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wbbfannnnnn13 · 13 days ago

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Almost, Always - Chapter 14

paige x azzi

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

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

Hopefully you like this chapter :)

WC: 4k+

CHAPTER 14: AWKWARD (BUT NOT REALLY)

Paige POV

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

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

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

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

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

But this morning? She didn’t hesitate.

She cracked it open.

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

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

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

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

She’d been so sure.

Until everything got loud.

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

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was okay.

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

Actually okay.

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

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

Joy. Real joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SZA’s “Awkward.”

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to land.

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

And just like that, her whole body remembered.

God. That song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They hadn’t talked much since it happened.

Since the line.

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

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

And then, after?

Stillness.

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

Like the aftermath of something seismic.

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

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

“Awkward,” by SZA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You asking if I regret it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice came out quietly. Barely a breath.

“Me neither.”

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

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

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

“You weren’t.”

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

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

Like she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Back in the gym, Paige smiled to herself.

Arike looked over. “You good?”

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

She pulled her phone from her pocket. No hesitation.

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

______________________________________________________________

Azzi POV

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

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

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

No perfect timing. No expectations.

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

Text from Paige: Guess what just played in the gym

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

Azzi: You’re gonna have to help me out

Paige: SZA. “Awkward.”

Azzi’s grin deepened.

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

Paige: Bold of you to assume I ever left.

Azzi: Fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi: You started it.

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

Azzi: With your hands.

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

Azzi: And your mouth.

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

Azzi: And that thing you did…

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

God, Paige.

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

Paige: Don’t even finish that sentence.

Azzi laughed, cheeks warm now, heart thudding steady.

Azzi: Make me.

Paige: Say less. See you in Dallas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was just excited to see her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KK.

Azzi grinned before answering.

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

Azzi laughed. “I needed that one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi hesitated.

Then nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KK didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

She looked down, voice quieter.

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

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

KK let the silence hang for a beat.

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

Azzi looked back at the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

Azzi laughed, tension finally loosening in her chest.

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

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

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

Azzi shook her head, smiling for real now.

“Shut up,” she muttered, still laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d liked it that way.

Until recently.

Until she realized she wanted something more.

Not more than Paige. Not instead of her.

Just more for herself.

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

And that realization came with guilt.

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

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

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

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

Azzi wanted that too.

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

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

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

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

She was going to speak it.

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

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

“I’m ready.”

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #fanfiction

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staybabblingbaby · 3 months ago

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Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 10,680

Notes: Holy shit, it's been like 3 months?????? In my defense, holidays are awful, and this is a fuckin' beast of a chapter. Binnie would NAWT shut up T^T She almost matches the word count for the entire fic so far TT^TT Plus 10 images of texting. Y am i like this??? Huge shout outs to my lovely, patient, amazing betas who made this chapter at ALL possible, @lazyfacecowboy and @brbwritingfanfic. Seriously, this would not have been written without y'all, everyone say thank you! Also special mention for @chancloud8 for negotiating me through the last bit of the chapter LMAO. She kept feeding me fics, they were my reward for doing the writing UvU

Hope y'all enjoy! And I hope it was worth the wait <3

(p.s my ass did NOT do a real final readthrough. If the formatting is weird pls forgive me, I'm sick of looking @ her T^T)

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: Allusions to past domestic violence, flashback of verbal abuse (very vague, but still there), panic attack, she/her reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Prev Part | Next Part (Coming Soon <3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, otherwise you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and rot there. You honestly wish you could. Just rot away and let all this soulmate business pass you by as you slowly return to the earth.

Alas, capitalism waits for no man.

You examine your reflection when you’ve finished, doing your best to ignore the remaining traces of grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as waterproof as advertised.

You try to hold onto the flash of irritation the sight brings you, to cling to the normalcy of being irritated that your makeup is waterproof enough to be a pain to remove, but not to stay through your tears. Then you remember what you’d been crying over and the pit of fear and shame that’s been your companion the last few days comes rolling back.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. Don’t feel like you deserved to cry. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the incoming spiral, ambling your way into the kitchen. You just need to fall back on your routines and feel normal for a bit. You’re not entirely convinced that ignoring your problems won’t make them go away, despite the dark feelings trembling in your chest.

You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the sun had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

Your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. Especially when he knows you’re not feeling your best. The little note on top isn’t new either: usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually, and you’re always touched by his consideration.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

The $20 you’d slapped onto the counter last night is taped to the back. It feels a bit like a stone hand is crushing your heart under the weight of something unknowable and precious when you carefully tuck both the money and the note into your wallet.

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into cold eggs, well...

That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym. You’ll drag yourself through your routine with leaded limbs if you have to, you’re going to have the most regular day you can manage and everything will be fine. It has to be.

You can’t help it when eyes catch on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin as you strip away your sleepwear. The sight makes you uneasy, almost uncomfortable. It takes you a moment to realize why looking at your mark, a daily ritual you’ve kept for years, feels so foreign to you today.

It’s almost alarming to acknowledge that you haven’t actually looked at your mark since you’d met your first soulmate. The concert feels like a lifetime ago, now, despite having been barely two days ago. You’re a bit ashamed to admit that you’d been avoiding looking at it since you’d felt the first flowers bloom.

It’s no wonder looking at it feels weird, you muse as you study it now. It might as well be a whole new mark, for all the changes that have happened since you last saw it.

You decide, in the name of returning to your routine for good, that you can’t skip even this tiny part of your daily rituals.

You shuffle over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

Something wilted and small within you mourns the loss of the buds that had brought you so much comfort since they’d appeared. The new blooms are beautiful, of course, vibrant and radiant and full of so much meaning. Still, the change wounds you.

Only time will tell if it’s the healing sort of hurt.

You find your eyes glued to the fresh flowers. Their names come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads, ‘for gratitude, affection, and endurance’. Your fingers dance a bit lower. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star, ‘for devotion, nobility, and courage’.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

It started with lazy summer days you’d been almost too young to remember. A slim hand engulfing your tiny wrist, being made to sit next to your mother while she did something in the dirt, her shadow your only shelter from the blistering sun.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many hazy afternoons learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone.

You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by the time your sister had reached her toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny capable hands.

You’d spent hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants.

What flowers liked being planted together, which ones should be separated. You learned about soil types and the nutrients found in them. You learned about ph values, how to measure them, and why they mattered. Anything to have your garden thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer.

If you weren’t in the garden, you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak—despair— that had marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside.

You don’t remember what he’d said. It’d been nonsense, just vitriol for vitriols' sake. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time.

It may have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless, he’d yelled, and yelled, and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything. He hadn’t even made sense.

And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, the soil you’d once called home no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turned away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you’d left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming emanates from your soulmark, and its warmth draws you back to the present. You look down at it, noticing how tightly you're clutching at the garden around your waist, your arms wrapped around you in a weak semblance of a hug. Each of your fingers had managed to directly touch a flower.

The awkward sprawl of your fingers feels natural, as if you’d never sought to comfort yourself any other way. As if seeking out your bond, your link to total strangers, for comfort was all you’d ever done.

It was natural, you muse. It was human nature to seek resonance in their bonded. It was the universe’s way of assuring you that you’re loved. Your soulmate’s way of assuring you that they’re still there.

You gingerly pry your hands away and blankly study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw marks in this garden too. If they’ll leave claw marks in you.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the warm, gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You know it means the people on the other end are pressing against their own marks. You know it shows their care, how that gentle sensation masks the stinging ache your fingers should have left behind.

For some reason, you miss the pain.

You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment, your mind pleading normal, normal, normal.

Maybe jogging all the way to the gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

You enter the building after guzzling down half of your water bottle, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish and you’re greeted by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do kind of wanna go home already.

There’s someone already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. You try not to be annoyed with the tiny delay, but while you’d successfully outrun your demons (for now), your bad mood had stuck around.

Alas, you’ve ventured into the public and found the public there. A travesty. Knowing that you just have to deal with it, you cross your arms and bite back the irritation this complete stranger hadn’t done anything to earn.

Luckily enough, the low and measured cadence of the stranger’s voice is soothing enough to zone out to. Unfortunately, he’s also the only thing around to rest your eyes on, so you find yourself studying his form.

His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them. A vivid tattoo sleeve runs all the way down to his wrist, and you find your stare glued to it.

Large, boldly colored flowers take up the majority of the space, vague outlines of crashing waves and rolling mists filling in the rest with a luxurious combination of oriental art styles.

Beautiful as it is, you can’t help but think it doesn’t look finished.

Dragging your eyes away from such gorgeous ink is quite the task, but you don’t want your admiration to be mistaken for judgement. It gets easier when you start to notice just how fine the man himself is.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his body, now that you’re no longer anchored to his tattoo. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove this man has done it. You’re jealous, honestly.

Your eyes come to a rest on the stranger’s backside. Quite jealous, indeed.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they didn't. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now.

You drag your gaze back up to the back of his head.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze. Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to have gone a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather, he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know that’s true, the receptionist isn’t trying to scam the guy. Even the trial period for this place was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

You send your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly. Whether because of the obvious language barrier he’s working with, or because he’s run out of arguments, you can’t be sure.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

The receptionist (His name is Jake, you remind yourself by reading his name-tag. The owner’s nephew, if you recall) looks relieved to see you after whatever hassling the stranger had given him.

He lazily waves the clipboard and its sign-in sheet at you in greeting. You take the clipboard, trading him your membership card and driver’s license for it, and turn to prop your knee up on the counter to balance it while you write.

Incidentally, your choice of position keeps the stranger in your line of sight.

It also happens to give Jake a view of his own, but you magnanimously ignore his gaze wandering to your chest. If only because you’re still looking not-so-respectfully at the tattooed stranger a few feet away.

You weren’t close to the receptionist by any means, but Jake is easy to chat to, when you take the extra minute to do so. The type of acquaintance you’d never remember the name of if it weren’t pinned to his lapel, but you've seen pictures of every dog he’s ever had.

It makes it easy to pry him for gossip.

“So what was that all about?” You query as you hand back the clipboard. He shrugs at you, typing a second longer.

“Some big-shot who needs a security detail,” He answers, unimpressed, “Says this is the only gym in, like, five miles of his hotel that he doesn’t need an entourage to go to.”

You hum your understanding, now trying to place if the handsome stranger was someone you knew of.

Situations like that weren’t uncommon for this gym. Celebrities that actually lived in LA weren’t spotted here very often but, since it was settled very close to quite a few high-security luxury hotels, the building saw its fair share of famous faces.

Due to its occasionally high-profile clientele, security was kept quite tightly, and a certain code of conduct was expected amongst the gym’s members. It was another justification for the long trial period, wherein one could only access the front room with the basic weights and machines. All the fancy stuff (including a pool, rock wall, dance studio, and all sorts) was in the back.

Non-members weren’t allowed past reception at all.

It was also another reason you yourself were a patron here. The high security and strict standards made for a quiet and comfortable atmosphere.

At least, as long as you ignored the judgmental looks. Most people who utilized this space were much more fit and put together than you. You tried not to let it bother you.

“What’s the issue, then?” You question Jake, “Doesn’t the owner make exceptions for celebrities?” You phrase it as a question, but you know he does. The unfamiliar faces that pop up for a few days every now and then wouldn’t show up otherwise.

Jake just sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. Considering the celebrity(?) waving his hands around as he spoke rapidly into his phone not far away, maybe he had.

“He does, but he’s out of town and no one else can adjust the contracts.” He eventually explains. He finally hands you your stuff back, and you hum consideringly as you put the cards back in your wallet.

Another glance at the furrowed brows on the stranger’s masked face has pity welling up your throat.

You turn your gaze to focus on Jake.

“Do I still have that visitor pass?” You ask him, knowing that he still has your details up. Jake glances at you with a raised eyebrow, but obligingly checks the computer.

“Yup,” He confirms, “You’ve been paying for it since you dragged your poor roommate in here that one time. Why?”

“Can he use it?” you nod your head to the frustrated stranger. From where you’re sat, still perched on the edge of the desk, it looks oddly like he’s begging whoever’s on the other line.

Your visitor pass wasn’t all-access, of course. It’d just get the poor guy into the main front room plus the locker rooms and showers, but you figured it’d be better than nothing. It wasn’t like Taylor would step foot in here after you’d run him ragged last time, not even for the moral support.

Jake levels you with his most deadpan stare. It’s quite a good one, completely unimpressed. You think it must be something about customer service that allows him to make that face. Or maybe it’s just you.

“You realize that your visitor pass is you vouching for your visitor’s character, right?” He reminds you, “If he does anything, breaks anything, pisses off the wrong lifeguard- it’ll be on your head.”

You just shrug. It’s not like you couldn’t find a new gym if you had to. You’d miss this one, with its quiet atmosphere and abundant amenities, but you didn’t require its security and discretion like some of the other members did.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Is all you tell Jake. It’s not even a lie.

The poor boy just rolls his eyes at you. He still turns to rifle through the desk for the right form for you to fill out though, so you’ll take it.

“You a fan of his or something?” Jake asks, handing you a different clipboard. “There are easier ways to bag a celebrity.”

“Nope!” You answer cheerfully, fully ignoring the suggestion of your motives as you start to fill out the form, “No idea who he is.”

Jakes huffs an incredulous laugh, and turns a considering gaze on your new friend. And the stranger does have to be a friend now, because ‘some guy’ is not an option on your paperwork.

“I bet he’s a wrestler,” he finally says after a long moment, “Or a sportswear model.”

You gently bop him on the head with your clipboard, “I refuse to participate in your speculation.” You admonish, ignoring his whining.

“I’ll show you his picture when you leave,” He smirks back, “and whatever google says about him.” He shrugs when you send him a cutting glare, “What? It’s public information.”

“Respect your customer’s privacy, you weirdo.” You scold. He just laughs as you hand him the form, all filled out and just waiting for the stranger’s signature. You know full well that Jake will go through with his research, regardless of what you say, so you give up easily.

It’s not like he’ll be fired for doing it, as long as you don’t go blabbing about the poor celebrity outside of the gym. Privileges of nepotism.

You exchange farewells as you hop off the counter, and he begins to wave over Mr. Celebrity. You meet the eyes of your on-paper friend and offer him a quick nod before you scuttle off deeper into the building.

Hopefully he’d be too grateful for your offer to find you terribly strange.

You manage to make it all the way through your warm-ups before your good deed gets punished. You suppose you’ll be grateful to the universe for letting you find your zen on your yoga mat before it dropped the other shoe.

You notice the legs in the mirror before you realize someone is trying to speak to you. You accidentally ignore the newcomer for several long moments, assuming they were approaching to use a different part of the mirror. When you finally realize they’re waiting for you to acknowledge them, it’s been just shy of too long.

You ease out of your last stretch and stand up, automatically taking an earbud out as you turn to face them.

“Sorry, did you need me to move?” You question as you finally look up. You‘d had your most emo playlist blasting in your ears during your warm up, an attempt to process your feelings through movement or whatever that one instructor from forever ago had tried to teach you.

So of course it’s with perfect clarity that A. Jay Popoff sings “I am my own worst enemy” into the empty space between you and Seo motherfuckin’ Changbin.

Your mental plea for a normal, routine sort of day dies a horrible death when you make eye contact with the pop-star.

And you realize you really must be your worst enemy as you do, because you easily recognize the outfit he’s wearing and the vivid tattoos on his arm.

Of course your good deed for the day led you to one of your soulmates. Of. Fucking. Course.

You’re not sure what you’d done to Karma recently for her to be throwing all of this shit at you right now, but you’d appreciate it if she’d just let you apologize instead of whatever cruel punishment this is.

Changbin must realize you recognize him, because he shyly raises a hand to fiddle with his earrings as he replies.

“Ah, no, I uh...” The hand slides to the back of his neck and he clears his throat uncomfortably. You quickly school your expression back into a semblance of normality when he glances away. You feel like you might still be a bit wild around the eyes, though.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” He concludes. He looks like he wants to say more, but you figure he might not have the English words to do so easily. It’s okay, you don’t really have the Korean to describe how you’re feeling right now either.

Your first instinct is to offer to speak Korean for him, but the air between the two of you is already wildly uncomfortable. Vastly different causes for both of you, you’re sure, but it’s enough to make you second guess your every move.

“Oh, uh, no problem.” You assure.

You stare resolutely at his nose when you speak. If you look into his eyes again you’re sure you’ll spill your entire life story. And if not that extreme, you’ll at least spill the whole soulmate thing. Something about being directly confronted with your problems makes you chatty.

