window in my room that they couldn’t risk me getting out of.”

Calliope runs the tips of her fingers over your ankle with the lightest of touches, worried that she may cause you any undue pain. She doesn’t need to say what she’s thinking, for you already know; she must have been chained in the same way, whether by Fry or Madoc or both. The blooming of blood loosed from its vessels, the skin made tender from a tight, ever-present hold—it’s far too familiar for her. You’re now the same in that aspect.

When she looks at you, her brown eyes are blazing once more. “They will suffer for what they have done to you,” she declares.

You’re a little taken aback at the ferocity of Calliope’s statement. You haven’t known your friend to be okay with violence; indeed, you would have thought that she, as a muse, was against violence, as it doesn’t seem as though it inspires much more than tragedy. “Oh, you don’t—”

“Calliope is right,” Morpheus says. “Not only did they hurt you, but they cut you off from the Dreaming, from my realm—” He cuts himself off with a disgusted scoff. “The gall of humans, to act as though they have any power over forces they cannot even begin to comprehend.”

“I really appreciate your anger towards what those weirdos did to me, but you don’t need to avenge me. You heard my call and came to help me, even knowing that there was a chance that you could be captured again. I can never thank you both enough for that.”

Morpheus hits you with one of his signature looks, this one conveying that he thinks you’re quite foolish for saying what you’ve said. “Did it ever occur to you that either one of us would gladly have been captured once more if it meant we had the chance to free you from your torment?” he asks.

“I could never do that to you or Calliope, especially after I remembered that you had both told me how to summon you. The thought of writing your names and saying them, only for you to be forced into a trap because of me—” you stop before you can get too upset. “I already accidentally enslaved you once, Cal. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I did it to you again because I was too weak to figure out a way to escape on my own.”

Even though you’ve been staring resolutely at the large, stone fireplace across the room in an attempt to keep your emotions in check, you can practically feel Calliope’s own heartbreak next to you. Perhaps that’s part of her gift? A mere touch, glance, or thought can inspire somebody to create; was it so unexpected that her emotions could bleed into those of mortals?

“Audacious, foolish mortal,” Morpheus begins, “thinking that you know better than beings far older and more powerful than yourself.” Even as he chastises you, he’s got a slight smile on his face, likely charmed at some preternatural piece of the puzzle that you, in your human simplicity, are not privy to.

“Your worries are sweet, my dear, but it would not have worked like that,” Calliope says. “Surely you remember that I had a mission when I left you, to work with my sisters to change the laws that allowed me to be captured by a human?”

You nod. “Violet mentioned that you were successful. They couldn’t find any information on how to summon either of you.”

“That was by design.” Calliope takes your hands in hers, ensuring that you make eye contact. “We did not come when you summoned us because we were forced to. We came because our friend called us, needing our assistance, and we chose to answer.”

In the throes of sleep deprivation, when you were at your most frightened and emotional, you looked forward to a future where you would be well-rested and wouldn’t be tearing up at will. That must come after another sixteen hours of sleep, for the first sixteen still have you weepy. This time, tears do run down your face, and Calliope lays her head against your shoulder as she wraps her arms around you tightly.

“Thank you,” you say, turning and pressing a kiss to the crown of Calliope’s head. “Thank you for choosing me, even if I am just your mortal friend.”

“You are so much more than just anything,” Morpheus tells you, giving you a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

You know that Morpheus is not the biggest fan of touching/being touched, but how else are you supposed to react when the being you thought only barely tolerated you because you were his ex-wife’s friend/kind-of savior reveals that he actually cares about you? Caution is thrown to the wind as your arms go around him, and he stiffens in your grasp. While this is the first time you’ve hugged him, part of you wonders when he was last hugged at all. When he finally relaxes into your hold, one arm even coming to rest loosely on your back, you endeavor to hug him more frequently from now on.

“We should probably go back to the Waking,” you say once you pull away from Morpheus to give him his space once more. “Now that I’m not at danger of passing out, I’d like to be un-kidnapped.” Neither of them asks you to tell them more about your experience, which you appreciate; they both know from experience that you’ll share in your own time, on your own terms.

“Are you sure that you would not like us to handle the fates of those who captured you?” Calliope asks once more.

“I cannot harm mortals unless they are a direct threat to myself or my realm,” Morpheus reminds Calliope. He looks pained as he says this, like he wishes more than anything that these rules did not apply to him.

She smirks. “I am under no such ban.”

Truly, you’re flattered that the most powerful beings have ever met want to fight this battle for you, to enact vengeance on your behalf. It makes you feel a bit like a maiden from the Middle Ages being swept off her feet by chivalrous knights. And while part of you does think that that sounds appealing, another, larger part has a different idea of how these four kidnappers might pay.

“Do you both remember how powerless you felt after your captivities? How you wanted those who had taken you to feel just a modicum of what you went through?” They each nod. “Let me decide their fates. I want them to face justice in the mortal way. To be arrested, to have their faces plastered on the news, and people thinking they’re so evil for kidnapping somebody. I want to be able to look at their faces in jumpsuits, knowing that they’re going to have to go to prison for many years. That’s justice for me.”

It’s obvious by their respective displeasure that neither Morpheus nor Calliope is entirely on board with your wishes. But since it is your wish, you all know that it will be respected. You gently take a hand from each in yours and squeeze lightly to convey your gratitude.

“If it makes you feel better, you can submit them to horrendous nightmares and eternal torment after they’ve all been prosecuted,” you suggest.

Morpheus actually shows some teeth with his smile. Calliope laughs, that beautiful trill that you’ve missed so much, and pulls you into a hug. “That makes me feel much better, treasure. Thank you.”

•••

When you’re returned to the Waking world, the first thing that you do is steal Violet’s phone off of her unconscious body and call the police. The second thing that you do is sit patiently outside, enjoying looking up at the sky and not taking it for granted as dusk begins to paint its blues, pinks, yellows, and oranges across its canvas. Scores of sirens getting louder and louder begin to greet you, and it comforts you to know that your captors, who are just starting to wake up (courtesy of Morpheus), are hearing the same and must surely be realizing that this game is coming to an end.

