#[Flashback: window to the past]

[lastmurianwarrior]

💭 !!

((HOo boy, I had fun - settling on a scene was tough though. With this blog's Solo pulling from the games and anime most, it's an interesting dance to incorporate as much lore from either media as possible, while fleshing out the details and making sense of it. I want to do Laplace too, but this ended up long enough, that I think I'll save that for a new post. This is a window into a particularly pivotal day for Solo, from long long ago.))

FLASHBACK: Aching eyes from bright sunlight that poured in through the pale-green air shuttle's sliding door, was the first greeting from this ground-dwelling destination to meet the passengers from Mu as they arrived for a diplomatic meeting that would inevitably unravel into unamusing discourse.

Solo followed from behind as the small crew of Mu officials ambled out onto a wide dusty circle. At 13 he was deemed mature and expected to take on the responsibilities of his noble position. Getting to know the world and involving himself in geopolitical discussions would be a start. But Mu’s tactician always wanted him to play along and read from a script; becoming furious if Solo changed any of the details.

It was too embarrassing to admit he hadn’t paid enough attention to what was happening between Mu and the tribes on the ground. But some of the things he’d had to say, never set well with him, and he at least knew from faces in the crowds that it didn’t set well with the tribes either. Mulling over that fact, Solo didn’t feel like involving himself this time, and the spectacle of this foreign town was enough to tempt him into skipping the day’s meeting altogether to go explore on his own; to get to know the people and sniff out some local treats.

The tactician; Mu’s master-planner, a tall old man, dressed darkly and with a hat like a tower on his head, flattened at the top, marched in front, expecting everyone to keep up with his long stride. He threw a few indignant sneers back at Solo for lagging behind, but didn’t waste any time waiting around.

Jagged megaliths with the visages of important people and revered animals; as though guarding the walkways, guided the visitors to a stone brick roadway populated by village-folk; merchants, carvers, toolmakers, and farmers all with their fare and animals to offer.

There was little hope of convincing the locals that Mu technology wasn’t all powered by some magic or divine force; even many of Mu’s people themselves still believed this. A small portion of the village dawned their most elaborate garb to dance, while musicians of woodwind and bone instruments played tunes almost magical in their own way. Such flamboyance was motivated by hopes of earning favor from their sky visitors, of course.

Each of the Mu officials strolled on, paying no heed to the garish ensemble, stopping only briefly to look back with steely eyes as they entered the tallest building for miles; a relic of stone architecture from a time when the floating continent of Mu was still rooted firmly in the ground; a mere hundred years prior. Newer construction surrounding it seemed oddly more primitive; distinguished by a framework of wood, mastodon tusks, and painted animal hides.

Rather than join his party inside, Solo took a turn on his own to walk further down the street. Breaking the sunlight induced glare, his eyes filled with wonder at the rocky scrublands, patched with temperate foliage and exotic flowers, then shifted to soaking in the sight of all the people; many of them thoroughly tanned, wrapped in lightweight yellow, green, orange, or red textiles, and leather garb. Camelids and barely tame village-dogs moseyed about the street, which narrowed, then broke off into a dead end marked by spiny overgrowth that trailed off in the direction of a distantly roaring waterfall from glacial melt.

As he kept his pace along the bustling street, the thought of moving aside for others hadn’t so much as cross his mind. In spite of the open airspace, the walkway was claustrophobic compared to the vast halls within the upper floors of Mu that he’d grown up in. Roughly brushing shoulders with folk disinterested in showing the noble Murian respect, however, struck Solo with the gut-wrenching sense that something had changed in the atmosphere; there was a rising tension distinctly in opposition to the affection, wonder, intrigue, and most importantly; respect, that his presence once garnered.

Suspicious and apprehensive eyes began to track his white-haired, ruby-eyed presence from all sides, and seemed to grow in number with every step. He had no choice but to stand out. Even the sheen of his perfectly angular earrings set him apart from the largely stone-age folk occupying this territory. Attempting to pay no mind to them, he chose a collection of produce to fixate on; legumes, wild grains, and various medicinal herbs sorted into piles atop mats, or stuffed into laboriously hand-woven baskets. The merchant’s most prized however, were dainty yellow-orange squash whose flowers had been hand pollinated to ensure a pure, sweeter new strain; a dozen of them to the side, clean and neatly ordered.

While small-scale efforts were made to farm on the floating continent, ground dwelling villages such as this one were agriculturally vital to Mu’s food line. Few peoples in the world had proven so dedicated to cultivating new resilient and appetizing crop varieties as here. It was both a necessity and a luxury Mu couldn’t afford to loose by getting into a war with.

“Give me your best one.”

Solo stiffly ordered, absentminded of his entitled tone; after all, why shouldn’t he want the best, when the best is what his people always seemed to expect of him? He was taken aback when the seller chided him for his complex, and refused to give him one unless he had something of value to offer, like his earrings, which was a definite no.

Unsettled, he made a silent turn, landing him unexpectedly in front of a much taller man, that suddenly reprimanded the young noble for his poor manners, sparking a whole onset of village-folk spitting their dissatisfaction with Mu in Solo’s general direction. Before anyone had even said a negative word, his innocent curiosity had already given way, replaced by a confused panic, that he fought to entirely conceal. Up to that point, he’d never personally encountered a crowd that would so readily turn on him; that would band together like this.

“You always get more than we could ever dream to ask for! Yet you have the nerve to want the best that we have!”

“You claim Mu is our security!? You threaten us with the very same power and weapons you claim to protect us with!”

“Do you even remember the villages that were burned for the sake of cooperation with Mu!? Or is that just another necessary sacrifice to you!?”

“The powers of Mu are unnatural! - This world would be better off without your kind, you monsters!”

Mu’s very recent exercise of dominance through displays of great destructive power across the world was likely to blame for igniting the sudden hostility. Offerings made to Mu that were once given out of love and hope of blessing, were now bribes for mere survival or an advantage over other tribes.

None took too kindly to being viewed as tools by much of the higher Murian caste. Some were bursting at the seams to make those feelings clear; viewing this moment as an opportunity to do so; to make a demonstration of one of Mu’s supposedly treasured individuals.

The now quite unpopular noble, snapped a reply,

“Isn’t that how the world works? - Those with power, get to make the rules! They can take what they want!”

Yet somehow, speaking only made him look more foolish to the crowd.

The fuss continued, yet fell into the background of Solo’s mind as an almost sly-looking young man, came within arm’s reach of the lone Murian, and with him, a few others trickled in to form a feisty-looking circle around their flustered visitor. Solo’s first instinct was to tuck his chin into the high teal turtleneck of his uniform, wishing he could just hide within an impenetrable shell, like some kind of turtle. Goading him on, the other young man questioned,

“So you think you can just do what you want huh?”

Without a second thought, Solo snapped back,

“Yes, I’ll do as I please.”

The other young man, keeping his smug cool, continued as though setting up some kind of hostile joke,

“Oh yeah, and what makes you so special?”

The Mu noble spewed whatever came to mind first, everything he said was going to be used against him at this point; but loosing his temper made it impossible to keep his mouth shut.

“The blood of Mu that courses through my veins!”

Swiftly came the interrogator's searing punchline,

“Mhm, and if that’s so valuable, maybe spilling it on the streets will finally pay for all the food and labor you’ve taken from my people!”

“Now tell me Mu child - If you really can see more than us with those unearthly eyes. Can you see this?”

Solo indignantly glanced around with puzzled frustration. But a mere second later the young man’s fist made a hard landing across the noble kid’s face. Enraged shock filled every ounce of Solo’s being, as he finally let out a sharp shout; though almost swallowing his own breath in the process,

“GAAAHH, I-I could take any of you on!”

The prompt response of the crowd was by no means reassuring for the loner in its middle. Someone interjected from behind,

“Shut up! Maybe you could. But not all of us together!”

With that, Solo felt his legs kicked out from behind. Others worked to keep him on the ground. As a soft faced wiry kid, Solo was tough, but against the gang surrounding him, he seemed more akin to a small bird surrounded by lions. They were rugged and strong, they knew they were always lifting more than their share of weight in this world.

The young Murian wasn’t ready for this; he wasn’t ready to just EM Wave change on a whim. Let alone, in the midst of such confusion. But enraged by the insults of the crowd, he used all his strength to prop himself back up with his arms, just to look them in the eyes.

“I’ll hunt you down! …I’ll-I’ll make you know what it really means to suffer!”

At that, they only beat him harder. Face to the bricks, Solo froze up completely, and by the time three thunderous shouts from the other Mu officials broke up the crowd, their child of Mu was already in a limp haze.

Solo hadn’t known true fear or suffering before this. It was his first taste; his first bite, and it made his stomach sick. No one had so much as asked him to think over the fate of the peoples that might’ve opposed Mu. The mere thought of opposing Mu was a pill so foreign, nothing could make him swallow it; they must have been enemies…

As the first of multiple incidents following a similar theme, Solo grew to immensely despise crowds.

Though word spread of decimated villages who opposed Mu’s total reign, many continued to view those of Mu as auspicious, brushing other tribe’s grievances off as rumors, or unconcerning to those that remained loyal to their empire.

However, Solo never got over the feeling that others could turn on him at any moment should Mu fail to ensure they felt blessed with fortunate harvests or secure infrastructure; or for that matter, any reason they wanted. Trusting others became an only barely surpassable obstacle for him.

… The reign of his people lasted only a mere three years after.

[widowsweet]

Неотразимая(Irresistible)

Bucky was at the Avengers Tower, still recovering — both mentally and physically — from his not-so-distant past as the Winter Soldier. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. He still woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaken, screaming, choking on memories he’d rather forget. Flashbacks hit without warning, dragging him back to the cold basements of Hydra, to the metallic hum of the reprogramming chair, to the bitter taste of blood and iron in his mouth

He still wasn’t familiar with the environment, or the people around him. Only Steve and Sam talked to him — and even then, always with a careful distance. As if he were a wild animal, ready to attack.

But then, there was you.

When he first arrived at the tower and saw you, his brain — still crowded with static and echoes — latched onto your image and compared it to something old: a porcelain doll he used to see in the window displays of Russian shops.

To him, you looked delicate. Quiet. So beautiful it hurt.

He thought you would avoid him like the others did. That you’d keep your distance out of fear or disgust. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t force a smile. You didn’t ask him dumb questions. You just looked at him — like you saw the things he was trying to hide. Like you knew.

Sometimes he saw you in the tower’s cafeteria, sitting alone, reading. Your legs crossed gracefully, fingers gliding over the pages with careful precision — and it made him hold his breath. Because he didn’t remember what it felt like to touch anything gently. His hands still trembled sometimes. And the metal one… well, he didn’t dare use it near you.

But he wanted to.

On the days you wore your combat suit, it was even worse. The fabric hugged every line of your body with surgical perfection. The belt cinched tight around your waist, the holster strapped to your thigh, the heavy boots hitting the floor like a rhythm he couldn’t ignore. You looked like something out of a violent, erotic dream — and he hated himself for thinking it. For wanting you that much.

For wanting you like he might die from it.

There was a specific moment — always the same — when you’d walk past him after a mission, body still hot, muscles still tight, hands stained with traces of war, and he’d have to fight himself. He had to clench his fists, grit his teeth. Because everything in him screamed to move. To close the distance. To pull you into the nearest wall and press his mouth to your skin until he forgot his own name.

He didn’t know what that feeling was.

It had been years — so many years — since he’d felt anything like it. A desire that burned in his chest, not just his body. It wasn’t just about touching — it was about feeling. You made him remember that he was still a man. That he could still want. That maybe… he could still love.

The thought terrified him.

So he hid it. Behind quiet glances. Behind clenched hands. Behind the rough, whispered “good morning” in the elevator. He hid it when he heard you laughing with Wanda, when he saw you tying your hair before training.

But the truth was… you were irresistible.

💋

requests open!

[daxisyzz]

hi! i’m thinking about some angst with a soft fluff ending where the reader and bucky is in their early stages of their relationship. bucky was s h@rass3d in hydra, he was struggling to make physical contact and interactions with the reader but somehow learned what safe touch is 🫶🏻

here's your fic <3

A kind of brave

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky flinches when you touch him—but you're not in a hurry. Love, in your world, is patient.

Word count: 1.1k+

The writing in italics is a flashback

Warnings and tags: Past trauma and harassment (non-graphic), Flashbacks to Hydra-related abuse, PTSD symptoms (flinching, hypervigilance, difficulty with physical touch), Emotional vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Love, Healing Together, Safe Touch Exploration, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Reader Helps Bucky Heal.

You weren’t expecting anything when it started.

He’d shown up to the Tower quieter than most. Standoffish, unreadable. You'd been assigned as his point of contact—“Ease him in,” they said. “Help him find normal.”

But normal wasn’t easy to come by for someone like Bucky Barnes.

Still, he let you sit with him during shared meals. You’d catch him listening as you told stories about the city or teased Sam across the room. His replies were clipped but thoughtful. He'd nod when you made jokes. Once, you caught him smiling.

Then came the moment that changed things—subtly, but completely.

You were reaching for a mug in the kitchen. He stood beside you. As your fingers brushed his arm—just a touch, featherlight—he flinched.

Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. But enough for your heart to ache.

His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched. He stepped back like the heat of your skin had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, pulling your hand back instantly.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor, ashamed of something that wasn’t his fault.

You didn’t bring it up that day. Just gave him space and offered him coffee like nothing happened.

But that moment stayed with you.

So you started paying closer attention

You noticed it in the way he avoided the couch if someone was already sitting. How he always stood at the far edge of the elevator. How his hands stayed buried in his sleeves, even when the sun was warm.

When he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he laughed, it was careful—like joy was something borrowed.

You adapted without needing to say it aloud. Stood beside him instead of in front. Sat far enough away that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Asked with your eyes before you ever reached out.

He noticed. You knew he did. Because slowly, inch by inch, he started to linger longer. Sit a little closer. Speak a little more.

Trust takes time.

Especially when you’ve been taught the wrong definition of touch.

It always started with the sound.

A low, mechanical click as the restraints slid into place, followed by the sterile whir of lights flickering to life overhead — harsh, clinical, too white. Too clean. A cruel contrast to the filth he was forced to live in.

The chair was metal, ice-cold against his skin no matter how long he was in it. His breath fogged in the air like a ghost trying to escape. But ghosts were free. He wasn’t.

He stopped fighting it years ago — if years even existed down here. Time was meaningless in a place that never changed. No windows. No sky. No sense of day or night. Just missions, control, silence. Then pain.

A man in a lab coat leaned over him, faceless and featureless in Bucky’s mind now. There had been too many. They all smelled the same — antiseptic and cruelty. A hand gripped his chin, tilting his face roughly upward like he was an object being inspected.

“You're not him anymore,” the voice said, clinical, bored. “You don't flinch. You obey.”

But he did flinch — inside, where no one could see. Where it wouldn't earn him another reset.

Another hand came next — this one pressed over his shoulder, firm and too slow to be casual. They wanted him to feel it. They always wanted him to feel it, in the worst ways. Not just pain, but control. Ownership. Submission.

It wasn’t the physical agony that broke him the most. It was how they taught him to dread touch. How something so human became a punishment. They rewired him — so that warmth became threat, closeness became fear, and skin-on-skin was something to survive rather than savor.

There were nights after a mission when they didn’t even have to touch him. They’d just come close. Breathe behind him. Wait for him to flinch.

He always did.

It was a week after a rough mission. Bucky had barely said a word.

You found him on your couch one night, long after the city had gone to sleep. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Eyes vacant.

You didn’t speak right away. Just offered him tea. Sat beside him—far enough to let him breathe.

Eventually, he said it.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he whispered, “to want to be touched but not know how?”

Your heart cracked. You didn’t rush to fix it.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. I think… I do.”

He turned toward you. “It wasn’t just the fighting. HYDRA—they used touch. Twisted it. Made it mean control. Made me afraid of something I used to love.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I still feel like a weapon. Even now. When you smile at me. When you sit close. Part of me wants to pull you in. And the other part... is scared I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not with me."

He asked if he could hold your hand.

His voice shook when he said it.

“Only if you’re sure,” you told him.

“I’m not sure of anything,” he confessed. “But I want to try.”

So you laid your hand between you on the couch. Open. Waiting.

He took it, slow and careful. His fingers hovered before they rested on yours, like he was expecting the world to crack open beneath him.

But it didn’t.

And for the first time, he didn’t flinch.

You squeezed gently. “You’re doing amazing.”

He smiled—small, but real.

He started coming over more.

Sometimes with books. Sometimes with nothing but tired eyes and quiet company.

One night, you found him in the kitchen. He was making tea—two cups. He handed you yours without a word, then hesitated.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asked.

You blinked. “Of course. You want the couch?”

He shook his head. “I want to try… sleeping next to you. If that’s okay.”

You nodded. “It’s more than okay.”

That night, he curled up beside you—nervous but determined. You didn’t reach for him.

But he reached for you.

His fingers brushed yours under the blanket.

Light, hesitant.

You looked over. “This alright?”

He nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

You didn’t need more than that.

And when you woke the next morning, his arm was loosely around your waist. His breathing soft against the back of your neck. No nightmares. No panic.

Just warmth.

Just safety.

Just him.

He still had bad days. Days when the shadows whispered louder than your voice.

But they passed.

And on the good days, you’d catch him reaching for you without thinking—nudging your foot under the table, brushing your hair behind your ear, linking pinkies as you walked side by side.

He was learning.

And he was loving you, in the way only he could—slow, steady, gentle.

Not perfect.

But real.

And more than enough.

[fear-is-truth]

† 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — charlie mayhew x f!reader. | mdni

tags: mature content・mentions of religion・angst・flashbacks of smut・fem!reader・self-inflicted flagellation・blood・not proofread / wc: 1158

⟡ a/n: sorry if there are any grammatical errors or mistakes. english is not my first language

father charlie mayhew sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the white walls of his private chamber closing in around him. the small space was sparse, almost ascetic, with only a few religious artifacts cluttering the windowsill. the emptiness mirrored the discipline he tried to embody—from the polished metal sink in the corner to the stiff, neatly made bed beneath him. everything in his life was governed by order, by control—everything except you.

he glanced toward the tiny window where rain trickled down the glass, his chest tightening with a dull throb. leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will you away like a migraine.

but you were always there.

your fingers clawed at the buttons on his collar, desperate and needy—tugging him closer as he struggled to cling to any vestige of control he possessed. plushy lips brushed the edge of his neck, and he could hear the slight tremor in your breathing. “charlie,” you pleaded. not “father” this time. you had stripped him of that sacred title, and reduced him to a man in your arms—a sinner. your body pressed against him, warmth seeped through the fabric of his robes into his bones, hands traveling down the line of his chest, and it was at that point when he realised… he didn’t give a damn about sin or salvation.

rising to his feet, he stripped off his cassock, letting it slip past his shoulders before pooling on the floor. cool air bit against his skin, the bruises and scars on his back crisscrossed the pale skin in a web of guilt. charlie didn’t dare look in the mirror, couldn’t stand to see the evidence of his weakness. instead he knelt down and stared at the cat o’ nine tails resting on the bed before him, its nine strands splayed like serpents awaiting to strike. the handle was a rough wooden club, and as he gripped it tightly, his fingers brushed the frayed ends of the ropes, already darkened with blood and sweat from last night’s penance. he rearranged the nine strands carefully, spreading them out methodically before each lash.

he began to ease himself inside you, the tightness and warmth making him groan into the crook of your neck. he paused briefly, allowing you to place your hands on his shoulders, before fully sheathing himself, dragging out a broken moan from your lips. then he curled an arm around your waist, slowly withdrawing his hips, before thrusting inside you again.

he slammed the whip across his back, the sharp crack echoing through the small room. the nine strands bit into his skin like the nails that had once driven into his saviour’s flesh. pain was instantaneous, cutting through the haze of memory. he sucked in a breath as the second strike followed, then a third.

the heat of your skin burned under his fingertips, the sheets had tangled around your legs in a twisted mess of linen and heat, as you arched beneath him, crying out his name—charlie—over and over, like a prayer. his hand tightened on your waist, guiding your hips against his, guilt warring with the heady pleasure that coursed through him with every deep thrust. he pressed you into the mattress, lips tracing the column of your throat as your thighs clenched around his waist.

charlie’s grip faltered, his body hunching forward as he gasped for air. he could feel blood dripping down his back, onto the floor, but he didn’t care. he deserved this. he needed this.

the punishment was supposed to cleanse him. it was supposed to scourge away the sin. (it never worked, not really.)

he laid the whip down, trembling as he reached out to rearrange the strands, spreading them evenly across the bed before lifting it again. his hands shook as he braced himself for the next blow, muscles tensing as if to ward off the pain he knew was coming.

“don’t stop,” you begged, voice cracking as his body moved against yours, the sudden clench of your walls leaving him dizzy. the sheets were a tangled mess, your hands clutching at them. but it hadn’t been the sheets you clung to in the end—it had been him.

with a swift motion, he brought the whip down again. the impact sent a shockwave of agony through his body, his knees buckling slightly under the force. a guttural sob tore through his chest. fresh welts overlapped the scars from the previous nights, the pain melding together into one throbbing, pulsing reminder of his weakness.

(charlie mayhew was a weak, pathetic man.)

“you’re so beautiful,” you murmured as your nails scraped along his back, leaving faint red marks in their wake. his hips rutted into yours with a rhythm that had made him forget who he was. hand slid beneath the sheets, fingers digging into your flesh before he buried himself deep inside you. you let out a strangled moan, biting down on your lip as your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and it took everything in him not to cry out in response, to keep his own sinful need locked behind his clenched teeth.

the pain was nearly unbearable now, his skin raw and bleeding from the repeated lashes. but still, he struck again, his eyes squeezing shut against the images of you.