But also if you look away from his face, knowing that body is supposed to be compatible with yours... It leads to some very impolite thoughts. Cute as it is, his nose is the safest thing for you to look at right now.

You offer the idol a thin-lipped smile when you realize the interaction hasn’t ended. Dear god, why has it not ended?

“Anything else I can do for ya?” you offer, inwardly cursing your manners. You’ve lived here long enough that you know people outside your tiny country-side town take that as an invitation instead of a dismissal.

Sure enough, Changbin starts to speak again, his words slow and careful. You watch him wipe his palms on his shorts, idly wondering if he’s shitting himself internally as much as you are right now. And what he’s freaking out about if he is.

“You... Recognize me? Are you STAY?” He gestures a bit while he talks, like he’s trying to cast a spell on you to understand what he’s trying to say. You think it might work, because your mouth is running off without you before you quite process the words.

“Ahh.. hah, uh,” You chuckle awkwardly, your fingers rising to pinch your lips nervously, “My roommate is. We were at your concert the other day, actually,” And even as you say the words your eyes flick down to his arm. You refocus, hopefully before he could notice the quick glance, but you can’t stop your thoughts from spiraling.

After all, he didn’t have that kind of ink at the concert. You and Taylor were front row, right up on the barricade, you’d seen all eight Stray Kids up close and personal. You’d have remembered such a vivid tattoo. And there were only so many reasons to cover a sleeve like that so completely.

Something complicated settles in your stomach as you realize that Changbin is probably a ‘loud and proud’ kind of soulmate, if he’s showing off his mark like this outside of his work. Work you know prevents him from showing off his mark.

Your mouth keeps running without you while you have your little crisis.

“I didn’t recognize you at reception, I woulda had you sign something for him.” You can’t help the rush of embarrassment that sweeps through you, even as you laugh uncomfortably at your own joke.

Why on earth would you say something like that? This situation is already uncomfortable enough! On so many levels!

Somehow, this seems to have been the right thing to say, though, as Changbin’s eyes light up at your joke, the tension easing a bit.

“I can sign,” He suggests, “It would make me feel...” He starts gesturing again, looking for the word he wants, “Less bad?” He finishes like a question.

And suddenly you understand his awkwardness a lot better. It always sucks to feel indebted to someone.

You laugh a little more freely with your new understanding, “Oh, you really don’t have to,” You assure, “I was just joking.”

He shakes his head, “Think of it as.. trade.” He nods, satisfied with himself.

You bob your head to the side, pressing your lips together with a tiny, frustrated, whine, “I really didn’t want anything from you,” you insist, “I hold onto that pass for my roommate, but he never comes with me anyways. You’re doing me a favor using it, seriously.”

You try to speak slowly and clearly, taking a page from Changbin’s book and letting your hands roam while you speak. You hope your spell of understanding works as well as his did.

He takes a moment to respond, mouthing along to some of your words. It’s kind of fascinating to watch someone translate in real time, especially when the process is written all over their face. It’s a little surreal to be on the other side of it.

Eventually his face clears, and he makes a little ‘ah!’ noise that you really shouldn’t find as endearing as you do. You’re in the middle of rejecting your soulmates, you should not be finding one of them cute right now.

“If it is roommate’s pass, more reason to sign, yes?” He reasons, looking proud of his logic. You huff a tiny laugh at him, absolutely charmed.

“Sure, big guy,” You sigh with defeat, though you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face, “Sounds like a fair trade. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

The two of you stall for a moment, the atmosphere leagues lighter than before.

When the moment seems over, you make a show of looking down at your pocket-less outfit, and then at the ground around you.

“I don’t have a pen on me,” you trail off meaningfully. He looks surprised for a second, like the possibility had never occurred to him.

“Oh,” He looks around as well, lost for a moment, “I can see if front desk has one?” he asks, like he’s looking for instruction. Another thought seems to occur to him then.

“Do you have...” He starts to gesture again, but you cut him off with a nod, fairly certain you’re sure what he’s trying to ask.

“Yeah, I’m sure I can find something for you to sign,” You point in the direction of the locker room, “I’ll probably have to look in my bag though.” You glance between him, the door to the locker room, and the door that leads out to reception.

“Meet back here in 5?” you propose. He seems content with this plan and nods in agreement. “Oh!” You stop him before he can fully turn around.

“Ask for a sharpie,” you instruct, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to find regular paper.” In fact, you’re pretty sure you’ll be sacrificing the spare ball cap you keep in your bag for this. You hope Taylor likes tie-dye.

With that, the two of you go your separate ways. It takes you no time at all to locate the bright monstrosity of a hat, a souvenir you abhorred from one of your father’s many ‘business’ trips. It would be no loss to you, but you take time to see if you have any actual paper around. You need the processing time.

Stars above, what were you thinking? There was no way you were getting out of this without another soulmate bond, but here you were, casually chatting with the guy instead of getting the fuck out of dodge!

You really couldn’t help it though.

Even when he’d been no more than a stranger to you, you hadn’t been able to help the way you gravitated toward Changbin. Now that you knew he was your soulmate, your actions made a lot more sense to you.

You’d always been on the people pleasing side of helpful, but vouching for a complete stranger was new for you. Even now, you were obediently grabbing an item for him to deface with a signature you don’t even want (no matter how thoroughly Taylor would murder you if you’d passed it up) just because you could tell how uneasy Changbin was with just accepting the visitor pass.

It didn’t help that the man was endearing as hell. Every little thing he did seemed cute to you, and you’d barely known him for ten minutes!

You felt like this was a new low for you. Doing things you didn’t really want to, for a man. Taylor would be so disappointed in you.

Having stalled for maybe far too long, you settle on sacrificing the atrocious hat to Changbin’s pen and put your stuff away. Something heavy and squirmy settles in your chest as you make your way back out to retrieve your prize from the man of the hour.

Surprisingly, there’s no accidental meeting of hands when Changbin autographs your hat. He did give you a bit of a bemused look for the choice of item, but you’d just shrugged at him. It was all you were willing to sacrifice, and Taylor should be grateful for even this much, in your opinion.

Unsurprisingly, the lack of first contact does not ease your mind at all. In fact, it rockets up your anxiety another thousand notches. You can’t help checking over your shoulder at every opportunity, despite the fact that Changbin hadn’t left the weights area since he’d settled there and couldn't follow you through the door to the rest of the facility regardless.

Look, you know how the whole first contact thing worked, okay? Fate would put two soulmates in the same place for whatever stupid reason, and find an even stupider reason for them to make skin-to-skin contact. You’d experienced it twice now, and you couldn’t help but think going out of your way to avoid everything Changbin was wouldn’t help you very much.

Even still, you can’t stay paranoid and vigilant forever. When nothing happens while you finish your cardio, or when you work your way through both the pool and the sauna, you admittedly let down your guard a bit.

Maybe that’s why, after you’ve made your way back to the front room to try and finish your workout, when you’re mid-stretch and staring daggers at a weight machine you’re sure you’ll figure out how to use if you glare long enough, you jump about five miles out of your skin when you hear Changbin’s voice behind you.

Jumping from such a precarious position is never a good idea, and your sudden movement has set your head on a one-way collision course with the gym’s hardwood floors about it.

Hands fly around your middle, catching you awkwardly around your ribs. Unfortunately, all this noble attempt to catch you does is slow your descent, giving you just enough time to flinch violently enough to bring your arms up and prevent your head from meeting the ground and brace for impact.

The rest of you still hits the ground pretty hard, and Changbin’s knees and elbows meet a similar fate, his own head saved by headbutting your stomach, knocking the air out of you even harder than it already had been.

The two of you sit there a moment, groaning with the pain of your fall. At least you don’t have a concussion. You’ll take every small mercy with the way the universe has treated you lately.

Some part of you is cognizant enough to give the heavens a heartfelt thank you when you notice that none of your aches and pains are from your soulbond activating. Somehow, through that entire debacle, and even considering the amount of exposed skin between your t-shirt and his, you hadn’t managed to touch. You’re still safe.

As the shock starts to wear off, you start to become aware of the warmth of large hands still resting heavily against your sides, both soothing and wildly distracting. It’s like every fiber of your being is focused on where he’s touching you, warm and weighty. Changbin’s head still buried in your abdomen doesn’t help with the building fluster taking over your brain.

You swear one of his thumbs has landed squarely on one of the flower buds directly opposite Lee Know’s Bellflowers, and the tingly feeling of the bond weakly trying and failing to establish through the thin barrier of your shirt is not helping your mushy brain at all.

You tip your head back to stare at the ceiling, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth to prevent yourself from doing something stupid, like confessing all of your sins to Changbin right then and there.

Maybe you did have a concussion after all.

It’s probably been less than a minute since the two of you hit the floor, but it feels like ten hours have passed when Changbin finally lifts his head, wide eyes finding yours frantically.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, are you okay?” He uses his hold on you to gently lift you to a seated position, removing them in favor of hovering politely as he fusses. You don’t think he’s realized he’s reverted to his native Korean in his panic.

“I’m alright, I’m okay,” you assure him in the same language, “Just bruised a bit, I’m fine.”

He continues to fuss a bit more, running you through a quick series of concussion tests even after you tell him that you hadn’t hit your head at all. It’s only after he’s helping you to your feet, respectfully allowing you to use a clothed part of his arm to help yourself up, that he clocks the language the both of you are using.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” He teases, “You speak Korean all of the sudden.”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, nor can you help how his smug little smile makes your heart flutter. “I’ve spoken Korean the whole time.” You inform him.

“And you didn’t tell me? You just let me struggle?” The fondness in his smile assures you that he’s just joking, so you respond in kind.

“You were just trying so hard...” You shrug sheepishly and delight in the full body laugh that tears out of him. You wait for him to calm before you ask, “What did you need, by the way? I didn’t catch what you said before, well..” You gesture helplessly at the floor.

It’s his turn to look sheepish now, shoulders hiking up and a nervous hand making its way to his neck, “Ah, that.” he shrugs, “I was just saying that you had a pretty soulmark.”

The sudden compliment catches you off guard, and you suddenly become aware that your camisole has come loose from where it had been tucked into your sweats. Your hand flies up to cover the now-covered skin of your stomach, feeling sick.

You can’t remember when it happened, and the thought of however many strangers seeing your soulmark, no matter how little of it, sends a sharp note of dread through your body. You suddenly feel eyes digging into your skin, despite being covered again as soon as you’d stood up. You feel a bit sick, your skin crawling with discomfort.

You’re aware that your camisole would have ridden up to your lower back, at most, but there’s no telling how much of your mark anyone might have seen. What Changbin might have seen, what he may have noticed.

Changbin must notice your sudden pallid complexion, and continues on, trying to reassure you, probably. You barely hear him over the heartbeat in your ears, your trembling hands trying to discreetly tuck the undershirt back in while he speaks.

“I just meant that it’s very colorful and vibrant,” He explains, smile fading from his face as concern starts to cloud it at your reaction, “Whoever your soulmate is, they’re very lucky.”

“Ah, I don’t know them yet,” You counter. It’s even the truth. You hadn’t spoken much to any of your soulmates so far. Well, until now, you guess.

“Oh, well, I stand by what I said.” He asserts, his easy grin betrayed by the pinch between his brows, “Whoever your soulmate is will be very lucky to have you.”

“I don’t know about all that,” You tilt your head with self-deprecating consideration.

Maybe it’s a lingering guilt for how you’ve been handling your soulmates so far that makes you continue the thought, instead of laughing it off like the joke it should be. Maybe you just want him- want them- to know why you’ve been acting this way, “I don’t even know if I want to meet them, so I’m not sure how lucky they could be to have me as a soulmate.”

Changbin levels you with an absolutely baffled look, as if you’ve just challenged the very foundation of his worldview.

“Why not?” He asks, “Doesn’t everyone want to meet their soulmate?”

You wrap yourself in a loose hug, one hand rubbing soothingly at your elbow, and shrug, “I just... I haven’t had great experiences with soulmates, is all.” You can’t keep your eyes from straying to his soulmark, vibrant and full.

It’s an image that would be hard to elbow your way into, and you can’t imagine a way that the addition of you could possibly enhance it. It still feels unfinished to you, but it doesn’t look that way. You feel both better and worse about yourself, knowing that they didn’t need you.

A glance at Changbin’s utterly lost face has you opening your mouth before you can think about it, shoulders beginning to climb up to your ears.

“Not all soulmates get along, you know?” You mutter sullenly, almost to yourself.

Changbin seems to consider this for a moment, head tilting cutely to the side as he takes in your claim.

“I mean, sure.” He draws his words out slowly, carefully, with a little furrow between his brows. “Everyone fights sometimes, but you get through it together, right? That’s what makes you soulmates. Choosing to stick together.”

You couldn’t hold in the scoff and eye-roll combo that rips out of you if you’d tried. “Yeah, maybe.”

You’d feel bad about the venom in your voice, or the way it causes Changbin to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. Something sick and dark twists around your stomach, and the battle to keep a deep scowl from your face is the only one you’re willing to fight right now.

“I have a feeling that was the wrong thing to say,” Changbin smiles wanly at you, and you meet his eyes for barely a second before you find yourself melting beneath his earnest gaze. The thorns around your heart ease just enough to bleed, and you shrug at him again.

“When people stay together just because they’re soulmates it only makes things worse.” you tell him, “Nothing gets magically fixed just because you’re soulmates.”

Surprisingly, Changbin agrees easily, “Well, yeah, that’s not the kind of sticking together I’m talking about,” He explains, “I meant more, like,” He gestures as he tries to find his words, and your heart positively aches as you realize the habit transcends languages.

You find yourself softening more and relaxing out of your defensive curl out of sheer endearment. You’re sure you’d be making absolute heart-eyes at Changbin right now if the topic at hand wasn’t so deeply uncomfortable for you.

“Ok, let me try an example,” He eventually decides, his eyes following your gaze where it had once again returned to his soulmark without your permission. He flexes a bit, making the flowers on his skin bounce and dance with a small, fond, smile. “I’m soulmates with the other members, right?”

He says it easily, casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You almost nod along, before you remember that the world at large definitely does not have that information, even if you do, and you meet his smug little smirk with wide-eyed shock.

You can’t help but gape at him for the casual confession, glancing around the empty gym like someone else might’ve heard Changbin’s brazen confession. He’s already waving you off before you can sputter out the questions stuck in your throat.

“It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it. It’s not like we try very hard to hide it.” He does a weird little half-nod-half-shrug motion at his soulmark, “But yeah, we’re all soulmates, and we all pretty much knew before debut, even though Innie’s mark hadn’t shown up yet.”

You do nod this time. Slowly, though, as you try to figure out where he’s going with this. Changbin takes it as permission to continue, and so he does.

“Well, Jeongin’s our baby, and even though marks show up at 18, you’re not an adult in Korea until 19, so there’s a lot we had to leave him out on.” He grimaces a little, “Being an Idol is stressful as it is, throwing a new soul bond and puberty and all that on top wasn’t very helpful. We were all volatile and fragile. But Innie definitely took it the worst. He felt left behind and unfair and angry with it all.”

He chuckles and gives a little shrug, “We had our share of knock-down, drag-outs.” He admits sheepishly, “It wasn’t an easy time for us.” He rolls his head toward the ceiling and, despite Changbin’s efforts, you can easily spot the smitten look on his face along with his cherry-red ears.

“But we made it through,” He says softly, “We took the time to dig into all of his insecurities and find what we could do to help him. He made the choice to be vulnerable and honest with us. It took time to get here, but we made it through.”

Changbin meets your eyes again, “That’s what I mean when I say soulmates are about choosing to stick together. You work through the hard times and disagreements together, work toward something better. Soulmates are destiny, but love is choice.”

You let his words rattle around your brain as you get lost in his earnest gaze. Let the idea settle into you like something entirely new, like it wasn’t your understanding of healthy relationships beforehand. Of course that’s the ideal, you know that. No one is perfect and all that, everyone disagrees sometimes. It’s discussing it and finding solutions together that makes a partnership work long-term. You know that.

For the first time, you wonder if you’d just always considered soulmates an exception to the rule.

You’d automatically assigned soulmates as a concept a failing grade at working their problems through. Your parents certainly never worked out their issues, and every soulmate you’d ever seen in the media was an automatic happy-ending. As soon as that bond snaps into place, the story’s over. Happily ever after.

You’d always thought ‘ever after’ must be an awful short time.

‘Love is choice’ echoes through you like something divine.

