#you’d had to be a part of it to understand

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Out of frame 1/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

@landonorris

Solid weekend for the team. Proud of the progress, still hungry for more.

@_user1 he really posted a whole carousel and not ONE pic of his gf who was literally trackside all weekend 😭

@_user2 not even a mention to Y/N… 🫠

@_user3 he posts more Oscar than his actual girlfriend 💀 priorities???

@_user4 if you didn’t already know they were together you’d 100% assume he’s single. this is just weird now.

@_user5 i get wanting privacy but this feels like pretending she’s not part of his life at all 🙃

@_user6 she looked so pretty this weekend too and nothing?? not even a tag? a repost?? okay then.

@_user7 lando i love you but if you post oscar one more time before your actual girlfriend... 😩

@_user8 she shows up to support him every time and he won’t even acknowledge her... she deserves someone proud to be with her tbh.

@_user9 THAT OVERCUT WAS SO SMOOTH. give this man a trophie 😤👏

@_user10 can we talk about how good he looked in that third pic omg 😮‍💨

@_user11 LANDO MASTERCLASS LET’S GOOOOO 🔥🔥🔥

@_user12 he’s so serious here omg bring back chaotic lando for a second pls

@your_username 📍Melbourne

Driver number 4 is kinda cute 💌

@_user1 the caption??? Y’ALL ARE SO LOWKEY BUT SO CUTE I’M CRYING 😭

@_user2 girl you’re soft-launching your boyfriend of 3 YEARS 😭😭

@_user3 that polaroid of lando casually thrown in there… I SEE YOU 👀

@_user4 ok but why is this post more romantic than anything he’s ever posted 🥲

@_user5 her at the track >>>>>

@_user6 driver number 4 better WAKE UP and post you too, queen.

@_user7 the way she supports him so quietly and consistently... deserves more recognition fr

@_user8 prettiest girl at the paddock 💘

@_user9 nah cause this aesthetic is everything

@_user10 “driver number 4 is kinda cute” is the most girlfriend thing i’ve ever read lmao

@landonorris

Recharge day after the race 🌊

@_user1 sir who is taking these pics 👀

@_user2 ok but you could’ve at least tagged your girlfriend if she’s behind the camera 🙃

@_user4 jumping into the ocean like he’s diving away from accountability

@_user5 you look happy but why does this give ‘i’m gonna ignore my gf again’ energy 😩

@_user6 lando pls post your gf for once we’re begging 😭

@_user7 this whole post is ✨aesthetic✨ and also suspiciously solo

@_user8 i know y/n is there i can FEEL it through the screen

@_user9 how are you real. like actually. it’s offensive at this point 😍🔥

@_user10 lando + blue water = serotonin

@your_username

Lost at sea but in love with it and maybe a little bit with him too @landonorris 💙

@_user1 oh she’s SERVING

@_user2 lando… baby… if you don’t want her I WILL 😌

@_user3 you’re literally the prettiest woman on this app i don’t understand how he keeps you hidden like a secret

@_user4 nah bc if i looked like this and he never posted me i’d simply disappear

@_user5 can lando even fight?? because you’re way too stunning for this level of invisibility 💅🏼

@_user6 he posts boats. she posts him. let that sink in.

@_user7 if she ever becomes single i’m standing outside her house with flowers

@_user8 the towel pic is giving summer movie ending energy 🥺

@_user9 not to be dramatic but he should be GRATEFUL to be in this post

Texts messages

Lando Got back to the hotel. You home safe?

Y/N Yeah. Landed an hour ago. Just got in

Lando You okay? You’ve been quiet since you left Did I do something?

Y/N Not really. I’m just tired

Lando Y/N. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine but I can feel it’s not

Y/N Well Maybe there’s something

Lando Talk to me

Y/N I don’t want to argue with you, Lando. Not over text

Lando Then let’s not argue. Just tell me what’s on your mind. Please

Y/N Okay It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid But I saw the comments under your post

Lando The boat post?

Y/N Yes And the one from Melbourne to Every single one saying “where’s your gf” or “why doesn’t he post her” or “does she even exist”…

Lando Y/N You know that stuff isn’t real It’s Instagram. Fans talk

Y/N Yeah, but I am real And I was there. I’m always there But if I wasn’t posting you, no one would even know we’re together

Lando What are you trying to say?

Y/N I’m saying it’s starting to feel like maybe I’m the only one proud to be with you That maybe… you don’t want me to be visible. That I’m not someone you want to show off

Lando That’s not fair You know I’m private. I always have been. I don’t need to prove anything to strangers online

Y/N This isn’t about strangers It’s about me.

Lando We are public. People know we’re together. It’s not like I’m hiding you

Y/N Then why does it feel like you are?

Lando Y/N…

Y/N You say you don’t want to share too much online. Okay. But you don’t even talk about me in interviews. You don’t look at me in the paddock. You walk ten steps ahead. You don’t touch me in public. You don’t even smile at me if cameras are around

Lando You’re exaggerating.

Y/N Am I?

Lando So what, you want me to start posting couple selfies and PDA every weekend just to make people shut up?

Y/N No. I want you to want to Not for them. For me

Lando You know I love you. Why does it matter how many people see it?

Y/N Because maybe I want to feel like you’re proud of me Of us

Lando I am proud of us. I just don’t show it the same way you do

Y/N Then maybe we want different things

Lando ...what did you just say?

Y/N Maybe I want more More than quiet acknowledgments and careful distance

Lando You’re making it sound like I don’t care about you

Y/N Oscar is private too But he still posts about Lily. He talks about her in interviews, he includes her He makes her feel seen without compromising anything

Lando Are you serious right now?

Lando You’re really bringing up Oscar in the middle of this?

Y/N It’s not about him. It’s about how he finds a way to love her loudly without putting her in the spotlight she didn’t ask for

Lando Unbelievable.

Lando So what, now I’m not just a bad boyfriend, I’m worse than Oscar too?

Y/N That’s not what I’m saying, Lando...

Lando No, that’s exactly what you’re saying You want a boyfriend like Oscar? Go be with Oscar.

Y/N Wow. That’s what you got from this?

Lando You’re throwing comparisons in my face and expecting me to stay calm?

Y/N I’m trying to make you understand! I want to feel valued, Lando. I want to feel like I’m part of your life, not just your locked-away secret. Is that so unreasonable?

Lando So because I don’t perform our relationship for strangers online, I don’t value you? Do you hear how that sounds?

Y/N You’re twisting my words

Lando You’re making this about other people. About Instagram

Y/N No, I’m making this about how you treat me About how I feel invisible when I’m next to you and the world’s watching

Lando I didn’t realize dating me came with a rulebook on public affection

Y/N It doesn’t But I thought being with me came with basic emotional effort

Lando I’m always there for you. I love you. I give you everything I can But it’s never enough, is it?

Y/N Not when you act like this

Lando Fine. Enjoy Monaco. I’ll see you whenever

Let me know if you want to be add or removed from the taglist :)

Permanent taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw, @mattslovelygf, @strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty, @janonymus0, @taetae-armyyyyy, @charlesgirl16, @angstynasty

[redlinespeedster]

pretty please oscar piastri degradation im feral over his post-spain photos

CRAVING THE NEW !! ☆

oscar piastri 𝒙 fem!reader

[summary] Oscar was the perfect boyfriend—sweet, thoughtful, chivalrous to the extreme. You were used to his soft whispers, those breathy I-love-yous even in the middle of moans. But that night, right after he took the win at the Spanish Grand Prix, you looked at him with this different kind of spark in your eyes and dropped a request that knocked the air out of him: you wanted him to degrade you, no holding back. And there was no way he could say no. (1.7k)

[warnings] smut !! rough sex, degrading dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, Oscar is mean. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] I’ve been drooling over those pics for like three days. Damn, he looks so freaking good. Wish I were Lily, seriously. 😫

Your whole life, you had always liked the good guys—the ones with sweet words, the ones who brought you flowers on dates and opened the car door or any door wherever you went together. You always thought good guys were simply better. And Oscar proved it every single time.

He blushed every time he talked about you. He loved showing you off, and his words always carried that sweet tone—even when he had you tangled in his sheets. Oscar was talented at many things beyond motorsport, but his greatest gift was knowing exactly how to make you feel desired, cherished… one of a kind.

But over time, your darker desires began to awaken inside you. They were fantasies you’d been suppressing for years, but now they became frequent—impossible to ignore. It wasn’t about wanting someone else or being unsatisfied with the way you and him made love—not at all. There was simply a smoldering hunger within you, a need to explore something new… with him.

At first, you felt afraid. Afraid that Oscar might get offended, that he’d take your request as a criticism or a warning that your sex life wasn’t working. A lot of people don’t even have a mind open enough to understand that wanting to try new things doesn’t mean what came before was bad; sometimes, it’s simply about the curiosity for the unexpected.

You waited all race weekend to tell him officially. You wanted to do it when you were both home, alone, with no one who could interrupt the conversation by knocking on the door.

Oscar was genuinely happy—you could see it on his face, mostly in the way his cheeks lifted when he smiled. You, on the other hand, were anxious, anticipating how things might go, and unfortunately, he noticed.

“Baby… is everything okay? You’ve seemed kinda off since we got off the plane,” he asks, placing a hand on your knee in a gentle, understanding gesture.

Your eyes fill with tears from the anxiety. You didn’t mean to cry, but the idea of telling Oscar what’s going on makes you uncomfortable. You knew you could trust him with anything; what you didn’t know was how he’d react.

“Something’s going on with me. It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t like the way we have sex, but…” You stop when you see Oscar looking at you, confused and worried, so you decide to just be direct. “I want you to degrade me.”

The weirdest part? He doesn’t even seem surprised. There’s no trace of disappointment on his face either—none of that dramatic “you want this because you don’t love me anymore” stuff. Nothing like that. On the contrary, he grabs you by the hips and pulls you into that perfect space between his legs. His warm breath brushes against your ear—soft, steady—as his fingers slowly slide through your hair.

“You really want that? How come you never told me?” he asks. You turn your head to look him in the eyes, and there’s something about the way your pupils dilate that sparks an odd tenderness in him.

“It’s just… I didn’t know how you’d take it” you admit. Your body shivers when he lets out a low laugh, dry and almost amused.

There’s a sexual tension in the room that practically scorches you, stealing your breath. You feel his hands rest on your shoulders, then slowly slide down. He traces your collarbone with the tip of his fingers in a way that makes you shiver, and starts unbuttoning your tiny shirt. Your cheeks flush instantly, intimidated by how his gaze stays locked on you.

“Embarrassed, huh?” he asks, but you’re not really sure what to say—you just stay quiet. His hands move over your chest on top of your shirt, and your heart starts racing. “Why though, babe? It’s not like you’ve ever had a dirty mind or anything.”

His thumbs start teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your white shirt. He immediately notices you’re not wearing a bra and smirks. Not a big smile—more like a cocky one, like he’s lowkey amused by how easy it is to get you like this.

“I bet you’re soaked. You always get like this. Acting like a bitch in heat.”

A slight jolt of arousal runs through your body. His voice, deeper than usual, and his words catch you off guard. You’re still not completely used to hearing him talk like that, but you don’t mind… if anything, you want more.

He's not wrong, your pussy is dripping.

He notices the second his hand moves down and his fingers slide over the denim fabric of your shorts. Your nose brushes against his; he’s calm, eyes half-lidded, with an almost taunting stillness. You, on the other hand, are a mess—you can barely breathe.

“You’re not even trying to hide it. I spent the whole damn weekend focused on my race, stressing about losing, and all you could think about was riding me like the filthy little slut you are. Am I wrong, babe?

His hand unbuttoned your pants until they dropped and bunched up around your ankles. He can see the wet stain on your panties—sticky and damp. You’d soaked through the fabric. He presses his fingers gently over it, and as a result, they get wet too. But what really gets to you is the moan that slips out, caused by how sensitive you are.

He doesn’t even bother taking your panties off; he just lazily pushes the fabric aside, leaving you completely exposed. Eager anticipation made your clit throb.

Oscar used to touch you slowly, taking his time to gently slide his fingers through your wet folds and then sweetly rub your clit. But this time, it’s different. He quickly slips two fingers into your hole, curling them into a hook to hit that exact spot inside you. Then, once you’ve gotten used to it, he starts moving them in and out with steady force, pulling deep moans from your throat that fill the room.

“Fuck, Osc!” you moan out loud, and you feel him pull his fingers out just to slap your pussy gently—a move that sends an instant jolt through your body and makes you squirm.

“Shut up, slut.” he orders, and you feel his fingers curl back inside you, pounding your poor hole with a near-brutal rhythm, thrusting in and out without mercy. The way he timed each thrust to hit that perfect spot inside you before pulling back was just unreal.

His hand grips your hips, trying to pull you even closer, making your ass rub against his hardness. You can feel his erection—still clothed—pressing firmly against your skin. His hands move down with urgency to get rid of the fabric in the way, unbuckling his belt without wasting a second.

His damp hands grip your hips tightly before he throws you onto the bed without a second thought, making you bounce against the mattress with a muffled moan. He grabs you by the ankles and drags you toward him, settling between your legs as his body drops over yours, trapping you with no room to escape.

“I can only imagine the agony,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours while his hands grip your bare thighs. Then he lifts them firmly, spreading them and pushing them toward your body until your knees are nearly pressed against your stomach. “You spent the whole week watching me race, dying for me to wreck you. You don’t like it when I talk sweet, do you? When I tell you how good you look or how amazing you feel. What really turns you on is when I treat you like my throwaway toy.”

You feel him drip slowly onto the lower part of your stomach—warm and wet—leaving a sticky sensation clinging to your skin. Then his cock slides gently through your folds, not entering, just teasing; he only wants to watch you lose control.

“Oscar… please.” you sob between moans, clinging tightly to his back like letting go would mean losing your mind. “I can’t take it… I can’t.”

He shifts, kneeling in front of your pussy—completely exposed, utterly wrecked. The tip of his cock slides in slowly until it disappears inside you, filling you up completely. He pauses for a second to let you adjust, and in the next, he’s thrusting hard, the sound of your bodies slapping echoing through every corner of your house.

Oscar moans too. He moans because you’re squeezing him just right—hot, wet, and perfect—driving him insane. His hands dig into your thighs, pushing your legs toward your chest to spread you open wider, so he can bury himself as deep as possible and fuck you without mercy.

“Fuck…” he groans, voice rough as his face twists in pure pleasure. The look on his face—that mix of ecstasy and desperation—sets you off instantly. Your walls tighten around him, like your body’s trying to keep him there till the very end. You’re right on the edge, seconds away from turning the moment into a glorious mess. “You want me to fill you up? I will. I’ll stuff you so full my cum’ll be dripping out of that pathetic pussy for days.”

You can feel how tightly you’re clenching around him, until you finally make him come inside you, milking him for every last drop. Your pussy takes it all in, savoring every bit until you’re left a creamy mess, mixed with your own orgasm that bursts inside you too. The pleasure hits so hard it leaves you dazed, gasping, your body trembling and your legs on the verge of giving out.

He looks at you tenderly, finally letting go of that dominant side once he sees you’re satisfied with what he gave you. He smiles softly and leans in again to kiss your forehead. Your cheeks, inevitably, flush all over again.

“I like this…” he murmurs quietly, his hand gently caressing your cheek. You raise an eyebrow, curious, not really getting what he means. “Fucking you till you can’t breathe and then watching you blush like a virgin. That’s just something I’ll never get tired of, huh baby?”

[cuzxai]

what would they think - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: getting all touchy under the table while pretending you’re not about to ruin everything at a fancy event 😍👅😩

The hotel ballroom looked like it had been plucked out of a dream. Not your dream, necessarily—maybe something out of one of Rossi’s old money memories. Deep crimson curtains, floors that gleamed like polished onyx, walls lined with gold leaf and oil paintings too expensive to understand. The chandelier overhead glittered like a galaxy suspended in crystal. Live jazz drifted from a string quartet in the corner, elegant and unbothered. Even the waitstaff looked like they’d been trained by European royalty, gliding between tables with platters of rare wine and hors d’oeuvres you couldn’t pronounce.

You weren’t usually one for stuffy inter-agency functions but the BAU was getting recognition tonight and the invite had been too tempting to ignore. You knew the wine would flow, the compliments would too and more importantly—Spencer would be there in a suit. You spotted him before he spotted you. Across the ballroom, near the bar, laughing at something Garcia said. Slim-cut black tailored like sin, a soft dove-gray shirt underneath, the top two buttons undone like temptation itself. His curls were neatly pushed back but already starting to fall loose. The low light caught the sharp line of his jaw, and when he turned to look at something, his profile was so beautiful it almost knocked the air from your lungs. You crossed the room like you were pulled.

He saw you halfway there and froze. Smile faltering. Eyes catching on every part of you—hair, dress, legs, mouth. When you reached him, you were already smiling. “Criminally good,” you murmured, fingers brushing the knot of his tie.

He blinked. “What?”

“You,” you whispered, leaning close. “You look criminally good tonight.”

His breath hitched. Color bloomed on his cheeks. “That’s… an overstatement.”

You let your hand slide down his chest before stepping back. “Someone should cuff you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered before quickly excusing himself to grab champagne. You felt his eyes on you the whole time you waited.

The team was scattered but within reach—Hotch and Rossi talking near the French doors, Morgan and JJ laughing over cocktails, Emily already on her second glass of something red and expensive-looking. Garcia was practically holding court at a nearby table, bathed in sequins and charm, her laughter rising above the music.

You stayed near Spencer. It just…happened that way. Maybe it was the wine or the lighting or the way he kept glancing at you like he couldn’t help himself. Every time he reached for his glass, your fingers brushed. Every time someone came by to greet him, they greeted you too. The two of you shared a plate of appetizers. Sat together during the award speeches. Found yourselves tucked into a corner booth when the team claimed a table. And not a single soul questioned it.

“Reid,” someone said as they passed. “You and your girlfriend look incredible tonight.”

He opened his mouth to correct them but you squeezed his knee under the table and the words died in his throat. He gave a small, dazed smile instead. You’d been drinking slowly. Pacing yourself. First a glass of red, then something floral Garcia handed you, and now, wine again—warm and dark and dangerously smooth. Spencer had kept pace without realizing it. He was flushed now, skin glowing beneath the collar of his shirt, tie loosened slightly. His knee was touching yours.

“Remind me why we’re not dating?” you asked, voice low.

He turned toward you, startled.

You swirled your wine. “Everyone already thinks we are. Wouldn’t be much of a jump.”

He watched you carefully. “You’ve been drinking.”

You leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his. “You’re avoiding the question.” His lips twitched. You tilted your head, eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the room dimmed. The quartet played something slow and sultry. The air grew heavier. His gaze dropped to your mouth and stayed there a second too long.

Emily plopped into the seat beside you, pulling you both back to reality. “You two look cozy,” she teased, clearly tipsy.

“Trying to keep him out of trouble,” you said sweetly, nudging Spencer’s thigh with your own.

Morgan wandered over with drinks and slung an arm around Reid’s shoulder. “Let me guess—she’s babysitting you?”

Spencer gave a tight smile, trying to shake him off. “I’m not even drunk.”

“You look drunk,” JJ said, sipping her third prosecco.

“He always looks like that around her,” Garcia added slyly from the next table.

Laughter bubbled around the group, light and affectionate. No one was being mean. They just…saw it. Whatever it was between you. Even if neither of you had ever named it. By the time dinner rolled around, you were full of wine and warmth. The food was fancy but forgettable. Spencer barely touched his entrée. You fed him bites off your plate, teasing him every time he leaned in to take one. You licked your fork after he used it. He stared.

“You gonna eat?” you asked innocently. He reached for his water instead.

The crowd around your table shifted throughout the evening—old colleagues dropping by, agents you’d worked with once or twice. Some of them tried to flirt with you. Spencer was polite but visibly displeased. He didn’t touch you but he might as well have—his leg was pressed against yours under the table and his hand was resting on the bench behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his skin. You kept drinking. Just enough to feel the fire creep into your blood. And as the hours slipped by, your gaze drifted more and more to the way his fingers gripped the stem of his glass. The way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. The little lines around his eyes when he smiled at something someone said. God, you wanted him badly. You wanted to make him lose his composure. Right here. Right now.

And that moment came just after ten. An older man—someone Spencer clearly respected—stopped by to say hello. The music had shifted to something smooth and jazzy again. Your shoes were off under the table. Your dress had hiked up just enough to let your thigh brush his. You were sitting so close now you could smell the sandalwood in his cologne. As the man leaned in to talk shop, you shifted slightly in your seat and let your hand drift under the table. Spencer kept talking. You flattened your palm against his thigh first, letting him feel the warmth of your touch. No movement. No pressure yet. He paused in the middle of a sentence. The man didn’t seem to notice but you did. The muscle in Spencer’s leg jumped under your hand. You started tracing soft circles. Featherlight strokes through his slacks.

He coughed. Tried to recover. “Sorry—dry throat.”

You bit back a smile.

“Something wrong, Dr. Reid?” the man asked, brow raised.

Spencer’s voice came out rougher than intended. “No, no. Just—bit warm in here.”

Your hand moved higher. Slowly. Just enough to brush along the line of his growing arousal. His breath caught, the sound quiet but unmistakable. His hand curled into a fist under the table. Your fingers hadn’t stopped moving. Spencer was struggling visibly and vocally— not to show it. He was still talking to the man beside your table, still answering some question about interdepartmental coordination or statistical models or whatever the hell it was but his cadence was fractured now. Not just hesitant—frayed. Pulled tight, unraveling by the second. You could feel him hard under your palm. Hot and twitching beneath the soft fabric of his slacks. His voice cracked again and again as you traced the shape of him, slow and deliberate, a featherlight tease that made him grind his teeth and shift his hips forward like he couldn’t help it. He still hadn’t looked at you and that made it worse. He was trying to behave. Trying to stay in character—Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler, model guest. But underneath the table, you had him begging in silence. His whole body thrummed with tension. His hand clenched on the edge of the table so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“Your girlfriend keeping you warm?” the man said with a chuckle, nodding toward you. Spencer’s voice caught entirely.

You just smiled, lips stained with wine. “He runs cold,” you offered sweetly. “I’m just helping.”

The man clapped him on the shoulder and moved on with a final toast in your direction. Once he was out of earshot, Spencer exhaled like he’d been underwater. His head dropped forward slightly, curls falling over his eyes. “You’re gonna make me lose it,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, brushing the backs of your knuckles along his cock. “Am I?”

His hand shot down and caught your wrist. Not rough or angry, just done. He turned to you slowly, eyes dark and desperate, voice like gravel. “Come with me. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend to resist. You were already warm between your legs, skin buzzing with wine and want. You slipped your shoes back on and followed him as he stood, slipping one hand behind your back like a guide—more possessive than protective. You were halfway across the ballroom before you remembered the others. Emily raised her eyebrows. Garcia winked. Morgan wolf-whistled low under his breath. But no one said anything. They knew.

Spencer led you down a hallway gilded in shadow, the music dimming behind you. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen until he reached a door labeled Private and slipped inside, pulling you with him. It was some kind of coatroom, maybe, or a staff lounge—low lighting, a small plush bench, racks of unused winter jackets. The air was cool and smelled faintly of cedar and starch. The second the door clicked shut behind him, he pressed you against it. Not with force. With urgency. One hand braced beside your head. The other still wrapped around your wrist. He looked at you like he’d just been dragged out to sea—like you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, “what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “Mm. I might.”

He leaned in until your foreheads touched, breathing hard. “You don’t.”

Your free hand curled in the front of his shirt, fisting the soft material. His cock was pressed against your hip now, fully hard and twitching and you rolled your hips gently up against it. His head dropped to your shoulder.

“You kept touching me,” he said, voice low, broken. “All through dinner. Every time I tried to talk to someone, you—God, you’re insane.”

You tilted your head, letting your mouth brush the shell of his ear. “I wanted to see how long you could keep it together.”

His hand released your wrist—only to slide up the bare skin of your thigh and underneath your dress.“I’m not keeping it together anymore.” And then his fingers were on you. Hot. Firm. Possessive. He cupped you over your panties, dragging a groan from your lips. You hadn’t even realized how wet you were until he pressed the heel of his palm against your cunt, grinding slow and hard.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, mouth brushing your jaw. “Fuck. I didn’t even touch you and you’re already—”

“I touched you,” you gasped, rocking into his hand. “You started it.”

“Baby,” he muttered. “You started it the second you said I looked criminally good.”

You laughed, breathless. “Well. You did.”

He shoved your panties aside. Two fingers slid into you, deep and slow, curling the moment they bottomed out. Your head hit the door behind you. His palm cradled your cunt like he’d been starving for it—like this was what he’d been craving all night, all week, always. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shirt, moaning into his shoulder as he fucked you slow with his fingers. Deep and rhythmic. The soft, wet sounds of your cunt filled the room, filthy and perfect.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” he murmured. “Had to feel me under the table. Had to get me hard in front of everyone.”

Your hips bucked. “Spence—”

“They all saw it,” he growled, curling his fingers deeper. “Morgan. JJ. Emily. They knew. You were teasing me, touching me—” You bit down on his shoulder, muffling a moan. “Say it,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Say you wanted them to see.”

“I—I didn’t care,” you whimpered. “I just wanted you. All night, Spence—fuck, your voice—your hands—your stupid wine glass, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—”

He kissed you then. Hard. Messy. Like he couldn’t take another second of not having your mouth on his. His fingers never stopped. You were grinding into his hand now, thighs shaking, slick dripping down onto his wrist. He swallowed every sound you made, kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His other hand slipped around the back of your neck, holding you steady as he fucked you open on his fingers, slow and deep and ruthless.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he whispered against your lips. “Drag you somewhere dark. Fuck you like you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” you gasped. “You know I am.”

He let out a broken noise—half groan, half whimper—and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers picked up pace. You were close now. He could feel it. You knew he could.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, breathless. “You gonna make a mess on my hand?” You nodded, unable to speak. He kissed you again—quick, desperate. “Then be good,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Just like this.”

And you did. You came hard and fast, clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a silent cry against his neck. He fucked you through it, slow and steady, whispering your name into your hair as your body trembled and jerked against the door. When the aftershocks faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly and sucked them into his mouth. Tasting you. Groaning low in his throat. You nearly fell over.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “We’re not making it back to that table, are we?”

He smiled. “Not for a while.”

His hands are warm, steady on your waist, but his eyes—they’re wild. “Get on your knees,” he breathes, voice low and hoarse. “Now.”

You smile and drop slowly, the hem of your dress spilling around your legs as you sink to the floor. The marble is cold beneath your knees, but you don’t care. All you see is him—the way his chest is rising and falling, the flush climbing his throat, his trembling fingers already at his belt like he can’t stand another second of not being inside your mouth. You take over before he can fumble. “Let me.”

The belt comes loose with a soft snap. The button, then the zipper, then his slacks sliding down his hips—and he’s hard already. So hard, straining against the thin cotton of his briefs, the tip of his cock dark and wet with precum. You press a kiss against it, right through the fabric. He swears under his breath. You glance up, all big eyes and innocence. “You okay, Spence?”

His jaw tics. “Don’t fuck with me.”

You don’t. You tug his briefs down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already twitching in anticipation. You wrap one hand around the base and lick a slow stripe up the length, tasting salt and skin, watching him fall apart above you. He braces one hand on the wall. The other fists in your hair. The second your mouth closes around the head of his cock, he moans—soft, broken, wrecked. And you haven’t even started. You suck him slow, letting your tongue swirl over the tip, savoring the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue. He’s perfect like this—hips twitching, thighs tensing, trying so hard to stay still. You don’t make it easy. Your hand strokes him where your mouth can’t reach, wrist twisting, wet and messy, while your lips slide deeper. Your eyes never leave his face. You want him unraveled. And you’re getting there.

“God,” he pants. “Jesus, your mouth—”

You moan softly, just so he can feel the vibration and he shudders. His grip tightens in your hair. He’s trying to guide you, trying to keep his control but you can feel the tension in his legs—how close he already is. Then you take him deeper. You flatten your tongue and push down, slow and steady, swallowing inch by inch until your nose is brushing his abdomen. His hips jerk forward on instinct and suddenly you’ve got him fully in your throat, choking slightly around him. Spencer loses it.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

He pulls back but you don’t let him. You moan again, pushing forward and the sound he makes is almost a sob. He rocks into your mouth. It’s instinctive—his hips bucking, slow and unsure at first, like he can’t believe he’s doing it. But the moment he feels your throat squeeze around him, the moment you moan again, desperate and soaked between your thighs. He starts fucking your mouth in earnest. Short, sharp thrusts. Not cruel or selfish. Just needy. Desperate. His hand is a vice in your hair now, guiding your rhythm, forcing your head to stay still while he slides in and out, grunting under his breath. You’re drooling, eyes watering, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. But you don’t stop. You take it. You want it. He’s moaning, low and constant and you feel his thighs trembling on either side of you, every muscle in his body tight with effort.

