#while knowing that there are still more (now just three) chapters left

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-nine: blind spot

word count: 4.4k(?)

warnings: this chapter contains mentions of drugs, weaponry, and other illegal activities. reader discretion is advised.

twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty

He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing.

Give her space. Let her breathe, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this about you.

But it was a joke, really. Because no matter how many times he told himself to back off, Lando couldn’t stop wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, whether she’d eaten something that could actually be considered food. Whether she’d eaten the bread still warm from the bakery or left it to go stale on the table. Whether she cried when she was alone. Whether she cried at all.

He told himself to grow up. This wasn’t some teenage crush. He had blood on his ledger, weight on his name. He ran half the city’s undercurrent from behind the veil, stitched the streets together with money and fear and brute control.

So he acted like it.

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper. 

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again. 

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair. 

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price. 

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again. 

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough. 

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared. 

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice. 

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.” 

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it,  clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

a/n: yippee! a new chapter, and some new (familiar) faces! what do we think?

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Almost, Always - Chapter 14

paige x azzi

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

A/N: I know it's been a long minute... things just got super busy and I haven't had time to really sit down and write much, but finally got around to it... I'm going to try and write another chapter this weekend since this is another filler chapter. I promise I'm setting things up!! I was feeling a little stuck on where to take things, but had a creative breakthrough. I have no clue how long this series will be, but I'm actually thinking about making a sequel to it... let me know if you'd be interested in a longer story line for this.

Hopefully you like this chapter :)

WC: 4k+

CHAPTER 14: AWKWARD (BUT NOT REALLY) 

Paige POV

She liked being the first one in the gym. Not because it made her look good or gave her some imaginary edge, but because of the quiet. The kind that hummed through the rafters before the machines started clanking before feet started squeaking against the floor. The kind that reminded her of early mornings in high school, of unlocked doors and a ball that didn’t judge.

This morning, the quiet felt earned. Like breathing after a held breath.

She’d slept weird—Azzi’s laugh had drifted into her dreams, tangled with the smell of vanilla and sweat, her hoodie sleeves brushing Paige’s skin like they did when she wore it to bed. She woke up early, restless, chest full of static and something soft that wouldn’t go away.

Instead of fighting it, Paige got up. Quiet. Bare feet on cold floor. She crossed the room and opened the top drawer of her dresser.

The ring box was right where she left it—tucked beneath a folded pair of socks she never wore. She hadn’t opened it in weeks. Not since before the tension.

But this morning? She didn’t hesitate.

She cracked it open.

There it was—still gleaming in the half-light, still hers. Still waiting.

She stared at it for a while, thumb brushing the edge of the velvet like it might answer something. It was simple. Elegant. Chosen for Azzi. She hadn’t bought it on a whim. It had been months in the making. A million texts to her group chat. 

Her mind went back to all that had changed over the past month. She shook her head thinking about the mess. The woman from the restaurant—the one the tabloids had wrongly pegged as her latest fling—had actually been her proposal planner. Someone she’d met with three times to figure out how to ask Azzi in the offseason. Quietly. Intimately. In a way that felt right.

If she’d known the media would turn it into a whole thing, she might’ve been more strategic. Kept it quieter. Waited to meet in a hotel lobby instead of a place with windows. But back then, she hadn’t been thinking about the cameras. Or the commentary. She’d been thinking about her.

She’d been so sure.

Until everything got loud.

The photo. The video clip from college. The whisper campaigns. The silence. Azzi pulling back. The way it all confirmed what Paige had always lowkey feared—that stepping out, even just a little, might blow the whole thing up.

She’d thought it would be her who panicked. Her who couldn’t breathe under the weight of being known. But it had been Azzi who disappeared first.

And for a second—maybe longer—Paige thought that was it. That the thing they’d carefully, slowly built had finally cracked. So she tucked the ring away. Waited. Let things settle.

But now?

Seeing her in D.C. had shifted something. Not with a big talk or some neatly packaged resolution, but in how Azzi opened the door. In the way she didn’t flinch when Paige stepped inside. In the way she let Paige stay, let her close the distance—not just physically, but in every quiet, intentional way that mattered.

The next morning, Azzi had sent her a Snapchat—messy bun, eggs on the stove, Paige’s hoodie hanging off her frame like it belonged there. No caption. She didn’t need one. The note Paige had tucked into the collar was still sitting beside her coffee in the shot.

It hadn’t solved everything, but it had said enough.

She still wanted the playoff run. Still wanted the wins, the highlight reels, the pressure-cooker moments that made her feel alive. But the offseason wasn’t just a break anymore. It was a horizon. A maybe. A real, tangible soon. 

She closed the box slowly and set it back in its spot, safe under the socks, but not forgotten. Not buried.

Then she grabbed her bag and headed out, her steps lighter than they’d been in weeks.

The gym always made sense. But this morning, so did everything else.

She laced her shoes slowly, tightening the loops until they felt like armor. Then she hit play on her playlist—not the hype one, not yet. Something mellow. Just enough noise to fill the space while she found her rhythm at the line.

The ball rolled off her fingertips like muscle memory. One shot. Then another. Then five more in a row. Each swish landed with quiet certainty, like her body had remembered something her mind was still catching up to.

She was okay.

Not faking it. Not bracing. Not running a loop of what-ifs in the back of her skull.

Actually okay.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was holding her breath.

Her shot was clean—part repetition, part release. And threaded through it all, like light slipping in under a closed door, was something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.

Joy. Real joy.

Not the performance kind. Not the distracted, this-will-do kind. The kind that settled in her chest and stayed.

The gym doors creaked open. Arike stepped in, her braids pulled low beneath a hoodie, walking like she owned the floor before anyone else even got to use it.

She paused at the edge of the court, arms crossed, watching Paige sink another shot.

“Well, look at you,” she said, grinning. “I’m sensing a whole vibe shift.”

Then, with a smirk that said she already knew: “That ‘someone just got their girl back’ energy is loud this morning.”

Paige caught the rebound and raised an eyebrow. “Relax….”

Arike let out a low laugh. “Whatever love spell you’re under, keep it. Your jumper hasn’t looked this nice in months.” 

Paige chuckled, jogging toward her water bottle. She grabbed it in stride, raised it to her lips, took a slow sip—then froze mid-swallow as the next song came on.

SZA’s “Awkward.”

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to land.

Her fingers tightened around the bottle. Her breath caught in her throat.

And just like that, her whole body remembered.

God. That song.

A memory crashed through her like a skip on vinyl, and suddenly, she wasn’t in Dallas anymore. She was back in Storrs. In a tiny dorm room that had gone too quiet.

It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel suspended—snow tapping against the dorm window in slow rhythm, the rest of campus long asleep or wrapped in something quieter. Inside Paige’s room, the air was warm. Dim. Charged.

Her lamp cast a soft amber glow across the gray walls, throwing shadows over the mess of clothes and textbooks and the bed that looked less like a place to sleep and more like a memory in motion. The sheets were twisted. Still warm. Still lived-in.

The room smelled like cocoa butter. Like dryer sheets clinging to cotton. Like something deeper now—something unmistakably Azzi.

Azzi lay on her stomach, stretched halfway across Paige’s bed in one of her oversized gray UConn tees. It slipped down her shoulder, baring smooth skin and the slope of her back, the line of muscle Paige hadn’t let herself stare at for too long before. Until last night.

Her cheek pressed into the pillow, lashes fluttering. Not quite asleep. Not quite anything.

Paige sat beside her, cross-legged, heart still trying to settle. Her fingers moved slowly through Azzi’s curls like they’d been doing it for years. Like her hands already knew the shape of her.

They hadn’t talked much since it happened.

Since the line.

The line they’d blurred for months and finally, finally crossed last night—no, sprinted across, barefoot and breathless. Wrapped in nervous laughter and stuttered breaths and whispered oh my gods against skin. A night that had gone from tentative to hungry, from soft to frantic to soft again.

It had been hands that hovered—then claimed. Mouths that hesitated—then explored. A map they made up as they went, breath hitching and eyes holding too much.

And then, after?

Stillness.

Not cold. Not awkward. Just... full.

Like the aftermath of something seismic.

Because it had always been building toward this. Every long hug, every brush of a knee under a blanket, every late-night FaceTime that lingered too long on silent smiles. And now here they were. Blinking in the soft aftermath like they’d woken up in a version of their world that had been waiting for them to catch up.

The speaker, still connected to Paige’s phone, crackled softly—and then shuffled into a new song.

“Awkward,” by SZA.

Azzi shifted, the shirt sliding further down her back. She lifted her head just enough to look at Paige, her lips parted, her voice still heavy with sleep and sex.

“Seriously?” she murmured, the rasp in her tone shooting straight down Paige’s spine.

Azzi rolled onto her side, letting the shirt slide off one bare shoulder, revealing freckles Paige hadn’t realized she knew by heart. Her eyes stayed locked on Paige’s, dark and unblinking, like she was reading something there.

The lyrics rolled through the room like smoke. You look at me different, so I let you see my body...

Paige’s breath caught. Her hand was still in Azzi’s hair, but now it was still. Like the rest of her.

“It’s a little too on the nose, don’t you think?” she whispered, a dry laugh catching in her throat.

Azzi didn’t smile, but her lips quirked, slow and private.

“You asking if I regret it?”

Paige shook her head, slow and certain. “No. I already know you don’t.”

Because she did know. Not just from last night, but from the way Azzi had kissed her on that summer night before Paige left for college. Hesitant at first, then like she couldn’t hold it back. The kiss they never talked about after. The one that split something wide open between them. The one Paige had carried with her into every locker room, every away game, every stretch of silence where she didn’t know how to ask if it still meant something.

This moment—this version of them tangled in dorm sheets, speaking in glances and touches and unspoken knowing—it was the answer to all of that.

Azzi’s hand reached out, fingers brushing the hem of Paige’s shorts, then slipping underneath—just barely—drawing slow, lazy patterns into the skin of her thigh.

“I don’t,” she said. “Not even a little.”

Her voice was low. Steady. But Paige could hear the unspoken question tucked inside it—do you?

Paige blinked once. Her heart thudded, slow and heavy, like her body was catching up to what had already happened. She reached for Azzi’s hand, covering it gently, not to stop her—just to hold.

Her voice came out quietly. Barely a breath.

“Me neither.”

She hesitated, then leaned in just enough to rest her forehead against Azzi’s. Let their skin meet before their mouths did. Let her exhale right into the space between them.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she whispered. “I didn’t know if I was making it up.”

Azzi’s hand tightened against her thigh, just slightly.

“You weren’t.”

Paige pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes again. There was something in Azzi’s gaze that steadied her—unflinching, warm, all in.

So Paige kissed her. Slow. Certain. Not to restart something, but to stay in it.

Like she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Back in the gym, Paige smiled to herself.

Arike looked over. “You good?”

Paige nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just remembering something nice.”

She pulled her phone from her pocket. No hesitation.

Text to Azzi: Guess what just played in the gym.

______________________________________________________________

Azzi POV

She’d felt different ever since Paige left D.C.

Not like everything had magically fallen into place. Not like the universe had handed them some tidy, well-lit answer. But something inside her had stopped bracing. Like her chest had finally unclenched. Like she'd stepped out of a holding pattern and remembered what it meant to move forward without flinching.

The air between them had cleared—not with some sweeping confession or dramatic monologue, but in smaller ways. In the way Paige stood in the doorway like she wasn’t sure if she’d be let in, and how Azzi didn’t hesitate to pull her across the threshold. In the way their bodies fit like they always had. In the way silence didn’t feel like avoidance, but understanding.

No perfect timing. No expectations.

Just warmth. Just touch. Just Paige, showing up and saying without saying, I still want this.

Text from Paige: Guess what just played in the gym

Azzi glanced at the screen, already smirking as she took another sip of water.

Azzi: You’re gonna have to help me out

Paige: SZA. “Awkward.”

Azzi’s grin deepened.

Azzi: Wow. Did it bring you back to the best night of your life or?

Paige: Bold of you to assume I ever left.

Azzi: Fair.

Azzi: Still can’t believe it started playing right after… you know.

Paige: Oh, I know. The universe dropped it like a mic.

Azzi: You were lucky I was too wrecked to bully you about your playlist.

Paige: You were too wrecked to form full sentences. All I got was “oh my God.”

Azzi: Wrong. I also said “don’t stop.” Repeatedly.

Paige: Okay, now you’re just trying to kill me.

Azzi: You started it.

She hit send before she could overthink it. The smile tugging at her mouth was smug, but her pulse was ticking up. Because now she was thinking about it—really thinking about it.

Azzi: With your hands.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The second she typed it, heat bloomed in her chest. She remembered the pressure, the grip, the way Paige had touched her like she was allowed to. Like she'd always been allowed to.

Azzi: And your mouth.

She paused again. Swallowed. Her breath hitched just slightly. That memory lived in her spine now. Low and full and addictive. Her thumbs hesitated over the next line, then typed anyway.

Azzi: And that thing you did…

She stopped typing. Hitting send before finishing the sentence. Knowing exactly what it would do to Paige. She stared at the screen, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

God, Paige.

Her phone buzzed before she could send another text to finish the sentence. 

Paige: Don’t even finish that sentence.

Azzi laughed, cheeks warm now, heart thudding steady.

Azzi: Make me.

Paige: Say less. See you in Dallas.

Azzi stared at the screen, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek as a slow, involuntary smile crept across her face. Her heart gave one sharp thump.

Oh. So that’s how they were playing this.

She exhaled through her nose, trying to settle the heat that had officially spread beneath her skin.

Azzi locked her phone, still holding it in her hand like it might say something else.

Then she pressed it to her chest and let herself sit in it for a second—just the quiet, the tension, the yes of it all.

Her flight to Dallas was in less than 24 hours. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t overthinking it.

She was just excited to see her.

Azzi had started packing for Dallas the next morning, her suitcase half-zipped on the edge of her bed. Practice gear, slides, recovery tools—all the usual stuff. But her movements had been slower, more deliberate. Like each item she folded was helping her mentally shift from everything that had happened back into what was still coming.

Her hand hovered over Paige’s hoodie for a second before she tucked it in beside her compression sleeves. It didn’t smell like her anymore, not really—just detergent and the faint trace of last night’s sweat. But it still felt like something. Like comfort. Like a piece of this quiet new thing they were building.

But even as she tucked it in, something twisted low in her chest.

Paige’s hoodie felt like safety. But the suitcase—it felt like expectation.

The lights, the interviews, the camera shots that always seemed to find her when she wasn’t ready—Azzi was starting to realize that being part of “them” came with a cost she hadn’t fully counted on. Especially when the headlines blurred their names together, or left hers out completely.

And maybe it wasn’t supposed to matter. Maybe it shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Not because she needed the attention. But because she was tired of only being seen in Paige’s orbit.

She sat back on her heels, glancing at the open suitcase.

Her phone buzzed—this time, with a FaceTime call.

KK.

Azzi grinned before answering.

“Yo,” KK grinned from her dorm room, sprawled across her bed in team sweats. “Game Two Azzi was a problem. I’m still watching that dagger three on a loop.”

Azzi laughed. “I needed that one.”

KK grinned wider. “You needed all of ‘em. That whole game was a masterclass.”

Azzi shook her head, still smiling. “You’re just saying that because of the and-one in the third.”

“I mean, I am,” KK said, not even pretending to deny it. “You hit that spin move into the lane and had their whole backcourt praying.”

Azzi mock-bowed. “Took a little divine intervention.”

“Please. You cooked, Azzi. That pull-up off the screen in the fourth? Filthy.”

Azzi leaned back into her pillows, feeling the warmth settle in her chest. “Yeah… that one felt good.”

KK pointed a finger at the screen. “That’s the look. That’s the you I’ve been waiting to see again.”

Azzi let out a quiet breath. “It’s been a minute.”

KK nodded. “But you’re back now. Not just the stats. You.”

Azzi bit her bottom lip, gaze dropping for a second. “Trying to be.”

KK’s voice softened, her smile fading into something more sincere. “You good?” she asked again, this time with more weight behind it. “Like—not just on the court.”

Azzi hesitated.

Then nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

KK tilted her head. “You guys get a chance to talk about things?”

Azzi made a face, pressing her water bottle to her cheek. “Define talk.”

KK groaned immediately. “Ew. Never mind. I take it back. I don’t want to know.”

Azzi laughed, but only for a second. Then her smile softened, thinned out around the edges.

“We didn’t talk much. Not with words, anyway.”

KK rolled her eyes. “That’s gross, and also not shocking.”

Azzi didn’t fire back. She sat with it for a second, then added quietly, “But it was good. Really good.”

KK leaned back into her pillows, eyes narrowing just a bit. “So then… what aren’t you saying?”

Azzi hesitated. The humor faded from her expression as she stared past the screen for a second.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think… I think I’m still trying to figure out if it’s okay to want something for myself in all of this.”

KK didn’t move.

Azzi kept going. “It’s not just the noise. It’s everything. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do—how well I play, what I come back from—it’s still always about her.”

KK’s teasing faded instantly. “You mean the spotlight?”

Azzi exhaled slowly, letting her gaze drift toward the ceiling. “Not always. But yeah… sometimes.”

Azzi nodded, slowly. “Back when we won the natty together…. I was MOP. I had the comeback I worked so hard for. And I was so proud of that. But it was still Paige’s moment. And I didn’t mind at the time. I really didn’t.”

She looked down, voice quieter.

“But now? I wonder if I’ll ever have something that’s just mine. Where I’m not Paige’s girlfriend or Paige’s teammate or the girl standing next to her in the photo.”

She rubbed her fingers across the bridge of her nose. “And I feel like an awful person for even saying that. Because I love her. I do. And I want her to shine. I just… I want to know that I can, too.”

KK let the silence hang for a beat.

Then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re not awful. You’re human. And you’re not the only person who’s ever loved someone with gravity.”

Azzi looked back at the screen.

“And yeah, Paige draws attention. But that doesn’t cancel out what you are. You’ve got a different kind of gravity, Azzi. One that doesn’t have to compete.”

Azzi’s eyes stung in that annoying way she always hated.

KK smiled. “You don’t have to dim to stand beside her. And trust me, you are already a name. You just haven’t fully stepped into it yet.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I needed to hear that.”

KK grinned, letting the moment sit for a beat before leaning back into her pillows again. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for—emotional wisdom and unsolicited trash talk.”

Azzi laughed, tension finally loosening in her chest.

KK raised an eyebrow. “Just… maybe next time, talk with your words first. Then do the other stuff.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “We’ll try to be more verbally productive next time.”

KK smirked. “Please do. I’m too invested in this storyline to have it derailed by your inability to use full sentences post-makeout.”

Azzi shook her head, smiling for real now.

“Shut up,” she muttered, still laughing.

“Never,” KK shot back, already blowing her a kiss before hanging up. “Good luck in Dallas, superstar.”

Azzi set her phone down on the nightstand, the ghost of KK’s voice still lingering in the quiet.

She sat there for a moment, just breathing. Letting the silence settle, not as something empty—but as something earned.

Tomorrow was Game Three. The kind of game that demanded everything. That rewrote storylines, shifted narratives, and exposed legacies. She wanted to win—of course she wanted to win. That would never change.

But for the first time, it wasn’t just about the scoreboard.

And that’s where the knot sat in her chest—tight and quiet and pulsing beneath the surface.

Because even now, even after everything with Paige felt steadier, everything else still felt loud.

The restaurant rumor. The assumptions. The headlines that made Paige and their relationship look bad. Some of the headlines didn’t even use her name. Just ‘girlfriend of star guard.’ Like she was a tag, not a player. She hated how invasive it had all felt. How easily they became content instead of people.

She’d always loved being part of Paige and Azzi. The rhythm of it. The safety. There was comfort in standing next to someone the world already adored. Paige could take the spotlight, the scrutiny, the pressure. And Azzi? She could just play. Just be.

She’d liked it that way.

Until recently.

Until she realized she wanted something more.

Not more than Paige. Not instead of her.

Just more for herself.

She wanted a career that wasn’t measured in Paige comparisons. She wanted postgame interviews that didn’t pivot to questions about their relationship. She wanted her name to be the one in bold sometimes, not just mentioned in passing as a girlfriend, or a return-from-injury storyline, or a quiet second.

And that realization came with guilt.

Because she loved Paige. Loved her with her whole chest, with a history that stretched across dorm rooms and playoff tunnels and late-night calls when her knees ached and her hope did too.

But still—she couldn’t pretend she didn’t want her own thing.

Her own legacy. Her own moment. Her own light.

Paige had both. The platform and the partner. The headline and the hand to hold.

Azzi wanted that too.

And she was tired of feeling like she didn’t have permission to say it.

KK had been right. She didn’t have to dim just because Paige already shined. They could shine differently. Side by side.

She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring. Who would win. What the world would say about them next.

But she was sure of this: she wasn’t going to wait around for clarity.

She was going to speak it.

She pulled Paige’s hoodie from the top of her suitcase and slipped it over her head. The sleeves still stretched past her fingers. The fabric smelled more like detergent than vanilla now—but the weight of it? That still felt like home.

She pressed her palms to her knees and whispered to the room:

“I’m ready.”

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #14 死

† camping trip mysteries †

"You'd have never said you'd be involved in a Council of 9 meeting at any point in your life; yet here you are, suddenly thrusted into a mission with the Chief you've just hooked up with, because your life couldn't possibly get more complicated."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9k

content: female friendships, silly conversations, Vyunjin, dodgeball, AD being horrible with throws, cryptic stuff, council meetings, having to work with jeon officially, gang loyalty and bestie gossip

☠ author's note ☠

 I really milked this camping trip for all it's worth, huh? Three whole chapters of outdoor shenanigans! I regret NOTHING. Anyway, here's the conclusion of our little nature excursion! Hope you enjoyed this slightly more chill setting (apart from, y'know, chapter 12's 👉🏻👌🏻 situation) because don't worry—there's PLENTY of time for everything to go spectacularly to shit later <3

MY KIWI HEAD 🥝🤧 I genuinely love him so much and I'm as surprised as you are! Who would have thought?? I seriously had ZERO intentions for Takama when I started this—no plan, no backstory, nothing. He just showed up in my brain one day demanding rights.

Maybe I love him so much because he's the only one with more than two functioning brain cells? Like, the man is just... chill. Nice. Using his fucking brain. Being all wise and grounding while everyone else is having emotional crises left and right. THE VOICE OF REASON IN THIS CIRCUS.

Takama x Reader endgame??? Jkjk this is a Jeon Jungkook fanfic ☝️ ...which doesn't mean shit won't happen before/after 👀

ANYWAY I'll leave you to make your own assumptions about our kiwi boy. All I'm saying is that sometimes characters write themselves into your heart and there's nothing you can do about it. Is it just me as an author having unhealthy attachments to my own creations? PROBABLY! You tell me!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry about my fictional characters for the fifth time this week. It's only Tuesday. Send help.

xoxo 💋

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The morning hike with Chaewon was exactly what you needed—fresh air, quiet trails... No drama.

But of course, you can't have nice things in Kkangpae.

Not when you return to find V lounging on a log like some tragic hero while J-Hope patches up his split lip.

"What the hell happened here?"

You eye the scene, already getting a headache. The thorny scent of roses fills your lungs as V gives you what immediately recognize as a smug smile.

"Just a little disagreement." V's smile is all teeth despite his busted lip. "Jeon can get rather feisty when he wants to."

J-Hope just rolls his eyes, clearly done with V's bullshit. He hands you a sanitary napkin without looking up, too busy sorting through his medical supplies—which basically means please help me deal with this drama queen.

You crouch next to V, ignoring how his eyes track your movement like he's a cat and you're the bird he wants to catch. The napkin comes away bloody when you dab at his lip, and his body tenses slightly under your touch—barely noticeable if you weren't trained to pick up on these things.

"Careful now." His voice drops low, playful. "I might bite."

You don't miss a beat.

"You bite, you get no help." The words come out flat, unimpressed. "I'm not one of your fangirls, V."

His games might work on others, but you've seen enough of his thorny side to know better.

Those roses have teeth.

A low chuckle breaks the tension. J-Hope's back with his medical supplies, but V's still watching you—though now with something that might be respect.

Or whatever passes for respect in that thorny mind of his.

"You really had it coming this time." J-Hope clicks his tongue, cranky doctor mode fully activated as he settles back down. "Jeon isn't someone you poke for fun without expecting consequences."

"Me?" V's eyebrow shoots up, all wounded innocence. "I was just having a friendly chat. Who knew our brooding Chief still had some fight left in him?"

The act doesn't fool anyone—especially not J-Hope, who (you bet your ass) has been patching up the aftermath of V's friendly chats' for years.

"Friendly chat?" J-Hope scoffs, dabbing at V's lip with more force than strictly necessary. "You two always turn everything into a dick-measuring contest. One of these days someone's gonna end up with worse than a busted lip."

V leans toward you like he's sharing a secret, mischief written all over his features. "He's just worried he'll run out of medical supplies if we keep this up."

You expect J-Hope to snap back—he usually does when people get like this.

But he just sighs, shoulders heavy with a worry that feels too genuine for the Kkangpae's ruthless doctor.

"Or maybe I'm worried you'll end up with a split skull, dumbass."

It's weird, the way it dribbles from his lips—like actual concern.

Which is weird in a place like this, where caring too much can get you killed. But then again, J-Hope's always been different. Maybe that's why he's one of the few people V actually listens to.

Sometimes?

V's eyes meet yours, like he's either hunting for something or escaping whatever was swirling in the doctor's pupils. Though, as everything with V, it vanishes instantly behind that shark-like grin.

"Ah, Hobi, always looking out for me. What would I do without you?"

"Probably be lying in a ditch somewhere." J-Hope says it casually, but his snark feels less blunt now. 

He gives V's shoulder a quick pat—kinda saying 'you're patched up, now get out of my face.' V nods his thanks, but his attention is already sliding back to you. His gaze lingers a bit too long, assessing.

"You've got a steady hand," he drawls, and you know he's not just talking about your first aid skills.

Thorns prickle your skin.

"And you've got a death wish." You hand the bloody napkin back to J-Hope, keeping your voice flat.

Unimpressed.

V's laugh shatters in the quiet. "Oh, you're interesting. I like you."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" You arch an eyebrow at him. "Coming from someone who just got his ass handed to him by Jeon, I'm not sure how much that's worth."

His smile widens; ever so slightly. Like what you said made him feel something—bad or good, you really don't care, but it's like his vines are slowly creeping into your lungs.

You just sigh, shrug it off. It's not your problem.

You've got enough on your plate without getting caught up in whatever dick-measuring contest is going on between V and Jeon.

Your attention abruptly shifts to Takama, sitting cross-legged in the grass like some zen master on his coffee break. Despite looking perfectly relaxed with his can of coffee, you know better—the man's probably cataloguing every movement in a three-mile radius.

He's just that kind of observant. It's just how he is, what he does, that much is clear from your training sessions with him.

Persistent without being belligerent; consistent without being insistent.

It's weird seeing him in casual clothes. The navy sweater and white collar combo is a far cry from his usual tactical gear, making him look almost... normal. Like he could be anyone's slightly intimidating older brother instead of Jeon's deadly second-in-command. Even his loose jeans seem deliberately chosen for comfort rather than combat.

He doesn't move a muscle as you approach, eyes fixed on the horizon like his mind has found refuge among the spongy dunes skittering away in the sky.

Or maybe he's just really into his morning coffee.

You plop down beside him, the damp grass immediately soaking through your pants because of course it does.

"Peaceful morning, isn't it?"

You break the silence, knowing Takama won't. Man's got the conversation skills of a particularly stoic rock when he wants to.

There's something calming about his presence though.

Like he's the drizzle after the hurricane.

Plus, he probably won't try to murder anyone over breakfast. Unlike some people you could name.

"Peace is rare around here." The corner of Takama's mouth quirks up slightly. "Savor it while it lasts."

You settle into the comfortable silence, watching the horizon paint itself in morning colors. Next to Takama, even coffee breaks feel philosophical.

"You and V," he starts, offering you the can. "You get along?"

You grab it and take a sip, considering your answer. The coffee's gone lukewarm.

"Hmm."

Yeah that's your answer, because you don't really know what to reply. It's definitely not a yes, but you don't... hate him either?

"He's a wildcard, but I can handle him," is what you end up settling for.

What follows is Takama's laugh—quiet, understated like everything else about him.

"V is... unpredictable. But he's loyal to the gang, in his own way." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Just watch your back. Testing people is how he entertains himself."

You pass the can back, watching him take another sip. The liquid works through a swallow down his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs slightly. His head tilts towards you when he notices you've gone silent.

"And Jeon? How do you find working with him?"

The question makes your skin prickle, and you know it's not because of how sudden it is—but because of something else, as well.

Images from last night force their way through your mind like a wiggling worm unwilling to let go—callouses on skin, that silver lip ring, the way he'd touched you like you might break.

You take your time answering, very aware that this is Jeon's right-hand man asking—and that your neck probably still has marks his mouth left behind.

But you're not about to tell Takama that.

"He's... intense." You focus on shredding a blade of grass, needing something to do with your hands. "But we kind of... get each other, I guess."

Takama finally looks at you, and fuck—there's way too much understanding in those gray eyes.

Because with V you have a noncommittal answer.

But you just said you get along with Jeon. Kinda.

He doesn't comment on it, and it makes sense—being Jeon's second means he probably sees more than most.

About how hard exactly it is to be in Jeon's circle. Not part of it, not even near—just hovering.

It's not easy, you know that much.

"Jeon respects strength," he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret. "Stand your ground, and you'll earn his respect."

A pause. Then he adds, hushedly:

"Maybe more."

Your pupils flicker between his, trying to parse whatever the hell he means—but nothing in there gives you a hint.

He simply smiles, getting up and helping you up too.

You both turn back to watch the camp wake up, the morning routine starting to buzz around you.

Someone's cursing about cold showers. Someone else is complaining about AD.

You take another sip of lukewarm coffee, letting the bitterness ground you. It's easier than thinking about what maybe more might mean, or why your stomach churns at the thought.

Besides, you've got enough on your plate just dealing with regular Jeon.

You don't need to add cryptic messages to that mess.

The peaceful morning doesn't last long—because this is Kkangpae you're talking about.

Moon's voice cuts through your post-gossip haze, drawing everyone to the center of the camp like a very formal shepherd. Some people look about as thrilled as you feel about being up this early.

