#worst slump ever god help me

[blairamok]

added 500 words to ch2 please clap 😪 i’m less than 200 away from my minimum. idk why doing ANYTHING AT ALL lately has been so hard. art. writing. whatever. ready for whatever this is to be over with

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -  dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

[sky-scribbles]

There are a lot of things to love about the SSV Normandy. It’s a symbol of cooperation between two species historically at odds. It’s a miracle of engineering, a technological masterpiece that could alter every pattern of space warfare. Its crew is the highest calibre that the Alliance has to offer, bolstered by multispecies allies: an emblem of flying hope.

It also has far, far too many flashing lights. Everywhere.

One hand pressed to the wall to keep himself steady, the other pressed against his forehead as if that’s going to do any good, Kaidan shuffles down the hall toward the med bay. Every light panel and display interface feels like a laser drill boring directly through his eyes, sounds reverberate against the inside of his skull, and his sense of balance is a distant, pleasant memory. Kaidan sucks in a tight breath between his teeth. It’s going to be okay. He can do this. He’s done it before.

He drags himself the last few feet, and the med bay doors slide open. Kaidan opens up his omni-tool – god, why are those so bright, too? – and does what he’s done a hundred times, scanning the medical interface so that the med system logs him. Doctor Chakwas isn’t here, which means she’s on her rest shift, but that’s fine. The med system will alert her if there’s a problem.  

Kaidan, turns, so ready to collapse into the nearest med bed – except he can’t. Because there’s someone already in it.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hey, Tali.’

‘Hey, Lieutenant.’ She still seems shy about using his first name. Maybe it’s a habit from being raised on board ships, or maybe she’s just not sure if she’s allowed. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be once the pain meds kick in.’ Kaidan makes it to the next bed along and finally, finally lies down and shuts his eyes. ‘Doctor Chakwas is just… pretty strict about me coming here whenever a migraine kicks in. Just in case it’s a sign of something going wrong with my implant.’

Through the fog of everything hurts, it finally surfaces in his brain that Tali in the med bay is… that’s bad, right? ‘What about you? Are you, you know –?’

Okay, he’s not sure how to finish that sentence. There’s probably not a polite way to say hey, are you here because you’ve picked up a fatal illness?

He cracks one eye open, just enough to see her looking glumly at him. He’s not sure how he can tell that she’s glum when all he can see is her eyes, but yeah. She’s glum. ‘You know how I took a hit on Feros?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how I disinfected it, and used my patch kit on the suit breach, and told Shepard I was fine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I was not fine.’ She slumps down miserably. ‘My throat is full of painful slime, my sinuses are on fire, and my halesh –’ Okay, that’s obviously some piece of quarian anatomy – ‘is more gummed up than I can describe.’

Kaidan shuts his eyes again. ‘Well, my skull feels like it’s slowly contracting and crushing my brain, so… I sort of feel you.’

She laughs weakly. ‘I should have run an extra med scan once I got back to the Normandy. I just – I wanted to help with the engine maintenance today. And there’s this combat drone design I’m working on. And now…’ There’s a sound of movement; Kaidan gets the impression that she’s gesturing at the med bay in angry helplessness.

‘I feel that too.’ And he does. He really does. This isn’t the worst migraine he’s ever had – he can actually hold a conversation, which some days would be beyond him. But it’s… it’s not great. And he had things to do. Ash was running a drill and wanted him to look over her plans. He had a cleaning shift at fourteen hours. Shepard wanted to talk strategy for Noveria.  And yes, he knows he has a right to take time off for a medical issue. He knows he’s no use to Ash or Shepard or anyone when he can’t even walk in a straight line. But knowing that doesn’t quite get rid of the squirm in his belly, the one that feels like letting people down.

Tali’s quiet for a minute, aside from the ever-present, barely-audible hum of her suit systems, and the occasional sniff from behind her helmet. Then she says, unexpectedly, ‘I’m just… I’m so tired. You know what I mean?’

Kaidan’s head throbs. He swallows. ‘Oh, yeah.’

The constant vigilance. Always having to be careful about where he goes – is this room too bright? Is this one too loud? – in case something triggers another bad spell. Taking hits to the head in a fight that anyone else could just shrug off, but that for him mean another trip to the med bay to make sure his implant isn’t damaged. Trying to do his job and suddenly finding, no, he can’t, because his body has decided that today’s the day he just doesn’t get to function.

Tali… she must go through the same awful deal, just in a different flavour. Always being careful, so careful. Someone else’s minor injury being her okay, let’s get a med check to make sure I won’t die. It’s not the same, of course: Kaidan can eat food without filtering it, touch people without protective layers, see people’s faces without a tinted mask. Still… there’s a tone in her voice that he knows from his own.

There’s a heavy silence. Then Tali says, ‘You know what’s really stupid? I left my datapad in my cabin, so I can’t even watch vids.’

Kaidan smiles. He’s seen her down in Engineering, a few times, hands flying around over the machinery, rocking back and forth on her heels. Idleness obviously doesn’t suit her. ‘You can borrow mine, if you like.’

‘Really?’ Her voice is already brighter. ‘I mean – won’t the noise will make you feel worse?’

‘Nah, I’ll be good.’ He’s not just saying it; there’s a blissful numbness creeping through his head which means that his meds are finally getting to work. He fishes the datapad from his pocket, taps in his passcode, and hands it over. ‘What kind of vids do you like?’

Her whole being perks up – tone, body, everything. ‘Oh, all of them.Any genre, any species. I mean… asari vids can be a bit long. I mean, they’re made by people who can spend a decade making a vid and a whole day watching it. Turians… their vids can be a bit depressing. There’s a lot of ‘this war ended with almost everyone dead, but one turian is still standing, so it’s a victory!”

‘What about quarians? What kinds of stories do your people tell?’

A small laugh echoes inside the helmet. ‘Quarian vids are pretty limited by environment. We don’t have a lot of varied sets to work with. So we tell the best long-running dramas. There’s one ship in the Flotilla that’s been hosting the same series for over eighty standard years now. Following the crew as they change over time, that sort of thing.’ She taps the base of her helmet. ‘It’s pretty good, but… I think if you watched it, you’d think there were a lot more explosions, murders and shipwide romantic entanglements in the Flotilla than there actually are.’

‘Human dramas are like that too.’

Tali laughs. ‘Quarian dramas make human dramas look relaxed.’

Kaidan finds he’s actually able to grin. ‘So what do human vids tell you about us?’

Her helmet tilts as she considers. ‘That you’re very individualistic. I mean, not every human culture. But you put a lot of focus onto characters and personal journeys.’ She scrolls down the datapad screen – looking through vid lists, presumably – then stops. It’s hard to tell, but Kaidan thinks she might be frowning. ‘I did notice… in a lot of human media, the biotics are…’

Another insistent pulse of pain through his temples. Kaidan sighs. ‘Crazy extremists?’

‘Yes. Do you… do you mind if I ask why that is?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Kaidan turns onto his back and stares up at the dim ceiling. ‘A lot of the early generation of biotics, the ones who got the same implants as me… let’s just say I got off lightly. Most ended up with much more serious medical conditions. And when people found out about the side effects of the L2 implants, the media got the bit between its teeth and –’ Yeah, no, that wasn’t going to translate. ‘Sorry. Human saying. They got a certain impression, and they ran with it.’

Tali’s quiet for several seconds. Kaidan twists his head to face her, and sees the pale eyes behind the mask giving him a long, steady look.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. And then, after a moment, ‘They tell lies about us, too.’

Kaidan holds her gaze, and feels terribly, achingly sad. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I bet they do.’

 The way people look at Tali as she walks through the Presidium… it’s familiar. Not quite the same. There’s a note of scorn in the looks they give to Tali – but there’s suspicion, too, and that’s something he knows. All the times back on Earth, after he got back from Jump Zero, when he shook someone’s hand or opened a door, and their eyes found the implants. They way they stared at him like he was a loaded gun. All the documents he had to fill out to do anything, the knowledge that any government he lived under would always be hovering a few steps away, keeping tabs, making sure.

Remembering Rahna – remembering that obvious, instinctive fear in her eyes – is an old memory now, the kind that’s a faded scar. But he remembers the shock of it, back when he was seventeen. When no one had looked at him like that before, and it was dizzying and new and felt like a hole in his gut.

He bets Tali has that hole in her gut all the time.

Kaidan pushes himself up a little – which makes his brain spin, but he manages it – and gives Tali a smile. ‘Well. Let’s look for something that gets us both right.’

‘Definitely.’ She flicks through the options for a minute more, then pauses. ‘Have you ever seen Fleet and Flotilla?’

‘I think I’ve heard of it.’ There’s a faint memory of seeing an ad for it, maybe, and thinking it was the kind of thing he’d have loved as a kid. Space exploration. Justice. Love. ‘The… war romance, right?’

‘Yes!’ Tali’s legs bounce. ‘It’s – keelah, it’s so good, it’s – it’s about this girl, Shalei, who’s on her pilgrimage. And she’s interested in the geth, because she’s got this dream of finding a way to defeat them and take back the Homeworld, right? And when she finds something, she goes to the Citadel for help, but no one will listen except this one turian called Bellicus –’

‘Hold up. Wasn’t that… exactly what you were doing when we met you? Minus the turian, I mean.’

Tali ducks her head, suddenly shy. ‘I… I really, really like the vid.’

No kidding. Kaidan smiles. ‘So let’s watch it.’

His head still feels like a bombsite, and when he thinks about all the things he wants to be doing for his crew and isn’t, the rest of him hurts too. But maybe he’s still doing something for his crew, sitting in the med bay with his sick squadmate – his sick friend – and sharing her favourite vid with her. Maybe he’s doing something for him, too. He doesn’t do that too often.

Tali props the datapad up on the table between their beds, her whole body one big smile. ‘You’re going to love this,’ she promises, and presses play.

[starringthesturniolos]

bite me(part 6)-Matt Sturniolo

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

summary: matt hates your guts but all of that changes when he wakes up and finds out your his mate.

contains: vampire!matt x reader, highschool au! (18 years old), dark themes, death, smut (not in this part)

A/N- THIS CHAPTER IS KINDA SAD but y'all will be alright, trust. a lot of violence in this chapter so by all means if that is not your thing please don't read. I want everyone that reads this to ENJOY it. love yall, bye!

matts pov.

the drive back to my house was silent. even with my heightened sense of hearing, I could only hear the sound of our breathing and the quiet hum of my engine. two minutes ago, she had been crying and I saw into the darkness that was her life. key word, was. between the protection spell and me, no one is ever going to hurt her again. a dark thought pops into my head, and ,unlike any other time, I welcome it with open arms.

"do you want him dead?" I mutter, letting the thought free. I said It quietly, but it sounded like I might as well have screamed compared to the quiet of my car. it made my skin crawl and judging by the look on her face, it made her's crawl too. "what is that supposed to mean??" she whips her head to me with fear in her eyes. merciful. I added that to a list of chracteristics that y/n had that I subconsciously accumulated in my own head. even though he hurt her in the worst ways, she'd never want anyone to lay a finger on him.

"he's my dad, matt!" she panics taking my lack of response as a promise that I would go back to her house and finish him off. I put one arm up in defense. "I was just asking. you panic too much, someone should go check your blood pressure.Jesus." I scoff, playing it off as if I wouldn't have gotten rid of him the moment she told she wanted me too.

she slumped back in her seat, clearly relieved. its right then that I notice the dark circles under her eyes. she's tired, and humans need rest. "go to sleep, you look like shit." I quip. if she were in her right mind, she probably would have said something back. instead she brings her knees into her chest and puts her head on the window. her eyes close and in a few minutes her breathing and heart rate slow. she's asleep and my eyes stay on the rough, pot - hole infested road. all the way home, I dodge the holes so she sleeps fine.

unreasonable fear hits my chest at my own actions. when did you start to care so much? is the question I ask myself as I gently lift her sleeping form into my arms to bring her into the house.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

y/n is in the other room, and I wake up to my phone buzzing incessantly. I pick up my phone to see that nick is calling me. "he disappears off the face of the earth for two days and all of a sudden he wants to chit chat at the crack of dawn", I think to myself before smashing the accept call button in annoyance. "what?" my gruff voice answers in a more than grumpy tone.

"I need you to come to meet me, now! I'll send you my location. do not bring anyone with you, and do not to take your sweet ass time either matt." he says seriously. I can hear in his voice he is fighting to keep himself from sounding panicked. sensing the danger he's in, worry surges through me, and I can't help but wonder what he's gotten himself into. "don't worry nick, im coming." I say back just as seriously before hanging up the phone and rushing out the house.

I drive over as fast as I can to the unknown spot. it's just a clearing of trees and grass where two cars are parked side by side. ones nicks' and the other is someone's I don't recognize. I hop out of the car quick on high alert. nick where are you??

"you think you can just take my daughter and get away with it. I'm sorry son, but you're in for a real treat." says a terrifying voice that-unless god forbid I took another girl to my house tonight- could only be y/n's fathers’. I turn slowly to see him, a tall, burly man. he's holding nick close too him, a knife pressed lightly against the sensitive skin of his neck. regulary, I would look at this and shrug, vampires aren't supposed to be able to die. but nick's neck is bleeding from where the knife lightly grazes him. vampires can make other people bleed, but they themselves can't bleed, at least that's how it's supposed to be. even though the wound wasn't deep enough to be lethal, the wound itself was the problem to begin with. All thoughts aside, I lunge forward to grab nick away from the man but he dodges with unnatural speed. he smells human, but he's quick, too quick, which can only mean one thing.

y/n's dad is a fucking lunatic magic user, and, based on the position he's got me and nick in right now , he's a damn strong one too.

he throws nick to the side right then, and nick flops to the floor gasping for breath and clutching his bleeding throat. I freeze in fear for what's happened to nick. for what is going to happen to me. he waves the same knife he had pressed against nick at me in tauntingly cold, cut motions.

"matt, run" nick says weakly. my feet listen to nick's instructions, and I turn to bolt, only to find the powerful magic user right in front of me in an instant. before I can react, he plunges the knife into my stomach in three quick motions. unbearable pain laces through me and I feel something coming that I never thought I'd ever have to experience. that something is death.

"should of asked for a protection spell yourself." he lets out a cold, hard laugh as I drop to the floor slipping into an abyss of darkness.

@bbernard-03

@sturnthepot

@hoeformatt

@sturtriple16

@faygo-frog

@sturniol0s

@katie-tibo

@cindylcuwho

@I34n

@chrissv4amp

@sturnslimited 

[ferigrieving]

i'd eat my whole hand for you to write something about the reader kissing dabi's scars

dreamless in early graves.

⊹ ࣪ i kissed the scars on her skin / i still think you're beautiful / and i dont ever wanna loose my best friend

a.n; get to eating anon =^_^=

⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 3.8k words

the moonlight streamed through the broken blinds, casting a silvery glow over the room. you sat on the edge of the bed, gaze fixed on touya, who stood by the window staring out into the night. the room was small and cluttered, the wallpaper peeling, and the faint scent of mildew lingering in the air. despite its dilapidated state, it was your sanctuary, a place where you both could be yourselves, away from prying eyes and judgment.

you two didn't have much. a single bedroom apartment, run down to hell and back, in the worst part of town. you could barely afford groceries, much less running water or heating. doesn't help that you two were wanted criminals who were ordered to be killed on sight, but you’ll take your chances.        

touya’s skin was peeling and rotting, the deep purple burns spreading more and more every time you looked at him. his cheeks were fully covered, and you wouldn't be surprised if by tomorrow morning his eyes would be too. it stressed you out to no end, and you often spent most of your money on various different types of medicine and ointments, determined to find even one brand that would soothe your boyfriend’s burns.

you snapped out of your thoughts as touya finally turned away from the window, meeting your gaze. the shadows darkened his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and hollowing out his cheeks. his eyes fixated on you for a moment, before flicking down to your hands, which were clutching a small bottle of cream. he grimaced before rolling his eyes, a sardonic smile on his lips.

"again?"

you frowned, setting the bottle down on the worn coffee table. touya had a tendency of downplaying his pain, acting as if his burns were a minor inconvenience rather than a constant source of suffering. but you knew better. you'd seen the way he winced when the fabric of his shirt rubbed against his burns, the way his eyes squeezed shut when the pain flared up in his sleep.

"shut up. you're rotting alive, and you know it."

touya chuckled bitterly, leaning against the wall. "yeah, thanks for the reminder. i had almost forgotten, what with the constant pain and all."

he shrugged, slumping down into the armchair across from you. despite his nonchalant demeanor, you could see the lines of tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

despite his sarcastic tone, you could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw was clenched. even the smallest movements seemed to cause him pain. why didn’t he just let you help him?

you moved closer, standing in front of him. when he tried to turn away, you grabbed his chin between your fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze. his skin felt rough, the scars puckering and cracking under your touch.

"don't act like it doesn't hurt. i can see it in your eyes. you're in pain, and i want to help. please let me help you."

you rose from the bed, closing the distance between you two. touya’s eyes tracked your movement, a stoic expression on his face. but you knew him well enough to see the pain behind his eyes.

without a word, you reached out, slowly lifting his shirt to reveal the full extent of his burns, using your other arm to shoo away his attempts at a protest. they were worse than you had thought. the skin was cracked and peeling, and there were deep purple bruises around the edges. 

god, you wanted to vomit.

“touya!”

you snapped, your voice ringing out through the room. touya flinched, his eyes wide as he stared at you, taken aback by your sudden outburst. you rarely raised your voice at him, but the sight of his burns had finally pushed you over the edge.

"for once in your fucking life, let me take care of you!" you gritted out, frustration and worry boiling up within you.

you wanted to yell, to scream, shout until your voice became hoarse. he was always so goddamn stubborn, trying to deal with his pain alone and acting like it was no big deal. but you could see the toll it was taking on him, and it was killing you seeing him suffer.

"why won't you just let me help you, touya? can't you see how much it’s killing me to watch you suffer like this? just... please. stop being such a goddamn idiot and let me take care of you."

touya's expression softened, the wall he'd built up around him crumbling for a brief moment. he could see the desperation and worry in your eyes, hear the pleading in your voice. he hated making you worry like this, but he couldn't bring himself to be vulnerable, to admit he needed help.

"i can handle it." he muttered, his voice rough. "it's not like you can fix me. you're just wasting your time.'

you knelt down in front of him, hands loosely on his knees as you began to weep. you couldn’t do this anymore. every day, he walked out that door. and every day, you think it’ll be the last time you’ll see him. your tears hit the rotting floor below you. tap. tap. tap.

touya watched you silently as you wept, his breath catching in his throat. he'd never seen you like this before, crying and so openly vulnerable. it was a rare sight, and it made his heart clench in his chest. 

he wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and reassure you that he’d be okay. but the words stuck in his throat, the wall he’d built so high around him preventing him from expressing his feelings. he just stood there, watching you cry, feeling both guilty and helpless.

as you knelt before him, tears streaming down your face, touya’s heart ached. he had always been a master at hiding his pain, burying his emotions beneath a mask of sarcasm and indifference. he didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want to add to your already heavy burden.

but watching you kneel at his feet, tears dripping onto the old, worn-out floor, he found his resolve cracking. the urge to reach out to you was nearly overpowering. but he knew he couldn’t. 

he couldn’t afford to let his guard drop. not now, and not ever.

touya took a deep breath, trying to maintain his stoic expression, despite the turmoil warring within him. he wanted to soothe you, to tell you that he’d be fine. but the words stuck in his throat, his usual smartass remarks seeming hollow and useless now.

he swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice low as he spoke. "hey, stop– stop cryin’. you’re gettin' the floor wet.”

you continued to sob, your tears staining the floor below you. touya’s heart ached with each tear that dropped, but he forced himself to maintain a stoic expression. he couldn’t let you see how much it was affecting him, how much your pain was hurting him as well.

he could feel the pressure building up inside him, his emotions threatening to overflow. he had to say something, had to find some way to comfort you. but what could he say? nothing he said would fix this.

touya reached out, grasping your chin and guiding him to look at you. he gently wiped away your tears with his thumb, touch surprisingly gentle, his thumb ghosting over your skin like a whisper.

“hey,” his voice was soft, a stark contrast to his usual sardonic tone. “stop crying, okay? you’re making me feel like shit here doll.”

you choked out a laugh at that, the sound broken and raspy. here you were, bawling your eyes out for him, and the only thing he could tell you was how it made him feel like shit?

touya’s lips quirked up in a small, sad smile at the sound of your laugh. he knew he was being selfish, focusing on himself instead of comforting you. but this was the best he could do.

he crouched down, bringing himself eye-level with you. his eyes softened as he looked at you, seeing the exhaustion and worry etched on your face. he couldn’t lie to you, couldn’t tell you everything would be okay. so he settled for a partial truth.

“look, i know i’m being an ass, okay?” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “i just... i can’t bring myself to make you any promises i can’t keep. i can’t tell you i’ll be okay when i don’t even know myself.”

touya shifted, sitting down on the floor next to you, his back pressed against the wall. he let out a ragged sigh, running his fingers through his messy hair. he looked tired, the weight of everything weighing down on him.

“i... i don’t know what to say, alright? i don’t know how to fix this, or how to make it better. all i know is that seeing you like this kills me.”

you had stopped crying for the most part, hiccuping pathetically between his legs as you tried not to empty the contents of your stomach. as your sobs subsided, touya felt a pang of guilt in his chest. your tear-streaked face was a sight he never wanted to see again. he wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and hold you tight, but he kept his hands clenched at his sides.

he bit his lip, his throat tightening as he looked down at you. seeing you like this was torture for him, his usual indifference crumbling away.

“let– just let me put this on you, touya.”

touya’s breath caught in his throat at your words. he knew you were referring to the antibiotic, which was sitting, forgotten, on the table beside him. he could hear the pleading in your voice, the desperation. he knew he was being difficult, that you were just trying to help him. but his pride, his stubbornness, wouldn’t let him give in so easily. 

he gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles working as he looked down at you. he wanted to say no, to brush you off and continue suffering in silence.

but your eyes... your pleading gaze, your tear-streaked face, all of it wore down his defenses, chipping away at his pride and stubbornness. his heart ached as he looked at you, knowing that you were just trying to help him.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “fine,” he muttered, his voice rough. “go ahead.”

you hesitated for a moment, surprised that he had actually acquiesced. normally, touya would fight you tooth and nail, insisting that he didn’t need your help, that he could handle the pain on his own. but this time, he had relented, his eyes averted and his jaw clenched.

you reached out, gently lifting his shirt and exposing his burns to the air. but in a moment of weakness, you leaned forward, and pressed your lips to the burns.

touya stiffened at the sensation, his breath catching in his throat. he had expected you to apply the antiseptic, not press your lips to his burns. his body tensed, an unfamiliar shiver running down his spine. no one had touched him like this before, so gently, so tenderly.

he wanted to pull away, to push you away and maintain his distance. but he was frozen, his mind and body paralyzed by the sensation.

pressing another gentle kiss to his burns, your lips moved slowly, almost reverently, over the burnt flesh. you could feel his breath hitch, the tension in his body, and you knew that this was a rare moment of vulnerability for him.

“please,” you whisper, lips against his skin, soft and pleading. “let me help you, my love.”

he knew he didn't deserve your affection, knew that he'd done nothing to earn your love. but in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to push you away. he was powerless against your tenderness, against the gentle kisses you were peppering across his burns.

you knew that touya was stubborn and proud, that he hated showing weakness or asking for help. but in this moment, he wasn’t putting up a fight. he was letting you in, letting you see him in this raw, vulnerable state.

you pulled away after a moment, your lips leaving his skin with a soft, damp sound. touya’s heart was pounding in his chest, the unfamiliar feeling of your touch still lingering on his burns. he could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, his pride taking a backseat to the unfamiliar sensation.

he didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the floor as he cleared his throat. “what... what was that for?” he rasped, his voice strained.

you sat back on your heels, watching touya as he tried to regain his composure. his cheeks were flushed, his eyes avoiding your gaze. you knew that he was struggling with the vulnerability of the moment, trying to put up his usual tough facade.

a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you answered his question.

"do i need a reason to kiss you?"

“i– i guess not.”

you chuckled softly, the sound gentle and affectionate. you knew that touya wasn't used to being on the receiving end of affection. he was so guarded, so used to being tough and distant. but you saw past that, saw the sensitive, vulnerable side of him that he tried so hard to hide.

you reached out, gently threading your fingers through his messy hair. you knew he liked having his hair touched, his soft spot.

“now let me take care of you, my love.”

touya's breath hitched at the pet name. my love. he still wasn't used to it, to the way your voice sounded when you called him that. it made his chest tighten and his cheeks flush.

he swallowed hard, his throat still dry. he wanted to protest, to tell you he didn't need your help, that he could take care of himself. but he knew it would be pointless. you were determined to take care of him, and there was no stopping you once you set your mind on something.

so he let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. he leaned back against the wall, his body relaxing as he gave in to your insistence.