“Look at me,” he growls. You do, tears smudging your mascara. Mouth stretched wide. Lips slick and swollen. And he’s so close. “God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “Fucking perfect—gonna come—gonna come, baby, fuck, don’t stop—”

You don’t. You keep sucking, keep moaning, your tongue fluttering against the underside of his cock as he fucks your throat in frantic, broken thrusts—he comes. He groans your name like a warning, head thrown back, thighs shaking as he spills down your throat, thick and hot and so much—you swallow it all without flinching, your hands digging into his hips to keep him steady. He pants above you, still rocking slightly, trying to come down. His grip on your hair loosens and he looks down at you. You’re a mess. Mascara running. Lips wet. Chin slick with spit. Your chest is heaving, your eyes still glassy and your thighs are pressed tight together because you’re still so turned on it hurts. He stares at you for a long, stunned second. You stand slowly. Fluid and confident. Your hand brushes his chest as you rise, your breath still catching from the strain. He blinks, dazed.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Spencer laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Am I okay?”

You step in close. Run your fingers down his chest. Press your hips forward just enough for him to feel the heat of you through your dress. You whisper,“Please fuck me.” He freezes. You’re staring up at him, lips parted, eyes pleading. Still trembling from how badly you need it. He can see it all over you—your pulse fluttering, your thighs clenched, your lips still swollen from taking him so deep. He wants to. God, he wants to. But he pulls back.

“No,” he whispers.

Your brows lift in surprise. “No?”

“No.”

You blink. “Spence—”

His hands settle on your waist. Steady. Firm. In control. “Wait until the party’s over,” he says softly. “Then I’ll fuck you how you need.” You open your mouth to argue—but his gaze darkens and something about the command in his voice still makes you throb. “Understood?”

You nod slowly. He reaches up to wipe your lip with his thumb. Straightens your dress. Fixes his tie. Then he leans down and kisses your cheek.“You’re going to be so good for me.”

You swallow hard. He opens the door, checks the hallway, then nods for you to follow. You both step out into the corridor—eyes bright, hearts pounding, not one damn person the wiser. You return to the party like nothing happened. But your knees are sore. And your panties are ruined.

[absinthe-over-tea]

either way it's gonna || the pitt

pt 4 <<prev • next>>

pairing: jack abbott x f!resident!reader quick synopsis: When Langdon leaves The Pitt for rehab, Robby hires you as a new senior resident. Meeting Jack on your first day spirals into a year of almosts and miscommunication — all you know is either way this goes, it's going to hurt. Inspired by Hurt by Jasmine Jethwa. warnings: age gap (older man/younger woman), canon-typical death, probably a gross amount of medical inaccuracies, vague allusions to reader's past a/n: Welcome to part 4, featuring an absurd level of conclusion jumping and miscommunication between these two fucking morons. Thanks to everyone who's hopped along for the ride! This one's a little angsty, and longer than the last two updates (close to 4.1k). Pls let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list! Not beta read.

“We’re not talking about it.”

“Did I just see what I think I saw?” Robby asked, undeterred. Jack was still reeling, both from the euphoria of having your lips on his and the hurt of you running away. 

“I said we’re not talking about it.”  

“Because I think I just saw you making out with my favorite resident.” The grin on Robby’s face grew with every word he spoke and every step he took toward where Jack was still planted next to the railing. 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Collins is your favorite resident,” he corrected. “And we’re not talking about it.” 

“Favorite residents are like best friends, you can have more than one,” his friend waved off the technicality. “And it feels like you’re purposefully avoiding the point.”  

“It feels like you’re purposefully avoiding the fact that I said we’re not talking about it.” 

For one, blessed minute, they stood there in silence, Jack’s brain still trying to fully catch up to what the hell just happened over the course of the last five minutes. 

Of course, it didn’t last for long. 

“You know, I’m a little hurt that you brought her up here,” Robby nudged his shoulder against Jack’s. “I always kind of considered it our spot.” 

Jack groaned. God, he was such a little shit. “I’m going to push you off this roof.” 

“But then I’d be wheeled into your OR, Dr. Abbot.”  

“And I’d have them stick you in a room with Myrna. I saw she’s back at Casa de la Pitt tonight,” he threatened, pulling himself off the railing to head back inside. Patients were waiting, and not for the first time, Jack was extremely grateful for the distraction of a 12-hour shift ahead of him. 

After that shift ended, Jack didn’t go back to the roof like he usually would’ve. Instead, he went outside to that bench in the park where the day shift sometimes drinks after a hard day, beer in hand despite the morning hour. 

The universe had clearly been plotting against him — it had been a mostly quiet night in the ED. Not even Shen pointing out the fact (followed by Parker throwing a wadded up paper ball at the side of his head) had picked up the pace. And while that meant fewer people hurt or sick and no one lost on his watch, it also meant plenty of down time for paperwork and overthinking what happened between you two on the roof. It didn’t help that he was clearly in a shit mood, and everyone gave him a wide berth throughout the evening. Even Walsh had stayed clear, only grumbling once about a chest tube he’d put in.

Kissing you was…fuck, he hadn’t felt like that in over a decade. It was like jumping off the deep end and coming home all at the same time. But the way you’d reacted when Robby opened the door? You couldn’t get away fast enough. Were you ashamed of being seen with him? Did you regret it? 

And the more Jack thought about it, the more angry with himself he got. 

You’d had a horrible day. The case with the teenager and her dad had clearly shaken you to your core, though Jack didn’t fully understand why. You’d cried in his arms! And what had he done? Taken advantage of the situation and your willingness to be vulnerable with him for his own personal gain and gratification. He was an attending, for fuck’s sake. You were a senior resident. And it didn’t matter that you were on different shifts, he was still technically a superior. It was entirely inappropriate of him, even if you had been the one to kiss him first. 

“Are we still not talking about it?” Robby plopped down on the bench next to him, two to-go cups in hand. 

“No.” 

“Shen said you snapped at Ellis over a blood draw she could do in her sleep, and you’re out here drinking a beer at 7 a.m. Feels like maybe you need to talk about it.” The teasing from the previous night was gone, replaced by concern and that tone Jack recognized as a warning he wasn’t going to let something go. 

Jack took a deep breath. Might as well get this over with. “There’s nothing to talk about. I fucked up. She ran away.” 

“Well yeah, she ran. She was embarrassed.” Robby was looking at him like he was stupid for thinking it possible you’d react any other way. And while Jack knew he was stupid, hearing his friend lay it out so plainly was still hurtful.

“Exactly,” he grumbled, hand raised to take another swig of his beer. Robby leaned over to snatch it out of his hand before he could and replaced it with a warm to-go cup. Chamomile, by the smell of it.  

“Not embarrassed of you, dipshit. Embarrassed at having been caught by her boss.” 

“But why be embarrassed if she didn’t regret it?” He balanced the cup on the bench next to him, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “Let’s be realistic about this. She’s young, she’s beautiful, she’s incredibly competent, she’s got her whole life ahead of her. The last thing she wants is a middle-aged man with a dead wife, PTSD, and half a right leg.” 

“Have you thought about asking her?” He suggested it like it would be easy, just a casual conversation to be had in the lounge. 

With a sigh Robby stood up, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Look, I know you and I don’t generally do the mushy shit, but I need you to hear me when I say this.” Jack looks up to meet his eyes. “Don’t sell yourself short, brother. Or her, for that matter. You deserve to be happy.” 

He didn’t wait for a response before walking back toward the hospital entrance, leaving Jack alone on the bench to mull over his words. 

*** 

You hadn’t been able to get Jack alone. You’d come in early and stayed late, hoping to talk to him about what happened on the roof, apologize for running away like that. But he was constantly in motion, always with a patient or Robby or one of the other residents. 

You were positive he was avoiding you, not that you could blame him. 

Kissing him was… fuck, you didn’t know if you’d ever felt like that during a first kiss in your life. You’d been so consumed by it, by him, that you’d forgotten everything — where you were, who you were, what had happened before he joined you on the roof, all of it.  

Well, at least until Robby had walked through the door. And then it all came crashing back in an instant — the teenager you couldn’t save and the way her dad had screamed in your face just like yours used to, the fact that you’d just made an absolute mess of Jack’s scrub top sobbing like a child in his arms, how absolutely unprofessional you were being making out with an attending at work. 

So you’d bolted. Like a coward.  

It definitely wasn’t your finest moment. You hadn’t even told Heather about any of it, though you were sure Robby had said something. They may technically still be exes, but they told each other everything, and every time you spoke to your boss lately, he eyed you with barely concealed glee that caused your face to flush. 

You wanted to tell him that you’d just panicked, that you didn’t want your boss to think less of you or that you were throwing yourself at an attending the first chance you got, that you couldn’t stop thinking about it or him or what it all meant. 

But that would have required him to look at you. To speak to you about anything other than patient care. 

A week went by, and then two, and your desire to apologize morphed into irritation at his behavior. Two turned to three, and your irritation turned into anxiety. Maybe you had it all wrong. Maybe the reason he pulled away so definitively wasn’t because he felt rejected. Maybe this was him rejecting you. 

By the time a month had passed, you’d accepted Jack’s behavior for what it was: a boundary. You were a resident, and he was an attending, and what happened on the roof was nothing more than a hard day and a lapse in both of your judgments. 

Then Langdon got out of rehab. 

“Are you sure?” Heather asked after the informal residents staff meeting where you volunteered to move to nights to accommodate his return to the schedule. 

“McKay has a kid, Mel has her sister, Samira is the only thing standing between Gloria firing Robby over day shift patient satisfaction scores and med students and interns aren’t allowed to be on permanent night shift,” you repeated the same rationale you said in the meeting when Robby asked if you were sure. 

“I could have switched,” she pointed out gently, shoulder nudging yours as you walked side by side back to the ED.

“You’re the chief resident, and the best teacher we have other than Robby,” you argue back. Instead of acknowledging the sympathetic look you could see her giving you out of the corner of your eye, you knocked her with your elbow, waggled your eyebrows dramatically, and did what you did best: deflected. “Plus, you and I both know you’d get cranky without your daily dose of Michael Robinavich.” 

She snorted, rolling her eyes, but otherwise didn’t take the bait. She studiously avoided naming whatever weird exes-to-coworkers-to-definitely-more-than-coworkers-but-infuriatingly-less-than-lovers situationship she had going on with Robby regardless of how many sly remarks you made about it. “What are you going to do about Jack?” 

You still hadn’t told her about what exactly happened on the roof. Just that he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested, and you were respecting his choices. You could tell she didn’t believe that was all there was to the story, and god knows what Robby had or hadn’t told her, but she thankfully hadn’t pushed further. 

The man in question came into view as you stepped back through the doors of the ED. He was leaned up against the nurses station looking over a tablet and talking to Dana, still in his street clothes. The black tshirt fit tighter over his arms than his scrubs, and his hair still looked a little damp, like he’d taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to dry it before heading in.

You sighed, turning around to put him out of eyesight. “Nothing to be done. He’s a great doctor; I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from him.” 

Heather leveled you with a stern look, eyes pointedly glancing behind you. You made the mistake of turning to follow her gaze to where Robby was handing over the new schedule, ostensibly breaking the news to Jack about his newest night shift senior resident.

Hazel eyes whipped locked on you from across the room, and you quickly turned back around. You didn’t want to see whatever reaction he was going to have to you joining his service. 

Heather was still looking at you, arms crossed and one perfect eyebrow raised. But true to form, she didn’t push. 

You gave her a sad smile, grateful for your coworker turned friend. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Pinky promise.” 

You showed up to your first night shift with a cup of steaming hot black coffee from the hospital lobby cafe, sliding it across the counter to Jack. He glanced up from the patient chart he was working on, eyebrows raised in an maddeningly unreadable expression. 

You huffed out a sigh and straightened your shoulders. “I want to learn, and I want to do good work on your service.” You gave no other explanation, hoping he would read between the lines. Please don’t make this personal. Please don’t reject me here, too. 

He sat there, eyes locked on yours, for a beat too long. He wanted to say something — you could feel it in the weight of the silence, see it in the hard swallow he took like the words were caught in his throat. You felt the buzz of anxiety creep up your neck, but you refused to squirm. You met his stare unwaveringly. 

After what felt like an age, he sighed, and you saw the way his eyes softened almost into something resembling sadness and his shoulders deflated just slightly before he nodded. As if he were the one giving something up and you the one taking it. The move flared a split second of anger in your chest at the audacity for him to act like the one spurned when you were the one who’d put everything on the line, the one who had been rejected. 

But then Shen’s voice broke through. “You know, I heard they were letting a daywalker join us, but I didn’t fully believe it.”  

With a final tap on the counter with your fist, you tore your eyes away from Jack and plastered a smug smirk on your face as Shen sauntered up with two Dunkin iced coffees in hand. “For you,” he held out one. “Call it an official welcome to night shift.” 

“Should I be concerned about what’s in this?” you joked, holding the light-colored liquid up to the light as if to inspect it. 

Jack’s quiet chuckle startled you so much, you nearly jumped. “I guarantee there’s more sugar than coffee in that thing,” he quipped. Shen flipped him off but didn’t deny it. 

When you spared a glance over at him, eyebrows raised, he met your eyes with a small smile. You mirrored it with one of your own. A truce. An implicit promise that this would be okay. 

And as you settled into a new rhythm and a new schedule, things were, shockingly, okay. 

Turns out, you loved the night shift. You’d always been a night owl by nature, and your sleep schedule adjusted quickly. Getting off at 7 a.m. also meant you could swing by to visit your mom during breakfast visiting hours, and she was generally much less irritable earlier in the day. Traffic was easier to navigate. 

But beyond the logistics of night shift, you also loved the work. There was less oversight, more freedom. You were able to learn and practice procedures you’d never get to see on day shift. The cases were often harder, but more rewarding. 

Ellis and Shen were quick to bring you in on the night shift gossip, including Jesse’s insufferable crush on Mike, the security guard. (And you had to admit that Jesse had good taste because that man was fine.) And you loved getting to learn from them. They were both so solid. Quick to act during a crisis, but just as quick to relax in the lulls. Everything seemed to roll off their backs in a way you envied. 

And then there was Jack — Dr. Abbot, you tried to remind yourself to keep him firmly in that box. 

You hadn’t worked with him that much when you were on day shift, had only seen glimpses of his leadership and mentorship style, how he interacted with patients. Seeing him fully in his element was different. He was still firm, decisive, an “ER Cowboy,” as Walsh called him. But he was also somehow softer in the wee hours of the morning. 

He made bets with Ellis on who could make the most paper baskets (Ellis won every time — she’d played field hockey in undergrad and Jack’s far-sighted vision wasn’t what it used to be), he gave Shen constant shit for his beverage choices (I’m just saying, someone drinking iced anything when it’s 38 degrees outside is cause for concern). He was kind to patients, took his time especially with the kids. 

People were intimidated by him on day shift, the rough around the edges vet. But on the night shift? People adored him. 

It was somewhat disorienting, but also completely endearing. Which made his continued distance with you twist painfully in your chest. 

He was a consummate professional, a fantastic teacher. Told you when you did a good job on a case, corrected you with a gentle hand when needed, never once treated you unfairly compared to the others. But it was different, he kept you at a distinct personal distance, and you weren’t the only one who noticed. 

“Okay, what’s up with you and Abbot?” Ellis asked point-blank one night during a lull, fully leaned over the nurses station with a half-eaten protein bar in her hand. “There’s a pool going, and the guesses are starting to get a bit ridiculous.” 

“Someone should seriously look into whether this ED has a gambling problem,” you muttered under your breath, taking a sip from your water bottle but otherwise keeping your focus on the patient chart on the screen in front of you. 

She snorted. “If the hospital paid nurses and PAs what they should, they wouldn’t have to run a gambling ring for their vacation funds. Let them live.” Touché. “Come on,” she whined. “Just give me a hint. Secretly divorced? Secretly married? You know, he would be the type to keep his marriage a secret at work so he could keep pretending to be all professional about working with you.” 

“I hate to disappoint, but there’s nothing up with me and Dr. Abbot.”

You hit save on the chart and exited out, pushing away from the computer. It was time for a break — your stomach growled — and a snack. 

“I don’t believe you!” she called after you. You just waved her off as you headed to the lounge for a water refill and the apple slices and peanut butter you had stashed in the fridge. 

Despite the apparent second betting pool about you and your attending, it was easy to settle into a routine. 

Come in and chat with Heather and Dana for a bit to catch up on any day shift gossip before they left for the night. Tackle patients until the mid-night lull. Try not to let it get to you when you caught Jack laughing with Shen or teasing Walsh. Grab some food and a coffee refill before catching up on charting. Finish off the shift with the morning rush before handoff with day shift. Pretend you don’t linger a little longer than necessary at the nurses station in the hopes that maybe Jack would ask if you wanted to grab breakfast and talk. Rinse and repeat. 

At least, until the night of the robbery gone wrong.  

She was young. A vet, dog tags around her neck. Four stab wounds in her abdomen, one slashing right through a Semper Fi tattoo on her ribs. She’d realistically already lost too much blood by the time she came in, but that hadn’t stopped Jack from hanging blood bags and pushing meds, doing his damndest to plug the holes. When she coded before surgery could even arrive, he’d done compressions for far longer than protocol demanded. 

Shen had tried to get him to call it. Ellis had stepped in when that hadn’t worked. You knew better than to interfere, could see it in his eyes and the set of his jaw that nothing any of you said or did would move him. The three of you weren’t vets, none of you fully understood. 

In the end, Walsh was the one who got through to him. They usually argue like cats and dogs over patients, but she said something to him too quiet for you to make out, her eyes locked on his and her hands covering his on the patient’s chest. 

His movements slowed, the only sounds in the room his labored breaths and the steady drone of the flatline on the heart rate monitor. She called it when he didn’t. Time of death, 3:53. 

All at once, it was like he came back to himself, as if realizing he was in a Pittsburgh ER and not an Afghanistan field hospital. A few deep breaths, and he was stepping back and tearing off his gown and gloves. Unflappable Dr. Abbot mask firmly back in place, almost like it was never off. Almost.  

He went back to work after, like it had been any other case, any other loss. You all knew it was a lie, but no one seemed keen to call him on it. 

When her husband arrived, Jack went out to greet them. Accompanied him to the morgue. After, he excused himself, said he needed some air. Notably, he went out through the waiting room and not upstairs to the roof, which somehow worried you even more. You asked Shen if someone should go check on him, but the other attending shook his head. 

“He’s always like this when we lose a veteran, but he hates anyone trying to talk to him about it. Nearly bit Parker’s head off one time after she tried convincing him to take the night off,” he shrugged. “Said he didn’t need to be coddled. None of us like it, but we all learned a long time ago to leave him be.” 

Despite Shen’s assurances that he’d be fine, you couldn’t help yourself from keeping an extra eye on him the rest of shift. At first glance, he always seemed fine. But you also saw the way his jaw stayed tense, the rigidity in his shoulders that went beyond his typical good posture, the faraway look in his eyes. 

You recognized it all. You knew what it looked like to barely be holding yourself together, to be clutching onto the broken pieces of yourself so hard your hands bled. You knew what it felt like to not want to let anyone treat the wounds because admitting they’re there meant risking falling apart completely. 

So at the end of shift, you didn’t linger at the nurses station to wait for him. Instead, you snuck away a few minutes early, took the elevator to the top floor, parked yourself at the top of the stairs to the roof, and waited. 

He stopped short when you came into view, body blocking his exit path.

“I’m fine.” The croak of his voice sounded anything but fine. Angry. Devastated. Guilt-ridden. Of course, you didn’t think there was a shot in hell of him admitting to any of that. At least not here. 

“I don’t recall asking,” you said instead, leaned back with your elbows propped up on the step behind you. Your voice was hard, a razor edge to it that you hadn’t purposefully employed in years. Not since your dad died. “Roof’s closed tonight.” 

Shen said he didn’t want to be coddled? Fine, you wouldn’t coddle him. But you damn sure weren’t going to let him torture himself two feet from a 22-story drop. 

He just stood there, glaring at you with his hands on his hips. Under different circumstances, the hard lines of his face and the coldness in his eyes turned against you would make you squirm. Make you question whether you were crossing one of the many invisible lines he’d drawn over the past couple of months. But you steeled yourself against it tonight; this was about something bigger than a romantic rejection, and you wouldn’t let your fear of that stop you from being there for him as a friend and colleague. Whether he wanted you there or not. 

You met his glare with your own, chin raised and lips pursed. A challenge. 

A door opening several floors down is what finally broke the silent standoff, both of your attention momentarily shifting to the voices bouncing off the cinder block stairwell walls. With the tension stretched thin between you two cut, his entire body seemed to soften. You watched as some of the anger seeped out of him, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion. 

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he asked when his eyes met yours again. 

“I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn,” you confirmed, doing your best not to let a smile creep up on your face. You could tell from the look on his face that you’d won this round — he wasn’t going to fight you on this. 

He sighed, raking a hand through his salt and pepper curls. 

“Come on,” you stood, smoothing your hands over the thighs of your pant scrubs and stowing your stethoscope in your pocket. “If you want to brood with a view of the skyline, you can do it at my place over breakfast. We both need a meal from somewhere that isn’t this hospital, and I don’t feel like being alone.” 

You both knew that the last bit was for his benefit, a way for him to pretend this was about what you wanted and not what he needed. But he didn’t argue with you or scoff at your demand. Instead, he just turned and gestured for you to lead the way.

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tag list: @brnesblogposts @nosebeers @emma8895eb @nerdgirljen @woodxtock @misshoneypaper @starrykitn @qardasngan @artsymaddie @evrybodydies1 @teenage-iridescence 

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Oh shit I’m late||Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Summary—your period is late so that can only mean one thing that you are pregnant.

Warnings: Anxiety spiral, late period/pregnancy scare, mention of children, mild language, lots of emotional support

Word count 1010

A/n— my period still hasn’t shown up so…. Also I’m doing a Lance stroll version of this

You’d been tracking it on your phone.

At first, it was just a passing “huh.” A two-day delay, barely even enough to raise an eyebrow. You’d had stressful weeks before, late nights and irregular meals, and your body always caught up eventually. But when day five rolled into day eight, and then into week three, your stomach had been in a constant state of low-grade panic.

You’d stared down at the calendar that morning, mind a blur, fingers shaking slightly around your toothbrush as you did the math again. And again. And again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for anything close to this.

And Charles oh god. You loved him. You adored him. But his life was fast, full-throttle, and the thought of bringing a child into the whirlwind of Formula one,prying eyes and the constant travel made your chest clench painfully. Not because he wouldn’t be supportive because he would, that's just who he was and he would be amazing at it.

But you weren’t ready to be anything other than his girlfriend. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You’d barely spoken all day, and by the time Charles came home from sim work, the anxiety had pooled so deeply inside you that it sat like a stone in your stomach.

“Mon amour?” he called softly, pushing the door to your shared apartment open, the usual quiet thud of keys in the bowl. “You didn’t text me back, are you okay?”

You were curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. You hadn’t even turned on the lights.

His eyes adjusted quickly. He was kneeling in front of you a second later.

“Hey,” Charles murmured, concern blooming across his face. “Talk to me.”

You blinked, eyes burning. “I think I might be pregnant.”

The words tumbled out in one breath, one trembling rush. And then silence. That awful, echoing silence where your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Charles’s eyes widened slightly, lips parting but not with panic. Not anger. Just quiet understanding.

“Oh.”

“I haven’t taken a test,” you rushed on, fingers twisting in your sleeves. “I…God, I know it could just be stress, or maybe I’m off because of travel, or because I haven’t been eating great, or…I don’t know…but I just… I don’t feel right, Charles, and I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he reached forward and took your hands gently, thumbs rubbing slow, grounding circles across your knuckles.

“Okay,” he said softly. “First things first—breathe with me, alright?”

You hated how shaky your inhale was. But you followed him. In for four. Hold. Out for four.

When you opened your eyes again, you found him watching you with the kind of quiet care that made your throat ache.

“I’m not mad,” he said, like he needed you to know it before anything else. “And whatever’s happening, you’re not alone in it. Not for one second. I won’t allow it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not ready, Charles. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“That’s okay,” he said instantly. “We don’t have to be. We’re allowed to just be us. And if this is just a scare, we learn from it. If it’s more, we talk. We decide together. But you don’t have to carry this alone, chérie.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears spilled over, not from fear anymore, but from sheer relief.

He moved up onto the couch beside you, wrapping you tightly in his arms. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe for the first time in days.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Charles kissed the side of your head. “I love you more. And I’ve got you. No matter what.”

The next morning, you woke up to the dull ache in your lower abdomen that you’d been dreading but deep down you were happy for.

It took a moment to register, your brain still hazy with sleep. You blinked at the sunlight filtering through the curtains, curled deeper into Charles’s warmth beside you, then you sat up slowly. That familiar heaviness settled between your hips. You got up quietly, padded to the bathroom, and confirmed it.

There it was. Your period. Almost three weeks late. But here.

You sank down onto the closed toilet lid, shoulders sagging with relief. No tests, no doctors, no life-altering decisions looming over your head like a storm cloud.

Just you. Just your body saying, Hey. You’re okay.

When you finally came back to bed, Charles was still half-asleep, cheek squished against the pillow, messy hair tumbling over his forehead.

He blinked one eye open when you slid under the covers.

“You alright?” he mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

You nodded, nose scrunching a little. “I got my period.”

His other eye opened. A beat of silence, then:

“…Oh. Oh.”

You both just stared at each other for a second, then burst out laughing—quiet, relieved, slightly hysterical giggles muffled by the blankets. You pressed your forehead against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Thank God,” he said, half laughing, half groaning. “I was trying to act calm but I was losing my mind last night.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were so calm! I thought you were fine.”

“I was lying,” he admitted. “So hard. I was like, Charles, be mature, do not panic, do not cry, do not propose marriage out of fear—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and now I’m allowed to freak out a little bit, yes?”

You both dissolved into laughter again, arms wrapped around each other like you were the only solid things in the world.

When the laughter faded, he kissed your forehead gently.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”

You nodded into his chest. “We really are.”

[honeypiehotchner]

Couldn't Make It Any Harder (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Anxious girlies rise!!! I'm just fantasizing about someone staying and not being an asshole and in my mind Hotch would stay and wouldn't be an asshole, so this was born (also yes I listened to Sabrina Carpenter's song by the same title while I wrote this!)

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst all over the place, very anxious reader, Hotch being the kindest and most understanding man alive, est. relationship, fluff!, maybe autistic!reader if you squint

WC: 3.2k

Dating Aaron Hotchner is never short of any surprises. 

With how hectic his work schedule can be, plans are often impromptu and random text messages before phone calls asking if you’re free for anything: dinner, a drink, a movie, a walk.

Dating him is also never short of innocent questions. 

These, you didn’t expect, but maybe you should’ve — or would’ve, if you truly understood what his job is. He explained it to you, but it’s hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that he’s part of a team of people so good at reading the behavior of other people that they can catch criminals based on it alone. 

His job almost seemed fake, too good to be true — and so did he. 

Especially when, after a month of dating, neither of you had stayed the night with one another, and he wasn’t pressing the subject when he’d suggest it and you’d politely tell him no.

You almost thought it meant he didn’t like you at all and was only being nice by going on dates with you, even though he didn’t seem like that kind of guy at all. Still, you can never be too careful. 

And when he made reservations for your six-month anniversary at a fancy restaurant downtown, and told you when he’d pick you up, and even showed up a few minutes early but told you to take your time, you thought you were going insane. There was no way it was true, that he was true. 

But he was. And is. 

Except, your relationships have a shelf life. Or rather, you have a shelf life. 

None of your previous relationships have made it this far, none of them too thrilled about the fact that you’re not well-experienced sexually, or the fact that you want to actually wait until you feel secure in a relationship before taking that step. Of course, none of them said that was the reason they were ending things, but you knew. You could tell. 

After having it happen to you multiple times, you can’t let yourself relax. Any time that you feel like you’re maybe going to get comfortable, some anxious thought rears its ugly head and sets you right back where you were.

You try your hardest to enjoy the relationship with Aaron, and you do. Knowing his work schedule varies allows you to keep your distance, making it easier to keep telling yourself that you’re keeping your guard up. You’re keeping yourself protected for when the inevitable other shoe drops to the ground like a bomb.

So, it’s no surprise that as your relationship approaches the eight-month mark, and Aaron asks if you’d like to come over to his place for dinner on a random weeknight after a couple weeks of not seeing each other, you think the worst. 

“How do I look?” you ask your best friend over FaceTime as you spin in a circle. “Hot enough to be broken up with?”

“You are not getting broken up with!” she cries over the phone. “And yes, hot, as always.”

“Thanks,” you sigh, strategically not commenting on her theory that you’ll still have a boyfriend by the end of tonight. 

“He’s not going to break up with you,” she says again, softer this time. “He’s different.”

“I always think they’re different, that’s the problem,” you mutter. “He just took a lot longer than I thought he would.” You don’t need to spell it out for your best friend to know that this one will hurt the worst out of them all.