"All right, everyone!" He's got that tone—the one that says 'this is mandatory fun and you're going to like it.' "For today's lunch, we're doing something different. Group bibimbap, but with a twist: you'll work in pairs."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd. You catch Takama's eye—he just raises an eyebrow like 'here we go again'.

"These pairings," Moon continues, all business in his long coat despite the casual setting, "are chosen to mix different divisions and personalities. It's about teamwork and learning from each other."

You barely hold back a snort. Trust Moon to turn lunch prep into a team-building exercise.

Your attention snaps back when he calls out, "Y/N, you're paired with JM. I expect great things from you two."

Well, that could've been worse. At least JM's not likely to stab you over vegetable chopping techniques.

When you reach him, he's already smiling that gentle smile that makes him look more like a kindergarten teacher than a gang's financial mastermind.

"Looks like we're a team." His voice matches his whole vibe—calm as a lake on a windless day. "Any ideas on what we should tackle?"

You're about to answer when a groan cuts through your chat with JM.

You turn to see AD looking like someone just deleted his gaming setup, while J-Hope's already got that 'done with this shit' smile plastered on his face.

"Bro, why the fuck am I always paired with your annoying ass?" AD slumps against a tree, all dramatic like the gremlin he is.

J-Hope just rolls his eyes. "Because Moon loves to torture me, that's why. Come on, let's just get this over with."

Your eyes inevitably roam around the clearing, taking in the other pairings.

Jeon and Chaewon—they acknowledge each other with matching professional nods, something like 'we respect each other but let's keep this strictly business' hovering over them.

Takama and Jessi make an oddly perfect pair, his zen energy somehow containing her wildfire spirit as they huddle together, already plotting.

V's got Yunjin trapped in what looks like his usual chaotic storytelling, though she seems to be holding her own—and then there's Eunchae and Sakura, who look like they're planning to turn lunch prep into some kind of competition.

Meanwhile, Kazuha's hanging onto Moon's every word like he's sharing the secrets of the universe instead of just bibimbap instructions.

"So." JM's gentle voice pulls you back. "Should we handle the veggies? I think we could make a great team in chopping and prepping them."

"Sounds good to me." You find yourself matching his easy smile. "Let's show them how it's done."

At least someone in this chaos circus knows how to be normal.

You follow JM to gather supplies, falling into an easy rhythm. His gentle energy is oddly reassuring, and makes even veggie prep feel zen.

Plus, he actually knows what he's doing, which is more than you can say for half the pairs around you.

Because AD's already whining about something while J-Hope ignores him completely.

Yeah; that's Kkangpae for you.

But then you catch sight of V with Yunjin and your stomach turns, why, you don't know. Poor Yunjin's holding her knife like she's never seen one before, eyes darting around nervously.

And its knives, so yeah, V swoops right in.

"Let me show you," he purrs, and fuck him for actually sounding smooth.

You see his hand sliding over hers, like he isn't the same person who had blood on his lip an hour ago.

"There's a rhythm to it, like a dance." You watch him press closer, caging Yunjin with his body while he guides the knife. "Feel the movement. It's about confidence, purpose."

"Like this?" Yunjin's voice is small, breathless.

"Exactly like that." He eases into it. "Every slice tells a story of precision and care. And you, Yunjin, have a knack for it."

You grip your own knife tighter, fighting the urge to stab those thorny vines right out of the air. He's charming, you'll give him that.

But you fear the sweet floral scent roses simply masks decaying waste underneath.

And he needs to stay the fuck away from Yunjin.

You can't help noticing how she melts under his attention, all shy smiles and batting eyelashes. Like a moth drawn to a particularly deadly flame.

"There, you're a pro now." V steps back with a wink.

"Thanks, V." Yunjin beams up at him. "I think I've got it from here."

A slight movement catches your eye—JM's knife has stopped mid-chop.

His gaze darts between V and Yunjin like he's watching a car crash in slow motion, and it's real subtle, but you catch the way his jaw tightens.

"JM," you keep your voice casual, "you seem a bit distracted. Everything okay?"

He snaps back to his vegetables, gentle smile sliding back. "Oh, it's nothing. Just... observing the dynamics. It's interesting to see how different personalities interact, don't you think?"

You nod, watching V circle Yunjin. "True. Especially with V. Makes you wonder what goes on behind that smile."

"Exactly." His smile is halfhearted at best. "Sometimes, the most cheerful faces hide the deepest stories."

The way he says it makes you wonder just how many of V's stories JM knows.

And how many of them keep him up at night.

You and JM fall into a comfortable rhythm again, just hearing AD complaining about something, Eunchae's bright laughter, the clatter of pots and pans.

Then—crash.

Your head snaps up, muscles tensing automatically. Old habits die hard in Kkangpae.

It's Chaewon.

She's standing frozen, an overturned pot at her feet, staring at one of Jessi's guys like she's seen a ghost. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air where it had brushed against hers. You can see her breathing speed up—tell-tale sign of panic she's never shown before.

JM's knife stills mid-chop. Before you can blink, he's already moving toward her.

Jessi's there too, quickly motioning for the guy to back off—and he does, looking confused and apologetic, but you notice how Chaewon's shoulders drop slightly once he's out of reach.

JM murmurs something to her, too low for you to hear (though you bet that gentle voice of his could probably talk down a rabid bear). Chaewon gives a tiny nod, but her knuckles are still white where she's gripping her sleeve.

When Jessi touches her shoulder, you catch that silent conversation between the three of them.

The kind that comes from knowing someone's demons intimately.

"Alright, everyone, back to work." Jessi shouts. "Nothing to see here. Let's keep the focus on the task at hand."

Everyone turns back to their tasks, but you don't miss how JM stays close to Chaewon, or how Jessi's eyes keep scanning the crowd like she's daring anyone to make this worse.

JM hovers near her for another minute before coming back to your chopping station, and when he does, he picks up his knife and starts slicing carrots like nothing's happened at all.

"Guess we all have our off days, huh?" You keep your voice light, casual. No pressure.

JM's knife stills for a moment. He doesn't look up.

"Everyone has ghosts they're running from." The words come out soft. "Some just hide them better than others."

You let the silence settle. There's an unspoken rule in the gang—you don't go digging in other people's graveyards unless they hand you the shovel first.

"I'm gonna wash up," you mutter, already heading for the makeshift sink, feeling like he needs some silence before being back to normal.

Behind you, JM's knife resumes its path against the cutting board.

You're shaking water off your hands when footsteps approach from behind. Months in Kkangpae have taught you to be alert even for something as mundane as washing up after veggie prep.

"So you do know how to clean up."

The low drawl sends heat crawling up your spine. You know that voice—and the smirk that goes with it��without having to turn around.

"Turns out, I'm full of surprises." You flick excess water in Jeon's direction, catching his dangerous half-smile when you glance over your shoulder.

His chuckle hits you right in the gut, deep and rich and —fuck—suddenly all you can think about is last night.

His hands, his mouth, the way he'd made you shatter.

"Surprising indeed." There's that smug tone again. "Especially since I recall someone being too fucked out to help with cleanup duty."

"Well," you drop your voice low, just for him, "if you hadn't made such a goddamn mess, there'd have been less to clean up."

Your body remembers how close you'd been—how you'd ground against each other like teenagers, desperate and needy.

How his cock had felt pressed against you, so close but not close enough because someone didn't bring protection.

The frustration from last night still burns under your skin, reminder of what could have been.

If he'd just been prepared...

Jeon steps closer, and—fuck—even after last night, his presence still makes your skin prickle.

"A mess, you say? The way I remember it, you were just as responsible for the chaos."

"Chaos?" You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down even as heat crawls up your neck. "Don't flatter yourself, Jeon. It was... mild disarray at best."

His grin widens, and you hate how your eyes keep tracking that stupid lip piercing.

"Mild disarray? You were panting like you'd run through every back alley in Seoul."

You scoff, trying not to remember how he'd made you shake, how his hands had felt mapping every inch of you.

"Breathless, maybe. But let's not blow it out of proportion."

"Hah." His eyes narrow. "You've got a sharp tongue. But we both know—"

A shout from across the camp makes you both freeze. Your eyes meet his for a split second before you step apart, smooth as shadows. Professional. Like you weren't just thinking about climbing him like a tree.

Again.

You turn away, finally letting out that breath you'd been holding.

The banter gets you hot under the collar but fuck if you don't want more. Not that you'll admit that.

Even if part of you is already plotting round two.

This time with actual protection. Because seriously.

"Anyway," his voice cuts through your thoughts, "we should get back to work. Long day ahead."

"Right." You nod, and then go right back to prepping veggies.

Yeah. This is going to be a very long day indeed.

The smell of bibimbap hits different after spending all morning chopping vegetables next to JM's weirdly zen energy.

And yup—everyone's gathering around the portable tables, looking stupidly proud of their contributions like they didn't just spend half the morning complaining about Moon's team-building exercise.

You grab a spot next to Yunjin, who's already halfway through telling you about her latest drama obsession; eyes practically sparkling as she waves her chopsticks around.

"No but listen—the main lead thinks his brother died in that fire, right?" She leans in close, pink hair falling in her face. "But then in episode sixteen we find out he's actually been alive this whole time! Living in China!"

You nearly choke on your rice. "That's the most unrealistic plot twist I've ever—"

"Mind if I join?" Takama's calm voice slices through Yunjin's enthusiastic plot summary; slight smile that makes him look more like a monk than Jeon's deadly second-in-command.

"Pull up a chair." You scoot over to make room. "Yunjin's educating me on the finer points of melodrama."

"Ah." His eyes crinkle as he settles in. "The ones where everyone's secretly related and nobody stays dead?"

"Exactly!" Yunjin beams. "Like this one where the brooding CEO's got a secret relationship—"

"Should've fought harder for the meat distribution," you murmur, poking at your mostly vegetable bibimbap.

Before you can finish sighing about your protein deficiency, Takama's chopsticks appear in your line of sight, depositing a generous portion of beef onto your plate.

"Here. I prefer vegetables anyway."

"Liar." But you're already mixing the meat into your rice, trying not to look too pleased. "Thanks."

Yunjin pouts at that, surely expecting some meat too (even when her plate shows basically 0 vegetables anyway). You kick her under the table, and she almost bounces with a chuckle.

"So, V's actually a really good teacher," she says dreamily, pushing her rice around. "Did you know he used to work in a restaurant?"

You cough.

V's "restaurant" experience probably involved more knife-work than cooking.

"Is that so?" Takama asks, slightly puzzled.

"Mhm!" She sighs, all starry-eyed. "And he's so patient. The way he showed me how to hold the knife—"

"Speaking of knives," Takama cuts in smoothly, "your technique has improved, Y/N. Been practicing?"

You're grateful for the subject change. Watching Yunjin moon over V is like watching a butterfly land on a Venus flytrap.

"Yeah, well. Can't let the Seduction Division down, right?"

His smile is small but genuine. "Right."

Movement then catches your eye—Chaewon's heading your way, black bob bouncing with each step. She smiles when she spots you, but you don't miss how she falters slightly when she notices Takama. Her eyes dart between him and the empty space beside you, calculating.

For a second, you think she might turn around.

But then she simply strides over like she owns the place, sliding into the spot next to you.

You don't miss how she angles her body away from Takama, though.

"What's got everyone looking so serious?" She bumps your shoulder playfully. "Don't tell me Yunjin's got you all hooked on her dramas too."

"Not all of us can be as cultured as Yunjin." You grin as Yunjin pretends to be offended. "We were just discussing the finer points of V's... cooking techniques."

That makes Yunjin blush, but Chaewon's eyes sharpen. You catch that protective glint—the same one she gets whenever any of the male members get too close to her division.

"Oh?" Her voice is light, but there's steel underneath. "And how did you find our resident psychopath's teaching methods?"

"Come on, he was really patient!" Yunjin pipes up. "And his hands were so—"

"Speaking of hands," Chaewon interjects quickly, "I heard there was quite the incident at morning coffee. Something about Jeon's right hook meeting V's face?"

Trust Chaewon to steer the conversation away from V's charms while gathering intel in the same breath. Sometimes you forget she's your Chief for a reason.

Heels on grass make your eyes stutter behind Chaewon's silhouette.

It's Jessi; obviously—who claims the spot next to Takama, all long red hair and confident energy.

She's probably the only person who can make eating bibimbap look like a power move.

"Well, well." She waves her chopsticks at your little group. "What's this about dramas? Please tell me someone's finally calling out how unrealistic those chaebol storylines are."

"We were discussing layers," you explain, watching her pile kimchi onto her rice with the same precision she probably uses to plan weapons shipments. "You know, how people aren't always what they seem."

"Like how our fearless Chief here—" she angles her head towards Chaewon, "—pretends to be all business, but I caught her crying over cat videos last week?"

"That was one time." Chaewon tries to glare but can't quite hide her smile. "And you promised not to tell."

"Please." Jessi snorts. "Everyone knows you're a softie under all that badassery. Remember when you threatened to shoot that guy who made Eunchae cry?"

"He deserved it." Chaewon's voice goes flat, protective instincts flashing. "Nobody messes with my girls."

"And that's exactly what we mean," Yunjin pipes up, somehow making even this observation sound sweet. "Everyone's got different sides. Like how Jessi acts tough but always saves the last strawberry milk for AD."

"Oi—" Jessi points her chopsticks at Yunjin threateningly, but there's no malice in it. "Just for that, you're testing all the new rifles when we get back to the castle. Someone needs to make sure they don't jam."

Something about the easiness of the conversation makes something unfurl in your chest.

It's weird seeing these deadly women just... being friends. Sharing lunch and inside jokes like they aren't some of the most dangerous people in Seoul.

But then again, maybe that's exactly what Yunjin meant about layers.

"Sooo," Jessi prompts, "who wants to share their deep dark secrets? Come on, don't be shy."

"Real subtle, Joo." Chaewon rolls her eyes, but you catch that tiny smile she always gets around Jessi. "What's next, trust falls?"

"I'd let you fall." Jessi winks, making Chaewon snort into her rice.

Takama, who's been quiet this whole time, surprises everyone by speaking up. "Sometimes the secrets we keep aren't about trust. Sometimes they're about protection."

"Like how we all pretend AD doesn't secretly feed the stray cats behind the castle?" Yunjin singsongs then.

That breaks the tension, sending ripples of laughter around the group.

Even Takama cracks a smile.

"Or how Jessi acts tough but cried during that dog commercial last week?" Chaewon dodges the grape Jessi throws at her head.

"That dog was reunited with its family," Jessi hisses, but she's fighting back a grin. "Forgive me for having a heart."

"Yeah, buried somewhere under those nine inch heels."

You smile at that, and you note how the sun is high over head now, warming skin through the trees.

You should probably get back to work—those intel reports won't file themselves. But for now, you let yourself enjoy this moment of peace.

Even gang members need lunch breaks sometimes.

Dodgeball is usually fun. Keyword: usually—because when it's among deadly people... competitiveness is too light of a word.

You're in the middle of debating some strategy with Yunjin when Jeon's presence immediately freezes the whole camp. One second you're planning how to take down AD's team (he might be a tech genius but his aim is shit), and the next—

"Meeting. Council of 9, now."

Jeon's voice is calm, as usual. But it's precise, blunt in a way that makes your hackles rise. His face gives nothing away—typical—but something in his posture screams urgent.

The Council members share quick looks before following him into the trees. Moon's already at his side, glasses catching the sunlight. Chaewon squeezes your shoulder as she passes, and Jessi winks at Yunjin, but neither stops to explain.

Just like that, your cozy little camping trip turns into a war room—playful energy from moments ago gone, leaving behind the familiar sensation that comes with being in a criminal organization.

"Damn." Yunjin drops onto the bench beside you, pink hair falling in her face. "Even on a camping trip, we can't escape the threats."

Your little lunch group now feels weirdly empty without Jessi's loud energy and Chaewon's dry comments. You catch yourself staring at the path where they disappeared, like maybe if you look hard enough you'll develop x-ray vision.

So much for that epic dodgeball tournament you'd planned. Although honestly? Getting hit with rubber balls suddenly seems like the least of your problems.

"It's just how things work around here." Takama shrugs, wiping sweat from his shaved head.

Of course the dodgeball game's been put on hold, everyone too distracted by the Council's sudden disappearance to focus.

"Hey, Takemichi!" Eunchae bounces over, still flushed from running around. "Any idea what's going on? You're like, Jeon's right hand and all."

Takama's eye twitches at the nickname, but he doesn't comment on it. "No clue. But Jeon doesn't call meetings without good reason. Especially not during planned activities."

Your eyes drift to where the Council members vanished into the trees. It's odd seeing Jeon actually interact with people—the man's about as social as a brick wall. Even J-Hope, who he supposedly tolerates, barely gets more than grunts out of him most days. That whole don't-fuck-with-me hurricane aura of his keeps everyone at a safe distance.

And yet.

You'd fucked him.

Well, kinda.

Heat crawls up your neck as you mentally reminisce about last night.

Pride mingles with something else as you remember that untouchable Chief's face when he came all over your belly.

Focus, dumbass. Now isn't the time to replay your greatest hits. If Jeon's gathering the Council in the middle of fucking dodgeball, something's definitely wrong.

"Do you think it's..." Yunjin chews her lip, lowering her voice. "MDF?"

The mention of Myung-dong Faction makes everyone's faces go pale.

"Hard to say." Takama's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "But we did just wreck their trafficking ring. Hanjun's gone now. They're not known for letting that kind of thing slide."

You share a look with Yunjin and Eunchae. You remember Hanjun from your last mission—the way he'd crumpled when Kkangpae was done with him.

The way his whole operation had fallen apart like a house of cards.

Sakura's usually bright face is serious as she crouches next to you. "If it's MDF, we're fucked."

"They've been too quiet." Kazuha runs a hand through her wine-colored hair, eyes scanning the treeline like she expects assassins to materialize. "That's not their style. Not after what we did to their golden boy."

And she's right, isn't she? MDF isn't known for their forgive-and-forget attitude. Their silence these past weeks has been... unsettling. Like holding your breath underwater, knowing you'll have to surface eventually.

"Whatever it is, we need to be ready." Eunchae sighs. "Can't let our guard down. Not even here."

"We need to be united now more than ever." Takama's voice rumbles low as he scans the treeline."Division only makes us vulnerable, they might aim for that."

And he's right; because Kkangpae's strength isn't just in its firepower—it's in moments like this, when everyone's got each other's backs.

"Whatever the Council needs," you say, meaning it. "We've got their six."

The group falls quiet, the forgotten dodgeball lying between you like some sad metaphor for your interrupted normalcy. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls. You almost miss it under the sound of your heart pounding.

A rustle in the bushes makes you lean back.

Though it's just J-Hope, looking way too serious for someone who was laughing at AD's failed dodgeball throws ten minutes ago.

"They need you." His eyes find yours, steady and unreadable. "Jeon asked for you specifically."

You share a quick look with Takama, and he's wearing the same exact puzzled expression as you.

"Me? Why would he—"

J-Hope just shakes his head. Great. Because being summoned by the dude you almost fucked last night during a secret Council meeting isn't complicated enough.

But you don't really have much choice, so you trail behind J-Hope like a kid being called to the principal's office, mind racing faster than your heart.

What the actual fuck could Jeon want? And why during the middle of dodgeball, of all things?

The Council's little forest hideaway comes into view, and suddenly you've got nine pairs of eyes drilling into you.

Great. Just great. Nothing like being stared at by the most dangerous people in Seoul while you're in workout clothes and probably still red-faced from almost getting beaned by AD's wild throws.

Jeon stands like a statue among them, and he speaks immediately upon seeing you.

"We have a situation that needs your input."

No greeting, no explanation, just straight to the point. Pure Jeon. You'd roll your eyes if you weren't so aware of every Council member watching you.

"Remember your first mission?" Chaewon continues. "The women we rescued? You were the only one who actually saw them in that room."

Of course you remember—hard not to, even if you wish you wouldn't.

That cramped, dark room with its rusty bars and stale air. Women huddled in corners like broken birds, some too afraid to even look up when you'd entered.

Your first real taste of what the Seduction Division actually does.

Not the glamorous spy shit you'd imagined, but the ugly, necessary work of saving people from monsters.

"Remember what any of the women looked like?" Chaewon presses.

You try to remember, but the thing that comes first is the smell of fear and desperation—thick enough to choke on.

Then it's their faces. Burned into your brain. And then... hers.

"There was one girl," you start carefully, watching the Council's reactions. "Couldn't have been more than eighteen. Skinny thing, but her eyes..."

You pause, searching for the right words.

"Even in that shithole, she was... I don't know. Like she was just waiting for a chance to burn the whole place down."

You catch the tiny shift in Jessi's jaw, the way her fingers tighten around her weapon.

The air feels like a forest fire waiting to happen.

"Dark reddish-brown hair," you continue, the details getting clearer as you speak. "Matted to hell, but you could tell it was beautiful once. And the way she held herself..."

"That's enough." Jeon interrupts you. "Your recollection could prove useful. We believe that girl is connected to one of our own. This isn't some random MDF hit."

Your stomach drops. Because shit—that... That changes everything.

MDF might be brutal, but they're not stupid.

Kidnapping someone connected to Kkangpae? That's not just an attack—it's a message.

A very personal message.

You watch the Council's faces, trying to read between the lines.

If MDF knows enough to target someone specific, how much else do they know? How deep have they dug into everyone's past?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

"Now we know this is personal." Chaewon's voice is ice-cold, all business. "The question is, how do we respond?"

"We hit back." Jessi's voice cracks like a whip, raw and broken. "Show those fuckers what happens when you mess with Kkangpae."

J-Hope reaches for her shoulder, ever the voice of reason. "I know you want blood, Jessi. But an all-out war will only get innocent people killed."

Jessi jerks away from his touch, but you see how her hands shake. 

"I should've been there," she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. "I should never have left them alone."

The pain in her voice makes your chest tight; you've never seen Jessi like this—like she's barely holding herself together.

"Why don't we just storm their headquarters and slaughter them all?" V (who's been conspicuously quiet until now) raises his voice.

The guy is just leaning back against a tree, playing with a butterfly knife like he thinks he's the Joker or something.

"Picture it." His smile grows wider, more unhinged. "Their precious hideout painted red, bodies everywhere. We could string up their leaders—or what's left of them—as a warning."

JM gives him one look—one that somehow manages to pierce through V's psychotic haze. Like he's the only person besides RM who can actually rein him in when he gets like this.

V slumps back with an exaggerated pout, thorny aura receding slightly. The switch from bloodthirsty to playful is so fast it gives you whiplash.

"As entertaining as that sounds," JM's voice is steady, like a calm lake washing away V's chaos, "we need precision here. Not a bloodbath."

"You never let me have fun." V whines like a kid denied candy instead of mass murder. "But fine, we'll be civilized."

JM turns back to the Council. "Please continue. V's just... working through some things. He understands the need for balance."

Jeon's face gives nothing away, but you notice how his jaw tightens. Having to share space with V is bad enough—having to listen to his murder fantasies is clearly testing what little patience he has left.

"As I was saying..." Jeon continues.

JM gives V another one of those looks and V slumps against the tree.

The thorny scent of roses fades to something more bearable, though you can tell he's just waiting for another chance to suggest mass murder.

"I might have a better idea." AD clears his throat. "A bloodbath would be satisfying, sure, but we need intel first. Something clean and quiet that gives us some advantage."

You watch him run a hand through his messy blonde hair, thinking three steps ahead while looking like he just rolled out of bed.

"We know where their hideout is. Send in a small team, two people max. Get their data, their plans, their weak spots." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Information is better than bullets right now."

The Council members exchange looks. Even V stops fidgeting with his knife. You catch Jeon's shoulders relaxing slightly—he knows a good plan when he hears one.

"Stealth does play to our strengths," Jeon admits, and his eyes flick to you for a split second. "Who did you have in mind?"

AD jerks his chin toward you.

"She's perfect for this. Hanjun's well acquainted with Flower now, but Y/N? She was only there for the takedown. He never had time to report back about her or the other girls. But between all of them," he adds, "she's the only one who got to see all the girls."

Suddenly you've got nine of Seoul's most dangerous criminals staring at you. But you meet Jeon's gaze head-on, refusing to flinch.

Finally—a chance to prove yourself.

And maybe get some answers about what's really going on with MDF.

"She's just an ensign." JM mumbles. "She's gonna need backup."

The Chiefs exchange looks, probably running through a mental list of who they could trust not to fuck this up. Your heart's still pounding from being called in, from learning about this mission that could change everything.

"Jeon will lead this operation." RM's voice leaves no room for argument. Like he's announcing the weather, except the weather is your hookup being assigned as your partner.

Amazing, really love that for you.

"You're picking him for stealth?" V's voice goes high with indignation, like someone just insulted his knife collection. "I'm literally the Chief of Stealth Assassinations. What the actual fuck?"

Thorns prickle the air, sharp with offense. You definitely catch Jeon's tiny smirk—he's enjoying V's tantrum way too much.

"Jeon has the discipline this requires." RM's tone could freeze hell itself. "We can't afford your... creative interpretations of orders right now."

V opens his mouth—probably to suggest murdering everyone involved, knowing him—but JM slaps a hand over it. The look V gives him could kill a lesser man, but JM just raises an eyebrow.

"This mission's success is crucial." RM continues like V isn't plotting JM's death with his eyes. "We need strategy, not chaos."

You watch Jeon's face carefully. His expression gives nothing away, but you just know he's thinking the same thing you are:

How the fuck are you two supposed to focus on a stealth mission when you can barely keep your hands off each other?

"Come on," V's voice drags after getting rid of JM's hand, "we all remember how well these two work together. Like gasoline and a lit match. Either they'll kill each other or fuck like rabbits. Not ideal for a stealth op, eh?"

JM smacks his shoulder, but V just grins wider. Your face burns as Jeon goes rigid beside you, like a gathering strength.

If looks could kill, V would be six feet under from the glare Jeon's sending him.

You stare very intently at a patch of grass, fighting the urge to squirm, because V has no idea how close to home that "fucking like rabbits" comment hits.

Or maybe he does—you can never tell what that psycho actually knows.

"Enough." JM sighs. "RM's guidance is sound. Jeon, you're our best strategic mind. Tactical is probably our best approach right now."

Jeon's jaw works for a moment before he gives a sharp nod. "Understood. I'll lead the operation."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Stuck on a stealth mission with the guy you've secretly hooked up with, while his psychotic sworn enemy watches and makes sex jokes.

Just another day in Kkangpae.

"For now," RM's redirects the conversation swiftly, "let's focus on the task at hand. This camping trip was meant to build unity and trust. We can't lose sight of that."

Unity and trust.

Right.

Because nothing says team bonding like sending you and the guy you're dying to have sex with to infiltrate enemy territory while pretending you've never seen each other naked.

"There will be time later to prepare for the mission." He adds. "But while we're here, I expect everyone's full commitment to this team-building exercise."

Jeon surprises you by actually looking... chastened? as he gives RM a short nod. "You're right. My priorities were misplaced. I apologize for the disruption."

And that's... New. You've never heard Jeon apologize for anything.

But then again, RM's probably the only person in Seoul who could make him bow down. The amount of respect Jeon has for him is almost an entity of its own.

"No need to apologize." RM's stern expression softens slightly. "Let's refocus together on strengthening our bonds as a crew."

More team bonding. Because that's exactly what you need right now... bonding,̶ ̶o̶r̶ b̶o̶n̶i̶n̶g̶?̶

You give Jeon one last look before V's voice cuts through, all manic energy as usual.

"Last one back has to clean everyone's dishes!"

And then he just... takes off running like the psychopath he is, thorns receding with him. Because of course he'd turn this into a competition.

"Oh, fuck no!" Jessi kicks off her heels, already sprinting after him in bare feet. "I am not cleaning after his ass."

Chaewon and JM share this look—probably something like 'we're both too dignified for this shit' passing between them before they're running too, probably realizing nobody wants to risk V winning anything.

"How childish." J-Hope rolls his eyes, but AD's already got that gleam he gets when someone issues a challenge.

"Childish?" AD's grin is pure evil. "I bet I could eat enough for ten people. Give you something real nice to clean."

"You little shit—" J-Hope takes off after him. "Get back here!"

You glance back at Jeon and RM, both still walking like they're above such peasant activities.

But fuck it—you're already sweaty from dodgeball, might as well commit to the chaos.

"Think I'll take AD's strategy." You flash Jeon your sweetest smile. "Eat everything in sight, let someone else deal with cleanup."

You're running before he can reply, laughter bubbling up.

And then, merely a few second later, you hear his steady footsteps turn into something faster.

Looks like even the mighty Chief can't resist a challenge.

The campsite comes into view through the trees, and you pick up your pace.

You jog into the clearing, lungs burning, only to find V and RM already there.

What the actualfuck?

"How did RM beat us?" The words come out between gasps.

The man runs a criminal empire in designer suits, for fuck's sake. He shouldn't be able to outrun anyone.

V just grins that Cheshire cat smile of his and then, Jessi, Chaewon and JM stumble in next, all tangled together and cackling like teenagers.

"JM's face when I almost tripped him—" Jessi wheezes, red hair wild from running.

Everyone else filters in gradually, catching their breath and comparing notes on who cheated (definitely V).

But oddly enough, there's no sign (or sound) of J-Hope or AD.

Then—

"You absolute fucking cockwomble, let go before I rearrange your face!"

"Not happening, you lil' bitch. I'm not cleaning your blood off the floor again!"

You turn to find J-Hope and AD crashing through the underbrush like drunk bears, locked in what has to be the world's most undignified wrestling match. AD's blonde hair is full of leaves, and J-Hope's pristine turtleneck is covered in dirt.

Seoul's most dangerous gang, ladies and gentlemen.

Truly terrifying.

"You wanna fucking go, asshole?" AD thrashes like a feral cat, trying to land a hit on J-Hope. "I'll rip out your spine and use it as a fucking ethernet cable!"

But J-Hope's got him locked down, using his height advantage like the bastard he is. AD might be scrappy, but the doctor's got experience wrestling patients into submission.

"You need to get out of this unscathed first, you dumbass—"

"Then I'll download your consciousness into a punching bag," AD snarls, still fighting. "Have you getting hit for eternity, you piece of shit!"

Their little death match stumbles closer to camp. J-Hope's got AD in a headlock now, ignoring the increasingly creative threats being spewed at his face.

"I'll be patching you up after this, you psychotic gremlin." J-Hope finally slams AD into the dirt, probably enjoying this way too much. "Maybe I'll sew a live rat in your stomach. Let it chew its way out through your organs."