(the memory of you writhing beneath him, the sheets twisted around your bodies as his hips rolled into yours, was burned into his soul.)

agony built to a crescendo, the sharp sting of the rope tearing at his flesh, but it still wasn’t enough. it was never enough. chest heaving, he let the whip fall from his hands and clutched the edge of the bed for support. his back was a mess of blood, bruises and torn skin, but the pain in his back was a dull throb compared to the ache in his chest.

you had told him, in the quiet of your shared sin, that you loved him. he hadn’t responded. he couldn’t. because if he had said it back, it would have made everything worse. he couldn’t love you—not the way you wanted him to. not the way he already did.

charlie ran a hand through his hair, slick with sweat, staring blankly at the white walls that had seen too many nights like this one.

he didn’t know how many more nights like this he could endure. how many more times he could sit on the edge of his bed, flogging himself for the pleasure he found in your arms. how many more lashes it would take to absolve him of the sin of loving you.

you were worth every drop of blood, every sting of the rope. you were his temptation, his punishment, and his salvation all at once. he would willingly suffer for you, again and again.

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[revasserium]

roronoa zoro; 21,051 words (not including epilogue), fluff and angst, ENEMIES!!! to lovers, the slowest of slow burns, canon-normal violence, on-page description of injury, excessive use of flashbacks, some banter, healing from trauma, baroque works!reader to strawhat!reader, no "y/n", emotionally constipated!zoro, hurt and comfort, angst with a happy ending; (epilogue tags will be posted separately)

summary: in which neither you nor zoro are the children you remember each other to be.

update: new chapters will be posted on @shouyuus!!!

a/n: IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! i honestly cannot believe i actually finished writing this lmfao. but anyway, this post will act as a table of contents/masterlist of sorts, and i will update links to the separate chapters as they go up. chapters will be posted every few days (but they are all done! except for the epilogue LOL). i've tagged everyone who has req-ed to be tagged in this series so far on this prologue post, but if you wish to be tagged for the upcoming chapters and you're not already on this fics specific taglist, please comment below to be added! and without further ado -- here we go!

TABLE OF CONTENTS ━

prologue: someone, somewhere

chapter one: a shadow of the past

chapter two: tell no tales

chapter three: sleep of the living, dreams of the dead

chapter four: another life

chapter five: true love's kiss

epilogue: la petite mort (nsfw)

prologue: someone, somewhere

He remembers you most as a child, in halcyon images and gold-limned flashes of his own childhood memories, the edges blurring watercolor soft, but the center (always you) carved in knife-sharp relief.

You were one of the few children that lived in Shimotsuki Village who hadn’t come from the doujou — one of the few children he knew that (at least to the best of his knowledge) had a thing called family. A mother to braid your hair, a father to chase the darkness away, a warm bed and a kitchen that always smelled of freshly made rice. And perhaps it was jealousy, or some other more complicated emotion that had been then too big to name with one single word, but he’d never gone out of his way to befriend you like the other kids from the doujou did — fascinated as they were by your soft hands and round cheeks and the bright, glittering array of homemade sweets you’d bring with you once every couple of weeks.

He’d learn later on that it was because Shimotsuki-sensei had saved your father’s life at some point in time; the story now lost to the annals of legend and withering memory, but back then, he’d only assumed it was the natural way of things. Of waking up for kata practice and then settling in for lunch, and then maybe, if it was to be a good day, you, with your basket of sweets and your blue-bell laughter.

And perhaps this is why, years later, when he meets you again in a dark, nameless village tavern, he doesn’t recognize you — not at first. Because you’d looked so different. Gone was the roundness in your cheeks, or the natural star-bright light in your eyes. Gone, too, were the bright braids that your hair had always been set in — he remembers so clearly, watching the other boys from the doujou jab their fingers into the rings of your pinned up braids, pulling down just to hear you squeak. He hadn’t said anything then, stupidly thinking him above it all, watching as you tried to jerk away, but laughing when the boys finally relented with half-hearted apologies.

You always threatened to take their sweets away; you never did, in the end.

But there, then, in that tiny tavern, you’d been thin, your hair dark as an oil spill, loose and inky as it cascades over your shoulders, your eyes lightless as the windows to an abandoned house — the hollowness made all the more visceral by the light he knew once inhabited them. The way loneliness is always more potent when coming back to it, the second time around.

He wanders up to the bar, slates you a glance before rapping his knuckles on the worn wood to catch the bartender’s attention.

“I’ll have beer and a refill of whatever the lady’s having.”

You shift slightly, shoulders hunching towards your ears.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you say, shifting to shield your face from his gaze.

Zoro cocks his head, tossing a few Berry towards the bartender as they set down a stein of beer and a champagne flute to replace the one in front of you.

“Can’t a guy buy a girl a drink?” Zoro asks, rolling his shoulders as he reaches out for his beer. You eye him warily.

“Not for a guy that’s been tracking me for three weeks straight.”

Zoro hums, thumb poised on the hilt of his swords.

“We just happened to be going in the same direction.”

You reach out to run a forefinger along the rim of the thin champagne flute before swirling it once by the base. You watch the bubbles fizzle before leaning in to take a dainty sip.

“And they say chivalry is dead…” you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear. Zoro scoffs, allowing himself a twinge of a smirk before his mouth falls flat.

“You let me track you for three whole weeks.”

There’s no question in his words, only a harsh, accusatory certainty.

You lick your lips, leaning back in your stool, tugging your glass of champagne with you.

“Maybe I wanted the company.”

“Or maybe… you wanted me to follow you here.”

Every muscle in his body is tense, drawn taut as a tightrope, coiled tight as a spring.

You sigh, twisting a single lock of your hair around a finger, examining the ends as if looking for split hairs.

Then, quick as a flash, you’re at each other’s throats — him with a sword poised at your jugular, you with a knife pressed against his stomach.

“One move —” you warn, digging the knife slightly further into his skin. Distinctly, Zoro feels the pressure slice through his thick linen shirt, the cool kiss of the blade against his abdomen. And he’s killed enough by now to know that you’ve picked a major artery — one that would hurt, and take minutes for him bleed out. Just long enough for him to suffer, but not enough to get help.

The edge of his mouth ticks upward — not bad.

It’s then, in the infinitesimal flicker of your eyes meeting his, that he realizes who you are.

He nearly topples back, jerking away slightly with the revelation. Your eyes go wide, jolted by his sudden movement. But he’s quick enough to evade the sharp jab of your knife and a second later, you’re on either ends of the tavern, drawn blades and bared teeth.

“Y-you!” the word rips from Zoro like an unripe scab, thick and hard and still bloody underneath.

You lick your lips, eyes narrowing to slits beneath your long, lanky hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“Oi! No fighting in the bar!” the barkeep’s voice is gruff and loud, and for a second, Zoro wonders if you’ll listen. The next, the sharp clang of metal on metal stuns him backwards a few steps as you wrest your knives from between two of his katanas, snarling.

“If you’re so much of a gentleman — let’s take this outside.”

“Ladies first,” Zoro spits out as he whips both swords through the air before sheathing them. He makes a show of holding the tavern door for you as you stalk out in front of him, your hackles raised, your knives jutting out from your belt like so many pairs of sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” you ask, as soon as you’re both out of the bar and standing in the moonlit street outside, the wharf to your left, the strip of small, rundown taverns to your right.

The air twangs with the metallic smell of fish and the thick, oppressive sweetness of rotting wood.

“An explanation,” Zoro says, crossing his arms and planting his feet.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Zoro nods, “Sure. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know.”

You lick your lips, glaring at him for a second longer before turning and marching down the rickety boardwalk. A moment later, Zoro levels himself with you as you round a corner onto a small stretch of beach, pillowed against a backdrop of sharp, unrelenting rocks, the tips bleached white by the round, silver moon.

“There was a beach just like this,” you say, stepping onto the tide-soaked sand, leaning down to pick up a fragment of a broken seashell, washed ashore by an errant wave.

It takes Zoro a second to realize you’re talking about Shimotsuki village, and the tiny little beach on the other side of the dense, cedar wood.

“Yeah. A bunch of us used to play there — see who can throw rocks out the furthest.”

“You were always the best at that,” you say, your voice softer than he’d heard all night.

“Yeah, well…” Zoro shrugs, leaning down to pick up a piece of rock, weighing it in his palm a few times before whipping his arm back to snap it into the gentle, shushing waves. You both watch as the rock skids out over the water before plunking into the sea, “Guess I’ve always been kind of a show-off.”

The sound of your laughter sends summertime sparklers racing up his spine.

The quiet pools between you like spilt blood, rank and dripping.

“So. You go by Ms. Double Nines now, I heard,” Zoro says, in a flagging attempt to be casual as he turns to glance at you, both his hands resting on the hilt of his swords.

You stand next to him, your eyes focused on a point far out on the horizon, still as statue.

“What’s it to you?”

Zoro sighs, looking down. In the pale, cool moonlight, his earrings glint like baring teeth.

“What happened?”

You suck in a breath.

"Life happened,” you say, turning back towards him with a steely glint in your eyes. Zoro stiffens, his grip tightening on his swords as he sizes you up. He does the mental calculations — you’re just far enough for him to defend against an attack, but close enough where if things were to go south entirely, he’d have a hard time getting back to safety.

You grin, seemingly noticing his rough internal calculations.

“Do yourself a favor, Roronoa — and don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to,” you say, flicking out one of your blades and tossing it up into the air, only to catch it around your finger, swinging it round and round, the sharp edge of the blade nicking the air just shy of your cheekbone.

“Who said I didn’t want to know?” Zoro presses, bracing himself for a fight.

You chuckle, the sound harsh and mirthless.

“If you’d wanted to fight me properly, you wouldn’t have waited till I got you onto this stretch of deserted beach.”

“Maybe I just wanted a quiet place to kill you.”

“Or maybe…” your voice is so low Zoro almost doesn’t catch the stomach-wrenching longing in your words, “I just wanted a quiet place to die.”

The sharp shink of blades being drawn is heart-rendingly familiar, but the bone-rattling clash of metal on metal still shakes him to the roots of his teeth. Zoro grunts as he parries a blow from either side, before crossing his swords to catch your assault down the center.

You’re fast, he’ll give you that, your body smaller and quicker. You slip through the shadows with the comfort of a person who knows nothing but and he can’t help wondering at the life you’ve led that had pushed you to this point.

To having a mark on your back, a bounty on your head.

You’re a good fighter — this much, he acknowledges. But good isn’t usually good enough to best him. This much, he also knows. Yet somehow, you’re keeping up, somehow, you’re pushing him back, forcing him to retreat one step and then another. It’s not until you duck beneath one of his pin-wheeling blades and force yourself into a knife’s-breath of his space that he realizes — it isn’t that you’re good, it’s that you’re reckless.

Reckless with your own body in a way that makes him stumble back at the realization. Reckless, in the way you charge forward and thrust your body into spaces where he’d easily be able to slip a blade between your ribs — and later, when he’s wiping his swords clean of your oxidizing blood, he’d wonder why he didn’t.

Still, there’s something terrifying in the way you barely flinch when he knicks your arm, drawing a dark line of blood through your clothes, or how you jerk yourself forward when the tip of his sword catches your stomach, almost as if daring him to impale you in one fell swoop.

“You — you used to be… someone else,” he says, panting as he steadies himself against a sharp jut of moonlit rocks. Behind you, the ocean churns, dark and foaming as it throws itself onto the jagged reefs.

You lick your lips, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek. Your chest heaves with the exertion, but there’s a pale, flickering ache behind your eyes that sets Zoro’s whole body on edge.

He shivers as you grin, savage and unrecognizable as the tiny girl with mochi-round cheeks who had once upon a time offered him sweets in a hand-woven basket.

“Yeah? Well — so did you.”

TAGLIST: @brairslair @msheds0519 @yunabelless @lynndt-chocolate @lostonthrillerbark @stunies @tsumu-senpai @phroggii @ssailormoonnn @breathinginyoursmoke @guridoodles @kyllium @naomihatake @itoshiexx @mythicallystupid @mars-mizuko @astroniii @crispynutella @enhastolemyheart @fanficwriter101 @jamesbparker @dira333 @weirdowithaphone @ink-perfect

[lust4nero]

SWEAT FOR ME! ─ ✦.ᐟ

summary ✦ the piling and constant number of missions that come through his doors has left Dante unable to look after himself and neglect his needs, which eventually hits him especially hard one night. luckily, he has his fiancé to take care of it.

tags ✦ p in v, MDNI, not beta read, light cursing, riding, masturbation (m!), dante gets caught jerking off and is turned on by it

wordcount ✦ 1.9k

Mission after mission that came through the wooden doors of the Devil May Cry building left him little to no time to look after himself, hopping from one city to another to take care of some demons. Sure, they were nothing he couldn’t handle but too many all at once while barely having time to recuperate can take a toll on him despite being a seasoned demon hunter. Nero and Nico were running the remote Devil May Cry branch just fine, excellently in fact, so it’s not like Dante had to work thrice as hard in order to keep the lights on and the water going; in short, your fiancé is simply too hard-working for his own good.

Eventually, you hear the distant yet familiar thrum of Nico’s van followed by some conversing voices. Nero heads in first, a hand perched on Kyrie’s waist, followed by Vergil alongside his brother; unlike the others, Dante’s a lot less chatty, especially with the exhaustion evident in his eyes. In true younger sibling fashion, he’s still irritating Vergil but not exerting a hundred percent of his effort into effectively getting Vergil to fall to his ragebait. Whilst everyone makes a beeline for the peeling living room couch, the legendary devil hunter rushes to your arms.

“Hey baby.” His words come out the slightest bit muffled as his stubbly cheek is pressed against your shoulder.

“Hey,” you respond. “Long week, hasn’t it?”

He affirms with a lazy hum, not bothering to use his brain now that he’s home. A deep groan rumbles from the depths of his chest as you give him his favorite head scratches, most of his weight now pressing against.

“Feels nice?” You ask and he nods, eyes damn near closing as all the exhaustion from fighting and travel of the past weeks hits him like a ton of bricks.

“How about you freshen up and I’ll follow you later? I’ll just tell the others we’ll go to bed early.”

He mumbles something, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and hugging you like a stuffed animal. Eventually, he lets up and quietly makes his way to your en suite bathroom.

Kyrie breaks away from the group to fetch herself a glass of water from the kitchen and you take the chance to talk to her.

“In case the others are wondering, Dante and I are going to bed early. He can barely keep his eyes open.”

The girl nods, giving you an understanding smile. “Sure! I can tell he needs that rest, the poor man was out cold as soon as we got back in the van. I’m pretty sure Nico drove on the curb at one point and ran over a cone but he didn’t wake up from all the jostling.”

Your eyes widen; Dante was the type to wake up from something as faint as the sound of the window gently rattling because of wind. He was never able to sleep deeply, always kept up by the slightest of noises or the haunting flashbacks of his troubled childhood.

“That’s new, he’s never really the type to sleep through anything like that. Thanks for telling me, Kyrie, and have a good night.”

Right after she greets you ‘good night’ as well, you head up as a yawn escapes your lips with a soft groan.

By the time you’re upstairs, he’s all clean and fast asleep on his side of the bed. The silence of the room is occasionally interrupted by his snores, not too loud but not exactly muted either. The longer you look at his snoozing form, the more you feel slumber’s somnolent lullaby lull you to drowsiness. Tired yourself, you freshen up right before joining him in bed.

One thing about summers that Dante hates is the irritating humidity and heat that drags on until nightfall; he already runs warm like a half-demon heater and the summer intensity just makes it unbearable for him. Unfortunately for him, his deep sleep is interrupted by the uncomfortable feeling of blankets sticking to his sweat-dampened skin. He switches positions, trying to get comfortable, but the chafe of his boxers jolts his body in sensitivity and wrings a whimper out of him. Peeling the too-warm blanket from his lower half, Dante looks down and sees the groin of his garment tented by a raging hard-on.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He’s too tired but a growing need for relief wrestles against his desire to fall back asleep. You’re fast asleep and facing away from him, he can’t possibly wake you up just to fuck and especially when you look so peaceful.

Electing to ignore his problem, he inches closer to you and snuggles up to hold you while he attempts to find sleep once more. How can he drift back asleep and will for the flames of desire to extinguish when your ass looks so delectable in those flimsy sleep shorts?

Oblivious to his problem, you move ever so slightly in your sleep and brush up against his straining boner.

“S-Shit,” he shakily breathes as he shuts his eyes. “Not the time, bud.”

This won’t do, he thinks to himself. Pulling away from you, his hands travel to his waistband and tug it down just below his ass. Carefully, calloused palms rub the insides of his thighs before coming to squeeze around his needy length.

“A-Ah– shit…–”

Once he has his breathing controlled, he thumbs over his drooling slit before gliding his tunneled hands down to the base. He temporarily stops when he knows he’s about to get noisy, unwilling to disrupt your beauty rest; such a gentleman.

Eventually, he picks up the pace and thrusts up into his hands; it feels so good and he’s right at the edge but it would’ve been better if he was thrusting in and out of your wet heat.

“T-This would’ve been– mmh– better if we had sex– hah–”

He’s right there, but you wake up from all the commotion at your right side.

“Dante? Is that you?”

He freezes, though his grip never loosens around his cock; in fact, getting caught just escalated the intensity of arousal that rushed through his veins.

“Yeah baby, it’s just me.” His voice is strained and ever so slightly out of breath. “Don’t worry, get back to sleep.”

You don’t quite like the breathiness and urgency in his voice, lacking it’s usual cockiness that usually still shines through even when he’s halfway through sleep and consciousness. In a swift movement, you sit up and peel the blankets.

The move startles Dante, who wasn’t fast enough to withdraw his hand from his dick and is now caught in such a promiscuous act. An embarrassed, yet oh-so turned on, flash of warmth surges over his body and manifests on his cheek as a reddened flush. His desire, the overwhelming need to fuck, is evident in his lidded eyes and frankly, the passion spreads like wildfire and sets you ablaze. Suddenly the evening heat is too unbearable for clothes, ridding your lower half of your sleep shorts before sitting on top of his hard-on in just your panties.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” You whisper as you start to grind against him. He groans, large hands settling on your waist.

“Didn’t wanna disturb you,” Dante mumbles. “You looked too peaceful.”

You take his face into your hands, feeling the tickly prickle of his white stubble on your palms, before locking lips in a manner far from composed; the liplock is all spit, whines, and tongue, something reminiscent of a passionate porn flick.

“Grind on me harder,” the white-haired half-demon hissed as he temporarily breaks away from the fiery kiss.

Guiding you along, you grind and bounce strong enough to start making the bed squeak. Dante’s getting more vocal beneath you, silencing himself by pressing wet kisses or hickeys into your skin. The sensitivity is high for you as well, the drenched gusset of your panties allowing for an easier glide along his exposed length. Unlike you, who’s still chasing your high, your fiance is even more sensitive now that you’ve unintentionally edged him moments ago.

“S-Stop,” Dante huffs. You look at him curiously but he doesn’t notice, focused on sliding your panties down before throwing it off to the corner of the room.

“At least you learned not to tear it off now,” you joke. Dante, when crazed and impatient for your tight pussy, has a tendency to rip your panties instead of sliding it off. Not that it overly bothers you, you just can’t keep going back to the lingerie shop and buying new ones; they aren’t exactly cheap.

Now that you’re naked from the waist down, you line him up with yourself and start to sink down.

“I’d love to eat that pussy and feel you gush on my face but I need you on me more,” he pants.

You whined as the head filled you up first, joining his growls in filling the silence.

“F-Fuck, can never get used to how big you are Dante,” you whimper. His stubble tickles against your cheek, followed by a gentle nip to your jaw followed by light kisses.

“Yet you always do so good f’me, sugar. C’mon, just a little more.”

You finally sit on him, cock all the way in. After taking a moment to properly adjust, you begin rolling your hips as your mouth at his earlobe.

“So good,” he praises as he meets your ass, pelvis thrusting up in search of your heat with each bounce. “Sooo fucking good, baby– oh shit–!”

He coos, dragging you down harsher to stuff you completely full. Eventually, your thighs start to give out but you still want to reach that high. Noticing you slow down, Dante halts his ramming for a moment to check on you.

“You gettin’ tired, baby?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Still wanna ride though.”

He smiles, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your lip.

“Let me take over, hm?”

He plunges the rest of his cock back in at full speed, not bothering to increase the speed gradually with each powerful thrust. Dante rabbits and rams hard, wringing squeaks and sexed up squeals from you.

“C-Coming–!” you repeatedly murmur in his ear, nails digging into the muscles of his pale back.

“Me too baby, me too. C’mon, you can do it– gush around my cock baby,” he coos.

He plants his feet into the mattress for the last of his thrusts, keeping you pressed tight against his pelvis. You cry out, walls pulsating erratically around his sensitive cock as you lurch forward and tightly enclose your arms around his neck.

He leans back into the headboard, the cool metal a relief that contrasts his warm and sweat-dampened skin.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Missed this.”

He laughs, a hand coming up to stroke your hair. “Yeah, I did too.”

“This is why you have to trust Devil May Cry to your brother and Nero sometimes,” you point out. To further prove your point, you pull away from hugging him and look at him directly into his icicle-colored pupils.

“I’m not saying you should quit by the way, I just want you to take a breather and stop overworking yourself. You’re not alone anymore, Dante, we got you. Let yourself rest sometimes.”

Dante hates that he worries you with how frequent he’s gone, leaving you alone and lacking any attention from him. With a soft smile, he tucks your hair behind your ear and swears that he’ll do better as a fiance.

“Okay, I promise, honey. Now, how does sleep sound? I’m pretty tired now, not gonna lie.”

[ many thanks to the anon who sent a request, hopefully it lived up to your expectations! ]

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Reverse Bloom (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 3

A/N: oki this one got looonngggg. But it’s the first time where we get more flashbacks and one of the brothers relationship dynamic with her. What do y’all think?:) - poppy

Wayne Manor had always been quiet, but lately it was a different kind of silence.

Not the calm kind—the heavy kind.

The kind that pressed into the ribs.

That made even the floorboards feel like they were holding their breath.

No one said anything outright, but the Batfamily could all feel it. In the halls. At the breakfast table. Between patrol rotations.

Something had shifted.

Dick was the first to notice it.

She didn’t sit next to him anymore.

Didn’t linger in the kitchen.

Didn’t poke her head in while he was doing push-ups just to say hi.

She still smiled when she saw him—but it never reached her eyes.

Tim noticed the pattern change.

She didn’t leave flowers on his desk anymore. Didn’t ask about his tech.

Didn’t thank him when he opened the door for her. And he couldn’t explain why that made his hands clench every time he thought about it.

Damian didn’t say anything out loud.