Reintegrating into society is tougher than you had anticipated. It’s just as wonderful as you imagined to see your friends and family, of course—your daydreams of reunion scenarios were sometimes the only thing that could make you smile—but the trauma of being kidnapped means that you can’t just go to karaoke nights with your friends or even walk across a parking lot without a second thought like you once did; now, you’re always looking over your shoulder, always second-guessing every interaction with a stranger, always wary and tense. Everybody’s so patient with you, though, accompanying you to and from places or stepping outside with you when you need a moment. It makes you feel like a burden sometimes, even though you’re assured time and time again that you’re not.

Calliope unofficially moves back in with you for a bit. At this stage of healing, being alone gives you a lot of anxiety—those same worries that follow you when you’re out in public seem only to intensify when there’s nobody around who would be able to help you immediately if somebody were to break in and try to kidnap you once more. So every time you arrive home, Calliope’s there and ready to keep you company, making tea and watching bad television with you, just like old times.

(You’re especially thankful for her presence as you learn to sleep normally and without fear again, the goddess joining you in your bed and making sure that you know you’re safe)

On the rare occasion that she can’t make it, Morpheus leaves his realm to join you. Most of the time, you just sit in silence with him, each of you reading your own book. You can’t help but smile when you glance up at him, thrilled that the King of Dreams cares about a mortal (cares about you) enough to shirk his very important duties for a few hours.

The quartet that kidnapped you faces your version of justice. As the ringleader, Violet gets 25 to life, while the others receive 15 to 30-year sentences. They all had the decency to plead guilty and save everyone from having to go through a trial, but you still get the pleasure of seeing them sentenced and led off into the bowels of the courtroom, Calliope and Morpheus sitting on either side of you the entire time.

Coincidentally, all four of them begin to suffer from unending nightmares you’ve read described as “appalling,” “torturous,” and “ghastly,” among other such adjectives, shortly after their sentencings. Somebody else’s version of justice, and one that you can’t say that you’re upset by after finding yours.

•••

Tagging those who have expressed interest in wanting to be tagged (if this has changed, please message or shoot me an ask, and I'll remove you for future works!):

@aralezinspace @morpheusbaby3 @thatonehumanbeing05

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #morpheus imagine #calliope the sandman #calliope the sandman imagine #calliope x reader

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cookies-after-dark · 3 days ago

Note

I'm not sure if this has been asked, but I like to think about Black Sapphire and Y/N doing the deed and Shadow Milk popping out of nowhere(the door was and still is locked) and just joining them, much to everyone's dismay.

By the end of it, poor Y/N and Black Sapphire is drained of their energy and stamina, but Shadow Milk is still hard and heals them so that they can keep going(or Shadow Milk goes and find Truthless Recluse, leaving Black Sapphire and Y/N soggy and drenched in their fluids in the bed)

What do you think about this entire scenario conjured by my wandering imagination?

Also may I be 🌸🪽 anon?

additional tags: explicit content, beast x ancient, overstimulation, caught in the act, gender neutral reader

ships: black sapphire cookie x reader, shadow milk cookie x reader, truthless recluse x reader, shadow milk cookie x black sapphire cookie, shadow milk cookie x truthless recluse

(author's note): you now have been faithfully dubbed as 🌸🪽 anon. go forth with your new title and spread peace and love and chaos wherever you step.

'...much to everyone's dismay' I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe your dismay, but Black Sapphire is quite delighted to have his master stop by with his spontaneous intrusion.

Every situation I think of with Black Sapphire always has me think of the reader as grouchy and irritated (for the comedy); so I'll just go with that and say that the reader just wanted a quickie, just one damned quickie, and in comes the Biggest Source of all your problems to make what was supposed to just be ten minutes into hours.

Shadow Milk Cookie outright ignores your enraged shrieks at him to get the fuck out (the piece of shit even seems to enjoy them) and just plops right down on the fluffy bed with a hand under his chin, cheerily telling the two of you to continue; "Don't mind little ol' me~!"

Whatever. What-the-fuck-ever. You're still aroused and you refuse to let Shadow Milk Cookie embarrass you, especially in front of one of his fanatics.

Black Sapphire Cookie on the other hand, is very much enjoying the new development and suddenly finds the energy to go a second round. He even cums more quickly this time, making sure to bend you over before Shadow Milk so he can see the white mess he painted your back and asscheeks with.

"Ahh, splendid~! My turn, now; I want to cum on their chest, next." You weren't surprised at all that Shadow Milk volunteered himself to join; he was leering at you the entire time and running his tongue over his lips and teeth like an upsetting freak of nature. He'd pulled his cock out of his tights around the fourth time Black Sapphire was fucking you and made sure you saw him jacking off to your little show.

Whatever. What-the-fuck-ever. Let Shadow Milk have his fun. You'd suck the black, bitter soul right out his balls and shrivel up his dick like a raisin. Just you wait and see.

...Wooooow, you managed to keep up that spite-fueled stamina of yours for quite some time! You lost count of how many times Shadow Milk spanked your pretty ass red, or how many gallons of hot cum he made you swallow, or how many surprising positions he'd folded you into. He just kept going and going and going. Black Sapphire would have fucked himself to death out of a strong duty to please his master if Shadow Milk hadn't waved him off an hour prior.

When Shadow Milk found it accurate to describe you as a dead fish, he kissed you on your sweat soaked forehead and let you roll around in a miserable kind of afterglow before he got up and left without even bothering to put his clothes back on, humming a merry tune all the way. Black Sapphire Cookie had at least enough strength to snicker at you.

Just as you were about to close your eyes, you felt a clawed finger playfully poke your cheek and opened your eyes to Shadow Milk eagerly presenting a fourth contender. You hadn't the foggiest how he managed to convince Truthless Recluse to leave his room until you saw the way he was looking down at you.