They keep wrestling, but it's getting pathetic—like watching two drunk uncles fight at a family barbecue. Both of them are red-faced and panting, shirts half-ripped from trying to hold each other back.

You can't help noticing they look wrecked—covered in sweat and leaves.

Actually...

"They must've been holding each other back the whole way here." You snort.

No wonder they're last. These idiots literally spent the entire race trying to murder each other.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" V's voice rings out like a demented game show host. "Our esteemed winners, graceful as ever!"

J-Hope and AD freeze mid-choke hold, finally noticing their audience.

The look of pure horror on their faces is priceless.

"Dish duty it is, boys!" Jessi's grin is absolutely feral.

AD shoves J-Hope off like an angry cat, but they're both too winded from their pathetic wrestling match to do more than hurl insults at each other.

"This is all your fucking fault!" AD jabs a finger at J-Hope's chest, looking about as threatening as a wet Pomeranian. "If you hadn't grabbed me—"

"My fault?" J-Hope's voice gets higher. "Big words from someone shaped like a fun-sized candy bar!"

"Say that again, you overgrown fucking giraffe!" AD tries to lunge but stumbles, still panting. "I fucking dare you!"

RM steps in before they can start round two of the world's most embarrassing fight.

"That's enough, you two. We all enjoyed the show, but it's time to work."

They both shut up immediately—even AD knows better than to test RM's patience. But the glares they shoot each other could probably melt steel.

"Can't believe I'm stuck with your ass for cleanup duty," AD grumbles, brushing leaves out of his blonde hair.

"Trust me, I'd rather perform surgery blindfolded. But maybe next time you'll think twice before dragging me down with you."

"As if I need help being slow from someone who runs like a drunk giraffe."

Their bickering fades as they head back to camp, still shoving each other like kindergarteners fighting over the last juice box.

Well. At least you'll enjoy a show during dinner time tonight.

One would think dinner time would be dulled down now, after the Council meeting earlier.

But nope—gang members are scattered around the fires like this is some post apocalypse scavenging situation.

You can't help watching V with Yunjin. He's leaning in close and probably whispering some bullshit about knives being romantic or whatever gets him going.

And Yunjin—sweet, perceptive Yunjin who usually sees right through everyone's bullshit—is eating it up. She's doing that thing where she plays with her hair, pink strands twisting around her finger while she giggles at whatever murder joke V's telling.

You snort into your food, because you just don't get what's it with these two.

The weirdest part? Even knowing what V's capable of (the rumors about his "artistic approach" to killing make your skin crawl), you kind of get why people fall for his act.

He's got that whole dangerous charm thing down to an art.

"Hey stranger!" Eunchae drops onto the bench beside you, nearly knocking over your drink. Sakura slides in more gracefully across from you, because someone in your division has to have coordination.

"What was the super secret meeting about? You went in looking normal and came out all..." Eunchae waves her chopsticks vaguely. "You know. Intense."

"Classified." You shrug, trying not to think about what that meeting means for you and a certain hurricane-aura'd Chief. "Above your pay grade."

"Ugh, you're no fun." She slumps dramatically against your shoulder. "I wish I could join the Council just to know all the juicy stuff."

"We're here if you need to talk," Sakura adds quietly, and fuck—sometimes you forget how perceptive your division can be.

"Thanks." You bump Eunchae's shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest. These idiots might be professional honey traps, but they're your idiots. "I mean it."

You go back to your food, half-listening to Eunchae's story about some mark who thought cryptocurrency was foreplay. But your eyes keep drifting to V and Yunjin.

What's your friendly neighborhood psychopath plotting this time?

However, the first drops of rain quickly hit your food like tiny bullets. Within seconds, the drizzle turns into a full-blown downpour because of courseit does.

Nothing like a surprise shower to end your deeply suspicious dinner observations.

"Oh, come on." Eunchae snatches up her plate, already running for cover, chestnut hair plastered to her face by the time she makes it three steps.

Your eyes snap to where V still has Yunjin trapped in conversation. They're both getting soaked but Yunjin's still hanging on his every word, pink hair turning darker in the rain.

"Yunjin!" You pitch your voice to carry over the rain. "Unless you want to catch pneumonia, might want to wrap it up!"

She blinks like she's coming out of a trance, finally noticing she's halfway to drowned. The spell breaks—thank fuck—and she hurries over to you, gathering her stuff with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks for the save." Her voice is quiet, almost sheepish. "Got a bit... distracted."

"Yeah, no shit." You grab her arm, steering her toward your tent. "Let's get inside before we both melt."

You dodge through the chaos of gang members running for shelter, curses mixing with laughter. Someone—probably AD—slips in a mud puddle and lets out a string of creative profanity that would make a sailor blush.

The relative safety of your tent feels like crossing a finish line. The rain hammers against the canvas, but at least you're dry.

Well. Drier.

The rain doesn't let up for hours, turning the campsite into something out of a moody indie film. But inside your tent? It's like a sleepover bubble—wrapped up in cozy blankets and the glow from Yunjin's phone where some poor actor is having his third dramatic breakdown of the episode.

Yunjin's using your stomach as a pillow, pink hair splayed across your hoodie while she decimates the bag of chips between you. Every few minutes her hand dives in without looking, too focused on whatever absurd plot twist is happening now.

"This one's actually decent," she murmurs, smiling at the screen where someone's probably discovering their evil twin or something.

"If you say so." You can't help grinning as the male lead clutches his chest like he's having a heart attack over a text message. "These writers must be on something wild. Like, who comes up with this shit?"

Her giggle vibrates against your stomach.

"That's why they're fun! You never know what's coming next." She tilts her head back to look at you. "Kind of like living here, right? Never a dull moment in Kkangpae."

"God, don't jinx it." But you're laughing too because she's not wrong. Your life has definitely taken some drama-worthy turns lately. "Though I hope we're at least more realistic than that."

You both fall into easy conversation, trading comments about the show and today's chaos. When the male lead starts laying it on thick with the female lead, you see your chance. Time to figure out what the hell V was playing at earlier with all that knife teaching.

"So." You poke Yunjin's side with your toe, aiming for casual. "What's with you and V today? The whole knife lesson thing seemed... weird."

Yunjin doesn't look away from her drama. Of course she doesn't.

"I mean, have you seen him?" She sighs dreamily. "He's like a walking thirst trap. Those hands..."

"Oh my god." You stare down at her pink head in disbelief. "You'd actually fuck him? Like, actually actually?"

She finally tears her eyes from the screen, twisting to grin up at you with zero shame. "Why not? Life's too short not to ride at least one psychopath, right?"

The silence stretches.

"What?" She raises an eyebrow at your horror. "You wouldn't?"

"Jesus fuck no." You mime gagging. "You know he probably has some weird murder kink. Like, he'd probably want to chase you through a haunted house with a knife while dramatic music plays."

"Haunt play?" Her eyes go wide  before she breaks into giggles. "That's... weirdly specific. But don't knock it till you try it, right?"

"Yun." You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. "He'd probably set up a whole haunted house just to get his rocks off."

"Okay but..." Yunjin props herself up on her elbows. "Haunted house but make it sexy? That's kind of genius."

"You're actually insane." You shove her shoulder, both of you dissolving into laughter. "I swear to god, if I ever hear spooky music from his tent—"

"You'll what, call the ghost police?"

Her laughter shakes your whole body, bright and infectious, and the small space of the tent makes this ridiculous conversation feel somehow safer, more intimate.

Just two girls discussing their terrible taste in men while hiding from a storm.

Even if one of those men happens to be Seoul's most notorious psychopath.

Yunjin flops back down, using your stomach as a pillow again. The drama's still playing on her phone, but you're too busy thinking about V's games to focus on whatever chaebol drama is unfolding now.

"For now," she sighs dreamily, "I'll stick to living through these ridiculous romances. Much safer than the real thing, right?"

You hum in agreement, watching raindrops race down the tent's surface.

"Sounds smart. But if you do decide to test out V's haunted house kink..." You poke her side. "I want every single detail. For science."

"Deal." Her giggle vibrates against your stomach. "But only if you keep saving me from his 'passionate teaching moments'. My knife skills are fine, thanks."

"Always."

The word comes out softer than intended, but you mean it. In Kkangpae, real friendship is rare as fuck. People either want to kill you, fuck you, or use you—sometimes all three.

But Yunjin? She's different.

And all the while; the rain keeps drumming steadily against the canvas, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and green.

In here, none of that exists.

Not V's thorny games, not Jeon's hurricane, not the Council's secret meetings.

Just you and your best friend, safe and warm while the storm rages on.

For now, anyway. Tomorrow's another story.

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[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |10|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Ten: Ready or Not

warnings: emotional distress/grief, references to death, abandonment trauma, and - once again - shauna is still very much pregnant.

note(s): i love working on the adult timeline.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson

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The note lay in the center of the empty lean-to, three words scrawled hastily on a torn piece of paper:

I'm sorry.

Misty found it just after dawn when she came to check on you, a gesture born less from concern and more from curiosity. You'd become something of a spectacle over the past few days—the girl who survived the fever only to exile herself from the group, the one who'd broken whatever strange spell had formed between you and Shauna.

"Well, shit," she muttered, picking up the note between her fingers as if it might bite. She glanced around the lean-to, taking inventory of what remained: nothing. Not your knife, not your extra pair of socks, not even the small carved animal Javi had made for you when you were sick.

Gone. All of it. All of you.

For a moment, Misty considered pocketing the note, wondering what kind of drama might unfold if she controlled this particular piece of information. But something in those two simple words—I'm sorry—made her hesitate. This wasn't a game. This was real, and dangerous, and potentially deadly.

"Fuck," she sighed.

------

"What do you mean, gone?" Taissa's voice cut through the morning air, sharp with disbelief. "Gone where?"

Misty held out the note, now slightly crumpled from her tight grip. "Just this. Nothing else."

The small group gathered outside the lean-to stared at the paper as if it might suddenly reveal more information. Nat snatched it first, her eyes scanning the brief message before passing it to Tai.

"How long?" Tai asked, looking to Misty.

Misty shrugged, adjusting her glasses. "No idea. I came to check on her this morning and..." She gestured to the empty space around them. "Poof. Vanished."

"She can't have gotten far," Travis said, already scanning the tree line as if expecting to see you emerge at any moment. "Not in the dark, not alone."

"You don't know her," Nat muttered, kicking at the dirt with the toe of her boot. "She's been hunting with us. She knows the woods."

"Not well enough!" The voice came from behind them, strained and tight with barely contained panic.

They turned to find Shauna standing at the edge of the clearing, one hand braced against a tree trunk for support, the other curved protectively over her swollen belly. Her face was pale, eyes wide with something that went beyond simple worry.

"Not well enough," she repeated, softer now. "She got lost three days ago just trying to find the stream."

No one mentioned that it had been during your fever recovery, that disorientation was to be expected. No one needed to. The implication hung in the air, heavy as storm clouds.

"We need to look for her," Shauna said, already moving toward the tree line. "Now. Before the trail gets cold."

Tai and Nat exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. It was Tai who stepped forward, placing a gentle but firm hand on Shauna's arm.

"Shauna, you need to stay here."

"Like hell I do," Shauna snapped, trying to pull away. "She's out there alone because of me, because I couldn't—"

"Because you're nine months pregnant," Tai interrupted, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You can barely walk to the stream and back without getting winded. You're not going anywhere."

Shauna's face crumpled, anger giving way to something more vulnerable, more raw. "I can't just sit here while she's out there."

"You can, and you will." Nat stepped up beside Tai, presenting a united front. "We'll find her. You stay here in case she comes back on her own."

It was a hollow reassurance, and they all knew it. If you had wanted to come back, you wouldn't have left in the first place. Wouldn't have packed up every trace of yourself. Wouldn't have written that awful, insufficient note.

Shauna seemed to deflate, the fight leaving her in a long exhale. "At least take Lottie with you. She..." She swallowed hard, the admission clearly difficult. "She knows things sometimes. About where people are."

Tai's expression tightened—she'd never been comfortable with Lottie's uncanny moments of insight—but she nodded. "Fine. Lottie comes too."

As the group dispersed to prepare for the search, Shauna remained rooted to the spot, staring at the empty lean-to as if she could will you back into existence through sheer force of need.

Nat lingered, watching her with a mixture of concern and frustration. "This isn't your fault," she said finally.

Shauna let out a bitter laugh. "Isn't it? I pushed too hard. Wanted too much."

"She was spiraling, Shauna. Whatever was going on in her head after that fever—it wasn't about you. Not really."

"Then why did it feel like she was looking right through me?" Shauna's voice cracked slightly. "Like I was the one thing she couldn't stand to see anymore?"

Nat had no answer for that. She reached out awkwardly, squeezing Shauna's shoulder once before turning to join the others. "We'll find her," she promised over her shoulder, the words hollower with each repetition.

Shauna didn't respond, her attention already drifting back to the note clutched in her hand, to those two words that explained nothing and everything at once.

I'm sorry.

The search party set out just after breakfast, equipped with what little they could spare—water, a few strips of jerky, a compass Nat had managed to keep hidden from the others. Travis took the lead, Nat and Lottie flanking him, with Van and Akilah bringing up the rear.

Tai had wanted to come, but someone needed to stay behind with the younger ones. With Shauna. It was an unspoken agreement among them—don't leave Shauna alone, not now, not with the baby coming any day and her mind fracturing under the weight of this new loss.

"Which way?" Travis asked once they reached the edge of the clearing, looking to Lottie.

The girl closed her eyes, that familiar, unsettling stillness settling over her features. The others waited, shifting uncomfortably, none of them quite believing but none willing to dismiss her either.

"North," Lottie finally said, opening her eyes. "Toward the ridge."

Nat frowned. "That doesn't make sense. The ridge is exposed, dangerous. Why would she go that way?"

"Because she doesn't want to be found," Lottie replied simply, her gaze drifting toward the distant rise of land barely visible above the tree line. "She went where she thought no one would follow."

A heavy silence fell over the group, the implication clear. If you'd gone to the ridge, it wasn't just to get away. It was to ensure you stayed away.

"Let's go," Travis said gruffly, adjusting his grip on the hunting knife strapped to his belt. "We're burning daylight."

As they moved deeper into the forest, following Lottie's lead, Nat found herself thinking about the last conversation she'd had with you—her accusations, your defensive retreat. The way she'd walked away thinking you'd come to your senses eventually.

She should have known better. Should have recognized the look in your eyes for what it was—not just anger or fear, but resolve. The decision already made.

"I told her she was being an asshole," Nat said suddenly, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the group.

Travis glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Yesterday. I found her moving her stuff to the lean-to and I told her she was being an asshole to Shauna." Nat kicked at a fallen branch in their path. "Told her she was throwing away the only good thing left out here."

"You couldn't have known," Akilah offered from behind them.

But Nat shook her head. "I pushed her. Just like Shauna did. Just like everyone's been doing since Jackie died. Like she was some fucking science experiment—how much pressure can she take before she breaks?"

"She didn't break," Lottie said, her voice distant, dreamy. "She chose."

None of them had a response to that.

Back at the cabin, Shauna sat motionless on the edge of her mattress, staring at the empty space where yours had been. Hours had passed since the search party left, the sun now high overhead, bathing the interior in harsh light that caught every dust mote, every imperfection.

Her hand moved absently over her belly, feeling the restless shifting of the baby inside. It had been active today, more so than usual, as if sensing her distress.

"She's not coming back, is she?" Shauna asked the empty room, her voice sounding strange in the silence.

Tai, who had been keeping a quiet vigil from the doorway, stepped inside. "We don't know that."

"I do." Shauna's fingers traced the edge of the note she'd read so many times the words had lost their meaning. "She's been trying to leave for weeks. I just didn't want to see it."

Tai moved to sit beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under their combined weight. "People say things they don't mean when they're hurting. Do things they regret."

"This isn't like that." Shauna finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. "After the fever broke, something was different. Like she could suddenly see everything clearly, and what she saw..." She swallowed hard. "What she saw was me, suffocating her."

"Shauna—"

"No, it's true. I was so afraid of losing her like I lost Jackie that I held on too tight. And the tighter I held, the more she pulled away."

Tai was quiet for a moment, considering. "Maybe," she finally conceded. "Or maybe the fever fucked with her head more than we realized. People do strange things when they're not thinking clearly."

"She was thinking clearly," Shauna insisted. "For the first time since we got stranded out here, she was seeing things exactly as they are. She was seeing me exactly as I am."

The bitterness in her voice made Tai wince. "And what's that?"

"Desperate. Needy. Trying to replace one dead girl with another."

The harsh assessment hung in the air between them, too raw to immediately address. Tai reached for Shauna's hand, squeezing it once. "That's not fair. To you or to her."

Shauna didn't pull away, but she didn't return the pressure either, her hand limp in Tai's grasp. "Isn't it? Be honest, Tai. You've seen how I've been with her. Ever since Jackie."

Tai sighed, choosing her words carefully. "I've seen two people clinging to each other in a fucked-up situation. I've seen you care for someone who needed it. And yes, maybe sometimes that care was... intense. But it wasn't one-sided, Shauna. She needed you just as much."

"Until she didn't."

The simplicity of the statement made it impossible to argue with. Tai released Shauna's hand, recognizing that there was nothing she could say to ease this particular wound.

"They'll find her," she said instead, the closest thing to comfort she could offer.

Shauna nodded, the gesture automatic, empty. "And then what? Drag her back here against her will? Force her to stay with people she obviously wants to get away from?"

The question had no good answer, and they both knew it.

Outside, the day continued its relentless progression, shadows shifting as the sun moved across the sky. Inside, time seemed suspended, caught in the amber of Shauna's grief.

By mid-afternoon, the search party had reached the base of the ridge, a steep, rocky incline that marked the boundary of their usual hunting territory. They'd found signs of passage—a broken branch here, a disturbed patch of earth there—but nothing conclusive, nothing that couldn't have been caused by wildlife or their own previous excursions.

"We should split up," Travis suggested, surveying the terrain ahead. "Cover more ground."

Nat shook her head firmly. "Bad idea. We get separated out here, we might never find each other again."

"We're running out of time," Travis argued, gesturing to the sun's position. "Another few hours and it'll be dark. We'll have to head back."

The unspoken reality hung between them—if they didn't find you before nightfall, the chances of finding you at all diminished dramatically. One night alone in the wilderness was survivable. Two, maybe, if you were lucky, skilled. Beyond that...

"We keep going," Nat decided, shouldering her pack. "Together. Up the ridge. If Lottie's right, that's where she went."

No one questioned Lottie's guidance, not anymore. Not when they had so little else to go on.

The climb was arduous, the rocky terrain unforgiving. They moved in silence, conserving energy, each lost in their own thoughts. What they would say when they found you. If they found you. How they would convince you to come back, or if they even should.

Halfway up, Van paused, squinting at something ahead. "Wait," she called, pointing to a small outcropping. "Is that...?"

Nat followed her gaze, heart lurching painfully when she spotted it—a scrap of fabric caught on a jagged rock, fluttering in the light breeze.

They scrambled forward, Travis reaching it first. He carefully untangled the fabric—unmistakably a piece of the flannel shirt you'd been wearing when you left.

"Could've ripped it passing by," he said, examining the torn edge. "Doesn't mean she fell."

But they all heard the uncertainty in his voice, saw the way his eyes darted to the steep drop beyond the outcropping. A fall from here wouldn't necessarily be fatal, but it would mean injury, exposure, limited mobility.

It would mean they needed to find you, and fast.

"Spread out," Nat ordered, scanning the area below the outcropping. "Look for any sign of disturbance. Broken branches, disturbed earth, blood."

The last word hung in the air, ugly and unavoidable.

They worked methodically, combing the area foot by foot. The sun continued its westward journey, shadows lengthening, the air growing cooler with the approach of evening.

It was Akilah who found the next clue—a partial bootprint in a patch of soft earth near the base of a large boulder. Small, definitely human, heading not down as they'd feared, but along the ridge, following its natural contour.

"She's still moving," Akilah announced, relief evident in her voice. "And recently too. This hasn't been rained on or disturbed much."

A collective exhale passed through the group, tension easing slightly. You hadn't fallen. You were still on the move. Still alive, at least as of whenever you'd left that print.

"Which way was she heading?" Travis asked, examining the faint impression in the dirt.

Akilah pointed north, toward the far end of the ridge where it gradually descended back into forest. "That way. Away from camp."

Away from them. Away from Shauna.

"We should keep going," Van urged, already moving in the direction Akilah indicated. "We might be close."

But Nat hesitated, looking at the position of the sun, now noticeably lower in the western sky. "We don't have time. It'll be dark in a couple hours, and we're already pushing it to make it back to camp before then."

"So we make camp out here," Travis suggested. "Continue in the morning."

Nat shook her head, hating the decision even as she made it. "We can't. We didn't bring enough supplies for an overnight. And the others will worry if we don't come back."

"We can't just leave her out here!" Van protested, gesturing to the wilderness stretching beyond the ridge. "She's alone, maybe hurt—"

"She chose to be alone," Nat cut in, the words sharper than intended. "And from what we've seen, she's not hurt. She's moving purposefully, away from us."

The truth of it silenced Van's objections. This wasn't a rescue mission anymore. It was a pursuit, and an increasingly futile one.

"We'll come back tomorrow," Nat decided, hating every word. "First light. With more supplies, better prepared."

No one looked happy about the decision, but no one argued further. They marked the spot where they'd found the bootprint, using rocks to create an arrow pointing in the direction they'd need to follow.

As they began the journey back to camp, the mood was somber, heavy with the knowledge that they were leaving one of their own behind in the wilderness. By choice—both yours and theirs.

Lottie, who had been unnervingly quiet throughout most of the search, finally spoke as they descended from the ridge. "She doesn't want to be found," she said, her voice carrying in the still evening air. "Not yet."

"What does that mean?" Nat demanded, rounding on her. "'Not yet'?"

Lottie's eyes were distant, focused on something none of them could see. "It means she's not ready to come back. She's looking for something out there."

"Looking for what?" Travis asked, skepticism clear in his tone.

Lottie shrugged, that maddening half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Herself, maybe. Or something she lost. I don't know. But she's not ready to be found."

Nat wanted to shake her, to demand more concrete answers, but she knew it would be useless. Lottie's insights, when they came, were always frustratingly cryptic, impossible to force or direct.

"Well, ready or not, we're finding her tomorrow," Nat said firmly, turning back to the path ahead. "Before something else does."

Twilight was settling over the camp when they returned, empty-handed and exhausted. Shauna was waiting outside the main cabin, her vigil seemingly unbroken since they'd left that morning. At the sight of them—just them, no you—her face crumpled briefly before she schooled it back into a mask of control.

"Nothing?" she asked, though the answer was obvious.

Nat stepped forward, the unofficial bearer of bad news. "We found signs. A piece of her shirt. A bootprint. She was heading north along the ridge."

"Was?" Shauna caught the past tense immediately.

"Is," Nat corrected. "She's still moving, as far as we can tell. We had to turn back before dark, but we'll go out again tomorrow. First light."

Shauna nodded, the gesture mechanical, her eyes fixed on the darkening tree line as if she might catch a glimpse of you emerging from the shadows.

"She left a note," she said suddenly, pulling the crumpled paper from her pocket. "Just 'I'm sorry.' That's all." She looked up at them, her expression raw, vulnerable in a way that made them all uncomfortable. "Sorry for what? For leaving? For... for everything with Jackie? For us?"

None of them had an answer. Travis shifted awkwardly, mumbling something about checking the snares before slipping away. Akilah and Van exchanged glances, then followed his lead, murmuring promises to help with the search tomorrow.

Only Nat remained, watching as Shauna continued to stare at the note as if it might suddenly reveal new information, new meaning.

"She's alive, Shauna," Nat said quietly. "She's moving with purpose. That's what matters right now."

Shauna looked up, something hardening in her expression. "Is it? Is that all that matters?"

Nat hesitated, unsure how to navigate this new territory. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe we should let her go." The words seemed to cost Shauna physically, each one dragged from somewhere deep and painful. "If this is what she wants—to be away from us, from me—then who are we to drag her back?"

"Shauna, she's one person alone in the wilderness. The chances of survival—"

"I know the odds," Shauna cut in. "Probably better than you do. I've been calculating them since the plane went down. Since Jackie died. Since every fucking thing that's happened out here." She pressed a hand to her belly, wincing slightly. "But maybe it's not our choice to make. Maybe it's hers."

Nat stared at her, trying to reconcile this fatalistic acceptance with the desperate, hovering Shauna of the past weeks. "You can't be serious."

"I'm just tired, Nat." Shauna's voice cracked slightly. "Tired of holding on so tight that I break things. Tired of needing people who don't need me back."

There was something alarming in her tone, a defeat that went beyond simple exhaustion. Nat stepped closer, really looking at her for the first time since their return. Shauna's face was pale, drawn, a sheen of sweat visible despite the cool evening air.

"Are you okay?" Nat asked, concern sharpening her voice. "You don't look good."

Shauna let out a short, humorless laugh. "Thanks. Always the charmer."

"I'm serious, Shauna. How long have you been standing out here? Have you eaten anything today?"

"I'm fine." But even as she said it, Shauna swayed slightly, one hand reaching out to steady herself against the cabin wall. "Just tired. And my back's been killing me all day."

Alarm bells went off in Nat's head. "Your back? Where exactly?"

Shauna gestured vaguely to her lower back. "Here. It comes and goes. It's nothing."

But Nat was already moving forward, taking Shauna's arm and guiding her firmly toward the cabin door. "It's not nothing. How long have you been having these pains?"

"I don't know. Since this morning? They've gotten worse, but—" Shauna stopped mid-sentence, her face contorting in a grimace as another wave of pain visibly washed over her.

"Fuck," Nat muttered, supporting more of Shauna's weight as they crossed the threshold into the cabin. "Tai! Van! Anyone!"

Her shout brought a flurry of activity—Tai emerging from the back room, Misty appearing from nowhere as she always seemed to do when there was a crisis.

"What's happening?" Tai demanded, rushing to Shauna's other side.

"I think the baby's coming," Nat said grimly, helping ease Shauna onto her mattress.

"No," Shauna protested weakly. "It's too early. It can't be now. Not when she's still out there. Not when—" Her words cut off in a sharp gasp, hands clutching at her belly.

"Early or not, it's happening," Misty announced, already pushing her sleeves up with an eagerness that would have been disturbing in any other situation. "Someone get clean water. And the medical kit. And any extra blankets or clothing we have."

As the cabin erupted into controlled chaos around her, Shauna stared at the ceiling, tears sliding silently from the corners of her eyes. Not from the pain—though that was substantial, building with each contraction—but from the crushing certainty that you wouldn't be here for this. That you had chosen the vast emptiness of the wilderness over her, over them, over whatever fragile connection had formed between you in the wake of Jackie's death.

"It's too soon," she whispered, though no one was listening anymore, all of them too focused on preparations. "She's supposed to be here. She promised she'd be here for this."

But promises, like everything else out here, had proven as insubstantial as morning mist. As fleeting as your presence in her life—intense and all-consuming one moment, gone the next.

Another contraction gripped her, stronger than the last, forcing all other thoughts from her mind. Distantly, she heard Tai barking orders, felt Misty's hands on her, checking, preparing.

"Breathe, Shauna," someone instructed—Van, maybe, or Akilah. "Just breathe through it."

As if breathing could fix this. As if anything could fix the hollow ache in her chest, the space you'd occupied now gaping and raw. As if bringing new life into this wilderness wasn't the cruelest irony when she couldn't even hold onto the lives already here.

The next contraction hit with stunning force, stealing her breath, arching her back off the mattress.

"Her water broke," Misty announced, the excitement in her voice barely contained. "It's really happening."

Shauna closed her eyes, surrendering to the relentless rhythm of her body's demands. Outside, darkness had fallen completely, the forest reclaiming its territory inch by inch. Somewhere in that darkness, you were out there. Moving away with each step. Lost to her, maybe forever.

And here she was, bringing new life into a world that seemed determined to take everything else away.

"I can't do this," she gasped between contractions, reaching blindly for someone, anyone to anchor her. "Not without her. I can't."

But her body had other ideas, the primal force of birth caring nothing for her heart's desires. Another contraction seized her, more powerful than any before, the pressure building unbearably.

"Yes, you can," Tai's voice reached her through the haze of pain, steady and certain. "You're doing it right now. And we're here with you. All of us."

All except the one person she wanted most. The one who had walked away into the wilderness, leaving nothing but those two inadequate words behind.

I'm sorry.

As the next contraction crashed over her like a wave, Shauna surrendered to the inevitable, to the inescapable forward momentum of life continuing, even in the face of loss. Even in the face of abandonment. Even here, in this desolate corner of nowhere, where nothing had gone as planned from the moment their plane had fallen from the sky.

The baby was coming, ready or not. And you were gone, choice made and path taken.

And Shauna, caught between these two immovable truths, had no choice but to breathe, and push, and somehow find a way to keep living in the space between what was and what might have been.

[cacoetheswriting]

some protector | chapter three from right where you left me.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 6.5k

summary: tensions are rising. eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. anger. yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. has he been acting distant since yesterday? yes. does that have anything to do with your arrival? everything. does he wish you weren’t here? not even one bit.

content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, emotional hurt / little-comfort, eddie is a bit of an asshole, some mutual pining, also touches on topics of: death, grief, reckless driving, toxic relationships, gaslighting, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls read the cw's for each chapter and let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

Eddie skips breakfast. 

Nobody points it out, although it is clear they are all thinking about it.

Steve in particular is acting extra weird, shooting you pointed looks all throughout the meal as if to wordlessly ask what the hell happened last night? He is the one to have left you alone with the metal-head. Perhaps he’s feeling guilty for doing so?

You try to reply with your own glances in his direction — there’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Eddie skipping breakfast is just him wanting to sleep in.

Right?

While grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you quietly tell Steve to let it go. He’s hovering like a shadow, eager for answers and truthfully, there’s nothing you can say. You have no idea why Eddie wouldn’t come down. He didn’t get burned. He wasn’t an ass. There’s no juicy gossip to share. It’s all very demure.

Steve pretends to buy what he perceives as excuses to some wider scheme and momentarily leaves you alone, but only to get ready.

Robin is the next person on your case. She sticks her head in through the door, babbling rather excitedly how Harrington told her all about last night, leaving you alone with the metal-head. She thinks she’s putting two-and-two together — something happened — but you only burst her bubble with the exact same thing you told Steve.