"fine," he grumbled, his voice still rough. "go ahead, do whatever the hell you want."

you smiled at his acquiescence, knowing that it was a rare victory. touya was stubborn and prideful, but you knew that deep down, he needed your help.

you reached out, grabbing the ointment bottle from the table beside you. you uncapped it, the sharp smell of medicine filling the room. you knew it would hurt him, but you also knew that it was necessary to keep his burns clean and prevent infection.

you dipped your fingers into the ointment, the cool, slick substance coating your skin. you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you were about to do. you knew it would hurt him, knew that his burns were most likely sensitive and painful.

without a word, you gently pressed your fingers to his cheeks, smearing the ointment across the burnt flesh.

touya hissed in pain as you applied the ointment to the burns on his face. your touch was gentle but the ointment still stung against his sensitive skin. he clenched his jaw, trying to bite back a cry of pain.

he closed his eyes, his face tightening as you continued to work. the sensation of your fingers against his skin was both soothing and painful at the same time. he hated feeling weak, hated being vulnerable like this. but he knew that he couldn't push you away, not now.

working slowly and methodically, you made sure to cover every inch of his burnt face with the ointment. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his jaw was clenched tightly. but you knew that this was necessary, that he needed your help.

you kept your voice soft and soothing, trying to distract him from the pain as you spoke. "it'll be over soon, my love. just bear with it for a little longer."

you continued down his body in sections, his chest, his arms, his legs, pressing kisses to the unburnt skin around it as you moved. touya's breath caught in his throat as you continued to apply the ointment, your fingers tracing down his neck and onto his chest. each touch sent a shiver through him, his body tense and on edge.

but your kisses, your lips on his unburnt skin, was a revelation. it was a stark contrast to the stinging pain from the ointment, a soothing and intimate gesture. he swallowed hard, his heartbeat quickening as your lips pressed against his skin again and again.

you continued to work your way down his body, pressing kisses to the unburnt patches of skin as you went. touya's breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling slightly under your touch.

he tried to keep his reactions under control, tried to hide his vulnerability. but as you continued to tend to him, he found himself unable to maintain his usual cold demeanor.

he was vulnerable, exposed, and he both loved and hated it at the same time.

you finally finished applying the ointment, the last of it spread across his calves. touya was left panting, his body slick with sweat and the ointment.

he swallowed hard, his throat dry. he felt raw, vulnerable, like he'd been laid bare before you. he was used to being the strong one, the one who took care of others. but here he was, being taken care of, being seen in a state of vulnerability.

he hated it. and yet, he didn't want you to stop.

you leaned back, satisfied that you had taken care of him. you looked him over, taking in his ragged appearance. he was a mess, his hair sticking up in all directions, his body covered in a sheen of sweat.

but your heart swelled at the sight of him. he was always so strong and stoic, never letting anyone see his weaknesses. but here he was, letting you see him in his most vulnerable state.

you reached out, gently cupping his face in your hands. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the sweat beading on his forehead. the ointment has mostly dried, leaving an oily residue behind.

"you did so well, my love," you whispered, your voice soft and soothing. "i know it was hard, but you did so well for me."

touya's breath caught in his throat as you touched his face, your hands cool against his sweat-slicked skin. your words of praise sent a wave of emotions through him, a mixture of pride and humiliation.

he wasn't used to being praised, wasn't used to being taken care of. he was always the one taking care of others, the one who was self-sufficient and unemotional. but here he was, being told that he had done well, that he had been good for you.

he swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. he wanted to deny it, to push you away and insist that he was fine, that he didn't need your praise or your care.

but he couldn't bring himself to do it. deep down, he craved your attention, your affection. he craved being taken care of, even though he hated himself for it.

“touya, let’s head to bed.” you mumbled, peeling yourself off the rotten flooring. “‘m tired.”

touya nodded, his body weary and spent. he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. he allowed you to help him up, leaning heavily on you as you guided him to the bedroom.

you could feel his body tremble against yours, the muscles in his back and shoulders tense. he was trying to maintain his tough exterior, but it was slipping away more and more with each step.

you helped him collapse onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress with a weary sigh. he was a mess, his hair sticking up and his body slick with sweat and the ointment.

climbing in beside him, you pulled the covers over both of you. touya shifted, rolling onto his side to face you. his eyes were half-closed, his expression weary.

he reached out, his hand finding yours under the covers. his fingers laced with yours, his grip tight and desperate. he didn't want to let go, didn't want to be alone.

he closed his eyes, his breathing ragged and uneven. despite his exhaustion, he couldn't seem to relax. his mind was still racing, his thoughts still swirling with emotions.

you could feel it, the way his hand trembled in yours, brows furrowing subconsciously. he was like a live wire, one that would spark and explode at any moment now.

“g’night, baby.”

touya's breath hitched as you kissed his forehead, the gentle gesture sending a shiver through him. he felt vulnerable and exposed, his defenses weakened after the intensity of the moment.

he shifted closer to you, his body seeking your warmth and comfort. he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale.

"night," he mumbled, his voice rough around the edges.

you laid there beside him, listening to his ragged breathing as he slowly started to relax. his grip on your hand loosened, his body growing heavier as he surrendered to his exhaustion.

it took a few moments, but eventually his breathing evened out, his body relaxing into sleep. you could feel the tension leaving his muscles, his expression softening as he succumbed to fatigue.

you looked at him, your heart swelling with affection at the sight of him asleep. he looked so peaceful, so young and vulnerable. it was a stark contrast to his usual sharp and stoic demeanor.

you reached out, gently running your fingers through his hair. it was tangled and matted, sweaty and disheveled. but it was still soft to the touch, each strand slipping through your fingers like silk.

you continued to stroke his hair, your touch gentle and soothing. you knew that he would probably be embarrassed when he woke up, ashamed at how vulnerable and dependent he had been in that moment.

but right now, he was asleep, his guard down and his defenses lowered. he was just a boy, a boy in pain who needed someone to take care of him.

and whether he liked it or not, that person would be you. until the day that you died.

[nofingjustaninchident]

omg Leah tysm for doing this event ily. Hear me out, Jason proposing to gf!reader, when she's not really having a good day, and feels down (maybe the reason could be that her friends left her out on plans or something but it could be anything, really). But Jason just ironically makes it her best day ever with his secret sweetly planned proposal ahhh 🥹🩷

ᯓ★ id marry you with paper rings

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

pairing jason grace x daughter of poseidon!reader

summary worst. day. ever. or maybe not.

warnings nah, just fluff

authors note this one was so cute to write omggg

now listening to paper rings by taylor swift

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The day had been rough. Y/n was sitting on the couch, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her. Her friends had, once again, gone out without her, leaving her feeling lonely and left out. Just to match, her whole week at work had been extremely bad, and now she felt like a good old piece of shit.  

The gloom settled over her like a heavy blanket, and no amount of distraction seemed to lift it. Her boyfriend, Jason, was also not home, as he had to spend most of his days at one of the camps – sometimes even both of them.  

To lift her mood a little bit, she heard the key turning on the front door, immediately bringing a smile to her lips. Jason walked into the room, smiling down at your slumped form on the couch. He was beaming with an enormous bouquet of her favorite flowers in hand.  

Unfortunately or not, he could read her like a book, and the sadness in her eyes was impossible to miss. His smile disappeared almost as fast as it came and he went straight to her, enveloping her in his embrace.  

Ever since the war ended, he’d been so afraid to lose another friend because he wasn’t strong or powerful enough to protect them, that he’d been training a whole lot harder, which made his hugs so so more comfortable. 

She shrugged, leaning into his embrace. “Just… feeling down. My friends went out without me again. I don’t know, it just sucks.” 

Jason’s heart ached seeing her like this. He hated knowing she was hurt, but he also knew he had the perfect way to turn her day around. He had been planning this for weeks, waiting for the right moment. Maybe today, despite its rough start, could end on the best note possible. 

“Hey, how about we go for a walk?” he suggested, his tone light. “Fresh air might help.” 

Y/n looked at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Okay, that sounds nice.” 

They both put on their jackets and headed out, Jason holding her hand firmly in his. Maybe she was a little paranoid, sure, but his hand was a little sweaty, and she could swear that he seemed a little nervous; he kept looking around as they walked, biting down on his bottom lip and often squeezing her hand. She decided to ignore 

They ended up on the beach. He put a blanket on the sand and they sat there, holding hands as they stared out at the beautiful sea. For a moment, they chatted about their days, a few jokes and stolen kisses were shared.  

Until Jason suddenly stiffened as he stared right into y/n’s eyes. “Hey, babe, I, uh... I gotta tell you something.” He said. 

Y/n raised one eyebrow at him, suddenly afraid. She hoped that it wasn’t anything bad, but she couldn't help but think about her current luck. Her friends leaving her, her favorite coworker getting fired... Jason wouldn’t leave her, too. Right? “What is it?”  

He got up, pulling her with him. She tilted her head to the side. She had absolutely no idea what to expect with that.  

Until he smiled and reached out to his pocked. She followed his hands’ movements, until he pulled a small, velvet box from his jeans. Her breath hitched, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she saw the scene she wanted to see for god knows how long: Jason Grace, the praetor of the Twelfth Legion, getting down on one knee.  

He looked up at her with all the love in the world as he spoke, a speech that was as engraved in his mind as the words of the Prophecy of The Seven.  

“Y/n, my love. You've been making me the happiest man on earth ever since I woke up in that bus holding your hand. Every moment we’ve spent together has been the best of my life. From the laughter we share to the challenges we’ve faced, you’ve been my rock, my joy, and my reason to smile every day. You’ve shown me what love truly means - how it’s not just about the good times but also about sticking together through the tough ones. Your strength, kindness, and endless patience never cease to amaze me. You’ve made me a better person, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”  

As his words started to sink in, her heart swelled with love and affection. The tears were already falling down her cheeks, and she couldn’t wait to say the words that’d change her life.  

“Y/n, you’re the light of my day and the breeze of my nights. I can’t wait to build a family with you. Would you give me the honor of accepting me as your husband?” He finally asked, smiling as never before.  

“Gods, yes!” She said, throwing herself on his arms. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! I love you so much, love you, love you so much.” She muttered into his neck, bawling her eyes out as he hugged her.  

She hadn’t seen the ring, with all the tears and the emotion that was making her mind spin. But she was sure that anything with him would be perfect.  

He pulled away to slip the ring on her ring finger. It was a tourmaline, her father’s gemstone. She looked at him with pure awe as she thought about all the times she told him how that was her favorite stone. Gods, she loved him more than she could imagine.  

And she couldn’t wait to spend her life with him.  

[lovings4turn]

୭ 🗝️ ✧ ˚. 🪩 rum and revelations . . . (l.s.)

— after one too many drinks at a party, logan forgets how to keep his own secrets. but drunk words are sober thoughts, right? (1k words)

+ inspired by this ask from my lovely dolly — i know this was a sugar n spice saturday ask but it just made my mind go BRRR so i had to write a full fic!

+ contains fluff, drinking and drunk behaviour, mentions of vomiting but no one is actually sick. divider from cafekitsune

“woah, sorry!”

before you can react, logan is slumped against your side, essentially placing his full body weight onto you. high-pitched laughter escapes his lips as he attempts to steady himself, placing a hand onto the wall you’re both leaning against as he regains his balance.

there’s no mistaking it. he’s drunk. absolutely shit-faced, to be more precise. 

but you can’t really blame him. all of his hard work and determination had finally paid off, and just a few hours earlier he’d earned his first points of the formula one season. what kind of friend would you be to deny him the chance to celebrate? especially when such a large party had been thrown, a friend of one of logan’s friends offering up their house to host.

“feeling okay?” you ask, an amused smile tugging at your lips as he lifts his head.

“never better,” he responds. 

even his voice suggests he’s a little worse for wear. his accent has somehow grown thicker, and his words are a little sluggish, slurred together in a blur of vowels and consonants with a meaning wrapped up somewhere in the middle. a couple of glasses of champagne paired with tequila shots and rum and cokes will do that to a person, you suppose.

any conversation dies on your tongue as logan slumps forward once more, warm forehead resting against your shoulder as he emits a low groan. if it weren’t for his shoulders shaking with laughter, you would have been concerned. 

“this is what you call ‘never better’?” you tease. 

without thinking, you lift your hand to his hair, carding your fingers through the blonde strands in a motion that you hope is soothing. logan’s response comes in the form of an incomprehensible groan, and you can’t help but laugh yourself.

“i think it’s starting to hit me,” he admits, removing his head from your shoulder. 

his eyes are a little glazed over, and though he’s smiling, there’s a far away look on his face that indicates the copious amounts of alcohol is starting to catch up with him.

“alright, let’s get you some water,” you say, the smile audible in your voice. 

you and logan are no strangers to taking care of one another. you had been best friends for the past five years or so, so you’d had your fair share of looking after the other when they got a little too carried away at a party. still, you don’t think you’ve ever seen logan this bad.

you take his hand in yours, lifting his arm until it’s draped around your shoulder in an effort to support his weight. he stumbles alongside you, mumbling inaudible comments to himself and bursting into gratuitous laughter as he trips over his own feet. 

some divine force must be on your side, as you’re able to find an empty room without trouble. god knows how you would have reacted if you’d… interrupted something between two other partygoers. 

you lead logan over to the queen sized bed, sitting him down despite his protests that he’s perfectly capable of doing it on his own. luck was certainly with you, as the room you’d selected bore an ensuite bathroom. 

“wait here,” you instruct, striding over to the bathroom and filling a glass with cold water.

as the crisp water fills the glass, you check yourself over in the mirror. when you think about it, you’re not sure why. sure, you don’t want to be walking around with smudged makeup, or your hair a mess, but it’s also just logan. he’s seen you at your very worst sober, so why should it matter how he sees you now, when his vision is likely double? 

you thrust the glass into his hand, cupped palm coming to sit under his chin as he greedily downs the liquid. a few droplets hit your hand, and you hold back a shiver at the cold temperature.

“y’okay?”

“i’m not gonna vomit, if that’s what you mean.” he jokes, and you smile back. 

it’s quiet for a moment, until logan speaks again.

“thanks, y/n. i’m sorry, you should be enjoying yourself. yet you’re here taking care of me.” 

logan exhales, throwing himself backwards until his back hits the mattress.

“don’t apologise, logan. if there’s any night for you to get shitfaced, it’s tonight,” you reason, giving him a smile. “anyways, ‘m happy to do it. long as i know you’re okay.”

“you’re too nice,” logan mumbles, his tone once again far away, as though his mind is somewhere else entirely. “y’know, this is why i like you so much. you’re always so nice to me.”

suddenly, your heart is in your throat. 

“what?” you ask, forcing out a laugh.

he’s drunk. you reason. he has no clue what he’s saying.

“i mean, y’always there for me. at every grand prix, even when i’ve fucked a race, you’re in the garage for me. you always answer my calls, and you’re just really nice. and really pretty. my god, you’re so pretty,” logan mumbles.

his eyes are closed, and it’s apparent to you that he has no idea what he’s saying.

“oscar’s tired of me talking about you, actually. though he promises it’s not your fault. it’s mine, for talking about you so much. oscar thinks you’re great.” 

you’re glad he’s out of it, because it would be impossible to hide your flushed cheeks and dropped jaw. 

“of course,” you respond, begging your tone to stay even. “we’re best friends. and i’m fucking amazing.”

logan scoffs a laugh.

“yeah, ‘best friends’. not like i’ve been in love with you since we met or anything.”

it’s clear his tone is begging to be joking, but the alcohol prohibits him from being convincing. your heart is in your throat, and you swallow it down, praying it doesn’t try to crawl back out. instinctively, your hand finds itself in logan’s hair once more and you sigh, biting back a smile.

“we’ll talk when you’re sober, yeah? i think you’ll be quite pleased with how the conversation turns out.”

logan nods at this, leaning further into your touch. when he finally responds, his voice is thick with sleep.

"mm, sounds good. love you."

your heart skips a beat as you smile.

"yeah. love you too."

🏷️ tags : @faerieroyal @starriesworlds @itscrzy

[arjwrites]

— Good to know bc im here to request another Castiel x Winchester!reader (oldest sister) hehehehe...

Remember when Castiel became a human and that reaper April used him? I was thinking about the reader in her place, where she ACTUALLY likes Cas and takes care of him. The reader really loves him and doesn't care that he's a human now with no angel powers, he's still the man/angel she loves and care (I'm still mad that Dean kicked Cass out of the bunker)

It's his first time being human, he deserves some love 😞 (And I rlly need some comfort aughhh)

I think I wrote too much, sorry! It's just that I really love human Castiel, he deserved more ❤️‍🩹 — 👼 angel anon

Lessons on Humanity- Human!Castiel x Reader

Summary: Human!Cas arrives on your doorstep in need of a helping hand. Taking him under your wing, you offer him more than he bargained for.

Warnings: None (I don't think???) GN!Reader, no use of Y/N

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Well, this took forever. Idk why this gave me the WORST case of writer's block ever, but.... I think I just wanted it to be perfect for you, angel anon!!! I hope you enjoy hehehehehe <3333

Leaving hunting behind had been a tough decision, but leaving your brothers and Castiel behind had been even harder. But after all the years, your body screamed for rest, and your heart mourned the years of loss and trauma. It wasn’t like you had completely up and abandoned them- you still took their calls, visited the bunker from time to time, and took on many a research request (which had always been your specialty anyways). But you had grown so tired of the life. And as much as moving into the bunker had been a massive improvement from the endless series of motel rooms you’d grown up with, living in a concrete man-cave with your brothers had proven difficult. And you had always craved a home- somewhere that could be uniquely yours. This had led you to settle down into a sweet cottage, a bit off the beaten path in a quaint little town- not too far from the bunker, but far enough. It was cozy, nothing fancy by any means- two small bedrooms, a slightly outdated kitchen, and a snug little living room you had furnished with thrifted couches and a secondhand TV. What it lacked in elegance, it made up for in character. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

It was a Friday night. You had just gotten off work, ordered a pizza, popped your favorite playlist in your speakers, and were currently dancing around and vacuuming your living room. Ah, domesticities. It was always a nice feeling to be done for the weekend, to have a job you could hang up for a few days and not worry about until Monday morning rolled around. Not like hunting, with its worries that clung tight to you all hours of every day. After finishing your cleaning task, you flopped to the couch, clicking through the TV to find a suitable show to binge alongside your food. 

Two crisp knocks at the door pulled you from your search. That was quick, you thought to yourself. You practically skipped to the kitchen to grab your purse, wanting to hand the delivery driver a few extra dollars for the particularly speedy service. But when you swung the door open, more than just the chilly evening air sent a wave of shock your way. 

“Oh my God,” was about all you could whisper. In front of you stood Castiel, though he didn’t look much like his usual self. He wore a sweatshirt you didn’t recognize and had a slightly unkempt, unshaven look to him. But beyond his appearance, it didn’t feel like Cas. His shoulders were slumped over as if he was carrying the weight of them for the first time. He wore an expression so tired, so hurt, that your heart broke at the sight of it. 

“Cas, honey. What happened?” 

“I don’t have my grace. I… lost it. They told me I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to bother you, but… I didn’t know where else to go.” 

“Oh, Cas. Come in, God, come in.” Your brow furrowed as you gestured for him to enter, concern filling your body. What had you missed? Why didn’t he have his grace? Why wasn’t he with Sam and Dean?

Cas gingerly stepped through your door, barely making it inside the threshold before turning to you, as if he was waiting to follow your lead.

“Come, come sit,” you beckoned him after you, leading him into the living room and patting a seat for him on the couch. He sat, glancing around your room before landing his gaze back to you. You could tell there was something different about him- it was like he was seeing everything around him for the first time. 

“So tell me what happened, Cas,” you hummed, gathering every ounce of soothing calm you could muster in hopes you could offer him some comfort.

Cas jumped into his story, telling you all about Metatron, the angels, and him losing his grace- all the things you had missed out on since stepping back from hunting. You nodded along, listening intently, compassionately, quietly- that is, until he told you about the events that lead him to your doorstep.

“He kicked you OUT?” You rose to your feet as he said this, unable to contain your anger in your seated posture. You felt the rage bubble from the deepest part of your stomach, rising quickly to your chest. Poor, sweet Castiel, who tries so hard and deserves so much. Cast out like he was nothing. It was enough to drive you into a blind rampage. Cas, on the other hand, remained seated, eyes fixed to the carpet, dejected. 

“I just don’t know what to do. I have all these… feelings I’m not used to.” 

“Of course you don’t, honey. It’s all so new. I’ll help you figure things out, alright?” You thought for a moment about what may be most urgent. “Cas, how long have you been human for?”

“Well, a few days now.”

“And have you eaten? Drank water? Slept?” 

“I had a candy bar.” 

“Oh, you poor thing, Cas. Look… Sit tight, I’m going to get you a glass of water, and I have food on the way. Do you like pizza? No, you don’t know if you like pizza, do you…” You let your voice trail off as you hustled to the kitchen, fixing him a glass of water and returning it to him hastily. 

Cas lifted the glass, inspecting it, before tipping it back and downing it in one go. You watched the water slide out of the cup, disappearing down his throat in record time. There was one basic need supported. 

“Alright, Cas, why don’t you sit there and relax for a little? I’m going to go make up the guest bedroom for you. Is that alright?” You tilted your head to the side to better gauge his thoughts on the matter. Cas returned you a soft smile and nodded. You let out a subtle puff of breath in relief before retreating up the stairs. 

As you grabbed bedding from the linen closet and began to stretch the fitted sheet over the mattress, you couldn’t help but allow your body to take over the menial routine, while your mind fluttered off elsewhere. The angry pit in your stomach persisted, a deepening disgust for the way the angel had been treated, including by your brothers, of all people. But nestled in your chest above your swirling stomach sat your heart, which swelled at the thought of Cas, here with you. In all honesty, he had always meant a lot to you. You had so much admiration, so much reverence for the angel- of course, now that he wasn’t exactly an angel, that didn’t change anything. That was never what it was about. You saw deeper than just Cas’s angelic power- you saw him. Grace or not, there was no changing that. This was still the same angel, the same man, the same being you had always known. Only now, he really needed someone to be there for him. And you intended to do that- slowly, surely, gently. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your name being called from down the stairs. Instantly, your mind snapped to the worst-case scenario- call it a lingering hunter’s instinct. You raced down the stairs, only to find Cas perched on the couch, exactly where you had left him.

“Someone knocked on the door,” he whispered wide-eyed, as if it was some sort of intruder behind the door, waiting politely to be let in so he could go about his business.

You breathed a sigh of relief, willing yourself not to get frustrated at the poor man- he had no idea. Scared, lost, confused Castiel. 

“It’s just the pizza, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” you replied, giving him a soft smile of encouragement. 

With the pizza paid for, food on your plates, and your favorite mindless comfort show on TV, you and Cas began to settle in for the night. You and Cas. It was insane to see the angel in such a domestic setting. The two of you were sat at opposite ends of the couch, nibbling pizza in silent unison. You weren’t sure what to do or say, overwhelmed by Cas’s newfound presence, heartbroken by the things he had experienced, and overall just worried for his wellbeing. But, out of fear of pushing his limits- he had already been through so much the last few days- you fell into a comfortable silence that padded the space between you. 

That silence was broken by a yawn coming from the other end of the couch. Cas’s face contorted in a decidedly un-angelic expression, before drawing inwards in confusion. A giggle inched its way towards your lips, but you suppressed it.

“You must be tired, Cas. Let’s go up to bed,” you hummed. Quickly and efficiently, you snapped off the TV, balanced your drinking glasses and plates on top of the pizza box, and slid everything into its rightful place in the kitchen. Re-emerging to the living room, you extended a hand to Cas, pulling him up to his feet before turning to lead him up the stairs. 

“This is your room, over here,” you pointed, ducking in the door to show him around. You snapped the bedside lamp on to illuminate the space. “The bathroom is just down the hall if you need to use it. And my room is just next door, if you need anything at all.” 

Cas’s eyes scanned the room before settling back on you. He threw a tight-lipped smile, murmuring his thanks. He was bashful, certainly overwhelmed by the avalanche of human emotion and sensation he was experiencing. You really didn’t want to push it, but there was one more thing you wanted to offer him. 

Crossing the room, you pulled Cas into a hug. You felt his hands hover for a moment before he rested them across the middle of your back.

“I’m sorry, Cas. You didn’t deserve any of this. But I’m here to help you, whatever you need, okay? You deserve to have someone be there for you.” It was a desperate plea for the man to recognize his self-worth, to provide him with a bit of comfort during this terrifying transition. Your words weighed heavy in the room, anticipating a response that never came. But, you could’ve sworn you felt Cas’s shoulders dip and the muscles of his back soften into the hug. 

After a minute, you pulled away, snapping back to your lighthearted self. You wished the man a good night, retreating from the room and closing the door behind you. Crossing the hall and tucking yourself into bed, it wasn’t long before you drifted to sleep.

-

You rose early the next morning. Usually, you would stroll downstairs in your bathrobe or whatever mismatched pajamas you slept in, but this morning you hopped in the shower straight away, dressing and fixing your hair. Once you made your way down to the kitchen, you got to work pulling together a breakfast you thought Cas would enjoy- pancakes, bacon, and some fruit, all while brewing a pot of coffee. You weren’t sure he’d have much of a taste for it yet, but you certainly were in need of a cup. 

As you neared the end of your preparation, you heard the guest bedroom door swing open. Cas descended the stairs into the kitchen, somehow looking slightly more disheveled than when he had arrived on your doorstep the night before.

“Good morning, sunshine!” You offered, hoping he would take it in jest.

“Hello,” he responded. His eyes were puffed with sleep, his hair stuck up in every possible direction, face dotted with yesterday’s stubble that was inching into scruffy beard territory. Looking at him was a clear reminder that you needed to help him figure out how to clean himself up today. 

“How’d you sleep, hun?” In any other conversation, this would be a simple pleasantry, but in this case, it was an earnest inquiry.

“Not well. I think I had a dream. It was terrible,” he replied. His gaze remained vacant.

“A dream?” You thought for a moment- was it the sensation of dreaming that he wasn’t used to? Or was it a nightmare? “Tell me about it, Cas.”

“Well, I don’t remember a lot of it. I just remember I was running. And when I woke up, my heart was pounding and I was sweating and I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t actually run- just in the dream.” 

“Oh, Cas, honey, you had a nightmare.” You approached him, reaching up a hand to run a thumb over his stubbled cheek. “If that ever happens again, you can always come into my room. I’m right next door.”

“How will that help?” He inquired.

“Well, sometimes it’s nice to talk about it, if you want. Or, sometimes it’s just nice to be around someone else, so you don’t feel like you’re facing it alone.”

His nod in response sent a surge of care through your body. Rather than sitting there, gushing over him, you figured you’d channel your worry into something productive- getting him fed. 