Because this time, you love him.

“You don’t know that he’s going to break up with you.”

“You know that gut feeling I always had before the others?” you say, looking at her solemnly. “I have it right now.”

She frowns. You almost think she’s going to argue with you, but she doesn’t. Because she knows. You had the same gut feeling the last five times. Why would it be wrong on the sixth? 

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. 

“It’s okay,” you shrug, picking up your purse and lifting your phone. You glance at the clock. “I guess I should go.”

He offered to pick you up, but you said you’d drive yourself. You figure you’d rather do your future self a favor and save yourself from the awkward post-breakup drive home. 

“Call me after,” she says with another sad smile. “We can cry if you need to.”

“Thank you.”

“And hey, if he does break up with you, I can come up this weekend and key his car for you.”

“Babe. He works for the FBI.”

“So?”

You laugh as you roll your eyes. “Goodbye. I’ll call you later.”

You drive to Aaron’s in complete silence. You don’t even intend to, you’re just on autopilot.

You’re trying not to shut down emotionally, but you can already feel it happening. It’s inevitable when you feel like you’re about to be hurt. The shield goes up, the walls raise, and nothing gets past them.

With any luck, you won’t even cry when he breaks up with you. You don’t always, which gets you labeled as a cold hearted bitch, but that doesn’t bother you. 

You put your brave face on when you pull into his driveway, only it quickly morphs into shock when Aaron comes out the front door in dark jeans and a black button down. He opens your car door for you with an easy, genuine smile, looking as handsome and happy to see you as ever. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you chuckle nervously, stepping out and letting him shut your car door.

“I wanted to,” he shrugs, leaning in for a kiss. 

You accept it, trying not to seem so stiff, but the slight furrow of his eyebrows tells you that he felt it. He doesn’t say anything about it though. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, one hand on the small of your back as he walks you inside. “I’ve never made this for dinner before, so we might end up with pizza.”

“All good,” you laugh, setting your purse in its usual spot on the table by the door. 

The conversation is fine, if a little awkward, as you sit in his kitchen so he can keep an eye on dinner in the oven. He offers wine and you decline, just taking some water. He keeps furrowing his eyebrows just a little, his tell for when he’s reading your behavior but doesn’t quite know what to make of it yet.

You sip your water and avoid eye contact while he shuffles around the kitchen, finishing up dinner. 

He washes his hands, leaning back against the sink as he dries his hands with a towel. He watches you with a soft expression.

“Is everything okay?” he finally asks.

You hate when they do this. Because if you say you’ve had a rough day, they won’t break up with you because they don’t want to “make it worse”. But if you say you’ve had a good day, they will go through with the breakup, because they’d rather ruin your good mood instead of make the bad mood worse. 

“Yep,” you say with a tiny smile. “Just watching you.”

He returns the smile, but it’s not at all easy like before. 

Fuck. Should you just rip the band-aid off and ask? 

You nearly do, but then he says dinner should be ready, and you can’t. You almost expect to be eating right here at the stools on his counter, or for him to break the news and you leave without eating, but he waves you through to the dining room. 

You follow after him, a little confused, stopping dead in your tracks in the doorway when you see the sight before you. 

A white table cloth over his little square table, candles in the middle, a small bouquet of your favorite flowers set aside to make room for the dish he made, plates and cutlery and a wine glass already laid out on either side. 

“What is this?” you ask, your heart hammering in your chest and threatening to escape up your throat. 

“Our favorite restaurant was fully booked,” he explains with an awkward laugh. “So I tried to recreate one we always order, and thought I’d try to recreate the table too. It’s a little…wonky, but it’s close enough I think.”

You blink. “Why?”

The deep concern returns to his face. “Because I want to.”

“But why?” you ask again, staring at him with wide eyes, like you’re trying to catch him in something.

He comes closer, the worry on his face only growing. “We haven’t been able to have dinner together in a couple weeks because the cases have been packed, so I wanted it to be special.”

“Okay,” you swallow, nodding slowly. He just wanted it to be special. Right. “Okay.”

“Come sit,” he says softly, hands reaching out for you as if he needs to steady you. You kind of need him to. 

After he safely has you tucked into your seat, and he’s brought your water over for you to drink, he sits in the chair beside you. 

“Dinner’s gonna get cold,” you murmur, not wanting to be the subject of his profiling right now. You stare down at the empty plate. 

“I can warm it back up,” he says, taking one of your hands. “Can I ask you a question?”

Skeptical, you nod.

“Why do you always seem so shocked when I do something nice for you?”

Your eyes close as you grimace. Great. Now he thinks you’re ungrateful on top of it all. 

“I don’t mean it in a rude way,” he clarifies, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your hand, soothing you. “I just mean…when you ask why I do these things, like dinner and bring you flowers and open your car door, and I say I’m doing it because I want to… You almost look like you don’t believe me, and today you really look like you don’t believe me.”

“I do believe you,” you rush to say, but now he looks like he doesn’t believe you. “Or maybe I don’t,” you add quietly, looking back down at where your fingers are tangled. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, honey,” he says, and he sounds so desperate that it makes your heart ache. “I just want to understand you better.”

Your face crumples at that, the emotion too much to keep at bay when he’s being this kind to you and you were thinking he was going to break up with you — and he still could.

“Sorry,” you sniffle, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth as you shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not, it’s not stupid,” he says, using both hands to hold yours. “Is it something I did? Or said?”

“No, it’s just—” you cut yourself off, letting out a shaky breath. “I thought you were breaking up with me tonight.”

He stills. And it makes your heart freeze. You caught him. Here it is. You brace for impact. 

“Honey, I— That’s not at all what I was planning on doing tonight. What made you think that I was going to break up with you?”

“You invited me to dinner at your place,” you cry, and when you say it out loud like that, it really doesn’t make any sense. 

“Why would I do that if I was going to break up with you?” 

“You wouldn’t believe the ways I’ve been broken up with,” you let out a laugh, trying to make light of this now very emotional and awkward situation. “I’m sorry, I’m ruining what was supposed to be a very normal, romantic dinner—”

“Listen to me, you are not ruining anything,” he says firmly, still looking up at you with those kind brown eyes. “I just want to understand what’s going on in that brain of yours.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Trust me, I do.”

You stare at him for a moment, wondering when the twist is coming. The moment he says it was all a ruse and he is ending things. The moment you can call his bluff. 

But it never comes. His gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does the care in his eyes. 

“Okay,” you murmur. “But can we talk over dinner or after? It smells really good.”

He laughs at that, the sound warming you from the inside out. His smile is infectious as he nods and says, “Of course we can. We should probably taste this and see if we need to put in a pizza order.”

He moves his plate so he stays sitting right beside you, where he can keep his hand tucked in yours. It feels safe. 

One bite in and you’re amazed at how well he recreated the dish and how good it tastes. You’re too busy devouring the food to even think about explaining your thought process behind tonight anymore.

Except, Aaron does return to the subject, not wanting to let it go just yet, because clearly you have him spooked after saying you thought you were going to be broken up with. 

So, you explain. There was the guy who broke up with you on your birthday. And one who did it a day before Valentine’s Day. And another who decided that mid-six-month-anniversary date was prime time to end things. And then a couple others with bad timing but not the worst. But all had one thing in common. 

“I know we haven’t had sex yet and I guess I’ve just grown to realize I have a shelf life.”

Aaron looks alarmed. “Shelf life?”

“Yeah, like, I tell people I want to wait before I take the step to do anything sexually, and I only have so much time before me being desirable…expires, I guess.”

He blinks. You watch what looks like a thousand emotions cross his face at once and you’re unable to read any of them. “Did someone…say that to you?”

You shake your head. “Not really. Not exactly those words. But I kind of came to the conclusion after the third time it happened. I guess I just expect it now.”

Aaron is quiet for a moment, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand. You’re not sure at all of what he’s going to say. “The last time we had dinner before my work schedule got so crazy these last two weeks…did we move too fast?”

You try to think back to that night. It was dinner and then the two of you came back to Aaron’s for a drink. Nothing crazy because you needed to drive home still. But the two of you did get pretty hot and heavy on the couch.

Come to think of it, you didn’t drink much at all that night, because there was hardly a moment to spare when Aaron’s lips weren’t on yours, or on your neck, or your collarbones.

It didn’t escalate. He offered, you declined, said you wanted to just continue what you were doing, and that was that.

Then, you didn’t see Aaron for two weeks because of his work schedule, which meant phone calls were short and rare and text messages were as good as you could get. And so your mind put pieces together and created a scenario that wasn’t true.

“We didn’t,” you say, genuinely meaning it. “But I guess my brain freaked out because it thought you had finally had enough of hearing me turn you down and that I had finally…expired, I guess.”

He squeezes your hand. “Please don’t ever talk about yourself that way. You don’t have an expiration date. And I don’t care that we haven’t taken that step yet. I am willing to wait as long as you need to—”

“That’s what they always say,” you murmur through a watery smile. “But thanks.”

He frowns. “How can I make you believe me?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you reply truthfully, your face crumpling again. Your hand slips from his so you can cover your face, sniffling hard into your palms. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t make it easy.”

“Honey…don’t make what easy?”

“Dating me,” you sob, not knowing if he can even understand you through the tears. “I get it if you— If this is your limit, I get it. I'd understand.” You sniffle again, wiping your face and nose and trying to regain any sort of composure that you can find. 

Aaron looks up at you, and after a moment too long of silence, you almost think he’s actually going to do it, but he doesn’t. He does the opposite.

“I love you,” he says. 

You inhale sharply, wiping under your nose again. “You do?”

He doesn’t move to grab your hands after you’ve taken them away, but he reaches toward you, nodding. “I wanted to say it at our favorite restaurant, but that fell through, so I thought I’d make it special and tell you here instead, but…I had no idea you were feeling like this.”

“I didn’t wanna tell you in case I was right,” you murmur. “I didn’t want to scare you away by being too needy, I guess.”

He smiles gently. “Nothing is going to scare me away,” he assures you, taking your hand again. “Can I ask a favor, though?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you tell me the next time you’re feeling like this?” he asks softly. “I want to be able to help, but I can’t if I don’t know what’s going on. And I hate the thought of you silently suffering with this when I’m right here and I can give you the reassurance you need.”

You nod more now. “I can. I can do that.” You pause. “Hey Aaron?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I love you too,” you reply, feeling a wave of relief come over you after you let it out, knowing he feels the same. It makes fresh tears spring into your eyes all over again. “I’ve felt it for so long and I think it was scaring me because I can’t ever let myself relax into a relationship without worrying that something is going to go wrong—”

He hauls you into his arms without another moment’s hesitation, letting you cry into his shoulder. It’s all the months of worry building up and finally boiling over, and he lets you get it all out.

“I’m so sorry,” you say into his neck, taking in shaky breaths.

“Please don’t apologize, honey,” he replies, rubbing circles on your back. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening,” you say, barely able to get the words out through the emotion in your voice. You take a deep breath, relaxing further into his arms while simultaneously gripping his shirt as hard as you can. This has exhausted you.

“Do you want to move to the couch?” he asks. “We can put on that show we were watching together. I can pour us some wine if that might help you calm down?”

You nod into his neck, not quite wanting to leave this spot just yet. “I’d like that,” you sigh. “Can we stay like this for a minute?”

“Of course,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We can stay as long as you need.”

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (28 - Coming Home)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Can you believe we are more than halfway to the end? Thank you for sticking with me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Three years have passed.

A gentle exhale brushed your skin, slow and steady, like waves retreating from the shore. The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight slipping through the curtains—it was Kia’s arm draped loosely over your waist, her leg tangled with yours. She was still asleep, pressed close, her body radiating heat that expelled the never-ending cold of Reykjavik. Three years and you were still not used to its climate. You blinked once, twice, trying to shake away the remnants of dreams that clung to your mind. 

Then you shifted, careful not to wake Kia. But she stirred anyway, sensing your movement, her eyelids fluttering as she peeked at you through one half-lidded eye. Her dark hair was mussed, and you almost laughed at how absolutely perfect she looked—sleep-warmed cheeks, lips parted in a silent yawn. She fixed her eyes on you, and a smile slowly crawled its way to her dry lips.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky. 

You responded by pressing a soft kiss to her temple. In return, Kia took your hand and let her lips graze lightly across your knuckles. Your mornings had been like this nearly every day—quiet, simple, sweet. The kind of peace you never thought possible back when you were sweating through old mattresses in rundown rentals as Ronin. That life feels like a distant nightmare now—one Kia somehow managed to wake you from. 

You shifted to prop yourself on one elbow, looking down at her. “So… any chance you could stay home today?” you asked, light teasing in your tone as you massaged her neck, causing her to purr. “I know you have to work, but I was thinking… we could call it a personal day.”

She laughed weakly. “I can’t exactly make a habit of it. Besides, I don’t think my patients would appreciate me vanishing on a whim.” She reached to smooth the collar of your sleep shirt, her fingertips dancing down your collarbone. “You know I’d love to, though.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “You never bent the rules for me,” you said, hoping to coax another smile from her.

“I did,” she replied softly. “Just not the ones that put other people’s health at risk.”

“You’re irritatingly noble, Dr. Heimisson.”

She leaned in for a kiss. It lingered, your fingers sliding into her hair. You tilted your head, chasing more, your mouth parting slightly as your tongue brushed against hers—testing, asking. She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in, her hand tightening at the back of your neck. You smiled into it, knowing exactly what you were doing. 

Then, just as things started to tip, she pulled back. “I’ll make us coffee,” she said, her voice low and a little reluctant. 

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing just for a second before standing. Her scrubs were still folded on the chair from last night. Always neat.

By the time she’d pulled on a shirt and stepped out of the bedroom, you found yourself glancing around the room, the life you’d built together mapped out in the small details. A couple of photos on the dresser. A shared sock drawer. A small stack of your books in the corner (you’d stopped hoarding them a while ago), trading in the ones you’d finished for used copies you hadn’t, from the only bookstore in town. Sometimes, in moments like this, you could still feel the shape of who you used to be. The horrible things you’ve done. But it didn’t take over anymore. Not like it used to.

You passed into the kitchen and saw her hovering by the coffeemaker, quietly humming a tune you had taught her. She offered you a mug, steam curling into the air. 

“You heading out today?” she asked, her soft blue eyes curious. It’s your favorite part of her body. Eyes always held the most power over you, capable of commanding you in ways nothing else ever could.

“Just errands,” you answered. “Groceries, maybe. If you think of anything else we need, text me.��

She nodded before inching closer to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear like she always did. You reached past her for the sugar; her hip nudged yours, a silent order to hold still. You answered with a playful grin, letting her plant a quick kiss on your cheek before she slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind her. 

The house went still. You stood there for a while, basking in the quiet morning.

You didn’t know it yet, but that quiet wasn’t going to last.

—

A call came a few hours later. You were halfway through your grocery list, staring at tomatoes that didn’t look particularly ripe, when your phone vibrated. You missed it. But it was quickly followed by a text, signed by a name glowing on the screen that made your pulse spike.

Steve Rogers. You hadn’t heard that name in… well, in a long time.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone from the old team in the last three years. Just a handful of letters from Natasha after she somehow tracked you down. You responded, politely, once. You told her you were okay, but asked her not to write again, and she respected that.

When you stepped into life with Kia, you swore off everything that came before. No ghosts, no familiar faces, a clean slate. You told yourself it was the only way anything could feel real again.

Though, somehow, you never managed to throw out Wanda’s things.

They stayed in the basement, buried in boxes you hadn’t opened in years. Somewhere back there were old photos, her worn red jacket. The ring you picked out together—meant to match Wanda’s—now hangs from a chain around your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, but you couldn’t wear it either.

Hers, you imagine, turned to dust long ago.

Your phone when it rang again, causing you to jump in surprise. For an instant, you almost let it go to voicemail. Old instincts kicked in, though—your heart pounded with the sense that if you ignored it, you might have regretted it forever. So you tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Y/N?”

That voice that used to inspire a room of heroes was unmistakable. It really was him. Your response got stuck in your throat, so you managed little more than, “Steve… yeah. Hey.”

He asked how you were, and you gave him the kind of answer people give when they don’t want to get into it. He tried to stretch the small talk, but you could feel it—this wasn’t that kind of call.

“You can skip the pleasantries, Steve,” you said, not unkindly.

He let out a quiet sigh, then got to the point. “There’s a way. A way to bring them back.”

You swore the world tilted. You gripped your phone tighter, your steps faltering. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but you already knew. The question was just instinct, something to fill the space where air had suddenly become hard to find.

Steve breathed heavily on the other end. This wasn’t some vague, wishful bring-them-back idea, you could tell that much already. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a theory. It felt like driftwood tossed to the drowning—long overdue, and just barely enough to hold onto. And he was clearly trying to figure out how to explain it to you. Still, you held out any hope that it was true.

“We’re close to a plan,” he explained. “We think we can reverse what happened five years ago—undo the Snap entirely. Tony and Bruce have figured out how the Quantum Realm—”

“What’s that?”

Steve paused. You could practically hear the internal God help me sigh. It made your lips quirk a little into a small smile.

“It’s… okay, so, it’s like a pocket dimension where time moves differently. Or slower. Or maybe not. I don’t know, it’s—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling. “Look, kid, if you want more science, you’re gonna have to ask Banner or Tony. Or basically anyone else on the team.”

You let out a small, stunned breath. “Okay…”

“All I know is, they’re almost entirely sure that it would work. And we need you.”

That last part settled into your chest and lodged itself there. 

“We’ll retrieve the Infinity Stones from different points in our past, bring them back here, and use them to bring everyone back,” Steve continued. “But we’ll only have one shot at this. Once we’ve fixed things, we’ll return the Stones to their rightful moments so we don’t create alternate timelines.”

“You’re saying time travel?” It came out in a choked whisper.

“Yes. It’s a ‘time heist,’ as Scott calls it.”

The longer the call dragged on, the more questions piled up—none with clear answers. But for now, you let them sit. There’d be time to sort through the mess later.

“What exactly do you need from me?”

“Tony’s got two jobs for you,” he began. “First, there’s a mineral he needs for the time-space GPS we’re building. Without it, the machine might be too unstable to use. There’s a museum in Houston that has it. It’s heavily guarded. Unofficially, too, since this mineral isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“And after I hand over this mineral?” you asked.

“You’ll join the team to retrieve the stones.”

It sounded simple enough. But you were curious about one more thing. 

“Why me?” you asked.

“This has to be a stealth job, and with Natasha going after Clint, there’s no one else who can handle this off-the-radar. You’ve got the skill and the anonymity.”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button, giving yourself one last chance to forget about all this. “So… no official channels?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “We don’t want to risk alerting the government, or anyone else. If this fails, it could devastate people all over again.”

“You said it would work,” you replied evenly.

“I know this will work. It has to.”

You wanted to laugh at the irony. The phone felt hot against your ear.

“Do I have time to think about it?” you asked.

Steve sighed. “You have until tonight.”

—

The hours between that call and Kia’s arrival home were excruciating. You found yourself pacing the living room, your mind stewing in guilt as it replayed Wanda’s laughter, the perfect shape of her face and the feel of her hand in yours. Over and over and over again. 

And then there was Kia. The woman who’d patiently, gently pieced your broken heart back together, who had stayed through the wreckage until life began to feel solid again. Who loved you at your worst. Was it even right to push against destiny like this? To rewrite history, bend the universe to your will, and reverse events already set in motion?

But as quickly as you questioned it, your own logic countered: nothing about Thanos snapping half of all life into oblivion had ever been natural or just. Maybe this—this chance Steve offered—wasn't defiance at all, but a way to correct a cruel imbalance, to make things whole again. You’d never felt whole since that incident. And neither did Kia even though she’d never said it out loud. 

You told yourself firmly this wasn't a choice between Wanda and Kia. But deep down, from the moment Steve uttered those three impossible words—bring them back—you knew the decision had already been made. If there was even the slightest chance to undo the damage, you'd reach out and take it, consequences be damned.

By the time Kia’s key rattled in the lock, you’ve turned over Steve’s proposal a thousand times in your head. She stepped in, setting her work bag on the nearest chair. The way she looked at you—face drawn, concern evident in her eyes—told you she could sense your tension.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, drawing near.

You forced yourself to speak. You told her about Steve’s call, about the mission to reverse the Snap, the potential to bring back everyone who vanished. The unspoken word at the center was Wanda, but there was so much more: thousands of families, including Kia’s. Her own daughter, her husband. 

Kia stood perfectly still as she processed it. You saw the flicker of hope in her eyes even as her features twisted with longing and fear. 

Then she spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Is this really possible? Can they… can they bring my daughter back?”

That question squeezed your heart. Suddenly, you realized that your desire to see Wanda again paled next to Kia’s longing for her child. She had carried that emptiness with her every single day. 

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice thick. “We think so.”

Kia’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t cry, but you could feel how much she’s holding back.

“Then do it,” she said. “Help them.”

You reached for her hand, needing to feel her close, even as the distance between what you had and what might come stretched wider by the second. Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung there. If this plan worked, everything would change. Bringing everyone back meant rewriting entire lives, and this thing between you and Kia, it didn’t exactly fit into the world before, or the one that might follow.

Even thinking about it felt wrong. Selfish. Ugly.

You could feel yourself splitting into two realities. This reality with Kia, and the reality that dissolved with Wanda. You couldn’t find the words. You just held her hand tighter.

Kia looked away for a moment, like she could already see the ripple effects waiting on the horizon. Then her eyes found yours again. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “we do this for them. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

In that moment, your love for her swelled and bloomed and gave you courage. 

—

You left before dawn the next morning, a small duffel in hand, its contents carefully chosen and arranged the night before. Sleep had come in sparse increments, anxiety keeping you company. Houston was a thirteen-hour flight away; Tony had arranged an unregistered Quinjet, and you spent the journey reviewing the museum’s floor plans on a tablet.

The museum in question was near the outskirts of downtown Houston, housed in a stately old building renowned for its obscure geological exhibits. The public wasn’t aware of just how rare that “obscure” gem in its vault truly was. According to Tony’s notes, it was a type of mineral that reacted unusually to quantum energy—a piece critical for stabilizing the time-space GPS he and Bruce Banner were building. Without it, the device might overload on its own power.

As soon as you landed, you made your way to a safehouse on the city’s edge—just a nondescript apartment Tony had secured. There, you changed into dark clothing that offered maximum agility and minimal interference. You double-checked your infiltration tools—glass cutters, a slim electronic lockpick, and a tiny EMP device for any modern security measures.

There were nerves crawling under your skin you hadn’t felt in years. After everything—the missions,bloodshed you and Clint left scattered across cities, you didn’t think you were capable of feeling this shaken anymore.

Maybe it was because the entire operation hinged on this one task. If you failed, the rest of the plan fell apart. You cursed Tony under your breath. Now it made sense why he picked you. If things went sideways, you were the easiest to blame. He probably never thought much of you to begin with.

But he wasn’t wrong to choose you. Because no one had more riding on this than you, and no one was more determined to see it through.

Kia’s face flashed in your mind. Then Wanda’s. You forced your thoughts back to the present mission. “Let’s do this,” you muttered. 

It was close to midnight when you arrived at the museum. The streets were quiet, most of the late-night commuters having already cleared out. You surveyed the main entrance from a safe distance—bright spotlights illuminated the grand facade, and security cameras perched like watchful owls along the eaves. Slipping around the side, you found a smaller service door just beyond a chain-link fence. There was a single guard on patrol, circling the perimeter with the slow, practiced boredom of someone who never expected trouble.

You timed the guard’s route, waiting behind a low hedge until he disappeared around the next corner. A quick jolt from your custom lockpick shorted the rusted padlock on the fence; it fell open with a dull click. You eased through, crossing the short distance to the service door in a half-crouch. Its old keypad glowed faintly. You attached a signal disruptor over the panel and waited, heart pounding in your ears, until the tiny light flickered green. The door clicked open.

Inside, darkness swallowed you. Only emergency exit signs and faint overhead safety bulbs gave any illumination. You consulted the mental map you’d memorized from Tony’s briefing, picturing the route to the restricted vault near the geological exhibits. There’d be motion sensors in the main corridors, so you stayed pressed to the walls, gliding past an open archway into a side hallway. You activated your handheld scanner, just enough to detect where infrared beams might crisscross. Sure enough, a series of faint red lines sliced through the corridor ahead. You ducked below one beam, then twisted sideways to avoid another. The entire maneuver would have made your old trainers proud.

Though there was a dull ache in your lower back from having been sedentary all these years.

Step by careful step, you progressed until you reached the thick, steel-reinforced door of the vault. A digital keypad glowed in the quiet gloom, showing an eight-digit lock. You expected that. What you hadn’t expected was the second biometric scanner installed next to it—an update not in Tony’s blueprint. You forced yourself to calm down, reminding yourself you’d done this before. Stealth ops always required a bit of improvisation. 

You removed a small device from your belt pouch—another one of Tony’s countless inventions. It emitted a pulse that temporarily scrambled biometric scanners, forcing them to default to a bypass code if the user had one. But that code changed daily. You hoped the museum staff wouldn’t have updated the secondary system just yet.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or Tony’s genius), the device beeped once, and the scanner’s screen flickered. A prompt for a four-digit override code replaced the biometric prompt. With your electronic lockpick engaged, you let it cycle through potential combinations at high speed. Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, a soft click hissed from the latch, and the vault door slid open two inches, revealing a small interior chamber lined with secure cases.

Your target lay in a sealed glass cylinder at the center, the mineral’s deep violet hue faintly luminous even in the shadows. In that moment, you sensed how important it was, how it seemed like a full circle moment. This was the literal keystone for rewriting history, for forging a path back to life as it once was. Or as close as it could get.

Carefully, you placed a glass cutter against the cylinder. The diamond tip whirred almost silently, creating a neat circular hole in the thick glass. You inserted a slim vacuum rod and slipped out the mineral. It was heavier than expected, humming with an odd energy in your hand.

Before you left, you remembered your promise. You took a small folded note from your pocket (paper, so it couldn’t be easily traced), and placed it inside the now-empty cylinder. 

It read:

“I’m sorry I had to do this. Don’t worry—I’ll return what I borrowed exactly two weeks from today. It needs to save the world first.”

You signed it with only a small symbol at the bottom—a private insignia you once used on covert ops, but nothing that would blatantly identify you. Then you turned, tucking the mineral into a padded case in your suit.

A short ride later, you were safely back at the safehouse, the artifact secured. You tossed your gear onto the small kitchen table and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The note you left would cause a stir; the museum might tighten security. But you planned to keep your promise. 

You just hoped you’d live to see that day.

—

Three days later, you’re back where it all started. 

You thought you’d be a little teary-eyed, considering this is where you’ve spent nearly half of your life. But what you felt instead was relief. Relief that the compound still stood. You watched the building for a long moment, soaking up the calm before the storm. In your right hand, you clutched the mineral that would complete the time machine. 

“Aren’t you coming inside?” 

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Clint Barton stood a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, looking nothing like the Ronin persona he’d worn over the past few years. He looked more like the old Clint, the one you didn’t know you missed so terribly. 

You offered a faint nod and took a step forward, your boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Didn’t expect to see you here first,” you said.

He gave you a wry smile. “Didn’t expect to be here at all.”

You exhaled slowly. The mineral pulsed faintly in your hand—your hand that had once gripped a weapon more than anything else, had learned to hold Wanda’s fingers with reverence, and later, Kia’s with gratitude.

Clint’s gaze dropped to it. “That’s what I think it is?”

You gave a small nod. “Final piece.”

“So… we’re really doing this?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I’m not sure we are. This part’s on me.” You offered Clint the mineral and he cupped it carefully, turning it over in his hand.

“I thought you’d be suiting up with us,” he said. “Steve and Tony said you’d bring the piece. Didn’t think you’d just—”

“Drop it off and leave?” you finished, managing a faint smile. “That was the plan.”

Clint tilted his head. “Mind telling me why?”

“I told Steve and Tony I’d help find the last component. That’s it. That felt… enough.”

Clint stared at you for a beat. After all these years, he knew you too well to take your words at face value. “That’s all there is to it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No. Of course not.”

Clint waited, giving you the space to say it when you were ready.

“There’s a whole life waiting for me,” you said. “Far away from this place. With Kia. We built something that doesn’t need saving. And if I sign up for this—really sign up for this—I’d have to see it through to the end. To the moment someone snaps their fingers and brings everyone back.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

“And if she’s there, if Wanda comes back before I’m ready—” your voice faltered. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make a fair choice.”

Clint was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes soft. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.

“I get it,” he said. “God, I really do.”

He kicked at the gravel lightly. “I used to tell myself I went down that path to protect my family. After they were gone, I needed someone to blame for the world falling apart. You know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” you murmured.

“I dragged you down with me,” Clint added. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No. We dragged each other. We weren’t… good for one another back then. We weren’t accountable. We made each other worse.”