“He just apologised for the way he acted when he saw me,” you say. “There’s no bigger story.”

“So, you’re all good now? Friends?” She asks, sitting on the edge of your bed.

You scoff. “No. We’re still not talking.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Well, your canoe ride is going to be hell.”

Then she proceeds to explain how after you went upstairs, Argyle suddenly felt really sick and he’s no longer going to partake in today’s planned activities. The dark-haired pothead was supposed to be your partner on the boat. Jonathan and Nancy, Robin and Steve, you with Argyle, and Eddie on his own. That was the planned pairings.

Not anymore.

“At least you’ll get to ask him if you’re the reason he skipped breakfast,” Robin teases with a sly smile and you suppress a groan. One of you is for sure going to push the other off that boat; unintentionally or otherwise.

The rental place is located one lake over from the house you are staying at. It’s about a twenty minute drive and the metal-head doesn’t speak the entire ride there. From where you’re sitting in the backseat, you see how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles on the verge of turning white. He found out about the last-minute switch just as he made an appearance, moments before Nancy ushered the group out the door. If he wanted to complain or protest, she didn’t give him a chance. 

You half-wish you had taken your own car for this outing. In case anything occurs and you need a quick getaway, which is probably precisely why Nancy insisted Jonathan and Eddie drive. No more running. That’s the whole point of this weekend, as you have to keep reminding yourself. Unfortunately, nothing changes the fact that the thought of being alone with Eddie in a rather confined space is making you uneasy and judging by his blank stare, he’s feeling something similar.

Or pure rage.

Down at the dock, once the cars are parked and Nancy dramatises a roll call, you can feel Eddie’s indifference to the whole thing. He’s not paying attention to the owner, who explains how the life jackets work along with instructions on Canoeing 101. How to get into the boat, where to position yourself, is it better to kneel or sit, how to launch, how to paddle and steer, how to not tip. The list goes on. You nod along but truthfully, your mind is also elsewhere. Subtle foreshadowing: you both should have been listening more actively.

“Any questions?” The owner asks, glancing between the group.

And while under the impression that everyone now knows what they’re doing — considering there are no questions — he divides the paddles, helps with adjusting the lifejackets, then leads you all to the edge of the water.

Surprisingly, you both manage to get inside the canoe unscathed.

Considering Eddie still hasn’t so much as bothered to look in your general direction, you acknowledge this as a success. The good luck doesn’t last long. Since neither of you is willing to break the silence, you don’t agree on an order of motion and when Eddie tries to paddle backwards, you go forwards. For a solid three minutes, the canoe circles in place. Frustrated, you look out to the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robin and signal her a desperate plea. It seems however, you two are the only people left in this section of the lake. Everyone else has already disappeared behind the bend, hidden from view by the droopy trees.

You’re just about to shit on this whole day and jump out in your lifejacket, simultaneously saving yourself from any further embarrassment while also deepening the humiliation, when the boat starts to surge ahead. Eddie, taking advantage of the fact you’ve lost yourself in your thoughts and momentarily given up on paddling, uses his full force to row the aluminium oars, finally making headway in a direction that’s not circular.

For a moment, you think he’s going to gloat. Or worse. Tell you he doesn’t need you here: in this boat, this weekend, in his life — a fact you’ve seemingly grown accustomed too. However, the metal-head remains quiet. His expression is devoid of any emotion. It makes you want to scream, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. After all, you’re nearly one-hundred percent sure he’s doing this to get a reaction out of you. Rub your buttons the wrong way. Twisted payback for ruining, well, everything.

Another ten minutes later and the boat halts to a stop. You haven’t caught up with the rest of your friends yet, but you’re making headway (no thanks to your efforts). Eddie lets go of the oars and reaches down, at his feet is a bottle of water from which he takes a sip and then for the first time this entire morning, he looks at you. Seemingly unbothered. Nevertheless, the mahogany of his eyes glistening in the sun, the constant intensity of his stare, it makes you tremble ever so slightly.

“Would you like some?” Eddie offers his water.

You shake your head. “No, thank you.”

He scoffs. “First the cigarette and now the water,” he points out after taking another sip. “I’m not trying to poison you, you know?”

“I-I know.”

The two of you stare at each other for a minute.

There’s things you want to get off your chest, but you’re the one who said talking isn’t necessary. Plus, his behaviour makes it clear how, despite his apology for crappy behaviour, he’s not willing to listen and the twinge of hurt you feel, knowing Eddie has no interest in forgiving you for what happened at Chrissy’s party and everything after, it makes you nauseous.

Beginning to feel rather overwhelmed under his pointed glare, you glance back onto the water.

The beauty of the moment isn’t lost on you. This scenery is unlike anything you’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing and a breath gets caught in your throat now that you’ve allowed yourself to fully take it all in. Eddie’s still watching you, that much you’re aware of. Unfortunately, you can’t read his mind. If you could, perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling this way because all Eddie can think is how utterly alluring you look right now.

He can’t help himself. You’re… you. And it’s all against his better judgement. He hates you. He wants to hate you because that’s easier than admitting his true feelings towards you. That deep down, they haven’t changed. Seeing you after all these years only solidified that notion. He won’t admit it outloud, but he can allow himself to stare. To wish. To dream. What if things had been different? That’s the biggest dream of all.

“Should we get moving?” You ask eventually, unable to take the weight of his eyes on your body any longer.

Eddie shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

And the metal-head probably doesn’t mean anything by it. The phrase. You’re in your own head a little too much. Being at the receiving end of his resentment has done that to you.

“Stop that.”

Eddie’s expression is puzzled. Deepens when words continue to flow through your mouth, unfiltered.

“Stop with the ‘whatever you want’, and the ‘everyone is back to kissing your ass’, and she’s a princess, everyone is quick to forgive her, she’s always put on a pedestal.”

“I never even said half of what you’re implying,” Eddie defends. “And I said I was sorry for being a dick. You’re the one who suggested we don’t talk.”

“It doesn’t matter when I know you’re thinking it. When I can see on your face how much you wish I wasn’t here and how you resent the fact that my friends took me back.”

Tensions are rising. Eddie’s no longer expressing confusion, but rather annoyance. Anger. Yeah, he’s angry because how dare you put words in his mouth. Has he been acting distant since yesterday? Yes. Does that have anything to do with your arrival? Everything. Does he wish you weren’t here? Not even one bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He wishes he could get over it, put it to bed, like the rest of the friend group. He’s just not sure where to begin since everything to do with you still feels very fragile. Eddie’s hurting. He’s hating. He’s conflicted. The one thing he won’t stand for however, is someone making shit up about him. Even — and especially — if that person is you.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You don’t know anything about me anymore!”

“Because you won’t let me in!” You shout, hastily sitting slightly forward and in turn, rocking the canoe. “You won’t let me apologise. You won’t let me make peace. Eddie, you won’t let me move forward and that’s all I want. I just want to move forward!”

“And you think I don’t?!” He also shuffles forward. Arm at his chest, to emphasise how deep this whole thing runs. “You think I relish in feeling this… all of this… nastiness towards you? You think I enjoy not being able to so much as look in your direction? You think I don’t want to forgive you and let you move forward? I also want to move forward! Desperately! Angel, it’s just not that simple.”

Angel. The moniker lingers in the air. It startles you. Him too. If only for a split-second.

“Why won’t you let me apologise then? You’re allowed to say sorry, but I’m not?” You question, “Why can’t we start there?”

Eddie doesn’t immediately answer. His lack of response speaks more than words, however. You decide to drop it then. You decide it’s not worth it. There’s nothing else you can do to fix this at this moment in time. 

And so you reach for an oar and tell Eddie that the two you should get moving before you fall even further behind. He tries to get a hold of the aluminium pad, in an attempt to keep this conversation going because in his eyes, you two are finally getting somewhere.

You try with all of your might to hold onto it while also reaching for the other one, which Eddie accidentally knocks with his knee and the paddle plunges into the water. He lunges for it. This sudden motion shakes the boat and you lose your balance, falling.

What happens next is a blur.

Splash. You’re submerged under water. Considering today is quite warm, the lake is anything but. Freezing; would be a better word to describe it. Although, it’s like you have a moment to think about it. You need to swim up. Get back on the boat.

Splash. Water ripples around you. Suddenly, there’s an arm holding your waist, pulling you close then pulling you up.

Within seconds, you surface together, under the cover of the canoe. Eddie’s now holding it with one hand, the other still firmly clinging onto you.

“Are you alright?”

“Did you just jump in after me?”

You ask simultaneously. A heartbeat pause.

Then you smile.

You can’t help it. The corners of your mouth twitch upwards on their own accord. Eddie’s grip on your tightens as you do and ensuingly, he smiles too. An expression so earnest, your heart skips a beat. With how the metal-head is holding you, you’re sure he can feel it.

Unfortunately, the good mood doesn’t last long. Kicking your feet underwater, a horrible thought crosses your mind.

“My chip.”

“What?” Eddie asks, confused.

“My sobriety chip. I-I don’t feel it in my sock.” Panic stricken, you push away from him and without further explanation, you swim under.

Instantly, your eyes hurt. In the darkness of the water, you can’t see anything other than Eddie’s frame and once again, you feel pathetic. Why can’t you catch a fucking break? So coming back up for air, the only thing you��re grateful for is being absolutely soaked because at least Eddie can’t tell where the droplets end and the tears begin.

“I-I always carry it with me,” you explain, “Everywhere I go. It’s usually in my wallet, but with my bag in the car… I-I needed the chip closer, so I thought what’s the worst that can happen if I put it in my sock.”

“I hate to say it, but it’s most likely already at the bottom of the lake.”

He’s right. You know he’s right.

Wordlessly, the two of you get out from under the boat and try to flip it. Unfortunately, considering neither of you really listened to the owner when he explained what to do in this situation, the whole thing takes a couple of tries and by the time you succeed, you’re even more stressed than before.

While you desperately try to gather your thoughts, Eddie swims around, gathering the oars.

Next, getting back into the canoe is even trickier than turning the thing.

“I-I think I’ll just swim to shore,” you say, deflated.

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel, that’s miles.” Eddie counters. “Just grab the opposite side, in the middle, and push yourself up.”

“Eddie—”

“Come on,” he interrupts, “I’ll do the same and our movements will counteract each other.”

Listening to his instructions, the two of you manage to get back into the boat. The first thing you do is take off your water-filled shoe and carefully remove your sock to confirm your suspicions. The chip is gone. Your heart sinks.

“It’s gone,” you mutter. After, you stifle a sniffle and wipe the lake-mixed tears with the bottom of your palm.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie offers.

You try to say it’s fine, but no words come out. Eddie understands. Despite the distance of the last three years, he still knows you better than anyone. And he knows that what you need now more than ever, is to be alone.

He lets you sit there, holding onto your soaked sock, and paddles back to shore. You don’t wait for him when the canoe hits the wooden dock, instead, you jump out and slide the other shoe off. Barefoot, you scurry towards the parking lot while the metal-head sorts things out with the owner. He proceeds after you, but only to unlock the car, from which you retrieve your backpack. With a shaky hand, you call your sponsor.

-

Back at the house, you’re first to run upstairs. The door closes with a thud and when you’re out of earshot, Nancy smacks Eddie’s chest to chastise him.

“What the fuck happened on that canoe?”

“Nothing,” he answers plainly.

“Then why does she look like she’s been crying?” Robin chimes.

Eddie ignores the questions and pushes past the girls, following you. He’s not listening to their protests. He’s not really thinking. Truthfully, the only thing on his mind is making sure you’re alright — even if it means swallowing his pride (and that’s a tough pill).

You let him in on the second knock. Rather you open the door and hover, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. Not with words. Instead, he slides in through the gap and kicks it close because he knows the remainder of the group will be eavesdropping. They can’t help themselves.

Eddie then reaches for your wrist. His own hand is steady as his fingers envelop around your bone and tug you closer. You don’t protest.

His other arm slides across your back, palm stretching. He begins to rub gentle circles into the material of your now fully dried t-shirt and you feel yourself relaxing with every passing second. The hand holding yours is now placed firmly against his chest. If he didn’t feel your heart beating under the canoe, you think he can definitely feel it now. Just like you can feel his. Focusing on the steady rhythm, you muster up the courage to look up and meet his brown eyes.

They speak volumes. Memories flash and disappear. The good, the bad, the ugly. Then a thousand apologies and notes of forgiveness. Everything falls into place. It’s just you and Eddie. Just like before that nightmare party.

“I’m listening,” he whispers. “Let’s move forward. I’m listening.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, you nod.

“Eddie, I-I am extremely sorry for everything I put you through,” you begin. “I’m sorry for being oblivious. I’m sorry for acting self-centred. I’m sorry for the night of Chrissy’s party. For hurting you like I did and for jumping into Steve’s arms instead of focusing on what was really important. You. Eddie, you—” Pause. “— you don’t know how incredible you are and I think I will forever hate myself for not being the girl you thought I was.”

The metal-head accepts your apology in the form of a hug. Right hand on your back slides lower and pushes you closer while the other finds itself at the back of your head. His mouth is at your earlobe, which he kisses gently. In turn, you allow yourself to let go and hold him tight, inhaling his natural scent of cigarettes and cheap breath mints. Today, right now, he also smells like the lake. It fuels your senses and ignites that fire in your core, the one you’ve been quietly trying to put out for three years — seemingly to no avail.

There’s still a lot of fixing that needs to happen. Rebuilding this friendship will not be easy by any means, you know that. This feels like a good start though and for the first time since you arrived, you’re feeling a little bit lighter on your feet. Like part of the burden has been lifted off your shoulders. Like you’re no longer alone.

Eddie places another kiss to the side of your head before eventually pulling away. When he does, you’re instantly missing his touch and all you can do is hope that he can’t read your mind because only baby steps can get you to where you really want to be with him. So you try to minimise your reaction when the metal-head fishes something out from the pocket of his shorts and takes your hand once again. His fingers work to open up your palm and without breaking eye contact, he places a single guitar pick in your grasp.

“I know it’s not the same,” the boy says, “But I thought this could replace that chip you lost. At least for this weekend.”

You’re rendered speechless. Lips parting, your gaze travels to where his hand is holding yours and where the red guitar pick rests — same colour as your Jeep — tangled in a silver chain. 

Recognition feigns. Of course it does. You’re the one who gifted said guitar pick to the metal-head, for Christmas of senior year. Back then however, there was no chain attached to it. Either way, as you trace along the plastic, you can’t believe he kept such a small piece of you for all these years. 

Hold on. Didn’t you throw it out the window of Chrissy’s childhood bedroom? The memories are a little hazy, but no, you definitely remember holding it one second and then, poof.

Eddie sees your bewilderment.

“After I dropped you home, I-I went back for it,” he admits, “Took me fucking forever to find. Almost had the cops called on me too ‘cause the flashlight on my phone, someone thought I was breaking in.”

He went back for it. He searched for it. He found it. He kept it.

Yet, you focus on: “You dropped me home?”

You string your brows together as you speak, hesitant to meet his gaze again when the question settles in the air because that part of the night, you definitely don’t remember.

“Shit, of course.” Eddie answers because to him it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were in no condition to get yourself home and I wasn’t about to let someone else take you.”

This new development, another piece of the puzzle, causes a bubble to form in the back of your throat. Heavy. Waiting to burst. Somehow, knowing Eddie drove you to Nancy’s in the middle of the night and most likely helped you into bed, after you broke his trust and more importantly, his heart, well, it only makes you feel worse about yourself.

“Do you realise you just shit on everything we’ve ever shared?!” Eddie’s pointing a finger, it’s close to your face and your anger spikes.

You wince at the evocation and push his hand away.

“I can’t accept this.”

“Please. Take it.” He practically forces the item into your grasp. “I’ve been wearing it around my neck. Carrying it to remind me of you - as if I could ever forget - but now that you’re here, I think you should have it instead.”

Tears swell in the corner of your eyes.

“Eddie, I’m not worth this.” You try to reason, but the metal-head just shakes his head.

“Angel, you’re worth everything and more. I’m sorry if I made you doubt that.”

That’s where the conversation ends. Not because either one of you wants it to. Instead, you get interrupted by an eager knock on the door. Then Robin is telling you both through the wood how lunch is almost ready and how she hopes no one’s been murdered because she’s got no interest in cleaning up a scene. You reply that it’s all fine, not looking away from the curly set of hair in front of you.

Eddie smiles timidly. He orders you to shower and change, says he’ll do the same.

“I’ll see you downstairs, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Under the shower, you replay the entire thing in your mind. Analyse from every angle. Pulling apart the words, the looks, the touch. His touch. You get lost in that hug again. Reliving how it felt to be in his arms once more, after all this time. Home, you think. That’s what it felt like. Instinctively, your hand travels to your earlobe, where he placed his soft kiss. The other lands between your collarbone, to the red guitar pick now hanging around your neck.

The longer you stand under the hot water, the harder it is to remind yourself to keep grounded. One conversation will not fix years of pent up frustration and resentment, no matter how well it went. There’s a lot more to say. The weekend is just beginning.

Although, after you make your way downstairs, it’s hard not to feel as if you’d already won.

Your high school friends together, laughing.

Yesterday, there was a vibe of awkwardness around the table. Even this morning was rough with the metal-head skipping the meal and no one really knowing why. Right now however, there’s jokes being shared and playful anecdotes exchanged. When you enter the kitchen, no one stops mid-conversation. They don’t exchange weird glances. Mood is high and realise how much of a ripple effect your relationship with Eddie has on the rest of the group.

That thought equally excites and terrifies you. After all, it’s only Saturday afternoon. A lot can happen between now and when it’s time to say goodbye.

(And a lot appears later, in the form of an uninvited guest.)

Now, you focus on lunch. On Eddie choosing to sit next to you, arm brushing yours as he slides into the chair, wild locks of hair still wet from his shower. He smiles and your heart flutters — this seemingly insignificant exchange earns you a kick from Robin under the table. She winks when you shoot her a quick glance, then, for the remainder of the meal, you do your best to keep attention on the food on your plate.

Conversation flows swiftly. Memories are recounted with flair. The high school years, albeit quite hellish for you at a certain point, don’t look so bad through the eyes of your friends. You almost forgot how much fun you had before the Billy-of-it-all.

Steve retells the story of his Junior Prom. You went as his date, which was unheard of for a freshman. He’s talking about winning Prom King and tossing you the crown, a seemingly innocent act that made most of the girls from his year jealous and therefore solidified your place in social hierarchy: ‘cause no one was to fuck with Harrington’s clique, that was the law.

“You’re misremembering a few important details, Steve.” You point out, taking a sip of your water. He looks at you from across the table, patiently waiting for an elaboration. You oblige. “You spent half of the night quizzing me about Nancy.”

Robin snorts. 

Argyle drawls, “Play on playa.”

Jonathan and Nancy snicker.

Steve rolls his eyes at the lot of them, before replying to you. “Well, I made it up to you, didn’t I, sweetheart? I gave you Widlak’s number.”

“Lee Widlak?” Eddie asks, but his question is ignored. Sort of.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “We went on one wildly unsuccessful date,” you say, “I hardly count that as you making it up to me. You and Nancy dated for quite a bit which, dare I say, is hugely thanks to my cooperation at your prom.”

“But then Widlak introduced you to Billy while me and Nancy infamously broke up, also hugely thanks to you, so shouldn’t all be forgiven?” Steve muses, a sly smirk circling his lips.

“Dustin introduced me to Billy,” you correct without giving it a second thought.

When the table falls silent, you realise that wasn’t common knowledge.

You were always quite secretive when it came to your relationship with the Hargrove boy. Aside from his lavish looks and intense charm, he wasn’t entirely good news. Your parents didn’t like him. Your friends didn’t like him.

While you and Billy were together, it really felt as though it was you against the world. Later on, thanks to a lot of therapy, you realised he purposefully made it that way. He wanted to isolate you. You were easier to control when feeling lonely and Billy was all about control.

People were confused about the whole thing. You, a cheerleader at that point and easily the most popular girl in school. Him, a womanising bully. There were a lot of assumptions and rumours floating around back then about the two of you. Innocent enough about how you met, and some rather nasty, about Billy’s tendency to flirt with everything that had a pulse. Effectively, you didn’t clarify or respond to anyone’s assumptions. Why feed the mill?, as Billy would say.

Lee Widlak spread crazy stories during his high school run. One of said stories happened at a house party you attended and of course, Billy was there. From the outside, Lee had every right to think he introduced you to the dirty-blonde. On paper, that was days prior when an outspoken Dustin accosted you outside the Wheeler house and told you all about his new friend Max, her older brother Billy — who, right on queue, pulled up in his rundown BMW and charmed the shit out of you.

“Not intentionally, so I didn’t think anything of it.” You clarify. “But then at the funeral, Dustin came up to me, his eyes were puffy red, and he said how sorry he was. That it was all his fault. That I wouldn’t be this heartbroken if he hadn’t introduced us.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve’s sympathetic. 

They all seem to be.

What you focus on however, is Eddie’s fingers gently brushing the side of your leg. Letting you know he’s here and he’s got you, always.

You swallow. “I obviously told him it wasn’t his fault. Probably didn’t believe me, but there’s no way I’d let this kid think he’s the reason for my misery,” you continue, then pause. “And anyway, Billy died because of me.”

“Dark,” Argyle whispers under his breath.

Jonathan and Steve simultaneously say your name. Nancy reaches for your hand on the table and squeezes it, saying how that’s definitely not true. Robin also says that you shouldn’t be blaming yourself. Eddie is the only one who doesn’t react. His movements also come to a halt and from the corner of your eyes, you can see how his fingers intertwine in his lap, as if he’s no longer sure what to do with them.

“Guys, it’s fine,” you reassure, “I made peace with it a long time ago.”

“Babe, Billy died ‘cause he was driving over the speed limit. He was being reckless, like always. That’s got nothing to do with you,” Robin tries to reason.

“He was coming to see me.”

“You don’t know that.” Nancy is next to step in. “He could have been going home. He could have been going—”

“He called me,” you state, hoping to put this whole thing to bed because the longer you talk about it, the more uneasy you feel. “He called me when he got in that stupid car and he asked if I was home, if anyone else was there. He said he needed to talk about something. He sounded really agitated, so I asked what was wrong. Billy threw some insults around, babbled about some freak - as he put it - who practically jumped him outside Benny’s. I think that was all bullshit. He just got in these moods and he was coming over to yell at someone who listened, aka me, and then I also got this feeling that he was going to break up with me. Earlier that day, I bumped into Max who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Despite their troubled relationship, she was always her brother’s keeper. Billy was done with me and that’s one of the reasons he was in the car that night.”

“Shit, dude.” Argyle breathes. He’s the only one at this table who never met Billy and perhaps that’s why he’s got the only genuine reaction. The remainder of your friends are silent. Glancing between one another, all nervous again, as if they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It does. Mere seconds later, when Eddie says, “I’m the freak.”

Your head snaps to the side. The metal-head is staring at his lap while you examine the side of his face, trying to figure out if you heard him correctly. 

“Eddie…” Nancy the peacekeeper.

He looks up then. Not at you, but at her. His eyes wander down the table until they land on Wheeler and his shoulders rise ever so slightly. They have a stare down. It’s only a couple of seconds long. You desperately want to know what they’re thinking. What he’s thinking. How many secrets can one friend group share before they’re no longer considered friends? And then you find yourself praying that it’s not as bad as it seems.

“Well, you might as well tell her now.” It’s Robin who breaks the weird stillness. “She was bound to find out sooner or later.”

“Tell me what?” You ask, glancing between the group, until your gaze travels back to Eddie who’s now waiting to catch it. 

The seriousness in the mahogany has an uneasy undertone. You fear you already know what your ex-best friend is about to share. His eyes say it all. They always have. Your body sags into the chair, expression fading into one of sadness — things were barely good again, things were barely good again, things were barely good again.

“Now, I didn’t jump him. I wasn’t waiting for him. I didn’t plan any of what happened,” Eddie starts, “I caught him in Benny’s with some girl. They were awfully close to being just friends.”

For a split-second, you close your eyes. The metal-head places a hand on your thigh. You want to move away, but there’s nowhere else to go.

“Afterwards, he walked the girl to her car and I was going to let it go, I really was, but then they kissed and I instantly saw red ‘cause how dare he fuck around on you.” Eddie’s words are full of venom. Years of pent up aggression towards the boy that completely demoralised you. 

“I swear, I just wanted to talk. I told him how he better come clean to you, but Billy just laughed in my face. He said he’s got you wrapped around his finger and no matter what he does, you’d never leave. Then he got in my face. You’re nothing but a jealous freak, he spat. You can’t have her so you ruin the fun for everyone else. Well, I’ll tell you what, freak, it’s my name she screams at the end of the night—”

The rest of that sentence gets caught in Eddie’s throat as your eyes swell with tears.

For the hundredth time since you arrived, you feel pathetic. You’re questioning everything. Yourself, your friends. Their motives. Eddie.

In your story, Eddie was always the good guy. Even at that stupid party, he didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, his timing may not have been perfect, but in your eyes, he was faultless.

Seems though, you were missing a vital piece of information. They all knew, you think, they knew and chose not to tell you.

“I punched him. Square in the jaw.”

“I don’t want to know,” you whisper, but your wishes aren’t heard.

“Billy was all talk, so he didn’t fight back. He threatened that he’ll call the cops and that’s when I got out of there.” Eddie concludes, “He must’ve called you instead.”

There is a lot to be said about grief. Even more about heartbreak. You experienced both of those things simultaneously and the person you leaned on the most, is the person who kept this huge secret from you. 

“Excuse me.”

Shuffling free from the grasp of the curly-haired man, you’re on your feet in a flash and saunter away, towards the door and out of the kitchen area. Your friends call your name. Jonathan is the only one to say, “Let her go.”.

In true Eddie Munson fashion, the metal-head doesn’t listen. He’s rushing after you. Repeating that stupid moniker. Chanting it like a prayer because maybe then you’d stop and finish this conversation. Only, you don’t want to hear anything else that he’s got to say.

No, you didn’t suddenly think Eddie was now to blame for Billy dying. That’s ludicrous. 

But, for three miserable years, you were haunted by what you did to Eddie Munson — rightfully so. Riddled with anxiety, regret. Endlessly apologetic. Thinking he’d never forgive you. When you arrived yesterday, he made you feel like crap — also, rightfully so. To learn he’s been sitting on this high horse while harbouring a truth about a night that changed the entire trajectory of your life… That feels like a betrayal.

“Angel, please.”

At the bottom of the stairs, he finally catches up. You’re a couple of steps ahead but he’s got a hold on your forearm.

“I just want to be left alone.”

You don’t dare look at him when you speak because that’s when the real emotions would show. Instead, you tilt your head backwards and count the paint speckles on the ceiling. Three, four, five…

A sigh escapes Eddie’s lips. Carefully, so you don’t trip, he pulls you back down, towards him. He leads you into a corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. His grip on you tightens slightly while the fingers of his free hand touch the tip of your chin.

“Look at me.” It’s more of a plea than a command. “Angel, look at me.”

He guides your face. The pace is slow, almost as if the metal-head’s afraid you’ll breakaway if he moves any faster. Eventually, his brown eyes catch yours and he offers a smile. Earnest, true. Kind.

“I did try to tell you. I called and texted, but you didn’t answer. Then, news broke of Billy’s accident and the group collectively decided not to mention it for a while.” Eddie says, hoping to explain. “You never asked me about the missed calls, so I went with what the guys wanted.”

Placing one hand flat on his chest, you reply, “Only you’re not the group, Eddie. To me, back then, you were—” 

You pause, unsure how much to reveal. Then you remove your hand, letting it fall down to your side because suddenly this feels too intimate.

“Truthfully, I don’t remember much about that time. I don’t know if you called, but I believe you if you say you did,” you say. “I-I guess I just wish you told me anyway because maybe then things would have gone differently between us.”

Eddie blinks. Words settle in the air.

“Different how?” 

You shrug. What you really want to tell him is that maybe you wouldn’t have gotten so horribly out of control over Billy’s death. Maybe you’d heal in a more healthy way. You want to list the endless questions you now have, starting with: ‘what if, knowing what I know now, I was okay enough to open myself up to feeling loved and cared for, by whoever, starting with you?’

The argument at Chrissy’s party doesn’t ensue. The friendship doesn’t shatter. You don’t run away, you don’t leave. Vegas doesn’t become your new home. Eddie remains in your life. The last three years simply don’t exist.

You want to tell him all of that and more, but just as you’re about to open your mouth to start spilling your thoughts, there’s a knock on the front door.

The two of you glance towards it, although neither makes a move to address whoever is on the other side. Until there’s another knock, then another. Reluctantly, and with a sigh, Eddie lets you go. He strides towards it, shooting you a rather longing look over his shoulder, before he reaches the handle. 

When the metal-head opens the large wooden frame, your stomach sinks and you wish you hadn’t hesitated. You wish you told him everything. Spilled your guts into his lap. You wish you hugged him and told him that in the grand scheme of things, you two were alright. 

There, standing on the patio with a small smile on her perfectly oval face, is Chrissy Cunningham.

And your day goes from bad to worse.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

& tagging some cool people that expressed interest in this story: @ali-r3n @thelazyarchangel @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @peculiarwren @fxoxo @losingmygrasponreality @kellsck @sp1dyb0y1008 @mmmunson @somethingvicked @darknesseddiem @scream4mami @pineapplechuncks @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @emxxblog @bl0ssomanddie @theladyhellfire @gracelouiseoneill @emquinn94 @transparent-enemy @rach5ive @knew-better-forever-girl-two @lemonmarquee @mossgh0st @probablyin-bed @dustbowleddie @residentoftomlinsonsass @heart-eyed-love @munsonburn3r @helsa3942 @althaiareads @theladyhellfire @v1per1ne @sugarplumsweetiepie @rizzraa @micheledawn1975 @gracelouiseoneill @moremaple @bigpoppascherry @jeangeniex @daisy-munson @ceeezy @kissmyacdc

[angelgoeslewd]

I NEED MORE PHAINAXA X READER IT WAS SO GOOD

I have not seen enough Phainaxa content let alone Anaxa content in GENERAL so I am obliged to write the change I wish to see in the world

Enjoy! I know I did when writing this

🔮 summary: Anaxa’s class is the perfect place for the three of you.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ content, minors DNI! this is honestly just straight up explicit public sex with Phainaxa

Phainon cannot keep his hands to himself when it comes to his relationships, so most of the time, it’s EXTREMELY obvious that he’s with someone. No doubt people would know you too were a couple within a day of him confessing. He loves PDA, too, which, paired with his inability to keep his boundaries straightened (and if you’re down), Phainon would 100% initiate public sex. People tend to give you too a wide range, anyways, considering that Phainon’s proclivities might just a little too open for some people’s taste. So most of the time, it would tend to be in Anaxa’s class, you two would sit in the back and no one would sit anywhere near the two of you. And he would finger you under the table, your thigh hitched over his own, cooing sweetly in your ear to egg you on, telling you to be louder, “Anaxa is right there, beloved… let him hear you. You know how much he loves it when you’re vocal…” Your own hand dives into his pants, stroking his hard cock as you pant softly, his finger diving into your pussy, making soft squelching noises as he pumps them in and out of you. His ministrations might be on you, but his eyes are on Anaxa, the way his eye combs over the two of you every so often as he continues to read, his voice faltered only once — when you and Phainon first begin your little show, at the beginning of the class. Despite that, Anaxa has carried on continuously, this lesson somehow happening to have a suspiciously long chapter.