“Well, I made some breakfast. Have a seat, I’ll make you a plate.”

You pulled out a chair for him at the table, gesturing for him to sit down, before scrambling to pull together a plate piled high with a stack of pancakes, a few slices of bacon, and some strawberries and bananas you had carefully sliced. You rested the plate in front of him, giving him a minute to inspect it, before returning to grab food for yourself. 

“Well, what do you think? I figured chocolate chip pancakes would be a safe bet. Everyone likes chocolate chip pancakes.”

Castiel clumsily sliced another bite from the pancake, lifting it to his mouth. He chewed pensively, mulling over the question.

“How do I know if I like it?” 

You thought for a moment.

“Good question. Does it make you feel happy?”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“Well, Cas, I think you’ll find that one of the great joys of humanity is the opportunity to figure out what makes you happy. We don’t get a lot of say in what goes on down here, but we do get to pick our favorite foods, favorite colors, favorite people, and fill our lives with those. It’s the small pleasures that make the difference.”

He considered your words for a moment, before spearing another bite with his fork. You giggled to yourself. It was adorable to watch him navigate the things you took for granted with so much fascination and uncertainty- something as small as taking a bite of food required all of his concentration and contemplation.

As you sipped your coffee, you considered the task that lay before you. It was your job to teach Cas how to be human- something you wouldn’t necessarily call yourself an expert on. With hunting dominating your upbringing and occupation thus far, you certainly hadn’t had the normal human experience. But you took the challenge in stride, knowing that Cas had much to learn. 

-

Saturday had come and gone. You had spent the entire day teaching Cas a crash course in human life skills, covering important topics like brushing your teeth (which proved more difficult than you thought it would be), remembering to drink water (you struggled with this yourself most of the time), shopping (the two of you thrifted him a whole wardrobe), and anything else you could think of as you went about your usual routine. 

As the day wound down, you and Cas sat on your back porch. The emerging twilight buzzed, and a warm breeze filtered through the trees and wrapped itself around the two bodies curled up in the lawn chairs. You were tired, he was tired, so another comfortable silence had settled into its now familiar place between the two of you. You could faintly hear the sound of children laughing and a mother calling after them, voices muffled by the distance that separated you from these neighbors down the street. You smiled to yourself, and Cas took notice. 

“Thank you for helping me today,” he offered hesitantly, as if afraid to disturb your thoughts.

“Anytime, Cas.” You were still a bit lost in thought as you responded.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Why does being human feel so… Heavy?”

There was something about his tone of voice that snapped you out of your daze. Turning to him, you instantly recognized the worry that was weighing on him. 

“I just… I used to be a soldier. I had divine purpose. I’ve always had something to work towards, and now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Life is a complicated thing, Cas. Most people spend an entire lifetime figuring out their purpose. You may be thousands of years old, but you’ve only been doing the whole human thing for a few days. Be patient with yourself.” 

“You seem to handle it all pretty well. Leaving hunting, making a life for yourself. You have it all figured out,” he frowned.

“Want to know a secret?”

He nodded, silently, eagerly. 

“I’m not handling it well. And I don’t have it all figured out. Nobody does. That’s the whole game. That’s life. You take what you’re given and you do what you can with it. But the beauty is, you get to choose.” 

“How do I know what to choose?” 

You smiled in spite of yourself. 

“That’s the big question. No one knows what’s right for you except you.” 

Cas’s hand reached across to yours, giving it a squeeze that sent your heart aflutter. Fingers intertwined, you settled back into the evening, pensive.  

- 

Sleep that night hadn’t come easy by any means. What had started as worry had now spiraled into full-on anxiety, warding you away from slipping into sleep. Each time you closed your eyes, your mind drifted down the hall to Castiel, separated from you by nothing more than a dozen footsteps and couple pieces of drywall. It was as if you could feel his inner turmoil. And beyond that, your heart ached for the man. All you wanted to do was go to him, be with him, comfort him. But the fear that you were taking advantage of his newly human state still plagued you, so you lingered rigid and sleepless in your bed. Just as you rolled over to attempt comfort and hopefully find some sleep, there was the faintest knock at your door- so quiet, you barely registered it. 

At first, you weren’t sure if you had actually heard the sound, but when the noise was followed by slow footsteps shuffling away, you snapped up in bed.  

“Cas! Come in,” you called. After a second, the door swung open.

“I had another one. A nightmare.” Cas spoke matter of factly, and yet, very soft and reserved. He lingered in your doorway, timid, waiting for you to give your blessing on his entrance.

“Oh, come in, sweetheart. Come sit.” You patted the space beside you, the noise muffled by the thick, fluffy comforter. Cas made his way into a seated position on the bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, hesitant to pry but insistent on providing support.

“No.” His response was tense and succinct without being rude- you knew he was processing a lot of feelings, and wanted to give him grace.

“That’s okay. Would you like some time to think through it? Or would you like to be distracted?” 

“I’m not sure.”

“Take your time. I’m here.” 

There was a beat of silence. Giving him space was your top priority, as much as you wanted to leap across the bed and into his arms. 

“Maybe, distracted?”

“Sure thing. I’ll put on a movie, we can watch for a bit.” You snatched the remote from the table beside you, flipping through a few movies you thought Cas may enjoy, before settling on a lighthearted Disney movie. Your finger pressed play and adjusted the volume to a dull hum. 

You watched for a while in silence. As the movie was picking up, breaking out into a cheerful musical number, your eyes darted to Cas. Expecting to see him enamored by the animated wonderland, you were taken aback when his eyes locked with yours instantly. It was like he had been looking at you the whole time. 

“Hey, Cas.” He wouldn’t look away, and the eye contact was entrancing.

“Hi.” His voice was gruff, a mix of sleep and something else you weren’t entirely sure of, though you were starting to get an idea. 

“How are you doing?” 

“Better, now. Because I’m with you.” His words sent a wave of warmth through your body as you felt yourself inching closer to him, subconsciously. Clearly, he felt the same pull, as you both shifted to face each other directly. 

“Can I ask you about another feeling?” He was usually bashful with his questions, but this time, his voice was steady. His eyes were fixed on you with an almost palpable intensity, a kind of focus that made you fidget, suddenly so aware of yourself. 

“Of course,” you responded. He was now just inches away from your face. 

“What is this feeling I get when I’m this close to you?” His words were slow and genuine, and yet in some ways, it seemed like he already knew.

“What do you mean?” 

“It feels a lot like the nightmare. My heart beats fast and I can’t breathe. But it’s… Different. It’s good. I like it.” His eyes flickered as the words melted you.

He was so close to your face you could feel each breath tickle your nose and lips, as if pressing gentle precursors to tease you into taking the next step.

“Can I try something else you might like?” You could barely speak above a whisper.

He began to nod, lifting his head, but before he could complete the motion, all your defenses came crashing down, and you melted together- lips and limbs intertwining as one. And for the first time since becoming human, Castiel truly felt peace.

-

There’s something special about humanity. Sure, it has its ups and downs. There’s pain, fear, grief, death. Cas knew all those things already. They were what scared him most when he lost his grace. But he could have never known this, without experiencing it for himself. 

The early hours of the morning crept into the bedroom. Everything about the room was warm and soft- a kind of heaven that rivaled even the real thing. Cas watched as the rays of sun slipped through the window to kiss your skin softer, sweeter, more intimately than he ever had. Yet. 

There were many things about being human he hadn’t been prepared for. He had lost purpose, drive, direction. When he was first stripped of his grace, it had felt like his newfound heartbeat was mocking him with every pulse. But now? That heart served to pump more than just blood through his veins. His heart beat for you. His whole angelic life, he had been guided by divine word, but nothing had ever felt as holy as you, here, sleeping in his arms. You had taught him humanity, alright. And now, he finally had the chance to do something, to feel something, to experience something more beautiful than he could’ve ever imagined. He could love you.

Cas let the sounds of your breathing lull him back to sleep.

[major-mads]

Chapter 1: Welcome to Thorpe Abbotts

John "Bucky" Egan x Ruth Morgan (OFC)

Series Masterlist

A/N: Ruth has been living in my head for months now, and I'm so so so excited to share her with y'all! This series is Jess (footprintsinthesxnd) and I's brainchild. Our ideas just seamlessly fit tegether, and here we are! We actually wrote this first chapter a week before the 26th, so if anything happens to almost exactly match the show, we came up with it before we saw it on there! (we're just good like that 😎)

Collab: On a Wing and a Prayer by @footprintsinthesxnd

Word Count: 5.3k

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the C-47 as it soared over the English countryside. The patients had finally settled, and the morphine finally took effect and brought them some sense of relief. Hope slumped back into her seat with a sigh, smiling over at Ruth who looked as exhausted as she was. 

“You looked tired,” Hope smiled at her friend who just sighed.

“It’s been a long day. I can’t wait to get back to base,” Ruth pushed her short blonde hair out of her eyes, sighing again. 

“Hey Frank, how much longer have we got,” Hope called to one of the pilots.

“We’ve had to make a detour, doll. We’re heading to Thorpe Abbotts airfield and will evacuate the wounded to Thorpe St. Andrews Hospital. It’s not far now.” 

Hope felt her heart flutter, her throat drying as she slouched back against her seat. 

“Hey Hope, what’s wrong?” Ruth leaned forward, gripping Hope’s hand and squeezing it, her large blue eyes filled with worry. 

“It’s Hugh,” Hope muttered, her eyes a little teary but a smile on her lips nonetheless. “My brother is stationed at Thorpe Abbotts with the 100th Bomb Group. I haven’t seen him in so long.” 

Ruth’s concerned frown turned to a smile, “So I’m finally going to meet this Hugh I’ve heard so much about.” 

Hope laughed, patting her friend on the back gently, “You will, but don’t get any ideas.” 

The aircraft soared towards its destination, and the occasional jolting and shaking on the metal bird brought no fear to the flight nurses anymore. Once, the ratting metal coffin struck the fear of God into them but now this was a peaceful ride.

Hope watched out the window as the lush, green countryside grew closer and closer. 

“Hey, Frank! Stop hugging the hedgerows for crying out loud. Don’t let the girl down before we’ve reached the field,” Hope called, grimacing as the trees seemed to grow ever closer.

“Who’s flying this bird, Armstrong? You or me?” Frank retorted, not looking away from the cockpit.

“Well, maybe you could use some lessons in keeping the old girl airborne then. We’ll beat up the airfield at this rate.” 

Ruth laughed, watching Hope argue with the pilot once more, “You know Hope, maybe you should have gotten your wings. Then you could be flying us instead of Frank.” 

“You’ve got a good point there, Ruth. Ya hear that Frank, Ruth wants me flying instead of you.” 

Frank’s reply was a muffled curse, and both girls found themselves giggling in response. The plane tooled along for a while longer until it finally began to descend, rattling as it lost altitude and shaking its victims vigorously. The wheels touching down on the tarmac filled everyone with great relief. 

“Well that was one ropey landing, Frank. Maybe I could give ya a few lessons?” Hope asked politely, batting her eyelashes at the pilot who just huffed.

“Shove off, Hope. Now get to it, your blood wagons are waiting.” 

Hope cringed at the nickname the ambulances had been given, they were lifesaving vehicles transporting sick men, why make it sound so ominous? 

Hope hopped down from the plane, instructing the stretcher-bearers on which soldiers were in the worst condition. Between them, Hope and Ruth helped carry three wounded men to the ambulances when an obnoxiously loud voice called, “Well, I’ll be damned!” 

Hope spun round, her boots scuffing at the earth. 

“HUGH!” Her brother laughed jovially, jogging over to them. 

“Gosh, I’ve missed you, Little Bird,” Hugh threw his arms around Hope’s shoulders, nestling his head into her neck as he always did. Hope couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She was finally in her brother's arms, finally reunited with him after so long. She gripped tightly onto the back of his uniform, burying her face in his chest. He smelt of smoke and engine oil just like he did back home. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured, just loud enough for Hugh to hear as he tightened his grip on her further. She could feel Ruth hovering awkwardly behind her and she turned to greet her friend, pulling out of her brother's arms.

“Ruth, this is my brother, Hugh. Hugh, this is my friend, Ruth.” 

Ruth smiled sweetly, sticking out her hand to shake Hugh’s but instead, he pulled her into a bear hug.

“Any friend of Hope’s is a friend of mine,” he assured Ruth and she smiled, her cheeks turning a deep red at the embarrassment of the situation.

“Hugh, put her down. Look, you're making the poor girl blush,” Hope laughed, which only caused Ruth to blush harder. 

“My apologies Ruthie, where are my manners,” he bowed, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. 

“Oh, uh- nice to meet you.” Ruth stumbled over her words, quickly using the excuse that she needed her flight jacket as an excuse to return to the plane.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Hope groaned, shoving her brother playfully in the ribs. 

“I don’t know, I’ve always considered myself rather charming,” Hugh protested, puffing out his chest in pride. 

Hope nodded, spinning around to call Ruth to join them. The blonde soon was walking back toward the group, now wearing her fleece aviation jacket, and to her relief, without a rosy dusting on her cheeks. 

“I still can’t believe out of all the airfields in England, you managed to land at this one,” Hugh laughed, throwing an arm around both girls' shoulders. “You two are in for a real treat.” 

As they walked through the base, Hugh pointed out the various hard stands. 

“See, right there,” he pointed at a few heavies. “That’s “Just-a-Snappin’, Our Baby, and the M’lle Zig Zig.”

“Where do you guys get these names, Hugh?” Hope laughed, her eyes trailing over each one’s elaborate nose art, along with some very proud-looking engineers and artists who had clearly put so much love into the bombers.

Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh sighed, shaking his head. “I couldn’t tell ya. What’s your plane named?”

“Just the Angel of Death,” Hope chirped.

Hugh stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Always with the dark humor, aren’t you, Hope.”

After hearing so much about the man from Hope, Ruth felt as if she’d known Hugh for years when in reality she’d only known him for a few minutes. She knew the stories of how the siblings played in the woods of Columbia, Missouri, exploring the famous rock bridge that brought hikers and tourists into the town. She knew of his love for the St. Louis Cardinals, and how he wore his battered and dirty Dizzy Dean jersey for a week straight after they won the World Series in ‘31 and ‘34. Maybe he’d heard so much about Ruth from Hope that he felt the same way. 

‘It would make sense based on his initial reaction.’ she thought, absentmindedly reaching up and grabbing the small pendant hanging from her neck, running her fingers over its smooth edges.

Before they knew it, the trio reached their destination: his officer nissen hut. They were long semi-circular metal huts, not known for their warmth or comfortability, but they were a soft place to land at the end of the day…which is a lot more than most young men of the time could say. 

“Welcome to my humble abode, ladies,” he announced as they neared the building, holding out his arms in a ‘ta-da’ motion. “She’s not much, but she’s home.”

He began to open the door for them, but a voice in the distance stopped him.

“Charlie! No girls in the huts,” the voice called. “I told you that a few weeks ago.”

Turning toward the voice, Hope did a double take when she saw who its owner. Approaching them was a tall, tan, brunette, who wore a bomber jacket with his hair messily combed to the side. He walked with a swagger that instantly put a bad taste in Hope’s mouth.

She sighed to herself, thinking, ‘Why do all the cute ones have to be cocky?’ 

Hugh groaned, pointing at Hope. “Buck, come on, this is my-” 

The man finally reached them, and Hope stopped herself from being captivated by his blue-green eyes.

“I don’t care who she is. You know the rules,” he interrupted, turning to the girls. “Sorry girls, but I think it’s time for you to go.”

Ruth cringed and side-eyed Hope, already expecting a snarky response to his comment. 

“Well,” she paused, checking her watch for effect. “Seeing as we have patients in the infirmary, it actually isn’t time for us to go.”

It was then that he looked down at her upper arm, taking in the bright red and white medic band that adorned her uniform. Ruth could see the slightest show of remorse in his expression as his eyes rose back up to Hope’s. 

“My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t know-”

Hope didn’t let him finish, cutting him off. “Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, Buck.”

“Hope!” Ruth hissed, trying to placate her friend, but the woman ignored her.

“See, other than my brother, this is why I can’t stand airmen. They’re cocky-”

Realizing the flaw in Hope’s argument, Ruth ran a hand down her face, secondhand embarrassment filling her. Just when she was about to interject, Buck beat her to it.

“Now hold on. Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, sweetheart.”

Hope’s mind ran rampant with frustration, and she stared up at him with contempt as he smiled cheekily at her. His eyes were locked on hers as they had a stare-down, neither wanting to be the first to give in. 

“So,” Hugh cleared his throat in an attempt to break their silent battle. “Let me introduce you guys. Ladies, this is my squadron commander, Major Buck Cleven.”

Buck tilted his head slightly, not breaking eye contact with Hope. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she replied dryly.

Ruth shook her head and sighed, amazed at her fellow nurse’s childlike stubbornness.

“And Buck, this is my sister, Hope, and her friend Ruth. They’re flight nurses with the 806th MAETS.”

Ruth raised a hand and waved with a quiet, “Hello,” and Hope felt a little satisfaction when the man’s eyes widened at the word sister. 

Buck’s eys left Hope for a moment to acknowledge Ruth, who stood beside her, with a nod and a smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“You, too, Major,” she responded with a small grin. He then turned back to Hope.

“So, you’re the infamous little sister we’ve all heard about?” Buck chuckled, placing his hands on his hips.

The woman glanced over at Hugh, who wore a guilty expression. “All good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Buck chimed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know about your little escapade to Kansas City, and how–” 

Hope’s eyes widened in disbelief that her brother had divulged her most embarrassing moment. “Hugh!!” she cried, smacking his chest. “You lying piece of crap! You promised!”

“It’s not like I thought you’d ever meet anyone here, Hope!”

Composing herself, she took a deep breath and sent Buck a tight-lipped smile. “It looks like you know a lot more about me than I do about you, Major.”

“It would seem so, Nurse Armstrong.”

As Ruth amusedly listened to Gale and Hope’s banter, she felt like she was being watched. Glancing around the group, her heart skipped a beat as her eyes met another set of icy blues, ones that were new to the group. 

‘How did I miss him walking up?’ she wondered.

Their gazes locked for a few seconds that seemed to last minutes, and a shudder ran through her. Breaking from his stupor, he quickly looked away with a light pink dusting on his cheeks. Ruth felt her own blush creeping up her neck and wrapped her flight jacket closer to her body, the English chill suddenly getting to her. 

Her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own as they fought to return to the handsome stranger. It took all her willpower to keep them on Hugh, who was talking to the group.

“I can’t imagine going up without weapons on board. We’ve got 12 50-cal brownings and sometimes I feel that’s not enough.”

The battle within herself became too much, and Ruth finally gave in to her temptation. Her eyes flitted over to the man, and she silently sighed in relief when she found his gaze elsewhere. It was then that she discovered her first assumption of the man being ‘handsome’ was an understatement. He had a strong and well-defined jawline, expressive and striking blue-grey eyes, a straight nose, and a slightly curved lip, which held a pencil-thin mustache.

She liked the mustache.

He wore a crooked crusher cap and a white fleece-lined flying jacket that looked somewhat dirty, accompanied by his brown service top poking out at the jacket collar.

Ruth was mesmerized by the man, and she didn’t even know his name. A wide grin broke out on his face as he engaged in the group’s conversation, his upper lip curling up, allowing a few teeth to peek out the top, and Ruth felt her stomach lurch for the second time in a short few minutes. 

Focus, Ruth. Focus.

An elbow to her side broke her stare, and the group’s eyes were suddenly on her as Hope looked at her expectantly. 

“What?” Ruth asked, looking like a deer in headlights.

“I said that we would go insane without each other up there.”

“Oh,” she sighed with a small smile. “You would probably kill Frank if I weren’t there.”

The group broke out in laughter, and Ruth found her eyes absentmindedly moving to the mystery man. As he chuckled, his eyes wrinkled at the edges, and his full smile revealed a dazzlingly straight set of pearly whites. His loud laughter was infectious, and a few giggles escaped her mouth. 

As the group’s chuckles started to die down, Hope looked over at Ruth. She took in her friend’s shy smile and blush, then followed her gaze to the airman across the circle. Realizing what was happening, she nudged Ruth lightly, a teasing eyebrow raised.

“What?” Ruth grumbled under her breath, leaning closer to her friend’s ear as the guys carried on the group’s conversation. 

“You like him.”

The blonde’s smile fell and heat rushed up her neck. “Who?”

Hope tilted her head incredulously, rolling her eyes. “You know who.”

“No, I don’t,” she defended, 

“He’s staring,” Hope grinned, nodding his direction subtly. 

Ruth’s eyes rose to his, and sure enough, his striking eyes were gazing into hers yet again. This time, however, he didn’t look away. The corner of his lips quirked up into a barely noticeable grin, and she felt as if she was shrinking under the intensity of his gaze.

“Uh, I need to go check on the patients,” she sputtered, pointing her fingers in the direction of the infirmary. With a curt nod to Hope, she quickly turned and started toward the infirmary, her blonde curls bouncing with each step. A few seconds later, she spun to face the group and called, “But it was…uh…nice to meet y’all.”

Hugh didn’t miss a beat and hollered back his reply. “You, too, Ruthie!” He then paused until she was out of earshot. “She alright?” 

“She’s fine,” Hope sighed, used to her friend’s more timid personality. She had hoped that over time, her extroversion would rub off on the nurse, but so far, she had no such luck. Ruth was more of a one-on-one person, not one for groups of people unless she knew them pretty well. It seemed the smaller the group got, the more Ruth seemed to come alive. It was like pulling teeth to get Ruth to agree to go out with the other girls of the unit, but when she finally stepped out of her comfort zone, she usually had a good time filled with friends, fellas, and amazing big band music.

Ruth’s admirer joined the conversation, and Hope smirked, watching his eyes follow her friend. “How far away is your base?” 

“We’re in Berkshire, so by car, it’s about three hours, but by plane, probably 45 minutes.”

“So not far,” he chimed, raising his eyebrows and nodding to himself. Before anyone else could comment, he spoke again. 

“See you boys later,” he said absentmindedly as he watched Ruth’s figure go around a corner. Clapping Buck’s shoulder, he set off and followed the nurse’s path around the corner, missing the raised eyebrows and confused expressions sent his way. All eyes followed him as he, too, disappeared around the corner.

Hope pursed her lips at the new development, unsure of the man following Ruth. “Should I be worried?”

“Yep,” Hugh confirmed with a curt nod.

Buck hit him on the chest, chuckling under his breath. “Johnny’s a good man, darlin’.”

Hugh suppressed a snort thinking of the commander’s wild habits and how Buck didn't exactly answer her question.

“Anyways, back wh-”

And just like that, the conversation continued, and Hope had a strange feeling of contentment being on base. Finally being with family again.

As Ruth briskly made her way around the nissen huts to the infirmary, her heart continued to beat rapidly in her chest, and her mind replayed his smile non-stop. 

Get it together, Ruth!

When she finally reached the infirmary, she stopped at the door, taking a deep breath to gain some composure. Within seconds of opening the heavy door, the base’s head surgeon approached her, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Hello,” he greeted. “I’m Captain Emory Kinder, and I’m assuming you’re one of the flight nurses who landed earlier?”

Ruth wore her signature toothy grin and nodded. “Yes, sir. Ruth Morgan. My other half is visiting with her brother as we speak.”

“Brother?”

“Yep, Hugh Armstrong,” she replied, her smile widening as his face lit up.

“Charlie! Oh yeah, I know him. He’s been in here for a few hangovers after a rowdy night in Dickleburgh.”

“Really?” Ruth chuckled, picturing the confident young man drunk as a skunk.

“Oh yeah. We love him though. He’s a good one for sure.”

A patient called out to him, and with a nod, he was off, helping the man. Ruth busied herself however she could, bringing airmen water, re-wrapping their bandages, and pretty much anything that would get her mind off the man from earlier. She was inspecting a man’s arm wound when the creaking of the door opening filled the building. Paying it no mind, she kept working, noting how the tissue was already healing. 

“It looks good, Sergeant. You should be back in the air soon,” she said quietly.

His wide-eyed morphine-induced expression looked pitiful, but he managed to mumble out a, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Ruth gathered her supplies and stood to her feet, throwing away the bloody bandages when Emory's voice rang through the air.

“Speaking of rowdy nights in Dickleburgh...Major, what can I do for ya? Is that shoulder giving you problems again?”

“No, Doc,” the newcomer began, his deep voice breaking the relative quiet. “The shoulder’s fine. I just wanted to, you know, come see the boy-men.”

When she turned toward them and saw the white jacket, the roll of bandages fell from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, rolling a few feet away to the man’s feet. The heat returned to her cheeks in a rush, and her eyes froze on the bandages for a moment, silently cursing the little white bundle. She watched in horror as the man slowly bent down and picked it up, walking toward her as he threw it up in the air and caught it.

“I think this yours,” he said, one side of his lips quirking up into a smirk as he held it out to her.

Raising her eyes from the bandage to his eyes, she prayed her voice would stay steady. “Thank you, sir.”

She took the bandage and tried to remain calm, her free hand raising to run her fingers over the cool metal of her locket.

“John. Major John Egan,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to her. “But you can call me Bucky.”

Ruth’s brows furrowed in confusion as she took his much larger hand and shook it gently. It was surprisingly soft compared to the men she’d treated from the lines.  “Bucky? It’s there another-”

“Yeah,” John chuckled and slowly released her hand, shoving his in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “We call Cleven Buck, too. He hates it, but he deals with it.”

Grimacing playfully, she decided to go out on a limb despite her pounding heart. “Well, I, um, don’t know if I’ll be able to remember who’s who.”

“Oh no,” John tutted, his eyebrows raised and a wide-mouthed smile painting his lips. “We can’t have that. You can call me John, Johnny, whatever you want, doll, but I don’t think you’re going to have a hard time remembering my name.”