Clint looked away, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, watching the horizon blur into a late afternoon haze.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” you asked.

“It has to,” he said.

“And when it does?” you asked. “What are you going to do when you get them back?”

He glanced at you, resignation in his eyes.

“I’m going to surrender,” he said simply. “Turn myself in. The Accords were a mess, sure, but they weren’t wrong about everything. We need to be kept in check. All of us. We don’t get to come back from the things we did without consequence.”

You hadn’t expected that. Not from the man who once broke half a dozen laws to make it home in time for his kid’s birthday.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly.

Clint nodded. “Even if the mission works. Even if they come back… I won’t get to just go back. I’m not the person they left, Y/N.”

You swallowed, his words hitting too close to home.

“They’ll still love you,” you offered, though it felt insufficient. They didn’t land with the comfort you intended. Maybe because you didn’t believe them yourself.

Because you’d been asking yourself the same question for years. 

Kia had offered you peace when the world gave you nothing but silence. She saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. She gave you a reason to keep going.

And yet, Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know. And the truth of not knowing had been eating at you for longer than you were willing to admit.

“Yeah,” Clint said, almost smiling.

You nodded slowly, not sure whether to admire him or mourn him.

“I hope they see the man who kept trying,” you said softly.

Clint gave a small smile. “You too.”

He held out the mineral to return it, but you shook your head.  

“Give my regards to Tony,” you said. 

You reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them home,” you said. “All of them.”

“I will.”

He looked down at the mineral in his hand again, and then back at you.

“Go,” Clint said. “Before you change your mind.”

You nodded, taking one last look at what remained of your past before turning away. You wouldn’t look back. Not this time.

—

You returned to Reyjavik a few days later. By then, it was all over the news—

The impossible had happened. The Avengers had done it. They brought everyone back. 

Airports were flooded with reunions. There was celebration and chaos. The world was finally waking up from a nightmare. And you… you were still trying to process the fact that it worked.

The first thing you did was look for Kia. You needed to see her face, hold her hand—just know she was okay. You walked into the apartment and found it empty, cold in a way that went beyond the absence of people. Kia wasn’t waiting for you at the door. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to you, shoulders rigid. Her fingers were curled tightly around a mug. 

You spoke her name—soft, almost a prayer.

She turned, and that’s when you saw it. Something in her had already retreated.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You hadn’t expected a joyful reunion, not with everything this victory implied. But you also didn’t expect it to feel this fragile, like tiptoeing across eggshells.

Kia looked down at her lap, and for the first time, you couldn’t read her at all. Moments later, she stood up and walked to the window. 

“Maria is back,” she said. “And so is her father.”

‘Her father’, and not ‘my husband’. A deliberate choice of words. Kia talked to you often about them, but it was different now that they aren't gone.

You forced a smile. Whatever this might mean for you, some part of you was genuinely happy for her. Deeply, fiercely happy.

Because you remembered the way Kia used to trace the shape of her daughter’s photo with her fingers late at night when she thought you were asleep. You remembered how she’d spoken about her husband with reverence and regret in equal measure. The two deepest holes punched through her soul—now filled again.

“They’re back,” you said softly, like you needed to say it yourself to believe it.

She still hadn’t looked at you. “They’ve relocated to the other side of town for now. Temporarily.”

Temporarily.

A quiet warning. A gentle ending dressed up as a maybe.

You nodded, jaw clenched against the tremble that wanted to rise.

“Are you okay?” you asked, because it mattered more than anything else. Even now. 

Especially now.

She turned to face you then, finally. Her eyes were raw, rimmed with exhaustion and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “You gave me a reason to keep living. You helped me breathe again. But he’s here. They’re here. And I—God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Your heart split clean down the middle, slow and silent.

You took a step back, giving her space even though you were already drowning in the distance.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “You’re allowed to not know.”

Her eyes continued to brim with tears. “This—them—none of it would be possible without you,” she prattled on.

You opened your mouth, not knowing what to say, but then she closed the distance between you.

And kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Tasting of salt, mostly. Her hands tangled in the collar of your jacket like she was scared to let go, and for a moment, you let yourself believe.

But you felt it. The tremor in her fingers. The guilt in her kiss. How it was more of gratitude than desire.

“I love you,” she said again and again against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

Because you believed her. You really did.

But you also knew.

You had always known.

This was the last fire before the ashes. She would always carry you in her heart. She would always remember what you gave her. But you would not be the person she came home to when the dust settled.

And you would never, ever ask her to be. You wouldn’t be the one to imprison her in your arms when everything she’d ever lost had finally come back to her.

You brushed her cheek with the backs of your fingers and kissed her forehead. 

“I know,” you said quietly. 

She tried to hold your gaze, eyes swimming with confusion, as if she could see something in you starting to slip away. She wiped at her face, breath shaky. “What should I make for dinner?”

You smiled at her gently. “Nothing. Just relax, okay? I’ll pick something up from our favorite place.”

Kia blinked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded.

You gave her one more look, soft and grateful, then turned your back before she could see you fall apart.

And as soon as you reached the patio, your shoulders shook.

You pressed your hand to your chest to steady yourself, biting back the sound that wanted to escape your throat.

Because that kiss—her love—was real.

But it wasn’t enough. 

—

You turned yourself in to the international authority a week later, after making sure everything was in place for you to disappear cleanly.

Steve handled the details—wiping your existence from every known database, scrubbing records, clearing traces. All except one. A single dossier remained, buried in Stark’s system, written by Natasha herself. Steve couldn’t bring himself to erase it. Not something she’d written. Not even if it’s something as small as a file about you.

You understood. All you asked was that he marked your status as deceased. He tried to talk you out of it, of course. That there were other ways. 

But when that didn’t work, he reached for the one thing he thought might—

“You were the first person Wanda looked for,” he’d said quietly. Well, you weren’t that person from five years ago. Wanda would’ve been mistaken. 

You took Clint’s place without asking his permission. He had too much to lose, and you figured you didn’t—at least not compared to him. You listed the crimes in clear, practiced detail. The missions you’d completed. The blood on your hands. The times you looked away. You took it all. 

Owned it all.

Not because they were all yours—but because someone had to.

They processed you like any other criminal. Stripped you down. Tagged your belongings. Asked you questions you didn’t flinch answering.

Clint was furious when he found out. He caught up with you before the transfer. They had you in cuffs, but it was immaterial. The guards gave you both a moment, recognizing that Clint wasn’t going to be stopped by protocol. After everything, they’d grown lenient with the Avengers. Especially now, with the miracle of the return still fresh in everyone’s minds. They didn’t even understand why they were incarcerating one of them in the first place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan.”

You didn’t bother correcting him. There had never really been a plan after you retrieved that mineral. 

You shrugged. “Oops.”

Clint slammed his fist against the nearest wall, startling the guard by the door. “Goddammit, I was supposed to be the one—”

“Your family is waiting for you,” you told him gently. “Natasha didn’t sacrifice herself so you could just throw your life away. You know that.”

The name alone unraveled him. “And she didn’t die so you could do this, either.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making sure something good comes from all of it.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to talk you out of it, to remind you that Wanda would want a choice in the matter. But you had already made yours, and time felt precious then.

“I’m not just taking the fall for you, Clint,” you said softly. “I’m taking responsibility. For the things I’ve done. The choices I made. I can carry this.”

His eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. You’d only ever seen him like this once before.

“I never wanted this,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he asked the one thing you’d been waiting for. “What about Wanda?”

Wanda was alive and well now. There’s no more war left to fight. You could still picture her living in the suburbs, watching her sitcoms, maybe even finding love again someday.

“Give her back everything,” you said. “The things I’ve kept. The property in New Jersey. It’s hers. She should have a home.”

“It’s going to kill her to think you’re gone.”

You exhaled slowly. “Wanda’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.”

Clint shook his head. “She’s not stronger than losing you.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. There’s just the hollow ache of knowing you wouldn’t be there to see if your words held true. Instead, you merely asked Clint to look after her. 

And when the guard finally escorted Clint out, your entire frame gave out like a deflated balloon.

You spent your first night in the cell sitting upright, hands in your lap, staring at the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you. The world outside moved on.

And inside, you stayed very still.

You had given Wanda your heart.

You had given Kia your hope.

And now, you have given away your liberty.

Somewhere, in a kinder universe, they all got to live their lives without grief. And maybe, you were there with them. 

[vigilantekisser]

rough sex with bloodied up dex pretty please🥺

backslide

a/n: THANK YOU FOR THIS IT’S LIKE YOU READ MY MIND!!!!!! been writing a lot of sub!dex lately so i wanted to change it up just for fun!! also, giggling drooling curling my toes at the stuff sitting in my inbox.. my summer term is starting in like a week so i wanna get as much of them in!

MDNI 18+!!! cw: dubcon, dark!dex?, mentions of blood, knifeplay, rough sex, choking/breathplay, dacryphilia, filth, emotionally unhealthy relationship ig, reader has female anatomy (wc: 1.8k)

masterlist | ao3 mirror

You don’t hear the knock, and it occurs to you too late that there probably wasn’t one. When the door swings open, you barely look up from the bed where you’re curled beneath the blanket, the lamplight casting long bruises on the walls. You don’t have to; you know it’s him. 

How it had come to this, you aren’t exactly sure. He wouldn’t answer when you begged to know where he went on nights like this and you learned, quickly, to stop asking.  To reason him out of existence was enough, you’d decided. But no mental bridging could erase him from the doorway of your bedroom with blood on him, on his mouth both dried and fresh and clotted at the corners. His shirt’s soaked through with it—someone else’s, you hope. Hands flexing at his side, crimson stains up to the knuckles. He looks a little scared right now, and more than a little scary.

“Dex,” you say.

A shadow of an expression—he looks uncomfortable—passes over his face. Sauntering forward, a silhouette separating itself from the dark, he says, “Tell me to leave.”

His smell is manly and unpleasant, and the bile climbs up your throat. Under it, impossibly, your stomach flips with intoxication. Here’s what you’re going to do, you tell yourself, you scream and beat your hands on his chest and push him away, punish him for leaving, for coming back. But in two strides, he reaches you and he’s leaning down and he’s sliding a hand under your shirt to remove it, and you let him. His palm is flat over your stomach, breathing heavily against your neck.

“I need you to tell me no,” he says, so low you strain to understand. “Say stop and I will.”

Your lips part but nothing comes out. As if in perfect perception his hand finds your ankle and he drags you forward so your hips are hanging off the mattress now, coaxing a yip out of your mouth, his body crowding you. Dex kneels, his grip on your thighs parting them decisively, and you’re met with his dirty face between your legs. Two lurid thumbs of purple under sullen eyes—you almost don’t recognize him.

“Say no,” he repeats sternly. His mouth brushes your knee, your inner thigh. Where his face and hands touch you it smears blood, then his breath finds the heat between your legs, the cotton of your white underwear damp and flimsy between you. “Tell me you don’t want this.” 

His tongue presses through the fabric, slow enough to make you squirm. “Mmh?” A hum, prompting you to speak. 

“You’re ruining my underwear,” you say lightly, a futile attempt to steer him back to softness. His grip hardens on you, and you can’t help but arch when his teeth catch the hem of your panties. You force out an answer: “I can’t. Want you–”

“No,” he growls and tugs it aside, breath sticky now against bare skin. He licks once, slow and sickeningly good—it does feel good, fuck, you’re so scared you’re not even wet yet, coiled too tight and tense—and as if to punish you further he stops and pulls back.

“I’m past saving,” he says, unfairly pretty under flaxen lashes, “so don’t try. I don’t need your pity.”

Still knelt before you, he fumbles at something at his side. You see it in the dim light—a slab of metal with serrated teeth—his knife. He presses it to your thigh and fixes it inside the seam of your panties, the metal cold and harsh against the soft, goosebumped flesh of your pelvis. His other hand grips the fabric for leverage, and it comes apart in one long, loud rrrip. The sound makes your head pound violently.

You’re completely bare under him now, your heart jackhammering against bone.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks again, voice firm like he’s reading you your rights. He drags the tip of his knife down the inside of your thigh, “Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Do you trust me?” His knife has traced all the way to your pubic mound, down, almost at your clit, touch so light it almost tickles. “Yes or no?”

Your breath catches.

“...no,” you whisper.

His smile’s a crack that fractures his face open. “That’s my girl.”

He drops the knife and stands back up, tearing his shirt off, sweat glistening over dried blood and raw skin healing badly on his torso. It must hurt all over, you can tell by the way he flinches when he scrambles at his belt, but if it’s anything to go from it only makes him meaner. Roughly, Dex shoves your thighs apart and spits once on your pussy, filthy and speckled with blood, and shoves himself in all at once with a choked sound. You scream, hands scrambling for purchase, eyes watering from the stretch. It’s dry and deep, and his hands grab your hips like he’s trying to force you deeper onto his cock.

“Dex— Dex, fuck, slow down–!”

His hands find your wrists and shove them behind your back, holding them there, pinned hard. Your legs are trembling from the shock of his depth and every thrust is mean, calculated. You don’t know when you start crying, but tears spill hot down your cheeks soon enough. “S’too rough–please, hurts, wait–”

His breath hits your cheek, licking at your tears. “Then tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t wanna…”

He pulls back halfway. You think, for some stupid naïve reason, that he’ll ease up—but he slams back in, hips cracking against you so hard you hear the sound before you feel it. Your scream cuts off in a choke. He does it again. Again. And then—without warning—he hooks his arms under your calves, bends you hard back on yourself, and starts fucking into you at an angle so vicious it feels like your spine might snap in half.

“F-fuck yes—” You’re barely coherent, every thrust knocking more air from your lungs, “Hurts, Dex— feels so good—”

The bed jerks, your back folding into the mattress. He’s sweaty, pouring heat, and it’s mixing with the blood on him, slicking between your bodies, smearing down your stomach, soaking into your skin. It stains your thighs, your cunt, the pristine white of your sheets now blackened with red.

Here you are, split open. Marked.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he groans as you preen at the compliment and your cunt pulsates around him, “Sweet girl like you into this kinda shit?”

He pulls at the knife at your side. “C’mon, tell me,” he says, pressing it idly on your cheek, “want me to stop, huh?”

“Mph– no, Dex, no!” you cry, brain static-white and brilliant with sensation, not even sure what it is you’re refusing, all of it bleeding together. No, don’t hurt me? No, don’t leave me?

No, don’t stop? 

He grabs your face, forcing your mouth to his in a filthy, fast kiss, tongue sliding over yours and mouth filling with blood and salt. It’s bitter and you gag a little, nose wrinkling, but it doesn’t let up. When he pulls away your face is wet, and you rub a hand blindly at your own face: sure enough, it comes up red.

“Why’d you even come back?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours, plaintive and thin under the rasp of his breathing. “You left, you—” Fuck, you give up. “Come back, please, please.”

Buried into your neck, he grunts something that might be your name and you sob harder, nails scratching his back in raw, angry lines.

“No, gotta… hear it,” he pants, pulling back. “Need you to tell me it’s wrong.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” you wail, “want you, please, I…” His form is blurry through your tears. “I love you.”

Ding ding ding, the alarm bell in your head rings. Wrong fucking answer.

His face twists into a disgusted expression.

“Poor… fuckin’… angel,” he laughs dryly, every word punctuated by a snap of his hips deeper into you. His voice is clear and rough, that signature all-American brutality rasping through every word. “You would’ve taken me as I was, huh?”

You try to nod. Another thrust, harder, crueler.

“I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

His hand closes around your throat, thumbing the thickness of the muscle there until your whimpers cut off. You try to croak something out—“Please”—and it occurs to you, by the hot flash of his gaze, that the disgust is for himself, for the parts of him you still deem worthy of kindness. He’s thrown it all away for the native urge of violence, and he knows he can’t go back. 

“Fucked it up and you’re still here.”

I love you.

Stupid, stupid girl you are—you still want him.

He’s so large and overwhelming, his weight crushing so heavily above you that your world narrows to just his face, his sordid half-smile. You can’t breathe. Your cunt pulses around him. 

Sweat’s stinging his open cuts, pain fueling him more as his hips slam down into you, soaked in blood and slick. You’re boneless under him, your arms pinned useless at your sides. Flinching with every thrust, you can feel the raw flexing of his muscles, and the gravity of his body is drawing tighter like a bowstring about to snap.

“Too good for me,” he’s saying trance-like as he fucks you, breath hot against your temple, “so good, so good…”

And fuck, it’s too much and he’s so heavy on top of you, folded underneath him, immense pressure into your core. You feel it first in the clenching of your stomach and further down then up, up—everything going blinding, shuddering, your used pussy contracting around him as you come hard and helpless.

He moans—ragged, cursing breathlessly—and then he’s coming too, cock pulsing thick and hot as he spills inside you, still fucking through it like he can’t stop, won’t, not until he’s scraped himself raw against you.

Your legs ache limply as he rolls off of you. He’s breathing like an animal, collapsed next to you on the bed. After some pause his mouth presses against your temple, unsure.

It’s an alien attempt at tenderness, you know this much: This is what people do after fucking, see, I know. I’m a normal person, look, just like you.

And he’s looking down at you, your stained body, your copper-browned sheets. He could strike you across the face now, he thinks, just once, to snuff out the affection you have for him. Do you a mercy. Do you one last favor, he’s still capable of that. 

Instead, Dex says: “I don’t know why I came back here.”

It’s the most honest he’s been all night.

You turn to stare at the ceiling, feeling his spend trickle out of you. The sweat and blood’s turning tacky, the grime from his body gritting your sore limbs.

No, no, no. 

Fuck this, you’re gonna have to put your sheets in the laundry again.

a/n: fics ive written where someone comes home bloody counter: 4,, ding ding ding, i need help! was def not thinking about that vamp!dex picture while writing

[scarletmika]

Even More Cliché : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

PART TWO OF Cliché : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: The Best Man and the Maid of Honor...you and Bob Floyd fell in love in the most cliché of ways, but you wouldn't have it any other way. Now, it's your turn to say 'I Do.'

Warnings: insane amounts of fluff, established relationship, language, Hangman is Hangman sometimes, female reader, reader is very creative and can dance, UCSD info might not be accurate I don't go there, suggestive and steamy but not explicit, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol), a part two that you'll def need to read part one to understand at times

Word Count: 14,328 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

"My Siren, my Ikea...my best friend...will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

It had only been a year since that fateful night of Natasha and Bradley’s wedding, but Bob Floyd had known before he’d even had the chance to kiss you that he wanted to marry you.

Smooth, comfortable, loving, there was no shortage of words Bob had to describe what getting to be with you, what getting to love you, was like. Good morning and good night texts that had him blushing at his phone, random little texts in the middle of the day, just to check in and make sure he was safe in the skies. Mornings where he stayed over at your place, or vice versa, were some of his favorites: to wake up with you curled around him, right where you belonged, just to haul yourselves out of bed 30 minutes later to dance around the kitchen making breakfast. Being with you was everything little Bob Floyd had once wished on a star for.

He’d already known he wanted to marry you right there in the middle of Natasha and Bradley’s vow ceremony. All it took was one month-long deployment, only 2 months after becoming official with you, to solidify it in his heart and his head. 30 days without you, only able to talk through emails, had him dragging Natasha off to the local jewelers the second they were back on the mainland to buy the ring.

It was fast, but Bob had never been more sure of anything in his life.

Now, here you stood in the Hard Deck surrounded by the pilots that had become family to you both, a year after he’d finally kissed you and confessed his love for the first time. Down on one knee in the same place he’d ever seen you for the first time, diamond ring sparkling in his hand as he looked up at you, your hands covering your mouth and tears already streaming down your cheeks as you nodded feverishly.

“Yes…Bob, yes!”

The cheers that rang out through the Hard Deck were familiar, the second engagement to happen here in just 2 short years, as Bob hadn’t wasted a second in sliding the ring onto your finger. 1.5 carats, oval cut, sitting on a gold band that wove like vines while holding smaller diamonds along it. Perfect, stunning, and everything Phoenix said you’d always dreamed of your engagement ring being.

Bob barely got to kiss you long enough, though to him, there was no such thing as a long enough time to kiss you. Natasha had already pulled you away, and just like you had at her own engagement party, there was no shortage of jumping and screaming in circles, especially when Penny and Amelia joined in, trying to get a look at the ring.

“Got to hand it to you, baby-on-board,” it was Hangman that saddled up to Bob’s side first, smirking down at him, but there was a fondness laced within it. “You did good, locking this one down.”

“Please,” Rooster scoffed, joining Bob’s other side with a grin, arm wrapped around his best friend’s shoulders. “He bought this ring over six months ago. If it were socially acceptable, they’d already be married with a whole brood of kids running around.”

Bob could only shake his head, fighting off the red rising in his cheeks at the thought of the pair of you with children. Nope, not an appropriate thought to be having in the middle of the Hard Deck at all.

The second Nat had let you go, you were slotted back into Bob’s arms, not that he had any qualms with it. Tucking you under his arm that was wrapped tight around your waist, your left hand resting right on his chest with the ring sparkling in the light, you both knew there was no better place to be than surrounded by your dearest friends.

“To the two of you and this next chapter,” Maverick was the one to start the toast, drinks passed around to the entire Dagger Squad, and you and Bob. Penny was tucked under his one arm, and Amelia at his other side, as he raised his glass to you both. “I think it’s time Bob got a callsign update, because our baby-on-board is getting married!”

Laughter, stories, and simply just a night together was the best way to spend the moments after your engagement, and that’s what they got. Bob watched from the sidelines as you won a game of pool against Hangman, who was now zero for 12 in pool games against you since meeting, high-fiving Payback, who you’d subbed in for to beat Jake. And every so often, Bob would watch as you looked down at the ring on your finger and smile, and he’d smile too.

The sun had set hours ago, the night winding to an end, when you’d caught Bob’s eye again after delivering a new round of shots to the pilots. He gestured toward the door that led out to the string-light lit back deck of the bar, overlooking the ocean, and you quickly nodded and followed your now fiancée outside.

Long before you, and even as he was falling in love with you, Bob Floyd had been an awkward man. He knew he was attractive, at least a little bit, but flirting and being overly forward had never come easily to him. With you, now, Bob was an entirely different man.

You both had barely been outside for a second before Bob had you pressed up against the railing of the deck, hands splayed across your hips and tugging you into him as his lips hungrily devoured yours as if he were a starved man. There wasn’t a single word of protest from you, not that he expected one, arms finding their usual position around his neck and fingers instantly carding into his hair as you kissed him back with the same passion.

“Well, hi there, Robbie,” a smile couldn’t help but stretch across his lips as a giggle fell from you as you spoke, his grip on your hips tightening as he stole another kiss from you.

“Hi to you, too, future Mrs. Floyd,”

“Hmmm,” you hummed, bumping your nose against his with a permanent smile etched onto your own lips. “Think we can skip the ‘future’ part and just make it happen?”

“Say the word, and we’ll be at the courthouse first thing in the morning, darling,”

You threw your head back laughing like a little kid for a moment before pulling yourself back up to look at Bob, who was only laughing. He watched you as you swatted him playfully on the shoulder, but there was no real bite to it.

“Don’t tempt me. No, we’re doing this right,” he nodded along with you, simply smiling just from watching you and holding you, squeezing your hips once more in his hands just to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming. You were his. “We’ve got to make the guest list, pick the venue, find vendors, I have to wedding dress shop- Bob, I’ve never even met your family!”

“I haven’t met yours either!” another laugh was shared between you both as Bob simply shrugged in response. “It’s fine, we’ll find time to get both the families down here to meet. They’ll love you, I swear it. My sister already does, and all you’ve done is FaceTime her.”

“That’s because I promised to call some friends and snag her some Broadway tickets,”

Bob shrugged once again, finding himself stuck just watching you, just looking at you. There was nothing left to memorize from looking at you; every piece of you had been committed to Bob’s memory from the first time he’d ever looked at you here in this very bar, but you were Bob’s favorite work of art to admire. Now, he gets to do it until the end of time.

“There’s one more thing we have to add to your list,” you hummed in question to his statement as Bob leaned into your hands as they tugged slightly on the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’ve got to move in with me.”

He watched as you seemed to pause, head tilting as you watched him in silence for a moment, trying to gauge the level of seriousness in his statement. Bob simply kept an innocent smile on his lips as he watched you.

“...Bob, what did you do?”

“Well,” the smile on his face was slowly forming into a smirk. “My lease ends at the end of this month, and I remembered there was that townhouse over in Mission Valley you fell in love with on Zillow the one night-”

“Robert Floyd, shut up, you did not-”

“It’s ours,” one of his hands left your waist as Bob curled it around your cheek, cradling it in his hand as his thumb swiped over the skin of your cheek delicately. “Well, technically mine since I signed the lease, but ours if you want to. I know I should’ve asked you first, but y-you fell in love with it on the app, the price was amazing, and it’s the perfect distance between UCSD and the Naval Station here on Coronado. And I know your lease was ending at the end of this month, too-”

You’d cut off his incessant rambling with a passionate kiss, hand tugging the back of his neck until his lips crashed into yours. Bob would never get over it, never get over the feel of simply kissing you and holding you, being the only one who would ever get to have you like this.

“Yes, a million times yes,” there was a smile on your lips as you spoke against his lips, and one spread across his own as well as he pulled you back in for yet another heated and feverish press of lips against lips. “Now, I know they’re all in there celebrating us, but can you do me a favor?”

“Anything you want, whenever you want-”

“Take me home and fuck your future wife, Bob Floyd,”

“...yes, ma’am,”

That night was how Bob found himself, barely two weeks later, standing in the living room of your brand-new townhouse. After seven grueling hours filled with the entire squad unloading, driving to reload, and unloading the rented out U-Haul over and over again, the furnishings between Bob’s old apartment and your own had finally been consolidated and brought to the appropriate rooms. 

Hangman and Rooster had argued over the positioning of the living room couch until Phoenix had knocked her husband on the head, begrudgingly agreeing that Jake’s layout made more sense, before moving off to the rest of the heavy furniture. Maverick had used Coyote and Fanboy as his assistants, mounting the living room TV on the wall and setting up the internet throughout the home. Bob had only gotten glimpses of you throughout the last few hours as you passed by the kitchen in a hurry with Natasha, Penny, and Amelia hot on your heels, moving boxes of decorations throughout the home. He and Payback had been relegated to organizing the kitchen.

Now that he was getting a chance to stand in the living room, your living room together, Bob couldn’t help that he was getting slightly choked up. It was his couch in the living room, the one you both had so often fallen asleep on many times watching movies after long nights at the Hard Deck, but decorated with the multitudes of throw pillows and blankets from your apartment that Bob had a habit of stealing on cold nights. The bookshelves on either side of the expertly mounted TV were a combination of both of you, a mixture of your countless romance novels and the many astronomy books that Bob had since he was a child. A finished LEGO set of the Up house took up an entire shelf (something you’d insisted you build together after Bob cried one night watching the movie for the first time). Multiple bouquets of LEGO flowers decorated the other shelves (a staple item that Bob loved buying for you, seeing how much you adored flowers).

Countless photos sat on those shelves, too. Photos of you when you were younger, latched to Natasha’s side, beside pictures of a young Bob, taken from science fairs and even countless school dances. The side tables on either side of the couch held the photos of you and Bob: one of the entire wedding party at Natasha and Bradley’s wedding, one sneakily taken by Coyote of the two of you on Coronado Beach, and then a photostrip you’d both barely been able to keep your composure for during a trip to the San Diego Zoo. You’d thankfully listened to his one request, and that was to hang the photo of you at the Tony Awards red carpet (a photo that Bob adored and his sister was incredibly jealous of) years ago next to the frame holding the playbills of the numerous Broadway shows you’d been a part of.

It wasn’t just a place to live, it was a home. It was your home, together.

The second arms wrapped around his midsection, a head pressing against his shoulder blades, he knew it was you.

“It’s our home,” Bob turned in your arms to tug you into his chest instead, hands cradling your head as he pressed a kiss against your hairline.

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” you’d look up, chin on his chest, and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he laughed down at you. “Where are the others?”

“They’re making use of the fire pit in our backyard already. Bradley ordered pizza, said he and Nat would go pick it up along with some beers for a proper welcome party,”

“Not surprised,” he’d laughed again as you extracted yourself from his arms, walking around the living room and just silently observing the decorated space. “Though, I could think of a thousand better ways we could celebrate…alone.”

All this time later, Bob could still simply listen to you laugh on repeat. His grin never fell as you shot a look back at him, shaking your head with a tiny roll of your eyes.

“What happened to my awkward and charming WSO, huh?” you commented as you returned to his arms, Bob pulling you in and spinning you around for a moment as you laughed again. “You’re turning into a mini Hangman.”

“I resent that statement. If I ever get even close to Seresin levels of confidence, please whack me over the head,”

You shoved him off playfully with another eyeroll, stalking toward the dining room he’d yet to look at as you called over your shoulder.

“Oh yeah, my parents called earlier. They’re going to come visit next weekend, so I called your sister, and she’s going to bring your parents out that weekend too!”