‘He knows,’ thinks Phainon with a smile, despite outwardly, he himself knows that nothing looks off. You two are good at this, you’ve done it before. His other hand is tucked under his chin, elbow perched upon the table, smiling innocently at the scholar, but Anaxa is more perceptive then most, and Phainon takes great pleasure in locking eyes with the scholar as he continues his lesson, licking his lips as he fingers you a little deeper, a little harder, losing himself a bit in the feeling of you wrap around his finger and Anaxa’s gaze. Anaxa approves with a twitch of a smile, before his back turns and he marks up something in chalk on the board. And if this whole thing was in part for Anaxa… well, Phainon has never been a selfish lover. He knows how much the other man enjoys such… displays.

You’re panting harder harder now, your orgasm approaching, your eyes catching his to beg him desperately to allow you to cum, but a student in front of you goes to turn around at the sound, and Phainon’s heart rate quickens, but then —

SLAM!

Everyone jumps, all attention goes to the front of the room, where Anaxa is bending down to pick up a large tome that has suspiciously fallen. “Ah, forgive me,” he murmurs, lying effortlessly, green catching blue in flame lighting. Phainon knows Anaxa’s reflexes, knows that he can effortlessly dodge a Lord Ravenger, so the book was a chance, an opportunity — he takes the chance to lean over to you, while everyone is focused on the Professor, and whispers harshly, “Cum for us.”

Your nails scratch into the table, another mark among many left behind before, Phainon slaps his hand over you mouth, knowing you’re too far gone to control yourself, letting bite into his skin as you jerk and cream on his fingers, your shuttering chest the only telltale sign. Anaxa is still distracting from the front and it’s a shame he has to miss your gorgeous display of devotion, but Phainon gets a horrible, absolutely awful idea. Something he knows Anaxa would love.

As your body calms, your wet hand retracting from his pants, he goes the opposite route, raising his unoccupied hand in the air, “Professor! Would you be able to clarify this section for me?” Your eyes dart to his face, panic clear as all the eyes in the room turned to you two. Anaxa raises an eyebrow.

“Distracted much? What is it, Phainon?”

Everyone’s eyes roll at the Professor’s statement, agreeing wholeheartedly and turning back to their own work.

“It’s this one, here.” He points at a random passage, which he knows Anaxa can’t see, annoying him greatly, because he has that look, the ‘Why can’t you just tell me, Phainon?’ one, but it’s utmost important to Phainon to get Anaxa over to the table, regardless of his annoyance. And he comes, down the aisle, all stern crossed arms and swishing cape that has Phainon’s horny brain melting at the sight of, and as he leans down to look at the book, Phainon pulls his fingers out of you, causing a sudden gasp, making Anaxa turn and - Phainon shoves his fingers into Anaxa’s mouth, all covered in you, your slick, sweet juices, all the evidence of what you two were doing right under everyone’s noses, in his class, nonetheless, onto his tongue to taste.

Anaxa’s eyes widen, reaching up to grab Phainon’s hand, but stops when he registers the taste. They go from wide and surprised, to dark and possessive in an instant, gaze switching between the two of you as Phainon slowly pulls back his hand, letting it caress all of Anaxa’s tongue. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees. The look that Anaxagora gives you two, paired with the husky, “Stay after class,” would be enough for anyone to know exactly what was going on.

and if the rumors surrounding you and Phainon suddenly include Anaxa… well. Now you know why.

And it’s all Phainon’s fault.

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 7 Preview

Will be posting on Friday 4/18...

It had been three months since she left. Eighty-nine days, to be exact.

Tommy stood in front of the wardrobe, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from between his lips. He wasn’t late yet, but time didn’t matter like it used to. He’d gotten faster at going through the motions and pretending everything was fine. His suits were pressed, his boots shined. All his plans were drawn and being executed.

But under all of it, he was rotting.

The people closest to him noticed, particularly Polly. Tommy snapped more at the men in the shop, at family dinners. At Finn for breathing too loudly. At Polly for looking at him like she knew something he hadn’t said out loud. His patience had quickly turned to ash.

Meetings dragged? He’d cut them short. Whispers carried through the betting floor? He’d slam a drawer hard enough to shut everyone up. One too many questions about the next job or shipment? He’d light a cigarette and walk out without answering. He couldn’t stand it, any of it. The hesitation in a man’s voice or the subtle way someone said “she” and then corrected to “the girl.” The nervous glances when someone dared bring up Ipswich. It all scraped like broken glass behind his eyes.

And God help anyone who said the wrong thing on the wrong day. Because Tommy Shelby didn’t yell. He dismissed. And lately, he’d been doing a lot of that. Even Ada had said something last week, something gentle and irritating. “You don’t sleep, Tom. And you look like you haven’t in months.”

She wasn’t wrong. The nightmares were back at least twice a week now. And he didn't even answer that. Why the fuck should he?

His fingers skimmed the hangers. Suit. Shirt. Waistcoat. He paused. The charcoal grey. The waistcoat he hadn’t worn since… He remembered the button. It had popped off weeks before she left and he’d meant to have it fixed, but never bothered. He went to shove it back in the wardrobe. But then… he didn’t. He took a closer look.

The buttons, all of them, new. The stitching was tight, neat. She’d done it. Not with a machine. Not like the shirts she'd altered or the coats she'd hemmed.These were hand-stitched. Deliberate. She’d never said a word. Just mended it. And that quiet, ordinary act cut deeper than any scream. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, waistcoat in his lap, he stared at the damn thing like it might disappear. His throat ached.

She had touched this. She’d sat here, in this room, with needle and thread, and left something behind. Something she never meant to break him.

But it did.

Rising, because he wasn't going to do this again, he shoved it back into the wardrobe and slammed the door like it burned him.

Polly was pouring herself a second cup of tea when he made it downstairs. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. It had been like this for a while now. But when she turned to pass him the sugar, he caught it. That look. It wasn't quite pity. It was just the knowing. Like she’d seen this kind of heartbreak before and had the nerve to survive it. He took the sugar and the tea and he still didn't say a bloody word. But he was sick of that look. He was even more sick of the silence wrapped around her name, her ghost in this house. Tommy couldn't handle it today so he left.

The air was thick with smoke and fresh ink when he reached the betting shop. John and Liam were hunched over paperwork, Arthur sharpening a blade for reasons unknown. Rory was already there. Dressed clean in a dark suit, cap in his lap. Quiet as always and waiting for orders.

Tommy watched him for a long moment. Rory didn’t talk unless spoken to. He didn't crack jokes or show off like his brothers did. He followed orders with sharp precision and an almost ruthless focus. He’d struggled at the start,Tommy remembered that clearly. That first incident with all the blood and panic, the job that went too far. It shook Rory to his core and Tommy knew that was the moment Tommy was going to find out if the lad had what it took. Rory came back the next day and every day since. And now? Rory looked and acted like he’d always been one of them. A proper Blinder.

Lighting a cigarette, Tommy leaned back in his chair, and let his gaze flick over the room. Over his men, his empire. They were all in place.

And still, his mind drifted.

Would she even recognize her brother now? Would she be proud? Or would she hate Tommy more for turning him into this? He exhaled slow, smoke curling past his lip.

He couldn’t get her out of his fucking head. And it was starting to cost him.

Tommy knew it wasn't only him being affected by the entire situation. His men and family were paying a toll too, and he just couldn't bring himself to care.

He noticed. The way they moved around him now, like he was as dangerous as thin, cracked glass. John didn’t joke as much. Not with him. Arthur, who was always the loudest voice in any room, had started clearing his throat and waiting for Tommy to speak first. Even Finn, his sharp, excitable youngest brother, looked at him like he was a lit fuse on a short string. And Liam? Liam stopped making eye contact altogether. They were almost too careful. Tiptoeing around the landmine they couldn’t name.

Tommy hated it. But he also needed it. If they treated him like nothing was wrong or tried to talk to him like normal, he thought he might actually crack. One of them might say her name or look too long at the empty chair she used to sit in. He'd remember the way she smiled at him when he made it home late, and she was already in his bed.

So no, he didn’t want their fucking pity. Their fear? That, he could live with because it meant the silence was still holding. And as long as they stayed quiet, he didn’t have to admit how badly he was losing.

Tommy was at the books, flipping pages without seeing a single number, when Rory cleared his throat. Tommy didn’t look up right away. The kid had that stiff, uneasy look in his shoulders. Rory looked like someone approaching a man who might explode if he made the wrong move. Today it was bloody possible.

“Something you need, Rory?”

The lad straightened his posture. “I was wondering if I could take a few days, sir, to visit family.”

That got his attention. Ipswich. That was where he was going, not even a question. And Tommy knew, of course he bloody knew, that Rory hadn’t spoken her name once since she left. Not even in passing, and she was his bloody sister. But she was still there, behind his eyes. In the quiet between his sentences.

Snapping the book shut, he said, “Go.”

Caution bled into the younger man's expression. “Thank you. I’ll be back--”

“I said go.” The words came sharper than intended.

At that Rory froze before stepping back without another word.

Tommy stared down at the book, his fists clenched against the table edge. Of course the lad had earned the time. He was loyal and focused. Exactly what Tommy needed. But today wasn’t about Rory.

It was always her. And the goddamn ache in his chest that hadn’t left in three months.

The thought of Rory walking into his uncle's house, seeing her… maybe seeing the truth of what she was becoming without him? It killed him. Because he didn’t know. And the not knowing, that was what gnawed at him most.

Was she safe? Was she eating? Did she have something to ease the pain when her time came each month? Was she sewing again, like she used to in the mornings, her hair tied back, her eyes narrowed with focus as her fingers worked the fabric? Or had she stopped? Had she buried the needle and thread like he’d tried to bury the sound of her voice? Was she quiet now, like Rory? Hollowed out and just going through the days? Or worse, was she okay? Had she healed? Had she already forgotten him? Had she met someone, some good, simple bastard who didn’t orchestrate her downfall and call it a lesson?

Tommy gritted his teeth just thinking about it all for the hundredth time. He wanted her to be happy. That's what he told himself anyway. He told himself that if she could find peace, it was enough.

But peace without him? It fucking burned.

And now Rory, his Rory, was walking back into her world. He’d see her and hear her voice. Maybe he'd be privileged to see something in her that Tommy no longer had a right to touch. And that was unbearable too.

He told himself he didn’t need to know, but that wasn't the truth. Because at night, when the house was quiet, when the betting slips were tucked away, when the whiskey stopped working, she came back to him in flashes. That last night in the safe house. The way her voice cracked when she asked why. The way her fists hit his chest like they wanted to punish him and pull him closer all at once. The way her body shook when she let him hold her. He remembered the way she clung to him, not like a lover. Like shelter.

And now? He had no idea if she even had one. Was she lying awake in a strange room? Was she sick? Cold? Tired? Was she…

Pregnant?

The thought slipped through his mind like a crack in a dam. One he didn’t patch fast enough. He tried not to let himself think about that, hadn’t dared. But that possibility was always there in the back of his mind. The what if. The weight of it pulled him under like water.

Tommy remembered everything. The softness of her, the way her breath caught when he touched her. The way her body trusted him before her heart did. And he’d been aware—damn well aware—that protection hadn't been used. Whenever the thought had occurred to him, he’d told himself it was a mistake. It was a rare lapse in control or a consequence of the chaos.

But that was a fucking lie too. He knew better than most how to control outcomes. Deep down, under every cold decision and calculated silence, he’d wanted that risk, had wanted to tether her to him in a way that couldn’t be undone. Claiming her heart might’ve felt impossible… But claiming her blood? That felt like something he could do.

What if she was? What if, right now, as he sat behind his desk pretending to give a damn about supply chains and shipment logs, she was out there dealing with it alone? What if she were growing something that belonged to both of them? To him.

His hands stilled on the desk. His child. Hers. A life created in the middle of a mess she never asked for. And the world would call that child a scandal. A mistake. The result of a war that no one won.

But Tommy? He'd probably spend an extra hundred years in purgatory for thinking it, but to him, it would be salvation. Because if she was carrying his child, then it wasn’t over.

And if he learned that was her condition and that uncle of hers, if anyone, tried to take her away, marry her off, hide her in some quiet Ipswich corner like a shameful secret… He’d burn the whole goddamn town to the ground.

Because that child? That would be his reason, redemption. It would be a second chance to get it right. He’d take her back, with flowers or fire. Whatever it took.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. His chest felt too tight. Like the air in the shop was closing in on him. When Rory got back, should he send a man to see what he could find out?

Tommy didn’t need news. He needed her. Here. Where he could see her and fix what he’d broken, if such a thing was even possible.

But she’d walked away. And he’d let her. And now Rory was going into her new life. And if he came back with news Tommy didn’t want? If he came back saying she’d moved on, or worse, suffered quietly and never said a word… Tommy didn’t know what the hell he’d do.

[olasketches]

so because we have only three chapters left, I’ve decided that I’m going to wait for the official release instead of going through the leaks as I’ve been doing for… almost the past 2 years. I don’t want the leaks and the fandom discourse to ruin my last experience with jjk as a still ongoing manga… plus I thought it would be more fun and enjoyable this way... more special ig (I’m being so sappy ik) wish me luck guys!!

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong. 

None of it was a choice you should have to make. 

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give. 

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah. 

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through. 

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone. 

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people. 

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you. 

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?” 

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.” 

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you. 

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

 “You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset. 

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical. 

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle. 

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you. 

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break. 

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people. 

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day. 

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby. 

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away. 

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach. 

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel. 

Rafe. 

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you. 

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle. 

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms. 

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face. 

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter. 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. 

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else. 

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience. 

“Put me down!” 

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate. 

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit. 

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall. 

 "Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape. 

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much. 

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over. 

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him. 

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode. 

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

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@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[formula-ghost]

Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)

Chapter 1

SERIES SUMMARY: You’ve been best friends with Oscar Piastri since you were seven, far before the dream of Formula 1 even seemed possible. You’ve been with him from the very beginning—due, in no small part, to the fact that you’ve been in love with him since you were a teenager. But when a breakup and championship battle rattles the very foundations of your friendship, you begin to question if you ever really knew him. (Best friends to lovers, based on the song Wildflower by Billie Eilish)

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

WARNINGS: Oscar is not a very good boyfriend to Lily and Lily is not a very good girlfriend to Oscar. Potentially changed some dates (I think Oscar and Lily started dating when they were 17 or 18, but I’m making them 18 for the sake of the flashback scenes). Reader is “the girl he told me not to worry about” through no fault of her own. This story has a lot of complex character dynamics and everyone is flawed! References to sex but no actual smut.

A/N: Ah new series! I hope this is good—I’m trying some new stuff with the flashbacks and story layers, so I hope it doesn’t read too confusingly! Also, I’m trying to be more intentional with showing instead of telling with my dialogue and such, so hopefully that is an improvement. I always welcome constructive criticism, but either way, I hope you all enjoy this.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

“Lily left me.”

He only needed those three words to convey the gravity of the situation. On the other end of the line, you were silent. He was too. What was there to say?

No, it couldn’t be real. Oscar and Lily were inseparable. The dream couple of Formula 1. Your best friend had been in love with her since the pair were 18, attending boarding school in the UK together while Oscar pursued his dreams of making it to F1. 

They were each other’s everything. At least, that’s what the world thought.

But you had seen this coming for a while now. It was just a shock for it to actually happen. 

Finally, after an eternity, you spoke, still too shocked to formulate a coherent thought. “What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean she fucking left me. What else do you want me to say?” You could hear the quivering in his voice, giving away the sadness behind his abrasive response. You weren’t offended one bit. 

“Shit, Osc, I’m so sorry. I… don’t know what to say. Do you want me to come over? Or you can come to mine?” 

“I’m outside yours right now. In the car park.” 

“I’ll let you in,” you said. The mental image you conjured of Oscar outside your apartment crying in his fancy McLaren would have been comical, if not given the circumstances.

He let himself in only a few moments later, hoodie covering his tall and muscled frame. He was soaked from the rain outside—he must have come directly from the confrontation. 

“Oh, Oscar,” you said, pulling him into a hug, cringing at the contact with his soggy hoodie, but knowing that there were far more important things to be worried about. 

You rubbed your hands up and down his shoulder blades that now heaved with sobs. His entire body shook with the fervor of his tears, and you just held him, gently shushing him and promising that everything will be okay. 

“I don’t know how she could do this to me,” he said, gasping out the words between haggard breaths. “The championship—I can’t do it without her.”

“I know,” you assured him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“No it’s not, YN, it’s not gonna be okay. I love her. And she just threw away so many years.”

“I know.” You just kept assuring him, tightening your grip on him as his sobs became more intense. “Just breathe.”

“Why would she do this to me?” he asked. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

You knew. And deep down, Oscar did too. That was a conversation for another day. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t seen this coming. 

You didn’t have it in you to lie to him. You had always been the type to pride yourself on being honest, even when the truth hurt, but you couldn’t bear to do it now. You changed the subject.

“Oscar, you’re soaking wet. I’ll find you something else and warm that up in the dryer, yeah? Just sit down, take a deep breath, and let me get this figured out.”

He sat down on your couch and took off his hoodie and t-shirt underneath, revealing his toned body. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before—you’d been friends with him since you were seven, growing up together. He almost felt like a brother to you, sometimes.

Maybe it wouldn’t be weird at all, except for the fact that you’d been in love with him for over a decade now. 

But right now that didn’t matter. He had plenty of old hoodies over in your apartment, which you carefully folded every time he forgot them. Placing his wet clothes in the dryer and setting the temp on high, you reached to the shelf above you and grabbed a random one. You unfolded it—an Alpine hoodie from back in the day, before his time at McLaren. You smiled at the memories that flashed in your mind, before quickly returning to Oscar with the garment. 

He had moved from your couch to your bedroom, holding a pillow on his lap, hunched over where the top of it met his chin. He was staring off into space, not breaking his gaze at the plain white wall.

You sat next to him, handing him the hoodie, and he mumbled a small thanks as he grabbed it. He didn’t put it on, instead just holding it with the pillow, as if filling his arms with the plush material would fill the hole now left in his heart.

“Oscar, I… don’t have anything profound to say. I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t respond at first, instead just silently letting the tears well up in his eyes. 

“I guess I should have seen this coming,” he said quietly. 

You paused, unsure whether or not you should agree with him. But you were nothing if not honest.

“Yeah,” you said, “it’s been a rough few months.”

“I guess we just both fell out of love.”

“I mean… how did the conversation go?”

It would be stupidly easy for Oscar to lie and say he didn’t remember Lily’s every word. But he knew better, and so did you. As he explained, the memory replayed in his head.

“I can’t do this anymore, Oscar,” Lily said, a simple yet devastating statement.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” His confusion was genuine, much to the chagrin of his angry girlfriend.

“The fact that you even have to ask that proves my point.”

“Lily, talk to me. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” Oscar stood up, now understanding the full gravity of the situation he found himself in. 

“I’m trying to say that I’m not happy anymore, and neither are you. I wanted to at least give it until the end of the season, but I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when we both know bloody well that it’s not! Don’t you want something better than this, Oscar?” Lily pleaded. 

“I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Don’t lie to me. You say that but you put everything else before me. I’m not a priority to you. I haven’t been in a long time.”

“I’ll quit F1. We can go back to the UK and live a normal life.”

“No. We both know that you wouldn’t do that.” Her tone was incredulous, twinged with a slight anger at the mere suggestion. 

“Yes, I would. I’d do anything. Don’t do this, Lily. Not now, not when I need you the most.”

Lily grabbed his hand, leading him to sit down on the couch next to her. “Oscar,” she began, “we had a good run. You made me so, so happy for so long.” She reached up to gently cup his cheeks and wipe away where tears were now forming at the edge of his eyes. “I saw you achieve things that neither of us ever thought were possible. But…I can’t stay any longer. Not when there’s no place for me in your heart anymore.”

You sighed. You knew every word that Lily had said was right. But you also knew you couldn’t get that through to Oscar, at least not until the shock wore off.

The words remained unspoken. You had been there for all of it. Lily was his first love, his only girlfriend, and everyone assumed that he’d marry her one day; you included. 

“I just…I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on acting like my life didn’t just fall apart. How did you do it?”

This was Oscar's first breakup, but you had been through too many, it seemed, since he was asking you for advice on how to handle them.

The truth? It was very easy to get over a breakup when every partner you’ve ever had was a feeble attempt at denial. When they all inevitably failed, you just went back to bask in Oscar’s platonic love. It was enough. 

“I won’t lie to you, the first one is always hell. You feel like you’re going crazy for a while. You lose hope that you’ll ever feel happier, because everything reminds you of them. And then one day it just…doesn’t. The only thing that heals it is time and finding love around you, you know, friends and family.”

“No offense, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

‘Well, I’m not going to lie to you and say it’ll be easy, because it won't. But it will be okay—not today, but someday. You’ve got something to focus on with the championship. And I’ll be here.” You gave him an empathetic smile. 

Maybe you weren’t the most comforting friend to most. But you and Oscar had a bond that was very different to most friendships. You understood each other’s idiosyncrasies in ways no one else could. So when shit hit the fan, it was always each other that you went to.

You continued, “You can stay here as long as you like.”

“Thank you.”

There was only one problem: your apartment only had one bed. And to the dismay of fanfiction writers across the world, you all would not be sharing it. 

You distracted Oscar by cooking a meal and watching a comfort movie—Cars, a classic. You could tell he was exhausted by the way his head on your shoulder sloped just a little too heavily downwards as the credits rolled. 

“Okay, let’s get you to bed,” you said, gently pushing him awake. He sleepily stumbled back into your bedroom and collapsed on the bed, almost instantly falling back asleep.

You took the couch, but despite the money you spent splurging on the extra cushioned sofa, no sleep came to you. 

It wasn’t any physical discomfort that fueled your insomnia, but rather, the events of the previous evening. Lily had actually left Oscar. She had finally pulled the plug.

Yes, in some ways, it was expected. But at the same time, you couldn’t imagine a version of your best friend that wasn’t madly in love with his girlfriend. 

From the outside, though, you couldn’t blame Lily one bit. You wondered what had been the last straw. 

You could think of three possible moments. First: The Apartment. 

“I’m moving to Monaco,” Oscar began, and you felt your heart drop in your stomach. Of course, one day he’d make it to Monaco. That was the dream of every Formula 1 driver, right? The beauty of the French Riviera and tax evasion. And you’d be left at your aging flat in the UK, waiting for those precious few days a year where he was free to grace you with his presence. 

“That’s amazing!” you said, only half believing it to be true. 

“In a few weeks I’m gonna go look at condos. Come with me? Lily can’t get off work.”

“Of course,” you replied. You’d already been to Monaco before for Oscar’s races, but you wouldn’t turn down any reason to get out of the constant dreary rain of the UK. 

You felt like a celebrity as you coasted through the Monte Carlo streets in the passenger side of Oscar’s McLaren, on your way to tour fabulous properties for your best friend (the actual celebrity). You breathed in the saltwater breeze, fresh and tinged with the air of wealth and splendor.

But it hurt your heart to know that you were helping your best friend leave. You imagined him getting up and doing his morning runs along the harbor, the sun blazing down the strained muscles on his back. Then you laughed to yourself at the thought of Oscar, the pastiest Aussie you knew, getting sunburnt. 

At the first property you met the realtor, who (after mistaking you for Lily; not the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last) took the pair of you to different condos throughout the day. 

Oscar decided on the final one you saw; two bedrooms, plenty of natural light, and a great view. Elegant, refined and practical—just like Oscar himself. 

The realtor handed him the paperwork and left as you stood on the balcony, looking at the beauty of the city before you. You were quiet, unusually so, and Oscar noticed. 

He sat the paperwork on the kitchen counter and walked onto the balcony next to you. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice lowered. “You’re gonna make such beautiful memories here.”

“Are you getting sentimental on me now?”

You smiled and laughed. “A little,” you admitted, “I can’t help it. I’ll miss you all.” 

“You could always come with us. You seem to like it here,” he teased, tilting his head toward the edge of the balcony.

“You’d have to give me a raise if I was gonna afford Monaco rent prices.” You’d been running Oscar’s merch store and social media for the past few years, making a great wage, but nowhere near the immense wealth you’d need to call a place like this home. You joked with him, knowing Oscar actually had nothing to do with how much you got paid. 

“I would if I could. But, I mean, if you had a place to stay it wouldn’t really be that bad.”

“Are you suggesting I move into your guest room?”

Now he laughed. “No, but I’m just saying, if you had an apartment, you could make it work.”

You raised an eyebrow, confused, but trying to go along with the joke. “Well, sure, but apartments don’t just appear out of thin air.”

“You never know.” Oscar scratched the back of his neck and looked away, a sign of the awkwardness that now blanketed your moment on the balcony. 

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, theoretically, if someone were to have a spare apartment that they weren’t using, you could live there and Monaco would be a reasonable place to live, no?”

You didn’t answer his question, instead just giving him another confused glance until he gave up whatever he was trying to say. He still couldn’t meet your gaze. 

“Look—I don’t want to live so far away from my friend. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Oscar, you…”

“I got you an apartment.”

“You… bought me an apartment. In Monaco.” It came out more like a statement than a question, evidence of your shock. He reached into his pocket and dug out a key, holding it out to you.

You just looked at him with an incredulous expression. “Oscar, I can’t accept that.”

“Why not?”

“How much was it?” 

“I have more than enough money.”

“Answer the question.”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “About 4 million?” 

Your eyes widened in shock. “Before you say anything,” he began, “I made over 30 million last year. I have more money than I’d ever know what to do with, so why not just spend it all on the people I love?” 

“Oscar… I can’t, that’s too much.”

“Will you at least go look at it with me? Actually, I’m driving, so you don’t have a choice,” he joked, walking back into the apartment. “Let’s go.”

You sighed, smiling to yourself. There was no way you could let Oscar buy you a 4 million dollar apartment, but also, how could you not? The wind whipped through your hair as you rolled down the window of his McLaren, drinking in the beauty of the city around you. 

The apartment was smaller than the one he had picked for himself and Lily, but you didn’t mind one bit. It was perfectly cosy, and God, the view was spectacular. You could see the whole city from his apartment, but here, you could see the water. You stepped on the balcony and took a deep breath, taking in the sound of the ocean waves beneath you. 

Oscar followed you. “It’s a bit small, but I figured you’d like the view.”

“Oscar…”

“If you really don’t want it, I can rent it out. But I’d much rather have you close.” He held out the keys again. “What do you say?”

You could have told him you needed more time to think about it, but deep down, you already knew what you wanted. You took the keys. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Oscar. Seriously.”

“No need to thank me.” He smiled.

Back in the UK, he showed Lily the photos he had taken of the condo he had chosen for them as they went over the paperwork one last time.

He grabbed the pen to scratch out one of the boxes Lily had checked, hoping she wouldn’t notice. 

“Oh, did I mess something up?” Shit. She leaned over his shoulder, reading the paperwork aloud. “Please indicate if you own any additional properties in the principality of Monaco.” She looked at Oscar. “You already have a property there?” 

“Oh, erm, yeah,” he said, hoping the conversation would end there. 

“How come I never heard about this?” 

“Um, I just got it a bit ago.”

Lily could sense her boyfriend’s hesitancy. “Is this something I wasn’t supposed to know about?”

“Oh, no,” he said, “it’s not like that. I just didn’t think to mention it.”

“So, what is this property?”

“An apartment.” 

Lily hated feeling like she was having to interrogate Oscar, but clearly there was some piece of the puzzle missing that was causing his reluctance. 

“An apartment?” she questioned. “You got another apartment?”

“Yeah, I, um,” he looked at the ceiling while scratching his neck, a clear sign of his nervousness, “I was planning on giving it to YN.”

“You bought YN an apartment in Monaco? When were you planning on telling me about this?” 

His walls of defense had finally broken down. “It’s not a big deal. I made more than enough last season, I could afford it.  And it’s just easier to have her there for the brand shoots and media stuff. Plus, I mean, she came to London to support me after graduation, even though I know she hates it here. I just figured I should repay the favor.”

“...Okay,” Lily began, her voice tinged with skepticism. “So, you do realize what this looks like, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my boyfriend bought an apartment for his “best friend” and tried to hide it from me. That’s the kind of thing cheating husbands do in movies, buy an apartment for their mistress for her to keep it quiet.”

Oscar wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the air quotes Lily placed around “best friend” or the insinuation that he had been unfaithful. 

“Lily, seriously? I’m not cheating on you, I love you and you know that.”

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. You know YN and I have been friends forever, it’s not like I did this for some random woman. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying.”

“But you were lying by omission.”

“Lily—”

“You know, nothing against her, but one of the reasons I was looking forward to this move was having more…us time. Without YN.” 

The statement brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Despite what she had said, it seemed like Lily did have something against you.

“You know, this kind of thing is why I was putting off telling you about it.”

“What are you saying?” she asked. Oscar knew he was tempting fire, but he didn’t care.

He continued, “You’re freaking out because I did something kind for a friend. I’m allowed to do whatever I want with my money.”

“I never said you weren’t, and I’m not freaking out. But I guess I’m just such a horrible person for saying I want to spend more time with my boyfriend.”

“If you’re putting down my “best friend” to do it,” he said, mocking her air quotes, “then yeah, that’s not cool.” 