"Surpiiiiiise~!" Shadow Milk Cookie grinned deviously at you with all teeth, slowly leaning forward to grip at Truthless Recluse's hard dick to pump it. "I found us a buddy to help us keep rolling along! You'll be feeling good as new in a jiffy! ...He won't be able to empty your belly, though. Let's hope you aren't too full of cum~!"

Despite Truthless hissing and slapping Shadow Milk Cookie's hand away, you could see he was pretty eager to heal your poor, sore, throbbing body... and help rough it up again.

Whatever. What-the-fuck-ever.

#i have way too much fun writing a disgruntled reader #cookie run kingdom smut #crk smut #crk x reader smut #cookie run kingdom #crk #crk x reader #asks #anon #cookie run kingdom x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #truthless recluse x reader #black sapphire cookie x reader #beast x ancient #shadownilla

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arabellasfvv · 19 hours ago

Text

Johnny would literally be your butler without any qualms and questions.

You wake up and the smell of breakfast lingers in the air, and johnny is sitting beside the bed, stroking your hair to help you wake up gently. Already having clothes laid out by the bed, kisses your head as he helps you slip into them. And he's happy to join you in the bathroom, brush your teeth, do your hair, the man woukd help you wipe if you just let him. But he's also content just waiting outside until youre done.

You're out of groceries? He's quick to write down a list of you need and what you deserve before he's jumping into his car and getting your stuff for you. Maybe stop by some other stores to get something you'd mentioned in passing.

Forgot to change your sheets before leaving for work, but once you get home you just wanna collapse into the bed? He's quick to drive to your apartment and change them for you, throwing the old ones into the wash. And while he's there waiting for them to finish drying he might as well dust the place.

Oh you're horny but don't wanna get to work? Don't worry he's already laying between your legs and hooking your thighs over his shoulders. Tongue flattening against your folds and licking up your slick until you can't help but pass out on him. Or he's sitting you on his lap, working his hand between your legs. Fingers prying apart your folds to coat them in your arousal, pushing them inside and hitting your g spot over and over, or just focusing on your clit.

He loves using your toys on you, letting you tell him exactly what you need right now. Pumping that pretty dildo into your hole while focusing a vibrator on your clit just to lick up the mess you cause after.

But nothing is better than when he gest to fuck you. When you just lay back, throw your head back and just enjoy what he's doing to you. Letting his rough hands wander, gentle with you. Touching every inch, kissing every mark and insecurity. Talking all the stress away with that thick accent of his.

You want new decorations for your place? Well, bon, he's an artists for a reason. Tell him what you'd like and next time you see him its covered in oil pants and big grin in his face as he presents his work to you.

You found this pretty furniture at the thrift but it doesnt really fit your vibe? Don't worry, he's already getting his tools out and fixing it to your liking. And he wants you to explain in all the details what you want. He doesn't want you "kinda happy" because you thought you wanted too much. He will build and draw every detail with joy.

Long day and you just feel icky? The showers already running, let's go. Washes your hair, make sure to follow routine to keep it as pretty as it is, massages your scalp while he's at it. If you're stressed just say so and he will fuck it away, dont worry. Gets to his knees to wash your body, placing your feet onto his knee, making sure you're stable as he washes your leg. Sputters at the taste of soap he gets when he kisses them before washing it off.

It all doesn't stop when he's deployed. He's gotten into plenty of trouble for sneaking phones or letters onto ops so he could check up on you. Calls one of his friends, that you're also close with, to make sure you're taking care of yourself and to help you out if you aren't. Arranges for flowers to be sent to your apartment with sweet little notes. Ordering you your favourite takeout every now amd then so you dont have to worry about cooking. And when he sends you letters its in his best handwriting, accompanied by sweet doodles of a flower he saw, or your favourite animal all curled up and cozy. And always you, just something sweet about you, drawing little arrows and notes to point out all the things he loves so much.

Oh and the gifts. They're everywhere and you cannot get away. Every missions ends with you getting a pretty little something. Out with him and you're looking at something a little too long? Its yours. Sees something you might like and he's buying it, giving it to you with a big kiss onto your lips.

Your heels are starting to hurt? Yes, he will carry you, yes, he will swap shoes and make a foold out of himself to make you comfortable. Dont wanna carry your purse? Why would you even think you have to? He'll glady do it. You never ever get to be cold. The moment you shrink up am inch his jacket is thrown over your shoulders and he's pulling you against his warm.

He will also learn how to do make up just for you. Let's you train how to do long nails at him, or if this new make up hack works. He is not insecure about his masculinity and takes it all with pride if it means getting you to smile.

He is just the sweetest little man.

#god i love this mutt #he'd worship his lover so bad.#soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod smut #john mactavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x you #soap cod #brain spunk #sorry this was supposed to be longer but we ball #i also couldn’t think of more sweet habits lmao

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sydwritess · 21 hours ago

Note

I loved how you wrote my Lewis request, thank you so much :)

I have another idea, so the reader is 28 again and they met through Max and even those two have a history Max ships them and plays matchmaker :)

Have a nice day :)

Friend of a Friend

Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader

Summary: You and Lewis have met once before, due to you being a big fan of F1, but what happens when your best friend Max wants you and Lewis to be more than friends.

Second Person POV

Notes: requests are open!

You and Max have been friends for a while. You recently got a job ad an photographer at F1. You have gotten a chance to meet all of the drivers, mostly through Max. But one had caught your eye in particular.

Lewis Hamilton.

You will admit, to yourself and yourself only, that you had a minor crush on him. That was until you found you this age. You were twenty-eight while he had turned forty a couple of months ago.

It was a twelve year age difference, and you knew Max was sure to say something about it. He was practically your younger-older brother. But what was wrong? Him and Kelly are nine years apart.

You were zoned in on your thoughts, snapping picture after picture as a couple of demo-cars went around the track. It was Monday, the Silverstone race was over but there were sill people racing, or doing drag races.

"How's the hard work going." A light voice says behind you. You turn slightly to see Lewis walking up behind you, leaning on the balcony railing just as you are.