You break Changbin’s gaze and offer him a half-hearted shrug. “I guess.” you concede, “My soulmates probably have a lot of work cut out for them with me, though. So I still don’t know if they’d want me.”

“I think it’d be worth the work,” Changbin smiles gently at you, “To be your soulmate, I mean.”

You feel heat rush up your neck and bless your genetics for keeping it from showing on your cheeks. You disguise your bashfulness by lightly slapping Changbin’s shoulder (and woah is he solid under your hand when you do) and loudly complain about him being a flirt.

He responds by doing his best to fluster you, clearly enjoying putting those fanservice skills to use. You complain with every flex and smoulder, especially when he starts unleashing the aegyo, and the two of you let the banter and laughter chase away the somber mood.

Eventually you settle, and Changbin nods at the very intimidating machine you’d been staring at what felt like a lifetime ago now.

“Did you need a spotter?” He offers. You hem and haw for a moment, before sheepishly admitting that you need a teacher more than a spotter. When he lights up and offers to be that, too, you can’t help the way your eyes travel up and down his body with open admiration.

He certainly looks plenty qualified, and really, you’re only a girl. If your once-over leaves him with red ears and a smug grin, well. You’ll consider it your revenge for now.

You very quickly realize your mistake in letting him coach you.

Changbin tours you quickly around various machines, explaining their functions and the proper ways to use them to avoid injury. All well and good, and you ask permission to record short videos of him doing so in case you find yourself forgetting his advice, which he graciously allows on the condition you don’t share them anywhere.

You agree after negotiating for viewing rights for Taylor, with the reasoning that the lure of the videos might actually get your roommate back into the gym with you. It makes Changbin laugh enough to indulge you.

And then he actually starts you on a machine, after getting a rundown on what you’d already done today, and you experience hell on earth.

The thing is, he’s unfairly good at coaching you through it. He keeps up a steady stream of warm encouragement and light jokes even as you curse him out for steadily increasing the weights on each machine you work through. He’s right there to help you through the sets the moment you start to get too tired and is almost preternaturally good at pushing you to only just above your limits.

And his hands are always right there. He’s almost always touching you somehow, throughout the whole thing. His touch is light, coaching and clinical, and unfailingly polite. Still, the warmth of his skin through your flimsy gym-wear feels heavy. Nearly threatening. Distracting, at the very least.

You’ll definitely need those videos later.

It’s a relief when it’s over. You’re sore and sweaty and you have to go sit at a desk for six or more hours when you leave, which you’re very much not looking forward to.

Changbin splits with you to hit the showers, but somehow you still come together again before you pass reception.

“Thanks for today,” you say as the two of you stall your goodbyes, “I had a lot of fun. You’ve more than earned that guest pass.” you tease, smile wide and mischievous.

He’s smiling too, even as he shoves your shoulder and complains about you extorting him.

When you run out of things to say, you shuffle lightly in place. It’s not like you expect him to give you his number, he is an Idol after all, but still you can’t quite make yourself leave. You find yourself casting around for something, anything, to say to make the moment last. To stay in his presence just a second longer.

You shake yourself out of it once you notice. You might not be running from them anymore, but you certainly weren’t trying to make friends with your soulmates. The longer you stayed in his presence, the more likely it was that you’d end up with another first contact.

At last, after a far-too-long moment of silence, you hold out your hand and offer a flat, closed-lip smile.

“It was really nice to meet you, Changbin.” You tell him sincerely, eyes locked on his. You swear looking your soulmates in the eye is some kind of hypnosis, the way you always get lost in them when you do. Something about it just makes you feel a tiny bit dumb, like your brain gets switched off.

“You too, y/n.” He agrees, reaching for your offered hand. You only realize what you’ve just done as your name leaves his lips, your eyes widening as they dart down to his hand and yours, but it’s far too late.

Your breath hitches a moment before his skin makes contact with yours, and you watch it happen in slow motion. He grasps your hand and pulls you in instead of settling for the more distant and formal farewell. All too quickly you’re settled into his grasp, completely enveloped in him and dizzy with more than just his warmth as soft prickles dance up your side.

You feel more than you hear him gasp, his hold on you so complete. Your head ends up on his shoulder as you stumble into him from his pull, and you get a front row seat to the top of his shoulder filling in with outlines and shadows from your place tucked against his neck, dull colors adding a definition to the images in his soulmark and settling like they’d always been there.

Distantly, you feel chest tighten with completion, with satisfaction and something smug and proud at the sight, even as your mind starts screaming.

Changbin is solid against you, comforting and almost stiflingly warm from both his workout and shower. You catch a whiff of his soap, the scent muting the alarm bells blaring in your brain even as you lay limp against him with the shock.

And then his hold on you tightens just a bit, only for a moment, but it’s all that it takes for you to break.

Your breath begins to hitch, visions of sweet touches turning sour and threatening violence causing you to flinch violently in Changbin’s comforting embrace. You feel your eyes begin to wet as you start to struggle, needing out, out, out.

It must have been less than a second, but Changbin pulls back, still holding you by your shoulders like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“Y/n?” He asks, voice small. You can only shake your head, breaths coming out in harsh gasps, limbs trembling violently. Changbin hurriedly lowers the two of you to the floor, much more prepared than you are for your limbs to give out halfway down.

He finally releases you as you settle and you curl tightly into yourself. The places where he’d held you feel frozen now, the cold viciously settling into your bones, even as Changbin does his best to get your attention and guide you through a breathing exercise.

You can’t focus on him though, the sensation of flowers blooming on your skin overwhelming, the memory of his touch both welcome and suffocating.

“S- ‘orry, I’m-” You hiccup, “I’m so- so s’rry-” If Changbin is at all put off by your sudden breakdown, he doesn’t show it. He just tilts his head and offers you hushed words of assurance.

“Nothing to be sorry for, y/n,” he assures, “It’s alright, just breathe, ok?”

He offers you a hand and you can’t help but take it, the warmth startling a breath into you that you hadn’t been aware you needed. Changbin guides your hand to his chest, instructing you to breathe with him, and you automatically focus on the heavy thump of his heartbeat under your palm.

He keeps talking to you, trying to keep your attention, but your mind spins wildly away from you even as you finally manage a deep inhale under Changbin’s attention.

You need to tell him that you’d known since he’d first spoken to you who he was. Who he was to you, even, but you can’t open your mouth to do more than gasp another apology. You’re sure he’ll hate you, leave you there on the floor of the gym to die like you deserve, especially after all you’d told him about how you feel about soulmates.

He’ll hate you for putting his soulmates through rejection, for refusing to speak to them or even look them in the eye. He’ll leave you here, humiliated on the gym’s floor, and you’ll deserve it because you’re a horrible person who wouldn’t even give them a breadth of a chance because you were too damn scared-

A hand grasps your spare one, the one not touching him, not keeping you just barely above the waves of hyperventilating, and you hadn’t even noticed it scrabbling at the stretched out neckline of your t-shirt until it’s gently pried away and guided to a wall of firm muscle.

Your fingers instinctively grasp what’s suddenly underneath them, and your vision stutters back in as a soft tingling rockets its way up your arm.

You distantly acknowledge that it was probably a bad thing that your vision had faded off with your eyes stuck wide open, staring blankly at legs you couldn’t feel. Right now, however, all you can experience is Changbin. His mark under your fingers, grip clawing and desperate. His heartbeat under your palm, faster than it should be, but steady and loud and feeling like it’s part of your own body.

Like he knows he has your attention again, Changbin ducks down to catch your eyes. You find nothing in them but concern and a soft emotion you couldn’t hope to pinpoint.

“Y/n,” He calls softly, “Y/n, do you mind if I touch you?” The gentleness he speaks to you with is devastating, like he’s trying to place your panicked mind on a cloud of care. You want so desperately to accept that care from him.

You nod, small jerky movements to indicate your agreement even as gasping sobs still stutter in your chest.

Changbin immediately moves, shuffling closer to you on his knees and releasing the wrist of your hand, the one still grasping at his mark like it’d disappear if you relaxed so much as a millimeter. He uncrosses his arms from the awkward reach he’d had to use to maneuver your hands where he wanted them, and reaches his now free hand to rest gently but firmly on your waist, right over his place within your own mark.

The resonance from his touch is weaker, the material of your shirt in his way, but with both sides active the feeling floods you in a way you could never describe.

You know, in the back of your mind, that you’ve read about resonance before. That you know all about the flood of endorphins and other feel-good hormones that it causes, that you’ve read first hand accounts from all sorts of people swearing up and down it feels better than any orgasm ever could. In the moment though, you feel like your brain has been reset completely. Back to factory settings, entirely blank.

You come back to yourself in slow blinks, resonance still echoing brightly between you and Changbin. Your one hand is still tightly clasped to his chest, and you’re sure you’re only breathing right now due to the steady rise and fall of Changbin’s chest. The two of you are still gripping each other’s marks.

You feel unsettled as awareness returns to your body. You feel floaty and not all there, even as you calm enough to feel the numbness of your legs and the pain in your knees from hitting the floor. An increasingly familiar tingling feeling is emanating from each of your active soulmarks, despite the fact that you know the other two should have no idea how you’re feeling right now.

Your bond wasn’t strong enough for that. You hadn’t given it the chance to be.

The thought that they might just be thinking of you gives you a soft and fluttery sort of feeling.

Finally, Changbin pulls back, removing his hand from your mark and sliding up your arm to gently pry yours from his bicep. You’d wince at the marks your nails had left on his skin if you didn’t still feel like your bones were vibrating on the astral plane from the intensity of a reciprocal resonance.

He gently holds both of your hands in his and settles them between you, catching your eye again.

“You back with me, bubs?” He asks, smile light and tone even. You’d think him unaffected if not for the redness of his ears and the slight haze in his eyes.

Right. Eight soulmates. He’s probably used to it.

He’s also trying to get you down from a panic attack, you remember as your hands begin to faintly tremble in his grip. You nod slightly at his question, apologizing again.

“Hey, no.” Changbin scolds softly, eyes locked on yours, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

You shake your head in refusal of both ideas, opening your mouth once, twice, three times, before huffing irritatedly at the lack of words falling from your lips. Changbin squeezes your hands to keep your attention on him, expression open and accepting. His silence allows yours to end.

“I just- It’s just that I-” You breathe harshly through your nose, squeezing his hands back to ground yourself, “I knew from when I realized who you were that you were my soulmate.” you grind out in halting words, the trembling spreading from your hands up to your chest. You take in a shuddering breath, “That’s why I was apologizing. Because I knew and I still said those things to you.”

You can tell your confession takes Changbin off guard. The man blinks rapidly as he takes in the new information, slotting your earlier behavior against your reaction just now and having trouble connecting them.

“Soulmates terrify me,” you confess quietly, before he can ask, “You’re so nice, but you’re so fucking scary to me, I’m sorry.”

With that, you remove your hands from his, and Changbin just sort of helplessly lets you go, a lost expression taking over his face. You try to stumble to your feet, and he scrambles up to help you, caring even through his confusion.

You can feel the trembling travel to your legs, and you’re glad for his steady hold despite yourself. You feel like a stiff breeze might knock you over.

“I need- I- I’ve gotta- argh!” You clench your teeth with frustration, taking a deep, bracing, breath, before trying again. “I need to go home.” You’d like to say it came out strong and self-assured, but the words leave you in a breathless whimper that makes you feel small and pathetic.

Everything about this makes you feel small and pathetic.

Changbin catches your eyes again, brows creased in concern.

Except for him.

“Of course, whatever you need,” He assures, “Can I call a car for you? A friend? Your roommate?”

You shake your head, hopelessly endeared by his need to help you. You feel guilty for refusing him when he’d just pivoted from the bombshell you’d dropped on him to focus on your care but you- you needed to go home. You needed to leave, and it was taking every ounce of effort you could spare to keep from bolting.

“No, I can- I’ve got- I want- shit.” The curse spills from you unbidden, frustration with the vestiges of your panic refusing to leave you building sharply. If anything, Changbin’s concern only grows deeper as you struggle to express yourself.

“I need to move, I’ll walk.” Your mouth finally allows you to spit out, almost aggressively. Changbin almost seems to despair at your declaration.

Looking at your own condition, you can’t blame him. Trembling like a leaf and barely able to speak, you’d never let yourself leave if you’d been in his place. You can’t spare the energy to explain that if anyone tried anything at you in this condition you’d probably try to kill them first and ask questions later.

You don’t handle stress well.

Still, despite his obvious reluctance, Changbin lets you leave his embrace.

You’re more stable on your feet now, and a deep breath fills you with a facade of confidence that will see you home. Changbin’s hands still hover around you, as if waiting for you to shatter apart again.

“If you need anything, please call me, okay? Anything at all, please call me.” He pleads with you. You only manage to give him another tiny nod before you dip into a full bow and turn to flee.

Changbin watches you go with a face full of concern and confusion.

‘I think it’d be worth the work, to be your soulmate’ he’d said. You can’t help but wonder, as the gym disappears behind you, if he still thinks that.

Tag Garden: @brbwritingfanfic , @braveangel777 , @breathlessbookworm , @chancloud8 , @roseynoodles , @katsukis1wife , @alisonyus , @imnotsop , @pixie0627 , @velvetmoonlght , @upsidedownchaire , @unusuallyshy , @interstellar-equilibrium , @staytinyluv , @m00njinnie , @staaaa4 , @yourcrypticreaper , @beas-24 , @stars4jo , @scented-morker , @tirena1 , @min-doesnt-know , @glitterveins992 , @yumuramma , @shoganaiiii , @4ng3l-ch1ld , @linospetsitter

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#stray kids fanfic #skz fic #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz fanfic #w.i.p fic #w.i.p #baby writes #Stray Kids soulmate AU #SGAU #Soulmate Garden AU #soulmate au #skz soulmate au

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jjjjeonww · 2 months ago

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yoon jeonghan and his ridiculous ways of trying to make you his valentine.

~~7 years of jeonghan's life was spent pining over you, and each year on each valentine day had a special yet ridiculously cute way of him trying to make you his valentine. author's note: just a special something for valentines!! i know im like late to post something but i haven't had anyyy motivation for the past week so i guess this is an apology! pls enjoy <3!! tags!: ( @wonkierideul ... my nini <3 ) ( @kissbyoon first person that came to mind when i was writing this LOL!! my lili <3 )

every valentine's Day for the past seven years, jeonghan had been trying to find increasingly ridiculous ways to ask out his long-time crush, you. his friends would tease him mercilessly, but he remained undeterred, convinced that one day his grand gestures would win your heart. and here is all the silly ways he has tried! (and the way he had finally won you over)

Year 1: jeonghan's first attempt was hiring a skywriter to spell out "jeonghan loves y/n" in the sky above your college campus. however, the pilot had terrible penmanship, and the message looked like a string of nonsense scribbles. you just shook your head and chuckled when you saw it. Year 2: for your second valentine's day (as friends, you said.) , jeonghan tried to recreate their first meeting by "accidentally" bumping into you, hoping to sweep you off your feet. he rented a fake ambulance and hired an actor to play a stuntman. however, the actor lost his nerve at the last second, causing the crane to crash into a nearby tree. you just watched the chaotic scene unfold and couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous spectacle. Year 3: in your third year (again, as friends.), a group your mutual friends surprised you with a coordinated dance routine in the campus cafeteria. unfortunately, none of them had any rhythm or coordination, and it looked more like a pack of drunk penguins flailing around wildly. you tried to hold back your laughter as she watched the disastrous performance. Year 4: jeonghan had sent you a life-sized teddy bear holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, with a note confessing his love. the problem was, the bear was so large that it wouldn't fit through yourr apartment door. you had to call maintenance to help you get it inside, and by the time they were done, the bear was missing half its stuffing. Year 5: for the fifth year, he had a billboard erected in your hometown, declaring his love for all to see. however, he forgot to account for the fact that your hometown was a small, conservative community. the billboard was vandalized with graffiti within hours of being put up. you saw a picture of it online and face-palmed at the ridiculousness of it all. Year 6: jeonghan chartered a hot air balloon to take you on a romantic flight. you were supposed to fly over a scenic valley, but the balloon got tangled in a grove of tall trees. instead of a romantic view, you had a bird's eye view of the inside of the canopy, with branches scratching the balloon. you couldn't stop giggling as you both slowly descended, the balloon deflating around them. Year 7: for your seventh valentine's day, he wanted to do something truly special and heartfelt, without the usual grand but ridiculous gestures. he spent weeks planning the perfect, cute way to ask you out and confess his seven-year (and counting) love for you.

on the morning of February 14th, heonghan showed up at your doorstep holding a single red rose and a small, heart-shaped box wrapped in shiny gold paper. when you opened the door, he the gift to you with a nervous smile.