“Oscar, you’re being so…weird about all of this. I’m not insulting YN. I just want to spend more time with you.”

“We’re literally going on vacation in February!”

“With friends. You invited your friends to our romantic getaway, Oscar.”

“You know I only have so much time off during the off season, and I’m spending most of it with realtors and accountants and eight thousand other people preparing us for this move. God forbid I want to invite my friends to Italy with us. Not everything can be just us, Lily.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “I’m done with this conversation.”

The second next instance you could think of happened on the trip.

It was a beautiful getaway to the Amalfi Coast, your dream destination that you’d somehow never made it to.

The group of Oscar’s friends, including you and Lando, had plans to come and go, with everyone being gone before the fourteenth so that Oscar and Lily could have their Valentine's Day date. Of course, you knew nothing of the arguments they’d had in the past about this, but you had common sense enough to not be a third wheel. Oscar thought this was a good enough compromise. 

Well, he thought. 

From the moment he picked you up from the airport, you could tell that the energy was different than usual. He blamed it on jet lag, but you knew better. You knew your best friend too well.

It didn’t take you long to figure out the problem was between him and Lily. She was colder towards him; not enough for anyone but you and him to notice, but still there and undeniable. 

Even weirder was Lily’s…preoccupation, it seemed, with pointing out single and attractive men to you. It wasn’t a hushed reality that you were single, and had been for some time. You'd given up on dating a long time ago—you knew that you had already found the love of your life, and he just happened to be Lily’s boyfriend.

But, of course, you’d never tell anyone this. Lots of people were confused because you seemed so fine being single. But you thought that Lily, one of your best friends (at least, by association), would know that you weren’t really interested in meeting anyone. 

You sat with Lily in a restaurant overlooking the coast, the balcony having been rented out by Oscar for one of your last dinners. You all were waiting for him and Lando to join you, passing the time by ordering wine and appetizers.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Lily said, gesturing her head to your waiter that was walking back into the main restaurant. 

You didn’t really know what to say. You glanced at him through the glass wall. “Lily, he most definitely plays for the other team, if you know what I mean,” you joked, reaching for a slice of bread on the table. “I didn’t know that was your type.”

“Well I don’t mean for me, I meant for you.”

You chuckled. “For me?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you want to get yourself a hot Italian man?”

“I’m perfectly happy being single.” You tried to diffuse the awkward conversation, keeping a kind tone in your voice as you ate the bread and looked into the distance at the coastline.

“Oh, come on. We’ll get you someone, don’t worry.”

“I really am fine being single.”

“You know who else is single?” she asked, clearly ignoring your protests. “Lando!”

You laughed aloud. “Oh God, no. If I wanted to be cheated on, I would have stayed with my ex. Besides, Oscar would kill him.”

A curious fact: Oscar had never approved of a single person you had ever introduced him to. You had to spend hours talking him out of running over your ex with his F1 car after you found out about his infidelity. 

“Oh, who cares what Oscar thinks? I think you should go for it,” she said, watching as the waiter returned to pour your glasses of wine. 

“Lily,” you said, holding your glass, ready to take a sip, “I don’t want to be in a relationship, like, at all. It’s just…not for me.” You sipped the wine, but through the reflection on the glass, you could see that Lily had pursed her lips in an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“If you want me to stop third-wheeling you and Oscar, you can just say so,” you joked as the boys made their way to the balcony to join you. 

You didn’t know it, but your joke cut deep in Lily’s heart. 

Nothing was said about it during the dinner, but Lily’s strange energy continued. It quickly became uncomfortable how much she was pushing Lando and you to interact. 

And when you all made your way to a local nightclub after the dinner, it didn’t get any better. Lando quickly got himself lost in the crowd, and you were once again left to be the third wheel. 

You could tell that Lily was getting annoyed, but to be fair, she was also annoying you. 

“Go dance with Lando!” she shouted over the thumping bass. She gestured to the opposite corner of the small club, where Lando was currently making out with some random Italian woman. 

You pointed this fact out to Lily, who just grimaced. 

“Do you just want me to go away?” you joked.

“Yes!” she said, and you were taken aback, because she was definitely not joking. 

Oscar was at the bar getting drinks, far enough away that he couldn’t hear. To be honest, you didn’t even want to be in this club anymore. 

So you snuck out and began your walk home without telling any of them.

As you walked along the cobblestone streets, Oscar handed Lily a drink, pausing when he noticed that you weren’t there to receive yours. “Where’s YN?” he asked.

“She wasn’t feeling well, so she headed back,” Lily said. 

“By herself? Should we go check on her?”

Lily wanted to roll her eyes. “No, she’s just tired. C’mon, let’s go dance!”

Oscar obeyed, but couldn’t ignore the feeling inside him that something about this whole night had been odd. 

The next time he saw Lando, he decided to say something about it. 

“Hey mate, are you going back soon?” he asked. Lando nodded, clearly tipsy. “Can you check on YN? Lily said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Sure,” he said, annoyed at the mention of you again.

He did come back to the house soon, but with an equally drunk and giggly woman on his arm, the same girl he had been making out with in the corner of the club. 

You didn’t expect any of them for a long time, so you sat in the living room of the AirBNB, watching the waves cascade into the shore, romanticizing this complicated feeling that coiled itself inside of you. 

That was, until Lando stumbled in. 

His eyes got wide as dinner plates upon seeing you. The girl on his arm giggled and walked off into the nearest bathroom. 

“Hey YN,” he slurred. “Are you dying?”

You laughed. “I’m fine.”

“Lily said you were sick.” 

“Nope, I’m good.” 

He looked to the closed door of the bathroom. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“You’re fine. I’m…uh, not interested, anyway. I don’t know what Lily’s been on about today.”

“Oh, thank God,” he exhaled. You laughed, despite the sting of rejection in his relief. “Well, I’ll keep it quiet.”

“I’ve got headphones.”

You made your way to your room and put on your noise cancelling headphones, passing the time by scrolling and catching up on work emails, before falling asleep.

You didn’t sleep through the night, instead waking up in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was just beginning to round itself along the golden coast. You left your room to get a glass of water, not expecting to see the rest of your friends in the kitchen.

Lily looked hungover as hell, leaning her elbow on the counter, her hand resting uncomfortably on her forehead. Oscar was leaning against the counter on the other side while Lando sat at the bar next to Lily, drinking something out of a mug. His flight home was going to leave soon. 

You nodded to your three companions as you sipped your water glass, feeling the tension around you like an oncoming migraine. 

“You feeling okay?” Oscar asked. “Lily said you weren’t doing well last night.”

“Ah, just tired,” you answered. Lily had lied to both Lando and Oscar. That was a conversation for another day. 

“Well rested now?” Lily asked, her voice tinged with anger and fake sympathy.

“I’m fine,” was all you could answer. You glanced at Oscar, who gave you a knowing look. You had no idea what had gotten into her.

“Are you feeling okay, Lily? You look like you’re about to throw up,” you said, a more genuine concern in your voice.

“I’m fine too,” she said, clearly not fine.

Lando’s Uber pulled up, and you took the opportunity to help him transfer all his bags in one trip.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on with her?” he asked as you heaved the suitcase up into the trunk.

“No idea,” you answered. “Before you all got to the restaurant last night she was being…weird. For the record, I didn’t put her up to any of that.”

“I figured as much. You’re not the type.” Lando was right—it was common knowledge that you were happily single. 

“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. For the record, it made me uncomfortable too.”

He exhaled. “Eh, we’re cool. No hard feelings, yeah? I’m sure she’ll snap out of it.” 

“I hope so,” you said, giving him a wave as the car disappeared into the winding roads of the coast.

Back in the house, you could hear Oscar and Lily whispering to each other. You wanted nothing more than to disappear and act like this weird night and morning had never happened, but unfortunately, you had to cross through the kitchen back to your room. 

A hush went through the room when you entered. You walked as quickly as possible through the kitchen, but were stopped by a voice.

“YN,” Lily called. “I think you should leave.”

“Lily—” Oscar interjected.

“I was just going back to my room anyway,” you explained.

“That’s not what I meant. I think you should go home.”

“Lily, don’t do this—” Oscar pleaded. You just stood in shock.

“Actually, let me clarify,” she continued. “YN, I don’t want you here. Go home.”

“Lily!” Oscar interjected. “Don’t say that.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, even though it was definitely not fine. “Let me pack and I’ll be on my way.”

You turned and continued back to your room, fully prepared to do as you had just said. But Oscar followed you.

“YN, wait. Stay,” he said. 

“Oscar, it’s fine.”

“I am so sorry that Lily said that, but I want you here.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two or why she’s so upset at me, but if someone tells me to go, I’m not going to overstay my welcome.”

“Still, that was so rude.”

“I’ve got thick skin. I won’t cry myself to sleep over it.” You looked out the window to the coast. “Look, I’ll just find someplace else to stay. A hotel for a few nights is cheaper than trying to reschedule my flight, anyways.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about me, Osc,” you said, patting his shoulder. “Go talk to her, figure out what’s wrong.” 

He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “I already know what’s wrong. She’s mad that we don’t spend enough time together.”

“Then go spend time with her.”

“That was the plan! But, I mean, I’m pissed that she said that to you. And she spent all day yesterday trying to set you and Lando up, which was fucking weird.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled with a twinge of laughter. “Look, with my record I can’t exactly give you love advice, but I don’t mind leaving. You all clearly need some space, anyway. Just text me if you need anything, okay?”

Oscar gave you a flat smile and nod. 

You packed and quickly booked a private room at a local hostel for the next few days, planning to enjoy the last few days as a solo trip. You truly didn’t care, but in the back of your mind, you hoped that everything would be okay. You never received that text from Oscar. 

Back at the house, Oscar and Lily were alone. And neither of them were happy.

“Just fucking go with her if you’re that mad,” Lily said, egging Oscar on. He had always been slow to anger, but he couldn’t deny that he was pissed.

“What is wrong with you?” he questioned. “Why would you say that to her? Do you understand how rude that is? And not to mention the fact that you were being fucking weird with her and Lando all night.”

“Oscar, I’m not having this conversation right now.”

“No, I’m pissed!”

“And, as usual, it’s all about your feelings, hm?”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Don’t act stupid. Do you know how much I’ve put up with because I don’t want to hurt your feelings? Every vacation, every race weekend, she’s always there. And I put up with her because she’s your friend, but I don’t like her, Oscar.” 

“What did she do to you?” he asked. But Lily couldn’t answer. It wasn’t like there had been a specific incident or falling out; in fact, you had always been kind to her. Lily’s silence was all the answer that Oscar needed. 

“You knew that YN and I were a package deal from the beginning.” 

Tears came to Lily’s eyes. “But this was supposed to be our trip. Just us.” 

“Lily, they were only here for a few days. I specifically set it up so that we’d have 2 weeks to ourselves after they left. Is that not enough?” 

She was silent, at first. Then came a question out of left field. 

“Were you going to propose?” she asked.

Oscar made a face. “Propose?”

“I thought the point of the trip was that you were going to propose.” She looked away, trying to hide her tears. “I’m tired of feeling like an outsider in my own relationship. I’m sick of YN third wheeling, so I thought if I set her up with Lando, maybe she’d leave us alone for a while.” Her voice was tinged with an angry mocking. 

She continued, softer, “Oscar, I want to be your wife, I want to grow old with you—”

But Oscar had little sympathy for her. “That’s really what all this was about? Lily, I’m not proposing any time soon.”

“We’ve been together for nearly five years.”

“I know. But with the season starting soon—”

“There’ll always be another season, another race. Is your plan to just marry me when you retire?” The sarcasm had returned to her voice. “Do you even want to marry me?”

“Of course I do. But we’re young, we have time. I’m in no rush.” 

“I feel like you don’t care about what I want at all.”

“Lily, I’m trying. But I feel like you want me to cut off my best friend and settle down at 22. You’re asking things of me that I can’t give you.”

“Then why are we even doing this?” Lily asked.

“Because I love you, and I want this to work! But Lily, you can’t treat my friends like that. If you’re angry at me, talk to me, but don’t take it out on them. YN is an important part of my life, too.”

“I’m well aware.”

Oscar sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I’m going back to bed,” Lily announced, leaving the conversation altogether. 

When she woke up, her head was pounding. Oscar was asleep beside her, his back towards her, no warmth even in his unconscious state. She had slept through the entire day—the moon hung high in the sky. 

As she quietly made her way to the kitchen and got some water and a snack, the memory of what had happened came back, rushing over her. She felt horrible. 

The sleep and food had reset her mind. Make no mistake, she was still upset at Oscar, but what he had said was right—she shouldn’t have taken it out on you. She needed to make it right. 

She texted you. Hey YN, are you awake? I’d like to talk. In person, if you can. 

Only a few minutes later you responded, affirming that you were available and sending the address of your hostel. Lily got there quickly, quietly walking through the rooms to your private room in the back. When you shut the door behind you and you both sat on the bed, she broke down. 

“YN,” Lily began, “I am so sorry about this morning. Truthfully, I was upset at Oscar and I took it out on you, and I shouldn't have. I was so rude.”

“It’s okay,” you assured.

“No, it’s not,” Lily interjected. But she seemed at a loss for words. “I just… sometimes, I feel like I hardly get any alone time with Oscar anymore.”

“Because I’m always there?” you joked, not knowing how close to the truth you really were. Lily didn’t respond. “Look, if you want me to take a step back, I can do that.”

Her response was quiet. “Would that be too much to ask?”

“No.” But it was, in a way. You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, but your expression gave away nothing. “I understand.”

“I don’t think he loves me anymore,” Lily confessed. You normally didn’t want to know the details of their relationship, because the truth was too heavy to bear. But it seemed cruel to cut her off. “I feel like he never wants to be around me, like he prefers his work and his friends over me. I want to get married and he doesn’t. He keeps saying it's too soon and he’s busy, but it’s been nearly five years! I mean, how long does he want me to wait?”

You felt uncomfortable, not sure how to comfort your best friend's girlfriend. So you were honest. “I don’t know, Lily. I don’t know what goes on in Oscar’s head any more than you do.”

“Yes you do,” she replied. “You’ve known him longer.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I think he’s in love with you.”

“No, no, no,” you said, wrapping Lily in an embrace as she cried. “No, he’s not. He loves you so much.”

“No,” she echoed. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t know how to respond. You just held her. 

At one point, your phone buzzed, illuminating the screen. Some unimportant notification, but you noticed the date and time more than that. It was past midnight; Valentine’s Day. 

The third instance was during the first weekend of the 2025 season; the Australian Grand Prix.  

You hadn’t heard from Oscar since the trip. You didn’t really know what to say, and part of you was dreading having to speak to him, knowing that your mere presence was now a strain on his relationship.

Of course Lily wanted more time with him. It made sense. You were present at…most things, actually. But Oscar always invited you, and besides, they lived together. If you had known that you had overstayed your welcome, you never would have gone in the first place.

But on the other hand, you and Oscar had been a part of each other’s lives for nearly double the time that Lily had been around. It wasn’t a competition, but you couldn’t shake that sour feeling that rested in your stomach, that if given the chance, Lily would want you gone for good. 

Regardless, between the trip and the grand prix, life went on as normal. It was odd, since your job was literally running all the official OP81 media pages and merch website. You couldn’t not be a part of his life—you made your living by posting memes about him on the internet and organizing all his merch sales.

So, naturally, you went to nearly all the races to take photos of fans, the paddock, and the garage. It was one of your favorite parts of the job. 

But Australia was different. It was Oscar’s home race, and a place full of memories for you. 

Your family had moved to Australia when you were only seven, having absolutely no friends, except the sweet boy next door in your cul de sac. At first he was cold. You thought he hated you. But you were nothing if not stubborn. 

You remembered it like it was yesterday; for Christmas, you asked for a pink motorized jeep, just like the black one that Oscar—the neighbour boy, back then—had. You squealed for joy when you got it. And the very first thing you did was challenge him to a race.

He ignored you. So you rammed your car into his, causing both of them to break. Ever since, somehow, you’d been inseparable. 

Your parents traveled a lot for work, so instead of constantly going with them, you found yourself staying with the Piastri family for months at a time. Nicole truly felt like your second mom, and Hattie was the sister you never had. And Oscar was…Oscar. It was impossible to describe the bond between you. 

Your parents were never too keen on Oscar, though. They kept it quiet when you were little, but as you grew, their dislike became more outward.

He was 14, leaving for boarding school in the UK. When he told you, you cried. That’s the only time he ever saw you cry.

You wanted to go with him, but your parents couldn’t afford it. He promised he wouldn’t let your friendship die, and he was true to his word. When he got into the higher formulas in racing, he helped you get your job so that you all would never be that far from each other again. 

But your parents always said he was using you, stringing you along, exploiting your labor. Though you’d never admitted it to another soul, they knew you well enough to understand that you loved him. 

You cut your parents off a long time ago. 

Sometimes the fans were worse. Half of them loved you—the half that understood that you could give them access to your idol—but the other half of them called you a beneficiary of nepotism, a gold digger, or a homewrecker. You learned at a young age to develop thick skin. 

And it was how you both behaved on race weekends that really exemplified the difference between you and Lily. 

You liked to be everywhere at once—in the garage trying to interpret the engineers’ technical jargon, in the grandstands taking photos of fans, in the pitlane shooting the shit with the race stewards. You always wore Oscar’s merch, and you wanted to be in the middle of all the action.

Lily, in contrast, was more reserved. She always looked put together, and frankly stunning, at all her appearances. She preferred to watch the race from the comfort and privacy of McLaren hospitality, and when she did interact with fans, she was respectful but short, very conscious of her space.

Neither of you were better or worse than the other. But no one could deny that you were polar opposites. 

You got to Australia before Oscar himself did, having been invited to spend a few days with your surrogate family before you’d have to stay in the hotel, per F1 employee policy. Nicole had told Oscar, who you assumed had told Lily, and when you didn’t hear anything for a few days before you were meant to fly out, you thought everything was fine.

Of course, you thought wrong. 

You spent 3 days with Oscar’s family, relishing the warm feeling of belonging that you’d missed. The Piastri guest room felt more like your own childhood bedroom. Of course, Nicole asked how you’d been, but you were politely distant, wanting to respect the fact that Oscar and Lily’s relationship was none of your business. 

When the pair finally landed in Australia and made their way to Oscar’s childhood home for the night, though, things worsened. 

When Nicole got back from picking them up from the airport, you were in the kitchen prepping dinner. Hearing the front door close, you looked up and smiled, greeting the group.

“YN! What are you doing here?” Lily asked, her voice tentative. 

Nicole answered for you. “Oh, she’s been here since Sunday. I’m so happy to have all my kids under the same roof again,” she joked, turning to Oscar to reach up and pinch his cheeks.

Lily just gave a pained smile. 

You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t talked to Oscar in nearly a month. You wanted to honor her wishes—but it seemed like her wish was for you to vanish into thin air. 

The rest of the night you were unusually quiet, trying to blend into the background. It wasn’t difficult for Nicole to notice that something was up, but she knew better than to bring it up in front of the whole table. 

After dinner she wanted everyone to gather in the living room and watch a movie, which you quickly bowed out of, complaining of exhaustion. 

As the credits rolled, Nicole leaned over to whisper to Oscar, “Is everything okay with YN?” 

Lily overheard and interjected, “She’s fine.” Nicole raised an eyebrow. 

Oscar responded, “The home grand prix is always busy for her.”

The answer wasn’t sufficient enough to crush Nicole’s suspicions, but she didn’t have any more time to pry as her son and his girlfriend quickly decided to retire for the night themselves. 

The next morning, as everyone was packing to get to the hotel, Nicole decided to ask you herself if everything was okay. But predictably, again, you just said that you were fine. And the morning was so hectic that she didn’t really have the time to interrogate you.

Once you all got settled and to the track for media day, work mode took over, and you forgot all about the tension at the Piastri family home. Though you quite literally were paid to follow Oscar around all day, you felt more like the paparazzi than his friend, hardly ever speaking to him.

And as you went back to the hotel room alone to edit and post for tonight, you felt like a stranger in your own body. 

You didn’t want to do this anymore. You missed your friend, but more importantly, you missed being yourself.

But what were you supposed to do? You loved Oscar. Oscar loved Lily. Lily hated you. 

You were stuck between three impossible choices: stick around and be forced to subdue yourself into a shell of your true personality until Lily decided she wasn’t upset at you anymore, lose everything you’d ever built by quitting and moving away like you knew she wanted, or continue being yourself and possibly cost Oscar the love of his life. 

Yeah, this was a wonderful predicament you found yourself in, through no fault of your own.

You moved like a zombie through the free practices and qualifying. When it was finally time for the grand prix, you assumed your usual place in the McLaren garage, for work if nothing else.

But then, Oscar won. 

No team rules. No convoluted strategies. Just Oscar doing what he did best.

You couldn’t hear your own thoughts over the shout of the garage and the crowd in the distance, cheering out for their hometown hero. You ran out with everyone to the barricades to greet your best friend.

Though he still had his helmet on, you could see the effects of his smile in his squinted eyes. He pumped his fist in the air, cheering to himself before running to the barricades to jump into the waiting arms of the crowd. You cheered with them, overwhelmed with pride. 

Oscar locked eyes with you, cupping your face with his gloved hands and pressing the top of his helmet to your forehead. “I did it, YN!”

“You did!” you yelled, smiling ear to ear. 

Of course, people took photos. Photos that Oscar posted later that night. 

Lily didn’t like it—the sweet intimacy of the moment, front and center on Oscar’s Instagram page. Why would you post that? It was like you were taunting her. 

Lily sat on the edge of the hotel bed while Oscar showered, both of them preparing to meet you, Lando, and a few McLaren team members to celebrate his win. 

When Oscar emerged from the bathroom, Lily asked him, “Osc, can you do me a favor?”

“Hm?” he murmured as he dried his hair. 

“Can you take down that picture that YN posted?”

“YN posted something?” he questioned, grabbing his phone. As his social media manager, you had access to all his accounts, but occasionally he’d post something himself, too. “I don’t see what you’re talking about.”

Lily pursed her lips. “The first picture from the post she made an hour ago.” 

“Oh, this?” Oscar held up his phone. “I posted that.” 

Lily was silent. 

“Why do you want me to delete it? It’s a good photo.” 

Lily just looked at him. Oscar sighed and archived the photo. “There, happy?”

His tone was much harsher than he intended, but to be honest, he was getting tired of the constant fighting, and his patience was wearing thin. 

Lily kept quiet, just silently going into the bathroom to start doing her makeup.

In the lobby of the hotel an hour or so later, you awkwardly stood with Lando waiting for the couple to arrive. Once again you were torn—should you miss out on celebrating with your best friend on his first ever home win, or should you go and strain his relationship further? 

You were just going to say screw it and go back up to your room when you saw Lily and Oscar walking towards you. Though there was no tension between them, there was no love either. They both just looked…tired. 

Everyone had decided to keep it relaxed for tonight, just doing a nice group dinner with Oscar’s family. It was fine, albeit a tad awkward, because you were sitting between Lando and some McLaren employees you didn’t know, at the opposite end of the table from Lily, Oscar, and his family. 

You knew this couldn’t continue forever. Something had to break. And it did, when you and Lando ended up back in Oscar and Lily’s room, drinking your way through a bottle of nice champagne. 

The alcohol seemed to have calmed Lando’s nerves, as he was actually normal with you. And Oscar was a blushy, smiling mess and he and his teammate laughed at something you couldn’t remember. 

You opened your mouth to say something, but the mood was ruined by Lily’s drunken slurring. “Oh my God, YN, just shut up! Go away!” she giggled and grabbed Oscar’s arm. 

Usually, you were calm, letting any infraction roll off of you like waves on the beach. But the alcohol emboldened you. 

“Lily, what the fuck is your problem with me?” you asked.

The mood shifted, and Lily gave you a look of disgust. “I was just joking, God.”

“No you weren’t.” 

Lando chimed in. “Well, I think I gotta call it a night.” He got up and patted Oscar on the back. The two men stood up to walk out, leaving just you and Lily alone in the hotel room. 

“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is with me, but don’t act like there isn’t one. It’s obvious that you don’t want me around, I don’t know what I ever did to you.”

Lily had clearly been sobered up by your seriousness. Still, she burst into tears. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep doing this.” 

You sighed, unable to keep your anger in the face of her cries. She continued, “I just… Oscar and I were each other’s first everything. First love, first kiss…first time. I love him so much.”

“I’m not trying to steal him from you.” 

Lily was quiet, and so were you. Something she had said gave you pause. 

They were each other’s first everything—no, that couldn’t be true. 

Because you were Oscar’s first. 

It had been many years—you were both 18—and you had never spoken about what happened. But you remembered. 

He came back home for Christmas from the UK. It was before he had even met Lily. 

You welcomed him home with an embrace—even with the frequent phone calls you had, you couldn’t help but miss your best friend, now here before you, in the flesh.

Neither of you could sleep that night, and somehow you both found yourself in Oscar’s childhood bedroom, quiet in the early hours of the morning.

Though it was warm outside, Nicole had a habit of keeping the house frigid, so you and Oscar huddled together under the handmade quilt that decorated his bed. The moment was tender and quiet, together in the soft darkness. 

“Do you like it in the UK?” you asked him, your question searching for a genuine answer. 

“It’s okay, I guess. It’s what I have to do for the races.”

“But do you ever get…lonely?”

He paused. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

You traced small circles on the skin of your leg. The closeness of the moment was uncomfortable. 

“But you have friends, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re not, y’know, friends for life.”

“I get you.” You really did, not having many friends of your own since Oscar left. “But you must have a ton of girls, though. They all want the cool race car driver.” You smiled, trying to use your humor to lighten the intimacy of the moment. 

“No,” was all he answered. “And if I had a girlfriend, you’d be the first to know, anyway.” In the dark of the room, you could only see the outline of his features, but you could feel the pull of his eyes looking at you. “What, do you have a boyfriend? Is that why you’re bringing this up?” he asked. 

“Of course I don’t.” 

“What do you mean, of course?”

“I mean, why would I have a boyfriend? I have no friends and half the people at school think you don’t even exist.”

“What?” he laughed.

“Well, yeah, when I say my best friend drives race cars in the UK, most people think I’m making you up.” 

“Shit,” he laughed. 

“So, yeah, it doesn’t exactly get me dates,” you laughed. You felt your throat stiffen. “I haven’t even had my first kiss or anything.”

The silence in the room was thick. “I haven’t either,” Oscar confessed. 

You found it hard to believe. Oscar was handsome, funny, everything a girl could want. Neither of you had ever been social butterflies, though. 

Under the blanket, Oscar reached for your hand, placing it in his. Your heart was beating out of your chest; you had never even held a boy’s hand. 

“We could just…do it now,” he said. “Just to get it over with.” He feigned his usual nonchalance, but you could feel the increase of his heartbeat and the ever so subtle tremble in his voice. 

It would be easy for you to laugh it off like a joke. But you knew it wasn’t. And you wanted him. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice breathy with nervousness. 

You sat up on the bed, and saw the dark outline of his figure leaning towards you, gently tilting your head. 

And when his lips met yours, it felt like home. Like everything in your entire life had left you up to this moment, here in the warmth of your best friend’s childhood bedroom.

The kiss lasted longer than you anticipated, but when he did pull away, it was too soon. You were grateful for the darkness that hid your expression. But even without the light, Oscar could see the truth behind your eyes.

“We could…keep going.”

“Okay,” you repeated. 

One of his hands found your waist now, pulling you closer, as his other hand pushed back your hair that had fallen in your face.

Once again his lips met yours. It wasn’t like a spark within you—more like a calming, a sense of peace and safety. Of all the boys you’d crushed on before, Oscar was different. You trusted him with everything. 

And you showed him so. 

He slipped his tongue past your teeth, tentative, as if he was scared to do the wrong thing. But you let him close the gap, your own tongue gliding along his, goosebumps going down your back the closer you got. 

He wanted to put his hands all over you, but he was nervous.

He pulled away. “I…don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t either. Is it actually your first time?”

“Yeah. You don’t mind me being your first?”

“I trust you.”

So you both took it slow, taking each other’s hands where you wanted to be touched, not focusing on anything but the other. 

The love you made was quiet and simple, beautiful yet imperfect. But you didn’t need perfect. You just needed him. 

The next morning, you slipped out of his room before anyone was awake, afraid of what would happen if they found out.

But no one ever did. Oscar never said a word about it ever again, and neither did you; after the holidays, he went back to school and met Lily, and the rest was history. 

But you remembered. And as you sat in that hotel room years later waiting for him, you felt numb. 

By the time he got back Lily had calmed down, but you couldn’t stand to be there anymore. You announced your departure, but Oscar decided to walk you out, too. 

You closed the door behind you, but Oscar pulled you to not leave so quickly. 

“Hey, is everything alright with you and Lily?”

“No. It’s not.” 

He sighed. “I don’t know why she’s being like this.”

You just stared at him, your face blank. 

“What,” he asked, “don’t tell me you’re mad too.”

“Was Lily your first?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” 

Oscar looked over his shoulder. “I’d really rather not talk about this in the hallway…”

“So do you want to go in the room and talk about it? In front of her? Because you lied to one of us. Which one was it?”

“YN, it’s—”

“Which one of us did you lie to, Oscar?”

He let out a sharp exhale, knowing there was no way to escape your line of questioning. He leaned down to whisper to you. “I didn’t lie to her. She just…assumed, and I never corrected her.”

“That’s still lying.”

“You really think I should go in there and tell her the truth?” His voice dripped with frustration.

“Yes. She deserves to know.”

“You know why I never told her? Because I knew this shit would happen, she’d get jealous and try to push you out of my life. If I tell her now, she’ll make me choose between the two of you.”

“Do you blame her?” you asked, astounded at how Oscar could be so clueless.

“Seriously?” he retorted. “You think she’s justified in doing all this to you? The entire reason she’s mad is because she knows if she tries to make me choose, I’m not choosing her.”

“Don’t say that! Oscar, she’s your girlfriend. You should love her.”

“I do. But things just…aren’t the same anymore. It’s like she wants me to change my whole life for her. I can’t do that.”

Unbeknownst to you, Lily got up from the bed and walked to the door, pressing her ear to it, where she could faintly hear you and Oscar arguing. 

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Oscar continued. “And if you don’t want her to split us up, just let me handle it.”

“Oscar, she deserves better than this. I’ve missed spending time with you, but… you’ve got to tell her the truth.”

Lily opened the door. “I knew it,” she said, her eyes full of tears. “I knew you were cheating.”