But he watched. Watched her in the mornings as she walked past him in the hall without greeting him like she used to. Watched her sit alone in the library and never asked to watch him fight.

He told himself it didn’t bother him.

It did.

Cass, when she visited, tilted her head every time she saw YN.

Her body said what the others wouldn’t: She’s walking differently. Holding herself like she’s shrinking. Or hiding. But no one really knew why.

Unbeknownst to them, it wasn’t anything they had done recently.

It was everything they hadn’t done.

Because Y/N had stopped trying.

Stopped trying to fit into a space they’d never made for her. Stopped smiling for the sake of keeping peace.

Stopped running after them like the sweet little sister they hadn’t earned.

They had all been used to her giving.

And now that she had stopped?

The silence felt louder than ever.

⸻

Rain tapped at the window.

The digital clock on her nightstand blinked at 12:31 AM. The light from her laptop cast soft shadows across her blanket. The screen was full of browser tabs—open rentals, part-time jobs, temp agencies, and fake ID generators she could barely understand.

She was fourteen.

There weren’t many options.

She’d searched every “rooms for rent” listing within city limits. Most were in Crime Alley or the Narrows. One was near Gotham Heights, overpriced and probably fake.

She chewed her nail, eyes tired, mind aching.

I don’t need much. Just a place to exist. Somewhere no one’s watching me like I’m about to shatter. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I can survive.

She hated thinking this way.

But she hated feeling like a unwanted guest in her own house more.

A knock.

Not on the door. On the window.

Her breath hitched.

She turned slowly, heart already knowing.

Jason.

Only he ever used her window.

She closed the laptop quickly and slid under the covers, flattening her breathing like she used to when she pretended to sleep after nightmares.

But the knock came again.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Just… persistent.

She knew that knock. He always knocked like that—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be let in or forced in.

Her heart squeezed tight.

Jason had been the brother she got along with best.

Not because he was kind. Not because he was warm. But because he was real.

He never lied to her.

Never sugarcoated anything.

He spoke in anger and silences, and somehow that was easier to understand than the fake smiles from the others.

He was never really around.

Not after he came back.

Not after everything broke.

She remembered the mess.

The shouting.

The day Bruce stopped looking anyone in the eye. The way the whole house smelled like grief and sweat and smoke.

She had been just a kid— barely being able to talk when he died.

She thought Bruce was depressed.

She thought everyone was.

Until Tim showed up.

And then she realized…

Bruce just didn’t want her.

⸻

When Jason came back, it was like watching a bomb walk on legs.

Angry at Bruce. At Gotham. At the world.

And her.

He didn’t say it, not at first.

But she felt it every time he looked at her—like her very existence reminded him of all the things he hated.

Especially her blood.

Especially her mother.

He had shouted once—just once—and it had cracked something in her forever.

She never smiled at him after that.

After that, their relationship had slowly stitched itself into something fragile and strange.She never asked questions when he used her window. He never asked why her eyes were always tired.

It worked.

And now?

Now he was back like always. Like nothing happened. But something did happen, happen to her.

⸻

A third knock.

She sighed softly and sat up.

Her feet padded across the room quietly. She unlocked the window.

Jason was crouched on the ledge, still in his Red Hood gear, helmet clipped to his belt, hair wet with rain.

His eyes met hers.

“You’re not asleep.”

She rolled her eyes and moved aside without answering.

He climbed in, boots dripping, and stood in the center of her room like he’d never left.

She crawled back into bed, not looking at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“You used to let me in after only a minute.”

“You used to be gone for weeks.”

He paused.

The tension stretched between them like a thread.

The rain slid gently down the window now, streaking light across the walls as Jason shrugged off his jacket and dropped it onto her desk chair without asking.

Same as always.

YN sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. Her laptop was tucked, closed and quiet, under her pillow. The web of open tabs still buzzed in her head—cheap apartments, fake ID services, under-the-table jobs—but now she had to pretend none of it existed.

Jason stood for a minute, hands on his hips, looking around the room.

“You changed your sheets,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded toward the bed. “I remember the old ones. Ivy-patterned. These are white.”

“People change,” she said lightly, too lightly.

Jason arched a brow but didn’t press it. Instead, he walked over and dropped onto the floor beside her bed with a grunt. His back hit the side of the mattress, arms sprawled out. He looked up at the ceiling like it had something to say.

“It’s weird being here again,” he said.

For her it has been years since he visited her. For him it has been a month or two.

Y/N hummed.

“I mean, the last time I came back from patrol and crashed at the manor, I think Tim was still using dial-up and Bruce didn’t hate me this week.”.

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Jason heard it in the silence.

“Hey—look at that. You do still have facial muscles.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered, but not unkindly.

“Don’t tempt me. It’s a skill.”

They sat like that for a moment—him sprawled out, her curled in, both listening to the rain.

It was an unusual silence.

“You used to ask me more questions,” Jason said without looking at her.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He rolled his head back against the mattress to look at her upside-down. “About patrol. Or the city. Or my bike. You used to sit here like a baby detective and quiz me about what it’s like being the black sheep.”

Her throat tightened.

“You used to talk more,” she deflected. Her tone was calm and almost collected and void of any emotion.

Jason smirked. “I still talk. You’re just not asking anymore.”

She didn’t reply.

He sat up slightly, one arm hooked over his raised knee. “So what gives, Little Bloom?”

She flinched at the name.

Jason didn’t miss it.

He frowned. What was up with her?

“I’m just busy,” she said, too fast. “School. Life. You know.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her. There was something in her voice—an edge, dull and tired. Something older than fourteen. Something she shouldn’t have.

“You’re acting different.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re quieter. Colder.”

“I’m growing up.”

Jason’s gaze lingered on her, hard to read.

“Guess we all missed it,” he muttered. “You growing up.”

She looked at him then.

Something fragile flickered behind her eyes.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

Didn't remember how she died because of them.

None of them did.

“Maybe you weren’t looking,” she said softly.

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the foreign sharpness in her voice—too subtle to be cruel, too quiet to be innocent.

The silence between them stretched, thick and full of all the things that hadn’t been said in years. YN shifted under her blanket and leaned her cheek against her knee, staring past him.

Jason didn’t know what else to say. And it hit him, sharply, that maybe that was the problem.

He had never really known what to say to her.

She used to make it easy. Bright-eyed, curious, always asking questions. “What was it like out there?” “Is it scary?” “Do you have a favorite safehouse?” “What’s your favorite kind of bullet?”

Now? She didn’t ask.

She just avoided looking at him, like she didn't want to be near him.

He sighed and stood up, stretching his back. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t ask if he’d come back with pleading eyes.

Jason lingered for a moment longer, then walked toward the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“You know,” he said without turning, “for the record, I always liked those blueberry muffins. You should tell Alfred to make them again sometime.”

She didn’t say anything.

He left before he saw the pained look on her face.

⸻

Downstairs, the kitchen was dark except for the faint under-cabinet lights Alfred always left on. Jason padded across the tile, opened the fridge, and leaned in without thinking.

He expected to see a plate of something sweet on the second shelf.

A tray. A box. A little note with nothing written but a tiny, flower-shaped doodle in the corner.

But there was nothing.

Just leftovers. Steel containers. An empty ceramic plate where something had clearly been taken out.

Jason frowned.

“Huh.”

He opened a few cabinets. Checked the breadbox. Even glanced into the oven.

Nothing.

Weird.

He’d never really thought about it before—he just assumed Alfred made the muffins. The cookies. The lemon bars.

Now it was all gone. And he felt a strange… emptiness.

Like something had been quietly taken away. But he dismissed it. Maybe the old butler had been busy with one of Damian’s tantrums again?

He grabbed a beer, leaned back against the counter, and cracked the tab open.

Took a long drink.

Frowned deeper.

Something’s off.

He didn’t know what yet.

But for the first time since he’d come back to the manor, he felt it wasn’t just the house that had changed.

It was her.

And maybe… it had been for a long time.

He just hadn’t been looking.

Jason didn’t dream much. Not really.

But some nights, the garden bloomed inside his head like it had been waiting for him.

It was always the same—ivy along the railings, fresh grass underfoot, the faint scent of rain and cookies and Alfred’s cologne. And her.

Tiny. Toddlersized. Sitting on a patch of sunlit moss with a flower crown slipping over one ear.

He couldn’t even remember her name the first time he met her.

Bruce had just brought her home. She was two—maybe younger—and barely able to form words, let alone keep up with everything that was happening around her.

He hadn’t been angry about her, though. Not then. Not yet.

He remembered standing in the hallway, boots still muddy from patrol, when he first saw her toddling out from behind Alfred’s legs, all wide green eyes and a stuffed elephant in one arm.

She saw him—and blinked. Then smiled.

Like he was the sun.

“Hi!” she chirped, stumbling forward on chubby legs. “Juh-son?”

He blinked at her. “…Yeah?”

“Hi, Juh-son!”

Alfred had chuckled behind her. The butler clearly adoring her. “She’s been practicing your name, Master Todd. Quite determined.”

“Juh-son!” she squealed again, arms up like she wanted to be picked up.

He stared at her. Then laughed—genuinely laughed—and crouched down. “Well, hey there, trouble. You always this loud?”

She hugged his neck like she’d known him forever.

And in that second, he remembered feeling something he hadn’t felt in months.

Warmth.

Purpose.

Something good.

Something worth protecting.

⸻

But the warmth didn’t last.

Not for him.

(Post-Jason’s Death)

She remembered it all wrong.

It was supposed to be the kind of day where Alfred made lemon scones and Bruce let the sun touch his office windows.

But instead, the manor went silent.

The kind of silence that felt wrong—like something had been cut out of the world.

She was small. Too small to understand what “he’s gone” meant. Too small to grasp death.

But she knew something was missing.

Jason’s jacket was still in the hallway.

His boots, still at the door.

The gun holster he never used—left behind.

She remembered knocking on Bruce’s study door.

Tiny fists. A flower in her hand.

“Daddy?”

No answer.

“Daddy…?”

She waited. Knocked again.

The door didn’t open.

She sat there for two hours before Alfred found her curled up on the floor.

Bruce stopped speaking much after that. Not that he did it much before that.

Stopped looking at her.

Stopped noticing.

She’d go days without hearing his voice.

And when she finally did, it was always for someone else—Tim. Dick. Patrol.

Not her.

When Tim showed up, she remembered being confused.

He was nice. Smart. Kind in the polite way strangers are kind to children.

But that’s when she realized…

Bruce wasn’t just sad.

He was replacing Jason.

And keeping her far away from it.

⸻

When Jason came back from the dead, he wasn’t the same. Everyone knew it.

His memories were jagged. His rage, unfiltered.

He didn’t feel warm anymore. He felt like gasoline.

And every time he looked at her—bright-eyed, hopeful, still sweet—he wanted to scream.

Because she had what he lost.

She had the love he never got back.

The affection Bruce never gave him after the resurrection.

The softness he had buried under gunfire and ash.

She was everything untouched by the world.

And he hated her for it.

It happened one night after a fight with Bruce. The kind that left Jason shaking, fists bloodied from a punch he’d aimed at a wall instead of his father’s face.

He stormed down the stairs.

Every breath was acid.

And there she was.

Eleven. Barefoot. Hair in a braid with a ribbon tied at the end. Holding something she’d baked—banana bread, maybe—and walking up toward him. With a goddamn smile.

“Jason!” she chirped, eyes bright. “I—I saved you a piece! I heard yelling so I thought—”

“Don’t.”

She froze.

He hadn’t meant to snarl it. But it came out like a snarl anyway.

She blinked, uncertain.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he spat.

Her eyes widened. Her hands gripped the plate a little tighter.

“You think I want anything from you?”

“I—Jason, I just wanted to—”

“To what? Be the good little daughter? The perfect little Wayne?”

Her lip trembled.

“You think you’re not like her?” he hissed, voice full of venom. “You’re just like your mother. Ivy’s little weed. That’s what you are. All sweetness on the surface and rot underneath.”

Her eyes welled. “I’m not—”

“You think a few cookies and smiles make you clean?” His voice cracked. “You’re just like her. Evil. Dirty. Manipulative. Bruce should’ve left you where he found you.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

She just set the plate down on the stairs.

And walked away.

Jason would never remember the exact words. He buried them somewhere deep.

But she never baked banana bread again.

He never apologized.

Not properly. Not with the words she deserved.

After that night—after he spit venom down the stairs and shattered something he couldn’t name—he just stopped talking.

And then, weeks later, he showed up at her window again.

Midnight. Rain. Bruised ribs under his jacket. She opened the latch like nothing had ever happened.

She didn’t bring up the hallway. Or the banana bread. Or the name weed.

She just let him in.

And sat beside him while he muttered about patrol and crime bosses and stupid decisions Bruce made.

And she listened.

Always listened.

Asked about his nights. Asked if he’d eaten. Asked why he never stayed longer.

But she never talked about herself.

And he never asked.

He told himself it was fine.

She was fine.

She baked again eventually. Left muffins in the fridge. Cookies in Tupperware. Pies on the cooling rack when she knew he’d be back.

And he took.

He always took.

⸻

Tonight, standing alone in the kitchen, it finally hit him.

There was nothing on the counter.

No muffins. No pies. No scones. No glass containers waiting in the fridge with a sticky note bearing a tiny hand-drawn flower.

And worse—

The houseplants were gone.

Not dead.

Just… gone.

The little pots she used to water every morning. The vines that used to curl around the cabinet handles. The single white lily that always sat in the corner by the coffee machine, just because she liked it there.

All gone.

The windowsill was empty. Bare.

The air didn’t smell like jasmine or lavender anymore—it just smelled like… air.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t explain it, but something tightened in his chest. Something low and wrong.

He opened the fridge again.

Still nothing.

His hands curled around the edge of the counter.

It wasn’t just about the food. It was never about the food.

It was her.

He stood there for a long time.

In the middle of the kitchen, hands still braced on cold stone, staring at nothing.

Trying to figure out why his chest felt tight.

Why his breathing had gone shallow.

Why the air felt heavier now than it had during any firefight.

He didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know that it would get worse in the next few days.

Much worse.

____

It was rare for the manor to be this quiet in the middle of the day.

Dick had dropped in without warning, like always—straight from Blüdhaven after wrapping up a double-night stakeout, sore from sleeping on rooftop gravel and a little guilty for how long it had been since he’d set foot in the house.

He hadn’t seen Bruce, not properly.

Hadn’t seen the others in weeks.

Cass had texted something vague and cryptic about “things changing.”

And Alfred had responded to his check-in with a brief “We miss you, Master Richard. Some more than others.”

He assumed that meant Jason or Damian had started another round of drama.

Typical.

The house had smelled the same—lemon polish, faint smoke from the fireplace, something deeper buried beneath. Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe not.

He passed through the library, the sitting room, Bruce’s study—

Empty.

But Bruce had clearly been there recently. The chair was warm, the coffee mug half-full. A thick, overstuffed folder sat on the edge of the desk, one word scribbled on a post-it stuck to the cover.

Y/N.

Dick didn’t touch it. Just glanced at it, vaguely thinking Bruce was probably updating school records or something—maybe another evaluation of her “involvement” in family business, which Bruce had always firmly kept her out of.

He didn’t question it.

He didn’t question much when it came to her.

He hadn’t thought about her in… he couldn’t even remember.

God. How long had it been since he last saw her?

What did she look like now?

How old even was she?

Twelve? Thirteen? No… wait. She was younger than Damian, right?

That realization hit like a quiet slap.

He didn’t even know.

⸻

He wandered upstairs, lazy steps drawing him through parts of the manor he barely remembered.

It wasn’t until he reached the east wing—the forgotten hallway, tucked behind the third landing—that he paused.

The dust here was thicker. The air colder. The lights overhead flickered faintly. There were no paintings on this side. No signs of family. Just cobwebs.

And one slightly open door.

Something pulled at him. A flicker of memory. A tiny voice calling him from years ago.

“Dicky! Dicky, look! I made you a flower crown—see? See? You have to wear it or it’s bad luck!”

He pushed the door open.

⸻

The room was small—too small for a Wayne.

Not much bigger than a closet with a window.

But he knew immediately.

It was hers.

There were flowers everywhere. Hanging vines along the walls, potted plants clustered at the window, tiny wildflowers peeking out of chipped ceramic cups like they’d grown there on their own.

They hadn’t.

She had done this. Like she always had.

Like his Little Flower always did.

The nickname struck him so hard it nearly buckled his knees.

He remembered her as a toddler. Barely talking. Always clinging. Always with a drawing or a dandelion in her hands, trying to shove it into his palm like it was treasure.

He’d called her that once.

Little Flower.

And she’d giggled so hard she fell over.

He hadn’t said it in years.

He hadn’t seen her in years.

And now?

The room didn’t look like it belonged to a child.

It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone.

The bed was neatly made, sheets no longer the soft pink-and-green florals he half-remembered. Now they were gray. Plain. Clinical.

The drawings were gone. No family stick figures. No bright crayon hearts. No mess.

It was clean.

Too clean.

Lifeless.

⸻

Dick stepped inside slowly, fingertips brushing along the bookshelf where little paper crafts used to sit.

Empty.

He moved toward the desk—stopped.

There were old impressions on the wood.

Shapes from frames that had been moved.

Photos that had once stood there.

And were now gone.

Something twisted in his gut.

He didn’t know what it was.

But it felt wrong.

This felt wrong.

The girl he remembered would’ve had plants climbing the ceiling by now. There would’ve been glitter on the floor. A pile of flower crowns made from weeds. Scribbled notes taped to the wall. Half-burnt candles that smelled like vanilla.

But this room?

It felt like someone had been erasing themselves.

Dick exhaled shakily.

And for the first time in a very long time, he realized—

He couldn’t picture her face anymore.

Not as she was now.

He could only see the toddler version. The one with dirt on her cheeks and stars in her eyes. One he had not seen in a while.

And he hated that.

taglist: @justwannabecat @c4xcocoa

@charlenexoxo1

@galaxypup

@exactlynumberonekryptonite

@runaaclou

[rhaenyraeri]

Co-Star Tensions (Part 2) - Jack O’Connell

minors dni, 18+!

Part 1, Part 2, Interlude, Part 3

Pairing: Jack O’Connell x fem!Reader, (technically a little Remmick x fem!Reader too)

Summary: A week has past since that night, but unfortunately nothing said has came true. You got in your head about it, and the awkward tension has now turned into relatively no interactions. Now. a tense scene including Remmick and your character is to be filmed for the movie’s extended cut.

Warnings: rpf fic, oral (fem!receiving), biting, fingering, (blood kink?), its filth again lol

Word Count: 3k+

Reshoots have been eventful, especially since that night. Stolen glances and obviously different tension were prominent on set, especially now that some previously drafted scenes were brought to light. Ryan decided, for an extended cut, to bring back some scenes he left out for plot reasons, but wanted to add as a special little treat for the fans. Some, most even, were of flashbacks with Stack and Mary, a few scenes of their relationship including some more risqué moments. A couple included flashbacks with Smoke and Annie, and the short time they had with their baby girl. And, of course, the star antagonist, Remmick, with his lover, your character.

Since that night on the small set in the cabin, you and Jack haven’t really spoke. There’s not been many scenes that needed you both together, and unfortunately, it felt like that made things worse. You were given a script filled with the individual short additions, but past the reshoot of the Joan and Bert changing scene, you didn’t give it much thought. Apparently, neither did Jack, as when you walked onto set that morning and were told by Ryan about what the two of you were filming that day, both of you stopped dead in your tracks. You looked at each other, and you felt your heart flutter. Today, you were to film a scene where your character disagreed with a feeding Remmick committed, calling it too dangerous and she needed him to think some actions through a little better. To that, Remmick hated it. During their argument, things get heated as he needed to take his anger out on her sexually, and that’s exactly what she wanted, too. After going over the few lines of dialogue enough times to get it tweaked perfect for the day, you both headed to your individual campers to get your costumes on for the day.

You arrived to the set first, which was made during the first round of filming, but was set aside, now obviously for the tense scene you were about to film. After a few minutes speaking with your co-star and close friends Wunmi and Hailee, Jack arrived to the set, and of course, he was covered in the damn fake blood again. Something about that man in that way drove you insane. The two women looked at you and smirked, snickering as they walked away and whispering amongst themselves, surely about you and the way your demeanor changed instantly. Ryan called for the two of you to come over and run through the script quickly, and once he was satisfied with the tweaks, filming began.

You sat on the chair of the rundown cabin, the curtains rotted and discolored due to the abandoned effect it required. You took some deep breaths, preparing yourself for the first time you’ve actually been around Jack for a prolonged time since the incident.

“3.. 2.. 1.. action!”

Your character sat in the chair, fingers twiddling together as she waited impatiently for the return of Remmick, daylight beginning to peak slightly through the fortified window. The door busts open, and there he is, soaked with blood and skin smoking.

“Where the hell have you been, Remmick? It’s fucking daylight, you could’ve died!”

“I had a good feeding, darlin’. You would’ve known had you loosened up a bit and came with.”

You narrowed your gaze, sighing deeply and rolling your eyes. He walked to the kitchen counter, putting his hands on it and looked down.

“What, now you’re mad at me ‘cause I didn’t wanna go out that close to sunrise to take out a full group? Sorry, but I’d rather not burn to death!”

He slammed a hand on the counter, shaking his head, but still not raising it to look at you.

“Nah, nah, I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed! We do this together, we’re in it together, and you just wanted us to sit and starve til dusk! This life is hell, and living it like it’s a normal one only makes it worse.”

“So, this cursed life is worse with me in it? You’d rather me just go, then? You forget you changed me, Rem. Not the other way around. You damned me to this, I get to live it how I want.”

Your eyes started filling with tears, a small talent you’d acquired a few months ago during the first round of filming. He finally looked up, the first time you got to see his face this morning. The costume today had the special effects for Remmick’s vampire teeth being out. The second you laid eyes on him, knowing what was to come in this scene, you knew you wouldn’t be acting anymore. Especially not with what the script called for next. His eyes darkened at you, and you could sense his energy changed too. He wanted your body on his, and it frustrated him that since that night, you hadn’t so much as even spoke to him. But here you were, fate making it clear, that the tension hadn’t just remained, it grew stronger. More full of yearning, more intense, more.. desperate, as he called it that night.