"Good. Great. My just consider not quitting." You say.

"Why's that?" He asks, looking out at the track.

"This fucking camera. Just... isn't working." You say.

"How old is it?"

"A year. And I don't really have it to get a new one." You say quietly, looking out at the cars going by you.

"Have you asked Christian for reimbursement?"

"I'm waiting. It's kind of all... messed up now that he's leaving so..." You trail off.

He puts a hand through his hair slowly. "That's right. I forgot about that."

"Men will be men." You say. He looks towards you fully. You catch his gaze. "Not like that." You say.

"No I know what you meant. I just didn't expect someone to say it out loud." He says, smirking.

"Yeah, you know." You say. There was a silence between you. The gentle Silverstone breeze blowing by your.

"Honestly I don't even know if I'll have a job in a few months." You say aloud.

"Really?" He asks.

"The women on our team are taking a lot of shit for what happened. Especially online. It's like... one girl and her boss can't keep their hands off each other or... whatever, so now all of us are taking shit. Saying that we didn't actually get here by hard work." You say slowly.

"But you did. People didn't even know you and Max were close until after you got the job." He says.

"Yeah. But that's not what they want to hear. Especially-"

"The guys." He finishes for you.

"I had this like seventeen year old come up to me one day, give me a dirty look and say 'I bet you slept your way through here. Didn't you?' Like, aren't you supposed to be in school?" You say. Lewis laughs.

"The amount of times I have to hold myself back from punching people in the face... I'm surprised I haven't fucking exploded yet." You say.

"That's how I feel every day." He says.

"I know, I bet Ferrari's kicking your ass right now." You joke.

"Well, according to Alex, it's good for my bank account." He chuckles.

"Oh, I'm sure. But hey, if you ever need a place to store your money, come talk to me." You say. He gives you a small smile before you walk away.

You walk downstairs from the podium stage and out to the paddock.

You walk back towards the Red Bull garage when you see Max walking towards you.

"Hey Y/n." He smiles.

"Hey Max." You say. You stop in front of him, looking intot he garage.

"Howa he doing?" You ask looking at the new Red Bull leader.

"He's actually quite good. Knows his stuff." He says.

"Can he buy me a new camera?" You ask, holding yours up?

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Just... it's being slow."

"Buy another one."

"Yeah... if I had the money."

"Reimbursement?"

"What do you think? I've tried everything Max. I'm just to... poor." You day.

"I can give you the money."

"I'm not taking money from you."

"I- alright." He says, giving up on ideas. "Oh! I want you to meet someone." He says, putting a hand on your back to turn you around.

You see Lewis walking straight towards you.

"Lewis, this is my close friend Y/n. Y/n this is Lewis. A driver."

"No shit Sherlock. He wouldn't have that pads around his neck saying drivers pass if he wandt a driver." You say.

"Alright." Max says awkwardly.

"Good to meet you y/n." Lewis says politely, reaching his hand out to shake yours.

"It's so good to meet you to lewis." You say, shaking his hand. Max stands to the side of you, giving you a wierd look.

"Your never this polite." He says.

"Just... love meeting new people."

"Since when?" He asks quickly.

"Since now." You say, letting go of Lewis' hand.

"I- anyway, so since your both here... I've been figuring for a while now, that you two should hang out." He says.

"Hang out?" You say.

"What?" Lewis asks.

"Why... why is this getting weird." Max states.

"We already know each other." You say.

"For a couple of years now actually." Lewis says.

"Oh." Max says, looking down.

"Oh! He lost again! Prepared to have your day ruined." You say loudly.

"Oh, shut up." Max mutters, rolling his eyes. Lewis bites back a laugh.

"Okay but, you could still hang out." Max says.

"Like... a date?"

"Exaclty, but a friendly date." Max backs.

"No, sorry. " You say.

"Yeah, we're to good of friends to be going out."

"Oh come on! Please!" Max begs.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Please I swear it will change your life!" Max says.

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "I will go on a friendly date if you can buy me a new camera." You say.

"Deal, deal, deal." He says.

"Tnat means spending thousands of dollars-"

"I already spend it on Kelly so please." He begs.

"You spend thousands of dollars on Kelly?" You ask.

"Yeah." He says slowly.

"How- what the fuck does she buy?"

"Jewelry. And shoes. And clothes. And baby clothes." He says, his eyes widened at you.

"Doesn't she have a fucking job?" You ask. He stays silent, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"Yes."

"Right. And-"

"Not the point. Anyway, we need date ideas."

"Woah woah woah. No explanation, no date." You say.

"Fine. I'm just making her feel like the princess that she is."

"Bitch this isn't Sofia the fucking first, is it? Once you go in debt I'm not getting you out." You say, pointing at him.

"Yeah, yeah, debt whatever. So... that date."

"That date." Lewis said.

Max hummed to himself. "How about La Table d'Elise."

"Sounds fancy." You say.

"Oh it is, top tier dinning experience." Max says.

"Is that the 'top tier dinning experience' as in spending five hundred dollars there?"

"What- how do you know?"

"That day you told me to get your I.D I saw it."

"What- okay... it was for a group dinner."

"A group as in two?"

"I-"

"It says it on the receipt."

"Okay... maybe it is expensive but." He walks over to Lewis. "He ahs money."

"Wow, that didn't just make me out to sound like a gold digger."

"No no, not like that."

"I'm up for it, if you are." Lewis says. You look him in the eyes.

"Sure, I'll go."

"Perfect!" Max jumps.

You are at home getting ready for tonight. You were finishing straightening your hair when there was a knock at the door.

You get up quickly to go answer it, you see Lewis standing there.

You step to the side of the door, letting him in. "How are you?" You ask, walking back over to the kitchen table.

"Good, how are you?" He asks, standing somewhat near you.

"Good, they didn't give you any trouble in the lobby right?" You ask.

"No, they just let me walk right up."

"Okay. They're all like... protective and shit so, you know."

"I do. Have people like that at my place."