“And why would that be, Johnny?”

“Because you’ll see it at the bottom of each letter you’ll get from me.”

The blonde froze, dropping her necklace in disbelief as she swallowed thickly.

‘There is no way he just said that,’ her mind repeated. ‘There is no way he just said that.”

Pushing through her reserved personality and the tingling sensation swirling in her stomach, she decided to take a page from Hope’s book.

“What makes you think I’d let you write me, hotshot?”

Her mind went haywire. ‘‘Why did I just say that? I’m never taking Hope’s advice again. This is too stressful.’

For the first time in their interaction, his confident bravado seemed to fade and he didn’t quite know what to say. Perhaps he was always used to women giving in to his advances easily, but Ruth was not just another woman begging to be wooed. Johnny stood before her with furrowed brows, his upper lip sticking out slightly. He pushed back his jacket and placed his hands on his hips, his head ducking to the floor.

“Because I’d like to get to know you,” he replied earnestly, taking off his cap. “You’re gorgeous, and I would like to write you, Ruth.“

That was the last thing she expected.

In that moment, Ruth Morgan had a decision to make. Was she going to reject the airman or give him a chance? She knew she was attracted to him and there was chemistry there, but was she willing to put herself out there? The timid parts of her personality screamed at her to tell him no, but the parts that Hope had influenced were urging her to accept his offer. In the end, Ruth already liked Johnny, and she saw the sincerity in his statement as a deciding factor in the matter.

“Alright, you can write to me,” she answered quietly, pushing her hair behind her ear.

John watched as she walked to the infirmary desk and got a sheet of paper, scribbling down what he expected to be her address. He took in her features, just like he had earlier. Starting at her light blonde hair, his gaze traveled down her face to her familiar blue eyes, down her adorable nose, to her lips, which were pursed slightly as she concentrated on writing down her information. She was stunning, and Johnny knew that he wanted to see her again just from their short conversation.

Approaching him again, she held up a slip of paper, a toothy grin on her lips. “This is sensitive information, Major. It better not end up in enemy hands, and that includes your fellow airmen.”

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded once before fake saluting her, unable to keep his excitement inside. “Mission understood.”

“But just to be safe, I’m going to hold onto it for a little bit.” she leaned a little closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just in case I, you know, change my mind.”

John grinned down at her and yet again raised his eyebrows as he nodded. Ruth noticed he did that a lot. “I’ll be on my best behavior, scout’s honor.”

Sliding the slip into her pocket, she started her nursing tasks once again, looking at him over her shoulder. “So, you were in the Boy Scouts?”

“No,” he chuckled, putting back on his cap as he moved next to Ruth to help. “I wasn’t, but Buck was. He ended up being an Eagle Scout before he aged out. One of the best in Wyoming, he says, but I don't buy it.”

He stood a good 5 or so inches above her, so his chin was at her eye level. In the small area at the nursing station, his shoulder was just barely pressed against hers as they both worked to roll bandages, and Ruth could feel the warmth radiating from his touch.

“It seems like you know each other pretty well,” she stated, looking up at him briefly.

His concentration remained on the bandage in his hands as he spoke. “Yeah. He’s my best friend.”

“How long have you known each other?” She asked, reaching up to mess with her necklace.

“We both joined up in ‘40 and were roommates in basic. Been together ever since.”

“That reminds me of Hope and I, although we haven’t known each other for nearly that long.”

John placed the finished bandage in the basket and turned to face her, leaning a hip against the counter as his earnest expression returned. “War makes people closer. Makes ‘em realize who’s important. What’s important.”

The blonde mirrored his stance, taking in his words. He was right. War did have a way of bringing people together. She gazed up at him with a shared understanding of how something as terrible as the war had brought out the best and worst in people, as well as brought people into their lives for the better. The pair’s eyes remained locked for a few moments, both realizing that perhaps there was something deeper than the flirting between them. His warm eyes seemed to search hers, and to her surprise, she didn’t feel nervous in that moment. Johnny’s gaze was like a warm blanket enveloping all of her senses to the point that all she could see was him.

“I feel the same way,” Ruth finally answered, fixing a stray curl that had fallen into her eyes.

Half of his lips curled up in a grin and he took a step toward her. “Ruth, I-”

The loud opening of the door jolted them from the moment, sending both their heads in the direction of the entrance. There stood an out-of-breath Frank, whose face was bright red and shimmering with sweat.

“Ruth! Do you know how long I’ve been looking for ya?” He cried, approaching them quickly.

Unsure of the man’s intentions, Johnny straightened and moved just barely in front of her, holding out a hand towards Frank. “Woah, buddy.”

Although it was an endearing effort, she couldn’t hold in a loud giggle at Frank’s offended expression that followed. “No, Johnny,” she laughed, gently lowering his hand.  “This is our pilot, Frank. Frank, this is Major John Egan. What is it?”

The pilot’s eyes flicked between Ruth and Johnny for a few seconds before he sighed. “I’ve filled the Angel up and it’s time to go. Find Hope and meet me back at the plane.”

Just like that, he was out the door again, probably to get ready for takeoff. Ruth’s heart sank at the realization that she was having to leave. It seemed he also came to the same conclusion as he turned toward her and sighed. 

“Looks like you’ve gotta go,” he said softly, slightly tilting his head to the side as he peered down at her. 

The nurse looked at the door, then lowered her gaze to her feet. “It sure does.”

She almost gasped in surprise when something warm grasped her hand gently. Her eyes shot up to John’s hand that held delicately held hers. The contact sent a tingle up her arm and seemingly straight to her mind, muddying her thoughts. 

“I'd like to see you again,” he murmured where only she could hear.

This quieter, softer version of him was unknown to Ruth, but she knew instantly that she liked the duality of Johnny. 

The blush she’d resisted finally won and dusted her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I’d like that, too.”

John softly tugged her hand closer and bridged the distance between them slowly, his entrancing eyes flicking between her eyes and lips. Ruth could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stood on her toes to meet him. She felt his warm breath on her face, and her eyes fluttered closed, anticipating the kiss. But before their lips could meet, the door opened again, and Frank called out to her.

“Ruth, come on! You can neck the Major later!”

The door quickly creaked closed.

Heat rushed to Ruth’s face, and she reluctantly pulled back from Johnny, setting her heels back on the ground. Johnny awkwardly stood to his full height, glaring at the door where Frank stood moments before.

“I’ll see you next time, Johnny,” Ruth smiled bashfully, gently squeezing his hand once before dropping it. She walked backward to the door, praying she wouldn’t trip. 

Johnny let out a huff of air as the biggest smile grew on his face. “So there will be a next time?” 

She simply grinned at him, shrugging her shoulders when she turned to open the door. With one last look over her shoulder, she closed the door behind her. 

The infirmary was silent for a few seconds, and then the patients erupted in hollers, cheers, and whistles. 

“Way to go, Bucky!”

“Leave some for the rest of us, Major!”

Amid their uproar, John remembered a crucial detail: She hadn’t given him her address! He took off toward the door, reaching for the handle when it creaked open, revealing a laughing Ruth on the other side. She held out the slip to him.

“I think you behaved well enough, Major.”

“Told you,” he chimed, his eyebrows raising. “Scout’s honor.”

John took the paper from her outstretched hand and watched as she left once again. When the door had slammed shut behind her, he read the note to himself with a wide smile.

Hotshot, 

You can write me at the Grove, Berkshire, Hut 4. I like you, so try not to get shot down before I can return your letter, and I’ll do the same.

Safe Flying,

Ruth Morgan

Johnny shot his hand with the paper into the air, and the men cheered once again. Ruth, on the other hand, was in disbelief of what had just transpired. She had almost kissed him! She wanted to kiss him! Running her hands through her hair, she tried to focus on the task at hand: finding Hope.

Ruth ran around the base like a chicken with her head cut off looking for the woman, and was about to give up when she saw her sitting in a jeep with Buck in the distance.

“HOPE! There you are, I've been looking everywhere. Frank fueled up the plane. We have to go,” Ruth huffed, clearly out of breath from running, but her flushed cheeks, Hope thought, told a different story. 

“Okay, I'll be over in five minutes,” Hope promised, but Ruth didn't look convinced.

“Your five minutes or an actual five minutes?” She asked, and the glare Hope sent her way had Ruth turning around and heading back in the direction she’d come. 

“Okay, but I'll be timing you,” she yelled over her shoulder.

When Ruth looked back to see Hope kissing Buck on the cheek, it occurred to her that maybe there were more trips to Thorpe Abbotts in the cards for both of them.

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[theemporium]

[REQUEST OPEN]

[9.6k] local murders, amateur sleuthing and unconventional phone calls catch the attention of wednesday!reader. little does she realise the mastermind behind it all is none other than hawkins’ golden boy. (smut)

. 

“LOCAL TEEN FOUND MURDERED IN HIS CAR EARLIER THIS MORNING AFTER WHAT LOOKS LIKE TO BE BRUTAL STRUGGLE. THIS IS THE THIRD MURDER AFTER THE DEATH OF—” 

The volume dial on the radio was instantly turned down, the drawling voice of the presenter quickly dying down to a whisper after blaring through the store like it had been doing for the last hour. 

But no matter what channel or radio show they turned to, each and every one was covering the latest discovery in the Hawkins’ murders. 

Murders that started during the annual 4th of July celebrations where a local jock had been found stabbed and murdered just after the firework display, his body slumped into one of the ferris wheel carriages before anyone could notice the killer. 

The screams of the young carnival worker who found the body was one no one in Hawkins would forget for a while. 

The second murder followed less that two weeks later, when a cheerleader was found brutally stabbed and stashed in the back of her car at Lover’s Lake. 

And now, the whole of Hawkins had been sent into a frenzy as the police department worked aimlessly to find the culprit behind the recent murders. Only to come up short when they couldn’t find a single clue against the murderer. Not a single fucking idea. 

The whole town was left waiting for the next attack, set on edge and second guessing everyone around them as they waited for the killer to attack again. 

The killer was playing with their prey, setting everyone on edge and making them go crazy as they waited for a single clue that this wasn’t over. The killer gave them hope that the worst was over, that they moved on or skipped town. The killer made them think they could be safe again.

And then they struck—just yesterday, after a whole month of silence. 

“God, don’t they have anything better to talk about,” Eddie grumbled under his breath, nose scrunching up as he focused on the pile of tapes in front of him that he had been sorting out for the last twenty minutes. 

You shifted your eyes from the book you were reading, raising a single brow. “And here I thought you’d love something like this.” 

“Not all of us are as morbid as you,” Eddie retorted with a lazy grin sent your way. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about the last two months. There’s only so much small talk I can handle over the counter about my ‘crazy theories on Hawkins’ biggest criminal since Johnny the bike thief’.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment. 

“I swear some of them think it’s me,” Eddie muttered with a light scoff. He paused for a moment before his eyes narrowed on you. “They probably think it’s both of us. Probably doesn’t help that you’re always lingering here.” 

“You invite me, Edward,” you stated simply as you flicked to the next page of your book. 

“And you come every time,” Eddie retorted with a grin on his face, like he was proud of the fact he somehow managed to have you coming back. 

“I didn’t have anything on today,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. 

“Geez, way to make a man feel special.” 

Your friendship—if you could even call it that—with the local metalhead wasn’t something you ever planned or considered. As it turns out, wandering around the woods beside the trailer park will leave you with a curly-haired, restless twenty-something who attaches himself to you and continues to call you his friend regardless of whatever you tell him. 

Eddie Munson just seemed to work like that. 

Not that you minded him all that much, most of the time at least. You could tolerate him and sometimes coming to the music store he worked at provided amusement in the form of watching the general public. If you had to deal with Eddie calling you a friend during that time, then so be it. 

“Got any wild theories in that morbid head of yours?” Eddie asked casually like you weren’t discussing murders in the middle of a very public store, the boy more concerned about the price tags he was currently trying to stick on the tapes laid across the counter with a contraption he wasn’t totally sure how to use. 

“What makes you think I have been theorising about it at all?” you asked, eyes focused on the words on the page. 

“I don’t know,” Eddie said with a shrug. “Because you’re you? And you like all those weird horror books and movies and shit.” 

“They are comforting,” you stated simply.

“That…is terrifying, actually,” Eddie mumbled under his breath, shooting you a wary look though it really shouldn’t have surprised him. He still had flashbacks to the biology classes he shared with you in school where everyone had taken three steps back from the lab counters whilst you had cut open the poor frog they had been assigned to dissect with familiar ease. The scalpel in your hand almost looked as belonging as a pen. 

“You let yourself get too easily scared, Edward,” you told him, and if Eddie didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought you were scolding him. 

The boy paused, raising his brows. “You’re telling me you’re not the least bit scared that we have a homicidal maniac on the loose right now?” 

“Everybody dies anyways,” you replied. 

Eddie blinked. “Yeah because nothing says circle of life like being brutally stabbed twenty times in the gut.” 

“Twenty-four,” you corrected. 

Eddie furrowed his brows. “What?” 

“Each victim had been stabbed at least twenty-four times,” you said as you lifted your gaze to meet his own. “If you’re going to be scared, at least be scared by the right facts.” 

“Maybe you are the murderer,” Eddie grumbled with a huff, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to the tapes. 

“Would you like me to fast-track you to the top of my list?” you deadpanned, though there was something quite like amusement glimmering in your eyes. 

“Aw, you’d change up your master plan for lil’ ol’ me? I knew you liked me, sweetheart,” Eddie said with a grin. “Make sure they write that on my tombstone, yeah? ‘Eddie the Freak: changer of small, emo serial killers’.” 

You let out a huff but Eddie swore it was a laugh. 

“Why the hell are you guys hanging out without me?!” 

Both heads turned towards the entrance of the store where a very angry, curly-haired nuisance was making his way towards the cashier counter, the redhead behind him simply shrugging and giving the two adults a ‘what can you do?’ look. 

“I’m working, Henderson,” Eddie retorted, gesturing to the store around him. “I hardly consider that hanging out.” 

“She’s here!” Dustin said, exasperated as he pointed a finger at you before quickly dropping it when he noted the look you gave him. 

“She was invited,” you said to him as you said to Eddie earlier.

“So it is a hangout!” Dustin exclaimed. “Did you invite Max too?” 

Eddie remained silent.

“Oh my god.” 

“I give her a ride back home after my shift,” Eddie said with a heavy sigh, knowing the boy wouldn’t shut up about this for a while. “I hardly count that as hanging out. Plus, her mum doesn’t want her skating back alone with all the…murdering going around.”

“Who cares about murders when your own friends stab you in the back,” Dustin muttered with narrowing eyes glancing between the three of you.

“Listen, you’re here now, can’t you just…get over it?” Max grumbled, making her way towards the counter where she pushed a handful of tapes to the side before jumping up to take a seat. She pointedly ignored the glare Eddie was sending her way. “I’d rather hear you talk about conspiracy theories for another hour.” 

“Conspiracy theories?” Eddie questioned. 

“Dustin here thinks he knows who the killer is,” Max snorted. 

Eddie narrowed his eyes, glancing between you and Max. “Neither of you sound as worried about a killer on the loose as you should be.” 

You didn’t bother with a reply but Max shrugged as she replied.

“She’s rubbing off on me.” 

“Are you kidding me? This is freaking awesome!” Dustin exclaimed, catching all three of you off guard as the boy began to pace around the store, arms moving around animatedly as he spoke. “We are living in a real life horror movie! The mysterious killer, local victims, town paranoia—” 

“Let me guess,” you interrupted with a raised brow. “Are you deeming yourself the protagonist?” 

“Me? Pfft, no, I’m the movie expert,” Dustin said with an oddly proud look on his face. “The protagonist is the final girl.”

Max frowned. “Final girl?” 

“Yeah,” Dustin stared at the group like it was obvious. “The girl that is always left at the end of the horror movie. The one who survived after facing off with the killer when their identity is revealed and is the one to tell the story.” 

Eddie snorted. “You, Henderson, have quite the imagination.” 

“He’s not wrong,” you stated as three pairs of eyes focused on you, all equally shocked. “It’s a common trope in the horror genre.” 

“HA!” Dustin grinned. 

“Just because you know a bunch about horror movies doesn’t mean you know who the killer is,” Max pointed out, legs swinging back and forth. “It could be anyone. Hell, it could be someone from out of town.” 

Dustin shook his head. “Unlikely, each victim seems like a personal choice. And they are linked, it can’t be random at all.”

“Oh, now he’s a professional,” Max muttered, rolling her eyes.

“So who’s your guess, detective?” Eddie asked, entertaining the boy’s delusions. 

Dustin brightened. “Well—“ 

“HENDERSON! THERE YOU ARE!” 

The bell above the door rang through the store, accompanied by the sound of quick footsteps as Steve made his way to the group, still clad in the Family Video vest—most likely having just come from his own shift at the shop down the road. 

“Way to ruin my dramatic moment, Steve,” the younger boy muttered but didn’t look shocked at his arrival. 

“Yeah, yeah, you can cry about it in the car,” Steve murmured with a sigh as he slapped the boy on the back. “Get your stuff, your mum wanted you home by six.” 

“It’s only five thirty!” 

“Yeah, and I have other shit to do other than drive you about.” 

Dustin turned to you. “Tell him to give me five more minutes.” 

You raised your brows. “And why would he listen to me?” 

“Because he’s obsessed—“ But Steve’s hand was slapped over his mouth before he could finish his sentence. 

“Car. Now.” Steve stated simply, avoiding your gaze as a light blush appeared on his cheeks. 

Dustin let out a heavy sigh before grabbing his backpack that he had dumped on the floor at some point during his rant before he waved the group goodbye. “This isn’t over. I am gonna prove I know what I’m talking about.” 

“Whatever you say,” Max called out, sarcasm dripping from her words. 

“I’ll, uh, catch you later, yeah?” Steve said as he followed Dustin to the door, though his eyes lingered on you. Maybe waiting for an answer, maybe hoping you’d say yes. 

“See ya later, Harrington!” Eddie waved him off with a shit-eating grin, waiting until both boys were gone before he turned to you. “When are you gonna put him out of his misery?” 

You frowned. “What misery?” 

“Steve has the biggest crush on you,” Max stated matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows.” 

“I didn’t know,” you retorted. 

“Yeah, because you’re just as stupid,” Max snapped back and your lips twitched a little at her words. 

“You sound just as delusional as Dustin,” you muttered before your eyes focused back on the book on your lap, the one you had been trying to read since you arrived at the store but had only managed two chapters of. 

“Say what you wanna say, but when he comes standing outside your house with a boombox and starts confessing his love to you, we will be taking full bragging rights,” Eddie said, a grin matching the redhead’s on his face as you simply rolled your eyes. 

“Like I said, delusional.” 

…

You were alone in your house on a Tuesday night when you received the first phone call. 

Unassuming and unaware, you had spent most of the day out of your house doing simple errands and runs that you had been putting off. You got back home around five and had been loitering around, enjoying the peace that came with an empty home with both parents out of town for the week. 

Dinner had been uneventful and the shower you had taken afterwards had been uninterrupted. The phone didn’t ring until around half an hour later, when your hair was still soaking the pyjama shirt you had slipped on and your mirror was still steamy from the hot water. 

“Hello?” 

“What’s your favourite scary movie?” 

You paused for a moment, listening to the voice on the other side of the phone. It didn’t take long for you to piece things together, the articles and radio warnings that had been blasted around town for the last few weeks giving you a clear idea who was on the other side of the phone. 

After all, the mysterious number on the phone bill was the one common factor linking the murders together.  

“Do you give all your victims the same icebreaker or am I just special?” you asked the killer on the other side of the phone, hand firmly gripping the handset like you were scared to miss his response. 

“Who said you were my victim?” 

You paused for a moment. “Is that statement meant to bring me a false sense of security?”

“Do you want me to make you feel safe, sweetheart?” 

“Not sure that’s a part of your job description,” you deadpanned, hearing the killer on the other side of the phone let out a huff of amusement. “I thought the point of these phone calls was to heighten your prey’s paranoia.” 

“Telling me how to do my job now, are you?”

“Just curious how you play the game,” you admitted, the prickling sensation in the back of your neck a telltale sign that you felt like you were being watched. But you found that you didn’t mind it all that much—for now, at least. “Tell me when I should start begging for my life.” 

“I would never wanna hear you beg for your life, sweetheart. I would never hurt you.” 

“Are you sure you’re the killer?” you asked bluntly, wondering if this was just some prank call of someone impersonating the Hawkins’ killer in hopes of getting a few laughs from their friends. “You don’t sound very scary to me.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to scare you.” 

“Then what do you want?” 

“Maybe I just wanna talk, sweetheart.” 

“How wholesome,” you muttered, swinging your legs over the end of your bed and letting your feet touch the cold, wood floor as you stood up from your bed and started making your way downstairs. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Just wanna know why you left your room.” 

You froze for a moment, half way down the stairs and your eyes instantly fell on your front door where you could see the lock was still secure in place. “How do you know I just left my room?” 

“I like to see the people I talk to.” 

“Not social enough for face to face conversations?”

“It’s more fun when they can’t see you.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The irony wasn’t lost on you about how stupid you were currently being. You had watched a plethora of horror movies from a young age, a lot of them had been watched multiple times and you knew the trope of the dumb girl very well. The one who would keep talking on the phone, who would never go for the weapon that could save her life, that would fall when being chased. 

You knew the longer you stayed on the phone to the killer, the higher the chance that you could very well become that same character in Dustin’s little horror movie fantasy. That your body would be the next one found, another victim that would lead up to whatever finale this killer had. 

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up the phone. 

The killer was intriguing, not at all what you expected them to be like and—though it would kill you to admit it—Eddie was right, you did have a morbid curiosity for these kinds of things. 

You entertained the conversation, picking apart the things they said and the phrases they used. They were careful, they never gave anything away that could even hint to you who they were but there was a knack at the back of your head that told you you knew this person—which was incredibly stupid knowing you couldn’t see anybody out your windows and their voice was disguised. 

“Looking for me, sweetheart?” 

“Maybe I’m just trying to help you break that social barrier you’ve built. I heard eye contact improves conversation flow.” 

“Never thought you’d be the kinda girl to help someone out.” 

Your lips twitched a little. “And I never thought you’d want to sit about for an hour talking about nonsense from a random bush across the street.” 

“Guess we surprised each other, huh, doll?”

You raised your brows. “Bored of sweetheart already?” 

“Just testing the waters.”

You weren’t sure at what point the line went dead. You couldn’t really remember if you were the one to hang up, or if maybe it was them. The memories of the night before were fuzzier than you would have liked them to be, but certain things were vivid and clear in your head. 

One of them was the fact that you knew each door and window had been locked. You knew that there wasn’t a single point of entrance in the house from outside. And yet, laying on your bedroom desk, you found a series of polaroids. 

One of you in your room, laying on your bed with a book in hand. One of you in the kitchen, hovering by the stove as you cooked. One of you in the bathroom, the silhouette of your body just noticeable in the steamy mirror.

And a note scrawled on the back of the last one: 

Thank you for the conversation, sweetheart. Until next time.

The mastermind behind the Hawkins’ murders wasn’t what you expected them to be like. But they had caught your attention now, and you couldn’t deny that you wanted to know more. 

…

“Five!”

“Yes, Henderson, we heard you the first time.” 

“Five murders!”

“And we heard the radio announce it too.” 

“He has killed five people!” 

“How do you know it’s a he?” 

This conversation had been going on for the better part of the last hour. Just that morning, the police department announced another victim in the Hawkins’ murders—one of the wannabe journalists in the school newspaper that often bothered Nancy with his deadbeat stories and flakey behaviour. 

He was found just by Lovers Lake, his camera smashed to pieces beside him and his torso torn open by multiple stab wounds, more than any other victim. And of course, Dustin hadn’t shut up about it since it had been announced. 

“It’s a feeling, ya know?” Dustin said with a pondering look on his face. “Like a gut feeling.” 

Max raised her brows. “Sure that’s not just acid reflux?”

“Shut up,” Dustin huffed out, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s escalating, he’s killed two people in the space of ten days. He’s getting more frequent.” 

“Ambitious,” you commented. 

Dustin gaped. “No, not ambitious! Dangerous!” 

“He’s gone off his victim profile though,” Eddie noted as he took a large bite out of the pretzel he was eating. “I thought he was just going for jocks and shit. But a journalist and a band geek? Rogue choices.” 

“Or they are connected in a way we don’t realise,” Dustin countered. 

“Or this is all bullshit and he’s nothing more than a murderous maniac who’s just killing anyone he can get his hands on,” Max stated bluntly, shooting her curly-haired friend a look. “Stop reading into it so much. He’s probably just going for younger victims because teenagers are dumb and would probably follow a strange man into the woods if he offered them beer.” 

“Is that what you’d do, Red?” Eddie joked as he nudged her shoulder. 

“Yeah, and Henderson would be my first victim,” Max continued, biting back the smile that was growing on her face. 

“Not funny, guys, not funny,” Dustin grumbled with a crease between his eyebrows. 

“It’s a little funny,” Eddie grinned, playfully patting the boy on the back. 

“Am I the only one taking this seriously?” Dustin exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “There’s a murderer on the loose!” 

“Really? You didn’t mention,” Max deadpanned. 

“Look, kid, let the professionals solve the case, okay?” Eddie’s voice turned a little more serious as he placed a hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “I don’t want you getting mixed up in this and end up getting hurt.” 

Dustin’s shoulders sagged. “I just feel like—“ 

“I know, I get it, you wanna work it out,” Eddie said, his features softening. “But it’s not up to you to solve.” 

“But if you help—“ 

“I’ll help you,” you spoke up and the room quickly fell silent. 

“Uh,” Eddie cleared his throat. “Are you doing alright?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

Eddie frowned. “Because you just willingly offered help to someone? To Dustin of all people?” 

“If it’s any consolation, it’s for personal gain,” you stated as the three of them continued to stare at her. 