“Now, you know that’s not what I meant. Hell, if anything want you around more than what I get. I.. I need you more than what we have, darlin’. And for you to say you want to leave me.. now I just can’t be havin’ that,” he starts stalking towards you, the boots stomping intimidatingly on the wood. He was close, dangerously close to you. “Your fate is intertwined with mine now, and there’s no escapin’ it. If you leave I will not rest until you are back to me.”

“So you’re just gonna find a way for me to stay here? Stay with you and run the risk of living without you? I’d rather be away from you while you’re on this earth than while you’re rotting in whatever hell we’re damned to!”

He snarled, showing the frustration Remmick had towards your character, as she refused to see that he wanted what he thought was best for them, and she seemed ungrateful. You backed up into a wall, as Jack stomped closer to you, it’s almost as if he himself was frustrated with you, the real you. The tension in this scene goes deeper than just the characters now. It’s between you and him.

In a quick second, his hand with vampiric claws reach up to grab you by your neck, “Do you not realize what I do for you? I had came to terms that our fate isn’t gonna end happy like we hope for, but I want to make the best of it. For you! For us! I love you, and here you are bein’ cruel about it. Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I.. I didn’t.. I just wanted.. to be safe..” your spoke through exaggerated breaths, keeping up the act of being choked, even then Jack’s hand was just barely around your throat.

“I can protect you, darlin’. Always have, always will. You best come to your senses.. or do I need to fuck them into you?”

That wasn’t in the script. Your eyes widened, breathing rapidly speeding up. Ryan didn’t call cut. He thought this was improvising, it technically is. But you know it’s real. It’s not just Remmick. Your next line would only fuel the fire between the two of you.

“I’m sorry.. I need to understand you better.. I need you to show me just how sensible I can be.”

Jack shook his head, a real groan of frustration leaving him as he turns away from the shot, not acting anymore. Now, Ryan yells cut.

“Jack, you okay? Let’s take a 15, everyone.”

The lights flickered back on as his steps start rapidly making their way off the set. Concern fills you, he’d been off all morning, was he actually just frustrated? Upset at you? Michael called after him, but decided it was best to just let him take a second. You turned to look at him, and asked if he knew what was up.

“Nope. I’ve got no clue. He’s not been himself today. I figured you knew why.”

He looked at you, he figured you two had a blossoming romance starting up, but he took your confusion as a ‘no, it’s not that.’ Everyone took to different areas of the set, grabbing some waters and resting for a bit. There was no point in just standing here aimlessly when you knew you had to be the reason he was upset. Walking to the hallway he had stormed off into, you looked into every room with doors open, and knocked on the ones without. Eventually you came to the prop closet, and you knocked on it.

“Jack, are you in here? Is everything okay?”

The door swung open at your voice, and he grabbed your hand to pull you in. He slammed the door behind you and locked it. He was breathing heavy, almost distraught at what was happening. You looked to meet his eyes, and they were dark. Filled with lust, desire, longing.

“I’ve spent all week hoping you’d speak to me, and not once have you. All but looks. That’s not enough, love. I need you. I miss you. You.. are all I want. And to be thrown aside?” he looks away, shaking his head, “That’s hurt me, love. So yeah, yeah I’m mad at you.”

“I didn’t wanna make more awkward than it needed to be. I didn’t think you’d wanna speak to me after that. Kinda figured it’d be a one time thing,” you spoke.

“I told you I wanted to spend some time with you after that, how much clearer could I have been? We agreed to hang out, I mean.. How else am I meant to feel when you just give me glances? I wanted more than just a little fuck, love.”

So that was it. You didn’t think he was honest when he asked to hang out after that. It was a tension driven, lust filled sexual activity purely driven by fantasy. Or, at least you told yourself that. Later that night, you’d reflected on it all and got into your head over it, convincing yourself that nothing would come from it, and that all said after was just an adrenaline infused conversation. Before that, there was no real romantic communication between the two of you. Some flirting and glances, and the obvious tension.

“I just thought you were fucking with me. Just convinced myself that you were.”

“I would never do that. I’ve thought about taking youout for a nice date, just the two of us spending time with each other. Not just desperate tension on the set for hours each day. Got me frustrated over it all, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

You sighed, looking to your right and thinking of what to say next. It was just.. what do you say? I’m sorry I did sexual acts with you then fucked off like a lousy shithead and ignored you the past week?

You tried to get some words out, but they just weren’t.

“Fuck this,” he growled out. He took your face between his hands and kissed you hard. The shock delayed your reaction, but you came to your senses quick, and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back. It was sloppy, passionate, desperate. He slid his right hand down your body and placed it on your hip, turning you around and pushing you against the wall. Your hands traced into his hair, gripping it and pushing his face somehow even closer to yours. The hand on your waist came up to grab your left hand, the one on your cheek grabbed your right, moving to hold them above your head. His moved to hold both of them with one of his own, sliding the other right down your body, and under your costume dress.

“Fuck, I need to touch you. Been missin’ the taste of you ever since,” he said as his hand slid into your underwear, relishing in the moan you uttered, before gathering some of your slick onto his fingers and bringing them up. He put his fingers into his mouth, tasting the wetness you had for him. Humming in content, his eyes fluttered shut and back open, embracing the wonder he just tasted. He put his lips against yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth. Between him, the taste of yourself mixing with his spit and the same damn thing that drove you insane last time, the taste of the fake blood mixing into it, you could’ve came by that alone. The sensualness of the scandalous act the two of you were committing for the second time in a week just made the situation much hotter.

“Ah fuck this,” he moaned as he pulled away, hand letting go of your wrists as he fell to his knees. He lifted your dress up and pulled your underwear down. Taking a finger, he slid it inside you, a moan rumbling out of you as he moved it in and out. The sensation was insane, the speed was just right. He kissed your left thigh just above your knee, making his way closer to your pussy. Your breathing became labored, you felt yourself getting wetter and wetter. He placed an open mouth kiss as close to your center as he could, before giving it a bite. Fuck, those damn vampire teeth were still in. It hurt at first, and that pain quickly turned into pleasure as he gave you a hickey in the same spot. Your right hand gathered up your dress, allowing you to see a little more of what he was doing, and your left made its way into his hair. He growled impatiently, finding obvious pleasure in you touching him. He kissed the spot where he just placed the hickey, and turned his head, darting his tongue out to finally touch you where he wanted to most. His tongue licked you, desperate to get every ounce of you grazed. Your moans were now louder, the feeling of finally having that face where you wanted it was so relieving. Your hand moved to push his face further into you, causing him to moan against you. Your thighs trembled at that, and his free hand grabbed one and threw it over his shoulder, gaining more access into you. The hand now came to hold yours, giving you stability. His finger left your pussy, now using that hand to slid up your dress and grab your breast. His tongue now all but fucked you, rutting against you. The taste drove him insane, and he needed relief, but the sounds you were making.. the smell and taste.. the mere feeling of his tongue now inserting itself into your pussy was enough for now. He wasn’t eating you out, he was devouring you, feasting upon you, gorging himself of you. He wanted so bad to say some dirty shit to you but he just couldn’t waste a second not between your legs. Your head went back against the wall, eyes rolling as if all started to become too much for you. He pulls off of you for a second, catching a breath. Your high was just seconds away. He looks up at you, your slick covering most of his face, and the fake blood had now turned light pink from being smeared.

“Taste like fuckin’ heaven, love.”

The smirk he gave you showed the fake fangs piercing through, a reminder of just how hot he was as Remmick. You groaned at the sight, moving to shove his face back to where it belonged, needing to make more of a mess of him. He wasn’t ready to eat yet.

He spits right on your clit, a mix of your slick and his spit going back onto his meal, before he let up against your grip, going right back into your pussy. Finally you got your release, but he didn’t care. He was savoring you longer, like you were the last meal he’d ever receive, determined to collect as much of you as he could. His hand slips down from your breast, coming to your thigh and holding you still from the overwhelming sensation. Humming against you, he gave one more good rut of his tongue into you, licking his plate clean. He slid your leg off his shoulder before standing back up to face you.

“Somehow I think you’ve gotten the messier end this time,” you said to him. His leaned in to kiss you, your slick still shining on his face. He laughed, before leaning his forehead onto yours. You moved your head to go on his shoulder, and you noticed a mirror against the wall of the closet.

“Look at yourself, Jack,” you giggled, motioning to the mirror. He turned his head and stared for a second before putting his head down, and laughed.

“Nah, you’ve still made a mess of me, love. I’ve not even got my effects on anymore.”

The sound of your laughter together filled the room, and as the moment passed, silence grew. You wrapped your arms around his neck, before whispering, “I’m sorry,” in his ear. He sighed, turning his head to kiss your neck.

“It’s alright, love. ‘Suppose we can make a deal between us? No more tension, no more glances? You’re real special to me, you know? I’d love to take you out properly one day. And I mean it. Don’t get into your head about it,” he promised, referencing your doubts from earlier.

“Deal. I’m really sorry about that, I just got scared, that’s all. I didn’t wanna ruin a good thing, you know?”

“Come on, you couldn’t drive me away even if you tried. I’m here for you, I want to be with you. Let’s get done filming for the day and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner, yeah?”

You smiled, grateful for what will happen between the two of you. The days of hoping to spend time with him have came to fruition, and now there’s no more awkwardness, just the two of you. You know how you feel about each other, and it’s time you do something about it. Well, something romantic about it.

“That sounds nice, Jack. Let’s make sure this retake is the last of the day.”

A moment of silence was brought between the two of you, just holding each other. A loud knock at the door made the both of you jump, and a voice followed.

“Come on you two, 15 is over. Ryan’s almost back so make sure you get.. appropriate.” Of course, it was Hailee.

“Well.. as appropriate as you can get.” And Wunmi. Great.

“Yeah uh.. we’ll be out. Uh. Just.. go away, we’ll be back out there in a few,” you called out.

“So they know, huh?”

“Well they suspected it, from what I gather everyone did. Just wait until later,” you laughed. You were joking but also, not. He placed a sweet, quick kiss on your forehead before he went to open the door, but you stopped him. He turned and looked at you confused.

Smiling, you laughed and said, “You may wanna stop and clean.. all that,” pointing to the light pink fake blood. He shook his head and replied, “Alright, but you have to clean all that up too,” mimicking your point. The light pink had smeared onto your face too.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath as he opened the door and walked out. Just as you turned to look better into the mirror, the door opened again.

“You’re real close to it, love.”

—

(A/N: as always, reader is meant to be as inclusive as possible, but if any mistakes are made please let me know! also, i’m thinking there will be more parts to this, at least a couple.)

Taglist: @theworldismyoister (if anyone wants to be tagged also, let me know!

[prettylilyanime]

Our Blessing ♡ Chapter 03

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

Time moves too fast when your child starts school—uncomfortably so.

The golden hues of autumn have long faded, leaving behind bare branches and streets swept clean of crisp, fallen leaves. In their place, the first snowfall of the year drifts down in soft flurries, delicate and hesitant, barely enough to dust the pavement.

The world outside is quiet, muffled by the chill. The kind of cold that seeps deep, settling into your bones.

“Okay, Megumi, arms up,” you murmur, holding out his tiny puffer jacket.

He obeys without protest, shoving his arms through the sleeves, his little fingers wiggling out from the cuffs. His cheeks are flushed from sleep, and his dark hair is tousled in soft, stubborn tufts from his pillow.

You glance out the window as snowflakes swirl gently past the glass, vanishing on impact. The sight should be pretty. But instead, it feels like a reminder: the world is shifting again. The seasons are pressing forward, indifferent to the fact that you’re still catching up.

“Mama, I’m gonna make a snowman today,” Megumi announces, voice muffled as you loop a thick blue scarf around his neck.

You smile and tuck the ends securely. “That sounds so fun, honey! Are you and Yuuji going to build one together?”

Megumi scowls slightly, crossing his arms. “He can make his own.”

His chubby cheeks puff out with determination. He wouldn’t dare let Yuuji near his snowman—not when his best friend would probably stick the carrot where the arms are supposed to go.

You snort, trying to hide your grin as you sling his backpack over one shoulder and grab his lunchbox. “Well, I’m sure you two are going to have the most unique snowmen in class.”

Satisfied, he nods, clutching onto the fabric of your pants as you reach for the door.

But just then, a sharp gust of wind rushes through the hallway as you open it, curling around your ankles and stealing your warmth. Megumi stiffens instantly, his expression shifting to something stern.

“Mama! Put on your coat!” he scolds, voice small but full of authority.

He fumbles toward the hanger, trying to tug your jacket down with his mittened hands. You laugh softly and ruffle his hair. “Alright, alright, my bossy boy.”

Truthfully, the cold has already begun to sting your skin. You shrug into your coat, letting him help tug the zipper up to your collar. He nods in approval once it’s zipped.

Hand in hand, you step out into the morning chill. The air nips at your cheeks as you make your way to the car, boots crunching softly on the thin dusting of snow.

The drive to school is peaceful. The hum of the heater fills the car while Megumi chatters about recess and the snowman he’s planning. You nod, offering the occasional “Wow!” and “That’s going to be so cool, baby,” but mostly you just listen—savoring the warmth of his voice, the smallness of him, the fleetingness of mornings like these.

When you pull up to the school, you brace against the cold and lift Megumi into your arms. He’s heavier than he used to be—solid, growing—but you still carry him close, lips pressing against his forehead.

“Okay, Megumi. Have a beautiful day, baby.”

He lingers in your arms for a moment longer before slipping down to the ground. You wish you could scoop him back up, take him home, swaddle him in a blanket, make cocoa and watch cartoons. But he’s a growing boy. He has a world to explore.

And you? You have responsibilities waiting for you, too.

“Bye, Mama,” he calls, giving you a little wave before turning to run toward the building, backpack bouncing with each step.

You linger, watching until he disappears inside. Only then do you tug your coat tighter around you and hurry back to the car, the wind slicing through your layers. Your fingers are stiff by the time you start the engine.

The warmth of the heater slowly creeps in as you sink back into the seat.

Snowflakes drift across your windshield, melting into tiny rivulets.

Winter was never your favorite time of year.

As a florist, you’ve always favored spring and summer—the seasons of life. Color bursting from every corner of the city. The air thick with the scent of new blooms. Warmth lingering on your skin like a lover’s touch.

But winter?

Winter has always been the absence of that. Cold. Quiet. Stark.

It’s gray skies and pale light, bare branches and biting wind. Streets washed in colorless tones, a hush across the world like it’s holding its breath, waiting for warmth to return.

You never had a reason to love it.

Until Toji.

Toji—your first love, the man who made your heart bloom brighter than any flower—was born in the winter.

And slowly, that season became something else.

It became warmth pressed skin-to-skin after braving the cold. It became burrowing into his arms with hot drinks and sleepy smiles. It became baking a birthday cake from a half-burnt recipe on your phone and laughing at how uneven the frosting was. It became more than the fleeting joy of holidays.

It became love.

And then he left you.

Ironically, in the spring—when everything else was coming to life, and you were wilting.

Winter returned to what it had always been before him. Empty. Cold. Something to survive, not something to savor. And as if the universe hadn’t twisted the knife deep enough, you found out you were pregnant just as the flowers began to bloom.

But then—there was Megumi.

And winter was never the same again.

It became the press of tiny mittened hands in fresh snow. The determination of little fingers shaping crooked snowmen in the yard. The flicker of birthday candles reflecting in his emerald eyes. The excitement on Christmas morning, the way his laughter echoed through the house, warm enough to thaw even the coldest days.

Winter became Megumi.

And for the first time in years, you found yourself falling in love with it all over again.

But as you drive away from the school, one thought cuts through the warmth like ice:

Megumi is turning six soon.

The realization drops like a stone in your chest.

Six years since he was born.

Six years and nine months since Toji walked out of your life.

Toji.

God, damn it.

You’ve tried not to think about him. Not since Suguru. Not since Sukuna.

He left. Disappeared. No contact. No way to reach him.

You tried. You tried your hardest to bring him back into your son’s life—but you couldn’t find him. So you made peace with that. You let yourself move forward. Guilt wasn’t something you let yourself carry. Not when you had done all you could.

But now?

Now, Suguru pressed Toji’s number into your palm.

Now, Sukuna—Megumi’s best friend’s uncle—is someone you’ll be seeing at every event, every birthday, every class performance.

And suddenly, the guilt won’t stop gnawing at you.

Toji isn’t gone. He’s just a phone call away.

Megumi is turning six this year. Will you really let another year pass—knowing you could change everything?

You could reunite them.

You could give your son a father, no matter how much he pretends not to care.

And Toji...

God, Toji.

You could tell him he has a son.

So why haven’t you?

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

The Zenin Tower stands like a dagger in the heart of Tokyo—a gleaming skyscraper of glass and steel, sharp-edged and cold, looming over the city like it owns it.

And on the very top floor, the man who practically does own it sits hunched over his desk, eyes locked on the glow of his screen.

Toji Zenin.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, unmoving. The only sound in the room is the faint hum of his computer, casting a pale light across his dim office. His gaze is fixed—zoomed in on a single photo. A tiny square image.

Your profile picture.

It's stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He has no reason to be looking at you, no business even thinking about you.

But there you are. Smiling.

And here he is. Staring.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. That’s all. After all, ever since Sukuna—loud, smug bastard—started randomly bringing you up in conversation, it’s like your name’s been carved into the back of his skull.

He can’t shake it.

Five years. It's been five goddamn years.

He figures... he can look now, right? Just one little peek. Not like you're going to know.

But then the door creaks open.

Toji jolts, snapping out of it, and turns just in time to see Maki walk in. She stops cold.

“Mr. Zenin? I brought the files you—” Her voice halts mid-sentence, eyes flicking from him... to the screen... and back again.

Her brows lift. A slow, mischievous smile creeps across her face. “Is that Auntie Y/N?”

Toji’s whole body goes rigid.

His jaw clenches, fingers curling into a tight fist. He resists the urge to bark at her for barging in unannounced.

On the screen, your face is still lit up. That same damn smile.

He snatches the files from Maki’s hands and slams them onto the desk. “You’re a terrible intern,” he mutters. “Get out.”

But Maki, being Maki, doesn’t budge. She strolls over and plops herself into the chair across from him, peering at the monitor like she’s watching a movie.

It’s been years since she’s seen you. Back then she was just a kid, too young to grasp why you left, only old enough to know she liked having you around.

“If you tell your sister, you’re dead,” Toji growls, not looking at her. “Mai can’t keep her mouth shut. If Gojo hears about this—”

“I know, I know,” Maki says, adjusting her glasses with a smirk. “Gojo will never let you live it down.” She leans back in the chair, tone softening. “Relax, Uncle Toji. Your secret’s safe with me.”

A beat passes.

Then, casually: “So... are you guys back together, or...?”

Toji freezes.

It’s the kind of question that would normally earn someone a broken nose—but coming from Maki, it just... digs. There’s something vulnerable in the way she asks it. Almost hopeful.

He doesn't answer. Just glares at her until she raises her hands in mock surrender and finally gets up to leave.

The door clicks shut behind her.

He waits, making sure she’s actually gone, before turning back to the screen.

Your account’s private. All he has is that damn picture. So he took a screenshot. Zoomed in until the pixels started to blur.

Every detail—your eyes, your smile, even the curve of your jaw—burned into his mind like a brand.

But it’s the necklace that ruins him.

A thin chain, delicate. And hanging from it... a small pendant.

The letter M. Toji’s stomach twists. Who the hell is M?

He shoves the thought away, slamming his computer shut with a grunt. No. He’s not doing this.

He grabs his phone and fires off a message into the group chat “Horizon tn?”

Horizon—the sleek, members-only bar perched on the top floor of a neighboring skyscraper.

It's where they always meet. High ceilings, panoramic city views, and shelves of liquor that cost more than most people’s rent. Opulent, discreet, and just far enough from reality to let them pretend.

The response is immediate.

Satoru: “I’ll be there. Need a drink ASAP.” Suguru: “That was way too fast. Are you even at work?” Satoru: “...I may or may not be in the parking lot of your building rn.”

Toji snorts. Idiots.

But maybe that’s what he needs tonight—mindless distraction, great views, too much whiskey, and people who talk too much. Maybe it'll be enough to shut his brain off.

At least for a few hours.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

“Okay, and here’s your bouquet! Thank you for trusting me with this—I’m sure she’ll love it.” You offer a warm smile as you hand over the arrangement, a delicate bundle of soft pinks and creams wrapped in craft paper and tied with silk ribbon.

The younger man nods gratefully, checking his watch before practically bolting out the door. You blink, watching him leave in a frenzy, eyebrows lifting slightly.

How does someone look that sweaty when it’s below freezing outside?

Still, a sale is a sale, and you’re grateful. Business always slows in the winter. You’ve learned to rely on early brides with long timelines and your own careful budgeting to keep the flower shop afloat during the cold months.

You glance down at your watch and sigh. A few more hours until Megumi’s school pickup. A small smile plays on your lips.

Has he started working on his snowman yet?

The thought lingers sweetly as you decide to use the lull to get a few things done. From the back room, you pull out an old cardboard box that’s been collecting dust.

It’s part of a shipment you never got around to unpacking. Brushing it off, you slice it open to reveal rows of colorful packaged ribbons, neatly coiled and still untouched. You start sorting through them, placing each spool into its designated drawer.

Time passes easily like this—your hands busy, your mind wandering.

Megumi’s birthday is coming up. You really need to start prepping for it.

His birthdays have always been quiet. Your family lives far from Tokyo, and your social circle all but disappeared after the breakup with Toji. You’re introverted by nature, and after everything that happened...well, letting new people in hasn’t been easy.

But this year is different.

Megumi’s in school now—and not just attending, but thriving. He’s formed real friendships. You used to worry that he’d inherit your shyness or Toji’s stoicism, but he’s surprised you in the best ways.

His best friend is Yuuji, of course. And then there’s the sweet girl in his class, Nobara, with her ginger-brown hair and maple-colored eyes. He talks about her all the time.

He has others too. A whole group. And the thought of finally being able to throw him a proper birthday party fills you with a quiet excitement.

Well—proper in your terms.

Which really just means decorating your small apartment, ordering too much pizza, and buying themed party cups and napkins. But still! It’s something.