You nod your head and unplug your straightener, putting it away before grabbing your purse and keys.

You both walk out of your apartment and down to the lobby. When you get out to his car, he opens the door for you, shutting it before getting in the driver's side himself.

He starts to drive off down the road. "I figure it would be best to tell you know that we are not going to the restaurant Max told us to go to."

"To expensive?"

"Exactly, so that receipt you found was probably discounted." he said.

"I kind of figured." You say. He starts going on his phone, pulling up the restaurants menu.

He hands his phone over to you. "Look at the first thing on there."

Your eyes widen. "Holy shit."

"Yeah." He says, smirking. "But don't worry, we're going to a better place than that."

You arrive to the restaurant in no time, getting out and walking in. You both get led to a quiet spot in the restaurant, barely anyone around you.

You look at the menu while drinking you water. "This is my type of stuff right here." You point to the menu. Lewis slightly laughs.

"These prices won't give you a heart attack?" He asks.

"No." You giggle. "Honestly I'd be happy if you took me to fucking McDonalds." You joke.

"I had that feeling." He smiled. "But tonight is supposed to be special."

"With the one and only." You smile, holding up your glass. He clink's his with yours.

Your date goes by slowly, but nice. You finished your meal and sat at the table talking for a while.

"Excuse me Ms.?" The waitress says, grabbing your attention. "I was told to give this to you, no name to it." She smiled slightly and walked away.

You look at the bag that was place in front of you with a confused look. "Is this from you?" You ask Lewis.

"No." He says.

You open it slowly, and inside was a brand new camera with a bow on it. There was a note in it to:

'From Max, have fun. P.S: look inside.'

You slowly laugh. "What a fucking bitch." You pull out the box and set it on the table. Lewis starts laughing with you.

"Look inside." You repeat from the letter. You look across the table at Lewis. "Do you mind if I open it?"

"Not at all." He smiles.

You open the box up slowly and pull the camera out. You power it on, going to the gallery. As you flip through the pictures, you smile more and more. Pictures of you and Lewis of the restaurant you were now sat in.

"What's on there?" Lewis asks curiously. You hand the camera to him and he smiles shyly.

"Oh my God. Where did he have the time to take these?" He asks.

"I have no idea." You say. He hands it back over to you, and you put it back in the bag.

You both spend a couple of more minutes in the restaurant before paid and left.

"I can't believe him." Lewis laughed, driving off from the restaurant.

"He's awful." You joke. He drives back to your apartment building. The ride was quiet, your mind focused at that moment at the restaurant. You hadn't even realized you were at your building until the car came to a sharp stop.

You and Lewis get out of the car, meeting around the front. "Thanks for tonight." You say.

"It was fun." He smiled, reaching into his back pocket. "I also have this for you."

He hands you a receipt for Monaco Print, a printing company. You look at it, something was already fully paid for.

"What is this?" You ask.

"I expect you to print some pictures out by this week." He says, pointing to the paper in your hands. "Some for me to."

"Thank you." You say, hugging him.

"Your welcome." He pulls away from you, looking at you. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'll be sure to have your pictures in hand." You smirk.

He laughs slightly. "Take care."

"You to." You say, looking back at him once before walking inside.

©sydwritess

Hey loves! Hope you like this one! Comment to be added to the F1 tag list! Requests are open!

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cherrysup · 3 days ago

Text

Dear Sweetheart (ii) - yandere male oc x reader

𖡼 summary. he sits behind you in art class and never says a word. but somehow, he knows everything about you- your favorite color, your class schedule, and even who you spoke to last night. is he someone connected to the mysterious love notes you've been receiving?

𖡼 tw. afab! reader, stalking/obsessive behavior, yandere themes, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, mild psychological horror, unreliable narrator, isolation, paranoia, boundary crossing, art as an obsession, and potential implied violence in later chapters. read responsibly!

𖡼 w/c. 4.4k+ (will increase as the chapters continue)

𖡼 authors note. I forgot how much I like writing... someone please give feedback, im my own beta reader

𖡼 chapters. one. two.

You found me anyway.

It had been a little over a week since you had moved into your new dorm, and not a single note has appeared. It seems that your admirer has either finally given up on you or your location is still unknown to them. Either option is pretty ideal to you, and you’re even starting to slightly relax at the possibility that your admirer has lost interest, giving you time to focus on your studies.

Your art class only met two times a week, on Mondays for an hour and Fridays for three. Considering this was only an elective class needed to fulfill your university’s required credits, you didn’t take this class seriously. It was fun, that’s for sure, but you were never the artistic type, at least not physically. You could appreciate art, but creating it was a whole other story.

Which is why you currently sat at your seat, easel presenting the scene of a kitten lying next to a torn stuffed animal which one could easily mistake as a bloody crime scene with the amount of red you decided to incorporate. It was supposed to represent the loss of innocence; you’re not sure what went wrong. Your teacher is bound to understand once you present it and make up some bullshit, of course.

“What the hell is that?” Tanvi says from next to you, having removed her headphones in order to stare at your mess of a painting. “It doesn’t even look like anything. I can… vaguely see a cat. I think.”

Between the two of you, Tanvi was the artist. A single glance at her own painting would tell you that. Not that you even cared, considering she was an actual art major, so she could beat you at this one thing.

“It’s a kitten. Having destroyed his stuffed animal and staring at the massacre he left behind. It showcases the loss of innocence at one’s own hands.” You explain, matter-of-factly. You had the idea; the problem was putting that idea on a canvas.

“Why is it red? Why is everything red? Is the teddy bear bleeding?” Tanvi immediately questions, leaning in closer to eye the painting properly, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.

Her reaction makes you snort as you watch her try to understand what you’re going for. “No, silly. The entire painting is red because you’re supposed to feel what the kitten feels. Rage, sadness, and pain. I think red showcases that perfectly, in a way, at least.”