Dustin’s eyes narrowed. “What are you gaining?” 

“Answers.”

“That’s…that’s insanely cryptic,” Eddie murmured, his frown deepening as he flashed you a concerned glance. 

Not that you owed any of them answers, but you hadn’t told them about the phone calls from the killer. You didn’t tell them about the phone calls or the photographs or the promises the killer made to not harm you. And you certainly didn’t tell them the phone calls had become an almost daily occurrence. 

You didn’t tell them because you knew they would worry. Dustin would hound you with questions, Max would question your sanity and Eddie would be throwing you into the back of his van before beeling towards the sheriff’s department. All valid reactions in the grand scheme of things but would be nothing but a nuisance to you. 

You were playing a game with this psycho killer and you couldn’t deny that you wanted to know how it ended.

“Well…beggars can’t be choosers!” Dustin smiled at you and you had the odd feeling that this boy saw this as a branch of friendship. 

As it turns out, the boy was more obsessed with the case though you had to give him credit for his passion. He had all but set up a murder board for the killings, complete with pictures of the victims, string linking in pieces of information pinned to the board and a map of Hawkins where each murder had taken place. He had even gone as far as getting transcripts of each phone call the victim received (something about his genius girlfriend being able to retrieve the information). 

And that was where your interest piqued the most, unable to deny the way your eyes read over the transcripts multiple times as you analysed the phone calls. 

Noting how different they were to your own phone calls with the killer. 

“I think the answers are in the phone calls,” Dustin confessed to you as you both stood in front of the board. His hands were on his hips and he stared at the board with such intensity like the answer would appear before him at any moment. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I mean, they are a part of his game, no? They gotta be the answer to why he is doing everything.”

Yet, the idea of you just being another pawn in the killer’s game settled bitterly in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t like that. You didn’t like it at all.

…

“You stalking me, sweetheart?” 

“Thought I would return the favour.” 

“I’m flattered, baby.” 

… 

“They have to be connected,” Dustin sighed heavily, staring at the pictures of the victims he had pinned on the board. 

“They are connected,” you said, sitting back on the couch with your feet planted up on the coffee table and an array of sheets of papers sprawled around you. They were a mix of missing persons flyers, police reports and articles that had been written since the very first murder on 4th July.

Dustin frowned. “They are?” 

“They are all from the same year in school,” you pointed out, using the pen in your hand to point at the first victim. “Jamie Anderson, complete narcissist with an ego the size of Indiana.” 

“Kinda comes with the jersey,” he muttered under his breath. 

You pointed to the second photo. “Samantha Ricks—spent more time swiping daddy’s card and picking on people who wouldn’t talk back.” 

“So they were every basic teen targets in a horror movie,” he pointed out with a blank face. “This isn’t really shedding light on why they were chosen.”

“Third victim: Charlie Hughes,” you continued, pointedly ignoring the boy’s pessimistic comments though they did gain a few points of respect from you. “I shared a chemistry class with him in senior year. He always held a grudge after I sabotaged his experiment.” 

Dustin raised his brows. “Decent guy?” 

“No, an absolute moron,” you stated bluntly before you pointed at the fourth victim. “Kennedy Jenson. A bitter mind in a pretty body, it’s sad to see her go.” 

“Were you friends with her?” 

You shot the boy a blank look.

“Okay, not friends, but…acquaintances?” 

“She wasn’t all that remarkable though she was quite the ass kisser,” you pondered for a moment before you pointed at the final victim. “Katie Adams: extraordinarily self-absorbed and a copycat. I can respect many crimes but lack of originality is not one of them.”

“I’ll remember that,” Dustin murmured, a wary glance sent your way before he looked back at the victims. “So what? That’s our connection? They went to school together and were all unremarkable?”

“It’s too coincidental to be random,” you commented. 

“You think he has chosen them on purpose?” 

“Yes, but his purpose is the thing I can’t quite work out.”

…

“Do you have a reason you picked your victims?”

“Interested in my job, sweetheart?” 

“Curious, really.” 

“They all deserved it, I can promise you that.”

“And why did they deserve it?” 

“Because they couldn’t appreciate perfection, sweetheart, and I can’t let that shit slide.”

…

“Maybe he has a motivator.” 

You raised your brow. “A what?” 

“A motivator,” Dustin repeated as though you’d suddenly understand him a second time round. But when your face remained blank, he let out a sigh and continued. “Like, maybe he is doing this all for someone.” 

You pondered the thought for a moment. “You think he is just some lackey?” 

“Maybe,” Dustin shrugged his shoulders. “Or maybe he is doing it for attention. Maybe he is doing this for someone so they can see it, so they can see his work. Like, a gift or something.” 

“Interesting,” you murmured, keeping your face neutral as the boy continued to ramble.

“I mean, if that is the case, he would probably want to gloat to his motivator,” Dustin commented as his eyes flickered over the papers in front of him, fingers fiddling with the ball of string in his hand. “Or at least reach out to them so they know he exists.” 

“Like a stalker?” 

“Or, in a twisted way, an admirer.” 

…

“Do you always watch me when you call?”

“I told you, I like to see who I am talking to.” 

“Is there a point of watching me if you’re not going to kill me?”

“Maybe I just like watching you, sweetheart. Is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s a bit creepy.”

“Says the girl talking to Hawkins’ most wanted.” 

“That still makes you the creepier one.” 

“Because I’m talking to Hawkins’ biggest loner?” 

“That was almost funny.” 

“Maybe next time you’ll let me hear your laugh. But the smile you are trying to hide will do for now.”

… 

“Delivery for—holy shit, it looks like a fucking murder scene in here.”

“Pass the pizza, Munson.” 

“Kid’s got claws,” Eddie muttered as he passed the pizza boxes he collected into the boy’s awaiting hands before manoeuvring over the mess that had been sprawled over the living room floor to take a seat next to you. “What’s going on here?” 

“Dustin thinks he is on the edge of a discovery,” you informed him. 

“I am!” Dustin exclaimed. “I think you were right about the school year being connected.” 

“Geez, wonder who saw that one coming,” you deadpanned.

“So I grabbed a copy of the yearbook and started making my way through it, seeing who matches the possible description the police have for the killer and—”

You started to drown the boy’s ramblings out, attention focused on the yearbook you had snatched from his hand as you began to flick through it. Dustin had crossed off people with a large, red ‘X’ on who he thought didn’t fit the killer image, along with question marks surrounding potential suspects. 

But as you flicked through the yearbook—something you hadn’t even owned yourself, simply rolling your eyes when one of the committee members tried to hand you a copy on the last day of school—you found yourself taking in the pictures that were dotted throughout the book. Pictures that were taken throughout the four years of high school, of different friend groups and clubs and squads. 

Pictures of the unsuspecting victims who didn’t know they would be dead less than two years later. 

“You really think you’ll be able to find them in that book?” 

“I’ll know a murderer when I see them, Eddie.” 

Your eyes aimlessly travelled over each photo as you flicked through the pages before you paused. It was a double page feature on some of the sports clubs in Hawkins High School. There were pictures of different teams and meets and games and matches. There were pictures of the groups mingling and mixing. But the one that caught your eye was one of a jock and cheerleader, smiling and grinning at the camera like their future was full and bright ahead of them. 

Jaime and Samantha—the first two victims.

But it wasn’t the happy faces or the arms thrown over each other’s shoulders that caught your eye, not when you knew long ago they had been friends in high school. No, the thing that caught your attention was the figure standing in the background, hidden in the shadows almost out of sight. 

The figure was glaring at the couple, a glare full of hatred and pure spite. It was a look that went beyond typical teenage jealousy or testosterone rage. This was something deeper, something more primal. This look was wild and cardinal and animalistic. 

This look was the look of a killer. 

“It could be anybody in that year, Henderson,” Eddie said with a sigh. “It could be someone you would never suspect, it could be someone you’ve already crossed off.” 

“Have faith, Eddie, the people I have crossed off are people who I definitely know could never be the killer,” Dustin assured the older man. 

And the person behind the look was none other than Steve Harrington. 

“Yeah, Edward,” you spoke up, unable to tear your eyes away from the photo. “None of these people could be killers. Never in a million years.” 

…

You didn’t tell Dustin or Eddie your revelation. 

You didn’t tell anybody and, to be completely honest, you had no reason to keep his secret. You didn’t have any evidence against the boy to actually take to the police, but you were sure with a little digging you probably would have been able to find what you needed—the confirmation any sane person would need to make sure they were 100% sure. 

But you weren’t sane and you didn’t need evidence—you knew. 

You knew the killer was Steve. You knew the voice behind the phone calls was Steve. You knew without a fucking shadow of a doubt that it was Steve fucking Harrington.

But the truth was that you liked that you were the only one that knew. Something quite like pride prickled inside you in knowing that the whole town was going crazy but you knew the man beneath the mask—and you liked that he had no idea either. 

There was a dark sense of satisfaction in knowing that Steve Harrington had this whole other side to him. The boy next door, the heartthrob and the fucking king of high school—but you knew another side of him, the real side of him. 

It was a heavy secret but the weight laid comfortably on your shoulders as the hours passed, Dustin and Eddie throwing theories around that you knew were nothing more than trash until you eventually packed up for the night and left. 

You knew the second Eddie dropped you off and you stepped into your house that he was watching you, just like every other night. And something sick and twisted in you hummed in delight as you went about your routine, as you made dinner and walked around your house with those eyes glued to you. 

And you waited and bided your time until the phone rang just like it always did, just like you knew it would because Steve himself was a sucker for routine and this was his favourite one. 

“Let’s play a game.” 

You raised your brows, the greeting a small change from his usual ones and yet the change was welcomed as you felt a thrill wrack through your body. 

“What kind of game?” 

“Hide and seek.” 

“I thought your brain was a little more developed than that,” you said, wondering just which window he was watching you from. “Or you were at least a bit more imaginative.” 

“There’s a catch.” 

“Of course there is,” you hummed and leaned your head back against the wall, closing your eyes as his gaze washed over you like a welcoming wave.

“Aren’t you going to ask what it is?” 

“Why should I when I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” 

“You never fail to make me smile, sweetheart.” 

“It’s my life’s mission,” you deadpanned before biting what he was baiting. “What’s the catch?” 

“If you can hide from me, I’ll tell you a secret.” 

“And if you find me?” 

“Then you tell me a secret. Do we have a deal?” 

You paused for a moment, the weight of his offer laying on you as you contemplated the game. A million different ways this game could go, and for all you know, maybe this was the night he decided he wanted to kill you. Maybe you were no longer a motivator to him or he knew that you were aware of his secret. 

Or maybe Steve was just sick and tired watching you from the window and now he wanted the real thing. 

“How long is my headstart?” You asked, only to hear his laugh crackling on the other end of the phone. 

“Oh sweetheart, I’m already in your house.” 

The line had barely been cut off before your feet were moving, your head pounding with a million different thoughts as you wondered just where in the house he currently was—if he was anywhere close to you now. 

You knew it was planned. Steve was probably aware your parents were out of town again. And he knew you were home alone. Hell, Steve knew everything about you because despite what he said, he was a little stalker to you. 

A little stalker who had five murders under his belt and was now currently chasing you through your own house. 

If you were sane, that thought would terrify you. If you were sane, you would be dialling nine-one-one and screaming everything you could to the dispatcher before your life ended. If you were sane, you wouldn’t be running through your house, high on the thrill of a serial killer chasing you. 

But you weren’t sane, not in the slightest. 

Your heart was thumping wildly in your chest, your body buzzing with an adrenaline rush you had never felt before and, in some crazy way, you had never felt more alive as you did right now. With floorboards around your house creaking and doors slamming, this was the biggest high you could ever imagine.

The only advantage you had was that this was your house, and yet even that fell short when you knew Steve knew this house as well as you did. He had spent days watching you in this house. He had spent nights sneaking in to leave you gifts. He probably knew this house like the back of his hand. 

Another fact that should have terrified you but once again, you weren’t sane. 

The irony wasn’t lost on you that he managed to find you just as you made it to your bedroom, his hand grasping your arm before you could escape and your body pressed against the edge of the vanity table. Your chest was heaving with light pants but it was nothing to do with the chase and everything to do with the boy in front of you. 

He was towering over you, the mask covering his face and the black robe hiding his body, but the lack of distance between your bodies let you feel his broad shoulders and built torso well enough. 

Your eyes took in the sight, taking in the small details of the mask and the ghost figurine it depicted. Maybe to others it would be a terrifying sight, not even his eyes visible through the fabric but you could only let your curiosity grow. 

He raised a gloved hand, the fabric rubbing against your skin as he ran a finger down the side of your face before tilting his head to the side, and you knew exactly what he wanted. 

“A deal is a deal, right?” you said through soft pants, the blood rushing through your ears almost distracting if it weren’t for the fact the boy in front of you had your full attention. “I guess you want my secret now.” 

He nodded slowly. 

Your eyes never left his masked face as you spoke. “My secret is that I know it’s you under the mask, Steve.” 

The silence settled between you, neither one of you looking away or even reacting, and for a small moment you wondered if the reveal shocked him that much. You wondered if he was trying to work out how you knew, or how to keep you silent. You wondered if you had rendered him speechless. 

Then, he slowly raised his hand that had previously been tracing your jaw and pulled at the back of his mask, the fabric bunching up in his fist as he pulled the mask over his face. And what you weren’t expecting to see was his grinning face staring right back at you. 

“I knew my girl would figure it out,” he spoke, voice low and huskier than the times you had heard him speak before. “You were always the smartest one in the room, sweetheart.”

And his amusement only seemed to grow tenfold when he noticed the shifted look of confusion grow on your face. 

“Aw, baby, I’m sorry, did I ruin your surprise?” he murmured, his hands dropping to your waist as the weight of his body trapped you against the vanity. “I didn’t mean to, sweetheart. Just couldn't help myself, gets me all excited when you get that look on your face.” 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to reply. Not quite yet, not when you hadn’t stopped staring at his face and the way his eyes shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite read yet. Not when Steve Harrington had just revealed himself as the Hawkins’ murderer before you and all you could think about was the way his smile made your insides twist in a way you had never really experienced before. 

“Why?” 

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, almost as surprised as you were by the single word that left your lips. “Why?” 

You nodded and repeated, “Why?” 

“Why, sweetheart?” Steve repeated, almost mockingly as he let out a laugh—a twisted, bitter laugh and it wasn’t directed at you. No, you knew it wasn’t when the lightness in his eyes disappeared, replaced with the same dark look you saw on his face in the yearbook photo. “I did this for you, baby. All for you.” 

A crease formed between your brows and the boy softly cooed as he ran his gloved thumb over your skin. 

“You didn’t hear them, baby, you don’t get it,” the boy murmured in a soft voice despite the acidic tone lacing his words. “I…I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t just hear them talk…fucking nonsense. Not about you. Not when you’re so…” 

His eyes fell back to meet yours and they instantly softened as he pulled his gloves off, his fingers hesitantly reaching to trace your cheek. “Not when you’re so perfect. My sweetheart, so fucking perfect for this world.” 

“Perfect?” you repeated, almost offended by the word.

But Steve only flashed you a goofy grin. “You don’t get it, baby. You don’t see what I see.” 

You barely choked out a gasp as his hands spun you around, the warmth of his chest pressed closely against your back as you found yourself staring at your own complexion in the vanity mirror. Your eyes shifted to Steve as he stood behind you, towering over you, only to find his attention was already on you.

“Everything about you…it’s fucking perfect,” he murmured, eyes darkening as he tucked his body further against yours, his head dropping so his lips were brushing against your ear. “They called you names. They called you a freak…a loner…a fucking psycho, but they don’t get it. They never could understand utter fucking perfection.” 

“That’s noble of you,” you murmured, eyes fluttering closed when you felt his warm breath fan across your skin as he chuckled.

“They needed to know, sweetheart,” he whispered to you, the hands that had dropped to your waist tightening their grip. “They needed to know who the real psycho was.” 

“So you killed them?” 

“I gave them what they deserved,” Steve gritted out through clenched teeth. “The bastards had it coming.” 

“You know, you’ve just given me a full confession,” you told him, watching the way his eyes fell shut as he lightly nudged your ear with his nose, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I could run along to the police and there’s nothing you could do to stop me.” There was a small pause. “Nothing except kill me.” 

His grip tightened and his head fell to your shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you that I would never hurt you, sweetheart?” 

“You don’t seem scared about the threat to throw you in prison,” you noted, fighting to keep your eyes on him and not the way his hands were sliding up and down your sides, the action almost comforting.

He huffed out a laugh against your shoulder. “You wouldn’t give me in to the police.” 

“You sound so sure about that.” 

“If you wanted to, you would’ve done it already,” he stated simply as he lifted his head enough for your eyes to catch his, noting the way his lips twitched upwards in a smirk that was all too smug for your liking. “But we both know why you haven’t told them shit.” 

You cocked an eyebrow at the boy. “Oh?”

“The same reason you haven’t told Dustin or Eddie or anyone about my secret,” Steve continued, his voice was soft and calming like he had no care or worries in the world. “You like it, sweetheart. You like it just as much as I do.”

“Presumptuous,” you snided. 

“Is it?” Steve tilted his head, eyes watching your expression closely as his hands slid past the black skirt you had been wearing, his hands a heavy warmth on your tight-clad thighs. “I know you, sweetheart. I know you liked knowing my little secret. I know you liked everything I did…reading those reports…imagining what it felt like when I stabbed those assholes again and again and again…” 

His words trailed off, his words like a soft lullaby as you fought to keep your eyes open. 

“You like that I killed people for you, baby. It fucking excites you to think about the way they bled and begged for their lives,” he whispered in your ear. “Because you’re sick and fucking twisted…just like me, just like those movies you always rent out. And I fucking love it, baby. I know you do too.” 

“Because I’m morbid?” you murmured, breath caught in your throat when you felt his hands squeezing your thighs and his nails digging into the fabric of your tights.

“Because you’re perfect, sweetheart,” he said in such a final tone, his chest pressed against your back to the point you swore you could feel his racing heart. But it was hard to tell over the sound of your own pounding heart and his hands ripping through your tights. 

“Steve,” you breathed his name out, unsure what you wanted to say but the boy just grinned at you.

“The way you say my name sounds like fucking heaven,” he murmured as his palms were pressed against your inner thighs, slowly moving upwards. “You gonna let me return the favour, sweetheart?”

Your chest was heaving with soft pants, his darkened gaze hard to look away from.

“I just wanna make you feel good, sweetheart, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. All of this is for you, I just wanna please you,” he murmured, analysing every inch of your face as he waited, as he bided his time. 

The small nod of your head was a soft, almost invisible action but Steve didn’t miss it. He never missed anything when it came to you.

“Thank you, baby, gonna make you feel like the queen of the fucking world,” he murmured in between the soft kisses he placed along your shoulder, his hands moving to the apex of your thighs as he cupped your clothed cunt and let out a soft chuckle. “I fucking knew it.” 

Your body slumped back against Steve. 

“I knew this fucking excited you,” Steve grinned boyishly, his fingers running along the wet fabric as he basked in the way you sighed in pleasure. “My perfect girl.”

“Do something,” you breathed out, your fingers wrapping around his wrist as you urged them to move, to keep touching you.

“Anything you want,” Steve murmured against your neck, sliding his hand past the waistband of your panties as his fingers ran along your slit. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re so wet f’me.” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to care about your ripped tights or the panties tucked to the side, not when you had the perfect view of Steve holding you against his chest as he circled your clit. It was soft, slow circles at first like he was testing the waters. But one moan from you and the boy was insatiable. He wanted to hear more, he wanted to be the cause of those moans. 

He wanted to be the only one that could make you feel that good. 

His eyes were locked on your face as he slid a finger inside you, whispered curses muttered under his breath as he felt your walls clench around him. Because you felt perfect, you were fucking perfect and you were all his. Just as he was all yours. You belonged to each other and nobody else and Steve would make sure of that. 

“Do you like this?” he murmured, unable to stop the way his chest heaved with heavy breaths as he watched you squirm around his fingers as they slowly pumped in and out of you. The same hands that murdered five people, that killed just for you. “Do I make you feel good, baby?” 

“Yes,” you breathed out, soft moans leaving your lips and despite the fact he was the one holding you against his body, fucking you with his fingers and whispering in your ear, you knew that you were in control. You knew that if you told him to stop then he would stop. If you told him to go faster then he would go faster. 

And fuck, if that didn’t make the coil in your stomach tighten more than his thumb circling your clit. 

“Just like that, Steve,” you moaned, eyes falling shut as you rested your head against his shoulder, as you let him nuzzle his face against your neck. “Don’t stop.”

“Never, sweetheart,” he murmured as he pressed kisses along your heated skin. “Wanna see you come all over me.” 

Your nails dug into his forearm but Steve relished in the pain as he held your body tighter, as he watched your face scrunch up in pleasure through the mirror. He couldn’t even bring himself to blink as your lips parted, his name leaving your lips in a breathless moan as he felt your walls clench around his fingers. 

And he didn’t stop. 

Not until you let out a small whine, muttering his name as you tried to pull his hands away from between your legs—your shaking legs, Steve noted. 

But he never stopped touching you and kissing you. His hands running up and down your sides, his lips pressing soft kisses onto any inch of skin he could. Steve had spent so many nights watching you from a distance, he needed to make up for lost time now that he had you in his arms.

“I knew you would understand,” he murmured, his nose pressed against your pulse point as he listened to your thundering heart. “I knew you were perfect for me.” 

“Yeah, I can feel just how happy you are,” you commented, feeling his hard bulge press against your lower back and yet, it was almost endearing the way his puppy dog eyes found yours in the mirror. 

This was the boy who had brutally murdered five teenagers, who knew you’d look at the reports and revel in his work. This was the boy who teased and taunted and played with his prey like a true, bloodthirsty killer. This was the boy who watched and waited and bided his time with you until he knew you knew. 

And, now looking at the mirror, this was the same boy who was begging to make you feel good despite his raging hard-on pressing against the confinements on whatever he was wearing beneath the black robe he currently wore. This was the same boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, who would probably kill for you if you asked him. 

This boy was Steve Harrington and you, without a fucking shadow of a doubt, owned him. 

“Take your clothes off,” you told him, borderline ordered him as you kept your eyes on his lust-blown gaze. 

He blinked. “Huh?” 

“Take off your clothes, Steve,” you repeated, voice remaining steady despite the orgasm that had rocked your body minutes ago. “Or have you changed your mind?” 

“I—no!” He said quickly as he shook his head, taking a step back so he had enough space to pull the robe over his head, leaving him in black jeans and a tight-fitting white shirt. You were almost disappointed it was clean, that it wasn’t covered in the blood of the victims he had brutally stabbed. 

You watched as he pulled the shirt over his head, eyes darting over his broad shoulders and toned chest, lingering for a few seconds before his hands moved down to his belt buckle. You didn’t say a word as he continued to strip down, his clothes abandoned on your bedroom floor until he was left in his boxers. 

And Steve stood there, clad in his underwear, watching as you stepped away from the vanity table. He watched as you reached for your shirt, pulling it over your head and he watched as you unzipped the little black skirt you were wearing. He watched as you ditched the ripped tights and ruined panties, watched as you unclipped your bra before you settled yourself on your bed. 

“You look…” he trailed off, hooded eyes taking in every inch of you now that he had you up close. He would never get enough of you. “Fuck.”

“That’s reassuring,” you said, the hint of a smirk on your lips as Steve slowly walked to the edge of the bed, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side and he looked torn. “You okay there, Steve?” 

“Mhmm,” he hummed, a little higher pitched than normal.

“Say it, Steve,” you said to him, leaning back on your elbows as you basked in the boy’s attention. 

“Can I…” Steve cleared his throat, a blush covering his cheeks. “Fuck, can I fuck you? Make you feel good?”

“You wanna make me feel good, Steve?” 

“Please, baby,” his voice slightly whiny as he crawled over your body, kissing from your ankle to your knee. He continued to kiss up your thighs and stomach, up the valley between your tits and just every single fucking inch of you because he needed to. He needed to feel all of you. “Just wanna show my girl how fucking good I can be.” 

“Are you going to be a good boy for me, Steve?”

“So good.” 

Your lips were ghosting his as you pulled him towards you, a soft noise escaping the back of his throat as he tried to lean down to kiss you but you pulled him back as your fingers threaded through his hair with a gentle tug. 

“Then fuck me, Steve. Fuck me like you mean it.”

The boy let out a groan before his lips finally met yours, his body almost sagging in relief like that single point of contact was what he needed. His hands squeezed your sides, his body fitting between your legs as his teeth nipped at your bottom lip until it was red and begging for him to kiss. 

Your fingers tugged his head closer, moans muffled amongst the sound of your lips smacking and his soft whines as he reached down to push his boxers down, kicking them off the rest of the way when they reached his knees. 

He pulled away for a few short seconds, panting heavily as he reached down to stroke himself, letting out a small wince as he teased the head of his cock before sliding it up and down your soaked cunt. 

“Shit,” he hissed as he tapped his tip against your swollen clit, almost grinning at the way your nails digged into his skin in response. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. You look so fucking pretty.” 

“Do you always talk this much?” you commented, a little breathless as you watched him slowly slide the tip of his cock in.

“Can’t help it, baby,” he sighed as he reached for you, one of his hands intertwining with yours and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from the touch. “I can’t control myself when I’m around you.” 

“You should work on that,” you muttered, only to be cut off by your own gasp as he pushed himself inside you completely. “Shit.”

“Fucking made f’me,” Steve groaned, forehead pressed against yours as he felt your walls squeeze around him. “Perfect fit.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in fate,” you spoke, a little choked up when he started to slowly pull out before thrusting back in.

“I believe in a lot of things when it comes to you,” Steve confessed, eyes glued on the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. 