Your eyes were wide as dinner plates as Oscar cursed to himself. “Lily, I swear to God that is not what happened—”

“Don’t. Don’t even try,” she said, but Oscar pushed his way back into the room anyway. He looked back to you, and even without words, you knew it was time to go. You needed some sleep.

Unfortunately, Oscar would not be getting any sleep tonight. 

“Oscar, just stop lying to me! I’m tired of this!’ Lily cried, curling her legs to her chest as she sat on the bed.

“Lily, I swear, I have never cheated on you. What YN and I were talking about was something from a long time ago.”

“We’ve been together for five years!”

“Can I just explain myself? Please?”

Lily just broke down in sobs. “Do whatever. I don’t care anymore.”

Oscar sighed. “Look, I…I have lied to you. You weren’t my first. YN was.” He looked at his girlfriend, who was still just silently crying. “It was before we even met, and it was just once, and we’ve never done anything since. I would never cheat on you, I love you and—”

“When and where was it?” Lily asked, cutting him off with her statement more like a command than a question.

“The December before we met, when I came home for Christmas.”

“In your bed?”

He nodded.

“Oscar, I slept in that bed next to you the other night.”

He said nothing. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Haven’t I been good to you?”

“Lily, I promise, I love you more than anything.”

“Then why would you lie to me for five years?”

Oscar took a deep breath and said, “Because I was afraid you would be upset. People don’t understand that me and YN are just friends. I mean, we were raised together, she’s like my sister.”

“You had sex with her. You took each other’s virginity.”

“It wasn’t…like that.”

“How can it not be like that? Do you even hear what you’re saying?” 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

About an hour after you left, you heard a knock on your hotel room door, and you answered. It was, of course, Lily. 

“Tell me whatever Oscar wouldn’t,” she said. Her eyes were still puffy and red. 

You welcomed her in, beginning to tell her the entire truth. “Oscar and I had sex when we were 18, before he met you. We never talked about it afterwards. After you met I didn’t want to bring it up, I just assumed he’d do the right thing and tell you. I didn’t want to pry into your relationship.”

So, your stories matched. And Lily knew that you were nothing if not honest. 

“Do you love him?”

“Of course I do, he’s my best friend.”

“No, I mean, are you in love with him?” 

You didn’t answer immediately. What were you supposed to say?

Tears fought their way to the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. “I don’t know,” you began, but that was a lie, you did know. “I guess…I have a special type of love for him. We grew up together. When we were younger, yes, I wanted to be his girlfriend. But then he met you, and… Lily, he was so happy! I just…I realized that I wanted him to be happy more than I wanted him to be mine. So I made peace with the fact that this is how it had to be.”

Lily was overwhelmed with your honesty, in the face of so much deception. 

You continued, “I don’t blame you for being upset at me. Oscar should have been honest about what our friendship was like from the very beginning instead of lying to you. But I swear, we haven’t done anything while you all have been together. I’ve been cheated on and I know how much that hurts, I would never do that to anyone else. I’m so sorry it ended up like this.”

“No,” Lily said, “You’re the only one who’s been honest with me throughout all of this. Thank you.”

After that, you hadn’t heard from Oscar after that for a long time. Or, at least, a few weeks felt like a long time to you. But you had other pressing matters—your workload was through the roof with Oscar’s wins. Lando had snatched himself a win too, setting up an early battle for the championship. It was too early into the season to call it, but you knew Oscar was feeling the pressure with the possibility of his first championship dangling so close in front of him. So you kept your distance, not wanting to be a distraction.

That was, until he called you, saying just those three painful words.

“Lily left me.”

The sun was cresting over the horizon, illuminating the thick glass of your balcony and flooding light into your living room. You hadn’t gotten an ounce of rest. 

From your bedroom, you could hear Oscar snoring. You just let him sleep. 

God knows you both needed it. 

[bosbas]

Chapter 1: I said, "dancin' is a dangerous game"

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader WC: 2.5k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, lowkey why do i ship daphne and y/n....

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

May 13, 1812 - You were in Hyde Park less than ten minutes before you saw Daphne Bridgerton's figure out of the corner of your eye. Delighted that she'd joined you earlier than expected, you waved her over.

"Hello, Daph," you greeted cheerfully, scooting over so your best friend could sit beside you on the bench. "I didn't think I'd see you for a few hours, given how many gentlemen asked you to dance last night. Did none of them call?"

Daphne groaned, a scowl set deep on her face, as she took a piece of bread from your basket and broke it into chunks to feed the ducks.

"Don't remind me. Most of them called, actually," she responded. "If only Anthony had let me have three seconds with them I might have been able to discern whether or not I was actually interested. He barged into the sunroom and promptly kicked everyone out. There was not a single suitor left in the room by the time he'd finished!"

You snorted. "Ah, so the overbearing eldest brother is once again to blame."

"Isn't he always?" she responded, too annoyed to match the lightness in your tone.

You just smiled to yourself and fed the ducks silently, knowing Daphne well enough to hide your smile from her, given that she was more than likely fuming at Anthony's constant meddling. You knew he meant well, but he was known to go a bit overboard at times. Well, most times. Especially when it came to Daphne's courtships.

"Anthony's the biggest rake in Mayfair, anyway. I don't know exactly what moral high ground he thinks he's standing on but it's certainly not as sturdy as he assumes," continued Daphne, still upset over that morning's happenings.

"Is it really that bad, Daph?" you said in an attempt to console her. "At least you're not getting hordes of unpleasant men at your doorstep every day. And you know the kinds of men that frequent the ton aren't always the kind you'd want to spend your afternoons with."

"I'm not getting any men at my doorstep! That's the problem!" exclaimed Daphne, exasperated. "I know you might not share the same desires as me, but I would eventually like to get married and have a family."

"I want to find a husband, too," you insisted, your tone bordering on defensive. "I just don't particularly feel bothered to look for one during my first season."

Daphne sobered immediately, coming out of her annoyance toward her brother as she could sense you were upset. "I didn't mean it like that, I swear," she insisted, placing a hand on your shoulder and looking into your eyes. "It was just-"

"I understand," you smiled at her, placing your hand over hers. "I just don't have the same urgency as you do, on account of my father having absolutely no stake in my marital status. No stake in anything about me at all, actually."

It would be a sad sentiment if you weren't used to it. You were an only child, and your mother had died after getting ill when you were only five years old. Your father, of course, was quite busy with the land he managed, and thus most of your upbringing had just been you and your governess. And the Bridgertons, of course.

You had met Daphne when she was eight and you were seven, and the two of you had gotten along splendidly since then. Since you had no real family of your own, bar your absent father, you spent copious amounts of time at the Bridgerton residence at Daphne's insistence. You now found yourself to be a semi-permanent fixture in their house, feeling just as home there as you did at your father's home.

This proximity to the Bridgertons had made you intimately familiar with Anthony's overprotective demeanor. Ever since you and Daphne were young, Anthony had gone out of his way to make sure that his siblings were cared for. Sometimes that included you, too. But unfortunately, he could take it too far sometimes.

"Did you like anyone last night, at least? Your dress was quite magnificent and I know I'm not the only one who noticed," you winked at Daphne.

She hummed thoughtfully. "I don't entirely know. I don't think one dance is enough to know whether I truly like someone," she responded, slumping down on the bench.

"Especially not when Anthony cuts the dance short halfway through," you laughed, recalling the eldest Bridgerton's attempts to thwart Daphne's search for a husband.

But your comment did nothing to lighten the mood. Instead, it seemed to make your friend even more irritated.

"It's my second year out in society! I still don't have a husband. Not even close to it, apparently," continued Daphne, aggressively tossing bits of bread into the pond.

"Well, you have to marry eventually. Anthony can't keep you away from every man for the rest of your life!" you argued.

But this did little to quell Daphne's annoyance. "He's certainly trying," she muttered.

"We can ship him off to the West Indies for the season," you joked. "Surely he won't be able to interrupt your suitors from halfway across the globe."

Suddenly, Daphne raised her eyebrows, looking at you with a devious smile.

"I was only joking! We can't actually ship him away," you laughed. "Besides, how would the ladies of the ton ever survive without the most desirable bachelor who is always just out of reach?"

Daphne snorted, amused at your dig at Anthony. "No, no, we don't have to ship him away," she said. "But you are correct in saying that I need time away from him to fully explore potential matches."

You hummed in agreement, imagining how much easier life would be for Daphne if her older brother simply... let her be. "Is he going on a hunting trip soon?" you said hopefully.

Your best friend shook her head, still smiling at you like she was plotting something.

"What is it?" you pressed, laughing at her expression.

"Can I ask you a favor?" she said, an expectant look in her eyes.

“Yes, I’ll kill Anthony for you. I’ve only been waiting for you to ask,” you joked.

“No,” Daphne laughed. “I’m serious.”

“Go on then,” you nodded.

“Could you ask him to dance at tomorrow’s ball?”

“Me? Ask him? Are you out of your mind?” you sputtered. You had never danced with Anthony at a ball, and you couldn't fathom the first time you did so being after you were the one to ask him.

“Y/N, please. I can’t just rely on forlorn glances across the ballroom to secure suitors. I need to actually speak with them, and I won’t be able to if Anthony keeps... hovering.”

Granted, hovering was a very generous word for what Anthony was really doing. But still, you looked at her, uncertainty in your eyes. You weren’t particularly keen on asking Anthony to dance, knowing he was famously opposed to marriage at this point in his life. Yes, you had grown up around him, but that didn’t mean he was interested in you at all, and you didn’t want to face that rejection if you could avoid it.

“Don’t give me that look! I promise it’ll work,” cried Daphne, desperate. “Just tell him you feel like dancing but don’t want to give another man the wrong impression since it’s only your first season and you’re still biding your time. Most of which is true.”

She made a good point. You didn’t want the hordes of men that seemed to flock to Daphne just yet. And would one dance really hurt that much?

---

The music in the ballroom pleasantly surrounded you as you stood next to Violet. Daphne had left to dance with Lord Wilson, a bachelor of very distinguished background who seemed to be hanging onto every word your best friend said.

Just as you turned to Violet to comment on how well-suited the pair looked, Anthony stormed over to where you were standing.

"It's unbelievable that she's even giving him the time of day," he said lowly, looking wholly unimpressed by the dance happening a few feet in front of him.

You could feel Anthony growing tense beside you as the seconds ticked by, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Three seconds of his sister speaking with a man and he was ready to explode already? He was worse than you thought.

You saw Daphne lean back as she laughed at something the gentleman said, and you knew you had to act fast before Anthony intervened.

“Oh, the music is wonderful tonight! Anthony, would you care for a dance?”

He tore his gaze away from his sister and looked at you, perplexed.

“Are you asking me to dance?”

“I believe I am, Anthony,” you said.

He scoffed, not quite believing you. “That is not very proper of you, Lady L/N.”

“And you are a great authority on propriety, I presume?" you said, a playful edge to your voice. "Given your… adventures as a rake, surely you have a better idea of what is proper than I do.”

Anthony choked at your bold choice of words, not used to people calling him out so publicly. “Y/N! Why do you want to dance with me then, if I'm such a rake?”

You rolled your eyes. “I just enjoy the music and want to dance. And I don’t want to give any other men the wrong impression,” you recited exactly what Daphne had told you to say.

He nodded reluctantly and took your hand. “Very well. One dance, then. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression of me either.”

This was the last time you ever did anything for Daphne. God, how difficult could one man be?

But all of your annoyance faded away once he placed his hand on your hip and spun you around. This was rather nice, you found yourself thinking. You hadn't properly danced at a ball yet, and you couldn't help but think that you'd missed out on a rather enjoyable activity.

The dance was going along quite smoothly, and you and Anthony seemed to be melting together, no longer two individuals but instead moving more like one entity. You were especially enjoying whenever his grip shifted slightly and his hand ran across the small of your back. To be truthful, you were simply having fun.

That is until you felt Anthony shifting you across the dance floor so you could get nearer to Daphne and the gentleman she was dancing with. Feeling Anthony's shoulders tense underneath your gingerly placed hands, you looked up at him.

Looking into his eyes, you raised your eyebrows. "She's fine, you know. You don't have to watch over her every second of every ball."

Anthony rolled his eyes, dismissing your comment. "Of course I do. She's my sister! I have to take care of her. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her or if she ended up betrothed to a dolt."

"Anthony," you softened your tone. "It's quite alright. It's not all up to you. You've got an entire family to keep her safe. And me, of course."

You could feel his muscles relax under your hands. "Thank you," he breathed out. "I know all of that to be true. I just worry about her. And about you! But luckily there aren't many suitors of yours to scare off."

"Oh," you said, your voice squeakier than you intended. "Thank you?" you questioned. You weren't quite sure how to take his comment.

"No!" he rushed out, immediately realizing what his words sounded like. "I didn't mean it like that. Daphne had just mentioned that you're not as interested in finding someone right now since it's your first season. And I hadn't really seen you dance with anyone at one of these balls before. And-"

"It's no trouble, Anthony," you smiled, giggling at how flustered he'd gotten. "I appreciate the concern nonetheless."

He shook his head, still not believing that he'd been so rude toward you. As much as you were a familiar face around his home, he couldn't quite tease you the way he did Daphne or any of his other sisters, and he was dreadfully embarrassed that he had made you upset, even if just for a moment.

"If you ever want to dance again, just come to me, understood?" he said, his voice turning serious. "I don't need another one of you to worry about."

You could barely contain your laughter as the music came to an end. "Yes, Anthony," you said dutifully, smiling at how silly he was being.

Looking over at Daphne, you were pleased to see that everything had gone to plan and she'd had the chance to talk to Lord Wilson the entire time you'd been with her brother. It was a relief that she'd finally gotten a normal courting experience.

Before Anthony could reach her and wrench her away from her suitor, Daphne rushed over to you, grabbing your arm excitedly.

"Shall we take a turn about the ballroom?" she suggested, leaving you no room to protest as she led you away from her mother and brother.

You laughed at her excitement, glad that your best friend was finally enjoying herself.

"Thank you so much, Y/N, truly," she gushed, squeezing your arm affectionately. "That was absolutely incredible. It's the longest time I've been able to spend with a potential match without Anthony hanging over my shoulder."

"I'm happy to do it," you said amusedly. "He was that lovely, then?"

"Oh, absolutely not," she shook her head. "Lord Wilson was dreadfully boring. But at least now I know! And I don't have to pine over him or wonder what he would be like. I know for certain I'm not interested, and I can focus on finding my true love match."

"That's wonderful, Daph," you laughed. You truly held so much affection for her. It was endearing to see her so excited over spending time with a man she didn't even like.

Suddenly, Daphne slowed her pace. Turning you around, she held both of your hands and took a deep breath. "Yes, it was. Which is why I must ask you to dance with Anthony tomorrow night as well."

"What do you mean? Ask him to dance again? I thought this was only for tonight," you sounded unconvinced. Asking her brother to dance one time had already been enough of a hassle, but having to pretend to need him to dance with you once more was looking like an insurmountable challenge.

"Please, Y/N," she begged. "It's the only way I'll find a husband that isn't someone like Nigel Berbrooke," she added, whispering the last part.

It was true, Anthony seemed to have impossibly high standards that only the most unpleasant bachelor in Mayfair seemed to be able to meet. If you could do anything to protect Daphne from that unpleasant fate, you would do it.

"I suppose I could try tomorrow night. Though I can't promise he'll want to dance with me again. Anthony seemed quite reluctant tonight," you conceded.

"Nonsense," said Daphne, rolling her eyes. "Anthony loves you dearly, I can't imagine he'd ever turn you down."

"Whatever you say," you responded, unconvinced but unwilling to dampen your best friend's chipper mood. Besides, you had a wonderful time with Anthony tonight. How could another dance possibly go wrong?

—

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[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Three: just as much of a traitor as Judas

tw: minor threats, abuse mention, wounds

“Caught this lamb sneaking ‘round while I was tryin’ to take a piss.” 

The masked stranger’s voice is severe but falls shorter than your father’s tone usually does. It does not bite quite as hard—instead, it nips away at you, taking little chunks with it. Still, you flinch all the same as his boots kick up dirt beside you, pacing impatiently with his arms crossed as he glowers at you over the cloth covering his nose. 

“Don’t mind Riley. He just doesn’t like strangers is all.” 

Shifting on your knees, you settle on your haunches before you can force your eyes to focus on the man on your left again. There’s the urge to lower your head as if before a king, or you’re back in the pews in that bloodstained church, but you fight that impulse as you fold your aching hands in your lap. That unassuming smile is still on his lips and the dissonance it stirs in your brain is frightening. Is he truly smiling or only flashing his teeth in warning? 

“Though, I am curious,” he continues as he taps the brim of his hat on the palm of his hand. “What are you doing out here? Bit late for a stroll. Rather… brave of you to come so close to a camp of unknown folk while you’re all by yourself.” 

“Rude,” you correct. “I-It was rude of me to… trespass. I should’ve known to stay away. I’m sorry, mister, I didn’t mean anything by it. I—well—I should get going. I’ll l-leave you gentlemen alone, I swear.”

There’s a jolt that reverberates through your legs as you attempt to find the strength to push yourself to your feet, but that vanishes the moment the man holds his hand up. Ivory light catches on the silvery calluses on his palms. A hard working man; or so you’d say if Mr. Beckett’s words weren’t still haunting your brain. His rough skin comes from the wood grip of his revolver and the soft throats of unsuspecting victims. There is nothing about this man that doesn’t remind you of the fact he’s a killer; not even that amicable smile.

“Now hold on a moment,” he urges, “you’re not really a stranger though, are you?” His teeth flash brighter than you think is humanly possible as he chuckles and glances at the men that slowly creep around you. “No, we saw you in the saloon, didn’t we? Skittish thing, you are, knocking over your stool. Lost all the change in your pocket and didn’t even stop as the bartender yelled after you. Must’ve been in a real hurry.” 

The change. You were right, though that doesn’t do you any good right now. Still, it stings knowing that something so trivial created a domino effect—that something so simple led you into a den full of wolves. Had you been more careful, you could be sitting next to your mother’s empty seat right now. 

“I… I had to get home to my daddy, he was waiting on me. He’s—uhm—waiting for me at home again. He’ll start to worry if I’m out too long.” Though you’re not sure if it’s entirely truthful, you throw that last bit in as a desperate attempt to notify these men that there is someone looking out for you. That someone will notice if you don’t turn up. 

Don’t you dare return until you do. 

Or, so you hope. 

Your words are as transparent as the stained glass in your father’s church. It’s ignored and completely bypassed in favor of asking you for your name. There’s a small temptation to lie; to create an alias as a way to preserve yourself in whatever way possible. You almost do, until your father’s words bleed from your memory—everything he quoted from The Bible about lying—so you swallow your fear and mutter your name as if it’s a curse. 

“John Price,” the man—this criminal—introduces properly. He holds out his hand for you to shake and you witlessly accept. He doesn’t grab your hand, but instead your wrist where he twists it until your cracked knuckles are on display for all prying eyes to see. His hands are oddly warm compared to you. Superheated enough that he could melt you if he wished. “Looks like you’re quite the fighter.” 

There’s an odd cordolium that strikes you with almost as much force as your father usually does. Unrelenting like the floods in spring, your stomach twists at the notion that someone would look at your wounds and see it as your fault. 

(But they are your fault, aren’t they? You said as much to Mr. Beckett.) 

“I’m not,” you say, tone dripping with desperation. “Please, sir, I really ought to be getting home. It-It’s getting late and my daddy, he-” 

“You know,” John Price interjects, “folk sometimes think women aren’t capable of much. Better if they stay home with the children or doing simple housework. If you’re a society lady, anyway, but out here in the heartlands… well, that’s a different story, isn’t it? You hear all about women murdering their sweethearts, or sneaking around where they shouldn’t.” 

Your mouth fills with cotton as his grip on your wrist stays firm. John Price’s words are dark with a rather canorous—albeit gruff—voice, but his implications leave your tongue feeling arid. 

“Are you saying that… You think that I… would hurt someone?” It’s hard to get the words out, but you force them through your teeth anyway. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I?” 

The masked fellow—Riley?—scoffs as his heavy feet kick at the dirt. “C’mon Price. Just take care of ‘er and get on with it.” 

“Dunno, she doesn’t seem like much trouble,” a smooth voice challenges from somewhere behind you. The speaker captures John Price’s attention for a split second before his eyes are back on you. “Like you said, just a lamb, right?” 

“Is Kyle right about you? How much trouble are you?” he asks. 

Your bottom lip twitches. “I-I try not to be any,” you assure. 

Everything swells within an instant. The flames licking at your back roar and crackle in tune with John Price’s chuckling, and even the coyotes howling seem to crescendo with him. Finally, he releases your wrist as he replaces his hat on his head and you find your left thumb running over the delicate skin just beneath your palm. As he adjusts the brim, he opens his mouth to say something only for his lips to snap shut. Something seems to catch his eye as his gaze wanders down over your neck and to your chest. Your heart ceases in your ribcage like a fish swaying in dead water. 

A flinch forces your muscles to tense as John Price reaches a hand toward your throat. You want to close your eyes as you await your death. Asphyxiation isn’t how you want to go, but you suppose there are worse ways to be disposed of. Yet, there is no clenching of fingers or bulging of eyes—instead, this man gently tugs on the delicate gold chain around your neck, allowing his eyes to settle on the charm attached to it. 

On the crux of your breasts sits a dainty gold cross. Usually hidden behind your blouse, it now glints in the firelight with unabashed glory. For a moment, you are transported back in time when this nostalgic piece of jewelry used to sit upon your mother’s neck. Somehow, it always seemed more distinguished on her than it ever did on you. She wore it day and night—she even wore it in her casket. Hands folded on her stomach and eyes sealed tight, it didn’t seem to shine as bright when tied to her corpse. 

Your grubby nine year old fingers had slipped it off of her neck before they buried her. If your father had ever realized, you’re certain he would have buried you with her that day, but you did not take it out of avarice. She was—after all—your mother; don’t you deserve to carry a piece of her with you? Something more than the blood stained clothes she left behind? 

“Are you a woman of God?” John Price asks. 

You nod. “I am. My… My daddy’s the preacher here in town.” 

Humming, he drops the chain before returning his attention to your hands. This time, he flips both of them over so all your sore and sorry knuckles are on display. He scrutinizes them. Studies the way the skin splits open like he’s contemplating taking a taste—nothing but a scavenger interested in the leftover scraps of you. 

“Please sir,” you beg once more. “I promise I won’t make any more trouble. I’ll go home and you’ll never see me again.” 

John Price shakes his head as he relinquishes your hands back to you. When he stands, he towers over you like a tree does an ant. An infinitesimal being who’s already well accustomed with the crane of her neck. “You’re not going home.” 

Your fear is drowned out by the protest of the other men around you. They’re short and sharp quips that have John Price glaring at them with narrow eyes. You never thought you’d find yourself agreeing with such men—and especially not so quickly—but even your exhale of disapproval slices through their murmurs. 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Riley hisses as he turns his back to John Price. 

“Please sir, I won’t speak a word,” you attempt to convince. “No one will ever know I saw you here, a-and we’ll pretend like this whole thing never happened.” 

“I bet you’re real good at that, yeah? Pretending as if things never happened,” John Price quips. “Is that what your daddy makes you do when he beats you like that? Act like it never happened so he can send you into town to buy his liquor?” 

When you swallow, it’s nothing but icicles piercing your throat. “He… He doesn’t hurt me.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps. “Christ, I can see the way your eye is swelling up already.” 

Adrenaline has been seeping through your pores so viciously that you had forgotten all about everything your father had subjected you to before this. An instinctively protective hand raises to your cheek where your fingers prod at the tender skin. It smarts something fierce, yet you bite back your wince as your eyes focus back on John Price’s boots. 

You don’t realize just how quiet things have grown until one of the logs being consumed by the flames suddenly cracks. It splits and settles, sending sparks swirling up in the air high above your head before they flicker out like snuffed out stars. There is no more protesting from the men around you; not even the faintest huffs of disapproval. They’ve witnessed your marred skin and smelled the wet iron that seeps from it, yet they can now finally see the infection itself. The way it festers within you, ready to consume you whole lest something is done about it first. 

John Price looks ready to rip the rot out of you with his bare hands. 

“Do you have anywhere you can go? Someone in town who will take care of you besides him?” he asks with so much consideration in his voice he sounds like a different man entirely. 

It’s a laughable question, and you would have let a titter slip past your lips if it wasn’t for the fear that still grips your heart. There are some people who would take you under their wing as if pitying a flightless bird. Mr. Beckett, for example. But your father’s influence reaches far and wide within Penmosa. You wouldn’t subjugate anyone to that type of torture. 

You shake your head. 

John Price hums. “Looks like you’re sticking with us then, little lamb.” 

Somehow, the only protest comes from you. “You don’t have to do that. It’s fine, really, I-”

“It’s not permanent,” he interjects. “No offence miss, but you hardly look roughened enough for the trails we take out here anyway. Are you familiar with Blackpeak?” 

You nod. “Mr. Beckett said that’s the town that… that you’re wanted in,” you answer just as honestly as you do awkwardly. 

He chuckles. “Yeah well… then you’re familiar with Grand Hollow then? It’s a big city. I’m sure you folks around here are familiar with it. It’s on the way to Blackpeak, which is where we’re headed. I’ve got an associate there who can find you work and housing. You could start living. Really living.” 

Dumbfounded, you stare up at John Price as if he’s a prophet. He says it so simply—you’d always thought an offer like this would come pleonastically. Salvation. It’s supposed to come at the tail end of a sermon where your father directs you and the entire congregation to bow their heads and repent for the opportunity of being saved. Truly saved. This inured cowboy—or rather, outlaw—before you hardly seems to be the epitome of Jesus Christ Himself, but perhaps he is your burning bush. 

There is, after all, a fire at your back. 

“You’d… why would you do that for me? You don’t even know me,” you say in disbelief. 

John Price shrugs. “I’ve done more for people who’ve deserved it less.” 

This must be some sort of mendacity. Nothing but a trick of the light or your ears playing games with you. Mr. Beckett told you these men were murderers. Thieves who would steal away your life before you made sense of the blade in your gut. Yet, instead of salivating at the sight of your wounds, John Price seems to have softened. 

“I… I don’t… Thank you,” you stutter. 

He gives you a curt nod in response before his eyes dart behind you. “Soap, get her a blanket. And some food, while you’re at it. Can hear her stomach growling from here.” 

The rest of the night passes you by in a cocainized blur. You’re able to make sense of the cotton blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and the too-tough deer jerky that makes your jaw and teeth ache as you grind it between your molars, but you fall short of truly being able to feel it. The heat of the roaring fire, the susurrus of the men as they discuss what exactly to do with you—they’re all abstract concepts. Ideas you try to catch in the grey matter of your brain just for the holes in your net to be too big. It slips like water between fingers. Flour from a sieve.  

When your eyelids grow too heavy to hold them up anymore, Soap—who you’ve also heard be called Johnny, but really you’re too terrified to refer to the man at all—provides you with a canvas tarp and a few extra spare blankets. No one really speaks to you, except for John Price. The other men look at you like you’re some wounded animal, one they’re afraid will jump out to bite them as if you’re the one with the repeaters and bandoliers. 

As if you’re the one with your face plastered on parchment with the words Dead or Alive beneath your name. 

Your sleep is intermittently broken throughout the night by someone adding more logs on the fire. They clank together as soot squeaks beneath the pressure, forcing you to jolt awake. It’s a different man each time, and still they all mumble for you to go back to sleep when they catch your eyes fluttering open at the intrusion. 

Morning dawns with soft periwinkle clouds and an aroma of black coffee. The robust scent rouses you from your sleep where you’re faced with a pile of dying embers and John Price kneeling over the pit as if to lay them to rest. He fusses over a small pot that babbles with boiling water as he fixes himself a cup of coffee. 

“Morning, lamb,” he greets. 

You blink a few more times before you get the strength—or rather, the courage—to sit up. Every muscle and bone in your body screams at you. It twists and cries at the unfair treatment it received from the previous day, both from your father and from your unfortunate decision to sleep on the cold hard earth rather than back in your vacant bed. Shivering fingers paw at the back of your sore neck as you try to soak up what little warmth remains in your blankets. 

“Sleep well?” he asks softly. 

“No worse than usual,” you quip, which earns you a tired chuckle. 

“Well, I’m afraid it’s all you’re going to get for the day. We’ll be leaving soon.” 

His words hit you like a rising tide. Water slowly lapping at your feet before swelling into waves that threaten to knock you to your knees. 

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this,” you breathe. 

John Price hums as he settles next to the dying fire. His pot still bubbles away, but he now nurses his own tin cup between the palms of his hands. You can see the way the warmth melts his exterior, but it’s still not enough to reach his eyes. 

“I thought you’d be more excited,” he notes. 

“Excited?” you repeat sourly. How insane of him to think you’d feel giddy over leaving everything you have ever known behind you to rot in the dust. 

He shrugs. “Usually people are eager to leave the people they hate.” 

Absentminded fingers curl around the golden cross of your necklace. He uses such a strong word to attempt to explain your emotions. Hate. Disdain. Abhor. You don’t think you’ve ever felt such things for anyone in your entire life—least of all your father. 

“I don’t hate him,” you correct. 

“Oh, you do,” John Price scoffs. “You just don’t realize it yet.” 

Despite your narrowing eyebrows, you do your best to hold off a glare at this scoundrel. He only smiles in response as he holds up his cup. 

“Coffee?” He takes a sip from the cup when you shake your head. “Right, we’ll be leaving in twenty minutes. Should make peace with your… situation before we leave, yeah?” 

John Price wanders off and leaves you alone to defrost next to the dying remains of the fire beside you. You allow yourself to soak up the morning for only a few moments before you’re putting yourself to work. You roll your blankets up the same way you watched Kyle—the gentleman who attempted to defend you last night—roll them, and when you can’t get it quite as tight as he can, he relieves you of that duty with a smile before wandering off to his horse. 

The air is strange this morning. It pulses with each beat of your heart as you stand in the center of a now dilapidating camp, looking at the men around you. Only a handful of hours ago you were sitting at the dining table with your father. Now look at you. No better than an apostate to him, wandering off with strange men. Just as much of a traitor as Judas. 

You’re yanked out of your thoughts when a bag is dropped at your feet. Yelping, you spin your body until you’re face to face with Riley. He looks no less intimidating now in the pale dawn light than he did last night in the shadows. You still have yet to see him without that bandana obscuring the bottom half of his face, but the hairs standing up on the back of your neck remind you that you ought to not ask about it. 