"y/n, heh morning. and happy valentine's day!" he began, his voice trembling slightly, "so... i know i've tried to express my feelings for you in a lot of silly and ridiculous ways over the years and i know you've rejected me countless times, even when it wasn't valentine's... but this year, i wanted to do something simple and from the heart."

you opened the box to reveal a handwritten note inside, with a cute doodle of the two of you holding hands. "i drew this picture of us together because i want to be by your side, always. i want to go on adventures with you, share laughter and tears, and face whatever comes our way."

jeonghan looked up at you, his eyes filled with sincerity and love as you read the small note: "dear y/n, you are the most amazing person i know. your kindness, your intelligence, your beauty inside and out - it's everything i could ever want in a partner. i love you so much, and i want you to give me the chance to be yours. i don't just mean it just for valentine's day, i mean it from the bottom of my soul. i hope one day you give me that chance, where you can lay your soul bare and naked to me, for i have done the same to you. xoxo, your future boyfie, jeonghan!"

he took a deep breath after he saw your eyes drifting back to him, "so y/n, will you please go on a date with me? not just today, but every day, for as long as you'll have me?"

"you finally decided to do it simply hm?" you replied, eyes drifting down to the note again. jeonghan chuckled and nodded, "yeah..." you giggled and kissed your index and middle finger before tapping his cheek. then you placed your lips to the same spot where you had tapped it with your index and middle finger. he couldn't speak, it was as if you had broken him, well you did. now he's like a robot that can't function at all! his hand went up to his cheek, "oh my gosh... was that real?" you laughed and hugged him, "yes it was you silly." his hands instantly wrapped around you and he whispered, "finally, you're my valentine..."

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hearts4golbach · 11 months ago

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Hello! I hope you are doing great. I was wondering if you could write a Johnnie Guilbert smut where him and the reader have been friends for a few weeks or so, but they both have a lot of sexual tension, that they just haven’t acted on yet. Everyone notices, so Jake and Carrington always make jokes. Then, one night at a party, the group is having fun, and the reader is watching Johnnie intensely. Johnnie notices and decides to walk the reader out of the party and go home to make the move everyone has been waiting for. I'm thinking kind of rough but intimate smut, lots of praise, and maybe choking because he notices that the reader is a little kinky?? 🥰 If you're comfortable with writing that. Afterward, they cuddle, and Johnnie asks the reader if she would like to be his girlfriend. Awh. (There's an edit of Johnnie walking out of a party; it's so fine. That's where I got this idea from, lol.) 🙏🙏

Be Mine.

pairing:

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

warnings:

18+ smut, choking, unprotected sex (use protection), tiny drinking mention.

"fuck, johnnie. you scared the shit out of me." Your pale friend walked into the kitchen. it was half past midnight, and seeing his figure creep into the kitchen out of the corner of your eye scared the shit out of you.

he was standing shirtless beside you. "Sorry, i -" he looked you up and down. you were in your pajama booth shorts and a tank top, both excentuated your figure. "I was just coming to get water."

your eyes hovered on his bare chest and tattoos a little longer than they should've been. "Don't worry about it." You gave him a soft smile.

you were staying the night because you may or may not have gotten a little too drunk to drive yourself home. maybe a lot too drunk.

his hand grazed your waist as he moved past you. "you feeling any better?"

you cleared your throat. "yeah, somewhat. I plan on running home in the morning to get ready for the video, but then I'll be back."

he smiled, "good. im-"

"you guys better not be fucking in the kitchen." Jake interrupted as he came down the stairs.

"what kind of fucking cult meeting is this?" you joked, "why are we all up right now?"

Jake pranced into the kitchen with a shrug.

"I'm fucking dying of dehydration." johnnie finally grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge.

"goodnight you guys." you walked back into the living room and laid on the couch.

it was hard to sleep. your mind was plagued with thoughts of Johnnie. how his hands would feel around your neck, how he'd taste in your mouth. sleeping was useless at this point. it was 4 am by the time you got off the couch to run home. you dragged yourself off of the comfortable couch and slipped on your shoes.

you snuck out the front door in attempt to not wake anyone up. the journey to your house and back was quick. you took a 5 minute shower to wash the drunk look off of your face. then, you got dressed, ate breakfast, and left again.

whenever you got back, you found Carrington scrounging around the kitchen. "hey, Carrington."

"oh, what's up, y/n. where'd ya go?" he pulled a box of Twix cereal from the cabinet and poured himself a bowl.

"just ran home real quick to shower and shit. can't be looking homeless on the internet." you leaned against the counter.

he took a bite of his cereal. "true that. want some?" he asked between smacking lips.

you scrunched your nose. "i'm good, i already ate."

"i know i've said this a million times," he rolled his eyes, "but you need to make a move on Johnnie. that boy is head over heels, choking on his own feet for you."

"first of all, what does that even mean? second, i don't think he likes me like that, i think we just have a unique friendship." you flailed your hand around to make your point.

"unique? yeah, that guy is always undressing you with his eyes, you do the same." he smirked. he wiped a droplet of milk from the corner of his mouth.

"yeah, whatever." you rolled your eyes before turning. you walked back into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

carrington wasn't far behind you. he sat on the opposite side of you. he didn't say anything, just sat and munched on his cereal. you snapped a picture, thinking it was funny, and posted it on your story after tagging him.

"we're recording around 7 ish, right?" you asked him, checking the group chat to double check the details.

"actually, me and Jake were talking last night about making it earlier. Tara wants to go to this party tonight and wants us to come with." he shrugged, "we were gonna talk to you and Johnnie 'bout it whenever you were both up."

you raised your eyebrows. "i'm more than down. i'm sure Johnnie will be too. i mean, i don't wanna answer for him, but you know."

"well, duh."

you and Carrington sat in the couch talking and watching a movie while you waited for everyone to wake up. he mentioned planning on going back to sleep, but he stayed up with you instead.

it was a few hours before everyone had came downstairs. Jake was making a smoothie, which ended up waking up Johnnie. Carrington brought up the idea of going to that party later that night, which Johnnie agreed to.

the last few hours before recording went by fast, as well. you spent most of them with Johnnie.

you had asked Tara to bring you one of her dresses, since you didn't want to leave Johnnie and run home. she obviously agreed. Tara loved seeing how her clothes fit you.

Jake set up the camera in the living room. "you guys ready?"

everyone said some form of yes. Jake started the camera.

recording the video felt long whenever all you wanted to do was go and party. it was truth or drink with everybody. of course, Carrington asked johnnie about me and him. he asked of Johnnie had feelings for me. he took a shot for that one. you knew the fans would be all over that clip.

the video was finally done an hour later. it was about 1:30, so you had time to kill.

you helped Jake and Johnnie with chores around the house while Carrington and Tara ran to get lunch.

you were working on making Johnnies bed for him whenever he spoke up. "y/n?"

"What's up?"

he stuttered, "You excited for the party?"

"Yeah, I guess so. they're always fun, especially when you go. we get to be introverts together." You turned around and smiled at him.

he didn't respond. his eyes flickered from your lips back to your eyes. there was a moment of silence before he spoke up. "Yeah, I'm glad you'll be there."

"Are you okay?" You stepped closer to him.

"Yeah, I just -" he began to lean in closer to you.

"We're back!" Tara yelled up the stairs. it startled both of you. you quickly backed away from each other.

"i-" you began to speak.

"Let's go eat." he shot you a soft smile before leading you back downstairs.

you followed johnnie and sat next to him on the couch. everybody was already in the living room. Jake was scrolling on tiktok while the other two were emptying the Chipotle bags.

"the fuck were you guys doing? making out?" Tara smirked.

Johnnie shook his head. "we were cleaning, tara."

she hummed, "right."

everyone ubered to the party together. Tara was hyping all of you up, but we didn't really need her to. you were all pumped up as it was.

you locked your arm with Johnnies as you walked inside. Tara immediately started singing along to whatever 2000s pop was blasting. it didn't take long for Jake and Carrington to get into it.

you watched as Johnnie followed their lead, bopping his head along and singing some of the lyrics. you giggled, which caught Johnnies attention. he smiled at you, and you smiled back.

everyone got at least one drink. you sipped on a hard seltzer while dancing with tara. you couldn't keep your eyes off of Johnnie.

"y/n!" Tara whined, "why are you so distracted tonight?!"

"it's just johnnie. I don't know, like, what's going on between us anymore."

"it's obvious you two like each other, just go for it!" she scolded.

"But I'm not sure! what if I make a move and I get the wrong idea so... I don't even know!"

"Trust me, y/n. he likes you." she rolled her eyes.

you looked towards Johnnie again. he was already looking at you. he shot you a smile and a wave. you felt your face heat up, and you looked away.

"See? come on!" she laughed. "we both know you need some dick, and Johnnie has had this huge crush on you for so long. I know you like him, too. it's obvious."

"Okay, fine. i-" You felt a tap on your shoulder, making you jump. you turned your head to see Johnnie. he let his hand rest on your shoulder. "Hi."

"Hey, im pretty bored. wanna come with me? I'm going home."

you glanced back at Tara, and she winked at you.

"Yeah, I'm down. this shit is pretty boring." which was a lie on your part, and you knew he was lying too.

you waved bye to everyone and followed Johnnie out of the party. he had already called an Uber, which was waiting by the curb.

he opened the door for you, and you climbed in. the whole ride home was silent.

as Johnnie began to unlock the front door, he spoke up. "I noticed you staring." he pushed the front door open and walked in.

you followed close behind him. "Sorry." You responded, flustered. you shut the door behind you.

Johnnie turned around, stopping you in your tracks. "Don't be. I'm just- fuck. I need you so bad, y/n."

"What? can you repeat that?" You smirked, backing yourself into the door as he followed.

he gripped your hips, placing his head in the crook of your neck. "I said I need you so bad. it's unbearable."

his grip on you was tight. he himself closer to you as he began to kiss your neck. your hand tangled into his already messy hair. he bit your neck gently as he sucked dark hickeys into your neck. those would be hard to explain to everybody.

"fuck, I think I need you more." you whispered into his ear.

he pulled away from your neck and smashed his lips onto yours. his lips were soft and glided with yours perfectly. you had been waiting for this kiss for so long, too long.

as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, he slid his hands up your dress and gripped your ass. he pulled it up, so it bunched around your waist. he massaged your ass with one hand while the other stayed on your hip.

"johnnie, please." you pleaded, trying to pull him closer by the collar of his shirt.

"Please what, mama?" he pulled away, his eyes locked on your lips.

"God, fuck me."

he grabbed your hand and dragged you up to his bedroom. you slammed the door and locked it, just in case.

his hands were immediately on you once more, attempting to pull the dress off of you. once he got it, he threw it somewhere on the floor.

he led you back to the bed. your knees caught against the bed, and you fell back. he crawled up on top of you and teased the rim of your bra.

you clawed at his shirt and eventually pulled it off, leaving his pale skin and tattoos there for you to admire.

you quickly unbuckled and pulled down his jeans, revealing his hard member in his underwear.

you palmed him through his undwear, making him quietly whimper against your lips. he rushed to take off your panties, to impatient to worry about your bra at the moment.

he stuck two fingers in your mouth. "spit for me, baby."

you complied, licking and sucking his fingers before spitting on them. he pulled his boxers down and kicked them off. he rubbed your spit all over his dick.

"Please, Johnnie. need you so bad." You begged.

"so impatient, pretty girl." his hand caressed your cheek before gripping your hip.

he aligned his tip with your entrance before thrusting inside of you. he bottomed out, making you moan loudly. he gave you a moment to adjust.

"fuck, please fuck me." you whimpered.

"yes, ma'am." he smirked and began thrusting inside of you at an agonizingly slow pace.

he let out a soft grunt with each thrust. he leaned down and placed his lips onto yours gently.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, begging him to go faster. he did so, speeding up his pace just enough. you moaned into his mouth.

you reached for his hand that was pressed into the bed beside you. you took it and moved it up to your neck. "fucking choke me." you instructed him breathlessly.

you felt his cock twitch inside of you. "You'd like that, Mama?"

you nodded eagerly as he wrapped his hand around your throat. he gripped it tight, cutting off some of your air flow. your moans became raspy and breathless, and he thrusted faster.

"fuck," you moaned out as Johnnie tightened his grip on your throat. your eyes rolled back as the sounds of skin slapping together filled the room.

"you're taking me so well, baby." he praised as he was breathing heavily. "so fucking good."

he pulled you up by your neck to kiss your lips. you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him passionately.

he pounded into you, making you moan loud as you felt his cock twitch again.

"fuck, I'm close, Johnnie." you whimpered before pressing your lips against his again.

he let out a small giggled followed by a moan. "cum on my dick."

your walls squeezed his cock tight as you moaned his name. you felt a coil build up in your stomach as you moaned and cursed under your breath. your walls spasmed around him as you came hard.

Johnnie helped you ride out your high before pulling out and cumming on your stomach. he whimpered as he covered your lower stomach in his cum.

he collapsed on the bed next to you. "thanks for making my bed, but now it's all fucked up." he joked.

you hummed. he jumped up and grabbed a small rag from his closet. he cleaned his cum off of your stomach and the left over juices off of your pussy.

he pulled the covers over the two of you. you curled up against him. "that was amazing." you muttered, closing your eyes.

he wrapped his arms around you. "y/n?"

"hmm?"

"will you be my girlfriend?" he leaned his head against yours.

"of course I will, stupid."

#fanfiction #fanfic #johnnie guilbert #jake and johnnie #johnnie guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert x you #jake webber #carrington #tara yummy #johnnie guilbert smut #heavy smut #smut #choking

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briefinquiries · 28 days ago

Text

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 24

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 24

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Luca Changretta makes his move, crossing a line by targeting the youngest Shelby. In a calculated ambush, the Shelby's are forced into a desperate fight, rattling the foundation of their trust and control.

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: I've been so awful at updating, SORRY and thank you all for being patient. maine might lowkey get a snow day tomorrow (rip, but also fingers crossed??), so if we do i might be able to write another chapter :)

It had been quiet for days.

The kind of stillness that felt like the whole city was holding its breath. Like something just out of sight was winding itself tighter with every tick of the clock.

The streets were too calm. Even the usual hum of conversation in the betting shops felt subdued, like people were speaking just low enough not to draw attention from whatever shadows lingered nearby. Doors stayed locked a little longer. Eyes lingered a little too long on unfamiliar faces.

Tommy said Luca must be dealing with something in New York. He’d heard rumors, whispers of unrest, tension between families, something about one of Luca’s allies gone missing. A temporary distraction. A wedge in the machine. Whatever the cause, the pressure that had been choking Birmingham like smoke seemed to ease—just slightly.

Polly had gone back to her own house for the first time in a week, insisting she needed real tea and a proper bath or she’d start cursing at people. Finn had started hovering near the older boys again, hopeful and quiet, desperate to be given something—anything—to do. Arthur spent most of the day in the betting shop, sorting the books with a half-smile and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. And John… John cracked a joke at breakfast. A real one. About Arthur’s new haircut, which had earned him a half-hearted shove and a round of laughter that didn’t feel forced for once.

Even Tommy had let himself sit for five whole minutes that morning with a cup of tea he didn’t drink.

Things were almost starting to feel normal again.

You found him standing by the front window after breakfast, one hand braced against the sill, the other holding a nearly finished cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the still air, ignored. His eyes were fixed on the street outside, watching the same corner he always did, like he was waiting for something to move, for someone to step out of place. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t shift. Just stood there, tense and silent, like he was trying to piece together a threat he couldn’t quite see yet.

You hesitated before speaking. “Harry said he’s short a hand today. Thought I’d go help at the Garrison. Just a few hours.”

Tommy turned then, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “It’s been days since anything’s happened, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s when people get stupid.”

“I won’t be stupid,” you said calmly. “I’ll be behind the bar, not out wandering the streets. And you’re going to be there anyway, aren’t you? You said you, John, and Arthur were meeting with someone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, muscles shifting as he stared past you, thinking it through. You could tell he didn’t like the idea of you out in the open, even somewhere familiar. His arms stayed crossed, fingers tapping once against his sleeve, a small habit when he was biting something back.