That was news to Bob. His eyes grew wide as he hurriedly followed you in the direction of the dining room.

“We have a week to plan a literal engagement party?”

“Don’t worry,” you were sitting on top of the dining room table when Bob finally rounded the corner into the room. “Nat said she’d handle everything, we just have to let her ‘beautify’ this place as she sees fit.”

Whatever comment Bob had died in his throat as he looked at you, sitting on top of the dining room table with a teasing smile on your lips. It only clicked in his head when he finally looked down at the table itself, unable to control his laughter.

“Well, well, well…if it isn’t the ‘GRÖNSTA.’ My mortal enemy,” you shared in his laughter, arms finding their place around his neck as Bob slotted himself between your open legs, pulling you closer to him by the belt loops of your pants. He gave the table an affectionate pat before raising an eyebrow at you. “Thought we agreed we were keeping my table, not yours?”

“Didn’t feel right to abandon this one, honestly. It all started for me with dropping this table on you, after all,”

There had been so many moments over the course of being with you where Bob Floyd knew he was in love, that he would never be able to love someone else the way he loved you. There was the time he’d brought you lunch, weeks after making it official, during one of your classes where your students teased you endlessly until your cheeks were as red as the shirt you were wearing. Or the night when he’d woken up at almost 3 a.m. to see you sitting on the balcony of your apartment, wrapped in a blanket, just staring up at the stars until he’d joined you, naming off little constellations for the rest of the night. 

He’d never forget the day before the team had left for deployment, how you’d been there to see them off. You’d held yourself together to hug Coyote, Hangman, Maverick, and the others, barely held yourself together for Bradley, and then started to break when you pulled Natasha into a hug neither of you wanted to let go of. Then, you had fully broken the second you were in his arms, muttering ‘I love you’ like a prayer and making him promise to come back. Bob knew then that, as long as he knew you were waiting for him, he’d find any way possible to come home. San Diego wasn’t home, you were.

“T-Thank you…for loving me,” the playful atmosphere in the room dissipated as Bob’s hands cupped your jawline, cradling the most precious thing he’d ever had in his hands. “For choosing me.”

“I didn’t choose you, Bob. I didn’t have to,” was your response. “From the moment I started to fall, there was never going to be another choice for me.”

Well, when you put your love so eloquently, what more can Bob do besides kiss you? Slow, but firm, full of every ounce of love he could muster in his body, and vice versa. Your teeth pulled at his bottom lip just barely, tongue ever so slightly brushing past his lips as your own lips swallowed the groan Bob let out without even realizing it. One of his hands immediately found your waist, pulling you straight to the edge of the table and flush against him as he-

“BOBBY, SIREN, IF YOU TWO ARE STARTING THE BABY MAKING PROCESS ALREADY, YOU BETTER GET THOSE CLOTHES ON-”

“Hangman, knock it off!”

What a strange, sometimes annoying, family you’d both gained with this eclectic group of pilots. But god, did you both adore them all, even in their most annoying moments.

Thankfully, they’d elected to leave the two of you alone for the entire week to…’settle in’ as they called it. Hangman had joked every morning for the entire week about Bob seeming ‘more sluggish’ or that he ‘looked a little sore,’ and the rest of the group had only laughed along with the comments. It didn’t help that Bob never denied them, only shook his head and turned his attention back to basic training.

The crew didn’t need to know that their ‘innocent baby-on-board’ was far from innocent when not in the public eye, or at least, when he was with you. You managed to make him throw every inhibition he had out the window, especially since that night of Rooster and Nat’s ceremony that was permanently burned into his brain forever.

Innocent…what was so innocent about how he’d claimed to you that one of the perks of moving in together meant christening every surface of your new home? You may not have believed him when he said ‘every surface,’ but by the time Friday rolled around and Natasha was running around your house preparing for the engagement party the following day, you knew never to underestimate how much your future husband wanted to worship you ever again.

“Zip me up?”

Now, if Bob ever said no to that request, he’d have to ask Rooster to personally bury him in the ground.

Natasha and Bradley were fussing around downstairs, ordering the rest of the squad to make sure everything was set up exactly as they’d planned for it to be. Poor Sydney, the receptionist from the college that you’d grown close to, was roped into the fray, too. All for good reasons, given that the Floyd family was seconds from arriving, as was your own. 

You and Bob were in your bedroom (god, he was never going to get over saying that: YOUR bedroom, together), putting the finishing touches on your outfits.

A sleek, navy colored button down tucked into a pair of Bob’s nicest jeans, and topped off with the cowboy boots that he’d been wearing for years sitting right beneath the bottom edge of his jeans. Put together, fancier than anything he ever wore for work or even to the Hard Deck, but you were the vision in his eyes. The prettiest white, v-neck dress that hit just above your knees and showed just the appropriate amount of skin. Intricate pink flowers were woven into the bodice, sleeves fluttering down your shoulders and out around your elbows, with matching white pumps to pull it all together.

Radiant. Entrancing. Classy. Tasteful. The most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, and you would soon be his forever. Bob would never stop thanking God for making this dream of his come true.

He didn’t answer you, just simply appeared behind you. His fingers delicately held the zipper on the back of your dress, dragging it up the back as his fingers just barely brushed over your spine. His eyes never left yours in the full-length mirror you both stood in front of, simply smiling as he watched a small shiver run through you at his touch. The second the dress was secured, Bob’s arms encircled your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, and you both heaved out a sigh, knowing what awaited you downstairs.

“Did we have to have an engagement party?”

“Yes, because you didn’t think ahead like Bradley and just get everyone at the Hard Deck to celebrate as you proposed,” he knew you were just joking around with him, but Bob still pinched your side for the comment, drawing a small laugh out of you. “I’m kidding! Yes, love, we have to have an engagement party. Your sister threatened that if our families didn’t meet, she’d personally ‘throw hands’ with me.”

“She would never hurt you, she knows I love you too much,” your head turned to look at Bob as he leaned in, stealing a sweet kiss from you that ended all too soon for his liking. It could’ve lasted just a tiny bit longer if not for the squealing of Natasha ringing through the house from the living room, drawing a laugh out of both of you. “Judging by Phoenix’s scream, I’m going to assume that means your family is here.”

“Yes, probably celebrating getting to see their ‘second daughter,’ as they’ve always called her,” laughter was shared once again as you spun in Bob’s arms, adjusting the collar of his shirt for him before stealing yet another kiss. “Let’s go get this show started, Lieutenant.”

Watching your parents excitedly embrace you as your mother gushed over the ring on your left hand, had Bob’s anxiety through the roof for the first time in days. He’d just barely said hello to them over FaceTimes over the past year, but that was the extent of it, and you hadn’t been back to visit your hometown since moving to San Diego. In short, their daughter had moved to San Diego, gotten a boyfriend within 6 months, and was now engaged and newly living with her fiancé, whom they had never met, barely a year later…Bob was on edge. And the ‘reassuring’ looks Bradley, Fanboy, and Hangman were shooting him across the living room were not doing anything to help him.

“Oh, is this my future son-in-law? Finally, I get to see this handsome pilot!” your mother’s demeanor, on the other hand, was enough to calm his nerves. You were the spitting image of her, same little wrinkle around your eyes as you smiled, that same award-winning smile that he adored, it was a gift in and of itself to meet the woman that had given him you. He easily let her pull him into a tight hug, not a single argument from him.

“Weapons Systems Officer, technically, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you Mrs-”

“Absolutely not, you’re about to be my son,” yeah, you were your mother’s daughter in ways beyond just your looks. The stern, yet playful glint in the older woman’s eyes as she pulled away to point a finger at him reminded him so much of you, he couldn’t help but let his smile grow even larger. “Just call me Amy, and my husband here is William.”

William. Your father. That was what intimidated Bob the most, especially as the man simply grunted and stepped forward, holding out his hand. Bob swallowed the lump in his throat, taking your father’s hand in his own with a firm shake. Your dad only responded with another simple grunt and a nod, but when he glanced at you and the little thumbs up you gave him, he knew that was all the approval he needed.

“Hey, baby-on-board!” Hangman’s voice cut through the house, drawing the attention of everyone lingering around the living room toward the front door. “I found some Floyd stragglers outside the door, they belong to you?”

“Baby-on-board?” Bob had heard your father mumble to himself before Bob’s older sister was practically launching herself into her brother’s arms with a laugh.

“Alright, alright, Sophia, relax!” Bob laughed out, quickly able to separate his older sister from his arms, just for her to immediately hit him on the shoulder. “Hey-! What was that for?”

“For not letting me come here sooner and meet my future sister, optical wonder,” he rolled his eyes at the old nickname from their childhood, swatting her hands away as she tilted the glasses on his face. She let out a gasp, practically shoving him to the side, when she’d finally caught sight of you. “MY SISTER!”

Sometimes, he really wondered how they’d gotten such starkly different personalities. Bob liked to think that Sophia just sucked all the extrovertedness out of his mother when she was born that she’d left nothing over for him, leaving him the awkward, introverted man he was today. But he was thankful for her extrovertedness, as it seemed to immediately calm down whatever nerves you had as you tightly hugged his sister back as if you were childhood friends. In reality, your actual childhood best friend was currently hugging your parents as if they were her own.

“It’s so nice to finally see you outside of screens!” you’d laughed when Sophia finally let go of you enough to take a step back. “Oh, I called a friend from New York the other day! He said to let you know that whenever you plan that New York trip you want to take, he’ll hook you up with tickets for whatever show you want to see.”

“You know, if I didn’t already know my brother was so in love with you he’d cry if you ever left him, I’d marry you myself just for that. Now, you have to let me pick your brain later about what it was like to be in the original cast of The Great Gatsby…”

Bob could’ve watched the interaction for the rest of the night between you two and died happily—two of the most important women in his life, his sister and his future wife. But, alas, one of the OTHER most important women in his life was tugging him into a tight hug, tearing his eyes away from you.

“Oh, I’ve missed you so much, Robert,” his mother sounded as if she was crying as she hugged him tightly, and Bob didn’t hesitate to hug her back just as tightly. “You picked a good one with her, I can tell.”

“Thanks, ma. And yeah, I know, I’m not sure what I did to deserve her,” Bob said that sentiment often to himself, and he still couldn’t believe it. When she’d finally let go, his father had pulled him into a similarly tight hug with a pat on his back. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, bucko. Why don’t you introduce us so we can get this party started?”

Natasha and Bradley had managed to steal Sophia away after you’d introduced her to your own parents, promising to go and introduce her to the rest of the squad she’d heard so much about. So, when Bob turned with his parents, you were already waiting with a smile.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd,” like your mother had with Bob, Bob’s mother was quick to bring you into a hug and wave off your comments.

“Please, just call me Carol Anne, darling. And this is my husband, Joseph,” you’d been passed off to Bob’s father for a hug as well, before Bob was quick to pull you back into his side, hand finding its place on your waist where it belonged. “Oh, you two just look so darn perfect together! Like it was meant to be. Just wait until I get a few drinks in me, I’ll be telling all your friends here stories about my little Robert. Did you know he tried to build a model volcano in the seventh grade once, and it exploded so badly they had to call the fire-”

“Please, any story but that one,” Bob groaned as your laughter filled the air, your hand similarly around his waist, giving him a squeeze in comfort. Your mother was the next to step up and laugh, gaining Bob’s parents' attention.

“You think Robert was bad? Natasha’s mother and I once had to go bail our girls out of getting expelled because they decided to try and hack their teacher’s computer to pull a prank on him!”

Carol Anne Floyd had laughed loudly at that snippet of a story from your mother, Amy, while your father was passing off a beer to Joseph Floyd. The men shared a small nod, engaging in light small talk while your mothers became best friends almost instantly, leading their husbands through the house as they swapped stories back and forth.

With most everyone in attendance having migrated to the kitchen or the backyard, Bob and you were left in a comfortable silence for a moment, before you both turned your heads to look at each other.

“You and Phoenix almost got expelled?”

“You blew up a volcano?”

“Darling, that’s objectively not as bad as almost being expelled,” you could only laugh, leaning your forehead down on his collarbone as he pressed a firm kiss to the crown of your hand, hand gently rubbing at the back of your neck. “Hey, the worst part is over. They met and they like each other!”

You peeked your head up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“And they’re about to drink so much alcohol and tell so many embarrassing childhood stories that Hangman can hang over our heads AND Nat’s head for the rest of time,”

“...point taken, l-let’s go cut them off before they even start drinking,”

Cutting off the alcohol from them did nothing. By the end of the night, Hangman had so many stories of you both as children that you both knew you would never hear the end of it.

Those stories, though, were overshadowed the second you handed a soccer ball to Natasha in the middle of dinner in the backyard. She stared, confused, until she read the Sharpie writing on the side of the ball.

I’ll let you be my Maid of Honor, as long as you promise not to hurl one of these at my head at the wedding like you did in Kindergarten.

A sweet sentiment, and a cute idea, until Nat had almost hurled it through the glass of the window leading back into your home. Bob would have to remember to thank Coyote for the excellent diving save he made to protect your home that you’d barely been in for a week.

Natasha had sobbed, just like you had when she’d asked you the same question over a year prior, repeating the simple phrase of ‘yes’ until you assured her that you’d heard her the first time.

So, when Bob handed a pair of new aviators over to Bradley with a sticky note attached to them, it wasn’t shocking to Bob that his best friend managed to get choked up almost immediately, realizing what was happening.

You told me that the Best Man and the Maid of Honor are destined to fall in love…and you were right. I’d want no one else to be my Best Man on my special day.

It was an immediate yes, both men trying to hide their tears at the fact that they were able to be there for one another in this way. The tears didn’t stop, though, as Bob handed another pair of aviators over to Fanboy, asking him to be a Groomsman as well, which was met with another resounding ‘yes!’ from the man.

That was met with an ear-splitting scream from Sophia Floyd when you handed another soccer ball to her. She hadn’t even had to read the words, already tossing the soccer ball into the air (another thank you to Coyote for yet another stellar diving catch) and throwing her arms around you with cries of joy.

Natasha Trace-Bradshaw, Bradley Bradshaw, Mickey Garcia, and Sophia Floyd, the four who would get to stand by your sides on the greatest day of your lives.

Now, when you and Bob were the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, you had a lot on your plates. But being the Bride and Groom this go around? It started to sink in for you both just how much you really had to do in order to prepare an entire wedding.

“What if we just go back to your last idea and head down to the courthouse and make it official?”

Bob laughed from his place on the couch in your office, simply lounging back on it as he enjoyed the lunch he’d brought you both on another one of his rare days off. Hunched over your laptop, you shot him a look for his laughter, which only managed to get another small laugh out of him.

“Darling, you’re the one who said you wanted to do this right-”

“And I do want to do it right, but we’ve been looking for two months and haven’t found a venue that we like!”

The frustration was written clearly on your face as you huffed, turning your attention back to your laptop. Bob felt the frustration, too, it had been extremely difficult to pick a venue. 

There was the pretty rooftop in La Jolla that was accentuated by the ocean in the background, but La Jolla just felt too local for both of you, like it was a safe option. Bob had joked multiple times that he only planned to get married once, so there was increased pressure to make sure the venue was everything you both wanted it to be.

There was a pretty ranch located outside of San Bernardino with views of the San Gorgonio Mountain in the distance. But, for as gorgeous as it had been on the walkthrough, it felt huge in a way that neither of you had liked.

For a moment, you’d both almost chosen the beach club located north of Los Angeles. Perfect views, gorgeous indoor venue, and the price hadn’t been half bad. But a single comment from Fanboy about how he’d love to play some dogfight football right where the ceremony would be held, Bob and you had quickly realized that giving any of your fighter pilot friends access to the beach would probably not end well.

“Come here,” Bob’s voice was gentle as he beckoned you over, and you hadn’t hesitated. His eyes tracked you as you closed the door of your office, flipping your sign to signal to your student that you were ‘out’ for the time being, before practically crawling into his outstretched arms.

Bob smiled to himself as you slotted like a puzzle piece into his side, leaning back against the armrest as you essentially lay half on top of him, leg slung over his own, and head nuzzled into his chest. He didn’t waste a second in letting his fingers tangle into your hair, nails gently scratching into your scalp as you hummed, letting the peaceful silence envelop you both for a moment.

“What was your dream wedding when you were little?” Bob glanced down at you questioningly as you broke the silence.

“My dream wedding?”

You nodded, shifting so your arms rested on his chest, chin sitting atop them so you could look at him. Bob let his hand travel down your back, resting along your hip with a squeeze and a soft caress of his thumb along the skin exposed at the end of your shirt.

“Yeah, your dream wedding. Come on, everyone has one. Natasha and I had Pinterest boards of ours, though I’m sure most guys weren’t that crazy about it,”

He’d laughed, silence settling over the office again as he was lost in thought, only the faint sound of your favorite playlist playing off your laptop in the background.

“This ranch back in Montana,” he’d spoken quietly after a moment, his other hand coming up to swipe a stray strand of hair out of your eyes as you watched him in silence, a tiny grin spreading across his face as he spoke. “Was in the Rockies, near Flathead Lake. I was there in high school, one of my older cousins was getting married. Said her vows right out in the field, next to this little pond, and the mountains behind her. But the reception was in this pretty barn, not too big but not too small, and I remember thinking…this is what I want. The beauty of nature that came with a ranch, with those warm, yellow string lights hung around the barn,”

One of your hands reached out for the one cradling your cheek now, as Bob watched you bring his palm to your lips, leaving a small kiss directly to the center with a smile.

“It sounds beautiful,”

“What about your dream?”

“I brought Nattie along to this wedding of a fellow castmate of mine back in New York years ago. It was over off the Long Island Sound, so they had plenty of money to blow on whatever they wanted,” soft laughter escaped you as you shook your head, and Bob only watched with a loving smile. “Anyway…it was at this gorgeous vineyard, but the best part was the house. It was just a house, set on this gorgeous vineyard. They got married right on the back deck, overlooking the vineyard, and we partied the night away inside the house. It was rustic, in a way, while still having this modern elegance. It was intimate in the best ways. Nat had to watch me update my entire ‘Dream Wedding’ Pinterest board the entire Uber ride back to our hotel that night.”

“So, what I’m hearing is we need to find a rustic-type house with an intimate feel on a ranch,” Bob let out a short chuckle as you playfully swatted at his chest. “I’m serious! There’s how many wedding venues that are scattered up and down the California coast? There has to be something close to that.”

Bob adjusted himself as you sat up, bringing him back up to rest against the back cushions of the couch as well, throwing your legs over his lap before bringing out your phone. He tucked you back into his side, hand coming down to rest over your jeans overtop of your calf as he kneaded circles into the muscle.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to give it a look,”

There were ranches, alright, many of them. From San Diego to San Francisco, it seemed like there wasn’t a single stretch of a few miles without a ranch in the area. But it was in looking that both of your eyes landed on one ranch in particular, tucked just an hour North of North Island.

An old, Spanish-style ranch house, tucked on its own private ranch. Beautiful trees overhang the home, the ceremony area, and large expanses of flowers running up and down the sides of the houses, bringing a pop of color. A reception area decorated in those same warm, yellow string lights Bob had mentioned, and not to mention a view that encompassed everything beautiful about nature.

It only took one look between you both to know that this was the place. It also only took a single minute on the property, flanked by Bradley and Natasha for extra support, for all four of you to know it in your hearts: this was where you’d get married.

Bob thought back on that moment a lot in the coming weeks, of visiting the home he’d get to marry you at in a few months, for the first time. To watch you stand beside Phoenix in the same spot that a pastor would join you together forever, to know that someday soon, he’d see you standing there beside him in a white dress as he would inevitably cry over the sheer joy of knowing he was lucky enough to love you.

The younger version of himself was still pinching himself. To think that Bob Floyd, who’d grown up being labeled the little nerd among many of his classmates, who’d worked so hard to prove himself and better himself as he joined the Navy, who’d flown countless dangerous missions in his job, had somehow managed to get the girl.

The smile on Bob’s face was a permanent fixture when he was with you, as his fingertips just gently held tight to your own as he spun you around your living room. The coffee table had been pushed to the side, the remnants of dinner left discarded on the top of the little wooden table, as one of the songs Bob had coined as ‘your song’ (a staple on the playlist he’d made to always play in the car with you) played softly from the speakers.

For I can't help falling in love with you.

“I-I’ve been dying to ask,” Bob’s voice was low as he spun you back into his arms, hand not wrapped in your own finding its way to settle along your waist. “This song…was a bit of an ironic song to play when you were teaching me to dance that day. Was that on purpose?”

You’d laughed, leaning up to bump your nose along the edge of his own with a playful wink.

“I was maybe, sorta, subtly trying to make a point. Or plant a seed, whatever you want to think. But yes, definitely on purpose,”

“So I was just blind?” Bob joked as you giggled once more, stealing the glasses right off his face to slot onto your own, giggles only getting louder as he squinted his eyes to try and see you properly.

“You figured it out eventually. Though I still had to make the first move and tell you I was waiting for you to ask me out,”

Bob rolled his eyes, stealing back his glasses and slotting them back into place so he could see you properly again.

“I-I asked you to dance! Took a pep talk from the bride and groom, but I technically got the ball rolling that night,”

“Alright, I concede,” you’d thrown your hands up in fake surrender before Bob had stolen them into his own hands, tugging you back into his chest. “Speaking of our darling friends, they still won’t tell you what they have planned for our bach trip, will they?”

“Just that it’s combined like theirs was, but they’re being tight-lipped about it,”

“I’m hoping whatever it is, there will be a chance to get more blackmail on Seresin. Especially now that he knows all those stories about us,”

“See, I knew I loved you for a reason,”

Bob had terrible timing when it came to getting turned on, but there didn’t seem to be a single thing you could do that WOULDN’T turn him on at this point. But the teasing lit to your voice, that spark of mischievousness in your eyes, and that burning desire to make fun of Hangman any chance you could get was something he adored. That adoration, right now, was sending his mind on a trip of thoughts that included carrying you off to the bedroom and throwing you onto the bed, before dropping directly to his knees-

“Cabo San Lucas,”

If there was anything that could break Bob out of the horny, schoolboy thoughts invading his mind in that moment, it was that.

“Cabo-?”

“You left me in charge of the honeymoon choices, and I think I’ve decided on Cabo,” you quickly ran off from the room, coming back with a folder of printed off papers from the dining room as Bob just watched on with a little smile. “It’s relatively cheap compared to other places I’ve looked, and gorgeous. We can see the El Arco, those geological formations- we can even go whale watching! Not to mention the beach, there’s scuba diving, dining is all included with the suite and the flight is only two and a half hours, meaning we could leave right after the reception-”

Bob could’ve listened to you talk for hours on end, but kissing you sounded better. Truly, no matter what he was doing, kissing you was always the better option. He barely even had to look, snatching the papers from your hands and tossing them toward the chair in the corner of the living room. His large hands encircled your waist, sliding up under the edge of your shirt to ghost along the heated skin of your back and up your spine, pressing you into him as his lips slanted around your own, swallowing your words and the moan that followed them.

It was like lighting a spark when the two of you kissed, the way every anxiety and insecurity seemed to melt off of Bob Floyd in waves, replaced by an overwhelming sense of confidence rooted in love. You tried to speak, but his mouth pressed to yours harder, a feverish clashing of lips that conveyed every ounce of passion Bob carried in his body for you.

The backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch as he brought you down with him. But your time above him in the seat of control lasted for just a second before he had you pinned beneath him and the first few buttons of your blouse unbuttoned in less than a second. His eyes trailed over the flush of your skin, the redness that started in your cheeks and trailed down your neck, disappearing into the swell of your breasts and lower to places he’d seen more times than he could count, parts of your skin he’d worshipped for nights on end. Like a starved man, his lips attacked your neck, latching onto the spot just under your jaw that always drew such a delicious moan out of you. It only took a second for that moan to make it’s presence known, your body arching up into his as one of his hands found your hip, locking you to the cushions below you.

“I-If I’d known talking about Cabo, Mexico would-oh god-would get me this I-” the little breath you did have hitched, and Bob could hear your heart hammering out of your chest as his lips trailed their way down to your collarbone, leaving a mark just above the bone, before continuing their descent at a sinful pace. “I would have-Jesus Christ, Bob-I would’ve suggested it months ago…or every day.”

That elicited a laugh from him. That sense of humor that had gripped him from the moment you’d stepped into the Hard Deck so, so long ago, joking with him to take half the credit for keeping Natasha safe in the sky. Or the night you’d put Hangman in his place, the first time of many, asking Bob to be your partner in pool. God, that snarky little sense of humor you had, the very thing that could manage to break him out of every introverted thought he had and made him want to sing your praises in front of the world.

He’d pulled away from your skin, hovering over you. Breathless. Slightly sweaty. Flushed beyond belief, just as you were, and all he could do was smile down at you in a way that he could almost physically see the flutter that was sent through your chest.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” his words for airy as he looked down at you, almost in disbelief. “You said honeymoon and it just-it made it seem so real. I-It’s like I finally remembered…I get to marry you. I get to marry my best friend, and I-I get to do every day of the rest of my life with her by my side. Cabo-that’s great, whatever you want you can have, darling. I’d steal a jet and fly you halfway across the world if it made you smile.”

It was your turn to pull Bob down into a kiss, this one lighter, sweeter, but just as passionate in your own way.

“Well, in the wise words of my favorite singer…you knew what you wanted, Bob Floyd, and boy, you got her,”

You’d barely finished your words before laughing, Bob’s head falling against your chest with a tiny groan as he nipped at the exposed skin.

“Don’t ruin the moment with song lyrics,”

“Too perfect an opportunity, Robbie. Besides, you love me,”

Yes. Yes, he did.

Bradley and Natasha had managed to keep all the details of your joint bachelor and bachelorette trip under wraps, neither of you had a single inkling of what they had planned for everyone. But like they had for the Bradshaw trip, the couple had gathered you both in their car for the trip, while Hangman had been put in charge of picking up the stragglers (including Bob’s sister, who Bob had to warn Hangman a thousand times to please NOT flirt with, but he was only met with a fly wink).

“I don’t know if I’ve ever really thanked you, Floyd,” Natasha had said to him, somewhere about four hours into their drive. Bob was leaning against Rooster’s Bronco as the tank filled up at a rest stop along the highway, watching with a smile as you and his best friend argued over snacks through the windows of the gas station. He’d turned to look at Natasha, raising an eyebrow at the girl who he considered one of the four most important women in his life.

“For what?”

“Loving her the way you do,” Phoenix bumped her shoulder with his, chuckling at the blush that instantly formed on his cheeks. “For taking our advice at the reception, for just…being everything I’ve ever wanted for my best friend.”

A small smile crossed Bob’s lips as he bumped her shoulder back.

“Thanks for letting me love her,”

“Bob Floyd, even if I wanted to, there’s no stopping that girl once she wants something. And, boy, did she want you,”

Bradley and Natasha had forced the pair of you into blindfolds soon after getting back on the road, saying it was all in the name of surprise. That left he two of you pressed to each other’s side in the back of the Bronco, whispering your conversations to one another through the darkness of your blindfolds, Bob’s hand resting comfortably on the bare skin of your thigh as he rubbed small circles into the skin.

“Alright, alright, both of you just stand right here-”

“You know, ‘nix, they’d probably appreciate if you took the blindfolds off-”

“Seresin, no one asked you! Okay, both of you just stand still for a second,”

Neither you nor Bob moved, Bob’s hand wrapped around yours as your best friends positioned you in front of the Bronco. The air was hot, the sun beating down on you all, as you both waited slightly impatiently to see what they had planned.

“Alright, welcome to your trip!”

The second the blindfolds were off, Bob could instantly feel himself get choked up. And with one glance at you, he could see you struggling to do the same.

That gorgeous home, nestled in the desert by the Colorado River, sat before you all. It was just as stunning as the first time you’d seen it, when you’d been here on the same trip for Bradley and Natasha. Bob could only watch as your hand flew to your mouth, tears welling in your eyes as you turned to look at the grinning husband and wife standing in front of you both.

“What-how did-”

“On the last night here, we were sitting out on the deck looking up at the stars,” Natasha told you, tears evident in her own eyes, and Bob could remember the moment like it was yesterday in his head. The moment he’d realized he loved you. “We were sitting there, talking about anything and everything like we always do, and you dropped the bomb on me that you were in love with my back-seater.”

“And not even twenty minutes later,” Rooster chimed in, shooting a wink toward Bob. “It was you at my door telling me that you were in love with our little Siren over here.”

“Long story short, what I think the lovebirds are trying to say,” Hangman chimed in front the front door of the home, where he stood flanked by Coyote, Fanboy, Payback and Sophia, that typical Seresin smirk on his lips. “Is why not walk you two down memory lane and relive this moment? Don’t worry, the married couple over here planned some brand new activities for the week so that it doesn’t feel like deja vu.”

“And!” Fanboy chimed in, jabbing his thumb back toward the house. “We already claimed rooms and made sure to leave you guys in the same room as last time. You know, nostalgia purposes and whatnot.”