You kept your voice low as not to disturb the other people in the class, continuing once Tanvi nodded her head at your explanation. “His name is Brutus the cat.” You explained for no particular reason at all other than to fill the silent air between the two of you, “I made him look like the cat I had in elementary school, remember? Caesar Salad. But it’s evil Caesar Salad so…. What other name fits better than Brutus?”

It was casual back and forth between the two of you for the remainder of class, luckily it was a Friday so this was your last class of the day meaning you could put all your effort into finishing Brutus and saving what could be saved of your mess of a painting. Which you eventually decided the mess of shades of red actually added to the destress you were trying to portray and left it as is.

This time, Tanvi stayed back to clean, since you had to pick up after her the last two times this class had met. You felt a little bad leaving her considering eventually it would just be her and the boy you’re both pretty sure hates her, Theodore. You knew she felt weary around him, possibly due to his cold attitude towards her or because she thought he was a real vampire.

You tried to convince her to let you stay and help clean up, but she was adamant that it was alright. She claimed that if you stayed, then your clean-up schedule would be disrupted, and it wouldn’t be worth it. With the way she was arguing against you staying with her, it seemed like she wanted you to leave. She probably needed the breather and silence that came with cleaning up alone, which you could respect.

Eventually, you left slightly hesitantly, hugging her goodbye and wishing the boy who sat behind you a good afternoon when you caught him looking at you expectantly.

Normally, after class, you’d head back to your dorm, either from tiredness or the anxiety that a note might be waiting for you. Maybe it was dumb to have hope that you wouldn’t receive another note considering it had only been 11 days since you last received one, but your admirer was usually very on point. They had never missed a day, so almost two weeks having passed likely meant that they had moved on.

Today, you weren’t tired. You were, however, hungry. With the slight rumble of your stomach, you decided to finally use the thousand-dollar meal plan your school had forced you to buy. You made your way over to the closest dining hall, headphones completely drowning out the chatter around you.

You grabbed a plate of whatever slop they were serving that day alongside a box of apple juice. It made you feel like a kid with their little cardboard box of juice. All you were missing was a stupid giant rainbow lollipop, but who were you to deny the delicacy that was processed apple juice? Even if most other students got coffee or soda, you doubted anyone would care if you sipped apple juice through a bendy straw. You weren’t in high school anymore anyways.

You took a seat in the far corner of the dining hall; it was around 1 p.m. so it was usually full due to the lunch rush. You were lucky enough to find an empty table and even more so for finding it away from everyone else.

You sat your food on the table, pushing it aside and pulling out your laptop from your backpack and setting it in front of you. If Lady Luck was on your side, you could hopefully finish an essay you’ve been procrastinating for the last four days.

Unfortunately, she had other plans.

Not even ten minutes into writing your first body paragraph, you felt the table move, signaling the sudden arrival of someone at your table. You didn’t look up yet, hoping to whatever spiritual being watching over you right now that the person was Tanvi.

You peeked over the top of your laptop to meet the eyes of someone you knew. Francis. One of the friends you had distanced yourself from after the location of your second dorm had been leaked to your admirer. You had no proof that it was him, but you couldn’t prove that it wasn’t, and that was enough for you then, as shitty as it sounds.

“Well, hello, stranger.” Francis says, never breaking eye contact with you. You grimace slightly; the way you randomly dropped him was enough for him to never speak to you again. So why was it that he reached out first? It didn’t make sense.

You started at him, a second passing, then two before you removed your headphones, “Francis. Hi.” You finally said, sort of shy. You felt as if you were meeting with an ex-boyfriend, weirdly enough.

“You… Don’t you have class right now? Psychology, right? I didn’t expect to see you here.” You continued in hopes of not alerting him of your awkwardness. Your eyes didn’t leave his; normally, you hated eye contact; it felt uncomfortable and unnatural. Yet, with Francis, you couldn’t pull yourself to look away from his bright green eyes.

As embarrassing as it is to admit, Francis is a handsome man, and you used to have a huge crush on him. You pushed the feeling away when you realized that they wouldn’t be reciprocated. That didn’t mean said feelings didn’t linger under the surface of any and all interaction you’ve had with the redhead since then.

A soft laugh disrupts your train of thought. You blink twice as you realize it came from the same man you were just thinking of. It wasn’t like he could read your thoughts, right? God, you hoped not; if so, you’d need to find the nearest bridge available and jump right off.

“You remember my class schedule, but you can’t remember to text me back?” Francis is still laughing, shaking his head as he whispers your name under his breath. “You’re so… silly. Aren’t you? I’m glad you haven’t changed in the two weeks you’ve been ignoring me.”

Now it was your turn to laugh. This laugh wasn’t smooth or as nice as Francis’ was. No, your laugh wasn’t forced and choppy, a good representation of what you felt right now.

“Uh. Yeah. I mean, of course, I remember your classes. I remember all my friends’ schedules.” You say, cutting your laugh abruptly short and grimacing once more, “I wasn’t ignoring you… per se. I was just… busy.”

You took a small breath to stabilize your voice; you didn’t want him to know how bad you felt about ditching him and the rest of your friends.

Before you could even continue, however, Francis began speaking, a small playful smile gracing his lips.

“The stalker, right? Yeah. I kinda made the connection when I went to go check on you in your new dorm when you weren’t replying to my messages. Imagine my surprise when I found out you moved yet again. This time, not telling me.” Francis’ smile doesn’t drop and his tone is as if nothing had happened.

“I got a note. It was my second or so day in my new room and I came back to a note on my floor.” You start, wasting no time in explaining, figuring there’s time better than the present to make things right again.

“It was… much softer than the rest. My admirer was apologizing for scaring me away. Like they were scared of me leaving them.” You continue softly, finally pulling yourself to look away from his gaze.

“They ended the note by telling me that… someone gave them my new dorm room number. A friend, they had said. That I should be careful who I trust.” You explain weakly, shrugging, “It sort of made me… doubt everything. I can only trust Tanvi now. Or well, I could only trust her at that time.”

Francis doesn’t speak or interrupt. He lets you finish and once you’re done explaining yourself to him, he nods slowly, a look of understanding in his eyes.