Instead, you bring your attention to the floral printed carpet bag that sits in the dirt next to you. Yellowed lilies dance among green threads as the canvas collapses in on itself like it can hardly stand its own weight. 

“What’s this?” you question. 

“Your bag, isn’t it?” Riley deadpans. 

Throwing a cautious glance at the mountainous man in front of you, you quickly kneel and begin to rummage through the contents. An odd palpitation rips through your heart when you recognize your own belongings within this bag—your bag. You recognize it now, flowers and all. A gift from your maternal grandmother when you turned six. She had promised you that one day you’d go out to see the world with your mother. Her promise hasn’t exactly bore fruit the way you wanted. 

There’s everything you need to live shoved inside this bag. Your dresses, chemises, pantalets, even your combs. They’re all shoved in haphazardly with no concern at all for the neat way you were certain you had folded them previously, but you make no mention of it as you zip the bag closed. 

“Where did you get this?” you question as you stand back to your feet. 

Riley raises an eyebrow. “Where do you think?” 

Somehow, you manage to swallow the lump in your throat without choking on it. “Did… Did you do anything to him?” 

“Nothin’ he didn’t deserve,” he replies as he turns his back to you. 

As the boys finish wrapping up camp, you wander the area with your carpet bag in hand. Twigs snap beneath your feet and mourning doves chirp upon ramulose trees and bushes as you peer out over the horizon. The campsite rests at the top of a large hill, giving you a perfect view of the earth below you. Penmosa looks just as small as it's always been, and you can see the sheep in the pasture lazily roam as they chew on fresh spring grass and bleat. Mr. Beckett’s chickens are out again and enjoying their morning stroll and you can’t help but laugh as you watch a carriage pass them by, scaring them and causing them to flap their wings to get away. 

Then, of course, there’s the steeple of your father’s church. Faded painted wood stands proudly above every other building in town like hands reaching up to Heaven. How proud that building is. So cavalier for something that’s soaked in blood. You find yourself thinking an unchristian thought, but you hope that steeple tumbles like The Tower of Babel. 

It’s strange to think that you’ll be leaving this town behind. Throwing it away for a chance to wander off with strange men on the shaky promise of a better life. How can something feel wrong and right at the same time? What brutal moral conflict have you subjugated yourself to? Why aren’t you as scared as you know you should be? 

“You ready, little lamb?” John Price asks from somewhere behind you. 

You allow yourself to stare out at the town for only a moment longer before turning around to face him. He stands with his hat donned and thumbs tucked next to his belt buckle as he watches you with curiosity. 

“Of course,” you reply, though your tone argues otherwise.  Just as you take your first step, the church bells begin to chime. Raucous and clear, they call you to you. They ring, and ring, and ring, and still you walk. You pay no mind to your father or his bells; not even as they beg.

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"DO YOU FEEL IT TOO ?" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : never knew i had it in me to write something this long bakugo being into shojos gives me life content : fluff fluff fluff. a LOT of pining. 3rd year bakugo. f2l i guess. +12k words. blue spring ride references.

Bakugo Katsuki doesn’t read romance for the fluff.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s about structure. Pacing. The way a story builds tension out of glances instead of battles, silence instead of shouts. That’s what he tells himself. But he knows the truth.

What it really is—what it’s always been—is longing.

That ache in the chest when two people stand an inch apart and say nothing. The sharp inhale before a hand is taken, or not. It’s in the words people don’t say. In the space between panels where everything unsaid lives. He reads it and feels seen in a way that pisses him off more than he can explain.

It started with a volume of Blue Spring Ride left in the common room. Someone had abandoned it between cushions. He picked it up without thinking, without planning to. He read the first chapter standing. The second while pacing. By the third, he was sitting on the floor, the book open in his lap, heart tightening with every page.

Now he has the full set. And more. Stupid shit with pastels and sparkles and characters that cry too much. A box of feelings he can’t name shoved under his desk.

No one knows. No one’s supposed to.

Which is why tonight is a mistake.

Inviting you over to study always is. You’re too comfortable in his space. You sit on the floor like you live there, flipping through the textbook you’re not even reading and every time your knee bumps his, he has to pretend he doesn’t feel it like a static shock to the ribs.

He leaves the room too fast. “I’m getting snacks. Don’t touch my stuff.”

You hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But when he gets back, he stops in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move.

You’re kneeling on the floor, half-turned toward his desk, and in your hands—one of the volumes from the box he swore he’d hidden better. His brain stalls. There’s the blanket, shoved to the side. The cardboard lid askew. The spines of half a dozen shojo mangas catching the light just enough to betray him completely.

You’re holding Blue Spring Ride. Of course you are. He knows the cover by heart. He knows exactly which scene is bookmarked, too. The one he reread three times before closing the book like it might say something out loud if he stared hard enough.

You don’t laugh. Don’t look smug or surprised or ready to tease him. Your fingers hold the book gently, like it’s something fragile. Like it matters.

“I didn’t know you read this kind of stuff,” you say, your voice quiet—not mocking, not even curious, just... soft. Careful.

His feet finally move, but only because he forces them to. He crosses the room with a grunt that lands somewhere between a warning and a deflection, and drops the water bottle onto his desk with more force than necessary.

“I told you to not touch my crap,” he mutters, heat already crawling up the back of his neck.

You lift a pen in your other hand—the one you dropped, apparently—and glance back at the box with a small shrug. “Well, sorry if it was in the way.”

That should make it better. It doesn’t. His chest is tight, heart thudding in the kind of silence that feels louder than yelling. You flip the book open. The page is still folded. Fucking chapter twenty-three. Of course you find it. Of course.

“This part,” you say, eyes scanning the page like you’re revisiting something old and intimate, “this one always hit me.”

His mouth is dry. He can’t decide if he wants to grab the book back or walk out of the room entirely.

“She’s trying so hard to get through to him, though she knows even if he doesn’t say it.” you go on. “But he doesn’t know how to let her in yet. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t think he can.”

You don’t say it like you’re talking about the characters. You say it like you’re reading him.

He sinks slowly to the floor beside you—cross-legged, arms folded tight, like he’s trying to hold something in place. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his gaze fixed on the page as if it might rescue him from the way your voice softens when you speak.

“He’s bein' a fuckin' coward,” he mutters, the words falling out like they’ve been waiting there, unsaid, for too long.

You tilt your head slightly, not pushing, not correcting him, just letting your voice land somewhere softer. “He’s scared. That’s different.”

The pause that follows feels like breathing underwater—slow and thick, full of things neither of you will touch directly. You turn another page, and this time your thumb lingers at the edge of the panel like you’re touching something fragile.

“This moment right here,” you say, quieter now, but still with that strange, steady certainty you always seem to have, “it’s my favorite.”

You don’t point to it, but he knows exactly which one you mean. The close-up of Futaba’s face, words floating just above her expression.

"Beacause I like you" I just want to hear you tell me that

You don’t elaborate. You don’t press. But the weight of it hangs there between you, not heavy, not demanding—just quietly waiting to be understood. And when your shoulder brushes his as you shift slightly to lean back, it stays there. No recoil. No excuse. Just warmth, still and deliberate.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t move away either.

It doesn’t come up again that night. You go back to studying like nothing happened, like you didn’t just brush fingertips against the deepest thing he’s been hiding since he was fifteen. But something’s changed. You can feel it in the air, in the way he doesn’t complain when you lean your arm against his or when your laugh gets too loud in his room. He doesn’t roll his eyes anymore. He just watches, and he’s quieter than usual, but it’s not the kind of silence that means distance. It’s the kind that listens.

A few days later, you leave a new book on his desk. You don’t say anything. You don’t ask if he read the one before. You don’t press. Just the soft sound of a cover meeting wood and your back turned as you leave his room. When he picks it up later, there’s no note. Just a folded corner two-thirds of the way through, and that’s somehow worse. Or better. He’s not sure yet.

He reads it in one night.

Doesn’t mark it this time. Doesn’t fold anything in return. But when he hands it back, he does it slowly. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his fingers hold the book like it’s something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll notice the way the spine is softer now, or how he paused on that chapter more than once before letting the ending reach him.

You lend him another. He reads that one slower. It becomes a rhythm you never name. The exchange of folded pages and lived-in dialogue. Notes in the margins. Underlined phrases. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re devastating. Sometimes they feel like code. And he starts wondering, around the fourth or fifth book, whether you’ve been saying something in them the whole time, and if maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting for him to answer.

He tries to. In his way. A small pencil mark beneath a line that says You don’t have to say it out loud for it to mean something. A sticky note, blank except for a question mark next to a panel where a character walks someone home without saying why.

He doesn’t ask you to meet him outside the gym, but you’re always there. He doesn’t offer to walk you to the dorms, but he always ends up at your side. You don’t say thank you, and he doesn’t tell you he wants to stay longer, but neither of you rushes those steps.

One night, he gives you a book you didn’t lend him. One from his own collection, older, more worn. There’s a quote faintly marked near the end: You were the only thing that made staying feel worth it. He doesn’t say anything as you read it, but when you look up, he’s already watching you like he’s bracing for something to fall.

You don’t ask.

But you don’t forget the page.

And when you hand it back the next week, there’s no new book in your hand.

Just a quiet, expectant pause as you sit beside him.

It should feel normal by now—the silence, the weight of books between you—but something in it hums differently. He knows you’re about to say something, but you don’t. Instead, you shift forward slightly and slide a thin paperback across the carpet between you. He picks it up. Turns it over. It’s familiar, but new. Not one he’s read before. You don’t explain.

He flips it open. Finds a folded page before chapter one.

Sometimes I think if I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He reads it three times. Closes the book without a word.

That night, when he walks you home, he doesn’t say anything at your door. You turn like you always do, waiting for a smart comment or a sarcastic farewell. You blink. The hallway light buzzes behind you. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the book tucked under his arm like a shield. His face is unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything else. But you swear you heard your name echo all the way down the hall as you close your door.

He reads the line again that night. The one you folded. He flips to it so many times he doesn’t need the crease anymore. The words burn into his skull until they feel like his own. If I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

The truth is, it already is.

He’s already ruined himself a little for anyone else. You’re in everything now. In the way he thinks. In the way he breathes. In the way he starts to reach for your hand without realizing it and has to curl his fingers into his palm before it gives him away. He stares at the folded page, pencil in hand, and mutters under his breath, “Why the hell would you give me this one?”

He tries to write something in the margins. His pencil hovers over the paper, tip faintly pressed to the edge of the dialogue bubble. But nothing comes. Every word feels like too much or not enough. Eventually, he gives up and just draws a small dash beside it. Not even a full mark—just a pause. A breath. His version of a maybe.

The next time he sees you, you’re already on the floor when he walks in. You glance up, then down at the book in your lap—the one you gave him—and ask, “Did you get to the part I folded?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You wait, but he doesn’t offer more. Your eyes linger on him like you’re trying to decide whether to push, or just let it sit. “I thought it was... kind of relevant.”

Bakugo snorts, but it’s not sharp. “To what?”

You raise a brow. “You tell me.”

His jaw flexes, and for a second he looks like he might actually say something. But then he mutters, “Dumb line anyway,” and sits down beside you like the conversation didn’t happen.

You don’t call him on it. But your hand stays closer than it used to. Close enough to touch if either of you moves just slightly.

He notices. He doesn’t move.

You're not sure how long you’ve been sitting in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe more. The book is still open on your lap, but neither of you has turned the page in a while. Bakugo’s beside you, legs stretched out, his fingers twitching near his knee like he wants to say something and can’t. The quiet isn’t tense, exactly. It’s just heavy. Like both of you are holding something in your mouths and waiting for the other to make it easier.

You should say it. You know you should. You’ve been sitting with it for weeks now, maybe longer—this soft, aching thing in your chest every time he underlines a sentence or walks you home or says your name like it means something.

So you breathe in, slow. Then you blurt out, “I really like you.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just blinks once, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t expect them to sound like that—so simple. So final.

You keep your voice steady. “I’ve been trying not to say anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. Or make you feel like you had to say something back. But I just—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Not loudly. Just enough that his shoulders drop a little and his fingers go still against the floor.

“I thought I was gonna be the one to say it first,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Your head turns before you can stop it. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I was gonna. I’ve been meaning to. Every time you gave me a new book or looked at me like—like that.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I’d open my mouth and then I’d just... freeze. Like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am,” he says, sharper now. Not angry—just embarrassed. “You don’t get it. I’ve never felt like this. Not for anyone. Not like this.” His fingers rake through his hair, rough. “You give me these lines and scenes and looks and I know they mean something and I still—I still choke, damn it.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him fall apart quietly beside you, the way he always does when he’s feeling too much at once. You shift slightly closer, enough that your knee brushes his, and he doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t give you those books to say something,” you say gently. “I just hoped maybe you’d feel it, too.”

He lets out a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I felt it.”

You swallow. “So what now?”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are darker than usual—focused. Honest in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I want this shit. I want to try. With you.”

Your chest loosens. Just a little

“I’m not gonna be good at it,” he adds quickly. “I’m gonna overthink everything and probably mess up and say the wrong shit—” You reach for his hand.

He stops. And then, very slowly, he lets you hold it.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” you say. “You just have to mean it.”

“I do.” His voice is rough now. Lower. “I really fuckin’ like you. It’s annoying.”

You laugh into the quiet, and he squeezes your hand once like a question. You squeeze back like an answer.

Neither of you moves for a while. The book is still open, the page folded neatly in the corner, and there’s a line sitting there that neither of you points out.

Then, slowly, his thumb shifts against the side of your hand. You feel it before he speaks, the way his breath changes—like he’s on the edge of saying something else, or doing something reckless. You turn to look at him and find him already watching you, gaze heavy but uncertain.

“Can I—” he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to finish it.

You nod.

He leans in carefully, like he doesn’t trust the floor to hold the weight of it. His free hand hovers awkwardly at first before settling lightly against your jaw, fingers warm, unsure. And when he kisses you, it’s soft in a way you weren’t ready for. Gentle. Hesitant.

Nothing practiced. Nothing smooth.

Just quiet. And real.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours. You’re still holding hands. Neither of you has let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he mumbles, the words almost lost in the space between you.

“I know,” you say, voice just as low. “Me too.”

You stay there, close and steady, the kiss lingering somewhere between your mouths and your heartbeat. It’s not perfect. But it’s yours.

You don’t talk much after that.

Not because there’s nothing to say—just because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s nothing left to prove. The air between you is still full, still warm, but it’s not buzzing anymore. It’s just steady. Like the moment has stopped needing to be chased.

The book lies forgotten on the carpet between you, half-folded against the blanket. He’s stretched out now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still within reach. You’re lying beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of his breathing.

Every so often, he glances at you. Not intensely. Just long enough to check if you’re still there and you are. “Is it weird,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “that it doesn’t feel different?”

Bakugo’s brow furrows faintly, and for a second, you think maybe he took it the wrong way. But then he exhales and turns his head toward you. “Nah,” he says. “It just means we didn’t fuck it up.”

You smile at the ceiling.

“Not yet,” he adds, because he can’t help himself. “Still time.”

You elbow him lightly, and he huffs out a sound that’s too close to a laugh for him to argue it.

It’s peaceful like that for a while. Not exactly sleepy, but the kind of soft that feels like it could lead there. A shared quiet. Familiar and unhurried.

He rolls onto his side at some point, propping his head up on his arm, eyes half-lidded. He looks like he’s about to say something. Then doesn’t. Then tries again.

“You were right, y’know,” he murmurs. “Back then.”

You blink over at him. “About what”

“When you said she can feel it, even if he doesn’t say it” His voice is rough, not from emotion—just from exhaustion. Like something in him finally gave up resisting. “I didn’t say it. But you still knew.”

“I didn’t need you to,” you say. “I just wanted you to feel it, too.”

He reaches over and brushes his fingers against yours. It’s barely a touch, but it says more than anything he could put into words. “I did,” he says quietly. “I do.” And then he lets the silence come back. This time, it settles between you like a blanket.

Not heavy. Just warm.

BONUS :

Your daughter has no chill.

Not when it comes to bedtime stories. Not when it comes to anything, really. She’s all knees and curls and a voice too big for her body, bouncing on the mattress like she hasn’t already stalled for twenty minutes.

“Not the one with the dragon hero,” she says with a groan. “That one’s boring. I want the kiss one!”

Bakugo raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting at the edge of her bed. “The what now?”

She throws herself dramatically onto the pillows, limbs flailing like it’s the end of the world. “The kiss one! With the guy and the girl and the charm and the love stuff!”

From the hallway, you call out, “My Love Story!!, sweetheart. Volume five.”

“Tch.” Bakugo mutters something under his breath—probably about corruption or sentimental brain rot—but he reaches for the shelf without protest. The cover is faded from too much handling, spine softened like it’s been loved for years. It has. It’s the same one you used to pass back and forth, long before either of you thought about bedtime routines or toothbrush arguments or which sippy cup color would cause a meltdown.

He flips it open and frowns. “Where even is the part with the charm?”

“She says it’s near the middle,” you say, appearing in the doorway with a knowing smile. “She has it memorized.”

“Of course she does.” He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice as he sits back down and adjusts the blanket around her. “Spoiled brat.”

“She’s your brat you know,” you remind him, folding your arms as you lean against the frame.

“Unlucky kid.”

She kicks at his side half-heartedly, already settled against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth, other hand gripping the edge of the book.

He reads, voice lower than usual. Calmer. Every line slow and steady, like the words are still sinking into him after all these years. When he gets to the charm scene—the one she always waits for—she gasps, loud and delighted, and points.

“That’s the part! That’s when he says he likes her!”

Bakugo pauses. Just for a second.

And then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch the two of them: your daughter, curled against his side, and Bakugo Katsuki—gruff, impatient, still pretending he doesn’t like romance—reading a love story with the same kind of care he used to hold his feelings for you.

Later, when the house is quiet and her room is dark, he finds you at the shelf.

You’ve pulled out Blue Spring Ride. You don’t open it. Just hold it, fingers resting over the soft crease of a long-folded page. “I used to think this was where everything started,” you say.

He stands beside you, close enough to feel. “Wasn’t it?” You glance at him. “Maybe it was where we figured it out.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, without ceremony, he slips the book from your hands and slides it back into place. You don’t miss the way his fingers brush yours.

“I love you,” he says, almost absently, like it’s a habit now. Like it’s something you’re meant to hear at the end of a long day, right between goodnight and I’m home.

You smile. “Yeah. I love you too.” He kisses your temple.

And in the quiet that follows, you both know it was never just about the stories you folded into pages. It was always this. The soft part. The part that stayed.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i

[4mrplumi]

00. spiderwocky ── kid-buggy

‎‎ㅤㅤplatonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

your head slams against the mech’s ceiling, and your vision blurs for a second. a troubled robotic voice keeps reading out statistics, leftwing engine down, visors breaking off, remaining web fluid at 17%, and enemy still engaged.

you have to wince, pushing your head against the whiplash, slamming a half-ripped off metal leg at the large metallic eyeball staring keenly in your direction. mysterio’s been trouble before but… you’ve gotten soft. 

a thin wisp of gas permeates the suit’s vents, and sp//dr’s robotic droning takes an almost human, frantic quality. “air quality has been compromised,” it hisses,  “(name), pulling out of battle is optimal.” you’ve got to ignore it, you think with strain, a thin string of web leaping out at the building behind mysterio, there are people in more danger than you.

pulling harshly on the string, you can hear the noisy clank of metal as the mech-suit’s arm bolts creak under the pressure, and propel yourself at the sphere. and you do it again, to the left, again, from the right, while sp//dr’s voice reads out the remaining fluid clerically.

"16%", slam it into the concrete building next to you, it makes a dent, "15%", swing it into a billboard, people are screaming, "14%", jump up into the sky on your- the suit’s- good leg, "13%" shoot out two strings to the ground besides mysterio-

"12%", slam him into the concrete, shattering the road under him. you’re running out of air. the sphere breaks a little, curling inwards like a cracked egg. you have to disarm mysterio- before he floods the streets with the brain toxin that-

that’s currently bypassed your filtration systems.

the suit takes a staggering step towards a boy inside the vessel, his head encompassed by a globe of white, a single eye etched and staring. you barely hear his “you’re taller in person”, more focused on another voice whispering to you.

 ‘make me nothing’, it says, it’s your father's voice. no, it’s sp//dr’s voice. a hand reaches up on its own, crushing a drone, ‘i’m a teenage weapon’. it’s your voice, your head, sp//dr. you can barely breathe, another hand sending a drone flying into the thin walls around you. "safe inside the colours", his face looks at you in pity, admiration. 

it’s a familiar look.

you stiffen, your mind clearing to sp//dr’s warnings. ‘i don’t need your love, boy.’ the suit’s arm slams against his skull, and he falls to the ground, with a strangled; “my voice!”. 

the brain toxin begins to leave your systems, flushed out by a steady, furious buzz in your ears, your vision clearing as you approach the man. his face is exposed, a bloody, spectacled and oat-haired figure. he croaks to you; “i hate my voice,” as though you’d care of it, “you don’t know me- i’m just a fan…”

his voice becomes shaky, and he’s struggling to blabber out his words. you’re tempted to web his mouth shut. “but i could have been anything to you…”

“did you ever get the mix-disc i made you?” he slurs, his cracked glasses breaking.

you don’t wake up with a jolt. there’s no chain of anxiety that hits you, no spider-sense going off. you’re well tucked under heavy covers when you open your eyes, rigid in your sleep. not in the suit, you haven’t been in it for a while. it’s sill broken, and you’re not… not at work. not right now.

it doesn’t feel natural waking up in the manor. you’ve been opening your eyes to the posters your roommate put up on your walls, insisting on brighter decor. grown used to waking to sounds of chatter, maybe the radio, or the school bell telling you were devastatingly late to class and would be reprimanded for it.

you’re not used to waking up to neat wallpaper in a dark, old room. in the house you’ve barely lived in, barely wanted to live in. wayne manor is a sad place, and you're suddenly glad they send you away for most of the year.

summer vacations are the most miserable time of the year, everyone being sent home or off on vacation with their parents until they come back for next term. all the time you're stuck going to a manor you don’t want to be in, in a city you’re close to hating, with people who’ve made it too obvious they don’t want you here. they never say it to your face. but you know well enough.

but- but this time it’s different. this break, you won’t go to trouble tim with a puzzle you’d hope would interest him, one he’d take from you with a nod, and never think about again. you won’t go watch jason sneak into the pantry from a distance, trying to muster up the courage to talk to him and inevitably fail each time, as he swiftly left again. you won’t even offer to ask alfred if you could help him tend to the garden, only for him to smile pitiably gently at you and ask you if you’d 'rather not spend your time having more fun elsewhere'.

this time, you have work. something to do. someone to be.

you take to sauntering awake to a little desk in the corner of the room at five? four? in the morning, and sliding the drawer open to pull out a thick and scrappy diary. you’ve been writing in this since they first sent you off, since you were nine. 

"SP//DR BOT" graces the page you flip to, in bright paint-marker-blue. the picture of a poorly sketched, vaguely-humanoid mecha-suit follows, on which you scrawl with a drying pen. for the last seven months you've had someone to be. so you'd best get to it; kid-buggy.

₊˚⊹ a/n : first fic i've planned up to completion,, let's hope all goes well!! let me know if you want to be in the taglist <3

prologue tags @sirenetheblogger @kenyummy @selvyyr

[marvelseries19]

VANISHING POINT

Chapter One - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The mission was successful, however, your return home will not be as easy as you may believe. In fact, you're not sure you would be able to get back.

A/N: It's been a while since I've been excited about writing. So, here is the first chapter. I hope you like it. I rewrote a few times, but I think this is as good as it gets. I would appreciate feedback on it, and any comments, suggestions, questions, or just conversations about it are welcome. There are some posts that I would like for you to check out, there is some info and ideas that I wanted to let you know. If you saw a typo or something, no, you didn't. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries, language, etc.

Word count: 1.2k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The Quinjet hummed steadily beneath your fingertips, the vast stretch of ocean below endless and unforgiving. The ride back to the compound was at least full of beautiful views.

It had been an easy mission, just surveillance on a suspected HYDRA base. It took a week to complete, and now you were on your way home.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling. Just a few more hours, and you would be back home. Back with her.

Your fingers idly reached for the chain around your neck, your thumb grazing over the cool metal of the ring that rested against your collarbone. Natasha’s ring. Your ring.

"So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you," she had murmured the night before, fastening the delicate chain around your neck, leaving a soft kiss at the nape of your neck. You had smiled, shaking your head, but you had worn it beneath your suit every day since.

You were still lost in thought when Control’s voice crackled into the cockpit.

"Quinjet 9, this is Control. We just lost your tracking signal. Do you copy?"

Your brows furrowed. That’s not good.

"Yeah, I’m here. Everything looks fine… But let me check." Your fingers moved swiftly across the controls.

"Check your navigation relay. We’re showing nothing on our grid." A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

"Navigation relay is showing an error," you reported, your voice tight. "Stand by. I'll reboot—" The comms crackled, then cut out.

Silence.

Your stomach dropped.

"Control, say again? I'm losing you—repeat last!"

A new sound sliced through the cockpit—a shrill, piercing alarm.

Your radar flashed red. Missile lock. Your blood turned to ice.

"Shit—"

The first blast struck the Quinjet’s side. The impact threw you forward, your head slamming against the seat as the ship lurched violently. The left engine flared and failed instantly.

Alarms screamed. The Quinjet spun into freefall.

"Unidentified hostiles—taking heavy damage! Engines failing—I’m going down!" You shouted into the comms, straining to regain control.

"09, respond! What’s your location?! Agent Sloane, respond!"

You gritted your teeth, forcing your shaky hands over the controls, trying to reroute power. But the ship was already lost. The only thing you could do was brace for impact.

Your fingers clutched the ring against your chest.

Another explosion. The world blurred.

The ocean rushed up to meet you.

And then... Nothing.

—

The tension in the command center was thick enough to suffocate. Maria Hill stood with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the central monitor where Quinjet 9’s tracking data had once been.

Now, just static. Nick Fury stood beside her, his jaw tight, watching the same feed with unreadable eyes. Agent Dawson swallowed hard, headset pressed to his ear as he scanned multiple screens, waiting for anything-any sign of life.

Then—a red alert.

Dawson’s heart dropped.

"No, no, no..."

He straightened, turning toward Hill and Fury. His voice was steadier than he felt.

"We lost Quinjet 9."

Hill’s eyes narrowed. This couldn't be happening. "What do you mean 'lost'?"

Dawson hesitated. "No comms. No signal. No trace. It’s just... gone. We don't know where it is."

Silence.

Fury exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. "Shit."

A muscle in Hill’s jaw twitched, but she gave a curt nod. "Start a search. Now."

Dawson hesitated. "Are we letting Agent Romanoff know?"

Fury and Hill exchanged a look.

Hill's voice was quieter now, almost resigned. "We'll tell her soon."

But Natasha Romanoff was already walking toward them, worried about not being able to contact you.

And the moment she saw their faces, she knew something had happened.

—

The first thing you felt was pain.

It dragged you from unconsciousness, a dull, throbbing ache that rolled through your entire body in relentless waves. Your head pounded, the world tilting dangerously even though you weren’t moving. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filtered through the ringing in your ears.

You forced your eyes open.

Blurry at first. Then, sharper—too sharp. Sunlight burned against your retinas, forcing you to squeeze them shut again. You tried to shift, but the moment you did, agony tore through your right side.

Your breathing hitched.

Ribs—definitely broken. You pushed through the pain, blinking against the light, taking in your surroundings.

Sand. Golden, coarse grains clinging to your skin. Your tactical suit was torn and streaked with blood and seawater. You were half-buried in the surf, the edges of the tide touching your boots. Further up, debris from the Quinjet was scattered across the beach—twisted metal, shattered glass, pieces of what was once your cockpit.

Shit.

You bit back a groan as you tried to sit up. A sharp, white-hot burst of pain shot through your right shoulder.

Dislocated.

Gritting your teeth, you cradled your arm against your torso, barely holding back a scream. Your ribs protested with every movement, but you had to keep going.

Your left hand found your chain, fingers fumbling until they closed around the ring.

You exhaled shakily.

Natasha.

She had no idea where you were. No one did.

The Quinjet had gone down off-radar. You had no comms, no signal, no way of knowing if anyone was even looking for you yet.

You’re on your own.

For now, at least.

Your forehead throbbed, and when you reached up, your fingers came back slick with blood.

You checked yourself over as best you could. Right shoulder, dislocated; ribs, at least two broken; head, bleeding, probably a mild concussion; and finally your legs, sore but not broken. Good. Small victories.

Breathing through the pain, you forced yourself to move. You needed shelter. Water. Some kind of plan.

But first—the shoulder.

You swallowed hard. There's no way around it. It had to go back in.

You found a rock near the treeline, rough and sturdy enough for leverage. Your breathing was ragged as you planted your feet, braced your body, and slammed your shoulder back into place.

White-hot pain was felt behind your eyes, swiftly dragging you into darkness. Resetting your shoulder—or other joints—was nothing new, but never under circumstances like these or with this many injuries.

The agony was too much for your body to handle. So to protect you, it shut off.

—

A few months ago

"You’re fidgeting."

Natasha’s voice was amused, but there was something softer in her tone, something fond.

You rolled your eyes, stuffing your hands in your pockets. "I don’t fidget."

She smirked, stepping closer, the city lights casting a glow on her freckled cheekbones. "You do when you're nervous."

You sighed, exhaling a shaky breath. It was a stupid thing to be nervous about. You’d faced assassins, HYDRA, and alien invasions, but somehow, this moment felt more terrifying.

You pulled the ring from your pocket. A simple band, strong, unyielding.

Much like her.

Natasha’s breath caught.

"I know we never really talked about it," you said, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "And I know we’re both terrible at normal, but—"

She cut you off with a kiss, her fingers curling around yours, closing them over the ring.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper.

"I was waiting for you to ask."

—

You were jerked back to reality by the sharp, relentless pain in your ribs and shoulder, the ache grounding you in the present. But the memory of your marriage proposal still lingered, a warmth that cut through the agony like a lifeline.

You flexed your fingers. It worked.

Barely conscious, body trembling, you let your fingertips brush against the ring resting against your chest. A reminder. A promise.

And with that, you forced yourself to your feet.