Bob made a mental note to himself to buy Rooster and Phoenix several rounds of beers next time they were all that the Hard Deck for the most thoughtful trip they could’ve possibly thought of. It really took all his self-control not to cry just at the thought that went into this for them.

“It really does look just like it did all that time ago,”

You were right, that bedroom where everything had changed for you both looked exactly the same. The same quilted comforter, the same curtains, and the same people, just not the same relationship they had the last time they were in here.

Bob barely let you put the bags in your arms down before his own arms were encircling your waist, head buried in your neck as you giggled, the air he blew into the nape of your neck tickling your skin.

“You know, t-that night I told you that you were my best friend…what I really wanted to do was tell you I loved you,”

You spun around, fingers splayed across the nape of his neck as you pulled him into a quick peck, one that he chased after in hopes of making it last longer.

“I know. I was really hoping you would,”

“I got there eventually,” he’d quipped, pressing a kiss to your temple as his fingers flexed along the small of your back. “There’s no more secrets left to keep this time, I can do and say what I want…I can fuck you in this room like I wanted to so long ago.”

That flash of heat, that burning desire, was evident in your eyes just at his words alone, just like he knew it was in his, too.

“Well, Lieutenant, I’m pretty sure we’re sharing a wall with Fanboy,” you quipped with a smirk overtaking your lips. “Do you think he’ll mind if we keep him awake like we did at the Lafayette-”

“I CAN HEAR YOU BOTH LOUD AND CLEAR, HANDS TO YOURSELVES YOU FILTHY ANIMALS!”

If the first week he’d spent in this house was full of memories he’d never forget, Bob wasn’t prepared for what their best friends had in store for them for their own party.

Two full days were spent on Lake Mead, one on the shore and another on a cruise around the lake. What Coyote was dubbing the ‘Second Annual Dogfight Chicken’ games had commenced almost immediately when you’d hit the beach, a grueling few rounds of knocking one another off each other’s shoulders. But for the second time, you and Bob had come out victorious, even if the others complained that you’d won twice in a row now (though that sneaky move on Hangman to attack the single spot you knew was ticklish to give you an opening to shove him off Rooster’s shoulders was dubbed the ‘play of the game’).

Bob hadn’t been as distracted by your thighs on either side of his head this time, or at least, not as distracted as he had been last time. Besides, he spent enough time buried between them whenever he could be.

The second day hand consisted of a day trip to see the Hoover Dam, something Bob sheepishly admitted was on his bucket list of places to see that they’d conveniently skipped over last time. His dream trip didn’t originally include Payback and Fanboy trying to argue if you could survive jumping over the edge of the dam, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. The sunset cruise around the lake was the first time you’d all dressed up, and Bob groaned the second you’d put on the same slit dress you had worn to Vegas last time. Judging by the wink you’d sent his way, you knew exactly what that dress did to him, and you were doing it on purpose. It was all worth it for the free champagne shoveled your group's way by the entire staff of the cruise, the second it was announced that you were both engaged.

Las Vegas was a must, but this time it included an off-Broadway production of ‘Mamma Mia.’ A day and night well spent in Bob’s eyes, just to see the smile on your face as simply being around a stage, your hand excitedly grasping his and squeezing it throughout the performance, mouthing all of the words to yourself. Bob found himself watching you more than the musical that night, not that he’d complained.

You had vehemently tried to convince Hangman to go to another Magic Mike show, which ended in an embarrassing twenty minutes for the pilot as you showed Sophia Floyd every single video you’d taken as blackmail last time.

No matter what they’d done every day, between little hikes through scenic places like the Valley of Fire State Park, or even the days spent inside together, watching Coyote and Natasha almost fist fight over an intense game of Uno, were moments Bob would never forget. He’d cherish them forever, because you were wrapped under his arm for every single moment.

That’s where you found yourselves on your final night, on the deck of your rented home, sitting directly between Bob’s legs on top of the picnic table with a blanket wrapped tightly around you both, admiring the stars above you. And if you looked close enough with the naked eye, Bob swore you could see hints of the Northern Lights streaking through the light pollution-free night sky.

“When we get home, everything changes,” it was you who broke the comfortable silence between you both finally. “We’ll be in the home stretch. In just a matter of weeks, I’ll finally be Mrs. Floyd.”

God, he’d never get tired of hearing that, of imagining you with his name. He didn’t have to imagine it for much longer.

“You’re already Mrs. Floyd in my eyes, we just need the piece of paper that says you are,”

You’d laughed, like you did at all his jokes, swinging your legs over to the side so that you could sit sideways and see his face. Illuminated by just the moon, the stars, and the little porch light somewhere behind them, Bob wondered how it was possible you got more beautiful every time he looked at you.

“Everything will be confirmed, I’ll get my dress. Our families will all arrive, we’ll walk down the aisle and say ‘I Do’, then we’ll dance the night away before we jet set off to Cabo,” your head leaned against his shoulder, eyes never leaving his own as you spoke. “Then comes…the rest of it.”

“The rest of our lives,” Bob tacked on as you grinned back up at him.

“Full of bills, and I’m sure some petty arguments here and there,”

“Don’t forget babysitting our friends at the Hard Deck for eternity,”

“Hmmm…then there are kids,”

“Kids?” you’d had the conversation before, briefly in the past, so the little statement didn’t shock Bob. If anything, it sent that familiar flutter he’d felt for months as he was falling in love with you shooting through his ribcage. His eyes were locked on yours as your smile turned sheepish.

“Three, that’s my max,” your voice had become a whisper now, but still loud enough to be heard in the silence of the night surrounding you both. “Ideally, two girls and a boy. Not like we have much of a choice there.”

“Hmmm, then I hope the boy is older,” he’d shot back with a shy grin of his own, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. “Let him look after his little sisters. We have to throw in a dog, too.”

“But none of those little dog breeds,” you shook your head, lips eternally morphed into a smile. “No, we have to have a big dog. I love big dogs.”

“German Shepard, maybe a Golden Retriever,” Bob nodded along in agreement. “Have to get them at the same time we have the kids, that way they can grow up together. Watch them run around the backyard together, grow up being best friends.”

“Teach them responsibility young, make sure they grow up with a good head on their shoulders. Can’t have them turning into their Uncle Jake,” that brought a laugh out of both of you. But as the laughter dissipated, Bob could see the change in your eyes, the softness that seemed to enter them. “Our own little family.”

Bob could feel it, his own features soften, as his hand reached up to cup your cheek, ghosting his lips over yours in a kiss. His words came out in a whisper next, fanned over your lips.

“Our perfect little family,”

Neither of you were privy to the fact that the entire Dagger Squad was lurking through the glass sliding door, taking as many sneaky pictures as they could. Or of Sophia, crying into Hangman’s shoulder as she continuously murmured about how happy she was that her brother had found you.

Alas, peaceful moments such as a trip out to the desert would always have to come to an end. And with your peace coming to an end, the final wedding preparations were finally underway. And those final weeks were more stressful than any of the weeks that had come before.

The guest list was completely finalized, the caterers from the venue were notified of the number of guests, and the menu for the night was set in stone. The photographer had confirmed themselves for the day. The cake order was in, a split chocolate and vanilla tiered cake, since you and Bob were so indecisive on a flavor. The flowers were set, Natasha and Bradley had taken care of ensuring the decorations were all prepared with the venue, and they’d meticulously checked to ensure that your chosen wedding colors of various shades of blue were accurately represented. Everything was falling into place.

You’d flown back to your childhood home with Natasha to pick up your dress that you’d flown out and chosen months prior, while Natasha was picking up her own dress as well as Bob’s sister’s. Bob, of course, hadn’t seen the dress, but was informed by his mother and sister that they’d instantly cried the second you’d walked onto the platform in front of them in it. He knew that was an indication that there was no way he was getting out of crying at the altar.

It was the twenty-four hours leading up to the wedding when everything seemed to finally sink in.

The guests were all in town, the venue was set, and the entire Dagger Squad and your families were at your side at the venue the day before, as the manager ran you through the rehearsal.

You weren’t even in your dress when you walked down the aisle toward him, listening to the instructions that the manager was giving about how this would all go down. You were in jeans, a favorite pair of his that hugged you in every way that made him want to swoon, and an old t-shirt of his that he noticed you gravitated toward wearing in every anxious moment you had.

Bob would’ve married you right there in that outfit if the pastor had been there to perform the ceremony.

The venue walked you through where you’d exit, where the Dagger Squad would be able to perform the Arch of Swords, and through the seating for dinner and the reception. Pizza, cooked by the venue staff, was served to you all for the rehearsal dinner, while everyone laughed as Hangman and Coyote gave fake speeches, prepared just for the night.

Your hand had never left Bob’s, and Bob’s had never left yours. You were in sync with one another, and the anxiety radiating off of you both was clear as day.

It only grew worse when it was time to part ways, both of you agreeing to stick to tradition and spend the night before your wedding apart. Bradley and the boys waited across the driveway of the ranch for Bob, while Natasha and Sophia were waiting patiently by her car, everyone knowing you both deserved one last moment with each other before everything changed.

“The next time I see you…you’re going to become my wife,” Bob tried his best to keep his emotions in check, but he knew tears were forming in his eyes as he looked down at you, the most precious thing that had ever been his and would ever be his.

“And you’ll be becoming my husband,” you were doing a less fantastic job of keeping your emotions under wraps, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as you held Bob’s hands in your own, squeezing them as tightly as you could. “You’re my best friend, Bob Floyd…just don’t tell Nat that.”

He laughed, as did you; those familiar words he’d told you so long ago felt like a hug right now. You didn’t need to say ‘I love you’ in this moment, because that little line had said it all and more.

“You, Ikea, are my best friend too…just don’t tell Bradley,” a lump formed in his throat as you smiled up at him, words tumbling out of him before he could stop them. “You…you’re sure, r-right?”

Even in that moment, where you were professing your love to him in a way that only he could understand, Bob couldn’t stop his insecurities from talking to him, for taking the lead. You were a million miles out of his league; he’d known it from the moment he met you. It felt like imposter syndrome, knowing that he’d gotten this far, that you were just hours from being his forever.

You knew him, he knew you did. That’s why he knew you could see his anxiety talking, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks as you brought him down into a kiss that sucked the air straight out of his lungs.

“I wish I could accurately articulate to you how much I love you, but all I can say is…people spend their lives searching for exactly what I found in you,” you’d choked out through your own tears, wiping a stray one from his cheek as you spoke. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life, Robbie, than I am of loving you. I don’t think there’s a single thing that could stop me from walking down that aisle tomorrow.”

Bob didn’t waste a second before pulling you into another kiss, the salty taste of both of your tears on your lips as he tried to convey every ounce of love he carried in his body for you through that single kiss. It would never be enough, though; there’d never be anything he could do or say to accurately explain it to you.

“Alright, Prince Charming and Cinderella, the princess needs to run along before she turns into a pumpkin!” Hangman’s voice called out across the driveway, pulling you both away from one another. “Hell, baby-on-board, we aren’t currently being shipped off to war right now, it’s a night apart. She’ll be all yours after tomorrow!”

You both laughed, as did all of your friends, and you both knew it was time to go. With a finally whispered ‘I love you’ shared, Bob had rejoined the boys, and you had joined your bridesmaids, and the first domino was finally falling on the day you’d both been waiting for.

Bob Floyd didn’t find himself wearing his Navy dress whites often, but this was the most nervous he’d ever been while wearing them.

The Groom’s suite was just him, Rooster, Fanboy, and his father, but Bob still felt like he was suffocating as he adjusted his uniform, ensuring there wasn’t a single thing out of place. It was the only thing he could think to do, it was distracting him from the thought of you on the other side of the house, getting into your wedding dress with the help of your mother, his mother and sister, and Natasha.

Holy fuck, Bob Floyd was getting married.

“Alright, bucko, it’s almost time,”

Bob turned to his father, the easy smile that sat on his lips, and he finally let out the nervous breath that he seemed to be holding in the entire time.

“Dad…respectfully, how the hell did you get married to Mom?”

The older Floyd laughed, clapping a hand down on his son’s shoulder with a grin.

“Truthfully? I was as nervous as you were, until your uncle forced a shot down my throat. Even then, I was nervous until she was standing in front of me at the altar. Then…the nerves just melted away,”

“And I might have pretended to be nice and confident for you and Hangman,” Rooster chimed in as he slung an arm around Bob’s shoulders with a grin. “But god, I was trying not to shit myself. Had to remind myself that Nat would’ve killed me if I had.”

The three laughed before their gazes turned to Fanboy. He simply held his hands up in surrender.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t plan on doing this for a long time. Unless that cute friend of Siren’s from work, Sydney, is interested,”

Another round of laughter was shared, and that seemed to be all Bob needed to give the three standing around him a nod of his head.

“Alright…let’s do this,”

Bob’s anxiety was still at an all-time high as he stood at the altar, the rest of their squad sat in one of the front rows, directly next to Mav and Penny. His family sat directly before him on his side, while yours sat on your own side. Now, all Bob had to do was wait, and pray he could remain calm.

He wasn’t kept waiting long.

That familiar music he’d heard a thousand times, in real life and in movies, kicked in as the guests all rose to their feet. Bob’s hands wrung together before him as Fanboy in his dress whites and his sister in a gorgeous light blue gown took their first few steps down the aisle.

Bob couldn’t help but smile the second he saw the dresses. If there had been a single doubt in his head, it was gone now: the dresses almost matched his eyes perfectly.

Natasha and Rooster followed right behind them, bright smiles on their faces as they looked to Bob. Rooster and Fanboy quickly took their places beside him, patting him on the shoulder for confidence, as Natasha and Sophia took their places opposite the men.

Penny’s daughter, Amelia, led Bob’s little cousin down the aisle, both holding the little pad for the rings as well as throwing the petals down on the aisle to ensure his little cousin didn’t drop the rings. It garnered a laugh from the entire room as they took their places.

Then the music changed, and you stepped out on your father’s arm, and Bob couldn’t hold himself together.

He’d seen this exact dress, one saying under your ‘Dream Wedding’ Pinterest board, and he always thought you would be the most gorgeous thing to ever grace this earth in it. And he was proven right. A billowing white ball gown, a sweetheart neckline with little off-the-shoulder sleeves you’d gushed about on so many other dresses, and a veil that shimmered like it was made from stars hanging from the top of your head.

A smile meant just for him, and a single tear slipping down your cheek that your father was quick to wipe away.

The older man handed his daughter over to Bob without a single fight, just a smile and a nod, and suddenly Bob was standing face to face with the love of his life, and he couldn’t stop smiling. He’d barely heard a word the officiant had said the entire time, until you handed your bouquet off to Natasha and took Bob’s hands, preparing to recite the vows you’d written yourself over and over again.

“I moved to San Diego for a job, and it just so happened that my best friend came as a package deal with it. I have so many things to be thankful to this city for, but I will never be able to repay it for the fact that it gave me you,” you’d swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to contain yourself in order to move forward, while Bob was slowly falling apart before you. “I’d never thought I’d find what so many of my friends over the years had found, too engrossed in my work and what I loved doing. But then you, this six-foot, awkward Naval Weapons Systems Officer, stumbled into my life, and I dropped a table on you, and I knew I was a goner. I vow always to be your biggest supporter, to be the most loyal partner you could ever hope to have, and to spend the rest of my life making jabs at our friends at the Hard Deck in your honor. In every universe…I hope it’s you that I’m standing across from to make these vows.”

Bob didn’t hesitate to reach out and wipe a stray tear from your cheek, gaining a slight laugh out of you that he couldn’t help but smile at. But it was finally his turn to speak, and Bob’s nerves were back in full force.

“You…you gave a speech at Bradley and Natasha’s wedding, and at the end you said something that stuck with me: “They say love is just a friendship that caught on fire,’ and I swear you looked at me after you said it. It might’ve been meant for our best friends, but that was for us, too,” he wiped away another tear that escaped down your cheek, the room laughing at the action. “I told myself that schoolboy crush I’d managed to gain on my best friend’s childhood best friend was nothing…then you dropped that table on me. I have never been more thankful for Swedish furniture than I was that day, because that put us here now. I promise to support you in everything you could ever want, to love and cherish the ground you walk on day and in and day out, and to give you the life that you deserve more than anything. For so long, I had no idea what I needed in my life…then you showed up, and now I don’t know how to live in a world without you.”

The officiant’s words were a blur. Bob barely remembered uttering that familiar phrase: ‘With this ring, I thee wed,’ or that you’d said it back. He didn’t remember saying ‘I do,’ he barely registered the ring that now would forever sit on his left hand. There was only one thing he remembered.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride!”

Bob had barely waited for him to finish, his hand taking you by the waist and pulling you into a kiss that had the entire room erupting into cheers, the unmistakable crying of Natasha in the background that could be heard clear as day.

“Hi, husband,” you whispered against his lips, eyes half lidded as they looked up at him. Bob couldn’t help the way his own stretched into a smile, looking down at you as he pressed you back into the kiss for a moment.

“Hi, wife,”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Robert Floyd!”

Surreal was the only word that Bob could use to describe the moment, and every moment after. It was like having an out-of-body experience as you’d walked under the Arch of Swords, as you’d been whisked off through the ranch with your wedding party in tow for an abundance of photos, the entire Dagger Squad dragging Maverick along for even more group photos. Bob’s eyes never left you, and not a single word needed to be said between either of you besides the smiles you shared.

They’d announced you both into the reception, and the hollering that Rooster and Hangman were doing had the entire room in laughter. Just like he had many, many months ago, Bob held his hand out to you, palm facing the sky, and you took it without a second thought, the music chosen for your first dance echoing around the trees of the outdoor reception air, lit by the warm, yellowed string lights all around you.

Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and say…take my breath away. My love, take my breath away.

The same song that had played that night, on a dance floor similar to this, where everything had taken its definitive turn. Where you’d confessed to each other, where months of pining had finally reached its pinnacle, and where your lives together had started.

Bradley and Natasha's joint speech wasn’t something either of you was expecting when you’d been sat for dinner among your friends and family, but it didn’t disappoint.

“I’ve had the privilege of being best friends with our lovely bride, our Siren, since I chucked a soccer ball at her head in Kindergarten,” Natasha started, giving an innocent shrug when the room laughed at the story. “And when I got reassigned to North Island, back to Top Gun, I was given Bob as my backseater, not knowing he’d become one of my best friends.”

“And truly, when I watched Bob give our buddy Jake the nickname of ‘Bagman’ during a training exercise, I knew he was going to be my best friend,” Rooster shot a wink toward the two of you, who laughed along with the rest of the room. “And it took introducing these two just once for my wife and I to go home and say…man, they’d be great together, wouldn’t they?”

��To be fair, I’d had an inkling for months about it,” Nat made sure to interject. “I remember showing her photos of our nerdy little WSO, and suddenly she was very interested in learning more about him. And anytime I show him a photo of the girl I call my sister, his skin flushed so red you probably couldn’t tell the difference between him and a tomato.”

Bob shook his head with a groan as the room laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for a moment as you pressed a kiss to his temple before Bradley continued.

“So, my wonderful wife and I devised a plan. Throughout the entirety of our engagement and wedding planning, since these two already had to spend so much time together, we were going to force them to spend even MORE time together until they got together. Come to find out…we didn’t even need to meddle, they found one another without any help,”

“And we are…so happy that you found each other,” Natasha was trying to hold in a sob as Bob reached over, holding your hand tightly in his as you too tried not to cry. “You’re our best friends, and we knew that we were going to have high standards for whoever our best friends fell in love with. But you fell in love with each other-”

“And I’ve never seen two people deserve each other more than you both do,” Rooster interjected, shooting Bob a wink. “They do say that the Best Man and the Maid of Honor are destined to fall in love, and they were right this time.”

“We love you both, and we can’t wait to witness your lifetime of happiness together, wherever it takes you,”

Bob thought he’d cried all the tears he could seeing you walk down the aisle, but apparently, a sentimental speech from your best friends was enough to bring him another round of tears.

You’d eaten together, you’d laughed, and then you’d danced the night away with every person you both held near and dear to you surrounding you on the dance floor. Bob’s eyes never left you, he never left your side, so when you’d both snuck off the dance floor to grab another drink and Bob held out his hand for you to take, you didn’t waste a second in trusting him.

Like two teenagers sneaking around behind everyone’s backs, he’d led you through the twists and turns of the ranch until finally finding what he’d found the night before at the rehearsal dinner: the private deck, well enough away from the hustle and bustle of the dance floor and the bar, surrounded by flowers and even more warm lighting.

“Couldn’t wait to get out of there?” you’d teased as Bob turned back to look at you.

“No,” he shook his head, taking a step forward and taking your face in his palms. “Just couldn’t wait to do this.”

Intense. Passionate. Loving. Full of desire. There was no shortage of words that could be used to describe what Bob felt as his hands trailed down to your waist, clutching you to him as if you were the last bit of oxygen left in the world, his lips moving against yours as if he hadn’t just kissed you not so long ago at the altar, claiming you as his forever.

You weren’t any better than him, though, one hand curling into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging on it, swallowing the groan Bob involuntarily let out with another kiss to his lips. Your lips, the nude lipstick sitting on top of them hanging by a thread from how passionately you kissed him, moving them down to his jaw, and leaving a lingering kiss just beneath his jawbone by the hollow of his throat, elicited yet another delicious groan from him that had you laughing.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Bob just barely managed to get out, breathless as he tugged your face back to look at him, an innocent smile on your kiss-bitten lips, and your teeth bit into your swollen bottom lip for a moment..

“Excuse me, you’re the one who dragged me out here to make out with me, Lieutenant!”

“Yeah, and I’m one more lip bite from you away from throwing you on top of that table over there and fucking you,”

Did Bob know where that sudden burst of confidence came from to utter something so sinful? Absolutely not, but that was just the effect that you always had on him—the effect you’d have on him for the rest of his life, now.

You’d only laughed, hands coming back to drag his face back to yours in another kiss. Softer. Gentler, but still just as passionate and full of love and desire as it had been moments ago. Then, you laughed, lips still pressed against Bob’s, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“What’s so funny?”

You pulled away, and Bob could’ve swooned just by the look in your eyes. The pure love that shone in them, the adoration, as you chose your next words carefully with a gentle smile.

“The Best Man and the Maid of Honor fell in love…and now they’re married. How did we possibly get even more cliché, Mr. Floyd?”

Bob smiled, and suddenly he was back in that room at the Lafayette, your naked body lying under him for the first time as he’d kissed you for the first time. And he’d loved you properly, like you deserved, for the first time.

And then, he spoke.

“Somehow, we did. But…I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mrs. Floyd,”

[untoldstar]

yandere! merman x reader part 2

part 1

Tag list:

@springkuinn

@scorpiosaintt

You wake up in a coughing fit, quickly moving your sore body to the side as water comes out of your mouth. Your chests heaves and your eyes slowly adjust to see you palms braces against wet dark stone. You look up to find Caspian by your side with his webbed hand on your back rubbing soothing circles on your back “You’re finally awake..I was so worried, You weren’t moving for so long.” You scoff “Worried? You dragged me into the water!” He flinches and shrinks into himself “I’m sorry! I thought humans could go longer than that underwater and I went as fast as I could! When I saw that you were falling asleep I went to the closest place I could spot.” Falling asleep? Did he mean fainting?

“I even hit your chest like other humans do at the beach but you wouldn’t wake up!” Your heart clenches at his words. Even with the shadows cast on his face making him look terrifying he sounds so innocent “I even kissed you so you could breath but it didn’t help..” His words trail off “I’m sorry what?” He huffs “I’ve seen people do it! And it always works, maybe I didn’t do it right?” Oh lord..

You sigh and rub your temples to try and sooth your headache that’s forming “Caspian why am I here? Why did you drag me into the water?” He relaxes and fixes you with a stare “Well you accepted my mating offer, It’s only right that you see my home just as I’ve seen yours.” You gape at him “What mating offer?!” His eyes squint slightly “The pearl. You accepted it. I saw you. And you accepted all of my present while I was courting you.” You slowly shake your head “And now we’re mates. What’s so hard to understand?” He moves closer to you until his face is inches away from yours, and both his arms at your side. His eyes rake over your face, studying your expression “I didn’t know you were courting me! Maybe give a warning next time?!” He frowns “There will be no next time we’re already mates. Don’t humans also do the same when they love someone?” “They do but they make it clear by telling the person that they’re courting them.” You explain like you would to a little child. He nods slowly and you let out a sigh of relief “I see..Well, to be clear when I gave you all those gifts I was courting you.” You bite back a groan “Now with that out of the way.” He scoops your hands up in his bigger ones rubbing small circles with his thumbs “Are you hungry? Do you want to eat something? I’m sure there are things humans can eat down here.” You’re not sure there’s much that’s safe to eat here “Or maybe you’d like to rest?” He stutters.You try to pull your hands out of his grasp but his grip only tightens “I want to go home..” His shoulders slump and his grip loosens for a second before he regains his composure. “You will..but I want you to see my home and friends first just as I’ve seen where you live.” You hesitate “I don’t know..” You glance around you. You’re stuck in a cave that you almost died getting to there’s no way you can swim the entire distance back. You don’t really have a choice but to go with him. You hide your frustrations with a smile “Okay. Let’s go to your home.” His body relaxes and he leans in to plant a soft kiss on your forehead “It’s not far.” He gently tugs your arms and leads you both into the water. True to his words it wasn’t far and the fact he was basically swimming for the both of you helped focus on holding your breath.Coral reefs filled your vision. Tall and dark almost blending in with its surroundings going unnoticed unless you look closely. He leads you through a small opening and you feel like a new world opened up to you. Unlike the bleak appearance the outside had the inside is a whole world of glowing colors. Different merpeople swim about around you some not sparing you glance and other throwing nasty stares which isn’t surprising judging by what Caspian told you.

He turns to you “You can breathe here.” You frown and slowly try to take a deep breath. It feels heavier and thicker. Like the air has a heavier weight in your chest but it’s not too imposing on your comfort you could get used to it with time “This place is so beautiful Caspian..how can I breath here?” He glances at you and smiles, pleased you want to know more about his world “We weren’t always hostile towards humans. We used to be very close and humans would visit us. This entire place has been enchanted for a long time so that humans could breathe and function normally. Even when the relationship became strained we never removed the enchantment.” You nod along looking around and admiring all the beautiful glowing colors “Why not? If you hate human so much wouldn’t you want them out?” You ask “It didn’t seem fair at the time. Of course humans have long since forgotten about us so it doesn’t make a difference really.” He trails off before his eyes light up “There are humans here sometimes though. Really it’s only when other merpeople bring them here, as mates. Like us now.” He smiles and squeezes your hand. You return a tight smile. You’re not sure how you feel yet and you don’t want to get his hopes up too high “So this is normal here?” He shakes his head “Not normal but also it’s not completely rare. One of the reasons we never removed the enchantment.” He sneaks a protective arm around your waist when he notices a mermaid glaring at the both of you “Wait when did this whole thing go down?” He sighs “Centuries ago. Long before I was born.”

The noise around you dies down as you swim into a more secluded area between tall seaweeds. An old run down statue of a mermaid sunken deep into the sand. He sits at the base of the stone his tail swaying slightly and gestures for you to sit beside him, when you do his hands are immediately on you“There are so many places I want to show you. You’ll love it.” He leans in kisses you, smiling into the kiss “My beautiful mate.” His hands trail down to your waist and pull you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. He trails kisses down to your neck “Uh- Caspian.” He continues “Mhm?” You’re tense in this new environment and you feel awkward being this affectionate with him when you weren’t even aware any of your interactions were romantic to begin with “..I’m really hungry.” He straighten up immediately “Oh- of course.” He places one last kiss on your lips before taking your hand in his.

Caspian’s home in a much quieter area but not completely secluded. It was big and somehow even in the cold water it was cozy, filled with little trinkets and items he collected and had placed around the house. A wrists watch that doesn’t work anymore. You’re not sure if he knows it’s not supposed to be like that and it’s pretty much useless like that. A lot of jewelry. Diamond earrings, engagement rings, gold bracelets. You can’t begin to imagine the amount of money it’s all worth.

You also found toys that no doubt children lost while swimming and ended up in Caspian’s possession. You much on the last bite of your food. Something Caspian had his friend who also had a human mate prepare ahead of time. You weren’t completely sure what it was made of you were just glad to finally fill your stomach with food.

Caspian was sitting beside you watching you eat the entire time looking like a love sick puppy “Are you still hungry? There’s more.” You shake your head. “You have a lot of human stuff here.” He nods “I love the things humans make. I don’t understand what most of it is for but I’d like to.” He looks at you with hopeful eyes and you can’t help but smile “I’d love to teach you Caspian.” His eyes twinkle “My sweet little mate.” He gently kisses you and moves you to lay down “You need rest. Close your eyes. I’ll be here.” He lays down behind you, his arms wrapping themselves around you. You feel exhaustion slowly take over your body barely acknowledging the kisses Caspian is littering on the side of your neck “I love you.” He whispers and nuzzles into your neck and you finally drift off into sleep.