Eventually, he let out a short breath through his nose and nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “Fine. But you stay inside. Don’t step out for anything. And if something feels wrong—even a little—you tell Harry and he’ll get me straight away. Got it?”

You stepped closer and reached out, resting your hand against the front of his shirt. The fabric was still warm from the morning sun, and you could feel the tension underneath it.

He caught your wrist gently. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and serious and searching yours.

“I mean it,” he said.

You nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then dropped his hand. “I’ll be down in the back room by three. Stay where I can find you.”

You headed out for the Garrison just before one. The walk through Small Heath was familiar—same cracked pavement, same rows of soot-streaked brick. You kept your coat buttoned to the collar and your gloves tucked deep in your pockets. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t raining, and the streets were quiet. For once, no one seemed to be staring too long, and no shadows felt like they were trailing behind you.

You kept your pace up, not quite rushing, but not strolling either. The past few weeks had made watching corners, checking over your shoulder, and listening for footsteps that didn’t belong a habit. Even when things seemed quiet, you didn’t let your guard down.

By the time you reached the Garrison, it was already filling up. A few regulars were parked at their usual tables, nursing pints and muttering over the paper. A couple of men from the factory had wandered in early, their work shirts still dusted with coal. The air inside was warm, the floor scuffed, the hum of voices steady but low.

Harry greeted you with a grateful nod as you stepped behind the bar.

“You’re a blessing,” he muttered, already elbow-deep in washing glasses. “Don’t know how the hell I was going to manage the afternoon rush.”

You smiled faintly. “I missed it here.”

You slipped into the rhythm easily—drying glasses, topping off pints, wiping down counters. The kind of work that let your mind drift while your hands kept moving. Tommy, John, and Arthur arrived not long after and disappeared into the side room with two men in sharp suits and quiet voices.

Tommy’s eyes found you first.

He gave a small nod as he passed, but he didn’t keep walking right away. He paused at the bar, rested one hand lightly against the edge, and leaned in just enough for his voice to be heard over the quiet hum of the pub.

“All quiet?”

You gave a faint smile, nodding. “So far.”

He studied you for a moment. Then, with the corner of his mouth twitching in something close to a smile, he reached out and gently touched the side of your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress like he needed to feel you there.

“Won’t be long,” he murmured.

You leaned into the touch, just slightly. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur made a sound behind him, half impatient grunt, half teasing, and John muttered something under his breath about lovebirds.

Tommy cast them both a look, but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he gave you one last glance before disappearing through the side room door with the others. It clicked shut behind them.

You could still hear their muffled conversation through the wall, low tones, nothing distinct. But it was enough to make the space feel protected, for just a little while. Everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.

You stayed behind the bar, falling into the routine without needing to think much about it. Wiping down the counter. Drying glasses. Restacking the clean ones in neat rows. The usual sounds filled the space, glass hitting wood, stools creaking, quiet conversation in the background.

A few regulars were spread out at the tables, hunched over their pints. Most of them older men, talking low about football scores and council taxes. The radio behind the bar buzzed now and then, playing a scratchy jazz track that didn’t quite fit the room, but no one seemed to care enough to turn it off.

You finished drying a tumbler and placed it on the shelf with the rest, then bent down to grab the small ledger Harry used to track the afternoon’s orders. Nothing unusual. Just another slow, steady day.

You were drying off a short glass when the front door opened with a soft jingle.

You didn’t recognize the man who came in. He wasn’t dressed like a factory worker or one of the usual drinkers that passed through. His posture was straight, his steps steady, none of the tired slouch or fidgeting you were used to seeing in men coming off a shift. He looked put together. Plain coat, well-fitted. Clean shoes. No hat.

He didn’t glance around or take in the room. Just walked straight to the bar like he already knew where he was going and sat down at the far end, quiet and settled, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked, the cloth stilling in your hand.

He didn’t meet your eye, or say a word. You watched him for a moment, cloth slack in your hand.

You cleared your throat lightly and stepped a little closer along the bar.

“Can I get you anything?”

Your voice came out steady, casual. But the man didn’t answer.

He didn’t even move.

You waited a beat, brows drawing together.

“Sir?”

Still nothing.

You adjusted your grip on the rag, not because the glass needed more cleaning, but because your hands needed something to do. You weren’t exactly nervous, but something about the way the man sat so still, not moving a muscle, made the air feel heavier. The space behind the bar suddenly felt narrower.

You glanced toward the back room. The door was still closed. You could hear the low murmur of Tommy’s voice through it, along with John and Arthur’s, nothing clear, just the muffled rhythm of conversation.

Everything’s fine, you told yourself.

Maybe he’s just tired. Or lost in thought. Or…

The phone rang, sharp and sudden.

You jumped a little, the sound cutting through the quiet and catching you off guard.

It rang again.

Then, without looking up, the man at the end of the bar finally spoke.

“You’re going to want to answer that.” His voice was low. Smooth. Devoid of urgency, but full of certainty.

You turned to look at him, unsettled by how calm he seemed. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The phone rang again.

A slow, cold feeling crawled its way up the back of your neck. You reached for the receiver, hesitating just a second before lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?”

For a few long seconds, there was nothing but static on the other end. You almost thought it was a deadline, until you heard the heavy breathing. It was light and uneven. Not the breath of someone calm or collected. A little too fast. A little too shallow.

Then, “Hello?”

The voice was small, young, and strained. Your heart dropped. You knew that voice before your mind even caught up.

“Finn?”

A sharp, ragged inhale, he gasped your name. “They’ve got me—” he burst out. “They’ve got me—please—I didn’t know what to do—”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Where are you?” you asked, your voice already breaking. “Finn, where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know—” His words tangled over themselves, rushed and panicked. “I was just trying to help—I thought if I followed them, I could find out something—I heard John say they were going to meet someone and I—I thought maybe I could watch from across the street, just in case—”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t tell anyone—I didn’t want to get in trouble—but they grabbed me. They pulled me into a car—I didn’t see their faces—I didn’t see anything—”

He was crying now, or close to it. You could hear the breath catching in his throat.

The words tumbled out, too fast, too choked. You could hear the terror in his voice, that wild edge right before someone starts to scream.

“They said I had to call,” he sobbed. “Said I had to—said if I didn’t—if I didn’t—God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought Tommy would be proud if I did something real. Please, I don’t want to die—”

Your knees nearly buckled. Your eyes flicked back to the far end of the bar. “It’s okay, Finn. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe— okay, love? Just breathe.”

The man at the bar had his hands folded neatly in front of him, unmoved from the moment he’d sat down. But now—his lips curled. Just slightly in an almost imperceptible smirk. Cold. Knowing. Cruel. Like he was enjoying the show.

Your blood ran ice-cold. But just as you opened your mouth, just as you realized what you were really in the middle of, the voice on the line changed. You heard a quiet shuffle, and then someone else took the phone.

“Put Tommy on the line,” the voice said. It was smooth and controlled.

You turned toward the end of the bar—but the stool was empty. Suddenly, the man was gone.

You nearly dropped the receiver. Your voice cracked as you shouted over your shoulder. “Harry!”

Footsteps from the back. Then Harry appeared in the hall, startled, wide-eyed.

“Get Tommy,” you said, breathless. “Now.”

Something in your face must’ve told him everything, because Harry didn’t ask a single question—he just turned and sprinted down the hall.

You held the phone to your chest, pressing it tight like you could somehow stop the sound of Finn’s voice still echoing in your ears. Your breath came in short bursts, your chest tight, the ringing in your ears louder than anything in the room.

You didn’t even notice how badly your hands were shaking until the side room door flew open.

Tommy was first through it, followed closely by Arthur and John. All three of them looked alert, ready for a fight.

Tommy spotted you and stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned your face, then the receiver clenched in your hand. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to.

He was across the room in three long strides, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

“What is it?” he said, his voice low and clipped, already bracing for the worst.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your throat locked up. So you did the only thing you could, and you held the phone out to him.

Tommy took the phone from your shaking hand, his eyes never leaving your face. His fingers brushed yours—steady, deliberate—but the way he gripped the receiver was firm, controlled. Like he was already bracing for what he was about to hear.

He raised it to his ear. No greeting. No hesitation. Just silence.

You stood frozen, watching him.

His jaw tightened almost immediately, the muscles along his cheek shifting. His eyes narrowed, focused on some fixed point across the room, but you could tell he wasn’t seeing it. His whole body went still, shoulders squared, chest rigid, as if he were holding himself back from moving, from reacting.

The room had gone quiet, like everyone else was holding their breath.

“Hello?” he said, flat and even, like he wasn’t going to give whoever was on the other end the satisfaction of hearing anything else.

Another pause.

Then his eyes sharpened.

You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw the way his expression changed. First the slight flare of his nostrils. Then his lips pressed into a thin line. His grip on the receiver didn’t move, but something in his stance stiffened, like a pressure valve locking into place.

John and Arthur exchanged a glance, but neither interrupted.

Tommy finally spoke again, quiet and low. “I’ll give you one chance to return him alive.”

Another silence. His eyes flicked down, then away, calculating something even as he listened.

“If he’s hurt, there’s nowhere you can go that I won’t find you.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t curse or shout.

You stepped closer without meaning to, your hands still trembling at your sides.

Tommy nodded once, barely perceptible.

Then, calmly, “Tell him if he touches Finn, I’ll put every man with his name in the ground. One by one.”

He listened a moment longer, then lowered the receiver and ended the call with a sharp click.

You didn’t say anything.

No one did at first.

The silence in the Garrison was thick—crackling.

Then it all shattered.

“What the fuck was that?” John barked, already moving toward you. “How the fuck did they get to Finn? Where was he? Who the hell—”

Arthur’s voice cut over his. “Where were the guards? He wasn’t supposed to be alone—he wasn’t alone—”

“Did he say where he was?”

“Did they hurt him?”

“Jesus Christ—how—”

The questions came too fast to answer, their words piling on top of each other, louder with each second. You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think clearly. It was all noise—panic, blame, disbelief—and none of it told you what you really needed to know.

Your ears were ringing. Your chest was too tight. You were still standing there, but you didn’t feel your body. All you could focus on was the memory of Finn’s voice, thin and terrified, still echoing in your skull.

You didn’t even notice the tears until you felt the heat on your cheeks.

Tommy reached for you without a word.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, not tight, just firm enough to bring you back to yourself. The noise in the room didn’t stop, but it dropped away somehow. You looked up, and he was already watching you, his eyes sharp but steady, locked onto yours like he was trying to pull you out of the spiral.

“Go home,” he said quietly, just to you. “Straight home. Have Harry or someone walk you.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. “Tommy—no.”

“Yes,” he said calmly.

“I can’t—please, I need to stay—I need to know. I have to help,” you whispered, voice starting to crack. “You don’t understand—Tommy, there was a man—he was sitting right there. I looked at him. I let it happen—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut through the noise—firm, steady, right in front of you.

He stepped in, closing the space between you, and brought his hands to your face. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing just under your eyes as he held your gaze. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

The closeness made everything else fall away, the noise, the panic, the sick weight in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but clear.

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Breathe.”

You tried.

His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “I can’t help Finn unless I know you’re somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

You nodded, just barely.

Because if you tried to speak, you'd fall apart again.

Tommy’s hands lingered on your face for a moment longer, thumbs warm against your skin.

Then, gently, he pulled back. “Go home,” he said again, quieter now, but firmer.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“I’m going to ring Polly. She’ll meet you there.” He was already reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his cigarette case with one hand, the other still hovering close like he didn’t trust you to stay upright.

You swallowed hard, your voice rasping when you finally spoke.

“How do you know where to find him?”

Tommy paused, just for a second. It wasn’t doubt you saw—he never doubted himself. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something darker.

“I recognized the voice,” he said. “The man on the phone. He used to work for Sabini. Now he works for Luca.”

You blinked. “And?”

Tommy’s jaw shifted. “I’ve had someone watching him for weeks. In case Luca ever used him.” He looked you straight in the eye. “He just did.”

A cold wave rolled through your chest.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, then reached for your coat from behind the bar and helped you into it with a tenderness.

“Go,” he said again, softer now. “I’ll be back when it’s done.”

You hesitated—but he gave you one last look, the kind that left no room for argument.

So you nodded.

…

As soon as the front door of the Garrison shut behind you, Tommy struck a match and lit a cigarette. His hands were steady. They had to be. There was no room for anything else.

Arthur was already throwing questions into the air, his voice sharp and too loud. John was pacing in tight circles, one arm shoved halfway into his coat, like he was ready to bolt out the door and take on half of Birmingham by himself.

Tommy didn’t look at either of them right away.

He took a slow drag, let the smoke sit in his chest, then exhaled hard through his nose. His mind was already turning, every moving part laid out in front of him like a puzzle with missing pieces. He didn’t need noise. He needed facts. He needed direction.

And right now, the shouting was just slowing him down.

Tommy’s voice cut clean through the noise.

“Quiet.”

They listened.

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes locked on nothing and everything all at once.

“Frankie Rossi,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Who?”

“He used to work for Sabini,” Tommy said. “Now he’s Luca’s. I recognized his voice on the phone.”

John stepped forward. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been watching him for three weeks,” Tommy said, turning toward them. “Johnny Dogs has had a man on him since Luca first landed in England.”

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his coat. “They’re at a house on the edge of Small Heath. Old warehouse front, backs onto the canal. Used to move cargo through there before the war.”

Arthur was already grabbing his gun from behind the bar. “You think they’re keeping Finn there?”

“I don’t think,” Tommy said. “I know.”

The plan was already forming before Tommy even finished speaking.

He moved quickly, heading down to the cellar beneath the Garrison, where the air was cold and close and smelled faintly of dust and whiskey. He pulled back the shelf like he had a hundred times before and opened the lockbox behind it.

Two pistols. A sawed-off shotgun. Boxes of ammunition, neatly packed. The tools of survival. Of retaliation. Of this life.

He handed the shotgun to Arthur without a word. Arthur took it without flinching, like it was an extension of his own hand.

Tommy paused for half a second, his eyes scanning the rest of the weapons before settling on one of the pistols. He checked the chamber. Loaded it. Moved on.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something tugged at him.

How many more times are we going to do this?

How many more enemies? How many more backroom raids, ambushes, retaliation plots? It had been years of this—years of protecting, losing, rebuilding, and starting the cycle all over again. Every time he thought it was done, another threat came crawling out of the dark.

And now it was Finn.

Finn—who should’ve been in school, not in the crosshairs of men like Luca Changretta.

And you, caught in the middle of it all, tied to him in ways he couldn’t undo.

He was so fucking tired of watching the people he loved pay the price for the life he built.

For a second, he let himself picture it. Something else, something quiet. A house far from Birmingham. No enemies. No weapons. Just you. Maybe even a family, if you wanted that. A place where no one had to look over their shoulder.

But the thought didn’t last long. Because this was his life. And right now, Finn needed him.

He tucked the pistol into his coat and shut the case.

“Johnny Dogs is already posted across the canal,” Tommy said. “He’s been watching comings and goings since last night. Finn’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about killing Finn. Not yet. It’s about leverage.”

Arthur scoffed. “Fucking bastards are using him like bait.”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. They want me to come to them. And I am, which means he’s alive.”

John strapped on his shoulder holster, jaw clenched. “And if he’s not?”

Tommy pulled his coat tighter, reaching into the inner pocket to check the pistol again.

“Then we kill every fucking man inside,” he said simply.

No more questions.

They slipped out through the Garrison’s back entrance, coats pulled tight against the wind. A dark blue car waited across the street, one of the newer ones, quiet and unmarked. Curly was already behind the wheel, engine running low.

He didn’t say a word when they climbed in. Just tipped his cap, eyes straight ahead, and hit the gas as soon as the doors shut.

The drive was quick, no one talking. No one needed to.

The warehouse came into view just off the canal road—weather-beaten and quiet. The windows were boarded, the metal siding streaked with rust. Piles of rotting crates sat near the loading dock, half-collapsed, as if no one had touched them in years.

It looked empty. Abandoned.

But Tommy leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

In one of the upper windows, tucked behind a broken slat of wood, he caught the faint glow of a cigarette ember. Brief. Flickering. Then gone.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

Curly killed the engine a block away.

“Park up two streets over,” he told Curly. “Wait there. If you hear gunfire, bring the car ‘round. Fast.”

Curly gave a tight nod. “Right.”

The moment the car slowed, Tommy was out first, moving quickly across the street with Arthur and John close behind. They stuck to the edge of the buildings, boots scraping low over the cobblestone, ducking beneath windows and slipping into the alley that curved behind the warehouse.