Still, beneath the excitement… a gnawing pit of guilt twists in your stomach.

Yuuji’s of course going to be there.

Which means there’s a very real possibility Sukuna might find out.

And if Sukuna finds out about Megumi’s birthday… does that mean Toji might, too?

You don’t even know how to begin to unpack that thought.

How does he not know?

How does Sukuna—a chaotic, unfiltered menace—stand a better chance of knowing the day your son turns another year older… than his own father?

The thought is haunting.

You press your palms into the wooden counter, steadying your breath.

It’s been years. And yet... sometimes, it still feels like you’re picking up the pieces of a life that no one else remembers breaking.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

Horizon is bustling tonight, still relatively quiet compared to other bars, but the energy is undeniable.

The soft hum of conversations mixes with the clink of glasses and the low thrum of music.

Despite the liveliness, the group of four lifelong friends is immediately escorted to a prime table located toward the back, next to the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows that offer an expansive view of the city below. No wait time needed.

Moments later, the suited-up waiter arrives, setting down their drinks with practiced precision, only lingering long enough to make sure they’re satisfied before disappearing into the shadows of the bar.

Toji doesn’t bother looking at his drink, his eyes fixed on the city lights. The glass in front of him remains untouched, a token of the evening, but his mind is elsewhere.

Satoru leans back in his chair, his usual mischievous grin in place “Toji, man, what’s with the sour face tonight?”

“His face is always like that,” Sukuna shrugs, his voice smooth as always, though his gaze is sharper than usual, eyes flicking between Toji and the others.

Toji doesn’t even flinch. He’s heard it all before.

But tonight is different. His posture is tighter, his gaze further off. The air around him is thick with something unsaid.

“I saw Y/N today.” The words come out gruff, almost reluctant, slipping out before he can stop them.

The table goes silent. Well, the table freezes, except for Suguru, who’s halfway through a drink and ends up choking on it. He sputters, trying to regain his breath.

“You what?” Satoru gasps, eyes wide as if the room just tilted. His voice is loud, carrying the shock, and Toji shoots him a glare, annoyance flashing in his eyes.

Suguru, still struggling to breathe, looks between the two men, mind racing. The tension builds in the space between them.

Toji rolls his eyes. “Not—I didn’t see her. She just popped up as a recommended account on my phone. I looked through her profile.” He says it with a nonchalance that doesn’t match the weight of the words hanging in the air.

The lie is faint but there, a quiet undercurrent of denial.

He won’t admit that he spent hours, hunched over his work desktop, memorizing every detail of your face as it is now—without him.

Sukuna, who’s been quiet up until now, blinks, his eyes widening slightly. Whether it's interest or amusement, it’s hard to say.

“…Well, tell us!” Satoru leans forward, his grin widening “What did you see? Still giving off that ‘hot girl next door’ vibe, or has time changed things?”

Toji glares at him, narrowing his eyes. “Shut up, Satoru.”

He takes a long drag from his cigar, the smoke swirling around him like a personal storm. “I only saw her profile picture. She’s moved on, too. Some guy whose name starts with the letter M.”

The table falls into absolute silence. The shift in the mood is palpable, like the room itself is holding its breath.

Suguru freezes, his grip tightening around his glass. “She… the letter M?” The words barely escape him, his mind already connecting dots too fast for comfort.

Toji shrugs, his face unreadable. “Didn’t look too deep into it,” he mutters, but the weight of his words is obvious. The regret is there, barely concealed in his jaw's tightness.

The silence stretches. Suguru’s eyes flicker across the group, briefly landing on Sukuna. But Sukuna’s eyes are cast downward, not meeting anyone’s gaze. His tongue prods the inside of his cheek, as if he’s chewing on something unspoken.

Suguru watches him, suspicion settling in. Something doesn’t feel right.

Sukuna’s gaze lifts, meeting Suguru’s. A shared understanding passes between them. It’s unspoken, but it’s there.

Suguru’s mind drifts back to the last time he spoke with Y/N. She had mentioned her son. Megumi.

Shit.

Sukuna knows about Megumi.

Suguru’s brow furrows, his stomach twisting as he connects the pieces. He’s about to say something when Satoru cuts through the tension, his voice light but carrying a more serious undertone.

“Forget her, man. You need to get over this.” Satoru leans back in his chair with a casual grin.

“Y/N? She’s not worth it. Look, you’ve been carrying this shit around for too long. There’s a whole world of women out there, and you’re an eligible bachelor, Toji. You’re not getting any younger.” He shoots a wink around the table.

“But hey, don’t take my word for it. Look around.”

Satoru gestures toward the bar, where a woman in a red dress stands out with her long legs and confident stride. She briefly glances over at their booth, her eyes meeting Toji’s for a split second before she moves on.

Satoru leans closer, nudging Toji’s arm. “That one. Nine o’clock. Red dress. She’s been eyeing you since we walked in. You could do a hell of a lot worse than her.”

Toji glances toward the bar, his gaze catching hers for that fleeting moment.

“I’m not interested,” Toji mutters, his voice low.

“Not yet,” Satoru counters, his grin still wide. “But you could be. You can’t keep living in the past. Move on, man. Get a fresh start.” His sunglasses stay perched on his nose, despite it being nearly 10 PM. “The world’s full of new faces, and she’s giving you the look. Don’t waste it.”

Suguru observes silently, his thoughts still lingering on the implications of Toji seeing Y/N’s profile.

It’s clearly weighing on him more than he’s letting on. Something’s off, and it’s not just about the woman in the red dress.

“Honestly,” Satoru continues, his expression sobering a bit, “you’ve got to stop torturing yourself. If she’s moved on, so should you. Don’t waste your time on someone who doesn’t even think about you anymore!”

Toji’s grip tightens on his glass again, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Satoru’s voice slices through the fog in Toji’s mind. “You know what I’m saying, right? Y/N’s just a chapter. The rest of your story’s still unwritten.”

The table falls into a heavy silence, even Sukuna seems mildly uncomfortable, the weight of the moment settling in. Suguru’s fingers remain tight around his glass, his unease growing.

After what feels like an eternity, Toji exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, quieter now, “I hear you.”

His gaze drifts back toward the bar, the woman in the red dress still lingering in his peripheral vision.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

The morning light filters through the curtains as you sit at the small table in your cozy home office, a cup of tea cooling beside you.

Megumi had already been sent off to school, his tiny school bag slung over his shoulder with a quiet goodbye and a kiss to his cheek.

The day stretches out in front of you—one that should be filled with excitement as you prepare for your son’s upcoming birthday. But instead, you find yourself distracted, too caught up in your thoughts to focus on much else.

Today, you’d decided not to open up the shop.

There was no rush. The quiet hum of the day gave you space to focus on what mattered most: the little things that would make Megumi’s birthday special.

You had spent the morning working on the invitations, carefully cutting out star-shaped glitter and drawing planets by hand. It was a space-themed party this year—his favorite.

The thought of his face lighting up when he saw everything come together made your heart swell with anticipation. It was going to be perfect!

But after a while, you felt the weight of exhaustion creeping in, a dull ache in your back from bending over the crafting table for too long. You needed a break.

You let yourself slump back in the chair, your fingers instinctively reaching for your phone.

Scrolling through your social media feed, you absentmindedly flicked through posts about upcoming events and news. Until a headline stopped you cold.

“Japan’s Top Bachelor, Taken?”

Your eyes flicker to the article without thinking much of it.

It’s something you’ve seen before—rumors swirling about Toji, the man who once held your heart. But this time, it’s different. The accompanying picture catches your eye immediately: Toji, dressed in his usual sleek suit, his tall figure almost impossible to miss. But what freezes you is the woman standing beside him.

Her red dress—a flash of color that pops against the dark interior of the bar. She’s holding his hand.

A tight knot forms in your stomach, the familiar ache making its way back to your chest. He’s moved on. Of course he has.

It’s been years!

The two of you hadn’t spoken in ages, and yet, seeing him with someone else feels like a punch to the gut, a reminder that you’re no longer a part of his life.

Your finger hovers over the phone screen, the headline now a blur as your eyes focus on the image.

His hand is entwined with hers, the kind of intimacy that once felt so natural between the two of you. The way he held you, so easily, so without hesitation. The look on his face, carefree, almost like he belongs in this world of flashy lights and shallow glances.

A soft sigh slips from your lips before you even realize it.

Why does this hurt so much? You’ve done your best to let go of him, to bury all those emotions that once felt so real, so impossible to erase.

He’s been gone from your life for so long, replaced by a new reality, one that revolves around Megumi and the quiet routine you’ve built.

So why does it feel like your heart is shattering all over again?

You try to shake it off, forcing yourself to move past the photo, to focus on the tasks at hand. You look at the half-finished invitations, the space-themed designs scattered across your desk.

The small part of you that is still you pulls yourself together. Megumi’s birthday is what matters today. That’s your priority.

But even as you return to the crafting table, the ache in your chest doesn’t go away. You can’t shake the feeling of his absence—of the life that once existed between the two of you. The ghost of it lingers, no matter how much time has passed.

Toji’s hand in another woman’s. It’s a picture you never thought you’d see.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡

[toournextadventure]

when you love it pt.3

Summary: Enid brings one of the children over for an extended career day.

Word Count: 5.9k Warnings: Swearing, flashbacks of violence Pairing: Wenclair x Vampire!Reader (part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

If one more miserable soul dared to interrupt the single hour of peace you had somehow managed to thrust into your schedule, you would end up representing yourself in court.

“I think they want to bury you,” Sara said with a pathetically insincere laugh. She dropped yet another box down in the already overcrowded corner of your office.

With a sigh, you set your reading glasses down on the desk and looked up at the young assistant. Far too young, you weren’t convinced she was even old enough to meet the strict qualifications your office had set. Not even old enough to have the tired leaden look in her eyes that life brought upon those with the wisdom to know better.

Though, you supposed Wednesday would have qualified for the position at her age. Perhaps you should curb your judgment.

“I beg of you,” you said slowly, “don’t bring anymore until tomorrow.”

“But there’s still-”

“-Don’t,” you whispered. She met your eyes before nodding once and giving you a closed-mouth smile.

“I’ll put them away for today,” she finally said.

You watched closely while she shuffled back out of the door. Her smile was more genuine before she closed the door and you could, once again, fall back into your chair and breathe. Just close your eyes for a moment, forget the disaster of a case that was haunting your every waking moment, and breathe. Deep inhale… slow exhale.

Much better.

Soft light filtered through the closed curtains on the windows. Pain pierced the dark, leaving an ache in your eyes and a rumble within the very centre of your brain. You quickly placed the sunglasses until they rested comfortably on your nose. Or not, you thought as the glasses slid down slightly. It was, perhaps, time to go home and wash your face.

No, not home. An apartment, nothing more. No, that was a lie as well. It was slowly becoming slightly more home-like. The walls were no longer bare, holding precious pictures of the younglings and their mothers. On the kitchen counter was a rusted whisk your Little Bane had dug up from the park across the street. A black hair tie sat on the bathroom counter next to the hair dye-stained sink.

Your phone vibrated loudly against the wooden desk. Pain pricked the inside of your mouth, radiating from the point of your fangs. The words “Break Over” illuminated the screen. Taunting you. Slowly, your jaw opened, pulling your teeth from the fleshy sheath they had created within your cheeks. Your mouth was filled with a throbbing ache that was quickly sated with relief, much like removing a splinter from a wound.

A cold finger swiped over the screen, turning the alarm off. So much for a chance to breathe, you thought. Perhaps you could use the busy work once again. Each moment your eyes were closed was another moment stolen by desire of the past. A useless endeavour if ever you had seen one.

Your phone vibrated on the desk once more. The image that appeared left your lip curling in disgust. Nonetheless, you picked it up and answered the call as you stood up from your desk and walked toward the ever-growing mountain of boxes.

“What do you want, Bas?” You asked, annoyance already dripping from your tongue.

“Always so hostile,” he said with a chuckle. “Can’t a brother call just to talk with his sibling?”

“No.” You pushed a box onto the ground and watched the contents spill out.

“One day, you’re gonna miss talkin’ with me,” he said. “You’ll be in a bind and think ‘Damn, I sure do wish Bas was here to help me out.’”

“What do you want, Bastien?” You repeated. Your fingers itched with the wanton desire to hang up.

“How’s your little rougarou?” A chair creaked on the other end of the line. Asshole. “Or your pretty little witch?”

“You have two seconds to get to the point,” you said gently. The bones of your spine cracked as you bent to pick up a file.

“That witch’s blood turned you rancid.”

“Good day, Bas-”

“-Hold on!” Your finger froze over the “end call” button. Something shifted on the other end of the line; you waited impatiently. “You heard from Constance lately?”

“Why would I?”

“'Cause she’s your sister.”

“I barely talk to you,” you mused. Pages flipped past your fingers. “Try again.”

“She got one a’them on her heels.”

You hissed and dropped the file. A small bead of blood engorged itself on the small papercut on your fingertip. The lack of light left the droplet appearing dark and ominous. You needed to get home and have a drink before long.

“One of what?” You asked. You lifted your finger to your mouth, licking it clean. The small cut healed over quickly.

“Daddy’s friends,” he whispered. “The mean ones.”

Your head lifted slowly. “Mawmaw Laveau?”

“Mawmaw would never,” Bas huffed in indignation. “Although word on the street is she’s achin’ to give you a whippin’.”

“What for?” You asked. “I ain’t- didn’t do anything.” You slammed the pile of paper down on a box. “Who’d you hear that from anyway?”

“You remember TJ?” You hummed in the affirmative. “He heard it from his ole lady, and she heard it when she was gettin’ her hair did.”

“Sue’s place?” You sat on a box.

“Where else?” He replied. “The ladies always talk way too loud, and one can’t help but to listen. They were talkin’ how Mawmaw’s been askin’ if you’ve been around, say she just wants to talk.”

“Mawmaw ain’t never wanna just talk,” you mumbled.

“Say she’d at least let you pick your own switch.”

You sighed. “She mad as hell.” The box groaned underneath you. “You sure she’s lookin’ for me?”

“That’s what TJ’s ole lady said, and she ain’t never got gossip wrong.”

“Shit,” you whispered. You’d need to call Mawmaw soon; you were too old to be picking a switch.

Wait.

“Who’s chasing Constance?” You asked. Feet planted firmly on the ground, you stood up and started digging through files once again. Not that it mattered; you weren’t paying attention.

“Hmm? Oh, them Hunters are after her.”

“She better not bring those classless bastards up here,” you said. “I have a reputation.”

“And your forbidden loves.”

You were drowning in the blood you had stolen. Your head lolled to the side even as you coughed again, spewing blood into the air like some demented fountain. A werewolf was across the room, hovering over Wednesday even as it transformed back into a person. Back into Enid. Her bare skin was shredded.

“If she shows up, I’ll turn her away,” you said with a shake of your head.

Bas sighed on the other end. “Family used to mean somethin’ to you, ya know.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Bas’ words gently bounced off the inside of your skull, moving back and forth like the old DVD logo. No, he wasn’t going to guilt you into putting yourself and everyone else in danger. If Constance couldn’t keep her head down, that was on her.

“She would help you out.”

“Jesus, Bas, fine,” you groaned. “If she comes by, I’ll do what I can.”

“Knew you loved us,” he taunted.

“Good bye, Bastien.”

“Bye, cher-”

-You ended the call before he finished. A shaky hand placed the phone back on your desk before you returned to looking at the files. That you had pushed onto the floor. Like a petulant child.

“Why would I do that,” you whispered to yourself in disappointment.

Instead of picking up the papers like the sensible, mature adult that you were, you plopped onto the floor. They were going to remain a mess whether they were in the box or not, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. From the looks of it, you had at least another two weeks of nonstop work ahead of you just to sort what was useful and what wasn’t.

The passage of time marched ever forward. With your phone across the desk and all clocks removed - after The Great Skip, as Sara called it so fondly - you kept track by the drinks that appeared by your hand. As the afternoon passed, teas were left in the nicer, law firm-branded mugs. When the sun set, tall glasses of cola were set neatly on the hotel coasters you had stolen and brought back. The moment morning rolled around, steaming coffee in your personal, broken mugs brought you comfort.

You had only gone through six boxes.

Every fibre in your body stiffened when your office door opened. Janice poked her head in, blinking frantically in what you assumed was an attempt to see in the dark room. When unsuccessful, she mumbled a “for Christ’s sake” before the overhead light flickered on.

In a disgusting caricature, you hissed and lifted a hand to cover your eyes.

“You have a call on line two,” she said.

You rubbed your eyes harshly, leaving stars in your vision. “Who is it?”

“A Wednesday Addams?”

Come on, Willa, put it down.

Your mouth watered.

“Want me to push it through?” Janice asked.

Pages flipped past your fingers. Wednesday’s mug sat dutifully by your knee, nearly empty of the coffee it had held. Black, for her. You were supposed to call her a few days ago. She had made you promise after your Little Bane had finished talking with you over some sort of game they had wanted you to learn for them.

“I’m busy,” you said against the knot in your throat.

Janice looked down at the paper in your hand with a raised brow, but otherwise shrugged. “I’ll let her know.”

She slipped out of the door, leaving you alone in the overly bright, oppressive room. Perhaps, with the added threat of Wednesday calling back again - and again, and again, and again - you could work more efficiently. After all, the longer you were at the office, the more likely Wednesday would just show up.

That in itself was terrifying.

You were nearly finished with another seven boxes when the door opened once again. Janice threw it open, allowing it to slam against the wall. Nothing new for your office, you didn’t even flinch.

“Just a moment,” you said, pushing the glasses back up your nose as you searched for a particular name… ah ha, there it was.

“Go home,” Janice said.

“Mmm after a while,” you replied.

The file in your hands lifted upward.

“Hey,” you griped.

“Go home,” Janice said again.

A woman with more kids than you could count - all boys, bless her soul - and a husband who actually pulled his fair share, Janice was not a woman to be trifled with. The moment her hands rested on her hips, everyone knew they were done for.

Just as you were in that moment.

“I’m not quite done, darling,” you said softly, hoping the gentle words would ease her anger.

It did not.

“Go home now or I’m changing the locks on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I’m calling your bluff,” you threatened.

You were wrong. In reality, Janice was no match for your strength, you both knew it. However, when she packed your bag and pushed you out the door, what were you supposed to do? Fight her? Absolutely not, you were no fool. The sun was bright and you were tired, and with that, you returned home.

—---

You had just finished drying off from your shower when you heard a knock at the door. Four rapid knocks, a little heavy handed. Deft fingers tied the string on your sweats as your bare feet padded across the living room. Three more knocks.

“I’m coming,” you said just loud enough for whoever was on the other side to hear. For the love of the maker, you hoped it wasn’t Consta-

“-Hi,” Enid said with a gentle smile.

All the breath left your lungs. “Hello.”

“You two are disgusting,” Ophelia grumbled, pushing her way into your apartment as if she owned it.

Definitely Wednesday’s child.

“Don’t touch my things,” you called back to her. The Addams’ child was nothing if not a particularly adept kleptomaniac.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t touch,” she called back.

You opened your mouth to argue, but promptly shut it. Keep it together, you thought. The child was well aware of what she was doing, and she did it every single time you had the misfortune of crossing her path. She was your mortal enemy, and if she wasn’t the eldest of your lost loves, you would have slain her where she stood ages ago.

She was your favourite.

“Sorry,” Enid said, “she’s in a mood.”

“Since when is she not,” you questioned, stepping aside and ushering Enid into the apartment. She, too, knew where to go.

“You’re out of food,” Ophelia called as you entered the kitchen.

“Then get out of my fridge,” you shot back.

“I’ll put it on your card.”

The child grabbed your wallet from the counter and walked into the living room, throwing herself on the couch. You cringed when she lifted her feet, putting her shoes on the furniture. Animal, you thought with a sneer.

“Are you simply here to steal my money and dirty my furniture?” You asked.

“Yes-”

“-No,” Enid said quickly. “Ophilia had something to ask you.”

“And she couldn’t have called?” You asked.

“Ew,” came from the couch.

“Wednesday tried a few times,” Enid said. “You… never answered.”

Her smile fell slightly and the drop crushed your unbeating heart. Of course. Wednesday wasn’t one to call over frivolous matters. If you had been a sensible person, you could have avoided all of this. Including the teenager that was still flipping through your wallet.

You sighed. “What is your question?”

Ophelia slammed the wallet shut. “I’m so glad you asked.” She stood up and stalked over to you, much the same way her mother did. “I have decided to become a criminal defence lawyer and, as such, would like to shadow you for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” You asked.

“Well a day simply won’t cover all the necessary information, and one week is barely scratching the surface,” she explained. “No, a few weeks is necessary for an optimal learning environment.”

“And where do you think you will stay?” You asked.

“Here?” She replied quickly. Sassy. “If I’m shadowing you, I need to witness every part of the lifestyle, not just the job.”

“Gomez already looked at renting an apartment for us,” Enid chimed in.

“There’s no need for that.” You gave her the most comforting smile you could manage against the onslaught of thoughts speeding through your mind.

“So you’re saying yes?” Ophelia asked.

You held your hand up, and silence fell upon the room. Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out. One thing at a time. The case you were working would be slow going and rather uninteresting, which would either bore the girl or excite her, you weren’t sure. Nonetheless, she would not be meeting actual criminals, which meant it was the perfect time.

Housing. Gomez had always been overly generous. One of the few people you had met that actually spent their obscene wealth instead of hoarding it. If Ophelia were to be staying for a much longer time, you would accept the rented apartment. For a few weeks? She could stay in yours, you had a spare room anyway.

You supposed you would need to stock up on more food so she wouldn’t wipe you out with disgusting takeout. And blood. She had the nasty habit of smelling like her mother…

“You cannot have access to anything confidential,” you said.

“No gorey secrets?”

“None.”

“Shame, but fair,” she said with a shrug.

“And you relinquish control of my wallet.”

You held your hand out toward her and waited. And waited. Enid giggled beside you but quickly hid it behind her hand. Well, attempted; you could still hear her. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach and up through your throat. Thank the maker you couldn’t blush.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “Fine, take it.” She slammed the wallet into your outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” You slid the wallet into your pocket. “When would you like to start?”

“Now,” she said quickly, “I’ll go get our stuff from the car!”