Caspian when you try to explain that he needs to communicate before he kidnaps someone underwater:

Comment if you’d like to be tagged in part 3.

[circeyoru]

Never Meant to Be… _ Part 2: Who Wields The Knife

[E-Rank!Sung Jinwoo x Summoner!Reader]

Part 1 ― Part 2 (here) *Note: Why can’t it be a pure angst guys~~

The change was odd. So odd that it felt like he lost a part of himself.

At raids, he’d find himself looking for someone. At home, he’d hear the memory shared and see the illusion of your figure sitting there at the table with food ready. The surprise home visits, as you’d call it, you’ll add that Jinah let you in, so you weren’t illegally trespassing. Even at the usual restaurants and cafes he’d visit with you, he’d tell the waiter that it was a table for two, even ordering for two that he had to pack the leftovers for Jinah because he realized he’s mistake too late.

Speaking of his sister…

“How could you say that!” She, the ever-cheerful and resilient young lady, had tears rolling down her face after hearing what he did to you. A foreign scowl on her face. She cried for so long that it looked like she was crying for two. He heard it through her room door, her sobs and wails.

Jinwoo didn’t understand. Yes, it’s a painful transition for now, but later on… In time, everyone will be back to normal. He’d be back to being called weak and fend off danger alone. You’d be back to your rightful place as a well-respected and strong Hunter most depended on. That was the way things should have been, not what he had with you. He’ll just treasure those times in his memory. He knows when he’s not within his right to covet your time and affection attention.

And yet… He longed for you, longed for you to be by his side once more. The saying “You don’t treasure what you have until you have lost it” was so true… Oh so true to him now.

In his dark room, curled up on the bed, he scrolled through the conversations he had with you. They were all initiated by you since he didn’t have the guts to reach out first. Mundane things like [Weather’s great, right?], [Are you raiding today?], [Want to grab a bite to eat?], [Jinah’s going to have a school fair, want to go together?], the list went on and on. What he replied to was mostly rejections changed to acceptance after some time, then there were the rare ‘okay’s since it was about his family.

Suddenly, there was a notification from the Association to all Hunters without a guild. He readied himself and clicked into it.

{INFORMATION SESSION: NEW DUNGEON MONSTER IDENTIFIED}

〚A new dungeon monster has been identified and thoroughly researched by a group of leading scientists in cooperations to the Korean Hunters Association.. Results and findings have been distributed to all guilds and other countries to ensure the safety of Hunters should they encounter this creature in raids. All non-guilded Hunters are recommended to attend one of the following information sessions at their earliest convenience. The session is free of charge and notes will be given to Hunters in attendance. The registration link for attendance is at the end of this notice. If no available time is suitable for the Hunter, please request the documents and notes from the Hunters Association through email.〛

〚Thank you for your attention. More information about the session below.〛

〚Dates: XXXX, XXXX, XXXX〛 〚Time: 9AM, 2PM, 7PM (all sessions last for around 2 hours with Q&A)〛 〚Speaker: Leading Researchers (XXX, XXX, XXX), Chairman of the Association, Vice-Chairman〛

Jinwoo sprung up with his eyes wide. You were there, you’re going to be there. An ache spread from his heart and his hand rose to clench at it. Had you already moved on from that conversation while he had now started to regret it? Wait, regret? No… He just has linger attachments… “It’s best I go.” He excused himself to go, he wanted to see you, even if it’s from a distance and your eyes wouldn’t be on him. “It’s stuff I need to know anyways…”

He’s not going for you.

What a liar.

The day came and he entered the giant hall, other Hunters were already seated and flipping through the notes given at the entrance. He sat somewhere in the shadows where you wouldn’t be able to spot him. His eyes scanned, you’d be at the front were the speakers usually sit. There you were, chatting with the others around you with an air of wisdom and formality. A side of you that rarely came out when it was just the two of you. You’d be cheerful and lively that your status as an all-authoritative vice-chairman was pushed to the back of his mind.

He didn’t even believe it the first time he heard who you were since your image didn’t show. When he looked it up on the website, there was your profile; The Greatest Summoner alive. Your rank was locked but others had already listed you as an S-Rank, not believing that you could be anything less. Your class was mage. Your ability allows you to form contracts with monsters you have defeated and summon them to follow your command. That was the only ability listed but he had seen you using your blood to mark locations and other things.

It didn’t stop the fact that you were both strong and talented in what you do. You were sought out by other countries before finally settling down as the second in command of the Hunters Association, just below the Chairman for his protection. Jinwoo really didn’t have the right to stand by your side.

“Welcome, Hunters. The information session will begin in 5 minutes’ time, please ensure your phone is switched to silent and keep your voices down when the speakers are on stage. Hold all questions until after each speaker has spoken. Thank you.”

Jinwoo’s eyes lingered on you, his entire being captivated. Love… He loves you. But… he knew you two were in different worlds. If only… If only he were stronger then maybe…

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“Double check everything.” You ordered as you sent out your poisonous hornets, into the dungeon. “This is the gate Jinwoo will enter later…” Your loyal summons bowed their little heads and turned to fly into the Gate once more at your order. You sighed as you looked over your tablet to see who else had signed up for the raid. The list of Hunters wasn’t impressive or anything, but there were some that are familiar with Jinwoo at least.

Your thumb brushed the profile of the only healer in the team. This B-Rank that kept appearing when Jinwoo was raiding was someone you knew well. After all, you planted her there since she didn’t want to enter the higher-ranked gate more suited for her capabilities. Then again, the mental strength plays a lot to a healer’s ability. This was the least you could do to help Jinwoo. Even after everything that happened.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand where he was coming from, you did and you had once thought to stay away from him. Still, you found yourself edging closer and closer to him. He captivated you in a way no one else ever had. The will to live and survive for another day, the sacrifice he made for his family. The selflessness and the drive he has were unparalleled. If anything, you wanted him to have your abilities to shine more.

“Everything’s checked?” You asked the swarm of insects when they returned. “Good. Let’s leave before Jinwoo shows up.” You bitterly smiled as you cancelled the summons, pulling up your hood to hide your appearance, just in case. “He wouldn’t want to see me here.”

When you had the time, you’d go to where Jinwoo raids and check for any abnormalities. You couldn’t protect him directly, but this way, his chances of survival increases. Surely…

The one time. It only take that one time.

“Jinchul!” You rushed into the room, your green wings taken from your summons still present, evident that you weren’t in your right mind to cancel the summon even after arriving to your destination. “Jinwoo! Is Jinwoo okay?!”

“Vice-chairman, please calm down first.” Jinchul stood from his seat. Gently, he guided you to the hallway then off to another room where no one could listen. “Breath and collect yourself.”

“How can you say that?! Just answer me! Is he alive? Is he well? Did the emergency healer and doctors tend to him? Is he in stable condition? Is―”

“Hunter Sung Jinwoo is alive and safe.” Jinchul answered firmly.

You stopped your nonstop assault of questions on your coworker. You breathed in and out, “He’s alive…” You swallowed, “He’s okay….” You sighed and dropped to your knees, Jinchul immediately held you upright by your arms. Your wings disappeared into the air as your urgency was gone. “Thank goodness…”

“I will be questioning him when he wakes up on the matter, if you’d like, you can take over and question him yourself. Though you’ll also need to measure his mana levels, since we suspect a second awakening from him. Never can be too sure.” Jinchul offered, pushing your form to sit down on the empty bed. “It makes no difference to me if you or I get things done.”

Once you had calmed down enough, you shook your head and looked off to the side, “No… Let’s not, you can do it. You are the Surveillance Team’s head, makes no sense the vice-chairman would just question one of the survivors.” You got up and brushed your clothing of any dust, “I’m content knowing he’s alive and well.”

Jinchul watched as you walked to the doors, “Are you truly?”

You paused. Even when if you’re not content with this, you can’t do anything else. You thought things would just sizzle out with time, yet you still clung to the past while Jinwoo moved on. When will you get that he’s priority would never be you? What a fool you are to remain so attached…

Still, you’ll put up a front to protect yourself and Jinwoo. “I am.”

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Then along came the System~

Every day, he grew stronger. Daily missions, quests, job change, dungeon clearance. He even lost part of himself in the process. But it didn’t matter. This was something that could wake his mother, help his sister’s tuition, and even give him a chance to consider standing by your side once more. Not to look up at you or down, but to look at you straight in the eyes as an equal.

He thought he got off easy when he had to kill Hwang Dongsuk and Kang Taeshik then deal with the aftermath. First he had Jinho as his coverup and needless to say, the association staff personnel wasn’t as bright to suspect something amiss. Then there was Song Chi-Yul and Lee Joohee who lied as thanks for protecting and saving them when Jinchul questioned them. No, he did get off easy when no further questioning was there. Though his luck ran out when it was the White Tiger Guild red gate incident.

Never did he expected it to go south and never did he expect the reunion to be like that. He was already in a foul mood when he stepped through the gate due to a failed Shadow Extraction, but imagine his shock when he saw you standing there with your Sky Phoenix perched on top of his van.

“Let’s go, I’ll drop you off.” Jinwoo told Han Song-Yi. In his mind, he thought there would be a chance you didn’t know that was him since he had changed quite a bit in stature and appearance. 

“Excuse me, hold on a second. I need to have a word with you.” Baek Yoonho placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping Jinwoo in his tracks.

Jinwoo could practically feel your gaze on him as he shrugged off the guildmaster’s hand, “I’m too tired at the moment. If there’s something you want to know, ask the other guild members.”

Yoonho grabbed Jinwoo’s shoulder again, “My name is Baek Yoonho, and I’m the master of the White Tiger Guild.” He wasn’t requesting, it was an order. Maybe, even, a threat. “We’ve just lost nine guild members. Surely I, the guildmaster, have the right to ask you a few questions, no?”

As much as he wanted to let things go, his mood and emotions got the better of him. “So what? At least I was able to rescue three of your Hunters. As the guildmaster, shouldn’t you be thanking me right now?”

“That’s enough.” Your voice cut through the tension, the winds forced the two of them back to distance them and prevent unnecessary fights from breaking out. You stepped forward and stood at the center before turning to the guildmaster with posed authority. “Guildmaster Baek, this has been a long night, for you and your guild members. Let’s focus on health and safety before the details, yes?”

Yoonho flinched as he shifted his gaze to Jinwoo and Song-Yi, then you, his guild members who stared back with their forms shaking a bit from fear of another fight, and finally at you again. Your summon hovered behind you, its enlarged form covered his sight of Jinwoo and Song-Yi, occasionally cawing at him. He sighed and backed down, “Yes, I’ll take your advice. Vice-chairman.”

The moment Yoonho was out of earshot, you turned your attention on him and Song-Yi, your summon shrank to the size of a normal bird and perched itself on your shoulder. “And you, I will have a word with you.”

“...” There was no getting out of this one with that gaze of yours and firm tone that sent chills down his spine. With his level risen and his perception increased, he had no doubt. You had to be an S-Rank, a secret one that was hidden from the public and never confirmed, hence protecting you from the other greedy countries and guilds from controlling you. “Right, sure. But can we do it after I dropped her off? It’s late.”

You nodded, your eyes closing momentarily, your summon faded into air. When your gaze was on him, the cold look of neutrality haunted him. “I have no trouble with that.”

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Weird, it’s so weird. You’re not stalking him, no, you’re keeping him safe. But it doesn’t change the unnerving feeling you get around him. The push-ups and running around the hospital immediately after waking up? He never did that, not once. Even when his body was exhausted and pushed to the limits, he continues. You admire his stubbornness, but that was too much and you remember drilling into him that he needed to rest and recover 100% before working again. Okay, he wasn’t working, just exercising but still…

You had summoned your Chromatic Octopus and had it attach itself to your shoulders with its tentacles wrapped around your arms, then its greatest asset worked its magic. Your form changed, hiding your true appearance, you appeared as a nurse. This was something akin to a trump card, powerful it may be, you could never hold onto it for long. You’d take the time to check in on Jinwoo and provide him with some water of snacks during his workout for the first few days, then you were back to your work.

The few days you didn’t see him, he changed so much. Confident and mature, nothing like what you knew before. He was so different that you got suspicious of him.

Reports came in. The Lizards group―led by an S-Rank’s brother―that you have been eying for the longest time died in a dungeon and the survivors were Jinwoo and a rich boy playing Hunter? A rogue member of Jinchul’s team that happened to be overseeing some criminal Hunters got himself dead in the same raid as Jinwoo and the former raid members of the Double Dungeon? Something was wrong. So wrong.

“Hwang Dongsoo is arriving to Korea in a few hours. I think… he’s in search of the two survivors; Hunters Yoo Jinho and Sung Jinwoo.” Jinchul told you information that he didn’t have to. It was his area after all.

You blinked and eyed the window screen in front of you, “Let me finish this report, I’ll go with you.”

“Of course.” Jinchul nodded his head and left your room.

Knowing Dongsoo, he’s definitely out to kill Jinwoo and that other Hunter. You had suspected of a parasitic type of monster living as Jinwoo, but why leave other survivors? No doubt they would have been what he was capable of, then why… You don’t believe Jinwoo would let something like that take over his body, no way his sister wouldn’t contact you if she sensed something wrong with her only big brother too.

True to Jinchul and your suspicions, Dongsoo was looking for vengeance and the first target just so happened to be Jinwoo. You stayed behind even after Dongsoo left, you stayed because you want to see with your own two eyes. Who Jinwoo is or who Jinwoo has become.

If it just so happens that Jinwoo is not who you thought of him to be and something had taken over, you will end it all by your hands.

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“So any place in mind?” Jinwoo asked, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, internally flinching from the sharp gaze you returned when you felt his stare. He chuckled, trying to play it cool, “Or we can talk in the van, I don’t mind as long as you’re comfortable.”

“The park near the gate where we first met.” You spoke without room for debate before turning your attention back to the view outside the window. 

Jinwoo glanced at you again before focusing on the road. That was a weird location to pick, but it wasn’t like he forgot, how could he? That day was a day he would never forget. Though the silence was killing him, it was odd that you were this quiet when you were outside of a gate. Usually, you’d be talking nonstop, about the weather, about your day, or asking him questions. Then again, you two weren’t on a friend-to-friend basis, not even colleagues. He brought that on himself. He was to blame for that.

How could he make it up to you? There was a nagging feeling in his entire being that screamed at him this was his one and only chance to get back with to you. If he missed this chance, he’d really have nothing from you. Should he tell you why and how he’s changed? Show you he has summons too? Ask for your advice on how to manage them? Tell you his goal to be stronger to stand by your side and protect his loved ones? What was the best opinion here? What should he say?

All those thoughts and he didn’t even notice stopping at a clearing in the deserted park, the winds blew and howled. He and you stood facing each other. Your voice brought him out of his daydream of scenarios. “Tell me, who exactly are you?”

Huh? That question caught him off guard. Did you not recognize him? Had he changed so much? Yet there was an air of caution around you, perhaps even hostility from your stare on him, but it wasn’t to the degree where it triggered a System quest. He had to answer carefully to avoid that ever happening. He wouldn’t want to fight you, let alone kill you. “Sung Jinwoo, I’m an E-Rank Hunter.”

“Lying won’t work on me.” You warned as your eyes narrowed, your finger rose and pointed at his feet where his shadow stretched from the moonlight and park lamps. “The Sung Jinwoo, E-Rank Hunter, I know doesn’t have a shadow that houses creatures inside. The Sung Jinwoo I know don’t talk back to a guildmaster. And the Sung Jinwoo I know would have told me off the moment he saw me.” Your staff materialized and you held it, getting into a stance, “So I ask again. Who exactly are you?”

Weapon drawn, yet no warning from the System. You weren’t aiming to kill him, a threat? A plead? There was a chance. Jinwoo raised his hands in the air, “I can explain, if you let me because it’s a long story.”

“I have time, isn’t this what it’s about?”

“I have the ability to level up, I grow stronger with each battle and there’s no limit, I think. I got this power after the Double Dungeon, you can ask Chief Woo Jinchul about the case. I was suspected of a second awakening, but after measuring, nothing changed. Until I started… Taking daily missions to workout and clearing dungeons alone. All this is possible from something called a System, I’m just a Player. You have to believe me.” There’s no hiding it, no use when you could even see his Shadows or sense them. It could have been your affinity for summons and beasts, or it could mean you were just that talented. Either way, there’s no hiding it from you.

You lowered your staff, glancing off to the side, a habit you do when you were thinking. Your lips moved slightly as you muttered, “That does explain things…” Your gaze snapped back to him, you took a step forward to close the distance a bit, “What about the death of the Hunters? If this System can make you stronger, give you abilities, can it make you kill without reason when it wants?”

“I…” Close… You were getting close to him. Jinwoo stared down at you, were you always this cute and adorable and small?

“Hello?” You raised an eyebrow at him with a narrowed gaze and slight frown, “Earth to dummy Jinwoo…”

“Yes? I mean, no!” Jinwoo shook his head, “Yes to you and no to your question.” He cleared his throat as he scratched his cheek lightly, “It’s just… Wait… Did you just call me??”

You grinned, playfully punching him in the chest, “Still the same old dork I love.”

Jinwoo blinked and his eyes shined, “Love… So does that mean―”

“Ah ah ah!” You raised a finger in front of his face. Your grin was gone as was your playful mood, you stepped back and stood poshly. “It doesn’t mean anything. I was only here to confirm you are the Hunter known as Sung Jinwoo and not some imposter or monster in human skin, you can’t deny you have chanced a lot to the outsider’s eyes.” Your arms crossed as you gave him a hard stare, “No doubt you’ll raise to S-Rank in no time and achieve your goals, but keep me out of your drama. With your safety ensured, there’s no need for me to keep on eye on you.”

Keep an eye on him? Jinwoo felt a sense of dread that he couldn’t explain.

You bowed, all business-like and the air of familiarity long gone. A line was being drawn and it was a line that you were implying for him not to cross. Just like that day at the restaurant. “All necessary contact will be made through the Surveiliance Team members, should you have any inquiries, please visit the Hunters Association website or call our phone number, respective personnels will answer.” You turned your back to him, “That is all. Have a good night, Hunter Sung.”

What kills a person is not the stabbing. It’s the twist of the blade and the person who does it. You were the one inserting that blade into his being and twisting it. Yet there was a sorrowful expression and eyes about to cry as you did that and the phantom of his former weak self hovering behind you, whispering, “I, Sung Jinwoo, want you out of my life.”

Note: Guys guys guys~ You think I'll give you a happy end just like that? No no no~~ SUFFER!!!

But in all honesty, I can do a happy ending, I think. But this 'series' or story is not my priority to write at the moment. I just wanted to hop over here to try and see if I can do some quick writing away from the other two bigger series. So, enjoy this one while you wait for an update on those two.

(masterlist might not be as updated cause I'm travelling and stuff, so can't do much on my phone, sorry. Click the #story title to follow up on the latest updates)

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST *(regarding requests, check the Masterlist to see if it’s opened or not and other info related before sending one. Thanks.)

Taglist: @rozuburedo @ariseverdark @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @stoats-a-dork @daiyanomochi @snowy-violet @sleepyamaya @thetruepair @aixaingela @quill-for-glory @solojklins @lovelyevil @foulbreadpaenut @anju-emiya @sabrinaotaku @aminegirl27 @whocaresim18 @asakiyu @ctrly-nay @guderururu @shortchubbytat

[goonerforthree]

With you, Always Chapter Three

A/N: This one is a little shorter, but I want to make their trip like one whole long chapter, so I hope y'all understand.

Words: 5.5K

The bakery parking lot smelled like warm sugar and coffee grounds, the kind of scent that practically forced you to smile. Paige pushed the car door open with her hip and nodded toward the storefront. “I’ll run in—you stay here. I don’t trust you not to ask questions.”

Azzi leaned back in her seat with a suspicious look. “Too late. I already have questions. Like why I didn’t hear a single word about this cake before today.”

Paige paused, hand on the door. “Because,” she said dramatically, “if Lauren finds out, she’s going to kill us before we can actually surprise her with it.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So this is a joint operation now?”

“Operation Don’t Let the Teen Find Out About the Cake, yes.”

Azzi crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “What did you and your mom conspire this time?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Paige said, grinning as she slipped out of the car. “But just know—if it backfires, we’re blaming Ryan.”

Azzi laughed. “Oh gosh. That bad?”

Paige poked her head back in the car briefly. “Only if you hate fun. And buttercream.”

Then she disappeared inside, leaving Azzi staring out the windshield with that amused, mildly wary expression she always got when Paige was up to something. A few minutes later, Paige returned with a box in hand, the kind that practically screamed sugar rush and poorly concealed emotion.

Azzi eyed it as Paige slid back into the driver’s seat.

“Okay,” she said slowly, eyeing the pink ribbon tied around the lid. “So level with me—is this one of those cakes that looks normal but turns into a full-on slideshow of Lauren’s volleyball career when you cut it?”

Paige just grinned and turned the key in the ignition. “Like I said—you’ll see.”

Azzi groaned, but she was smiling. “Why do I feel like I’m part of an overly sentimental heist?”

“Because you are,” Paige said, pulling out of the lot. “And you love it.”

Azzi sighed dramatically, reaching over to steady the cake box. “I really do.”

By early afternoon, the sun had burned through the last of the morning haze, leaving the town soaked in lazy warmth. The workout had been solid—light weights, some mobility drills, a short HIIT session that left them both pleasantly tired but not wrecked.

Paige had laughed halfway through their circuit when Azzi wiped her forehead dramatically and muttered, “Why do we work out on vacation again?”

Now, freshly showered and tucked into a booth at their favorite little café downtown, they had iced drinks sweating on the table and two giant lunch plates between them—turkey panini for Paige, grilled chicken salad for Azzi.

Ryan had bailed with a quick text that said, “Rain check. Meeting up with the guys from senior year. Tell Azzi not to miss me too much.”

Azzi had just rolled her eyes. “He’s acting like he’s in a war reunion, not a group chat.”

Paige laughed. “Honestly, he’s gonna come back hoarse from yelling about fantasy football.”

They ate for a few quiet minutes, until Azzi pulled out her phone, her screen already open to a bookmarked shopping tab.

“So,” she said between bites, “I’ve narrowed it down to three swimsuits and like five dresses. But I still have no idea what vibe we’re going for.”

Paige perked up instantly. “Ooh, show me.”

Azzi turned the phone toward her. “Okay, this one’s kind of like...breezy island fairycore.”

Paige squinted. “Gorgeous. You’d look hot. Next?”

Azzi scrolled. “This is more like chic dinner by the beach.”

Paige nodded. “Also yes. That with your hair up? Game over.”

Azzi chuckled and tilted her head. “You’re just saying yes to everything.”

“I’m an enthusiastic girlfriend. It’s part of my charm.”

Azzi smirked. “So what did you even order?”

“Oh,” Paige said casually, reaching for her drink. “I actually ordered a bunch of stuff last week.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What? When?”

“Yeah, I just shipped it all to your apartment,” Paige said like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Some linen sets, two bikinis, a white polo shirt I might wear for the sunset dinner thing...”

Azzi narrowed her eyes playfully. “You planned a sunset dinner?”

Paige shrugged, trying to hide her grin. “Among other things.”

Azzi set her phone down and leaned in. “Okay, wait. What are we doing on this trip? Like, what’s the master plan here?”

“Well,” Paige said, counting off on her fingers, “a couple hikes, one with this really pretty waterfall. Jet skiing. Snorkeling one day, massages another. And obviously beach time. Like, do-nothing, lay-flat-and-melt-into-the-sand beach time.”

Azzi smiled, already picturing it. “That sounds perfect.”

“But,” Paige added, sipping her iced coffee, “there’s one day I haven’t totally planned yet.”

Azzi squinted. “One day? You, Miss Itinerary?”

Paige laughed. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe it’s our wander-around-and-let-the-day-surprise-us day.”

Azzi nodded slowly, but a knowing look crept onto her face. “You’re hiding something.”

Paige feigned offense. “Excuse me?”

“That tone,” Azzi said. “That 'oh we’ll just see' tone. You only use it when you’re scheming.”

“I don’t scheme,” Paige said with exaggerated innocence.

“You literally schemed a cake surprise with your mom this morning.”

“Okay, but that was wholesome.”

Azzi smirked. “Which is why I’m suspicious.”

Paige just leaned back in her seat, fingers drumming lightly on the glass. “Trust the process.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t leave her face. “Fine. But if we end up doing yoga on paddle boards at sunrise, I’m blaming you.”

“No promises,” Paige said, grinning. But in the back of her mind, she was already picturing that last day—just the two of them, sunset flickering on the water, the ring box tucked into her pocket.

Azzi stirred her drink, then glanced sideways. “Just don’t make me wear heels in sand.”

“Deal.”

They clinked their glasses together and sank back into the kind of quiet that felt like a long exhale. Easy. Steady. The kind of day where time didn’t rush—just strolled right alongside them.

The sun had dipped low, casting a warm glow through the upstairs bedroom as Azzi smoothed her hair and adjusted the school spirit T-shirt Ryan had tossed her earlier. It was one of his old Buffalo Ridge High tees—soft, slightly oversized, purple and white lettering just starting to fade from years of washes, with a bold buffalo logo stamped across the chest.

Paige emerged from the bathroom, holding something behind her back with a suspicious grin on her face.

Azzi narrowed her eyes instantly. “What are you hiding?”

Paige grinned wider, then pulled it out and shook it open: a T-shirt emblazoned with a giant picture of Lauren’s face mid-serve, the expression intense, the ball just leaving her hand. Bold letters underneath read: “HAIL TO THE QUEEN.”

Azzi choked. “No way.”

“Oh, I am 100% wearing this,” Paige said proudly, already tugging it on over her tank top.

Azzi stared in amused disbelief. “Lauren is gonna murder you.”

“She’ll try,” Paige said, smoothing the shirt like it was couture. “But it’s senior night. She has to be nice.”

Azzi was still laughing when they headed downstairs, and the moment they hit the kitchen, Amy turned from where she was tying a ribbon around a takeout container.

“Oh my God,” she said, covering her mouth. “You’re matching the cake.”

Paige beamed. “Not just me.”

Right on cue, Ryan walked in from the garage wearing the exact same shirt—Lauren’s face front and center, sleeves rolled up, the words “HAIL TO THE QUEEN” looking even more dramatic on his taller frame.

Azzi doubled over. “No. No no no. You two did not coordinate this.”

“We absolutely did,” Ryan said proudly, high-fiving Paige across the kitchen island.

Amy just shook her head, laughing. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“I’m documenting this,” Azzi said, pulling out her phone. “This is internet-worthy chaos.”

She lined up the shot—Paige and Ryan standing on either side of the custom cake, which had a printed photo of Lauren’s face dead center and her jersey number piped in red frosting, surrounded by matching school colors. Both of them were striking dramatic, over-the-top poses like they were modeling for a Nike campaign.

Snap.

Azzi uploaded it straight to her Instagram story with the caption: “Senior Night for the Queen herself 👑🔥 @lauren.fuller”She tagged Paige too and added a little volleyball emoji for good measure.

“You know she’s going to see this before we even get there, right?” Amy said as she grabbed her bag.

“That’s the point,” Paige said smugly.

Azzi shook her head, still smiling as she slid her phone into her pocket. “You two are so lucky she loves you.”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Ryan said. “She’s family.”

“And we brought cake,” Paige added sweetly, picking up the box.

With that, they all headed out, laughter still echoing as they piled into the car—outfits loud, energy louder, and one very unforgettable senior night waiting just ahead

The gym was already buzzing when they walked in, the kind of small-town electricity that built slowly and settled into the bones. Purple and white streamers hung from the rafters. Posters of the senior girls—action shots, baby pictures, glitter letters—lined the wall near the bleachers. The bleachers themselves were packed: classmates, parents, teachers, little kids clutching concession stand hot dogs and running up and down the rows with sticky fingers.

Lauren’s name was written in huge block letters on a purple banner near center court, flanked by a blown-up photo of her mid-spike and a glittery #12. The whole space felt like it was holding its breath, just waiting for the seniors to be introduced.

Azzi followed Paige and Ryan through the crowd, catching stares, a few whispers, and more than a couple people doing double-takes.

“Is that Lauren?” a girl near the entrance muttered, pointing at Paige’s chest.

Azzi just shook her head, grinning. “Yup.”

They found their seats just behind the players’ bench. Amy was already there, chatting with a couple other moms, clearly in her element. Paige waved to her and sat down, the “HAIL TO THE QUEEN” shirt proudly on display.

Azzi took the spot next to her, still smiling. “This is going to be chaos.”

Paige smirked. “It’s already chaos.”

Then the lights dimmed slightly, and the announcer’s voice came on over the loudspeaker, welcoming everyone to Buffalo Ridge High School’s Senior Night. The crowd cheered as the non-seniors jogged out first, high-fiving the coaching staff and waving to their families in the stands.

And then, one by one, the seniors were introduced.