“No, I understand. I guess I just wanted to hear it from you personally. You’ve known Tanvi the longest. It only makes sense that you would trust her more.” Francis finally says, his smile somehow softening even more.

You’re glad he understands, even if what you did was shitty, it’s nice to know he won’t hold it completely against you. Even if you knew everyone else rightfully did.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what else to do. If I couldn’t rule you out… then I assumed there was a chance. It was stupid. I didn’t mean to hurt you guys and lose you.” You say, apologizing because what else is there for you to do?

“Naw. It’s fine. I’m not mad at you. I can’t speak for the others but I totally get it. I like hanging out with you. You don’t have to tell me where your new dorm is but I don’t want to lose contact with you.” The way he said it made you believe him, made you want to keep him close. Are you gullible for feeling this way? Maybe.

“Oh.” Is all you could say. There were hundreds of other ways to respond to such an affectionate statement but you chose ‘oh’ like an idiot. Perhaps the way your eyes flickered to meet his and the shy smile on your lips spoke enough because he laughed once more.

“I want to be friends too. I feel guilty for accusing you of something I have no proof of. I missed you.” The two of you are being weirdly sentimental for a random Friday afternoon but neither of you seems to mind, if anything, you two are basking in it.

“Cool. Well, you have my number, don’t you? Don’t be afraid to reach out. And if I text you asking to hang out later tonight, maybe respond, okay? And hey, Monique will come around.”Francis says, getting up, his tone playful and eyes shining slightly.

“I gotta go. I saw you walk in here and had to say hi. But you’re right, I do have psych right now and I’m gonna get marked absent.” He explains, quickly, grabbing his bag off the ground. He leans over the table, as if he was going to hug you but instead picking up your apple juice, “You owe me.” He says, grinning.

You wave as he rushes out of the dining hall. He turns and waves goodbye before leaving the hall. You’re in disbelief as you see him take a sip of your juice.

What a strange… strange man. Strange even feels like it isn’t a strong enough word to describe him.

Even though you should feel better after the conversation you just had with Francis, you didn’t. You felt worse.

You looked back down at your food, your hunger having suddenly vanished, and the tray looked unappetizing with the disappearance of your apple juice.

You felt like shit. Why were you letting the people you dropped come to you and seek your apology or explanation rather than going to them yourself? Were you that pathetic?

Francis had mentioned Monique, someone who had been your first college friend. He had said that she would come around. Did that mean she was mad at you? You wouldn’t hold it against her. If anyone had practically accused you of helping their admirer find their location with no proof, you’d be mad too.

You felt stupid for feeling like this. You felt as if you were victimizing yourself. You had no right to.

And was it stupid to miss them even though you’re the reason you aren’t on good speaking terms with your four other friends? Had you acted rashly? It felt like you had.

You had always felt safe with Francis, why did you doubt him? Monique made you feel comfortable and confident, and Claire was practically your partner in crime, so why did you get rid of them so quickly?

Your mind was running at speeds uncontrollably, and it was overwhelming. Not even closing your eyes could rid you of the thoughts.

With a sigh, you stood up, shoving your laptop in your backpack. No use trying to eat or work when you felt like this. You felt horrible, even though you felt you didn’t have the right to.

You grabbed your tray and emptied it in the trash before putting it away where it belonged. You were acting based on automation, like you weren’t really there. You really needed to get out of there before you crashed out.

Thankfully, someone had opened the door for you to leave; otherwise, you most likely would’ve crashed into the door. Looking up to thank the person, your eyes met with a familiar grey.

“Theodore. Thank you. Haha, I almost face-planted into the door; you saved my nose.” You laughed softly, slightly coming out of your stupor.

“Yeah… Uh. No problem. Really. I uh… I like your nose. I wouldn’t want it to bleed.” Theodore threw out, almost like he wasn’t in control of his mouth. His eyes were wide, he was out of breath, and his cheeks flushed, like he had just run.

“You… like my nose? Haha, thank you? That’s sweet.” You murmured, nose crinkling slightly at the compliment. His gaze was fixated on your nose, that much you could tell with the way his eyes widened.

“I should go. I have to finish a paper I haven’t even started. But thank you so much for looking out for me, Theodore. Even if you weren’t doing it like that.” You thanked one last time. You sort of felt like throwing up for some reason.

“Oh. Yeah… no… no uh problem. Really. Haha. Um. You… look… really happy today; it’s nice to see you… see you give a real smile for once.” Theodore mumbled out before making another one of his sudden and unexpected leaves, leaving you staring at the spot he just stood at.

If Francis was strange, then Theodore was abnormal. You could never really tell what his intentions were.

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it sort of endearing. Even if he had some sort of beef with Tanvi you didn’t know about. You shook your head at the thought; somehow, your interaction with Theodore made you feel better.

You reflected on that feeling the entire walk back to your dorm. You didn’t know why; you just couldn’t get your mind off of it; it was a good distraction.

You made it to your dorm at record time, your feet carrying you when your mind was somewhere else. You were so distracted that you missed the thick wad of paper that crumbled under your feet the moment you stepped in.

You closed the door behind you and practically collapsed onto your bed. You had finally finished unpacking all your clothes and putting up your decorations.

You looked around at your work. It wasn’t much, but you enjoyed the cozy feeling the room gave you.

That’s when your eyes landed on a folded piece of paper. Curious, you sat up on your bed. Did you drop a piece of paper? It couldn’t be a note; your admirer left notes on sticky notes or index cards, not sheets of paper.

You eyed it for another second before shrugging; it probably fell out of your backpack when you were leaving in a rush for class earlier. You decided you’d pick it up later; you wanted to take a quick nap.

You laid back down onto your back, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths.

You lay in silence for a few minutes, but the chance that the piece of paper wasn’t just yours and was another note didn’t leave your mind. The overwhelming feeling made you jump out of bed and towards the note, grabbing it and taking it back to bed.