Oh. Oh, they had already brought their stuff? You turned slowly and looked at Enid. She couldn’t hide her own blush, but you didn’t mind. You found it rather attractive to see her face flushed with blood. Delicious even. Fangs pricked at the inside of your lips and you quickly turned your sight elsewhere.

“She had an entire argument ready in case you said no,” Enid said softly. The floor creaked before you felt her warmth against your arm.

“I’ll have her turn it into a closing argument,” you said. “Give her a chance to practice.”

“Careful,” that warmth turned into a soft hand resting on your bicep. “She is 100% Wednesday’s daughter. She’ll have you here for a week.”

“She’s already holding me hostage in my own apartment,” you teased.

Then you hesitated. Enid’s nails absentmindedly scratched against your skin, just light enough to tickle. You had kept her at (mostly) arm’s length for a long while. If you ever snapped, you refused to allow her to be on the other end of it. Not again.

But you missed her touch oh so much.

Small gestures, you could manage that. You lifted your opposite hand and placed it over hers, fingers instantly finding the small scars that littered her skin. Not all of them were from you, which left an uneasy peace within your mind. Just the feel of her hands underneath yours brought joy back into your cold chest.

“Will you be staying?” You asked quietly, your eyes meeting hers.

Until she looked away. “I wasn’t sure if you would be comfortable with it.”

You wouldn’t. If you hurt her, if you hurt Ophelia, it would kill you. You would walk to the nearest hunter - perhaps the one chasing Constance - and offer yourself. With her being so close, it was almost inevitable something would happen. You couldn’t rely on luck to keep them safe. After all, where had luck gotten you before?

But if there was ever one person that could stop your violence, it was her.

“I would love if you stayed,” you said.

The look on Enid’s face was exactly like the one you had seen back in college. When you would bring her one of her sweet treats after a rough day. After offering to draw her a bath when she was tired. On those nights when Wednesday was out studying and you both sat watching the stars, waiting for her to come home.

It broke your heart.

“I’m not staying if you two are going to act like that the whole time.”

Enid’s face reddened. “Would you like some help with your stuff?”

“Yes please,” Ophelia said. “If I don’t keep you busy, we might end up with another Addams.”

“To your room,” you said, pointing in the direction of the guest room. Not like she didn’t already know where it was.

“My room?” She asked, looking you dead in the eyes as she passed. “Seems we get another Addams anyway.”

Enid rushed off, and the warmth of her hand vanished too quickly. Within seconds, you were craving her touch again. It left an unusual tingle on your skin that you couldn’t quite describe. Pathetic, really. And yet, surprisingly, you weren’t afraid. Not this time.

—---

The change of pace within your miniscule household was… nice. Enid slept in your room, even though she had argued for a solid 13 minutes over the fact. Yet you had prevailed, insisting on sleeping on the couch because “family does not ‘couch surf’.” Ophelia had, of course, taken notes through the entire debate, and you were thoroughly interrogated afterward.

Dinners were shared at home. No more late nights at the office, not when a child’s health was at stake. Not to mention Janice wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Enid was a spectacular cook, Ophelia as well, and they teased you each time you attempted to help. Instead, they relegated you to grocery shopping (though they teased you for that as well).

The two of them worked like a well-oiled machine. While Enid claimed the girl was all Wednesday, you disagreed. You could see it in their humour, or the specific way they fidgeted with their hands. While incorporating a few more blacks than her senior, their fashion sense was identical.

Time at home was something to crave instead of dread. There was joy and laughter within the walls. What once was a dwelling of anguish and blood was now… bright. For the first time in a long time, you had something to look forward to again. All that was missing was Wednesday.

One step at a time, you reminded yourself each night. Wednesday’s blood was tempting even after finishing a meal. Bas had suggested what he called “micro dosing.” Small moments with her, enough to get you used to her scent again until it was nothing more than background noise. You begrudgingly agreed it was… a wise idea.

Perhaps, with Ophelia smelling just like her, you could get to that point sooner rather than later.

“Don’t forget lunch!” Enid said as you ushered Ophelia out the door. The prosecution had delivered another two dozen boxes to your office, and you needed to get a move on.

“Thanks,” Ophelia said quickly, grabbing the lunchbox Enid had gotten her. It matched yours.

Enid pressed a kiss to her cheek and rushed her forward. You gave her a small smile and thanked her for the lunch as well. Before you could leave, you felt warm lips on your own cheek. Every nerve in your body short circuited, freezing you in place.

When had you last felt the warmth of her lips?

“It’s just a kiss, let’s go.”

Enid pulled away first. Unlike the small touches she left throughout the day, this left a lingering heat. It radiated from where her lips had been to the rest of her face and… oh. Oh, that was what a blush felt like. You were blushing. She had made you blush.

Oh.

“We’ll go for a walk after work,” Enid said. “Now go, you’ll both be late.”

She pushed you - with more force than necessary for a human, but the perfect amount for you both - until you were out the door with Ophelia. Your mind was still a jumble of feelings, no words would form. Nothing but warmth.

“Mother would laugh at you,” Ophelia said. 

She wasn’t much better as she grabbed your hand and pulled you with her, leaving a second heat on your skin. It was… nice to hold her hand. Like she wanted you to be near, desired your presence. Was that… was that how Wednesday and Enid felt with all their children?

Was this parenthood?

Janice handed you both a mug of coffee on the way to your office. She had taken a liking to Ophelia - who wouldn’t? - and made it her goal to keep the girl fed and hydrated with whatever she wished. ‘Don’t spoil her,’ you had begged to no avail. It was a fruitless endeavour, you had abandoned it within a day.

No surprise in the least, Ophelia was rather good at digging through documents. You had said she couldn’t read anything confidential but… well, it wasn’t like your clients were the most upstanding citizens. After all, you simply had to tell the judge once that it was an internship, and she had readily accepted the arrangement.

The routine was rather simple. Together, you had hammered it out within two days. Ophelia would look for anything involving the criteria you had given her, and you would dig deeper to see if it was useful or not. On occasion, she would make the executive decision if it was helpful or not. Her intuition was rather impressive.

Half a dozen boxes had been searched and removed by the time lunch came along. Neither of you would have noticed if Janice hadn’t told you she was going to pick something up. She had smirked at your matching lunchboxes before leaving.

You both ate in silence. It was rather nice. It reminded you of the countless hours you spent with Wednesday. Not a single word, just enjoying each other’s presence as you did your own thing. You shouldn’t compare Ophelia to her mother as often but it was the only thing you had.

“You’re the one who tried to kill my moms.”

You choked on your tea, barely recovering before shooting a look at Ophelia. She wasn’t looking at you, just eating like normal. For a moment, you weren’t sure she had spoken at all.

She looked up at you. “I know what vampire bites look like.” She shrugged. “And claws.”

Her face remained impassive. You couldn’t gauge a single thought or emotion. A useful skill for a lawyer, not so much for someone who had somehow pieced together that damning piece of information.

“What makes you say that?” You asked.

“They didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I pieced it together myself.”

Her icy blue eyes stared into the spot where your soul should have been. The chill sunk deeper into your bones.

The women you loved. They were bleeding out.

“I figured that’s why you flinch when mom touches you,” she continued. “It hurts her feelings.”

You killed them both.

“Auntie Yoko says I smell just like mother,” she said, finally setting her sandwich down and forcing you to hold her gaze. “Do you wish to drain me too?”

It only exacerbated the sharp pain in your chest to see just how much you had taken from her. From your girl. Your Wednesday.

“No,” you said softly. “I would rather be staked.”

The thought of being so near to her forced a shake into your fingers. Your words rang true, whether she believed them or not. If anything were to happen to her by your hand… the thought wouldn’t even form in your mind. It was unfathomable. Nothing could cause you to lay even just a finger on her. You couldn’t.

“Good,” Ophelia said just as softly. She rolled her shoulders back and grabbed her sandwich once again. “Because mom would totes wreck your shit again.”

The day continued as usual, for everyone else. Work was completed, more boxes were removed, and the weather on the walk home was nice. Ophelia talked of the things she had discovered and you knew you should be proud of her. Her work ethic was admirable, and she was beyond clever.

At home, your girls talked of their days. Endless, animated discussions about the weather, what they had done, the cute little frog they had seen earlier. Like mother like daughter, of course. They just talked and talked and took no notice of you setting your things by the door and walking to your office.

The door closed with an almost inaudible click. Everything was in its place, and you quickly reached for the mini-fridge in the small closet. Inside were three bags of blood. Like an animal, you ripped the top off the first and devoured it, the cool liquid pouring down your throat.

It didn’t quench the pain.

You repeated the action with the other two bags, feeling engorged yet unsatisfied. The ache was still present. It was a small miracle you couldn’t see yourself in the mirror; you could feel the damp spots on your shirt and the stickiness on your lips. You opened your mouth to speak and felt the liquid spew from your lips, falling down your face in all directions. You fell into your chair, eyes glued to the red dripping from your fingers. Why did it not help?

Knuckles rapped lightly on your door, but you didn’t comprehend what it meant. The blood stained your fingers quickly. Even if you scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off. It never came off.

A soft hand rested on the spot where your neck connected to your shoulder. You flinched. Their nails scratched lightly against your skin. Fingers pushed past skin and now-exposed muscle. You would recognise the warmth even in the fires of hell.

“So,” Enid said softly. “Ophelia knows.”

“Do you believe I would hurt her?” You asked.

In the mirror, you could see Enid looking down at you. The look in her eyes was different. Pitiful, maybe? Gears turned behind those blue eyes, considering your question. Her answer would dictate the next step. If they were both concerned you would hurt her, you would leave. There was a couch in your office, you could sleep there. It was comfier than the one at your own apartment, you wouldn’t complain.

Enid’s other hand rested on the other side of your neck. Your eyes fell shut at the pure comfort from her touch alone. You could die happy with her hands around your neck, if she so wished it. It would be a rather intimate way to go.

You felt helpless as she tilted your head up. When your eyes opened, you were met with her unwavering gaze.

“If I believed that,” she started slowly, “I wouldn’t have let her stay here.”

Her nails scratched the underside of your jaw. She was close enough that you could smell the perfume she sprayed directly behind her ear. A delectable scent that was entirely Enid. Not overly sweet with a hint of citrus. After all these years, she still wore what appeared to be a strawberry lip gloss.

She was too close.

“You wanted to go on a walk,” you said quickly.

Enid didn’t move.

“Ophelia wanted to go out,” she said. “She’ll be gone for a while.”

“How do you know?”

“She took your wallet.”

You sighed. Of course she had. If she kept it up, your wallet would be kept under lock and key, not even you would be able to use it. That girl was going to rob you blind one day. And by the looks of it, you were going to let her.

“Want to watch a movie with me?” Enid asked.

“Are your parents home?” You asked.

“It never stopped you before,” she said with a smile that you couldn’t help but mirror. “Please?”

How could you say no to her perfected puppy-dog face?

“I’ll change while you get it ready,” you said.

Your undead heart raced in your chest as you both went your separate ways to get ready. The sounds from the TV echoed through the apartment. You stood in front of your dresser, looking at the options, as worried about what to wear as you had been on your first date with her. It left you as giddy as a college kid again.

It took only a moment to put a shirt and shorts on, determined to keep it cozy. You rushed to the bathroom to clean the blood from your face and hands; you needed to be presentable. Thankfully, Enid was wearing the same and already had a spot saved on the couch. A spot directly beside her. Where you would be able to feel her warmth against your thighs.

Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out.

“I picked a good one,” she said enthusiastically. “It suits you.”

You couldn’t hold in your laughter as she pressed “play” on Legally Blonde.

“That’s going to be Ophelia one day, just you watch.”

“She’d never be caught dead in pink,” Enid teased.

The movie started, and Enid placed a bowl of popcorn between the both of you, held in place by one of your thighs and one of hers. Strategic. It put just enough space between the two of you that you could feel yourself relax. You couldn’t hurt her over popcorn.

College flashed before your eyes. Watching movies with Enid, which inevitably ended in not watching the movie at all. Her lips on your neck and hands on your hips. Her smooth skin under your carefully controlled teeth. The movie longnce, t forgotten on even the worst of days.

Warm fingers brushed against yours. You blinked once. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Enid’s fingers brushing against yours in the popcorn bowl. Breath caught in your throat. What should you do? Enid never did anything accidentally.

Fuck it.

With buttery fingers, you flipped your hand and wiggled your fingers between hers. It was messy and childish. Enid instantly squeezed your hand owice, three times. Something the three of you had done in college when words were too much, but a gesture was just enough. Three squeezes for three words. Your chest ached.

You turned to face her. She was already looking at you with those hooded eyes that had always been a weakness for you and Wednesday. Enid would play dumb to get ahead, but it never worked for the both of you. You were painfully aware of the tactics she used. The only difference was you still fell for it.

It couldn’t happen. Your eyes searched out every scar she left unhidden. Each bite and clawmark she had received by your hands. You had marred her skin permanently; she would carry you with her until the day she died. It couldn’t happen.

She bit her lip.

Fuck it.

The popcorn bowl fell to the ground as you rushed forward to press a kiss to her lips. Almost instantly, her hand lifted to wrap around the back of your neck, pulling you closer. She tasted of fake butter and too much salt. Her lips were just as soft as you remembered. Softer even, if you were being honest. Blood rushed beneath her skin, sending an electrifying jolt everywhere you touched her. You could hear each heartbeat, forcing your own to match the erratic rhythm.

It was a clumsy kiss. Enid leaned forward to capture your lips again. Something sharp stung the inside of your cheek. Your eyes flew open. You pulled away quickly and turned your face, readjusting your jaw in an attempt to keep your fangs back in check.

“Are you okay?” Enid asked quickly, sitting up and following your movements.

You hummed in reply but started focusing on the pieces of popcorn littering the floor.

“Fangs?” She asked.

Silence. You nodded slowly.

“Performance issues aren’t uncommon in older vampires.”

Your head turned so quickly the bones in your neck cracked. Her hand was already covering her mouth, which you knew hid a smile.

“How dare you,” you whispered.

“I’m just saying, it’s fine,” she said with a shrug. Her hand finally lowered to her lap. “No pressure.”

“That’s pretty rude, Mrs. Addams,” you said.

Enid moved across the couch until she was leaning against your arm. You remained still, allowing her to do as she wished. She removed her hand from yours - you instantly missed the warmth - and pulled your arm over her shoulder until she was cuddled securely into your side.

“This works just fine,” she said. She shimmied a little more until she was situated perfectly. “Wednesday will be jealous.”

Her fingers interlocked with yours again as she fell silent, watching the movie. Your fangs still pricked the inside of your mouth, but it was manageable. Enid was horrifically warm against your side, and her fingers scratched against your skin, and for the first time in over a decade you let yourself lean back on the couch and relax with one of your girls in your arms.

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 1

Tommy Shelby x Reader : Chapter 1

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

Chapter summary: Seeking a fresh start in Birmingham, you never expected a late-night knock at your door to pull you into the orbit of fa family like the Shelby's. But as you work to save the life of their wounded leader, a buried memory stirs, because this isn't the first time you've stitched up Thomas Shelby.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, stitching wounds, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, brief PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

A/N: I've decided to give a Tommy Shelby x Reader multi-chapter fic a go. Comments / replies are always so appreciated (and motivating). Thanks for reading!

--

Birmingham greeted you with coal-stained skies. The air was thick with smoke and iron, clinging to your skin and settling into your lungs like something you’d never quite cough out. It wasn’t warm, and definitely wasn't welcoming. But then, you hadn’t come here looking for comfort.

You had come for a fresh start.

You stood outside the house, studying it carefully. It was small but solid, tucked on a quiet street away from the chaos of the factories. The bricks were darkened with soot, the windows a bit dusty, but the roof was sound, and the door was sturdy. Nothing fancy, nothing remarkable. Just a house. 

Your fingers tightened around the key, the cool metal pressing into your palm. You turned it over, studying the familiar scratches, the worn edges.

The house had belonged to your uncle, a man you barely remembered. He had been a quiet, reserved man, a blacksmith who kept to himself. You recalled visiting him once as a child, the memory hazy, clouded by time. You couldn’t even remember his face.

He had left Birmingham years ago, moving out to the countryside, somewhere greener, quieter. Then, he had fallen ill. 

About a month ago, a letter arrived. It was short, written in your father’s careful, uneven scrawl. "Your uncle passed away, left the Birmingham house to the family. No other heirs. If you ever need it, the house is yours."

You didn’t think much of it at first. You were busy. Trying to survive in London while out running memories of blood and war. But as the weeks dragged on, as thoughts of the war continued to haunt you, the letter weighed heavier in your mind.

It was an escape… a place to start over.

So you took the key, boarded a train, and came to Birmingham. To this house.

You took a deep breath, the air heavy with smoke and the faint scent of metal. Then, you pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door creaked open, the hinges stiff with age. You stepped inside, the wooden floorboards groaning underfoot.

The air was stale, dust settling in the corners like forgotten memories. The furniture was sparse. In the corner, a worn armchair, a rickety table, a narrow bed in the back room. 

It was yours. And that was more than you’d had in a long time.

You closed the door behind you, leaning against the wood for a moment, eyes drifting shut. The house was quiet, almost peaceful.

You let out a breath. Your fingers brushed over the windowsill, the paint chipped and peeling. This place needed work. A fresh coat of paint, a good cleaning. But that could wait.

For now, you needed to figure out your next steps. You had made it to Birmingham. You had the house. But what now? Where were you supposed to go from here?

Your gaze drifted to the bag by the door, still packed with the few belongings you had brought with you. Clothes, a journal, medical supplies.

You had been trained as a nurse during the war, a healer amidst blood and chaos. You still had the skills, the knowledge. And if you were being honest, you needed work. You couldn’t live off of memories and dust. You needed a purpose.

But the thought of returning to the sick beds, to the blood and the wounds… it made your stomach twist. You had seen enough pain to last a lifetime. Still, healing was all you knew. And despite the memories, despite the nightmares, you were good at it. 

You thought about finding a clinic, a hospital, maybe even a small apothecary. Birmingham was a big city. Surely there was work to be found. 

You just had to keep your past buried. No one needed to know about France, or about the war. They just needed to know you could patch wounds and heal the sick. You took a breath to steady yourself. Maybe you could find work somewhere quiet, somewhere far from the blood and gunfire.

You looked back at the window, watching as smoke curled through the streets outside, people bustling about their business.

You didn’t know anyone in Birmingham. No friends, no connections. Just a house. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe a clean slate was exactly what you needed.

…

The next morning, you set out with a clearer purpose. The air was thick with the scent of damp streets, the sky an endless stretch of gray, pressing low over the city. Birmingham was loud and alive, a mess of bustling crowds, shouting vendors, and the clang of metal from the factories.

You moved through the streets, weaving between workers with soot-streaked faces and women carrying baskets of bread and potatoes. The city had a pulse, gritty and restless.

You weren’t sure where you were going. Not exactly. But you needed to get a feel for the city, to know what work might be available, to see if there was a clinic, a hospital– something that wasn’t a battlefield.

The small apothecary caught your eye first.

The wooden sign creaked in the wind, the glass windows slightly fogged from the warmth inside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass bottles of tinctures, jars of dried herbs, and vials of tonics. The familiar scents– lavender, mint, camphor, grounded you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You picked up a small bottle of laudanum, checking the label, when a voice broke through your thoughts.

"Excuse me."

You turned, finding a dark-haired woman watching you with sharp, curious eyes. She was young, but there was something about her– a confidence, an ease, like she was someone who was used to asking questions and getting answers.

"Could you pass me that bottle?" She gestured to a jar on the high shelf just above you towards something amber-colored and thick, labeled in neat handwriting.

You nodded, reaching up and handing it to her. 

"Thanks," she said, turning the bottle over in her hands before glancing back at you. Her eyes flickered over you, assessing. "I’ve never seen you in here before."

Your shoulders tensed instinctively, but you kept your expression neutral.

“Probably because I’ve never been here before. I’m new to Birmingham," you said simply. "Just moved from London."

Her eyebrow arched, her lips twitching with something like amusement. "New, huh?" Her eyes scanned your face again, lingering a little too long, like she was trying to figure out what kind of person you were.

"Yeah," you answered, keeping your tone even. "Looking to get settled in." 

She hummed, clearly unconvinced. "You have family in the area then?”

"Used to. Not anymore. But my…" You paused, choosing your words carefully. "My uncle left me his house. Figured I’d put it to use."

The woman’s brow arched, curiosity flickering in her dark eyes.

"Whereabouts?"

You hesitated again. There was something unsettlingly sharp about her gaze, the way she looked at you like she was putting together a puzzle. But you couldn’t think of a reason not to answer. Not yet, at least.

"Small street. On the quieter side of the city, just east of the factories."

Her eyes flickered with recognition, her mouth curving into a half-smile. "That would be on the edge of Small Heath, then." She hummed, her expression thoughtful. "Not many folks live out that way anymore. It’s mostly warehouses and old workshops."

You nodded. "It’s quiet. Suits me just fine."

"Quiet, yeah," she echoed, her voice dipping slightly. Her eyes flicked back to you, sharp and knowing. "Unless you count the factory whistles, that is."

You offered a faint smile. "I’m hoping I’ll learn how to tune them out."

Her lips twitched. Amused. "Must be quite the change. Birmingham’s not like London."

"No, it’s not," you admitted. 

"What brings you to the shop, then?" Her gaze flicked to the bottle of laudanum still in your hand. "Not feeling well, are you?"

"No," you shook your head, placing the bottle back on the shelf. "Just stocking up. I’m a nurse."

Her eyes flickered with something– curiosity, intrigue, maybe. "A nurse?" She repeated, leaning against the counter, crossing her arms loosely. "That’s rare around here."

You shrugged, trying to keep your posture relaxed. "Figured I’d try my luck."

She studied you a moment longer, her dark eyes tracing your face, her expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, you wondered if she could see right through you.

But then she smiled– a quick, fleeting thing that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I’m Ada, by the way." Her lips twitched with a smirk. 

You introduced yourself, though the way her eyes lingered on you afterward made you feel like she was filing the name away for later.

"See you around."

And then, she was gone, disappearing into the bustle of Birmingham.