Everything smelled like rust and wet wood.

They went the rest of the way on foot, cutting through the alley, boots silent over gravel and brick, hearts pounding in time with the threat.

Tommy stopped at the corner of the building and scanned the loading dock, eyes catching on a narrow side entrance, half-blocked by a stack of crates, but unlocked if you knew how to move right.

He turned to Arthur and John, voice low.

“Johnny Dogs says three inside. Two near the front, one pacing. Finn’s in a back room—tied up, probably watched.”

Arthur’s face was tight, his hands already flexing around the grip of the shotgun.

Tommy went on. “John, you take the rear. Go quiet. If they hear you, they’ll use him.”

John nodded, jaw set.

Tommy turned to Arthur. “You’re with me. Side door.”

He looked at them both—calm, controlled, but cold beneath it.

“We get in. We get Finn. If they point a gun, you shoot. No warning.”

They nodded.

Tommy turned back toward the warehouse before moving. The side door creaked open with a groan, the kind of sound that made every muscle tighten.

Tommy went in first, gun drawn low, Arthur right behind him. The air inside was cold and stale, the sharp tang of oil and old metal cutting through the dust. Their boots moved over concrete scattered with debris—empty crates, glass shards, scraps of rope.

It was too quiet. No shouting. No footsteps. Not even breathing.

Tommy swept the first room with the barrel of his gun. Empty.

They moved forward, careful, step by step, through a narrow corridor that led toward the back of the building. A door at the end hung slightly ajar. A faint light spilled through the crack—just enough to show movement.

Arthur raised the shotgun slightly, finger brushing the trigger.

Tommy glanced back and gave a single nod.

He pushed the door open.

Once they were inside, his eyes instantly landed on Finn. He was tied to a chair, wrists bound in front of him, mouth gagged. His eyes were wide and glassy with fear, blinking rapidly when he saw them. He made a sound—choked, desperate.

Tommy was already moving.

“Clear the room,” he snapped, voice tight.

Arthur swept the far side as Tommy crossed to Finn and dropped to one knee. He cut the ropes with a quick flick of his blade.

“You’re alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

But the moment the ropes fell and Tommy pulled the gag free—

Gunfire erupted.

The warehouse windows shattered as bullets tore through the wall, ripping into the crates stacked nearby.

“Down!” Tommy yelled, grabbing Finn and shielding him with his own body.

Arthur fired blindly toward the upper floor, cursing, the shotgun blasts echoing through the rafters—but there was no clear target. Just shadows moving too fast, boots scrambling over steel beams above them.

“They’re up high!” Arthur shouted. “Can’t get a shot!”

“Cover us!” Tommy barked, his voice raw with urgency.

He crouched low, arm around Finn, trying to move—but more gunfire cracked through the air, forcing them back behind a stack of crates.

Then, another door slammed open across the room.

“This way!” John’s voice rang out. He burst through the far side of the warehouse, eyes wide, gun raised. “Come on—back entrance’s clear!”

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He yanked Finn to his feet and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as they bolted toward John.

Gunfire followed them.

Tommy felt a sudden burn slice across his upper arm—sharp, hot, fast. A bullet had grazed him, tearing through his coat and skin. But he didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” he growled at Finn, forcing himself to keep pace, arm still tight around the boy.

Arthur laid down cover behind them, shotgun echoing through the rafters.

Tommy shoved Finn through the door first, John grabbing him and pulling him clear. Tommy followed a second later, nearly stumbling from the pain in his arm. Arthur barreled through right behind them, breathing hard, shotgun still in hand. He spun to slam the door shut, eyes scanning the alley behind them.

“Fucking trap,” he growled, jamming a rusted metal rod through the handles to seal it. “They wanted us boxed in.”

Tommy turned to Finn, ready to tell him to keep moving, but the look on John’s face stopped him cold.

“Tommy—” John’s voice was sharp, panicked.

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Blood. Seeping fast through Finn’s shirt, soaking the boy’s side. His knees buckled as the adrenaline started to crash, and John barely caught him in time.

“I’m fine—” Finn mumbled, swaying, trying to stay upright.

“Christ,” Tommy snapped, stepping in and grabbing him before he could fall. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. His own arm throbbed from where the bullet had grazed him, but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“Help me get him out,” he barked. “Now.”

John adjusted Finn’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him down the alley, boots pounding against wet pavement.

Arthur ran ahead. “Car’s waiting!”

Tommy’s jaw was clenched tight, blood smeared across his palm, the boy’s weight dragging heavily between them. Finn was still conscious, but barely—his head lolled, breath shallow, eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Stay with us, Finn,” Tommy muttered, more command than comfort.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Finn tried, but his voice was faint, the words slurred.

“‘Atta boy,” Tommy said. “Just hold on.”

They rounded the corner, and the car came into view, engine running, headlights cutting through the mist. Curly had the back door already open, face pale as he took one look at Finn and swore under his breath.

“Get in!” Arthur barked.

Tommy and John eased Finn into the backseat, careful but fast. Tommy climbed in beside him, pressing down hard on the wound with his sleeve as Finn groaned in pain. Blood was everywhere—on the seat, on Tommy’s hands, on Finn’s shirt already clinging to his skin.

Arthur slammed the door and jumped into the front. “Drive, Curly. Now.”

The car peeled off before the doors were even fully shut.

Tommy leaned over Finn, voice low and steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you. Just keep your eyes open.”

Finn nodded weakly, but his eyelids were already drooping again.

Tommy looked up at John across from him. “How far to the house?”

“Ten minutes if Curly doesn’t slow down.”

Tommy pressed harder against the wound, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm.

Finn’s head lolled to the side, a low groan leaving his throat.

“Finn!” Tommy said loudly. He glanced down. “Stay with us, Finn.”

But Finn’s breathing was changing—getting faster, more uneven.

And then, he let out a sudden cry. “It hurts!” His voice was hoarse and high with panic.

He jerked beneath Tommy’s hands, trying to twist away. His legs kicked out, heel slamming into the floorboard.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t—don’t—”

“Jesus—” John lunged forward, grabbing Finn’s shoulders as he thrashed. “Finn, calm down! It’s alright!”

But it wasn’t.

The adrenaline that had kept him upright was burning out fast, and now the pain was rushing in, full force. Finn’s body bucked again, arms flailing, knocking into Tommy’s injured arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Hold him,” Tommy snapped, jaw clenched.

Arthur turned from the front, alarmed. “Christ, what’s happening?!”

Tommy pinned Finn’s torso with one arm and pressed the other down over the wound, even as the boy screamed.

“Stop—! It hurts, Tommy—please!”

Every word was like a blade to the gut. But he didn’t let go.

“You want to live?” Tommy growled, even as his voice cracked at the edges. “Stay fucking still! You hear me?”

Finn sobbed, shaking, but the fight started to drain from him, muscles twitching under Tommy’s grip.

Tommy didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t let himself soften. Not now. Because if he did, he’d lose the edge—and that could get Finn killed.

So he kept his head down, eyes locked on the blood, and waited for the next corner to bring them home.

The car screeched around the final corner, tires skidding on the wet cobblestone. The house came into view—dim porch light flickering, front steps slick with rain.

Tommy didn’t wait for the car to fully stop.

He threw the door open and climbed out, blood already cold on his hands and sleeves. His coat was soaked through—some of it Finn’s, some of it his own—but he barely felt it.

“John— Get his legs.”

John moved fast, grim-faced, lifting Finn as Tommy took him under the arms. The boy was limp now, head lolling back, face pale and streaked with sweat. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his chest like it had been painted on.

“Easy,” Tommy muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Don’t drop him.”

The front door flew open. Polly stepped out first, already rolling up her sleeves, but her usual composure was shaken. Her eyes locked on Finn, and for just a second, her breath caught. “Christ,” she muttered under her breath, already moving forward.

Then you appeared behind her, barefoot, hair still damp from the bath, one hand braced against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

Your eyes landed on Finn.

Tommy saw the moment the terror hit you. You straightened, voice tight but clear. “Bring him inside. Set him on the kitchen table.”

Polly turned on her heel. “I’ll get towels. Scissors. Whiskey.”

“Boil some hot water,” you added. “And bring anything clean—we’re going to need pressure on that wound until I can see it properly.”

John pushed past you to open the door wider, and Tommy followed, Finn sagging between them. His body felt smaller than it had just minutes ago—light and fragile and far too quiet.

They laid Finn out on the kitchen table, his body slack, blood soaking through the towel Tommy had pressed to his side.

Polly was already moving—dropping a pile of clean rags, bottles, and scissors onto the counter with a loud clatter, hands working fast. You had your sleeves pushed up now, eyes scanning the boy’s body like a battlefield, checking for exit wounds, for signs of shock, for how much time you had.

Tommy stood back, silent, his hands still covered in blood.

He felt it cooling now, sticky between his fingers, seeping into his cuffs.

“Pulse is weak,” you said, mostly to yourself, voice sharp and clear despite the paleness in your face.

“Where is it?” Polly asked, already soaking a cloth in the boiled water.

“Lower left side,” you replied. “Looks like it might have nicked something.”

The chair scraped loudly as Polly pulled it closer, dropping to her knees beside the table to cut Finn’s shirt away. You took a fresh towel, pressed down hard on the wound, and Finn flinched—still barely conscious, but the pain was enough to pull a groan from his throat.

“I know, I know. Sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered, your hand steady even as your voice cracked.

Tommy leaned against the doorframe, watching. Too still. Too quiet. His hands were stained with Finn’s blood, dried now along the cracks in his skin, soaked into the sleeves of his coat. It clung to him like the weight of every bad choice he’d ever made.

He should’ve done more. Should’ve seen the setup for what it was. Should’ve anticipated the ambush. He’d known Luca was clever—calculated. And still, he’d walked right into it. Dragged John and Arthur in with him. Dragged Finn.

He was supposed to protect his family.

And he was failing. Again.

Your eyes lifted suddenly, catching his, just for a second.

It wasn’t anger in your face. Not even shock anymore. It was fear. The real kind. The kind that stayed in your bones long after the bleeding stopped. And somehow, that look hit harder than the bullet had. Because you were supposed to be safe, too.

And standing there, helpless, Tommy realized what scared him most wasn’t that he’d nearly lost Finn. It was knowing this wouldn’t be the last time. Not as long as he was in charge. Not as long as they lived in his world.

Suddenly, Polly brushed past Tommy, coming back in the room with an armful of bandages and bottles, her shoulder bumping his as she moved toward the table.

He flinched, barely, but it was enough.

You’d been focused on Finn, hands soaked and steady, but at that, your head snapped up. “Are you hit?”

Your eyes scanned him, zeroing in on the tear in his coat sleeve. Dark blood was seeping through the fabric around his upper arm. It wasn’t gushing, but it hadn’t stopped either.

“Tommy.”

He tried to brush it off. “It barely touched me.”

You didn’t move. “Take off the coat,” you said, voice sharper now. “Now.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to Finn still unconscious on the table, attention now fixated on him.

“It’s just a graze,” he muttered, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before,” he said flatly. “Plenty of times. Focus on Finn.”

You stepped in front of him, towel and whiskey in hand. “That’s not the point.”

He met your eyes, and for a moment, there was something almost defensive there. “You think I can’t handle a scratch?”

“Christ, you’re not invincible!” you snapped, your voice rising louder than you intended.

He stared at you, caught off guard, the anger in your voice slicing clean through the fog of blood and pain and guilt.

He finally gave in with a muttered curse, pulling his coat off one arm with a wince. The shirt beneath was soaked through, the fabric torn where the bullet had grazed the muscle.

You grabbed a clean towel from the stack and moved around the table toward him.

“Sit,” you said firmly.

“I’ll stand.”

“You’ll sit,” you repeated, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey Polly had left on the counter. “Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?”

He didn’t move. Just stared back at you, jaw set, like sitting down would somehow make it real—make him look weak, or worse, make him feel it.

You stared at him, chest tight, rage and worry caught somewhere between your ribs. His arm was bleeding. His shirt clung to the wound. He was in pain, but still too proud to stop moving, too locked into that damn Shelby armor to admit it.

“Fine. Fucking forget it, then. I’m done.” You let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him.You shoved the supplies into Polly’s hands, and stepped back. “Here, you do it.”

Polly didn’t ask questions. Just took the cloth and whiskey, already stepping in.

And you returned to Finn, where your help was actually wanted.

Tommy stayed standing for a beat longer, watching you from across the room.

Your back was to him now, hands moving with purpose as you leaned over Finn, murmuring something low and steady.

Polly moved around him without a word, inspecting the wound. But Tommy wasn’t paying attention anymore.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

He looked down at the towel in Polly’s hands, at the blood on his sleeve. He didn’t want you to see him like this—tired, bleeding, worn down. He didn’t want you to look at him and see someone breakable and vulnerable.

Because if you stopped seeing him as the one who kept everyone safe, then maybe that meant he really wasn’t. Maybe tonight had proven it.

Polly pressed a cloth to his arm, muttering something about stitches, but Tommy barely heard her.

His eyes were still on you. You were kneeling beside Finn, one hand steady on the boy’s shoulder, the other dabbing gently at the wound with a clean cloth. Your sleeves were rolled up, stained with blood. The set of your jaw was tight, your movements practiced—but your face told a different story.

There was pain there. Not the kind that showed up in screams or gasps, but the quieter kind. The kind that settled behind the eyes. That kind of sorrow that came from watching someone small and innocent hurt—again.

Your brow creased, and for a moment, you pressed your lips together like you were trying not to shake. Not to cry.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t. He just watched you, silently, as Polly dabbed at the bullet graze on his arm. The sting barely registered.

Because all he could think about was how close you were—how your hands moved with care, how your face held everything you weren’t saying—and how far away you felt.

The tension in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the rustle of fabric as you worked.

Tommy didn’t look away from you, but it was Arthur who finally spoke.

“Is he—?” His voice was gruff, uncertain. “Is he gonna be alright?”

John hovered behind him, pale and restless, arms folded tight across his chest.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused, one hand applying pressure to Finn’s side, the other shifting his shirt back to expose the wound more fully.

“I don’t know yet,” you said, voice low but firm. “It’s still bleeding more than it should.”

Polly looked up from where she was finishing Tommy’s bandage.

“There’s no exit wound,” you said, shaking your head.

John swore under his breath.

Polly stood then, wiping her hands, her face pale but composed. “What do you need?”

“Boiling water, the sharpest needle you’ve got, and strong thread. And someone to hold him down if he wakes up.”

Arthur moved without being asked, already heading toward the stove. John didn’t move. He just stared at Finn like he was willing him to start breathing normally again.

You were already reaching for the cloth again, pressing it gently to Finn’s side to slow the bleeding while you worked.

Tommy watched from the chair, his arm bandaged, but his entire body rigid. He’d stopped feeling his own pain a while ago.

You cleaned around the wound as gently as you could, your hands moving with methodical focus. The cloth came away soaked again, darker now. The bleeding hadn’t slowed.

You’d stitched worse in the war. You’d stopped worse bleeds, clamped worse wounds—but not in a kitchen, not with a boy this young, not with this many eyes watching every move you made like it was life or death.

You pierced the skin with the needle once, then twice, working quickly, but every time you pressed, Finn’s breathing hitched again—high and sharp, like he couldn’t quite pull enough air in.

Then you saw it.

The rise and fall of his chest had gone uneven again. Too shallow. Too quiet.

Your hands paused.

“Something’s wrong,” you said quietly.

Polly stepped closer. “What is it?”

You looked up—face pale now, voice thin. “I think the lung’s collapsed.”

That silenced the room.

You glanced back down at Finn. His chest was barely moving now, breath shallow and sharp, each one sounding more strained than the last. His lips were starting to lose color. No matter how much pressure you applied or how steady your hands stayed, it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this here,” you said. “Not without a proper chest tube. Not without—everything. I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t think I can fix him.”

Your hands hovered over Finn’s chest like you didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The cloth was soaked through again. You pressed down, but your fingers were starting to shake.

“I don’t know how to help him,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

The silence that followed felt heavy, like the whole room had stopped breathing too.

Then Tommy stepped forward. “Then we take him to the hospital,” he said, voice low but solid.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, on the edge of unraveling.

Arthur was already grabbing his coat and heading towards Finn without waiting for permission. John moved toward the front door.

Polly gently touched your back. “Go with him.”

Still frozen in place, you nodded once.