You sat crisscross in the middle of your bed, folded paper in your hand. If it turned out to just be your own piece of paper, then good. If it was a note, then… you didn’t know how you’d feel.

You unfolded the paper, heart racing and eyes wide. On the sheet was handwriting you’ve come to know and… fear. This note was written in glitter pen in your favorite color. The note was littered with cute cat stickers and hearts. It was obvious your admirer had taken their time with this one.

The note read: ‘Dear Sweetheart.

I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to find you. Trust me, if it were up to me, you would never go a day without a note. You looked amazing today, red really suits you. Your outfit almost reminds me of a certain cat. Anyways, I saw that you’re letting people back in. That’s so cute. You’re so sweet, even to those who don’t deserve it. You looked happy, disgustingly so. I almost didn’t want to interrupt you guys. But I missed you. I wonder if you’ll let me in too. Remember, you can’t trust anyone. I mean, how else would I have gotten your location last time? You don’t need him. You only need me. I love you.

Love, P.’

Your heart beat increased as you read on. How the hell had they found you this time? Last time they found you, they had explicitly said a friend of yours had given them your dorm number, this time, however, there was no indication of that. They found you themselves.

You should be terrified about the fact. You should be mad you have to move dorms once again and report this to your RA. You should be scared this person apparently saw your conversation with Francis.

You aren’t feeling any of those things.

You shouldn’t feel happy you finally got a note again. You shouldn’t be blushing at the contents. And you most definitely should not be waiting for the next note.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” You voiced out loud in a whisper. You didn’t want to report the note. Did you have to? You were coming to realize… you don’t mind the notes. They’re sweet. Not only that, it’s been over a month since the first one, if your admirer wanted to do something to you, they would’ve. There’s no harm in… indulging in it, was there?

You folded the note carefully, placing it on your bed before searching for your phone. You needed advice; Tanvi would do it; she had never failed you.

Before you could even grab your phone, the signature notification sound played. When you unlocked your phone, you saw Tanvi beat you to it; it was like the two of you were connected.

You clicked on her contact and read the message she had sent: ‘LMAO Francis found you, huh? Awkward… I saw him leaving the dining hall 💀’ Weird. Normally, this type of message was normal between the two of you. So why did this message feel so weird?

How did she even know you went to the dining hall? Had you mentioned it during Art? Maybe, today’s been a hectic day for you.

No. You didn’t like talking enough to forget the things you said. Your anxiety barely let you forget the conversations you had; you spent nights staring at the ceiling, going over them and what other things you could’ve said. You don’t remember saying anything. You hadn’t even really been hungry in class.

You scrolled up to read your past messages, not seeing any mention of the dining hall. You felt your heart race and your chest hurt as you attempted to recall this conversation, which most definitely did not exist.

Tanvi probably just saw you enter the dining hall. That’s what happened.

Except it didn’t. Tanvi was still cleaning up when you left and made your way to get your food.

She had just seen you leaving, duh. Which would make sense if she wasn’t meeting her girlfriend in the science hall right after Art.

You chewed on your lip, lost in thought. Was Tanvi… the one who had been writing those notes? No… she loved her girlfriend too much to do that. Was she helping your admirer?

You felt your heart drop at the thought. Why would she do that? Why would she betray you like that? Is this a joke?

No… Why were you accusing your closest and longest friend of doing something so horrible? Why would you do that to her?

The thoughts swirled in your mind, and your eyes landed on the note you got today. You opened it again and re read it. No… Your admirer had to find your dorm room themselves… they said last time they had a friend help them.

Only Tanvi knew your location, so… if she was helping them, then… they would’ve sent a note earlier.

Yeah, it all made sense. Tanvi wasn’t betraying you. Really, you were betraying her by even thinking of accusing her of such atrocities. She probably just saw you at some point.

You stared at the note, rereading it. You let out a soft sigh as your fingers played with one of the stickers on the paper. You felt… calm reading it. Is that weird? Maybe. But you didn’t care.

You didn’t even finish reading it when another text message awoke your phone.

This time, it wasn’t Tanvi. It was Francis.

He had said he wanted to reach out. And you promised to respond.

“Hey. U wanna hang out tonight at like 7 at my place? I got Super Smash Bros and alcohol. It’ll be just us.” The message was so simple… so familiar. He texted like you guys had never spent weeks apart.

Cute. He was… cute. It seems your crush on him never really left, huh? But he texted like this with everyone; it’s not like you were special.

You could see he began typing again before deleting everything. He was waiting for you to reply first. Which you did immediately, “Heyyy. omg of course! I’ll see u there :]”

There. You were calm and simple. There was no way he would see how fat of a crush you had on him. Then, you waited for his response. You saw him type and delete for four minutes before he ended up just liking the message. Ouch.

I mean, yeah, what else would he do? Continue the conversation? You’d talk when you went to his place. You’re just his friend; if you were even that right now, you shouldn’t expect more. He wouldn’t like you like that anyways; he had two other girls actively involved with him.

Still, it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt a little. As silly as you felt for feeling like that. You sighed and threw your phone at the other end of your bed.

Your eyes landed on the paper still on your lap. You read it again. And again. And again.

Eventually, you pulled yourself away from the note. A big smile had made itself on your flushed face as you resold the note.

You stood up from your spot on the bed and took a seat in the ground. You pulled out a small box hidden under your bed. It wouldn’t hurt to not tell your RA about this. Your admirer hadn’t done anything or threatened you yet. So what was the harm?

You opened the box full of old notes. You looked down at the note in your hand, squeezing it softly before placing it in the box, shutting it and pushing it back under your bed. “Just one more note. Just one more note, then I’ll report it.” You muttered to yourself, staring at the box.

The room had never been so quiet; you could only hear your increasing heartbeat. Was it fear? Something you couldn’t name?

You stood up, shaking your head as you got back on your bed. You laid back down, the silence pressing you against it.

You shouldn’t feel comforted.

But you did.

sooo chapter 2... idk how to feel with it.. please help me by criticizing me :3

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