The bell above the door jingled softly in her wake. You stood there for a moment, staring after her, trying to shake the unease creeping into your bones.

Something about Ada felt like a warning.

…

By the time you made it home, the sky had darkened, and the city had taken on a different kind of life. The distant hum of music from the pubs, the sharp voices of men laughing and shouting in the streets, the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone, all of it filtered through the cracks in the door as you stepped inside.

You locked the door behind you, double-checking the latch before exhaling.

Nights were always the hardest, but routine’s helped keep you steady. 

You lit a candle on the worn table, the dim glow flickering against the bare walls. From your bag, you pulled out a small tin of herbal tea, a habit you had picked up somewhere along the way, one of the few things that had helped keep the worst of the nights at bay.

The kettle on the stove took its time, the soft whistle filling the silence. You let the sound settle into your chest, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, in Birmingham, not back there.

You poured the tea, letting the steam rise, inhaling deeply. Lavender, chamomile. Comforting. Soothing. Familiar.

You let the cup warm your hands as you moved to the small washbasin near the window. With slow, deliberate motions, you wiped the soot and city grime from your face, rinsing away the day. Your fingers traced the edges of old scars, faint but still there, a map of wounds that had long since healed.

You pushed the thought away before it could root too deep.

Back at the table, you took a slow sip of tea and focused on the small, simple details, like the warmth of the cup, the crackle of the candle, the soft creak of the house settling. Something in your chest loosened, just slightly.

You weren’t naive. You knew the night wouldn’t be easy. It never was.

But for now, you had a roof over your head. For now, you were safe. You had to let that be enough. 

…

The days passed in quiet, measured steps.

You had spent most of your time wandering the city, mapping the streets in your mind, feeling out where you might fit. Birmingham was a city of industry, of labor, of men and women working themselves to the bone. It was restless, alive, always moving.

Finding work, however, had proven more difficult than expected.

You had stopped by a few places– a small clinic near the factories, an apothecary that looked like it could use an extra set of hands. But while people were always in need of medical help, no one seemed keen on hiring a stranger.

You filled your time with small tasks, simple things to make the house feel like your own.

The place had been untouched for years, and it showed. Dust lingered in the corners, the air had been stale, the furniture old and impersonal. You scrubbed the floors, aired out the rooms, patched the curtains that were fraying at the edges. Little by little, it started to feel less like a stranger’s house and more like yours.

You found an old wooden trunk buried in the bedroom closet, filled with relics from your uncle’s past. A few books, a rusted pocket watch, a small collection of letters yellowed with age.

You didn’t know what to do with them, so you stacked them neatly in the corner. Some part of you felt strange throwing them away.

The work kept your hands busy, your mind occupied. And at night, when the city quieted and the memories tried to creep in, you stuck to your routine. Tea. Candlelight. Wash the day away.

You set the steaming cup of tea onto the worn wooden table, the candlelight flickering as the night settled around you.

The routine had become a comfort, a way to quiet your thoughts before bed. You dipped the cloth into the basin, dragging it across your skin in slow, measured strokes, rinsing away the day’s grime, the lingering scent of smoke and iron from the city streets.

The house was silent, peaceful, save for the distant hum of Birmingham outside– the occasional shout from a passing drunk, the distant bark of a dog, the clang of metal from the factories that never truly slept.

And then– A knock. 

Not just a knock. A frantic pounding at your door.

Your body tensed instantly, the cloth slipping from your fingers, landing with a soft splash in the basin.

Three sharp knocks. They were urgent– desperate.

You froze, heart hammering, staring toward the door.

For a brief, foolish moment, you considered ignoring it. Letting whoever it was move on, letting them assume you weren’t home. But then you heard another slew of frantic knocks before moving quickly across the room, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor.

You unlatched the lock and pulled the door open. A woman stood on the doorstep, wild-eyed, breathless, her coat slightly askew.

You didn’t recognize her. Her face was sharp, lined with experience, her eyes fierce and intelligent. She looked like a woman who was used to being listened to.

"You’re the nurse?" she demanded.

You blinked, the urgency in her voice rattling you.

"What–"

"No time for questions." She said sternly. “Are you a nurse or not?”

You nodded blankly. 

The woman reached forward, gripping your wrist. "Someone’s dying. You need to come. Now."

Your stomach twisted. You could have said no. You should have said no.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed your medical bag, stepped out into the cold night air, and followed the woman into the dark.

The woman dragged you down the darkened streets of Birmingham, her grip firm as you struggled to match her pace. The cobblestones were slick with the night’s dampness.

"Who are you?" you asked breathlessly, glancing at her from the corner of your eye.

"Not important," she shot back, barely sparing you a glance. "What matters is that someone is hurt, and you’re the only nurse in the bloody area who can help."

That should have made you stop. It should have made you pull away, demand more answers. But something in the woman’s tone, the raw urgency, made your feet keep moving.

"What happened?" you pressed.

"Beaten within an inch of his life," she answered curtly. "Needs stitching, stabilizing. And we can’t take him to the hospital."

That last part made your stomach turn. "Why not?"

The woman finally looked at you then, a sharp, assessing glance that made your breath hitch. "Because hospitals ask too many questions," she said. 

You didn’t argue, though unease curled in your gut. You weren’t completely stupid. You knew the type of folks who avoided hospitals were typically the ones who had reasons to stay in the shadows. The kind who couldn’t afford questions, who didn’t want records or police involvement.

The woman led you to an imposing brick manor, its dark windows towering above like watchful eyes. It stood apart from the grime and chaos of Birmingham, looming at the end of a quiet street, a stark contrast to the soot-stained buildings you’d grown used to.

The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, the path leading to the heavy front door lined with manicured hedges and polished stone. Inside, the air was cooler, cleaner, but no less suffocating. 

The woman moved swiftly, her heels clicking against the gleaming floor as she led you through grand hallways, past rooms with plush armchairs and dark, heavy drapes. Without a word, she led you up a winding staircase, her posture rigid, her pace quick. She stopped outside a heavy wooden door, turning to you with sharp, dark eyes.

"In here."

Your eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light, and that was when you saw him. A man lay slumped on top of a bed, his head lulled to the side limply, his body battered and broken. The white of his shirt was soaked through with crimson, his face barely visible beneath the swelling and bruises. He was surrounded by about eight other men– all cross talking and hovering. 

"Jesus Christ," one of the men muttered when he saw you, his voice heavy. “Who the hell is this, Polly? Thought you said you were getting help.”

"Get out." The woman– Polly’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Firm. Absolute. 

Most of them hesitated, but then they obeyed. Filing out into the hall with murmurs and glances, leaving only the one who had questioned you behind. 

She turned to you. "Fix him."

You swallowed, stepping closer, taking in the damage. The man, whoever he was, had been worked over with brutal precision. Deep cuts, swollen bruises, a gash at his temple still bleeding sluggishly. His breathing was uneven, shallow.

"I– I don’t know if I have the right supplies… He’s burning up," you murmured, pressing the back of your fingers against the man’s clammy skin.

"I can assure you that you will be compensated more than fairly if you help him," Polly said firmly.

The weight of her words settled between you like an unspoken challenge. You hesitated only a second longer before nodding, rolling up your sleeves and pressing your fingers to his pulse. Weak. But still there. 

You set your medical bag down. "I need clean water and more light, if you have it. And someone needs to hold him still."

The same man stepped forward immediately. "I got ‘im."

Polly exhaled. “I’ll get the water.”

You nodded once, then got to work.

You dropped to your knees beside the man and started taking inventory of his injuries. The most pressing issue was the bleeding. He had several deep gashes– one above his brow had sent blood streaming down his face, coating his cheek in dark red smears, another along his abdomen was deep and oozing. His ribs were bruised, possibly cracked, his breathing shallow and uneven.

His hands were scraped raw, the skin around his knuckles split open, he had fought back. But judging by the state of him, whoever he fought had won.

"I need whiskey," you said, peering towards the man, now lingering towards the end of the bed. "A lot of it."

He let out a grunt of approval before moving toward a shelf in the corner.

You reached for a clean cloth, dousing it with whatever antiseptic you had on hand, and pressed it firmly to the gash on the unconscious man’s head.

He flinched, his whole body tensing. Still fighting, even now. You murmured something low and instinctive. "Easy. You’re alright. Just hold on."

You focused on stitching the worst of the wounds, steadying your hands, ignoring the shake in your breath. 

The man with the whiskey stepped forward, dropping a bottle onto the table beside you with a dull thud.

"This for you or for him?" he asked dryly.

You didn’t glance up as you poured some onto a clean cloth, pressing it to a particularly deep wound along the unconscious man’s ribs.

He tensed, but didn’t wake.

"Both, probably," you muttered, shaking your head.

The man let out a short chuckle just as Polly returned with a basin full of water and a stack of clean cloths. She kicked the door shut behind her before carefully setting it down beside you. 

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked.

You exhaled slowly, stepping back to assess your work. "If the fever doesn’t take him."

Another silence. Then Polly nodded once, as if that was good enough.

"He’ll make it," the man muttered, rubbing his jaw. 

You weren’t so sure.

You took a step back, rubbing your sore fingers against your skirt, trying to wipe away the lingering dampness of blood. It had taken several hours– careful, grueling hours, to stitch and clean each wound, to stabilize his breathing, to keep him tethered to life.

The man in front of you was alive, but for how long was still uncertain.

"He needs rest," you said once you were finished. "No movement, no stress. Keep him warm, keep his wounds clean."

Polly nodded. But her sharp gaze lingered on you, like she was trying to see past your words, past your face, past whatever you were trying to conceal.

You held her gaze for half a second before shifting your focus back to your bag, checking your supplies, steadying your hands.

"You’ve done this before," she said suddenly.

You hesitated. Not long. But long enough for the moment to stretch. "Yes."

"In a hospital?"

"No."

Another silence.

Then she asked, “Where?”

But before you could respond, the door swung open.

"Told you she could help," a familiar voice announced.

You turned toward the sound to see the woman from the apothecary. Ada. Your stomach twisted slightly as you realized how this family had even found you.

She looked concerned, but unfazed by the scene in front of her, the gore, the man slumped on the bed, the piles of bloody, used gauze. She just strode in, coat draped over her shoulders, sharp eyes flicking from you to the unconscious man.

"Will he be alright?" she asked.

Before you could answer, the man spoke first. "He’s Tommy fucking Shelby. He’s bloody tough is what he is, ‘course he’ll be alright.”

The name made you pause. Your heart stuttered in your chest, and your eyes flickered back to the man on the bed. Thomas Shelby.

You knew that name. But from where?

You looked at him again, really looked at him– past the bruising, past the swollen eye and the split lip.

There was something… familiar. Like a ghost creeping at the edges of your mind.

And then, it hit you.

From France– from the trenches, from the cold earth and suffocating dark. 

From the tunnel collapse.

Your mind reeled, the memory creeping in like a ghost, unbidden, unwelcome. You could still see it– the flickering oil lamps barely cutting through the darkness, the stench of blood and damp soil thick in the air. The cries of the wounded had blurred together into one endless, agonizing sound, but somehow, over all of it, you had heard his voice.

Thomas Shelby had been one of the lucky ones, dragged out of the tunnel collapse, barely breathing, covered in dust and blood, muttering things under his breath that no one could understand.

You had been the one to sit with him for hours while you waited for help. You pressed a cloth to his forehead, wiped the dirt from his wounds, checked for broken bones. You had been the one to sit beside him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. And you had been there when he woke up later on in the infirmary.

His blue eyes had been dazed, unfocused. He had blinked up at you, confused, disoriented, barely clinging to the present.

"You’re alright," you had murmured, your voice calm, steady, the same tone you had used on countless soldiers before him.

He had just stared at you, breathing raggedly, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements.

Then, a whisper. The words were barely audible, slipping through cracked lips like a prayer, or a curse. "Still here, then."

“Yeah,” you responded. “You’re still here.” 

Then, his gaze flickered, just for a moment. "And so are you."

It had startled you then, that he had remembered you. In the chaos, in the dark, you had been just another nameless pair of hands keeping him from slipping away. But he had remembered.

Your fingers clenched around the bloodied cloth still in your hand. You forced yourself to move, to step back from him, to push away the ghosts that clawed at the edges of your mind.

"You’re not leaving, are you?" Ada’s voice cut through the thick silence, sharp and knowing.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus on the present. "I’ve done all I can," you murmured, more to yourself than to them. "If he makes it through the night, he’ll live."

The man huffed. "And if he doesn’t?"

You didn’t answer. Because you had seen enough men slip away in the dead of night, their bodies giving out long after their minds had fought to stay.

You didn’t want to see another.

Polly, who had been watching you closely, exhaled through her nose, as if making a decision. “Stay the night. Watch over him. I’ll double your payment."

Your eyes flickered to hers. Calculating. Appraising.

A pause stretched between you.

Then, finally she sighed, “Triple."

“Jesus, Pol,” the man said. 

“Quiet, Arthur–” she snapped. 

They were desperate– his family, you had to assume. And how could you say no? They were begging in the language they knew, money. 

“Triple is robbery. Double is fair,” you replied with a sigh. 

Polly’s sharp gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before she gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied.

"Okay then," she said.

Ada exhaled beside her, arms crossed over her chest, watching you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. 

The man– Arthur, then took another swig from the bottle of whiskey and muttered, "Fucking hell, he’d better wake up after all this."

You turned back to the man lying unconscious on the makeshift bed, his face still swollen, barely recognizable under the deep bruising. His breathing was still shallow, his body eerily still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

You reached for the cloth and basin of water that Polly had brought earlier, wetting the rag and dabbing gently at the dried blood along his jawline.

"We’ll be downstairs if you need anything," Polly said after a moment. "Ada, come on."

Ada hesitated briefly, her gaze flickering between you and Tommy, before she gave you a slight nod and followed her out of the room.

Arthur lingered. He stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching as you continued to clean the remnants of violence from Thomas’ face. "You know, when Pol said she was getting help, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about," he admitted, voice gruff. 

You didn’t look up, just kept your focus on pressing the damp cloth to the dried blood along his jawline.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, rubbing his face briefly before nodding toward you.

"But… thanks. For saving my brother."

You finally glanced up, finding something genuine in his gaze. You just nodded. A quiet acknowledgement.

Arthur lingered for a beat longer before muttering, "Right then."

Then he turned and strode toward the door, disappearing into the hallway, leaving you alone.

Next Chapter >>

[meet-me-backstage]

𓃗

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ꥟ Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ꥟ It had been years since you ran away from Joel Miller, a hunter, frightened for your life and of who he had become. Before the infected roamed he was the grumpy single father of a chirpy little girl who lived across the street from you and kept himself to himself… until he didn’t, not with you at least when you began watching over Sarah while he couldn’t. He became someone who you could talk to, a friend dare you say, a silly little crush and your lifeline at the beginning of the apocalypse.

Now you are residing in Jackson, a slice of heaven in a cruel world, the perfect distraction from your past and the hell you went through to get away from it. However, you realize that the past really does always come back to haunt you when all too familiar faces arrive at Jackson and you have no other choice but to face Joel again, who makes it his mission to fix your broken friendship.

Unable to fight your heart, feelings resurface and lines blur when it becomes clear that you are just as much Joel’s lifeline as he is yours.

𝑨 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ꥟ Horror themes, not strictly following the first game/season + not at all following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, grief, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, mention of vomit, violence, nightmares, PTSD, a lil smidge of dark!Joel, Jackson!Joel, soft & protective with a bit of a dad bod!Joel, unrequited love until it isn’t, jealousy, mutual pining, age gap (reader is 36 and Joel is 56) and smUUUUT (‼️) so you must be 18+ to read❗️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ꥟ 13.1K (I’m sorry y’all, I got carried away with this one lol😅)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ꥟ Grief, mention of death, parental neglect, bad language, angst, a Platonic (with a capital ‘P’‼️) reader x Joel pre-apocalypse flashback, PTSD, nightmares, blood, violence and mentions of pregnancy.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝! <𝟑

⇜ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

THEN

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

'It's you... Moved into Sammy's old place across the street not that long ago, right?'

'Errr - yeah?'

'So you got a home - what're you doin' in mine?'

'Sarah invited me in.'

'She also give you the last cinnamon bun?'

'Maybe?'

''Course she did... That was mine.'

'Oh - um - ‘m sorry, Mr Miller - I didn’t kn—’

'Look - 's been a long day and this ain't a daycare so I think it's 'bout time you go home.'

That was it.

That was how you met Joel Miller.

The first day that you'd stepped foot into Joel and Sarah Miller's home, the first time that Joel had ever even acknowledged you, the first time you'd ever seen him up close rather than from across the street or your bedroom window, watching him make monotonous tasks like doing the lawn or hanging laundry look captivating... You figured that you'd just caught him at a bad time, but you didn't blame him for being irritated. He had caught you in the middle of taking a bite out of the last of the cinnamon buns that Sarah had made with the sweet Connie Adler... and you were watching Dawn of the Wolf: Part One, a horror movie that Sarah had snuck out of Joel's dvd collection.

You left just as he'd told you to, politely muttering a 'goodbye' as you did, but you were kinda annoyed that you never got to see what happened at the end of that movie, or find out what the twist was that all the movie buff's at school whispered about when it showed in the theatres at Halloween in 2001... you couldn't go at the time, so you cursed and kicked at the sidewalk whenever you saw the poster, slamming all of it's blockbusting epicness in your face.

It was Sarah's idea... really.

The whole thing.

You'd seen her before that day, just like you had Joel, across the street.

She'd wave at you, smile at you and you'd do the same while your fathers would just stare at each other, sizing the other up.

She'd knocked on your door on a lonely summer's day in 2002, your father was at work, so it didn't take much persuading on your part to run across the road with Sarah, her curly hair bouncing with each skip of your steps while she grabbed onto your hand, leading you to her home as if you didn't know where she lived, as if you hadn't seen each other through your bedroom windows and awkwardly waved before diverting your focus back onto your dreaded maths homework.

While sat on the comfy sandy-brown leather couch tucked into the bay window in the middle of the living room, holding that cinnamon bun, you and Sarah were asking each other questions. She seemed so excited just to be sitting with you, with someone who wasn't so familiar like her father or uncle, someone who wasn't a relative that she could relate to, who was closer to her age that she could befriend.

She was lonely, just as you had been.

The move was unexpected and quick... your dad had gotten a new job opportunity here in Austin, Texas - far from your home before. You knew that he would take the job without even considering that you would have to leave your friends, your boyfriend, extended family, school and, most importantly, the house that your mom made a home - the house that she took her last breath in... you'd left them all behind, never to be spoken of again.

All for him... and he was never even around.

Settling into a new high school... it was your worst nightmare. Pushing your way through narrow hallways, cramped by other students who stood in their close knit friendship groups, unwilling to welcome the newbie into their arms.

And the neighborhood... it was neighborly, but it was also quiet most of the time. However, neighbors like Connie and Danny Adler, they were around all the time to look after Connie's elderly mother, Nana... you couldn't avoid them, they'd be sat outside eating even during the winter just to greet everyone who walked by.

That was how you first met Sarah... officially. You both happened to be walking back from school at the same time, the difference between you being that Sarah was beaming, radiant, and you were frowning, dulled after a day that merged into the last, just like the rest had since you'd moved. Connie and Danny were sat outside feeding Nana, who was confined to her wheelchair and unresponsive to everything around her. You would speed-walk past to avoid them, it wasn't that you didn't like them, they were a harmless little unit, it was just that you weren't in the mood to talk... you never were.

That day was just the same, except Connie had spotted you just as Sarah was walking towards them to drop by.

She did that a lot, an example of how selfless a girl Sarah Miller was.

Connie called you over with that sprightly high-pitched voice of hers, but it wasn't that that made you stop walking, it was the pleading look that Sarah sent you afterwards. That was what made you change your mind, then you and Sarah were ushered into the Adler home to spend the evening baking cookies, to make a friend - finally.

Your first friend in Austin.

Your mood elevated significantly after that day.

Granted, Sarah was a few years younger, but she was everything that you could ask for in a friend: good company with witty humor, but also so kind. Clearly she thought the same about you, her excitement being just as evident as yours because the day after she knocked on your door and dragged you to her home, telling you how 'bored out of her mind' she was and to come try her 'kickass cinnamon swirls'.

Her hazelly green eyes lit up at the coincidence of you having never seen the first part of Dawn of the Wolf, and her dad recently buying it at the local dvd store, after she'd asked you: 'if you could pick any movie to watch right now, what would it be?'

Joel thought that he had gotten rid of you after kicking you out of his house the first time.

He was mistaken.

You and Sarah became inseparable.

You both took comfort in being the same chess piece on a shitty old chessboard with several pieces missing.

Whether you were sprawled out laughing with Sarah on her bed, listening to cds with Sarah on her boombox, sat on the couch with Sarah watching horror movies, or sat on the kitchen counter eating pancakes you made with Sarah, Joel would always utter the same two words whenever he saw you as if he didn't expect you to be in his house. It was like a routine, or a habit of his that made the lack of visitors the Miller household would get so obvious before you moved directly across the road from it in the spring of 2002.

You'd hear the engine of Joel’s truck, the jingling of keys from outside, the door swinging open and a sweaty Joel, after a long day of work, would jump out of his skin at the sight of you and Sarah together before playing it off like it was nothing, and then...

'It's you.'

'Oh - it's you.'

'Oh shi- it's you again.'

And your personal favorite: 'Jesus fuckin' chri- it's you.'

You'd snicker into your hand, oh so discreetly hiding your amusement and failing every time because you weren't exactly trying hard enough, and Joel? Joel noticed everything, and even though he always seemed irked by you, he'd watch you cross the wide and desolate road from his porch to make sure you got back home safe - maybe it was an attentive father thing, you wouldn't know anything about it... your father wouldn't know if you'd gone missing even if the local sheriff shoved your missing poster in his face.

Your dad didn't know that you'd formed a close bond with Sarah, didn't notice that you'd been in the house opposite the street, didn't even notice that you'd left.

On the rare occasion that he was at home it was like he wasn't truly there with you. He treated you like a ghost, maybe because he pictured you as one, everyone back at your hometown would tell you how much you reminded them of your momma, but you'd never know if he did think that because he would never sit with you to talk about how much it hurt him just to look at you.