Each girl had a moment—her name called, her position announced, a list of her accolades read over the speakers while her favorite song played and she walked arm-in-arm with her family.

When Lauren’s turn came, the gym practically exploded.

“Number 12, LAUREN FULLER! Outside hitter, four-year varsity starter, all-conference, team captain—and future Drake University Bulldog!”

The stands roared as Lauren stepped out from the tunnel with Amy on one side and her dad on the other. Her smile was wide, that fierce but shy look she always got when people were clapping just for her. She waved, high-fived her coach, and gave her teammates little hugs as she made her way across the floor.

And then she looked into the stands and saw them.

More specifically, she saw her face on Paige’s and Ryan’s shirts.

She stopped mid-step. Blinked. Tilted her head like maybe, just maybe, she was hallucinating under the gym lights.

Azzi could see it happen in real time: confusion → disbelief → horror → amusement → horror again.

Lauren’s jaw dropped as she pointed at them, mouthing, “Are you serious?”

Paige and Ryan both stood up immediately, striking the same dramatic poses they had earlier—arms crossed, stoic, like they were about to drop a mixtape in her honor.

The crowd didn’t get it, but Amy nearly keeled over laughing on the court next to her.

Azzi burst out laughing too, covering her mouth with her hands. “She’s going to end you.”

Paige just grinned. “Worth it.”

Lauren finished her walk with her family, shaking her head the entire time. As soon as the group photos ended and the players had a break before warm-ups, she sprinted over to the sideline.

“Take. That. Off,” she hissed at Ryan, swatting at his chest.

“Excuse you,” he said, backing away dramatically. “This is a limited-edition collector’s item.”

Lauren turned on Paige. “And you? You planned this?”

“Guilty,” Paige said, not even trying to hide her glee. “But come on—you look iconic.”

Lauren groaned, but she couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You two are the worst.”

“Yet here we are,” Paige said sweetly, “cheering for the queen.”

Lauren rolled her eyes and jogged back to her team, shaking her head.

The game itself was fast-paced and electric. Buffalo Ridge dominated from the first whistle. Lauren was everywhere—aces, kills, diving saves that had the crowd screaming her name. The team fed off her energy, and by the time they won the first two sets, the student section was on its feet and chanting.

Azzi couldn’t stop watching her. She looked so locked in, so fully herself out there on the court. Confident. Powerful. Happy.

“She’s killing it tonight,” Azzi whispered.

Paige nodded, eyes soft as she watched her sister. “Yeah. She really is.”

By the final set, it wasn’t even close. Buffalo Ridge closed it out cleanly, and the gym erupted as the scoreboard lit up the final score. Confetti cannons went off somewhere in the student section, and the team stormed the court in a pile of hugs and cheers.

Azzi and Paige waited near the locker room door with Amy and Ryan, all of them still in their matching ridiculous T-shirts. When Lauren finally came out—sweaty, flushed, glowing—she looked at all of them and just sighed.

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” Ryan said, tossing her a Gatorade.

“But,” Lauren said slowly, cracking a smile, “that was kinda... amazing.”

Azzi stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. “You were amazing.”

Lauren hugged her back, tighter than expected. “Thanks for coming. Really.”

Paige slung an arm around both of them. “Now who wants cake?”

Lauren groaned. “If my face is on the cake, I swear—”

“Oh, it is,” Ryan said, already walking toward the car.

“And it’s got glitter sprinkles,” Paige added.

Lauren dropped her head into her hands. “I hate you all.”

But she was laughing.

And as they all piled into the car, sweaty and giddy and still buzzing from the night, Azzi couldn’t help but think: this is what family feels like. A little loud. A little weird. But full of so much love, it almost knocked you over.

And the night was only just beginning.

Later that night, the post-game buzz followed them straight into the warm, wood-paneled dining room of Ridgeview Pizza—a hometown staple with checkered tablecloths, signed jerseys on the walls, and the smell of garlic and melted mozzarella lingering in the air like a blanket.

All the seniors and their families had crammed into the back half of the restaurant, where two long tables were pushed together to fit everyone. It was loud in that joyful, chaotic way that only follows a win—people calling out for extra napkins, someone laughing too hard at a dad joke, the shuffle of chairs scraping on tile as kids ran between tables. Plates of pizza were disappearing as fast as the waitstaff could bring them out.

Azzi sat close to the middle, shoulder to shoulder with Paige, who was laughing at something one of the other moms had just said. Across from them sat the Mendez family—whose daughter Gabriella was one of Lauren’s teammates—and the Thompsons, whose twins played defense and had apparently known Lauren since the fifth grade.

“So,” Mrs. Mendez leaned forward, elbows on the table, “what’s it like watching a game when your little sister is out there running the court like she owns it?”

Paige grinned, glancing over toward Lauren, who was a few seats down deep in conversation with her friends and still wearing her medal around her neck. “Honestly? I still get nervous. I know she’s got it, but I always end up half-holding my breath every time the ball comes her way.”

“She was on fire tonight,” said Mr. Thompson, reaching for another slice. “That spike in the second set? I thought the gym roof was gonna blow off.”

Azzi chuckled. “We saw that. Paige nearly jumped out of her seat.”

“I did not,” Paige said, nudging her. “I stood up in support. There's a difference.”

“Well, you definitely yelled like a mom at a T-ball game,” Azzi teased.

“I take pride in my volume,” Paige said, deadpan, which got a round of laughter from the table.

Mrs. Mendez pointed between the two of them. “And you two—how long have you been together?”

Paige’s eyes widened slightly, and she glanced at Azzi, who covered the moment smoothly.

“A while,” Azzi said with an easy smile. “We met through basketball. Been kind of inseparable ever since.”

“Well, you’re adorable,” Mrs. Thompson chimed in, reaching for her wine glass. “And if you’re anything like my husband and me, pizza nights like this are the best part of the season. Wins are great—but this? The afterglow, the stories, everyone together—this is the magic.”

Azzi nodded, looking around at the crowded table. Lauren’s coach was laughing with someone’s dad. Kids were doodling on the back of their menus. Someone had started playing a game of heads-up at the far end. It was magic, in the messy, loud, community way.

Paige leaned into her just a little and whispered, “Kind of makes me want to move to a small town and open a pizza place.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Only if you wear the Lauren shirt every day.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

More laughter rang out across the table as someone told a story from a past season—something about a bus breaking down and a team sing-along turning into a full-blown karaoke battle.

Azzi rested her chin in her hand, watching Paige’s eyes light up as she joined the conversation again, teasing Mr. Thompson about his Diet Coke obsession and asking Gabriella’s little brother if he was going to be the next volleyball star.

The whole evening felt easy. Natural. Like one of those rare nights that you didn’t know was going to matter until later, when you looked back and realized how full your heart had been.

Pizza, noise, family, and the kind of warmth that couldn’t be boxed up and taken home—except maybe in your memory.

Friday morning crept in with soft overcast skies and the lazy hum of a house that had stayed up too late the night before. The smell of waffles drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint sound of the local news playing in the background. Amy stood at the stove, flipping another round of batter onto the hot griddle when Paige and Lauren padded in, one behind the other, both in sweatshirts and mismatched socks.

Lauren was already starting the charm offensive, her voice laced with a practiced innocence. “Mom…”

Amy didn’t even look up. “No.”

“Okay but just hear me out—”

Amy turned slightly, spatula in hand, eyebrow arched. “If this is about skipping school, don’t waste your breath.”

“It’s one day!” Lauren protested, sliding onto one of the bar stools. “And we had a game last night. It was basically a holiday. I’m running on like four hours of sleep and a cheese high.”

Paige, sipping from a mug that read “Uconn Basketball” in faded Blue letters, leaned casually against the counter. “It’s true. She was out cold on the couch before I could even get my shoes off.”

Amy gave them both a look, the kind only mothers could perfect—equal parts disbelief and amusement. “And that’s my fault how?”

Lauren folded her arms. “It’s not. It’s society’s. And Buffalo Ridge attendance policy.”

Azzi walked in mid-sentence, tying her hoodie strings and looking freshly showered. “What’s society done now?”

“They’re trying to get me to let Lauren skip school,” Amy answered, flipping a waffle.

Azzi paused. “Oh. Well... in their defense, it is our last day here.”

“And we’re flying out tonight,” Paige added. “We just wanted to have the day—chill, grab lunch, maybe take a walk downtown, just… be together.”

Amy sighed, clearly trying not to be swayed, but her stance softened just a hair. “Lauren, this is your senior year. You can’t make a habit out of this.”

“I haven’t missed a single day since the semester started!” Lauren countered. “And you literally just hosted an emotional sendoff for the senior volleyball team 12 hours ago.”

Amy gave her a long look.

Lauren widened her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. “Wouldn’t it be nice to just... have a Friday? Like we used to?”

Amy hesitated. Paige stepped in gently. “Look, I know she’s your baby, but she’s practically an adult. And we really don’t get a lot of time like this.”

Azzi nodded. “We promise to return her in one piece. No bad decisions. No matching tattoos.”

Lauren snorted. “I mean… depends how good the flash sheet is.”

Amy finally gave in with a reluctant sigh, turning back to the griddle. “Fine. But—she’s yours for the day. Homework gets done over the weekend, and you’re not dragging her all over creation.”

Lauren threw her arms in the air like she’d just hit a game-winning serve. “YES!”

Paige reached over to squeeze Amy’s shoulder. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Amy muttered, trying to hide her smile. “Now sit. Eat. And be gone by ten.”

They grabbed plates and piled them high with waffles and strawberries, laughter already bubbling around the table. The kind of morning that made goodbyes a little harder, but made everything in between that much sweeter.

They were out the door a little after ten, armed with to-go coffees from a corner café Lauren insisted had the best seasonal syrup. The mall wasn’t crowded yet, which meant they could actually breathe as they wandered store to store, mostly just window shopping, cracking jokes, and occasionally trying on something ridiculous just to make the others laugh.

Paige spotted a fuzzy bucket hat and dropped it onto Lauren’s head without warning.

“Instant regret,” Lauren said flatly, but didn’t take it off.

Azzi held up a glitter-covered phone case shaped like a bear. “Be honest, this is exactly your style.”

Paige looked up from a clothing rack. “That’s either an insult or a very weird compliment.”

They ended up splitting burritos at a local spot for lunch, seated outside under one of those oversized umbrellas, half-talking, half-people-watching. It wasn’t a big day or a flashy one—just easy, familiar. They didn’t talk much about the flight or what came next, but it hung in the air anyway, brushing up against their shoulders in the quiet moments.

When they pulled back into the driveway that afternoon, Ryan was already home, leaning against the porch railing with his arms crossed like he’d been waiting for them.

“Took you long enough,” he called out as they stepped from the car.

“We were busy enriching Lauren’s cultural experience,” Paige said, slinging her arm around her.

Lauren rolled her eyes. “You made me try on jelly sandals. That was not culture.”

They all stood in the driveway for a bit, just lingering—no one quite saying what they were thinking. Amy came out not long after, keys in hand.

“You girls packed?” she asked.

Azzi nodded. “Everything’s in the back.”

Lauren shifted her weight from foot to foot, arms wrapped around herself. “You’re actually leaving.”

Paige bumped her shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better,” Ryan said, pulling Azzi in for a hug.

Lauren hugged Paige tighter than usual, her voice soft. “I’m really going to miss you.”

Paige smiled warmly. “We’ll see you at Christmas in a couple months. And we’ll be FaceTiming all the time until then.”

Azzi wrapped an arm around Lauren’s shoulders. “Yeah, see you soon, girl.”

Amy waited by the car while they said their last goodbyes. There wasn’t any big speech. Just a few extra seconds in each hug, a couple jokes to keep things light. Then the doors shut and the car pulled out of the driveway.

As Amy drove, the girls sat in comfortable silence, each staring out their own window, lost in the weight of leaving. The town rolled by—familiar streets, a few kids walking home from school, the bakery on the corner with the crooked “Open” sign still buzzing.

At the airport, Amy double-parked near the departure curb. Paige and Azzi unloaded their bags, slinging backpacks over shoulders. Amy stepped out and hugged them both—tight, quiet, steady.

“Call me if anything changes,” she said.

Azzi smiled. “We will.”

“Take care of each other.”

“We always do,” Paige said.

She didn’t say goodbye—just gave a little wave and waited until they disappeared through the glass doors. Then she climbed back into the car, glanced once in the rearview mirror, and drove off.

Inside, Paige glanced over at Azzi. “You good?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. Just... ready.”

Paige bumped her arm. “Me too.”

They headed for security, side by side, the kind of quiet between them that didn’t need filling. Just the sound of rolling luggage wheels and the low hum of departure announcements overhead—home fading behind them, something new waiting just ahead.

They pulled into the small parking lot behind Azzi’s apartment complex just as night had settled in, streetlights flickering on and casting pools of soft yellow light on the pavement. Azzi unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping inside to the warm glow of the apartment. Right by the entrance was a towering stack of packages — boxes and bags from various online orders, spilling across the small entryway like a colorful avalanche.

Paige dropped her bag with a sigh. “Well, looks like we’re definitely dealing with all this tomorrow.”

Azzi laughed, dropping her keys on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, no way we’re tackling this mountain of clothes and shoes tonight.”

Paige pulled out her phone and started scrolling. “I’m ordering breakfast through DoorDash for the morning. We’ll need fuel before the big unpacking session.”

Azzi nodded and flicked on a few lamps, making the cozy apartment feel even more inviting. “Sounds like a plan.”

As Paige placed the order, she glanced back at the packages again. “Swimsuits, sundresses, sandals... we’re really getting ready for Turks and Caicos, huh?”

Azzi grinned, holding up a bright floral dress she’d just pulled out of a box. “If I’m gonna survive the cold Minnesota spring, I’m gonna daydream about the beach.”

The DoorDash notification pinged. Paige grabbed the bag from the door and set it on the counter.

As they settled in with breakfast burritos and steaming coffee, Paige tapped her phone again. “Hey, I was texting with Jenica earlier — she and Mrs. Suggs are in town for a conference. Wanna catch lunch with them tomorrow?”

Azzi’s eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh, yes! That’d be so great. It’s been forever since I saw them.”

Paige smiled, scrolling through her messages. “Cool, I’ll set it up.”

Azzi leaned back, a warm contentment settling over her. “This is exactly the kind of weekend I needed.”

Paige nodded, raising her coffee cup. “To good friends, new adventures, and way too many packages.”

The days between arriving in Minnesota and their flight to Turks and Caicos unfolded with a comfortable blend of reunion, preparation, and the quiet hum of everyday life. Azzi’s apartment, usually a calm retreat, was now alive with the rustle of packages and the subtle buzz of plans being laid out. Mornings began early, sunlight filtering through the blinds as Paige and Azzi eased into their routine. The air carried a faint scent of fresh coffee and the occasional whiff of cinnamon from the bagels Paige would order via DoorDash to kickstart their days.

One afternoon, they met Jenica and Mrs. Suggs at a small café nestled just off campus. Jenica was just as vivacious as ever, her voice animated as she recounted stories from her summer internship and teased Azzi about how she still hadn’t quite mastered Minnesota winters. Mrs. Suggs, with her gentle smile and steady presence, listened thoughtfully, occasionally sharing her own nuggets of wisdom — reflections on balancing work and life, the importance of savoring moments, and the unexpected lessons travel could teach.

Lunch stretched into a slow, easy conversation. Plates of vibrant salads and warm, crusty bread slid across the table, but the real nourishment came from laughter and shared stories. Paige chimed in about the upcoming trip, her eyes lighting up as she described the turquoise waters and hidden waterfalls they planned to explore. Azzi laughed at her enthusiasm, teasing, “You’ve already packed half your suitcase, haven’t you?”

Between social moments, the duo carved out time for their workouts. The local gym became a familiar sanctuary — a place to move through weights, stretches, and steady cardio. Azzi preferred the early mornings, when the air was crisp and the gym was quiet, the rhythmic clatter of weights the only soundtrack. Paige, ever the challenger, pushed herself to keep pace, their workouts often turning into friendly competitions. Afterward, they’d cool down with long stretches, sometimes sharing a smoothie or protein shake, their conversation drifting from workout goals to outfit choices for the trip.

Packing was another ritual altogether — a balancing act between practicality and anticipation. They’d spread Azzi’s collection of new clothes across the living room floor: flowy sundresses, vibrant bikinis, lightweight cover-ups, and sandals that whispered of sandy beaches. Paige, ever the stylist, would hold up a piece and ask, “Does this go with that?” or “Too much color, or just enough?”

Azzi would groan playfully, shaking her head. “You’re the only person I know who can turn packing into a full-on project.”

Late evenings were spent finalizing their plans, reviewing activity lists, and marking off things they needed to buy last minute. Snippets of music floated through the apartment — a mix of island rhythms and laid-back acoustic tunes — setting the mood for their impending escape.

Amidst the busy days, there were quiet moments of reflection. The excitement bubbled beneath the surface, tempered by the comfort of routine and the warmth of friendship. Even as they prepared to leave behind the familiar for the adventure ahead, they felt rooted — in each other, in the people they’d seen again, and in the life Azzi was building here.

By the time their suitcases were zipped and their itineraries confirmed, the anticipation was nearly tangible. The promise of turquoise waters, the call of hidden waterfalls, the thrill of snorkeling through vibrant coral reefs — it all awaited them. But so did the simple joy of being together, away from the noise of daily life, ready to make new memories.

[revelboo]

How is Tfp Dreadwing doing with his poor sunburnt human?

He’s trying his best

Anything At All Pt 6

Dreadwing x Reader

• “Here. Slowly,” he growl, settled behind you mass shifted, his thighs on the outside of yours and his arm hooked around your middle to keep you from pitching face first into your water dish, he vents. You’d struggled out of all of your coverings at some point and crawled to sprawl against the metal of his berth with a sigh. Before eventually dragging yourself to your water and drinking until you purged everywhere. Listening to you raggedly gasping, hand dipping down to shakily bring water to your mouth, you make a noise when he pulls you back. Making you slow down so you don’t purge all over him. Again. Hand splayed against you as you breathe noisily, he can feel your chest rising and falling, your heart racing.

• You’re still so thirsty, dehydrated, but you’ve made yourself sick twice until you’re shaking too bad to stay upright. So you understand why he cut you off, but you still want to cry as he keeps you pinned against his chassis and dips a rag he’s ripped up into your drinking water before sliding it against your neck and cheek. He’s making a deep, rumbling growl of guttural noises and your mind blanks. Is he singing in his own language? A part of you is mildly horrified that you’re naked, that he’s holding your naked body between his thighs as he wets the rag and slides it over your shoulder and down your arm. But he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in you. Giving you a sponge bath with total indifference. And muddying your water. He’s going to get you fresh water once he’s done, right? Or separate water to drink?

• You’re more alert as he washes the grime off of you, watching what he’s doing as he wrings his rag and dips it again. Running along your belly and down between your thighs, and your head smack back into his chassis with a little gasp, squirming as you claw at his hand, pushing the rag away. “Are you hurt?” He asks and you shudder, trying to weakly yank the rag out of his hand. Before fighting until he releases you and you’re crawling into your water dish, head propped up on the edge and your back to him. What are you doing?

• “I’m not hurt,” you rasp, embarrassed as you relax into the cool water. Because he hadn’t meant anything by it, but his servos had slid against you and you’d panicked. Watching the water muddy even more with you in it, you can’t look at him. It’s not like he cares about your squishy assets, but still. How much dust is on you? How much did you breathe in? Stiffening when he mass shifts and picks up the dish with you in it, you stare up at him with wide eyes. Carrying you to a room attached to his own and dipping his servos in against you as he tips you some to drain the water, before adding fresh, cold water. “Thank you,” you mumble hanging on to his servos as the cold soothes your skin.

• Carrying his little dish of organic back to his berth, he gently sets you back down and you roll onto your belly, an arm against the side of the dish, cheek on your arm. He’s almost positive humans aren’t semi aquatic, but you seem happy in there. Venting he fetches a box of human food from the supply Megatron’s started hoarding for his pet. And you watch him with hooded eyes as he sets it within reach. Then nudges it closer while trying to figure out what he did to make you thrash like that.

Previous

[dancingafterdark]

@viktorarcanedeservesbetter ME! ME! I WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THAT!

like, okay, to be straight with people: i love a good ship dynamic, a good trope, as much as anyone, but i feel like ship dynamics have taken on a dilution similar to that of “found family”, “team dad”, etc. where, because us goofy goobers LOVE to classify things and put them into neat little categories, anything that bears even a superficial resemblance to a trope is kinda just shoved into that square hole without a second thought: jayce is a beefcake with a cute smile and puppy dog eyes for days, so he’s the designated Sunshine Golden Retriever Himbo Boyfriend™, and of course, the pale, broody, soft-spoken loner is our snarky genius black cat character — and of course, there is nothing wrong with exploring this dynamic using these characters in a fanon space because (in an ideal world, anyhow) the line between canon and fanon is clearly defined, and we still have the source material to go back to (whether or not people DO is another story, because by god, do some of the takes i’ve seen throughout these past six months have me questioning that-) — but i feel like trying to portray jayvik as, say, a purely sunshine/grumpy dynamic neglects a lot of the nuance of both characters that personally really drew me in. Viktor, in particular, appears to be yet another case of fandom overcorrection as well, if you’ll allow me to put on my tinfoil cap: he was VERY easy to woobify, especially in the season 1-pre season 2 era where his default expression when he’s not brooding over the whole. y’know, dying thing is “🥺”, and that subsequently led to this insistence of him being this fiercely independent, takes-no-shit portrayal as a kind of counteract of sorts against the dreaded woobification, as well as a fear against potentially falling into ableist tropes: disabled characters, even now, are rarely allowed to exist beyond being pitiable props or even a slightly more cynical and insidious take on the MPDG, or just a huge ball of self loathing and internalized ableism, so i can 100% see the appeal of taking a canonically disabled character a LOT of people see themselves in and giving him a bit more spunky, dare i say more “modern” sensibilities, then he expresses in the show: i have no problem with this on paper.

My issue is that in making Viktor this openly mean and snarky, “strong and independent Zaunite” type character — beyond the knee-jerk “he would not say that” reaction and the uncomfortable flashbacks to the writing of 2010s fictional “insufferable genius” type characters that have haunted me since the era BBC Sherlock reigned supreme — is that it’s ignoring not just the nuance in his character, but the nuance in the show’s well, initial anyway class conflict as well. Viktor is a character who had to assimilate into Piltover if he had any hope of getting anywhere, and if we take his dubiously canon backstory into account of him having to have been literally snuck into the academy, his quiet and unassuming demeanor is just as much a survival tactic as it is a reflection of his personality, and just like in real life politics, one can easily assume that he had the motto that “badly behaved Zaunites rarely make history” drilled into him from a young age onward (no thanks in part to his relationship with Singed, who is a disgraced scientist and Mr. “I Thought You’d Understand” likely spilled all the tea on THAT matter while they were working together), and for good reason since standing out too much could prove detrimental to his greater goals of a) helping his people, and b) showing that Zaunites can make a difference, despite being “lesser”. and then he meets Jayce, this anomaly who, at first glance, appears to be just another spoiled Academy student who will get nothing but a slap on the wrist with a stern warning for reckless destruction of property and Janna knows how many endangered lives — all things that would get someone like Viktor thrown in Stillwater without question — only for it to turn out that Jayce is probably the biggest rulebreaker of all; and this subsequently emboldens Viktor to start finally taking initiative himself. “If you’re going to change the world, don’t ask permission”, you know the drill: all this to say, while Viktor isn’t this 100% passive damsel who’s incapable of making basic decisions without Jayce, he is also painfully aware that his voice matters significantly less in the public eye while his very existence is simultaneously under constant scrutiny, which is why the highest he was even able to climb in terms of power was as an assistant, and even then, he likely wouldn’t have even gotten that high without Heimerdinger’s influence and he says it plainly that he didn’t even want to be stuck with the job in the first place. An often unspoken part of his and Jayce’s dynamic that i adore so much is that they enable the SHIT out of each other, for better or worse: Jayce breaks the rules, Viktor follows suit, Viktor starts experimenting with the Hexcore, Jayce uses it to bring him back to life, Viktor sees the results of Jayce nonconsensually resurrecting him ultimately “healed” him, he rationalizes that it’s a-okay to use it at a greater scale, and so on: all great stuff imo that sadly gets lost in the shuffle when you water both characters down into easily marketable tropes or, worse, begin insisting that that’s always how they’ve acted in canon, which [LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER SOUNDS]. But I think i’ve rambled about this topic long enough :skull:

personally speaking, zaunite AUs are, tbh, hit or miss with me: conceptually, they’re really fun to imagine as is any other kind of swap AU, but execution wise, i think some fic writers do lean a bit hard into grime and violence of it all and not as much the action pacifist route a la the fireflies. regarding zaunite Viktor, the idea of him becoming “mean, controlling, and evil” if he never went to Piltover is laughable considering he didn’t even act like that when he actually did go back to Zaun and made a name for himself as the herald :skull: the man is only mildly sassy to the woman who literally, albeit indirectly, killed him, and it’s only when she starts shooting first, like girlfriend stand UUUUP 😭 i personally think viktor would thrive as a medic, either independently or with a group like the firelights, as opposed to, say, a freedom fighter or Janna forbid, a chem baron — but that’s just MY opinion, lmaoo

if anyone noticed this is a copy+paste from an accidentally unrelated reblogged post i mixed up w/ this one...no it isn’t :D you can’t perceive me

I still find very funny that people make Viktor's character very aggressive and direct in fanworks, when in the show Viktor is a sweetheart and the only time it could be considered that he "raised his voice" was when he was talking with Mel about hextech weapons and was like "Absolutely not!"

Meanwhile everyone makes fanon Jayce a very kind and puppy like guy, when in the show he's the one who snaps at people and very directly tells them to fuck off

I find it funny because it matches my headcanon that Viktor goes out of his way to be kind and soft because he knows very well that people will interpret him as mean and overly direct just for being from Zaun and disabled. And Jayce is a lot meaner and people let him get away with it because he's conventionally attractive and from Piltover lmao

[fayelero]

ⓘ 01. LOVE FOR LOOSERS!

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ nagi seishiro x fem!reader ﹫ i don’t get it, do you?

⚠︎ really suggestive, mention of sex, fluff, body description.ᐟ.ᐟ

It still didn’t make sense to him.

No matter how many times he woke up with you tangled in his arms—half-naked, lips parted from sleep, your hair a mess across his chest like silk—it never stopped feeling like some kind of fever dream. Like he’d opened the wrong door in life, tripped into a version of reality where someone like you actually wanted someone like him.

And he still didn’t get it.

“I was surprised to see, that a woman like that was really into me…”

That lyric played in his head way more than he’d ever admit. It was some cheesy R&B song you used to hum while cleaning the kitchen in just one of his oversized shirts and nothing underneath—his shirt barely covering your ass. He would pretend to be asleep on the couch, but every time you bent over to wipe the counter, he saw everything. You had to know. You had to.

It was probably the universe messing with him. That was the only logical answer.

Because you were insane. Otherworldly.

Not plastic. Not curated. Not fake.

You weren’t the kind of girl who filtered herself to death or plastered herself in designer. You didn’t have those weird balloon curves, and still—God, you had perfect tits. Enough to make his mouth go dry when he looked at you sideways. And your ass? He didn’t even understand how it could be that round, that soft, and that real.

You were toned in a way that didn’t feel intimidating. You had strength, muscle, that confident walk that always left him staring. But you still melted against him like you were made to fit there—hips made for his hands, collarbone perfect for his kisses. You always smelled like coconut oil and something sweet that lingered on his sheets, even days after you’d gone home.

You were hot.

Like… ridiculously hot.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part—the part that messed with his head at 2 AM when he was laying beside you with his heart pounding—was how funny you were.

You teased him constantly, in that low, sultry voice, like you were always on the edge of either kissing him or making fun of him. Probably both.

“Sei,” you’d coo, while walking your fingers up his bare stomach, “how does it feel knowing your girlfriend is clearly out of your league?”

He never had an answer. He just blinked at you and grabbed your wrist, dragging you on top of him with one smooth motion that always made you laugh and curse against his neck.

“I’m serious,” he once muttered into your hair. “What are you doing with me?”

You looked up at him then. And your smile wasn’t teasing. Not that time.

“Because I love you, dumbass. Isn’t that enough?”

And it should have been. But something in him still flinched at the words. Not because he didn’t believe them—he did. You never said anything you didn’t mean. But because it was so damn intense having someone like you love him that much.

You were the first person who ever made him feel awake. Not just physically—though, God knows, that part was a given—but mentally. You challenged him. Inspired him. Gave him this weird aching want to be more, do more, just so he could deserve you a little better.

You believed in him before he ever hit the spotlight. Before Blue Lock, before the contracts, before people knew his name. You were the only one who’d ever looked at him with stars in your eyes before he became someone.

Now he was someone.

And he still couldn’t stop looking at you like you were the dream that came true first.