Steve revelled in the way you clung onto him, the way it was his name leaving your lips like a fucking mantra as he thrusted in and out of you. Steve revelled in the way your nails dug into his skin, the way they raked down his back leaving scratches he hoped lasted for days after. Steve revelled in the way your lips met his in a messy, sloppy kiss so unlike you and yet, he fucking thrived in knowing he brought you to this point. 

Steve revelled in knowing that he fucked you up just as much as you fucked with him.

“Shit,” he groaned, head resting on your chest as he tried to catch his breath, but it was impossible. It was always impossible when he was this close to you, when he was still inside you. “Did I make you feel good, sweetheart?” 

You let out a small huff that almost sounded like a laugh, but Steve grinned regardless. 

“Maybe you’re not totally hopeless, Steve,” you murmured softly, and against your better judgement you ran your fingers through his hair, pushing the strands back so you could see his wide eyes looking up at you from where he laid on your chest. 

“Is that just about the sex or everything?” he asked, unable to keep his hands to himself as he gripped your sides.

“The sex,” you said, so blunt and deadpanned and you that Steve couldn’t help but love the way you said it. “Your knife skills were admirable, but clearly the work of an amateur.”

His grin widened. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that sounded like an offer to learn from someone more well-versed with knives.”

“Maybe I will.” 

“Interested in joining the business, sweetheart?”

And Steve fucking Harrington revelled in the way a smile broke out on your face.

“I can show you how it’s really done, Steve.”

.

[abeautylives]

Times I Remember Well

(and Some That I Don’t)

Part 3

author’s note: Thank you for reading this ridiculous story. Now for the good stuff.

pairing: female!OCxjake

time frame: 2016-2018

word count: almost 7.8k this part

warnings: language, underage drinking (implied), mentions of sex and sexual situations, nudity, oral (m. and f. receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

You know how most people’s lives change pretty drastically when they move away for college?

What, were you expecting me to claim that I was different, special in some way?

I’m not.

If you’re wondering, Sam and I were fine. I guess he’d matured enough to keep speaking to me when he found out I’d almost fucked his brother. I was still immature enough to give him a classic three day long silent treatment over the whole Sam said he thought you were fucking that guy you dated thing.

I even made him agree to never bring me up to Jake again. Ever.

Anyway, my first semester of college kind of kicked my ass. I was smart enough, but I couldn’t decide on a major and it made the whole experience feel like a waste of time. I didn’t meet anyone worth much of my effort to get to know, and I spent a lot of nights alone in my dorm room. I barely even liked my roommate. Meanwhile, Sam was at home breezing through his last year of high school and preparing to actually go on tour.

Like a real tour. It was my worst nightmare. And I had to hear all about it when I came home for winter break. 

But he was excited, of course he was. And I was proud of him. And Josh, and Danny. I couldn’t bring myself to have positive feelings for Jake. After he’d rejected and embarrassed me (again), I’d run off to school determined to lose my v-card to literally anyone who’d never been to Frankenmuth or heard of their band. Fortunately for me, almost no one had heard of either.

So, I did. And Matthew Nowak had been a very cursory and lazy fuck, but he got the job done. I mean, he popped the cherry or whatever, he didn’t make me come, and I never gave him another opportunity to try.

I almost didn’t even go home for Christmas, my dad had been begging me to come see him, but I knew if I didn’t go home, I might never see my best friend again.

Was that a little dramatic? Sure, but the dates for tour were going to start around my birthday, before he even graduated, and he wouldn’t be home for the entire summer. There were talks of getting signed, to a fucking label. Releasing their music to the world. Jake’s dreams were coming true and he was stealing my best fucking friend from me.

He really was an asshole.

I went back to school in the spring a little sad, nostalgic for a time when things were easy and fun, and I always had a weekend smoke sesh in the Kiszka garage to look forward to. There was nothing for me to look forward to in Ann Arbor. Until I met Soph.

Sophie and I were paired up within the first few days of one of our classes, and thank God we were. We clicked instantly, she was almost like a female version of Sam with even better hair.

She got me out of my slump, out of my dorm room and out of my own head.

As we started hanging out more outside of class, we learned about each other’s lives at home, and she let me talk endlessly about Sam. About moving away from Traverse and finding the best friend I’d ever had, growing up with him, becoming an adult at his side.

I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but eventually I ran out of stories and didn’t feel the need to talk about him much anymore.

For a few months, we worked hard and partied harder, and I felt more and more like myself, or my new self, with her help. My new self must have been putting out certain vibes that attracted attention, because I wasn’t hurting for it. Not that I really had back home, but home had narrowed my view, the Kiszkas my whole world. Even when I did date boys, Sam was there to tell me he didn’t like them, then Josh was there shining brighter than the sun, blinding me to them.

Then Jake was there. Ruining me for everyone else, just by existing.

In Ann Arbor, Soph had the opposite effect. Every guy was cute, cute enough to talk to, flirt with, party with. A select few were hot enough to make out with, let them touch our bodies, we would touch theirs. Dance with them, let them pull us close, throw our arms around them and tell them to take us somewhere quieter. 

There was that one time, I’d gone back to this guy’s dorm and he’d put a playlist on shuffle. Ya know, so we wouldn’t be heard. And right before I put his dick in my mouth, fucking Highway Tune started playing. 

Instant no. I left him there with a hard-on and zero promises of returning.

But anyway, Soph and I had fun every weekend, studied every weeknight. By the end of the second semester, we’d decided on my major, and made sure we would share more classes in the fall.

When summer break rolled around, we spent the first half with her family in Grand Rapids and the second, reluctantly, with my mom. Home was weird without Sam, but he was off galavanting across the U.S. Communication between us had been sparse, though he did call me once every few weeks to fill me in, and let’s be honest, brag. I didn’t mind the bragging, much, but even with how well things were going at school, I’d have given anything to drop it all and be with him. 

Even if it meant tolerating Jake. 

Life goes on, time keeps on slipping, the wheel in the sky keeps on turning and all that. 

College was hard, but Soph and I really buttoned up in the fall. More studying, fewer boys, a little less fun, but Michigan gets cold fast and running wild all over campus didn’t hold the same appeal. We vowed to live it up in the spring, maybe settle down and get some boyfriends. Maybe not.

“Holy shit holy shit!”

We were in the library, Soph across the table from me with wide eyes, laptops, books and notes spread out between us.

“Shhh! What? What the fuck?” She leaned in conspiratorially and I turned my phone around to show her the screen. 

“They’re playing in Detroit. They’re coming home!”

“Will you be quiet? Who, Sam’s band?”

That made me laugh every time. I always called it Sam’s band, because he would’ve loved it and someone else I knew would have loathed it.

They hadn’t been home in forever, they were hardly even in the states, and when they’d played the Fillmore in the spring I’d been so bogged down with new classes and so much fucking homework, I couldn’t justify leaving campus let alone the city. 

But they were coming back, and I’d be on winter break. Sam had sent me their schedule, which I’d thrust into Soph’s hands.

“Aww, reunion! I wish I could go with you.” Her pouty face was unmatched, but she was going with her parents to visit family in Ohio for the holidays. For a moment, that realization made me panic. I wanted to go, needed to see my best friend, but to do it alone? Why did that make me nervous?

Maybe because I hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe because I hadn’t seen him in more than two. I doubted I’d even get to spend much time with Sam, and I doubted further that I’d be able to get him away from the others.

Not that I wouldn’t want to hang out with Danny, or even Josh. But… well, you know.

I wondered if they were going home for the brief break between Detroit and Seattle, and I made a mental note to ask Sam. 

I’d insisted on buying my own ticket to the show, their third added at the Fox after the first two sold out, but Sam wouldn’t hear of it. He set me up with a ticket and access to see them backstage, and I tried not to let it get to my head. It's not like they were famous or anything.

Selling out multiple shows.

I FaceTime’d Sophie so she could help me decide what to wear - I hadn’t put this kind of pressure on an outfit since the night I kissed… yeah, you saw how that went.

We landed on skin tight faux leather pants, an extremely low-cut black and tan floral print top with a fitted bodice and wide, flowy sleeves, and chunky black boots. I planned to top it off with a vintage fur coat Sam and I had found thrifting a few years back. We’d always joked that it originally belonged to the old lady they named their band after. 

“Okayyyyy, so what about your underwear?” 

I stopped spinning in front of my phone, where I’d been showing Sophie the whole get up.

“What the fuck do you mean, my underwear? Who cares?”

“Babe, it’s a rock show! What if you meet a super hot guy with like, tattoos and a tongue ring that wants to rock your world?” I watched her eyebrows waggle as she stuck her own tongue out at me. 

“Yeah I don’t think that’s really their demographic.” 

But… an idea started to form. Sexy underwear would make me feel sexy. Who would be irritated to see me, looking and feeling sexy, arguably hotter now than I’d ever been? Who would be downright furious to watch me get a little flirty, a little provocative with another man? Men? His brothers?

Ohhh, Jake Kiszka was gonna kill me. And it was gonna be worth it. 

The ticket Sam held for me was in the front fucking row. Of the seats, behind the pit floor, but still. How embarrassing, what if I didn’t know any of the words? I didn’t really listen to their music, not since I was in high school, watching them practice or play at Fischer.

As you can imagine, I didn’t need to worry. Every, single, song was familiar. Songs that they’d written or started writing when Sam was barely fifteen. But the people around me knew them all, better than I did actually. 

That was… pretty cool.

I left my seat as the guys were blowing kisses and throwing flowers into the crowd, stopped in a bathroom to check myself out, and followed Sam’s directions to make it backstage. The guys made it there before me, I could hear their excited voices from the hall as a security guard led me to their green room. We slowed as we got closer, and I stopped the guard before we reached the door, composing myself, slipping my coat off, smoothing my hair and controlling my expression. 

You should've seen his face when I walked through the doorway, slow clapping and wearing my best deadpan. They all turned their heads in my direction, but his face was the one I sought out. 

His cheeks were still flushed from the stage (he honestly goes crazy up there) but he immediately turned so bright pink I hoped his head would explode. 

“YOU’RE HERE! Holy shit, you’re here!” Sam rushed at me and instantly my feet were off the ground, he swung me around and I couldn’t help the smile that stretched wide as I laughed with him. 

“You’re sweaty! Put me down, idiot!” He dropped me to my feet and grabbed a hand, lifted it above my head and spun me in a circle.

“Look at you, you look hot, T!” His laughter cracked loud and joyous and my heart soared. He didn’t mean anything by it, of course, but he was right and I knew it.

Danny approached me next, taller and even broader than I ever remembered him being, and wrapped me up in another sweaty hug. “Good to see you, did you get tinier?” We laughed and I slapped him away. Then Josh caught my eye, arms crossed over his bare chest under an open black vest and leaning against the vanity, grinning. 

I moved toward him and he met me in the middle, opened his arms and threw them around me. He didn’t make fun of me, or comment on the way I looked. Our cheeks were pressed together and he turned his face and dropped a kiss to mine. “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you guys too, more than you know.”

He let me go and his grin stretched into a blinding smile. “What’d you think of the show?”

“It was fucking awesome, I can’t believe you guys are like, legit rockstars! Seems like yesterday you were jamming in your garage.” Sam sidled up and threw a long arm over my shoulders.

“To be fair, we didn’t really stop jamming in the garage until last year, T.”

I knew that, I guess. But I’d missed it, and I’d missed the moment my best friend grew up. But this wasn’t the time to get weepy about that. I still had a mission to accomplish.

Turning out of Sam’s hold, I faced him. He no longer looked apoplectic, but his nostrils were flared and his arms were crossed, one hand running a finger across his chin below pursed lips. His focus was distinctly somewhere on the floor, but I walked toward him and watched his eyes connect with my boots and then travel, slowly, all the way up my body. 

Get a good look, asshole.

And he did, his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on my hips, and then again on my chest before it finally met my face.

Say something stupid, I dare you.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” 

My own eyes rolled in my skull. “Good to see you too, Jacob. How have you been?”

His features twisted in confusion for just a moment before he smoothed them back out. Good.

“Fantastic, living the dream, ya know. How have you been, Tiny?”

“Oh, really good!” I crossed one arm, tucking it under my tits and pushing them up while I twirled a finger through a strand of my hair with the other hand. “I’m majoring in English and Writing and aced all of my finals this past semester. Just really living my best on-campus life. Work hard, play hard and all that.”

It was so satisfying, the way he’d accidentally looked at my chest and then failed to look back at my face until I was done speaking. I swear to you my pussy fluttered when he swallowed, hard, before responding. It was that satisfying. 

“That’s- ahem, that’s great. Glad to hear it. Thanks for coming by to say hi or whatever but we need to pack up our gear and head to the hotel.”

Nice try.

“Oh, cool! I’d love to come with you guys, I just miss you all so much.” His face started turning pink again before I looked over my shoulder. “Sammy! Can I come with and hang out at the hotel? Just for a little bit?” I whipped my head back, my hair swinging with it, to see his face before Sam even answered.

I wanted to see if steam came out of his ears.

“Fuck yeah! You can crash with me if you want!”

One corner of my mouth lifted and curled. “Perfect!”

I regret to inform you that no steam came out. But I think it was pretty close.

When I pulled in at the hotel, I texted Sam and he told me they were in the lobby so I flipped my visor down, checked my face and fluffed my hair. After a deep breath, I got out of the car and made my way inside. 

The hotel wasn’t anything too ritzy, and I figured despite it all, they weren’t that famous. Sam still looked and sounded like the best friend I’d grown up with, though there was something about him that had become more attractive. All of them actually exuded more… sex appeal? 

Ugh, musicians. 

My timing was pretty good, I entered the building in time to catch them getting in the elevator, Jake being the last left in the lobby. But we caught each other’s eye and instead of walking on, he backed up a step. The doors closed and the elevator rose without him. 

He stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and waited for me to reach him. When I did, he spoke before I could. 

“What are you doing here, T?”

I painted confusion on my face instead of the pure gratification I actually felt. “Visiting my friends? What are you-“

“Cut the bullshit. It’s unbecoming.”

Okay, that was a little wrinkle in my plan. I hadn’t even started shamelessly flirting with anyone yet and he was already cursing at me. I doubled down.

“I came to see them, Jake.” I pressed the button to call the elevator back down and crossed my arms.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” Just as I glanced up, feigning more interest in the LED display of numbers as the elevator came down than this conversation, he stepped closer and gripped my arm. Pulled me closer.

It felt familiar.

“I’m not buying it. Come on.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened to an empty car, but he was already pulling me down a hall toward a stairwell door. It swung open as he shoved through it, yanked me through and pushed me ahead of him, and it slammed shut behind us.

The stairwell was silent, our breathing was amplified and bounced off the walls. His voice made me flinch.

“Third floor. Go.”

Four flights of stairs and two landings separated me from their room. That was fine, I could do it.

Except he stayed behind me the entire time and didn’t speak a word. By the time I pushed the door to the third floor open, my nerves were fried and I was still trying to discern his reasoning for taking the stairs. If he had yelled at me or pushed me to the wall and kissed me in the stairwell, it would’ve made more sense. Instead, he placed a hand low on my back and led me down a deserted hallway to room 307. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, ready to abandon the plan completely and run to Sam, use him as a personal human shield for the rest of the night.

But he pulled a key card out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, and the heavy door opened to a dark, empty room. 

Jake stepped inside and flicked on a light, holding the door open for me. I didn’t move.

“Jake, what-“

“Get in here, we need to talk.”

It sounded like a terrible idea, I hadn’t come here to talk. I came to spend time with Sam and do enough harmless flirting with the guys to drive Jake crazy. 

“No. Where are the guys?”

He just stared at me for a tense few seconds before he sighed impatiently. “In Sam and Danny’s room.”

“And which room would that be, exactly? I’ll just go knock-“

“Please.”

I know, I know. Did he really have to go and ask nicely?

“Fine, you know what? You have five minutes then I’m the fuck out of here.” He had the nerve to give me a tight-lipped smile, lift his palm and wave me in as I started to pass him and head into the room. Then he let the door swing shut.

We were alone.

The room was pretty standard, two queen-size beds, a table and two chairs. Not exactly rockstar shit. I tossed my coat onto the closest bed.

“You want a drink?”

I dropped into a chair, crossed my legs and folded my hands over my knee. “No, I don’t. What did you need to talk to me about? You have four minutes.”

He pulled a White Claw out of the mini fridge, popped the tab and sat at the end of the bed closest to me. After a swig from the can, he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. 

“Three minutes.”

“Jesus, give it a rest, T.” He pinned me with a glare and my eyes widened. “Don’t. Don’t act all affronted because you’re not getting your way, I’m sick of it.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, I-“

“Stop! Tell me why you’re really here.”

“To see Sam! I told you-“

He stood from the bed, leaned across me and slammed the can onto the table. I jumped in my seat, but then he bent down and gripped the arms of the chair on either side of me. Right in my face, he ripped me to shreds.

“I’m tired of this, T. Since day one, everything has always had to be all about you, your feelings, your stupid ideas, your fucking games.”

That was ridiculous and it straightened my spine, I sat up taller and put us nose to nose, but he didn’t stop.

“How many times have you come between us and Sam? Pitted us against each other? Run away when you didn’t get your way, with one of us or all of us?”

With a huff, he pushed himself away from me but now I was ready for a fight. Launching from the chair, my body followed his. “And what about you, Jake?  You spent years fucking with me, leading me on, just to humiliate me over and over again!”

“Is that really what you think?!” We were squared up now, hands flailing as we yelled in each other's faces. “I didn’t do shit, and you spent years avoiding me, making me feel awkward and unwelcome in my own house because God forbid I ever be in the presence of such a self-entitled, delicate fucking princess!”

“Oh, you fucking prick. Fuck you-“

“So eloquent, that’s really lovely Tiny.”

You already know that he said that on purpose.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” I was fuming, the steam was probably coming out of my ears, and that pissed me off further. Everything about this was infuriating, my night completely off-railed, my time with my friends ruined. I was done.

I threw my hands up and then put them on his shoulders, with all intention to shove him out of my way and walk out of the room with some part of my dignity intact, for once.

But that’s not exactly what happened.

Because once I touched him, the tension reached a breaking point. And boy did it break.

Before I could push him away, his arms were around me, his hands spread across my back, and he pulled me in. 

Yep, he was kissing me. 

Our mouths slammed together and all the anger, all the fury, combusted between them.

My own hands betrayed me and shot from a grip on his shoulders to a grip in the hair at the back of his head, still slightly damp from sweat or a shower at the venue, I had no idea. And I didn’t care.

He ravaged my lips until they felt bruised, opened them with his and forced our tongues to battle for dominance, sucked the air from my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. I pulled away to drag some back in but he hardly gave me the chance, tugging me back in to kiss my lips, bite my jaw, murmuring between the attacks. 

“Why are you really here…”

His hands slid up my back and sunk into my hair, pulled my head to the side so he could continue his attack on my neck, my throat.

“Say it, the truth.”

My brain was in shut down, I forgot what words were and how to make them. His teeth reminded me, scraping along my skin.

“You. For you.”

His lips closed over mine again and he was moving me, two steps backward and we turned, the back of my knees hit the bed where he’d been sitting. Our mouths broke apart, our hands fell away. The sound of our breathing, fast and uneven, thundered between us.

“I’m not gonna stop this time, T.”

My heart stumbled over its next few beats.

“I don’t want you to.”

We fell back into silence as he reached forward and slid his hands up underneath my shirt, rough fingertips pushing the fabric up over my ribs, my chest, I lifted my arms and let him pull it over my head and shook my hair out as he let it drop to the floor. 

There was just enough light coming from the only one he’d flicked on, and the moonlight spilling through the uncovered window, that I saw his nostrils flare. His eyes trailed over my lace and silk covered chest before meeting mine.

“You’re so beautiful,” My breath caught, I held it. “I’ve never told you how beautiful you are.”

I couldn’t speak, emotion squeezing my throat, the words I’d always wanted to hear from him tightening every muscle in my body. So instead, I mirrored his actions and tucked my fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. Soft, heated skin met my touch and I flattened my palms over his hips, up over his stomach and I swear he trembled. Seriously! When they made it to his chest, I could feel the hard, steady beat of his heart, rapid beneath my hand. 

Maybe he knew I could feel it, maybe not, but he leaned in and pulled a soft, sweet kiss from my lips before he took over and tugged the shirt over his head. 

“Jake…” His chest and stomach were lightly toned and completely flawless, a glimpse of which I’d gotten when he was onstage, shirtless under an open jacket. I wanted to tell him just how perfect I thought he was, he’d always been, but the words wouldn’t come. So I bent my knees and dropped to the bed, the barely there happy trail leading up from the low waist of his pants now directly in front of my face.

I leaned forward and kissed it. A strangled noise came from above me, I smiled against his skin. Then his hand was in my hair and he pulled, forcing my face up. He smirked.

“You ever done this before?”

Asshole.

Blindly I reached for and found the button of his jeans, popped it open and worked his zipper down slowly. 

“Please don’t piss me off, or I won’t be nice.”

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Just making sure.”

His grip in my hair kept my chin tilted up, eyes locked with his. I peeled the denim over his hips and pulled it down to his knees. Heat rolled off his body in waves, I was dying to look at it, take it all in but there was fire in his stare and I was burning. My fingertips mapped out what I couldn’t see, found the subtle V that led down into his briefs and traced it before I tucked them under the elastic and rolled it down his legs. 

Jake Kiszka’s cock bobbed in the air between his hips and my face. Crazy, I know. I wrapped shaky fingers around him, felt how thick and hard he was before I’d even seen it, tried to picture what I could remember from his dark bedroom.

“Fuck, T.” I tightened my grip on him, just a little, stroked him once. His eyes slid shut.  “I can’t believe you’re here.” I stroked him again and his grasp on my hair loosened, my chin dropped and there it was. As perfect as the rest of him, his dick was big, the head flushed pink. My mouth watered.

For real.

In that moment, I wondered quickly what he liked, how fast, how slow, how hard? My tongue slid out and tasted him, just the very tip, and he snatched my hair up again. The sting in my scalp made my eyes water and I opened my lips and took him in, wrapped them around him and swirled my tongue over his skin. He whimpered.

I could be remembering that wrong, but I swear he did.

He wanted to take control, I could feel it in the smallest amount of pressure from his knuckles on my scalp, but I wanted to be stubborn. I was tired of the control he seemed to have over every one of our interactions. I released him with a soft pop and his eyes shot open. 

“C’monnn,” he groaned. I took my hand off of his dick and pushed him back, he almost stumbled, his legs still trapped in his half-removed jeans. I stood from the bed, spun us around and reversed our positions, then pushed him by the shoulders to sit.

“Patience, Jake, patience.” I flicked the front clasp of my bra open and felt the unrestrained relief as my tits spilled out, then that flutter of satisfaction as his eyes went wide right before going soft and dreamy. What can I say, Jake’s a breast man. “Aht.” He’d reached for them, lifted his hands like he just couldn’t wait to feel them again, but they paused in midair. “I said patience.”

He huffed out a sigh and dropped them, so I continued. Made a little show out of unzipping my boots, sliding them off and peeling the skin-tight material of my pants down my legs. His fingers flexed against his thighs the entire time, clenching into fists and releasing over and over. I waited until I was left in just the lacy thong to instruct him to remove his pants. 

His boots were kicked off and denim tossed away in an instant.

And there we were again. Jake, fully bared to me while we stared at each other, my tits out and pussy covered. But this wasn’t going to end the way it did two years ago. 

Not if I had anything to say about it.

I dropped to my knees and his legs spread, making room for me to kneel between them. His cock jumped when I touched him, just my fingertips, up his shins and over his kneecaps before I placed my palms flat on his thighs. When I peeked up at him through my lashes, he was staring hard, jaw clenched and nostrils flared again. So I continued to trace my fingers over his skin, further up his thighs, over his hips, up and down his happy trail. 

Through gritted teeth, “Baby, please.”

Baby? I was throbbing, slick between my thighs already but that hit me like lightning.

I wrapped a fist around him at the base and took him all the way to the back of my throat.

I had to. 

A string of rough curses fell from his lips and a hand tangled in my hair, but I kept my composure, sucking him in and stroking with my fist, letting him sink as deep as I could without choking. His skin was hot velvet on my tongue, I could taste his desire, his need, and I couldn’t help the moan that rippled up my throat around his cock.

“Jesus fuck.” His hips jerked, I gagged around him, he fisted the hair at the back of my head and yanked me off of him. “Get up here.”

Remember how I wanted to maintain the control here? Yeah, I failed. 

He used his grip on my head to bring my lips to his, his tongue sweeping in to dance with mine immediately, his hands moving down my body to pull me up and into his lap. I threw my arms around him and rocked into it instantly, his roving hands landing on my ass and pulling me in, his dick rock hard and slick with my spit grinding against my silk-covered pussy.

Just like that, I lost control of my insolent mouth too.

The kiss broke and I rested my forehead on his, my eyes trained on what was happening between our hips. “God… I-“ The head of his cock caught on my clit, I gasped at the feeling. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Embarrassing, I know. But then… ohh then.

His hands skimmed up my ribs until they were cupping my breasts, thumbs grazing over my nipples. 

“I’ve wanted you longer, T. Forever.”

Goosebumps. Literal goosebumps ran up my arms, I shivered, my nipples tightened, and he pulled one into his mouth. He sucked and lapped at it, thumb still moving over the other, and without hesitation he sunk his teeth in. 

“Fuck yes, yes yes…”

His tongue circled it again and he released it, pressed a hot and fast kiss to my mouth. 

“You still like that, huh?” He chuckled as he opened his lips over the other side. The silk between my legs was soaked, I could feel how easily I was sliding over his cock, and I was getting impatient despite the way I’d reprimanded him hardly ten minutes ago. 

“Jake, please…”

He popped off of my nipple and pulled another kiss from my lips, then leaned back and let one corner of his mouth curl up, self-satisfied and cocky.

Still an asshole. 