Tommy helped Arthur shift Finn’s weight carefully, lifting him with practiced coordination—one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. Finn didn’t stir. His head lolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, lips parted, breaths faint and uneven.

Tommy’s sleeves were streaked with blood again, soaking into the fresh bandage on his own arm. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

You looked over at him briefly as you grabbed the last of the cloths and followed him toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, voice cracking.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. But he glanced down at Finn, then over at you—just once. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something that almost looked like it might become a reply.

But he didn’t say anything.

His jaw tightened, gaze shifting forward again as he adjusted his grip on Finn.

And then Polly’s voice came, quiet but firm behind you.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

You turned slightly, caught off guard by the weight in her voice. She was standing in the hallway now, hands stained with blood, shoulders squared.

“You’ve saved this family more times than I can count,” she said. “Tonight included.”

You stared at her, throat tightening again.

Polly didn’t flinch under your gaze. She meant every word—stood there like the house itself wouldn’t be standing without you. Like she knew what you’d done, and needed you to know it too.

But still… you nodded once. A small, uncertain gesture. Not quite believing it. Not tonight.

Then you turned.

Tommy was already at the door, Arthur just ahead of him, holding it open as the night air swept in cold and sharp.

You followed them out into the dark, the weight of Polly’s words still hanging in the hallway behind you.

John had the car waiting at the curb, engine running, headlights spilling light across the cobblestones. He jumped out the moment he saw you, flinging open the rear door as Tommy and Arthur carefully maneuvered Finn toward it.

They worked in sync—Arthur easing Finn into the backseat, Tommy supporting his head and shoulders, settling him gently across the bench. Finn was barely responsive now, his breathing shallow and rattling, one hand twitching weakly as they adjusted him.

“I’m going in the back with him,” Arthur said, climbing in beside Finn without waiting for an answer.

Tommy followed, slipping in next to Arthur, one arm braced behind Finn to keep him upright.

John looked over at you. “Come on then.”

You slid into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as the tires rolled forward. No one spoke at first.

The city passed by in a blur, wet streets, shuttered shops, lamplight glinting off puddles. The quiet in the car felt heavy, like everyone was trying not to breathe too loudly.

In the back, Finn let out a low, pained sound. Arthur leaned in, murmuring something under his breath, and adjusted the blanket Polly had wrapped around him.

“That warehouse was a fucking setup,” John muttered after a while, hands tightening on the wheel. “They were watching us the whole time.”

Arthur gave a grunt in agreement.

“They knew we’d come,” John added, glancing in the rearview. “Knew we’d be too focused on Finn to see the rest of it.”

Tommy said nothing. You glanced over your shoulder briefly. He was staring at Finn—his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension all the way through his shoulders.

His injured arm was pressed tight against his side, blood still soaking through the bandage beneath his coat. But he didn’t seem to feel it. Or he refused to.

The hospital came into view just ahead—pale brick and glowing windows, too quiet for what it was. John pulled the car up near the entrance, tires crunching over wet gravel, engine still humming.

Before the car had even fully stopped, Tommy spoke.

“Park the car,” he said to John, voice low but clear. “Wait fifteen minutes before coming inside. We don’t need all of us storming in. One Blinder’s enough to send the nurses running.”

John nodded, throwing it into park. “You sure?”

Tommy was already opening the back door. “Yeah. You too, Arthur. She’s coming with me.”

No one protested. Together, you lifted Finn out of the backseat. His head rolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, but he was still breathing, barely.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as the hospital doors slid open ahead of you, the lights inside too bright and sterile after the dark chaos of the last few hours.

The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the second you were through, Tommy’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“We need help!”

Heads turned. A nurse behind the front desk froze for half a second before jumping to her feet and calling for a stretcher.

Within moments, two more nurses and a young doctor came rushing down the corridor toward you.

“Gunshot wound,” you said quickly, breathless. “Male, twelve. Entrance wound low on the left side, we think the lung’s collapsed. He’s losing blood fast.”

“Is he breathing?” one of the nurses asked, already pulling on gloves.

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s shallow—one side more than the other. He’s been like this for at least twenty minutes.”

They didn’t hesitate. One nurse reached for Finn’s legs while another supported his back, and gently, they took him from Tommy’s arms.

Tommy didn’t let go right away.

The second they pulled Finn’s weight from him, it was like something dropped out of his chest. He straightened slowly, blood smeared up both arms, across the front of his coat. The warmth of it gone, leaving only the weight behind.

The nurses disappeared down the corridor with Finn on the stretcher, voices overlapping—orders, vitals, prep.

And then it was quiet again. You stood beside him, still staring down the hall where they’d taken Finn. The doors had already swung shut behind the stretcher, and the sound of rushing feet had faded.

Silence pressed in again. The kind of quiet that made everything feel worse.

You looked down at Tommy’s hands. Blood everywhere. Caked along his knuckles, soaked into the sleeves of his coat, smudged across the edge of his collar.

Still, without thinking, you reached for him.

Your fingers brushed his first, tentative—but he didn’t pull away. You threaded your fingers through his, gently, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you held too tight.

He looked down, eyes flicking to the contact, then up to your face.

His hand was warm, but stiff. Like even now, even after everything, he wasn’t sure he deserved this—your touch, your calm, your choice to stay.

For once, he didn’t speak. He didn’t argue. Instead, he just stood there, letting you hold his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe it was.

In the silence of the hospital corridor, with fluorescent lights buzzing and footsteps echoing from down the hall, it was the only real thing left.

Just you.

And him.

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aspenmissing · 16 days ago

Note

this might be a bit of a weird request but still:

i've been obsessed with this show called yellowjackets lately. if you don't know, it's about a female high school soccer team who's plane crashed in the middle of nowhere and them surviving out there in the wild for about 19 months before being rescued.

so could you please write a reaction for the arcane cast (jayvik + who you want) to finding out that y/n went through the same thing maybe 4-5 years before they met her?

thank you <33

ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴏʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ|| 5924 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘʟᴀɴᴇ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴏʀ'ꜱ ɢᴜɪʟᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!! ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʟᴜᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ! ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ! <3 <3

JAYCE

It had been a quiet morning in Piltover when Jayce wandered into the bustling newsroom, eager to pick up a copy of the latest updates on Hextech developments. But when he reached the front counter, a different headline caught his eye—one that seemed to pull at something deep within him.

"Survivors of the Tragic Plane Crash: A Year and a Half in the Wild"

His heart skipped a beat. The image of the young woman staring out at the camera—her eyes determined, but clouded with unspoken pain—was all too familiar. The woman was Y/N, his Y/N. The woman who had become his partner, his love, and his reason for waking up each morning.

But this... this was something he never expected to find out. He flipped through the pages quickly, not caring about the details about the crash at first, but focusing on the paragraph that detailed her survival.

"For nearly 18 months, a group of high school athletes, stranded after their plane crashed in the wilderness, fought to stay alive. Among them was Y/N, who was found last week by a rescue party. Her strength and resilience have been heralded as nothing short of miraculous."

His mind raced, and his chest tightened. He knew bits and pieces of her past—she had always been hesitant to talk about it, only sharing snippets of the trauma when the nights got long. She spoke of it like it was some distant memory, buried deep beneath the love they’d built over the last few years. But this article—it felt like a revelation. His Y/N had endured unimaginable hardships before they even met, and he had never known.

He stared at the headline for a long moment, the words blending into each other as his thoughts spiraled. Jayce was no stranger to trauma, but this? It felt different. The weight of it hung heavy on him, the realization that the woman he loved had lived through something so harrowing before they even crossed paths.

The article detailed her bravery—how she had survived, how she had fought to protect the others. There was mention of her injuries, some of which were still with her to this day, though she kept them hidden behind her smile. But Jayce couldn't help but think of the times when she’d shied away from certain touches, the way her eyes would cloud over when she spoke of certain places or sounds. He'd always chalked it up to the weight of life and the way she carried it—but this... this was something deeper.

He couldn't shake the thought of it, and that afternoon, when he returned home to the cozy apartment they shared in Piltover, he was quieter than usual. Y/N noticed immediately.

"Jayce?" Her voice was soft, full of concern as she approached him, her hands gently brushing against his chest as she looked up at him. "You okay?"

He hesitated for a moment, the newspaper still clutched tightly in his hand. Her eyes were so full of trust, so full of love, but Jayce couldn’t escape the feeling of being blindsided. She didn’t deserve to be weighed down by the past—she had built a new life with him, after all—but now, everything felt different.

“Y/N, I…” He stopped himself, feeling a lump in his throat. “I had no idea.”

She frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “No idea about what?”

He handed her the newspaper. She took it with a hesitant glance, but once she saw the headline, her expression shifted—regret, sadness, maybe even guilt flickering across her face.

"Jayce... I didn't want to tell you," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "I didn’t want it to change anything between us."

He shook his head, his heart aching. "You didn’t think I would want to know? That I needed to know?"

Y/N lowered her gaze, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. “I didn’t want you to see me like that—like someone who’s been broken. I don’t want you to look at me and only see the girl who survived. I want you to see me for who I am now.”

Jayce reached for her hand, pulling it gently toward his chest. He looked at her with soft, searching eyes. "I see you, Y/N. All of you. The woman I love. The one who has strength beyond measure, even when she doesn't think anyone's looking. The one who—" He swallowed, fighting the sudden surge of emotion. "The one who lived and survived through that and still found a way to love me. I couldn’t ask for more."

Her lips trembled as she exhaled slowly, the weight of her past and the burden of not sharing it finally lifting. “I didn’t think you'd be able to love me if you knew the truth. It feels like a lifetime ago, but every anniversary, I remember it all over again.”

Jayce brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender, gentle. "You’re not just the survivor. You’re so much more than that." He cupped her face, his thumb gently tracing her cheek. "And no matter what you've been through, I’m here for all of it. You’re my heart, Y/N. Your past doesn’t change how I feel about you."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she pulled him into a tight embrace. Jayce held her just as tightly, feeling the weight of her history, but also the warmth of her presence. For all the pain she'd endured, she was still here—still his. He would never let that go.

“I love you,” he whispered against her ear. “All of you, Y/N. Always.”

And in that moment, as they stood there in each other’s arms, Jayce realized that the past didn’t define her. It had shaped her, yes, but it was only one part of the woman she had become. A woman he would continue to love—through everything, past and present.

VIKTOR

Viktor’s eyes scanned over the delicate, faintly trembling hands of Y/N as they rested on the edge of his desk, the tension in her posture evident. She had told him so many things about her past, but this... this was different. The story she was about to tell him—one she had kept buried for so long—wasn't something he'd expected.

They were sitting in his lab, the quiet hum of machines and the occasional click of his cane against the stone floor filling the silence. Viktor leaned back in his chair, the weight of years of experience pressing down on his shoulders, but still, he felt helpless. He wasn’t sure what to say yet.

Y/N finally broke the silence, her voice soft and steady, though it cracked slightly with the weight of her words. “It was... four years ago. My team and I... we were on a flight for a tournament when the plane crashed. I was the only one who made it.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out. The room seemed to close in, as if even the shadows were holding their breath.

Y/N continued, her gaze fixed on the far corner of the room. “I survived in the wild for almost a year and a half. It was... I don’t even have the words anymore for what it was. Hunger, cold, fear—it all blends together. I never thought I’d make it out, but I did. I don’t know how.”

Viktor’s hands clenched at the arms of his chair, his cane resting against the floor with a soft tap. He had never imagined such a brutal part of her past. The thought of her stranded, struggling, and fighting alone for so long twisted something deep within him. The thought of her—his Y/N—surviving something like that, it sent a cold shiver down his spine.

“You were... alone?” Viktor’s voice was quiet, strained with disbelief. “For that long...”

She nodded, her gaze falling to the floor, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric of her sleeve. “Yes. Alone. But... I had to survive, Viktor. There was no one else. I couldn’t give up. I had to keep moving forward, every day, every hour, just to stay alive.”

The room seemed too small now, the air thick with the weight of everything she had gone through. Viktor could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a strange mix of admiration and terror rising within him. He didn’t know how she had done it, how she had managed to endure such a hardship. He knew his own pain, his own suffering, but nothing compared to the raw, brutal reality of what she had faced.

"Y/N..." Viktor's voice cracked, the words caught in his throat as he stood slowly, his cane clicking softly as he approached her. He reached out for her, his hand trembling slightly. He wanted to comfort her, to take away the burden of that memory, but he knew he couldn’t erase it. Not entirely.

He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen. "You... survived that. You survived, and you're here now." His voice was thick, filled with a mixture of awe and something softer, deeper.

Y/N closed her eyes at his touch, leaning into him. "I didn't know if I'd make it," she whispered. "But I wanted to live. I didn't want to die there, Viktor. I wanted to make it home."

Viktor's heart clenched. He could feel the ghost of the pain she'd gone through. He couldn't even begin to fathom the terror and loneliness she had endured, but he could see the strength in her now, the same strength that had brought her to him.

“I’m sorry you had to endure that,” Viktor murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. “But I’m glad you did. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m not going to let you face anything alone again. You have me now, Y/N.”

Y/N opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Viktor might have his own scars, his own burdens, but in that moment, all that mattered was that they were together. That despite everything, they had found each other.

Viktor gently kissed her forehead, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than usual, before he pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes with an intensity she had never seen before. “You are a survivor, Y/N. That is something that will always stay with you, no matter what.”

Y/N’s lips parted, and she gave a soft, knowing smile. “I know. But I don’t have to be alone anymore. Not with you.”

And as the weight of her past began to settle, Viktor felt a flicker of hope rise within him. He couldn’t change what she had been through, but he could be there for her now. And that... that was all that mattered.

JAYVIK

The house was warm and inviting, the soft hum of conversation filling the air as the evening sun dipped below the horizon. Y/N had stepped away to the bathroom, leaving Viktor and Jayce with her parents in the cozy sitting room. Her mother had just set down a tray of tea, and her father was telling a story about Y/N’s childhood. Viktor, ever the observer, was perched on the edge of the armchair, his sharp eyes catching every detail. Jayce was more relaxed, leaning back in his seat, sipping his tea and listening intently.

“So, Y/N,” Y/N’s father said with a nostalgic smile, “she was always such a tough one. Back in high school, she was captain of the soccer team. A real fighter, even from a young age.”

Jayce’s brow furrowed slightly. He’d heard snippets of Y/N’s past, but never this much. Viktor’s expression, meanwhile, remained neutral, though there was an unmistakable intensity in his gaze.

“I remember when they were on their way to that big game,” Y/N’s mother added. “The plane crash happened... just awful.” She sighed, her eyes clouding with grief.

Jayce blinked, setting his tea down. “Wait, a plane crash?” His voice was low, and Viktor stiffened, his attention snapping to the conversation.

Y/N’s father nodded solemnly. “Yes. Their plane went down in the middle of nowhere. Terrible situation. Most of the team... didn’t make it.” His voice broke slightly, but he cleared his throat. “Y/N, though... she survived. For over a year. No one thought she would.”

Viktor’s hand twitched, and his eyes grew darker as he processed the information. Jayce, ever the compassionate one, couldn’t help but feel a knot twist in his stomach. The thought of Y/N, alone in the wild for so long, was unimaginable.

“You’re telling me she... survived out there by herself?” Jayce asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Y/N’s mother nodded, her voice heavy with emotion. “Yes. She was found barely alive when a search party finally reached her. It was a miracle, really.”

Viktor leaned forward, the wheels in his mind already turning. He’d always known there was something deeply resilient about Y/N, but to survive in such dire circumstances... it made sense now. Her calm demeanour, her determination, the way she handled challenges with such poise. It all clicked into place.

“She never spoke much about it,” Y/N’s father continued. “Just said she didn’t want anyone to worry. But... it changed her. You can see it in the way she lives her life now.”

Jayce sat in stunned silence, his gaze drifting toward the door where Y/N had disappeared moments ago. His mind raced, piecing together a new layer of her history. She had been through so much before they’d even met, and yet, she’d never shared it with them—never burdened them with the weight of it.

“We had no idea...” Jayce murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Viktor’s gaze never left the door. He was quieter than Jayce, his mind processing the implications. He had always admired Y/N's strength, but this revelation only deepened his respect for her. What kind of person could survive such a trial? A survivor. A fighter.

It made him admire her even more.

Just as the silence grew heavy, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Y/N stepped into the room, her smile bright and unassuming. “What’s all this serious talk about?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

Jayce stood quickly, his expression filled with a mix of admiration and concern. “Y/N...” he started, but the words didn’t quite come out right.