“Please what, baby? Tell me.”

My eyes rolled, even as he tucked his face into the crook of my neck, nipped and licked me there.

“I want you inside, please fuck me.” Self-control, out the window.

“Mmm,” he hummed into my skin, “No.”

Before I could be properly offended, and believe me, I was, he gripped my thighs and hauled me up, then deposited me onto the mattress. Well, tossed me, really. I bounced once, arms and legs flailing, hair falling in my face. By the time I pushed it away and propped myself up on my elbows, he was standing at the foot of the bed, dick in his fist. I opened my mouth to speak, to yell at him or beg him to stick it in, I don’t know, but he was stroking himself, and he moaned. My mouth snapped shut.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I scoffed, offended, pissed even. “Yet.” He let himself go and placed his hands on the mattress, then climbed onto the edge of the bed and started crawling towards me.

It was so fucking hot. His cheeks were flushed, his hair wild from my hands, his eyes dark. I backed away, moving up the bed until my shoulders met the headboard. He didn’t stop coming, and I didn’t want him to. Instinctively, my knees bent and my legs fell open, inviting him in. But he didn’t settle there, when his hands reached me, he grabbed me by the calf and threw my leg over his shoulder on his way down. 

His mouth opened over damp silk and I cried out, his name or God’s, I’m not sure, but his lips and tongue were moving against me and I may have blacked out. I came to when one of his hands skimmed up my inner thigh, and he broke away long enough to slip two fingers under the material and tug it aside. 

Jake Kiszka’s tongue was on my actual, bare pussy. 

My shoulders sagged against the headboard as I reached for him, burying my fingers in his already tangled and unruly hair, our eyes met and he dragged his tongue over me again and again.

“Shit, you were right, this is better,” I panted. He smiled against my cunt and I felt it. I smiled too.

My cheeks hurt I was smiling so hard, until he laser-focused his attention to my clit. His lips wrapped around it and he sucked it past them, my jaw dropped. 

“Oh, oh my God, oh my God!” He was good at this. Too good. The beginnings of an orgasm were already swirling, tightening in my belly, making my toes tingle. The tip of his tongue moving against me until he opened his mouth over me again, and I felt it plunge inside me. The sounds I was making were unholy but I had no shame, I couldn’t feel anything other than need. I needed to scream, I needed to come, I needed him. 

He brought a hand up around my thigh and ran his thumb over my folds, licking himself as he lapped at me, then swirled it over my clit as his tongue fucked me. Before I could even moan, two fingers from his other hand replaced his tongue inside me.

“Jake!”

His head tilted and he pressed his lips against my thigh, kissed it and grinned. “Yes?” Fingers everywhere, filling me and fucking me, circling the most sensitive part of me - I forgot what I wanted to say, if I had even wanted to. Instead I pulled his mouth back, he slid his thumb away and flicked his tongue against me. 

“Yessss, yes just like that, please!” I let my eyes close and stars were already dancing behind my lids, I was close, so close, and I told him so. I moaned it and his fingers plunged deep and curled. I screamed it and he sucked my clit back into his mouth. 

I came hard, nails dug into his scalp, bucking my hips against his face, screaming his name. 

It was unreal. College guys had nothing, fucking nothing, on him.

Before my muscles had even relaxed, he lifted his head from between my thighs and moved up my body, his fingers still pumping slowly inside me as he kissed my hip, my stomach, my breast on his way up to my mouth. He tasted like me when my tongue touched his, and he eased his fingers from my body. 

“Absolutely fucking stunning, breathtaking.”

His breath was taken? I still couldn’t breathe, my chest continued to heave as he left the bed, taking my panties down my legs with him, and I could barely lift my head to see what he was doing. My eyes closed and I felt the mattress dip with his weight as he returned and settled on his heels between my legs, still splayed open. I cracked an eyelid and found him watching me, wrapped condom held between his fingers. 

Under his gaze, I shifted down until my head rested on the pillows, spreading my legs wider, pussy presented to him on a silver fucking platter.

This was happening. There was absolutely no way this was not happening. Not this time.

“Now, Jake.” Unrecognizable, my voice had a distinct sex kitten-like quality that I loved as soon as it hit my ears. He must have loved it too, because his dick twitched and he gripped it. I reached up and snatched the condom from his fingers, tore it open and started rolling it on while his eyes bugged out and his jaw fell slack.

“Jesus, not your first time, huh?” My hand replaced his around him and I stroked, he leaned over me and I guided the head to my center, moved it through the slick pool of arousal there. He paused, poised to enter me, and met my eyes.

“I’m pretty much out of firsts, Jake.”

His eyes closed, his hips rocked forward, and he pushed just past my opening, the tip not even fully inside me.

I tilted my own hips up, he slipped a fraction of an inch deeper. I whispered, and it was sexy, and seductive. “It could’ve been you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, opened his eyes and we watched each other’s faces as he sunk deeper, slowly, to the hilt. “It should’ve been me.”

Stunned, speechless, we stayed like that. Unmoving, bodies connected, eyes locked. He broke first, dropping his lips to mine and rocking into me softly. A sound I’d never heard before, quieter than a moan, crept up his throat, trapped behind his lips as they caressed mine. My legs lifted, cradling him between my thighs and wrapping around him. 

It was gentle, sweet. The exact opposite of how I knew it would’ve been, if I’d let him be my first, thinking he wasn’t. 

I felt my cheeks warm, my eyes pool with tears. I blinked them away. This was everything I’d wanted and more. I knew I’d been an idiot to think otherwise. Especially when he pulled back and delivered a quick, deep thrust and there was no pain. Only pleasure bloomed inside me, hot and volatile. 

“Again, more…”

An excellent listener, he repeated it. Again, again, and I met each thrust with my own. Our kiss turned frantic, sloppy, lips and tongues clashing and pushing, pulling and taking. The temperature in the room was rising with the heat of our skin, our bodies slipping against each other. He lifted his chest from mine, hands braced on the pillows on either side of my head, and the conditioned air on our damp skin made us both groan in ecstasy.

I damn near came again, almost commented on it but he dropped back down and shoved an arm between me and the mattress, rolled us both. We laughed as we landed, his hair strewn across the pillow and mine falling in his face. My laughter stuck in my throat when he grabbed onto my thighs and pulled, tucking my knees against his hips and forcing me to sit. I propped myself up with my hands on his chest and fell back into the rhythm, my hips rolling. 

“Goddamn, you feel so good, look so good riding me.”

My head fell back as his words rippled through me, his fingertips digging into me, his hands moving my body over his. He brought one to my chest, squeezed me roughly, rolled my nipple with his fingers, pinched it. Hard.

“Yes!” He did the same to the other, my pussy clenched around him. 

“You like when it hurts a little, don’t you?”

“I- I don’t know, I guess so- ohhh!” He wrapped a hand around each tit and sunk his fingertips into my flesh, then kneaded them both, ran the pads of his thumbs over the peaks. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot. You’re fucking perfect.”

Yeah, I lost my mind a little bit. My hips bucked wildly in his lap. Perfect? Me? My nails pressed into his skin, I dragged them down his chest, reveling in the sharp hiss sucked between his teeth, the way his own hips lifted from the bed and he fucked into me. Sharp, fast thrusts hitting me so deep I was screaming his name. He sat up and pulled my face to his, kissed me hard, bit down on my bottom lip, and then tipped me backwards.

My head was nearly hanging off the end of the bed, but really, who cares? My ankles locked behind his back and he was slamming his hips into the back of my thighs.

Fuck, was I gonna come? He had to be close. I lifted my head, now very much hanging off the bed, to ask him.

Beep. Click.

His hips stuttered and paused, we both whipped our heads to the door, which was fucking opening. 

Josh appeared, his foot crossed the threshold and he was looking down at his phone. 

“GET OUT!!” We yelled in unison. Josh’s head popped up, his eyes went huge, and then he laughed. 

“Shit, sorry guys.” He started backing out into the hall, the door creaking closed. “About time,” We heard him chuckling to himself and the door clicked behind him.

Jake turned his face back to me and seemed to realize for the first time that I was barely on the mattress. An arm wrapped around my back and he shifted us until I could look him in the eyes.

“What the fuck…” I whispered up at him.

His smile was subtle and affectionate before it stretched to a full grin, and he huffed a laugh.

“There was no fucking way I was stopping.”

I matched his grin and lifted to pull a kiss from his lips. “Good.”

He tucked his face into my neck and began the roll of his body into mine again. I let my hands roam across his back as he kissed and nipped my skin and his thrusts picked up speed. The orgasm that had been teasing me before we were interrupted built again quickly, and Jake was panting in my ear. 

But then… then. A whisper. Low and deep, but a whisper nonetheless. 

My name, my real name, hit my ear and I gasped, right on the edge.

“Come for me. Please come for me.”

How could I say no?

It broke, crashed, consumed me. His name on my lips as I tightened, writhed, and shook for him. 

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, he chased after me and followed into the flames. My name burned into my flesh by his kisses, a guttural groan as he came inside me. 

Easily the best orgasm I’d ever had. Easily.

Because he’s just a man, albeit an incredibly hot, multiple-orgasm-inducing man, he collapsed on top of me. I let him. I ran my hands over his sweat-dampened hair and the soft skin of his back and we both caught our breath. Then he started giggling. 

I pinched his ass. “What’s so funny, Kiszka?”

His head popped up and he propped himself on an elbow, a wide grin splitting his face in half, gorgeous. “I can’t believe we waited so long to do that, that might’ve been the best sex I’ve ever had.”

We both laughed as I slapped his chest. “Might be?!”

“Okay okay, you’re right.” He looked at me dreamily, his eyes bouncing around my face. “It was the best.”

Because I’m a woman, albeit a mind-blowing sex goddess, I started overthinking. I couldn’t help it! You should’ve seen the way he was looking at me. 

“Jake…” He lifted his eyebrows, I lifted a hand to his face, tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “What does this mean?”

Those eyebrows knitted together, a quick moment to think that over. Then he kissed me, soft and slow. 

“I don’t know what it means. But I do know this hotel has free breakfast downstairs, so be up and ready by nine.” His smile stretched again, and I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Oooh, do you think they have French toast? That’s Sam’s favorite.”

He attacked me, tickled me until I had tears in my eyes, kissed me until I was breathless, and fell asleep with his arms around me.

The truth is, I don’t remember the exact moment I fell utterly, completely in love with Jake Kiszka. Maybe you should ask him. 

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Chapter 1: Welcome to Thorpe Abbott

Gale Cleven x Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: When their plane is diverted to Thorpe Abbott airfield Hope and Ruth’s lives change forever. These two brave nurses must face the trials and tribulations of war, as well as suffering the heartache that war inevitable brings with it.

Collab: A Pair of Silver Wings by @major-mads

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the C47 as it soared over the English countryside. The patients had finally settled, the morphine taking effect and bringing them some sense of relief. Hope slumped back into her seat with a sigh, smiling over at Ruth who looked as exhausted as she was.

“You looked tired,” Hope smiled at her friend who just sighed.

“It’s been a long day. I can’t wait to get back to base,” Ruth pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, sighing again.

Hope nodded in agreement, peeling her sweaty green overalls away from her neck. “Hey Frank, how much longer have we got?” Hope called to one of the pilots.

“We’ve had to make a detour, Love. We’re heading to Thorpe Abbot airfield and we’ll evacuate the wounded to Thorpe St Andrews hospital. It’s not far now.”

Hope felt her heart flutter, her throat going dry as she slouched back against her seat.

“Hey Hope, what’s wrong?” Ruth leant forward, gripping Hope’s hand and squeezing it, her large blue eyes watching her curiously.

“It’s Hugh,” Hope muttered, her eyes a little teary but a smile on her lips. “My brother is stationed at Thorpe Abbott with the 100th Bomb Group. I haven’t seen him in so long.”

Ruth grinned at her, “so I’m finally going to meet this Hugh I’ve heard so much about.”

Hope laughed, patting her friend on the back, “you will but don’t get any ideas.”

The aircraft soared towards its destination, the occasional jolting and shaking on the metal bird bringing no fear to the flight nurses anymore. Once the ratting metal coffin struck the fear of God into them but now this was a peaceful ride.

Hope watched out the window as the lush, green countryside grew closer and closer.

“Hey Frank! Stop hugging the hedgerows for crying out loud. Don’t let the girl down before we’ve reached the field,” Hope called, grimacing as the trees seemed to grow ever closer.

“Who’s flying this bird, Armstrong? You or me?” Frank retorted, not looking away from the cockpit.

“Well maybe you could use some lessons in keeping the old girl airborne then. We’ll beat up the airfield at this rate.”

Ruth laughed, watching Hope argue with the pilot once more, “You know Hope, maybe you should have got your wings. Then you could be flying us instead of Frank.”

“You’ve got a good point there Ruth. Ya hear that Frank, Ruth wants me flying instead of you.” Frank’s reply was a muffled curse and both girls found themselves giggling in response. The plane tooled along for a while longer until it began to descend, rattling as it lost altitude and shaking its victims vigorously. The wheels touching down on the tarmac filled everyone with great relief.

“Well that was one ropey landing Frank, maybe I could give ya a few lessons?” Hope asked politely, battering her eyelashes at the pilot who just huffed.

“Shove off, Hope. Now get to it, your blood wagons are waiting.”

Hope cringed at the nickname the ambulances had been given, they were lifesaving vehicles transporting sick men, why make it sound so ominous?

Hope hopped down from the plane, instructing the stretcher bearers on which soldiers were in the worst condition. Between them, Hope and Ruth helped carry three wounded men to the ambulances when an obnoxiously loud voice called, “Well I’ll be damned!”

Hope spun round, her boots scuffing at the earth.

“HUGH!” Her brother laughed jovially, jogging over to them.

“Christ, I’ve missed you, Little Bird,” Hugh threw his arms around Hope’s shoulders, nestling his head into her neck as he always did. Hope couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She was finally in her brother's arms, finally reunited with him after so long. She gripped tightly onto the back of his uniform, burying her face in his chest. He smelt of smoke and engine oil just like he always did.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured, just loud enough for Hugh to hear and he tightened his grip on her further. She could feel Ruth hovering awkwardly behind her and she turned to greet her friend, pulling out of her brother's arms.

“Ruth, this is my brother, Hugh. Hugh, this is my friend, Ruth.”

Ruth smiled sweetly, sticking out her hand to shake Hugh’s but instead he pulled her into a bear hug.

“Any friend of Hope’s is a friend of mine,” he assured Ruth and she smiled, her cheeks turning a deep red at the embarrassment of the situation.

“Hugh, put her down. Look you're making the poor girl blush,” Hope laughed, which only caused Ruth to blush harder.

“My apologies Ruthie, where are my manners,” he bowed down, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Ruth stumbled over her words, quickly excusing herself and hurrying back towards their plane.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Hope groaned, shoving her brother playfully in the ribs.

“I don’t know, I’ve always considered myself to be rather charming,” Hugh protested, puffing out his chest in pride. “Come on I’ve got some friends I’d like you to meet.”

Hope nodded, spinning around to call Ruth to join. The blonde soon was walking back toward the group, clad in her fleece aviation jacket, and to her relief, without a rosy dusting on her cheeks.

“I still can’t believe all the airfields in England, you managed to land at this one,” Hugh laughed, throwing an arm around both girls' shoulders. “You two are in for a real treat.”

As they walked through the base, Hugh pointed out the various hard stands.

“See, right there,” he pointed at a few heavies. “That’s ‘Just-a-Snappin’, ‘Our Baby’, and ‘the M’lle Zig Zig’.”

“Where do you guys get these names, Hugh?” Hope laughed, her eyes trailing over each one’s elaborate nose art, along with some very proud-looking engineers and artists who had clearly put so much love into the bombers.

Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh sighed, shaking his head. “I couldn’t tell ya. What’s your plane’s name?”

“Just ‘The Angel of Death’,” Hope chirped.

Hugh stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Always with the dark humor, aren’t you, Hope.”

After hearing so much about the man from Hope, Ruth felt as if she’d known Hugh for years when in reality she’d only known him for a few minutes. She knew the stories of how the siblings played in the woods of Columbia, Missouri, exploring the famous rock bridge that brought hikers and tourists into the town. She knew of his love for the St. Louis Cardinals, and how he wore his battered and dirty Dizzy Dean jersey for a week straight after they won the World Series in ‘31 and ‘34. Maybe he’d heard so much about Ruth from Hope that he felt the same way.

Before they knew it, the trio reached their destination: his officer Nissen hut. They were long semi-circular metal huts, not known for their warmth or comfortability, but they were a soft place to land at the end of the day…which is a lot more than most young men of the time could say.

“Welcome to my humble abode, ladies,” he announced as they neared the building, holding out his arms in a ‘ta-da’ motion. “She’s not much, but she’s home.”

He began to open the door for them, but a voice in the distance stopped him.

“Charlie! No girls in the huts,” the voice called. “I told you that a few weeks ago.”

Turning toward the voice, Hope did a double take when she saw who its owner was. Approaching them was a tall, tanned blond, who wore a bomber jacket with his hair messily combed to the side. He walked with a swagger that instantly put a bad taste in Hope’s mouth.

She sighed to herself, thinking, ‘Why do all the cute ones have to be cocky?’

Hugh groaned, pointing at Hope. “Buck, come on, this is my-”

The man finally reached them, and Hope stopped herself from being captivated by his blue-green eyes.

“I don’t care who she is. You know the rules,” he interrupted, turning to the girls. “Sorry girls, but I think it’s time for you to go.”

Ruth cringed and side-eyed Hope, already expecting a snarky response to his comment.

“Well,” she paused, checking her watch for effect. “Seeing as we have patients in the infirmary, it actually isn’t time for us to go.”

It was then that he looked down at her upper arm, taking in the bright red and white medic band that adorned her uniform. Ruth could see the slightest show of remorse in his expression as his eyes rose back up to Hope’s.

“My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t know-”

Hope didn’t let him finish, cutting him off. “Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, Buck.”

“Hope!” Ruth hissed, trying to placate her friend, but the woman ignored her.

“See, other than my brother, this is why I can’t stand airmen. They’re cocky-”

Realizing the flaw in Hope’s argument, Ruth ran a hand down her face, secondhand embarrassment filling her. Just when she was about to interject, Buck beat her to it.

“Now hold on. Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, sweetheart.”

Hope’s mind ran rampant with frustration, and she stared up at him with contempt as he smiled cheekily at her. His eyes were locked on hers as they had a stare-down, neither wanting to be the first to give in.

“So,” Hugh cleared his throat in an attempt to break their silent battle. “Let me introduce you guys. Ladies, this is my squadron commander, Major Buck Cleven.”

Buck tilted his head slightly, not breaking eye contact with Hope. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she replied dryly.

Ruth shook her head and sighed, amazed at her fellow nurse’s childlike stubbornness.

“And Buck, this is my sister, Hope, and her friend Ruth. They’re flight nurses with the 806th MAETS.”

Ruth raised a hand and waved with a quiet, “Hello,” and Hope felt a little satisfaction when the man’s eyes widened at the word sister.

Buck’s eyes left Hope for a moment to acknowledge Ruth, who stood beside her, with a nod and a smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“You, too, Major,” she responded with a small grin. He then turned back to Hope.

“So, you’re the infamous little sister we’ve all heard about?” Buck chuckled, placing his hands on his hips.

The woman glanced over at Hugh, who wore a guilty expression. “All good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Buck chimed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know about your little escapade to Kansas City, and how–”

Hope’s eyes widened in disbelief that her brother had divulged her most embarrassing moment. “Hugh!!” she cried, smacking his chest. “You lying piece of crap! You promised!”

“It’s not like I thought you’d ever meet anyone here, Hope!”

Composing herself, she took a deep breath and sent Buck a tight-lipped smile. “It looks like you know a lot more about me than I do about you, Major.”

“It would seem so, Nurse Armstrong.”

Hope trying to change the subject to avoid further embarrassment pointed towards the line of B17s. “Which plane is yours then, Buck?” She raised her eyebrow as if she was trying to challenge him but Buck just seemed amused by the situation and laughed.

“That beauty on the end, Our Baby,” he smiled fondly at it and Hope wrinkled her nose at the ridiculous name. How could grown men go to war in a plane called ‘Our Baby’.

“Well that's stupid,” she blurted out before her brain could catch up with her mouth and she slapped her hand over it with a gasp. She could feel Ruth begging for the ground to open up so she could disappear from the situation, and on the other side of her Hugh just groaned. Buck, on the other hand, just shook his head with a smile.

“Suit yourself. She's a good girl. Never caused any trouble yet.” Hope just wanted the conversation to be over, she and her big mouth had often caused a lot of trouble and just like in Kansas City, she didn't know when to stop.

“Well, I think I'll stick to ‘The Angel of Death’ thank you very much.”

Buck snorted loudly, finding the whole situation rather humorous, including the look on Hope’s face.

“You're C47 is called ‘The Angel of Death’ and yet ‘Our Baby’ is funny,” he cocked his eyebrow, looking at her as though she was a small child who had just told him something unbelievable.

“Yes, she is actually. What's so funny about that?” Hope crossed her arms, glaring at him defensively. This cocky pilot wasn't about to insult their plane and get away with it.

Trying to contain his laughter Buck continued, “Well it's not like you're raining death down on the enemy from that thing, are you? At most, it's a troop carrier.”

Hope opened her mouth in horror, stepping forward, ready to defend their plane's honour at all costs. Buck stepped forward to meet her, their chests almost touching and he leant forward, his breath fanning over her face as he spoke. Hope wasn't sure if her heart rate had increased because of her anger or Buck’s proximity. Hope went to open her mouth again but Buck placed a finger to her lips, silencing her in an instant. His finger remained on her lip for a few more seconds before he remembered himself and stepped back, straining his jacket.

“All I'm saying is your plane isn't exactly an instrument of war. I can't imagine going up without weapons onboard. We’ve got thirteen 50-cal brownings and sometimes I feel that's not enough.”

This time Hope didn't feel the need to comment, still somewhat stunned by Buck’s previous action and why her heart was pounding in her chest.

“Well Buck, congratulations. You're the first man to render my sister speechless,” Hugh laughed, groaning as soon as Hope’s elbow connected with his stomach.

“And my face will be the last one you see if you don't shut up, Hugh,” Hope threatened her brother before smiling sweetly at Buck, who just grinned back at her, enjoying the sibling comradery.

“I could happily live without this idiot but Ruth on the other hand keeps me sane when we're in the air,” Hope ignored her brother's protest and gently elbowed her friend who was unusually quiet behind her.

“What?” The blonde asked, looking over at her like a deer in headlights.

“I said that we would go insane without each other up there.”

“Oh,” she sighed with a small smile. “You would probably kill Frank if I weren’t there.”

The group broke out in laughter and Hope was left wishing that Buck didn’t think she was so violent but he didn't seem phased by the comment.

“No, I can understand that. You need someone you trust when you're up there. That's how I feel about my co-pilot Bucky,” Buck gestured to the sky, a solemn look crossing his face for a moment before it was broken by Hope’s laugh.

“So you're Buck and he's Bucky. Wow you guys really are original,” Hope snorted, normally she would have been embarrassed by the noise leaving her mouth but when Buck joined in laughing, it only caused Hope to laugh harder.

“Don't you start. I get that enough from everyone else,” Buck scolded but the smile on his lips told her he wasn't really upset. Suddenly, Hope noticed the tall dark-haired man had appeared next to Buck, how long he had been lingering there she wasn't sure and it seemed that Buck hadn't noticed him either.

“Speak of the devil. When did you sneak up on me?” Buck questioned, patting the other pilot on the back.

The dark-haired man smiled, his moustache twitching at the corners, “Oh, I've been here the whole time.”

Buck seemed content with his answer and turned back to the group, “Everyone meet John Egan or as he is more commonly known, Bucky.” Hope smiled at him, trying to make a better first impression with this pilot than the previous one.

“Hope Armstrong, it's nice to meet you,” Johnny took her hand and shook it slowly, seemingly preoccupied by something over Hope’s shoulder.

“The pleasure is mine,” Johnny replied, releasing Hope’s hand. Hope thought she noticed Buck tense a little at the interaction but that could have just been wishful thinking.

Hope turned to look over at Ruth. She took in her friend’s shy smile and blush, then followed her gaze to the airman across the circle. Realizing what was happening, she nudged Ruth lightly, a teasing eyebrow raised.

“What?” Ruth grumbled under her breath, leaning closer to her friend’s ear as the guys carried on the group’s conversation.

“You like him.”

The blonde’s smile fell and heat rushed up her neck. “Who?”

Hope tilted her head incredulously, rolling her eyes. “You know who.”

“No, I don’t,” she defended,

“He’s staring,” Hope grinned, nodding his direction subtly and Ruth’s eyes rose to look at him again. Hope watched as the pair made eye contact and Johnny smiled at Ruth, causing a deep red hue to spread across her pale cheeks.

“Uh, I need to go check on the patients,” Ruth sputtered, pointing her fingers in the direction of the infirmary and quickly excusing herself from the group, hurrying towards the infirmary, her blonde curls bouncing with each step. A few seconds later, she spun to face the group and called, “But it was…uh…nice to meet y’all.”

Hugh didn’t miss a beat and hollered back his reply. “You, too, Ruthie!” He then paused until she was out of earshot. “She alright?”

“She’s fine,” Hope sighed, used to her friend’s more timid personality. She had hoped that over time, her extroversion would rub off on the nurse, but so far, she had no such luck. Ruth was more of a one-on-one person, not one for groups of people unless she knew them pretty well. It seemed the smaller the group got, the more Ruth seemed to come alive. It was like pulling teeth to get Ruth to agree to go out with the other girls of the unit, but when she did, she usually had a decent time filled with friends, fellas, and amazing big band music.

Ruth’s admirer joined the conversation, and Hope smirked, watching his eyes follow her friend. “And how far away is your base?”