Viktor, usually so composed, found himself at a loss for words. He simply nodded, his eyes softening as he met hers.

Y/N caught the look in their eyes and paused, suddenly aware that something had changed. “What is it? What did you two find out?” Her voice was playful, but there was an underlying tension she couldn’t ignore. She then looks over to her dad, "Did you threaten to throw them out the window again?"

Y/N’s father chuckled lightly, waving it off. “Not quite, sweetheart,” he said, his voice full of affection. “But I did tell them a little more about your past.”

Y/N froze, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh? Is that so?” She turned to Viktor and Jayce, her eyes catching the mix of admiration and concern in their expressions. “How much did you hear?”

Viktor, taking a deep breath, finally spoke. “You survived a plane crash. For over a year... alone.” His voice was quiet, yet there was a weight to it, a solemnity that filled the room.

Y/N’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, she seemed like she might say something more. But she only nodded, her expression softening. “Yeah, that was a long time ago,” she replied in a quiet tone, trying to brush it off. “But it’s fine. It’s just... part of who I am now.”

Jayce couldn’t help himself; his hand gently reached out to her arm, his thumb brushing over her skin. “Y/N, I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. I... I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked it with a light shrug. “It wasn’t easy,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight that seemed to linger. “But I made it through. I’m okay.”

Her parents exchanged knowing glances, but neither of them spoke further. They clearly understood that this was something Y/N had carried quietly for years. Viktor, however, stepped closer, his presence a quiet but powerful comfort. “We’re here now,” he said softly. “You’re not alone anymore, Y/N.”

Her breath caught at the words, but before she could respond, the conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished up their time at her parents’ house. Still, Viktor and Jayce both sensed the unspoken heaviness that lingered with her, a burden she’d carried alone for too long.

VANDER

It was a quiet night in the old scrapyard, the wind howling softly outside, a familiar sound that had always comforted Y/N. The children were tucked away in their makeshift beds, the warm glow of the lanterns flickering in the corners. The usual nighttime ambiance filled the space—the occasional clink of metal, the soft hum of the underground settling in for rest.

Y/N lay beside Vander, curled into the warmth of his side beneath a thick, patched blanket. His arm was draped around her shoulders, their fingers loosely intertwined over his chest. The peaceful rhythm of his breathing, steady and deep, always made her feel grounded—safe.

But tonight, the usual calm was shattered.

It started as a soft whimper, barely a sound, but enough to pull Vander from the edge of sleep. His brow furrowed as he turned his head toward her. Y/N’s body had tensed, her brows drawn in discomfort, a thin sheen of sweat beginning to collect at her temple.

Vander’s arm tightened slightly around her. His free hand moved gently to her shoulder, rubbing slow circles, his voice still groggy but warm. “Y/N…” he murmured, just above a whisper.

She didn’t respond.

Then came the scream.

It wasn’t loud at first, but it was sharp—full of raw panic. Vander sat up immediately, heart pounding. He’d heard that scream before. He knew exactly what it meant. The crash. The year and a half she’d spent surviving in the middle of nowhere, relying on instincts, fighting off cold, hunger, and despair. He knew about the friends she’d lost, the nights she’d gone without sleep, the monsters that weren’t beasts but memories.

“Y/N,” he said again, firmer now, shaking her gently.

Her legs kicked out beneath the blanket, arms jerking as if fighting something invisible. Her face twisted in distress, breath quickening. Another strangled cry tore from her lips.

The kids were waking up now. Powder peeked her head around the corner of her curtain, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly. Mylo sat up, blinking in confusion. Vi and Claggor shuffled out of bed, concern on their faces.

"Is Y/N okay?" Vi whispered, rubbing her eyes, her voice thick with sleep.

Vander, ever the protector, smiled softly and nodded, though there was a storm of concern in his chest. "She’s just having a bad dream," he explained gently. "Nothing to be afraid of, okay?"

He then leaned over Y/N, his voice low but steady. "Y/N, it’s me, love. Wake up. You’re safe, I’ve got you."

Her eyes shot open, wide and frantic, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. For a moment, her gaze was distant, unseeing, before finally focusing on him. She clutched at him with shaking hands, her breath still ragged as the panic ebbed away.

“I’m here, darling,” Vander whispered, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him tightly, her head resting against his chest as she let out a shaky breath. Her pulse was racing, and he could feel the tremors running through her body. He gently stroked her hair, his thumb brushing over the back of her neck, trying to soothe the storm within her.

“I... I thought... I thought I was still out there,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible.

Vander didn’t say anything for a moment. He just held her, letting her words hang in the air. He knew exactly what she meant. That feeling of being trapped, of never knowing if help would come. Of losing everything.

"It's okay, love. You're here. You're safe," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He glanced at the kids, who were now gathered in the doorway, their eyes full of concern.

"Everything’s fine. Just a bad dream."

Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor hesitated in the doorway, their faces filled with worry. But as they saw Vander’s reassuring smile, they started moving toward the bed, their quiet footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

Claggor was the first to climb in, curling up next to Y/N, his face still soft with sleep. Powder followed, her tiny frame slipping in beside Y/N with a quiet "Sorry, Y/N," while Mylo settled in at the foot of the bed, his usual mischievous grin softened by the moment.

Vander smiled gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, love. We’re all here for you. Always.”

Vi pressed close, her arms wrapping around Y/N's waist, her small head resting on her shoulder. Claggor snuggled up against her side, Powder curling into the space between Y/N’s chest and Vander’s arm, and Mylo, ever the quiet one, nestled his head against Y/N’s knee.

As Vander lay beside them, his arm wrapped around Y/N and the kids, he felt a wave of warmth spread through him. This was family. This was home.

The quiet stillness of the scrapyard filled the room once more, and Y/N felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years. She was surrounded by love, by warmth, by the people who had come to mean the world to her. As she closed her eyes, the nightmare faded away, replaced by the gentle rhythm of Vander’s heartbeat and the soft breathing of the kids.

In this moment, she was safe. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe it.

SILCO

The first time Silco catches you saving half your dinner in your pocket — and not for later, but to give away to one of the street kids — he doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He watches from the shadows of the Last Drop’s upper balcony, the heavy scent of smoke curling around his head, his elbow resting on the carved wood railing like a statue in mourning. The din of the bar below is loud — raucous laughter, clinking glasses, the low pulse of bass from the jukebox someone wired up to play old songs from before the war.

But Silco’s eyes are locked on you.

He watches the way you lower your gaze, all subtle grace and guilt as you fold up the piece of flatbread from your plate and slip it into your coat pocket with a movement so practiced it’s second nature. You don’t eat fast, never have. Always scanning, always calculating — not just the people around you, but the resources. The exits. The light. Like you expect the world to close in again at any moment and leave you with nothing but dirt under your nails and blood on your teeth.

Silco knows that kind of survival.

He doesn’t need to confront you to understand. There’s a way people carry hunger even after their stomachs are full. A wariness in the eyes. The way you hold your utensils like weapons. The way you tuck away food like it might vanish, like you might vanish, if you let yourself enjoy it.

It’s not about generosity. Not entirely. The street kids you give your bread to remind you of something — someone. Teammates, maybe. Sisters. Or the faces you buried in shallow graves when the snow got too thick to keep digging.

Silco doesn’t ask. He never does.

But he knows.

You came to him nearly five years after the crash. He remembers the dossier — and more importantly, how thin it was. Half-buried news reports from Piltover about a high school soccer team’s plane going down en route to a tournament. Wreckage found months later. Survivors? Just one.

You.

He didn’t need the papers to tell him the worst parts. He saw it in the way you moved when you walked into his office for the first time. Steady. Controlled. Quiet in a way that wasn’t shy, but trained. No flinching. No fear. Just eyes that had stared down storms, wolves, frostbite, and madness.

He hired you on the spot.

Since then, you’ve proven yourself a hundred times over — in fights, in negotiations, in the quiet patience you show with the orphans and strays of the Undercity. But despite your competence, despite the loyalty, you live like a ghost. You eat like a bird. You never ask for more than you’re given. You patch the same worn boots three times instead of buying new ones, even though Silco pays you better than most of his lieutenants.

You don’t spoil yourself.

So he decides: if you won’t, he will.

It starts one morning.

After a long night tangled together in the low light of his bedchambers — your back against his chest, his arm wrapped around you like a shield — he stirs before you. You’re still, but not peaceful. Your lips twitch in your sleep, a faint line between your brows like your dreams are stuck somewhere far away in the woods again.

He brushes his fingers down your arm, then rises silently.

By the time you wake, the air smells warm. Heavy. Sweet.

You blink, eyes adjusting to the low golden glow of the lamp near the bed. There’s a tray beside you, set with a strange reverence: a thick slice of bread still steaming from the hearth, drizzled with honey and butter. A round of soft, creamy cheese from Piltover. Warm milk infused with cardamom and nutmeg. And fruit — actual fruit — sliced and arranged like jewels on a porcelain plate.

You sit up slowly, fingers hovering like you’re afraid touching it will make it disappear.

“Silco…” Your voice cracks around the name. “What is this?”

He’s seated nearby, in a tall-backed chair by the fireplace, still half dressed in last night’s shirt and slacks. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly tousled. A cigar smolders between his fingers.

His eye meets yours, unreadable. “Breakfast.”

“I…” You swallow. “I can’t eat all this. It’s too much.”

“You can,” he says calmly. “And you will.”

Your hands pull into your lap, fingers curling. “I don’t need this.”

“You need more than survival.” His voice softens. Not weak — never — but low and direct, like truth being laid bare on the table. “You’ve lived like a soldier since the day you were pulled from that wreck. I see it in everything you do. You’ve trained yourself to expect suffering. To ration joy like it’s going to run out.”

He stands, slow and deliberate, and crosses the room. When he sits beside you on the bed, his hand finds yours. Not forcing, not controlling. Grounding.

“I won’t stop you from carrying your ghosts, Y/N. But I won’t let them keep you starving in my house. Not in your stomach. Not in your soul.”

Your chest tightens. You stare down at your lap. “What if I don’t know how to stop?”

There’s silence for a beat. Then his fingers lift your hand — the one with the old scar across the palm, from a jagged rock or a rusted tin can — and he presses a kiss into the center. Slow. Reverent.

“Then I’ll teach you.”

It’s not always obvious after that.

Silco doesn’t like grand gestures. He doesn’t smother. But over time, the spoiling becomes a pattern.

A fur-lined coat in your closet one morning — heavy, stitched with gold threading along the seams. The kind nobles wear in Piltover during snow season. You put it on and wear it out in the rain. You cry when no one’s watching.

A box of chocolate truffles shows up on your desk. The fancy kind, filled with raspberry liqueur and pistachio cream. You find them tucked under a folder labeled “Dock Schedules – Week 12.” He never says a word.

You spot your old boots missing one day. In their place: a new pair, thick-soled, made from waterproof leather, fitted perfectly to your foot size. You never told him the size. Of course he knows.

He starts taking you to dinner. Once a week. Sometimes in Zaun, sometimes in disguise in Piltover’s quieter restaurants. You reach for the cheapest item on the menu every time. He doesn’t stop you — but he orders extra. Things you never would’ve dared dream of before the crash. Duck confit. Roasted figs. Baked brie wrapped in phyllo dough.

You still squirrel away leftovers.

But now, he wraps them for you in real paper. Neatly tied with string.

At night, when the world is quiet and your head is buried against his chest, your breath sometimes hitches — not from nightmares, but from guilt. From softness you don’t know how to hold.

Silco never pushes.

He just holds you tighter.

And every time you wake up from a dream with your heart hammering in your throat, you find his hand already reaching for yours. Steady. Calloused. Real.

Because in the end, Silco didn’t fall in love with a delicate thing.

He fell for the girl who clawed her way out of a crash, who buried her sisters and kept going, who learned to fight with her bare hands and never looked back.

He fell for the survivor.

And if he has to spend the rest of his life proving you’re worth more than what the wilderness took from you —

Then he will.

Over and over again.

Until you believe it, too.

SEVIKA

The bed was warm.

It always was, when Sevika held you like this—her chest to your back, strong arms draped across your waist, breathing slow against the crook of your neck. Her mechanical arm, surprisingly gentle, rested over your stomach, humming faintly as it powered down for the night.

But your body was tense. Not from her touch.

From the dream.

Another one.

You were quiet, hoping she was already asleep. The guilt always crept in when you woke her up with your tossing. Tonight, you had almost screamed. You weren’t even sure what had jolted you awake—just that the forest had been there again. Endless trees. Blood in the snow. Voices that didn’t belong to anyone living.

Your hand wandered to your thigh without thinking, fingers brushing the old scars slashed like vines up your leg. Twisted reminders of bark and stone and teeth. Of the wild.

Sevika stirred behind you.

"You okay?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep, but alert in that way she always was—like she could sense the mood shift without even seeing your face.

You hesitated. "Yeah. Just… couldn't sleep."

She hummed softly, then shifted. You expected her to nestle back in, maybe grumble and pull you closer, but instead she sat up. A hand came to your shoulder, turning you gently to face her.

And there, in the half-lit dark of her room, her eyes dropped to your body.

You'd forgotten you weren’t wearing much—just the old tank top she liked to steal, and shorts that left too much of the past exposed.

Her fingers ghosted over your thigh, tracing a scar like it was a story.

"You never told me about these."

Your heart thudded. "They’re old."

"Doesn’t mean they don’t matter."

Her touch was slow. Reverent. Like she wasn't sure whether to press or pull away. You’d never told her the full story. You barely told anyone.

You sat up beside her, the silence stretching.

"I was on a team," you said finally. "Sports. Real competitive. We were flying out for a tournament… and the plane went down. Middle of nowhere. Mountains, maybe. Forests. I don’t even know where exactly—we crashed so far out, no one found us for over a year."

Sevika’s eyes didn’t move from you, her brow furrowing just slightly.

"Only five of us survived the crash. Then three. Then two."

You exhaled, shaky. "Then just me."

She reached for your hand, slowly. Waited for you to pull away. You didn’t.

"I didn’t think I’d make it," you whispered. "Every day was… surviving. Hunting. Running. Stitching up wounds with whatever I could find. I had to turn myself into something else to make it back. And when I finally did… I couldn’t remember who I used to be."

Sevika’s jaw flexed. Anger, not at you—but at the thought of you suffering like that, alone.

"You shouldn’t have had to do that alone."

"I didn’t have a choice."

"You do now."

She tugged your hand into her lap, metal fingers brushing across the faded scar on your forearm—the one that looked like a bite mark. "These don’t scare me," she said quietly. "I’ve seen worse. Done worse."

You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "That’s not the part that scares me," you said, voice almost too soft to hear. "It’s the person I had to become to live through it."

She stilled.

"I did things I can’t forget," you continued. "Things I never thought I was capable of. There was a moment—when it was just me left—I didn’t even feel human anymore. Just… instinct. Hunger. Cold. Fear."

A pause.

"And then I got out. They found me. Brought me back. But everyone wanted me to go back to normal. Like I could just shake it off and be that same girl who left for a tournament and never came back."

Sevika said nothing, but her eyes didn’t leave yours. Not once.

You swallowed. "Sometimes I wish it hadn’t been me. That someone else had made it. One of the others. They were better than me. Kinder. Smarter. They didn’t—"

Your voice cracked. You turned your face, but Sevika’s hand caught your cheek before you could hide.

"Stop," she said quietly.

You blinked.

"You don’t get to carry that weight alone." Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it was steady—grounded like stone. "You didn’t choose to live while they didn’t. You survived. That’s not weakness. That’s not selfish. That’s strength."

"But I—"

"You made it out of something no one was supposed to walk away from. And you carried it, all of it, by yourself for years." Her thumb brushed your cheek, catching the tear that slipped free. "You’re here now. And you’re still kind. You’re still smart. You’re still you."

You didn’t even realize you were shaking until she pulled you into her lap.

Wrapped her arms around you—both metal and skin—and tucked your head beneath her chin. Held you close enough that her heartbeat settled yours.

"You’re not broken," she whispered. "And you’re not alone anymore."

You sat like that in the quiet, for a long time. No rush. No pressure. Just her warmth, her breath, her strength.

And when she finally leaned back to press a kiss to your forehead, she said, "When you’re ready to tell me more, I’ll listen. Every time."

You nodded, slow. "Okay."

And this time, when you curled into her side, eyes closing with her arms still around you— you didn’t dream of the wild.

You just dreamed of her.

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