“We’re in Berkshire, so by car, it’s about three hours, but by plane, probably 45 minutes.”

“So not too far,” he chimed, raising his eyebrows and nodding to himself. Before anyone else could comment, he spoke again.

“I’ll see you boys later,” he said absentmindedly, clapping Buck’s shoulder before disappearing in the direction Ruth had gone. Three confused faces watched as he retreated around the corner. Hope pursed her lips at the new development, unsure of the man following Ruth. “Should I be worried?”

“Yep,” Hugh confirmed with a curt nod.

Buck hit him on the chest, chuckling under his breath. “No, Johnny’s as responsible as they come, darlin’.”

Hugh suppressed a snort, thinking of the commander’s wild habits.

“Anyways, back wh-”

And just like that, the conversation continued, and Hope had a strange feeling of contentment being on base. Finally being with family again.

The conversation flowed easily and it felt as though she and Hugh had known Buck their whole lives. She was about to tell Buck the story of how Hugh had gotten on the wrong train and ended up heading to California when a loud shout came from behind them.

A dark-haired pilot, also sporting a moustache, was waving at them, “COME ON CHARLIE!” He hollered, waving at Hugh.

“Jeez, sorry Hope, I've got to run, I promised Curt I'd help him with something. Buck will look after you though, won’t ya, Buck?”

Hope glared harshly at her brother. He knew better than anyone that she didn't need some man looking after her. She was about to protest when Buck spoke up.

“Absolutely. I’ll give her the grand tour, treat her like royalty,” Buck grinned at her, clearly turning on the charm now and Hope sighed.

“Excellent,” Hugh bundled Hope into a quick hug, “It was good to see you again Little Bird. Keep out of trouble okay?”

Hope hugged him back and nodded but stayed silent. It had been so long since they'd been together and now their reunion was so brief. She watched as her brother rushed away towards his fellow pilot, joining instantly in whatever conversation they were having.

“He’s a good man, your brother,” Buck interrupted Hope’s thoughts and this time she couldn't think of a witty reply.

“Yes, he is,” Hope smiled thoughtfully before turning back to Buck, “Did he just call that man Rosie?”

Buck quickly placed his arm around her shoulder, leading her quickly towards a parked jeep, “Again that is a story for another time.”

Hope had to try and control her breathing as the warmth from Buck’s side seeped into her. She hadn't noticed how cold she had gotten standing still and tried to suppress the silver that ran down her spine. Buck looked down at her worriedly, quickly shrugging off his jacket and wrapping her tightly in it, this time his hand coming to rest on her hip, “There we go, can't have you getting sick now can we, Nurse Armstrong.”

As they drove around the base and Buck pointed out all the highlights, Hope decided that there was definitely something appealing about the cocky blond pilot. Despite his apparent big-headedness at first, he was genuinely very sweet. Hope found herself drawn in by his stories of home and his adventures in England, and she found herself wishing that the drive would never end, that maybe they could even drive off the base and escape together. Alas, she knew they couldn't leave their duty and took comfort in knowing that he was only a three-hour drive away, only forty minutes if they flew. She’d have to let Frank divert more often.

Buck pulled into a layby beneath a few trees that lined the road, cutting out the engine of the jeep. Hope looked at him curiously, waiting as though he was going to say something profound.

“Well, what do you think?” He grinned at her, a crooked grin that didn’t show all his teeth but instantly made you smile back.

“Of the base or of you?” Hope retorted and Buck laughed once more.

“You are quite the character, Miss Armstrong, you know that?”

“It may have been mentioned once or twice.”

Buck nodded, clearly enjoying her no-nonsense attitude that often sent men running for the hills.

“Both? Or neither?”

“Are you asking me to hurt your feelings?” Hope laughed, watching as Buck’s eyebrows creased for a second before his face became expressionless once more.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“HOPE! There you are, I've been looking everywhere. Franks fueled up the plane. We have to go,” Ruth huffed, clearly out of breath from running but her flushed cheeks Hope thought told a different story.

“Okay, I'll be over in five minutes,” Hope promised but Ruth didn't look convinced.

“Your five minutes or an actual five minutes,” the glare Hope sent her way had Ruth turning around and heading back in the direction she’d come. “Okay, but I'll be timing you.”

“I guess this is goodbye,” Buck smiled sadly but Hope just shook her head.

“It doesn't have to be goodbye.” Buck raised his eyebrows, unsure if she was joking or being serious.

“I don't want it to be goodbye,” she added, giving him the most genuine smile he'd ever seen. “Our base isn't too far away and if you want you can write to me. Hugh has my address.” She added curtly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Alright, I will.”

Seemingly pleased by this response, Hope leaned forward and placed her lips against his cheek. Despite the slight layer of stubble, his skin was soft and it had Hope wondering what his lips felt like.

“Goodbye, for now then, Major Cleven.” Hope hopped out of the truck, saluting the pilot.

“Goodbye, for now, Nurse Armstrong.”

Buck watched as Hope hurried across the field after her friend, her hips swaying as she walked, and although Buck appreciated the view he didn't like watching her walk away from him, but he supposed if she never walked away, he’d never see her walking back towards him.

Tags: @georgieluz @malarkgirlypop @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @kmc1989

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith knew it was coming. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. Lance doesn’t mind his own business regularly, but this involves him directly — of course he’d interrogate Keith about it. Keith can’t blame him.

“You know what this is about,” Lance says softly, walking over to sit next to Keith on the bed. It speaks volumes to how miserable Keith must look for Lance to approach this so calmly. Lance is great in a crisis, sure, but he isn’t usually gentle about it. He’s usually very firm when he’s explaining exactly how you fucked up. (And then endlessly kind in the hours he spends helping you fix it. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Keith sighs, forcing himself to look over at Lance even though all he wants to do was crawl under his bed and die in a puddle of mortification.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Talk to me, hotshot,” Lance prods, patting Keith gently on the hip. “One second you’re growling at everyone who smiles at me, big bad Galra fangs out and everything, and now you’re running away from me. We can’t have that, Red. We’re a team, now.”

Keith swallows roughly. He wishes more than anything, right then, that Shiro was back, and he didn’t have the burden of team leader on his shoulders as well as… this.

“I talked to Kolivan, like you said,” Keith whispers. “Uh, turns out we were both wrong. Apparently I’m going through Galra puberty, and presenting as a —“ he makes a face — “as an alpha.”

Lance blinks. “An alpha? Like a… wolf?”

“Kind of?” Keith huffs miserably. “It’s sign of sexual maturity, I guess. A secondary gender. Some present as alphas, some as betas, and some as omegas.”

“Okay…” Lance says slowly, “so you’ve presented. How does being an alpha equate to you acting all bonkers?”

Keith winces. Lord above, he wants to do anything but have this horrible conversation. “The whole point of the secondary genders is to mate, basically. Um.”

Lance starts to grin, very clearly taking a good amount of pleasure in Keith’s misery, because he is the king of schadenfreude.

“Oh, I see.”

“Shut up and let me finish my explanation,” Keith says hotly, but Lance only laughs.

“As I was saying. Because the whole purpose is to mate, we gets these — things. Mating periods, called ruts or heats.”

Lance giggles. Keith smacks him.

“Stop it. It’s not funny.”

“S — sorry,” Lance says, clearly not very sorry.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Whatever. The gist of the matter is that since I have presented as an alpha, I am in my first rut, and my dumbass monkey brain has decided that you’re a picturesque omega. It feels like my brain has latched onto any and all feelings I have for you, turned the horny meter up to eleven, and went ham, so I’ve admittedly been a little jealous.”

“Oh, Keith,” Lance says, and promptly loses his shit.

So much for being Keith’s right hand. So much for having his back.

God, why is Keith so gone on this asshole again?

“This is betrayal. I’m feeling very betrayed right now.”

Lance wheezes.

“I bare my most embarrassing conundrum to you, expecting sympathy —”

He wheezes harder.

“You — you dumbass —”

“And instead,” Keith says loudly, “I get mocked about something I cannot control. You are the worst.”

“Aw, baby,” Lance coos, finally getting himself under control. And, like. Lance calls Keith ‘baby’ all the time. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

But apparently, now that he’s a stupid alpha, it is.

Keith melts, slumping completely forward into Lance, and starts basically purring.

Lance snorts. “This part of that alpha shit too?”

“I don’t know,” Keith wails, reaching blindly to grab one of Lance’s hands and place it on his head. Thankfully Lance gets the hint and starts gently playing with his hair. “I just know that I’m horny all the fucking time, I get blindingly jealous every time some jackass looks at you wrong, and I want to simultaneously whisk you away somewhere where no one can ever hurt you and bend you over the nearest fucking table. Fuck.”

“Well, that last part isn’t new,” Lance says, and Keith can hear the stupid grin in his voice. “But I assume the rest of it is your brain deciding that I am your omega, and as such, the mate you must protect if your potential children are to survive?”

“I guess so,” Keith mumbles. “Sorry.”

“‘S’okay,” Lance assures, leaning down to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ noise. “It’s the sashay, I think. I knew it would come back to bite me in the ass. Mamá always told me it would attract unwanted attention.”

Keith snorts. “Once again, Mamá McClain knows everything.”

“Mhm.”

Lance is quiet for a while, running calloused hands through Keith’s hair. He’s quiet for long enough that Keith is half asleep when Lance suddenly gasps, accidentally yanking on his hair in his excitement.

“Ow, babe, Jesus shit —”

“I have a plan!” Lance announces excitedly, ignoring Keith’s complaints.

Despite himself, Keith grins.

“You always do.”

“Yep! I know how to solve your whole big bad alpha schtick. C’mon. Up you get.”

Keith would love to say it’s because of his newfound weirdo hormones that he gets up and follows Lance immediately, without question, or pause. But unfortunately he knows that he was whipped as hell before presenting as an alpha, and will remain whipped as hell long after.

“Where are we going?”

Lance turns back to face him from where he’s dragging them out of Keith’s room and down the castle’s hallway, brown eyes

twinkling with mischief.

“To the training room.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “How is that going to help? Is it — are we going to do the sparring foreplay thing again? I thought Hunk said that was forbidden after he caught us making out.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Lance says, rolling his eyes like Keith is somehow the dumbass here, “duh. Even though it was kind of fun. But you’re getting all grisly and jealous because you’re ultra-protective right now, right?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Well, then how about I lay you out on your ass fifteen or so times in the ring, and then your hindbrain knows I’ll be perfectly fine protecting myself?”

It’s not a bad plan. Lance has always been the logical one to Keith’s rampant emotion, and this plan is no exception — if Lance were to prove that he has no problem kicking ass, then Keith doesn’t have to worry anymore! It makes perfect sense!

But Keith knows that’s not all it is. For all the alpha-protective garbage his brain is doing is annoying and probably demeaning, Keith knows it comes from a protectiveness over Lance. A desperation to keep him safe. A huge fear of anything happening to him — a valid fear, with them on the front lines. There’s nothing that’s going to dim Keith’s intense need Lance to be okay, all the time; it’s just something he’ll need to fight until his rut is over.

But… Keith will never admit it, but he kind of likes it when Lance pushes him around. Futile or not, he’s not going to object to his boyfriend, sweaty and smug, kicking his ass for a couple hours.

“Sure, Lance. Let’s try it.”

Lance’s dorky cheer makes it all worth it.

[unicyclehippo]

Apartment

they lean on one another in a way that kinda doesn’t help at all. beatrice’s leg is fucked and ava is doing exactly nothing to help, she’s pretty certain of that since she can feel her right leg but not her left, and is leaning as hard against beatrice as she is into ava.

‘we’re - two halves,’ ava huffs a laugh into her neck, strains to drag her left foot forward. it doesn’t feel like a real thing, the way most of her body doesn’t on the worst days, and she wants to cry but miguel is with them so she sticks to flirting lightly with beatrice instead. they hobble to a low fence to sit and wait for camila and her van. ‘we’d fucking kill - at a three legged race, by the way.’

beatrice tucks a smile into ava’s cheek. it’s the closest she ever gets to kissing her and ava nearly loses her fight not to cry when she feels it, so gentle and so light, like ava isn’t really supposed to feel it. like beatrice is the only one who should feel it.

ava pretends to slump—not hard when her body feels like a piñata after all the candy’s been whacked out of it—and tilts her head closer with the movement. feels beatrice’s lips—chapped, because ava dropped her chapstick behind the couch the other day and forgot to get it before they left, and now split from a punch from some random possessed chick ava saw from across the church hall—and beatrice knows, she knows that ava is pretending, that ava is pressing closer because she wants to, and though her hands tremble, she lifts one to ava’s shoulder. holds her upright, because she always does, and it makes ava’s heart swell but not nearly so much as when beatrice tilts her head and lets her nose graze the tiniest bit up the side of ava’s face to her temple where she presses another barely-there kiss.

the halo whirs. ava’s leg rejoins the rest of her body and she groans, kicks it out to test the feeling.

‘healed me with a kiss,’ she teases, low enough that only beatrice can hear. it’s a mark to how much beatrice has changed and grown over the last two months that she only blinks and frowns reprovingly, like ava is making a joke of something holy and shouldn’t. ava smiles back, perfectly sincere and wanting beatrice to see it. ‘and hey, thanks for coming to find me. us.’

beatrice sniffs. ‘it’s my job.’ she holds out until ava pouts. adds, ‘and my pleasure.’

‘i’m here too,’ miguel mentions.

ava lifts one and flips him the bird.

‘you have a lot of explaining to do so until you know what to tell us…shut the fuck up.’

he looks amused and maybe a little bemused, glancing between them, and ava glared because beatrice is going stiff and retreating and god, ava just wants to cuddle, is that too much to ask?

she lets beatrice go, of course. she doesn’t go far.

they sit there until a pink van trundles up to them. beatrice reaches for a knife. miguel steps toward the van, hands balled into fists, like he’s going to punch a moving vehicle. ava pulls beatrice onto her feet because if it’s coming at them, she needs to get her out of the way. but then it slows and yasmine throws open the back doors and everyone looks at miguel with barely disguised suspicion.

ava carries beatrice forward, waves miguel forward too. ‘everyone, miguel. he’s from the otherside maybe and ate a wraith demon.’

miguel flinches. ‘i thought that was between us.’

‘not anymore. miguel, this is the OCS. tactical nuns.’

‘you were serious about that,’ he realises. ‘i’m an idiot.’

ava thinks about reassuring him or making the introductions nicer but then beatrice puts weight on her bad leg and it buckles and suddenly she has more important things to do, like carrying beatrice very gently and carefully to the van and setting her down on one of the benches. she goes to her knees, reaches for the boot of her bad leg, but beatrice shakes her head.

‘no, no, i’m fine. thank you, ava,’ she says, all proper and tense, and ava remembers that there’s a whole bunch of nuns around them and maybe touching beatrice’s leg—even to help—crossed a line.

ava smiles. throws herself back onto the opposite bench. ‘what a fucking night.’

‘language, ava,’ comes from three directions, and she has to laugh.

//

miguel directs them to jillian’s mansion, which mother superion is familiar with, and ava would put the pieces together faster except yasmine’s words keep turning over in her head and she turns the crown over in her hands and beatrice is hiding winces every time the van hits a bump, so she’s not really thinking about it.

but then miguel is michael and jillian is his mum and they’re spilling out into the mausoleum of a mansion, all noise and bustle and drawn curtains and a mother in mourning, and this is the first time ava has been witness to a resurrection. jillian cries into michael’s shoulder and then again when she thinks no one is watching and ava is relieved when they’re shown to their rooms, doubly so when beatrice ignores her own and puts their singular bag at the foot of ava’s bed.

‘are you alright?’ she asks, softly, when ava collapses back onto the seriously comfy bed.

‘yeah.’

‘ava.’

‘i miss our apartment. and i don’t know why vincent didn’t kill me, and i hate being paralysed and the halo switching off and i’m scared,’ she continues, saying it half to beatrice and half to the ceiling. ‘and no one was happy when i came back to life and i don’t have a mum.’

beatrice softens, mouth dropping in a little oh. she sits at the edge of the bed. ava reaches out a hand and waits for beatrice to take it, pulls her slowly down to lay beside her.

‘i’m happy you’re alive,’ beatrice says, low and quiet, like it’s a secret, like it’s shameful. she won’t meet ava’s eyes.

ava twists onto her side. their knees knock together but beatrice doesn’t put any space between them. a few strands of hair have escaped her perfect bun. she lifts a hand, smooths them back into place, into line.

‘ava -‘

‘no, it’s okay,’ ava promises. ‘it’s okay.’

the struggle is obvious across beatrice’s face but she stays. surrenders to ava’s gentle touch, the way her fingers slide through beatrice’s hair, picking out grass and little bits of glass and dirt from their crash landing. when she’s done, ava slides her fingers behind beatrice’s ear, lays her hand gently on the side of her neck. wriggles a little closer until they’re nose to nose.

beatrice opens her eyes and looks at her. they haven’t bothered to turn on a light, dusk’s sun sinking behind the hills. beatrice looks and looks at her and ava looks back. she lets out her breath slowly. lifts a hand to ava’s shoulder. her hand glides down, skin to skin without her jacket, without her gauntlets, until she holds ava’s hand there against her neck.

‘i miss it too. the apartment,’ she says, words heavy with the weight of everything else she misses but which neither of them will say.

ava wants to kiss her, then, but she doesn’t. it’s too much and beatrice is hurt and ava is still thinking about coming back to life and how much it hurt. so she relaxes, drags her hand away—the rush, not as common anymore, fills her fingertips, her arm, all of her—and turns to lay on her back again.

‘it’ll be there when we kick his ass,’ ava tells her. ‘we can go back.’

[kairiscorner]

HEY RIRIIIIII HI PUKI BEARRRR I HOPE UR DOING WELL TODAY 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽

ANYWAYSSS

i been rewatching adventure time because like the new fiona and cake spin off show is making me AUAUAU and marshal lees new redesign is so AAAAAAAA

BUT ONTO MY POINT

HOBIE BROWN X FEM!READER BUT ITS LIKE A SONG FIC (OR INSPIRED IDRC) BY THE SONG GOOD LITTLE GIRL SONG IN ADVENTURE TIME

BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE THAT SONGS SO HIM?? AND IF LIKE U WROTE THIS ID GO ACTUALLY FERAL

TYYYYY ILY RIIII (*^◯^*)

-🪴

HI LOVELYYYYY OH MY GOD, YES?????? i was an adventure time kid ever since i was like ... 5-7? THIS SHIT WAS MY JAM AS A KID, I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY ABOUT THE NEW SHOW, I HAVEN'T WATCHED IT YET THOUGH BUT I PLAN TO ... that scene in the original show really is so hobie x reader core omg, I LOVE ITTTT also i'm sorry but the 'puki' got me cackling – (imma explain in the comments if y'all want)

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

he's such a bad little boy. – hobie brown x fem!reader

"good little girl... always picking a fight with me."

he was pretty much the most annoying asshole you've ever met–he never took anything about you seriously, pestered you a lot for your height, your grumpy face, your sour mood, your little huffs and puffs in response to his provocation... it was all too cute to him when you'd pick fights with him and be all angry and aggressive as usual. he loved the little banter you two shared, the sleepless nights you two would spend together just running your mouths off at each to sleep–and being pampered yet teased by him all the same. he was the best, worst friend you ever had in the history of ever... and you didn't want to lose him, no matter how annoying he was.

"you know that i'm bad... but you're spending the night with me."

"back so soon?" you ask him as he climbs into your window with his spider suit still on, only taking the mask off once you let him in your room and slumps in your bean bag, smirking all the while. "your room's pretty comfy, like how... good little girls keep their rooms as." he teased, making you pout and puff your cheeks up. "is that supposed to mean something, hobart?" you asked with extra emphasis on his name, making him smirk and shrug. "hey, now, it's up for interpretation." he said with a chuckle, making you groan loudly. "well, at least let me play your guitar. maybe... smash a few simpletons' heads in with this." you murmured as hobie gently took your hands in his, correcting your finger positions on his electric guitar.

"what do you want from my world? you're a good little girl..." he asks you, with slight rhetoric, knowing you were never one to disobey the rules and let alone wish to play loud, 'obstructive' music that would bother the neighbors. you sighed and followed hobie's lead, strumming and playing the right chords he taught you.

"bad little boy... that's what you're acting like."

"can't i choose to have fun, hobart?" you asked him with sarcasm in your tone, making him laugh. "of course, you can have everything you want–that's what good little girls like you deserve, right?" he said as he gently let go of your hands and let you figure out how to play a melody you came up with on the spot on your own. "it's just that... i never thought you'd be rebellious. never did, never will." he joked as you gave him a flat, fake laugh, knowing full well he was serious about what he said. "like, i can be the intimidating-like, 'rebellious' bloke or whatever for the two of us, at least outwardly. i'll take the trouble for you, that's enough, innit?"

"i really don't buy... that you're that kind of guy."

"nah. besides... that kind of hobie everyone else sees isn't the hobie i know." you said as you tuned his electric guitar. he raised an eyebrow at you in intrigue. "go on, dear." "well... you may be a little brash, loud, and you love telling assholes in authority to kiss your ass... but you aren't a total blockhead. you have a heart, you care, and you... you aren't as mean and scary as everyone thinks you are."

"and if you are... why do you want to hang out with me?" you asked him in a partly rhetorical way of your own this time–making hobie pause for a minute to look at you, and soon, burst into a sweet smile on his face. he gently pecked your cheek and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him with a satisfied sigh. "i just love to be around my good little girl... can't that be enough?" "then you're lucky i like being around my bad little boy..." you said with a sly smirk as hobie grinned and kissed your lips gently.

you truly were his bad little goody two shoes, and he loved you dearly for it.

tags !! @ii01vq @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @solecitoszn @toneystank-3000 @arachnoia @popeheywardssecretgf @euphovlq @rohansdisciple @conitagray

[radiant-reid]

CATE. I NEED a enemies to lovers blurb where Spencer says something regretful and it hurts reader to the point where she's like crying and he does everything he can to make it up to her ending is your choice ofc

"Are you kidding?" Spencer spits in reply to what JJ had said. It was a joke, really, about how when it happened, Spencer would be the only member of the team not invited to your wedding. That was due to the fact he despised you for no reason.

You've had enough to drink that it's easier to ignore how much you wish he would tell you what his problem with you was because your grudge stemmed from his. And you're at the sweet spot where you're not drunk enough to yell at him in front of your boss in another colleague's kitchen and get fired.

You honestly don't even know why he's there. All he does is stand at the edge of the kitchen island and mope.

Still, he continues. "It's not like she'll ever get married. She'd actually have to be able to keep a partner for longer than a few weeks for that to happen...but it's better for every guy out there that she doesn't."

Your heart drops in your chest as soon as he stops, and his words sink in. It's the type of terrible feeling that makes you nauseous and embarrassed.

The other conversations stop. Your bickering is nothing new, but everyone knows he has taken it a step too far, not only for that evening but overall. There are unwritten rules about what counts as too mean, and love lives are off the table, or they were.

You bite your lip, but it doesn't help the tears stay invisible in your eyes, and the burning need to cry only increases. You don't say in reply, not because you want to take the high road but because you know you can't without crying. You can't even stay frozen there without crying, and you're sure as hell not going to let him see you break down, so you walk outside and slump down on the couch where no one can see.

You try not to think about what type of conversation is going on inside, whether everyone's laughing at your embarrassment or if Spencer's getting an earful from Morgan, who has already been warning him to behave better around you.

At least one member of the team didn't hate you.

You can't do anything but cry, sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and trying not to be too loud.

Then you hear the door open and close again before the footsteps of someone making their way over to you.

Unfortunately, it's the one person you didn't want to see. You would rather get told off by Hotch than have to look at Spencer. "Fuck off." You tell him, not even looking up. His stupid quirky converse tell you who's standing in front of you.

He sits on the outdoor coffee table, probably not something Rossi's going to appreciate. "I'm sorry."

You scoff. That's the final straw, and you look up at him, full of rage. There's no emotion left in you to feel embarrassed. "That's all you want to say to me? Seriously? A half-ass apology that the team probably forced you out here to give me? You can't treat me like that, you know?! God, you're such an asshole."

He nods, not interrupting you. "I know."

"You really should just leave me alone then since you're such an intolerable know-it-all." You decide, crossing your arms across your chest.

"Y/n." God, you hate it when he uses your name but what you hate more is when he talks to you in a comforting tone. It throws you off balance. "I know what I said was way out of line and I'm so sorry I humiliated you-"

You cut him off before he can continue. "No, no, you didn't. You humiliated yourself because everyone in there thinks you're a dick, and, quite frankly, I do too."

"That's fair." He agrees. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, and it's not true. The only bit that's true is what JJ said about me not being invited. It's the assholes that you date that are the fucking worst, and even then you give them too much time because you're a good person. I have no doubt that someone will be in love with you enough to marry you, and they'll be the luckiest person in the world."

It does something weird in your chest, and your heart beats uncomfortably. It's light, not like the heavy feeling of hatred which means, by default, it has to be the opposite emotion.

That is really not good.

"Spencer?" You finally speak meekly, tucking your knees to your chest so you look as small as you feel. He looks up at you from when he had been awkwardly looking at his shoes. "Why do you hate me? I just want to know what I did."

"You didn't do anything." He assures you, cracking a tiny smirk. "I'm just an asshole."

You're not going to take that as an answer. Even if he said it as a joke to deflect. "Not to everyone else, though. Just me."

He sighs, but he figures he has to be truthful if you're ever going to forgive him. "I like you, and I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to deal with that."

"Well, it's not like that." You quip, the words not fully hitting you for another moment. "You're mean to me because you like me? That's not mature."

Spencer nods, again agreeing. "It's not. It was wrong, and I can only hope maybe one day you could forgive me, and maybe I could even come to your wedding when it happens."

You chuckle, surprising him and yourself. "If you're nice to me, I'll even let you be a part of it."