He kept his distance from you, threw himself into work, mumbling a 'later, sweetie' under his breath if you decided to bother knocking on the door of his study to tell him that you'd be at Sarah's or school.

It didn't hurt you anymore, not like it did when your mom's passing felt like a freshly opened wound to your heart.

Now you woke up every morning with a little smile on your face, hugging your favorite pillow to your chest, anticipating your day spent with Sarah and the reaction that Joel would have when he'd step through the front door only to find you with Sarah in his house for the umpteenth time.

Would he smile? Probably not.

Would he laugh? Definitely not.

Would he shake his head? Probably.

Would he tell you to go home? Definitely.

You tried not to take it too personally. If there was one thing you knew about Joel from the few times that you'd seen him out in the wild, it was that he hated everybody, or he acted like he did... not including Sarah, he loved her, you could tell by the way he drove her to school every morning, the way he'd adjust her backpack while it hung on her shoulders so that the straps wouldn't dig into her skin and leave those sore red marks that you'd get from lugging your own backpack after walking back home from what felt like a never-ending day at school.

Ignoring those same sore red lines from that same backpack, you found yourself stood in your usual place, bouncing on your feet in front of the glossy white door that separates you from the cozy interior of Joel and Sarah's home.

You'd started knocking seconds ago, your tongue peeking past your lips in full concentration as you hit a fun rhythm against the wood, entirely expecting Sarah's face to be the one you're greeted with... but it isn't.

It's his... Joel's grumpy face.

Your fist is still balled and held up mid-knock.

He's never here.

Not during the day anyway.

Only Joel would loom over you like a gatekeeper to his home... Sarah would've welcomed you in by now with a wide, toothy smile and outstretched arms.

He stares down at you silently for only five seconds after he'd opened his front door, but it feels so much longer than that, like an eternity compared to a brief moment. As usual he looks disappointed by your being invading his space, the one who dared to knock on his door and disturb his peace.

"It's you - again," he grumbles unenthusiastically while he holds the door half open with his palm, still looking down on you like you are an imposition to him and his time.

There they are.

Those two words.

But you don't feel the urge to giggle or hide a timid smile this time - maybe it's getting old... kinda like him - though you're quick to rule that thought out, choosing to place the blame at the hands of his harsh scrutiny towards you with those stern brown eyes of his.

He raises an eyebrow in question, like he doesn't know why you're stood on his porch, but then you realise that you'd not said a word to him in response like you typically did, you'd not even moved a muscle - still in a statue-like state caused by your confusion at his presence as if it was such a shock to you that he actually lives in the house that he works so hard to pay for.

Your arm abruptly falls back down to your side with a faint slap, feeling a slight ache in it after holding it up for too long. Say something - say something - say something - anything, stupid— "err hi, Mr - um - Miller - is Sarah home?" You ask timidly, trying to ignore your stomach doing a series of backflips that make you feel all giddy inside.

He grunts, nodding his head before looking over his shoulder to call Sarah, who you presume is awaiting your arrival in her room. You lift your head fully, gazing up at him - he looks... clean. There's not a trace of grime on him like there normally is after he'd spent the day doing construction, his dark stubble doesn't have any wood chip stuck in it and his hair is not flattened from wearing a hard hat all day - he looks... kinda cu— "Sarah!"

"What is it, daddy?!" You hear Sarah's voice coming from the living room, you also hear the television, it sounds like a movie just by the heavy orchestral music sequence in the background of muffled dialogue.

They are watching a movie - together.

Suddenly you feel like you're invading and you never felt like that here before.

Joel's head is still faced to the side and occasionally he side-eyes you, his lips downturned and the lines of his warm-toned skin are deep at the corners of his mouth, "that kid from across the street is here again - I thought we said no visitors today!"

Your palms feel clammy and those backflips your stomach was doing before? They no longer make you feel giddy - you feel agitated at the sole existence of the man standing before you, who is now casually leaning his side against the door as if he doesn't notice the way that your face is flushed with embarrassment.

Pfft - 'That kid.'

Why'd he have to be so mean?

Why’s he talking about you like you’re not stood right in front of him?

His sheer annoyance towards you is suddenly not as funny as you originally thought it to be... he must really hate you, even more than the other neighbors.

Why're you so butthurt about it?

"Look, kid - I ain't had a day off in a long time 'nd—," he exhales, diverting his gaze back down to you, "between you 'nd me, I'd really like to have this one day with my daughter - you think you could allow me th—"

"I have a name, asshole," you blurt before any of it processes in your head, skipping the part where your brain checks off the words and instead going straight to the part where you vocalize them.

Your heart does one particularly loud beat that you're sure even Joel hears.

Did you really just say that?

You're never gonna see Sarah again now.

After the initial shock of what you’d said washes over his features, you hear it for the first time, a low chuckle coming from Joel's mouth, albeit not at all genuine, it oozes sarcasm and his eyes are darker, colder than they were before you called him an 'asshole'. "You kiss your momma with that mouth?" His voice is smooth and smug, and there's a hint of light-heartedness in his eyes that is unfamiliar to you, angering you even more.

The fact that it was possible to make Joel laugh.

All of those dumb jokes that you'd pulled from your sleeve just to try and make him laugh, only for him to have no reaction at all.

No, it took calling him out on his assholery to get a cackle out of him, to see that prizewinning glimmer in his eyes... and your mom.

Why'd he have to make a joke about her?

You don't realize it until you feel them trickle from your tear ducts down to the corners of your mouth, but you're crying... you're crying in front of Joel Miller and to say that you're horrified is an understatement.

You hadn't cried like this since your mom... and Joel looks perplexed, like he has no idea what to do, but you can see through your blurred vision that his face looks softer, the lines around his eyes and forehead less obvious.

"What the - dad, not cool - her mom - she's—" Sarah appears behind Joel, aiming a disappointed look up at him.

Realization spreads across his facial features, his posture stiffens and his arm drops to his side, "oh," his mouth opens further to apologize, or maybe to joke about you some more... you don't know because you run back home before you find out.

You don't look back to see if he is watching you, but you just know that he is, you can feel his gaze burning into your back as if it made any difference to your safety, as if it were strong enough that it'd stop any speeding cars from hitting you... truth was, you didn't care right now.

You were pretty sure you'd lost Sarah.

And without Sarah, you had no one.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

You were supposed to visit Sarah yesterday.

She remembered how you'd not gotten around to finishing that Dawn of the Wolf movie and wanted to finally finish it with you... It was what you'd initially planned to do with her the other day, when Joel opened the door and... yeah, that didn't work out. Instead, you decided that rotting in your room, reading books and junk eating would be how you spent your summer holiday.

It's way better than being bullied by some grumpy grumbling dinosaur for a neighbor, you tell yourself.

But you miss Sarah - a whole damn lot.

You miss her infectious energy, how she'd lighten the mood so easily after a heart to heart about your moms.

You'd never tell Joel, though it's not like you could now anyway, avoiding him and all, how Sarah felt safe enough around you to open up about how her mom had left without so much as a note or phone call after the divorce, when she was only a baby. She told you how she had no memory whatsoever of her mom, what she looked like, not even a photograph... At least you had those memories to hold close to your heart, a moment of finality with your mom before she left you that Sarah never got to experience.

You're seated at your desk reading with your chin rested on the palm of your hand, the book in your other. Your eyes drift to the framed photograph of your mom that you rummaged out of an old photo album you saved from the trash on moving in day.

She's looking directly at the camera, appearing as though she's smiling at you, just as you liked to remembered her - beautiful and carefree... Usually you smiled back, but you didn't tonight, not only because you weren't in the mood to or because your book had some kind of gravitational pull that lured your attention back into its pages, but because you saw, in the corner of your eye, a light outside.

With your desk's placement in front of the only window in your room and the darkening sky outside you can focus entirely on it, quickly realising that it's coming from Joel and Sarah's front porch. It had responded to motion, you notice when you see two figures, one in front of the other, a smaller and larger one, the smaller one dragging the latter across the road.

The closer that the two figures get to your home, the clearer they become.

It's Joel and Sarah.

An audible gasp leaves your lips. It looks as if Sarah has talked him into this just by the way that his steps towards your house seem hesitant, but she ignores it, dragging him with her hand that barely wraps around his forearm. Her mouth is moving too, talking up at him like she is giving him strict orders.

As they disappear under the frame of your window and step onto your own front porch, a sight you never thought you'd see, you abruptly lift yourself and lean forward, your hips digging into the edge of your desk just to observe them until you lose sight due to the tiled roof of the porch beneath your window.

Your nose and lips are pressed flat against the glass when you hear a faint knock at the door, your heart thumps once after the sound echoes throughout the house.

Another knock.

Another thud of your heart.

A call and response.

The third knock is what causes you to jump away from your window, you draw your attention away from the condensation, the marks you'd left clear on the glass and glance down at the photo of your mom, silently begging her for some form of reassurance, advice, or for her to just magically tell you what to do.

She wouldn't want you to lose your friendship with Sarah.

She wouldn't want you to be alone.

She'd want you to open the door.

She’d tell you to go open the door.

A fourth knock sounds... You decide to go and answer after an internal battle between your brain and heart.

It isn't until you're approaching your front door that you notice the ache in your hips from digging them into your desk in a vigorous effort to study every movement from the father and daughter on the other side of it - you're sure it's going to leave bruises tomorrow.

After deeply inhaling and exhaling you reach for the door handle, twisting and opening it to peek your head through the gap between the door and it's frame, feigning curiosity, like you had no idea who to expect behind it.

"—n't you worry, honey - we'll try tomorrow," Joel tells Sarah. They've got their backs to you, about to give up on you, but they're still on the porch so you stop yourself from internally cursing at how much time you'd wasted to answer - it's not too late.

Sarah nods half-heartedly, her posture visibly deflated.

"Hey," you murmur before you can stop yourself, shut the door and wither away in your room at the hands of your cowardice.

Sarah's head turns first, then Joel's.

Sarah says your name, relief crossing over her features, not looking so defeated as she grabs onto her dad's arm again and pulls him to stand directly in front of you.

Joel does not look so pleased to be dragged around by a fourteen year old after he'd clearly just got back home from work. He was still in his construction clothes, donning his white hardhat, a padded navy jacket that has sawdust and stains all over it as well as tight-fitting blue jeans and boots that had seen better days.

You slowly open the door, it creaks as you reveal the innards of your home… The dim light from the bulb above you spotlights the emptiness, the lack of family photographs and decoration.

Joel is examining the space behind you, his eyes flicker around… He spots the differences between his home and yours, a loving home and an empty one. He wasn't the perfect father, he was exhausted by the time he got back home to Sarah, received constant work calls and had to run around after his brother, Tommy, all the damn time... but at least he made time for Sarah at the end of the day.

Suddenly it's so alarmingly obvious to Joel as to why he'd find you in his house most evenings.

Even what he had to offer for a home was better than the hand you'd been dealt.

Sarah tugs at his arm, "dad - dad," she whispers, grabbing his attention the second time she calls him.

He glances down at her, subtly nodding and muttering an 'I know I know - gimme a second' under his breath, acting as if you're not stood right there... He does that a lot. His hair peeks out messily from under his hat when he lifts his head to awkwardly make eye contact with you. "Ki—" he stops before even starting, and just when you're considering slamming the door in his face, he calls you by your name.

Your jaw goes slack, "w-what - do you want?"

"’S—" he scratches the side of his glistening neck and you gain some fulfilment from that - him being nervous for once. "Your dad home?"

"No," you state, shrugging your shoulders, "he's workin' late."

Joel nods, fighting the urge to roll his eyes - he'd heard that one before, many times from his own mouth - to Sarah, "'course he is." He bites his tongue, you can tell by the way his lips pout while Sarah silently urges him to speak, “Sarah and I - we was wonderin’ if you wanted to—” he looks down at Sarah again like he’d forgotten the words on a script and needed some guidance going through it, “we thought it’d be nice if you joined us - for dinner - ‘n’ watch that movie you like—”

“Dawn of the Wolf?” You blink profusely, hopeful.

“Yeah - Dawn of the Wolf.”

You divert your eyes to Sarah, who is nodding eagerly with each word that comes out of her father’s mouth.

When he’s done talking she looks at you, begging you with those wide eyes that you could never say no to, and her grip on Joel’s arm even tighter, stopping his blood from flowing where her fingertips are pressing into his skin. “Pleaseee pleaseee pleaseee join us!” Sarah adds.

You can’t leave her in suspense for a second longer.

“Sure - I’ll um - join you,” you answer, breaking out into a grin at the same time Sarah does, who drops her dad’s arm and steps forward, pulling you into a hug. She squeezes you so forcefully into her arms, so carried away by her excitement that you can hardly breathe between giggling, “it’s - only been - two days.”

“I don’t care - I missed you,” she confesses to you without a care in the world now that she had her friend back.

Another choked giggle escapes you as you wrap your arms around her, “I - missed you too.”

Joel is stood still watching you and Sarah hug each other… You swear that you see a hint of a smile plastered across his lips at the sight, “c’mon you two, dinner’ll be gettin’ cold.”

“Okay, daddy,” Sarah mumbles while you nod against her shoulder… Then she gives Joel a thankful glance after letting go of you.

You shut yourself outside with them and Sarah holds onto your hand just as she did the first time she invited you into her home, pulling you away from your porch and towards the road.

Joel follows close behind so you’re sandwiched between both members of the Miller family. He strides with his serious eyes glued to you, Sarah and the road, but you’re sure that he’s feeling some kind of relief underneath the tough exterior at the fact that he’s not the one being pulled around by his daughter anymore.

He says your name again, clearer this time, and just as you’re about to cross the dimly lit street, you’re stopped by his hand on your shoulder, a light touch, but you feel the roughness of his palm and fingers all the same.

His eyes can look so kind when he means for them to be.

“Sarah—” he nods in the direction of his little girl, who has let go of your hand and broken into a sprint towards her front door in so much of a frenzy of excitement that she has momentarily forgotten about yours and Joel’s existence, “she told me about your mom.” Joel squeezes your shoulder, not enough for it to hurt, but enough for you to know that he means his words, and is trying to make up for his awkward delivery of them, “if I’d have known I wouldn’t have said what I said.”

You hum, nervously achknowledging his odd way of apologizing.

For a split second he looks down at his old boots, the soles of them falling apart, shaking his head and muttering to himself at the same time. Then he clears his throat and meets your gaze, “I’m sorry - really, I am.”

Two words you never expected to hear from Joel Miller.

NOW

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

'It's you - 's really you.'

Joel, just a few metres away from you, stares at your barely conscious body that had fallen into the stacks of hay bales behind you, knocking them all to the ground and ruining the neat orderly way that you'd first organised them a few days ago. Luckily the back of your head hadn't made any contact with the concrete or wooden shelving, narrowly missing them all on your way down. The thudding sound and force of your body hitting the stacks had sent hay flying and falling much slower than you did around and on top of you, covering you like an itchy fleece blanket.

They all rush to your side, Rick, Maria, Tommy, Jean and a teenage girl you didn't even know... Not Joel, he stays exactly where he is, static and bewildered, just as you had been minutes ago when you first turned and saw him.

He places his hand over his heart, rubbing up and down when he feels the beat of it becoming uncontrollably fast, causing his lips to tremble and let out fast and shaky breaths... it's the sight of you laying there, unable to move because of him, but he cannot bring himself to drag his eyes away for his own good.

He's so sure that you'll vanish if he does, that he'll look away and none of this will have been real, that Tommy isn't here and Jackson is just a figment of his imagination.

The man who owned Jackson Ranch, Rick, Joel had found out, scooped you into his arms effortlessly. Joel was introduced to the younger man by Tommy and Maria, who were being very obvious about their uneasiness as soon as they led him and Ellie towards the ranch during a very tense tour of Jackson... It was crystal clear to Joel that something was going on that he didn't know about by the way that Maria whispered in Tommy's ear the closer they got to the stable.

Joel caught a few snippets by turning his head to the right so that his good ear faced the direction of their private discussion...

'You don't know her like I do, Tommy.'

'What're you talkin' about? 'Course I do.'

'No, you don't - not anymore... I'm telling you, she is not ready for this.'

'She's gonna find out sooner or later - might as well be sooner, don't you think?'

Perhaps some part of Maria agreed with her husband, she stayed silent after that.

Joel still had no idea what the fuck they were talking about and if there was one thing that pissed him off, it was being left in the dark, especially after travelling all this way, convinced that his little brother was in serious trouble and needed rescuing, or dead and needed burying.

He got so impatient that he was even considering killing Tommy himself there and then, right in the middle of the stable in front of all the horses, Ellie, everybody... but he decided against it, wanting to uncover whatever mystery Tommy and Maria were trying to hide from him.

'You gonna tell me?' He interrupted them just as they stepped out onto the snowed over grazing grounds for the horses, ignoring the confused looks he received from Rick, Jean and Ellie.

'Tell you what?' Both Maria and Tommy blurted at the same time.

'Whatever the fuck it is you're tryin' to hide.'

Maria sent a look towards her husband.

'Brother, you might wanna take a few breaths before I tell—’

'Tell me before I do somethin' I regret.'

'It's—'

That's when Joel saw you walking out of a barn and towards the shelter full of hay.

He'd recognise you anywhere, even after how long it'd been since he saw you last.

Sixteen goddamn years.

The thought ran through his mind, that he’d finally succumbed to his old age and was losing it... Exhausted after travelling across the country.

But then it all made sense... you were the reason why Tommy and Maria had been acting so shifty about leading him here.

You worked here.

You lived here.

He managed to croak out your name in the midst of his shock before he shoved himself through Tommy and Maria and headed in your direction, calling out for you louder.

Tommy and Maria quickly caught up with him, telling him to 'slow down', to 'think about this' while the others followed close behind, but he ignored them all, focused entirely on you holding a hay bale in your arms.

It was you.

It was really you.

You're really here... Here in Jackson.

Seeing you cradled in Rick's arms, your face in the crook of his neck, your tears staining his skin and your knees bent over his arm, Joel realizes just how real you are. You are a real, living and breathing person made up of organs, limbs and skin that he once knew and not some story-book character from a chapter he'd read a long time ago.

"Can I - do somethin'?" Joel finds himself asking Rick while staring at your mostly motionless form.

Rick had also been staring down at you, tracing his fingertips over the creases at the bend of your knee to soothe your distressed mumbling and restless stirring... That is until he hears Joel's voice, the helplessness of his tone not going unnoticed, but Rick is too angry to care about it.

Dealing with another Miller arriving in Jackson is not his current priority... you are.

"I think you've done enough for now, don't you?" Rick spits with a glare directed at Joel that doesn't waver until after he passes the older man and sets his eyes on the metal gates leading onto one of the many streets in Jackson. Your street, your house, it is only a small distance from the stable and Rick is determined to get you there, "let's get you home," he mumbles, the stubble on his chin tickling your forehead.

Joel watches Rick's every move until the two of you disappear, too small for him to see, even if he squints.

Maria pulls Ellie aside and Tommy brings a hand to Joel's shoulder, shaking it a little to divert Joel's attention onto him. Joel's eyes, full of unanswered confusion, flicker erratically across Tommy's familiar facial features, grasping desperately for anything recognisable in order to try and make sense of a situation he never pictured happening - seeing you again.

Tommy's moustache, though it's darker than Joel's graying facial hair, it mirrors his own. The same eyes and hair, although again, Joel's show signs of his aging with the odd gray hair and sunken eyes that have seen way too much. After studying Tommy's similar freckles dotted along his smoother, paler skin... Joel found that he still couldn't make sense of any of it, which alarms him to a disturbingly high degree.

On the rare occasion that Joel had no idea what to do, Tommy would be there - his little brother was surprisingly good at that, given the amount of times Joel had to take charge and save his ass when it came to money or business.

When Sarah died in Joel's arms, you were there, Tommy was there too. His little brother knew that there was nothing that could be done to save his precious niece... She was gone.

Joel was hysterical, in no place to make any rational decisions, and neither were you after watching your best friend take her last breath... it only got worse when the realisation dawned on the three of you that there was no time or way of burying her, the infected were everywhere, soldiers were everywhere.

It was chaos.

Tommy took matters into his own hands. He led you both to safety that night, over a bridge and eventually to a triage clinic.

Right now Joel only sees doubt in Tommy's eyes, even his little brother doesn’t know what to do, "Tommy - I—" his voice cracks.

Tommy gives Joel his best attempt at a reassuring smile, "C'mon - we'll talk over a drink."

For the first time in a long time, Joel feels useless.

A drink could help take the edge off a little.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

You can hear distant, panicked voices surrounding you, but you can't see, nothing but darkness anyway.

It's a safe place... away from Joel.

He may have somehow managed to find you in Jackson, but he could never find you here in this state between consciousness and unconsciousness.

You focus on the gentle rocking of your body, calming words spoken into your ear, and even though you have no clue what is being said it lulls you into a peaceful rest until you're still, no longer being cradled or lullabied, you're laying on your mattress alone.

In an instant you don't as safe as you did before.

The blackness that envelopes you turns red.

Blood.

You're drowning in it again.

There hadn't been any time to take a long breath, you’re engulfed by it immediately this time and your legs kick violently, swimming your way up towards the surface before whatever it was that grabbed you last time could wrap itself around your ankles and drag you down further.

It had to be Joel, a monstrous, inhuman devil incarnate of him that is trying to kill you in various ways.

Part of you questions why you can't hear his voice.

Or see him.

He’s always here.

Maybe he's waiting for you to reach the surface of this pool of death that knows no limit.

The crimson redness of your vision becomes lighter as you near your survival, throwing your arms out as widely as you can just for one breath of fresh air… that's all that matters, not the likelihood of him being there at the finish line - you're that desperate as you feel yourself choking through gurgling, metallic-tasting screams.

Mid-scream, your face comes into contact with the surface and you squint, seeing the silhouette of a broad-shouldered being above you. Joel had been waiting for you here rather than below, teased you into believing that you could escape, given you hope only for it to backfire.

You decide in a split second that lashing out on him is your last possible resort to escape, so you reach above your head as you take prolonged, exaggerated breaths.

"Woah - hey - hey, it's me!" A voice unfamiliar to your nightmares calls to you.

It's Rick.

Your eyes fly open, panicked, and you’re breathing rapidly through your mouth. You've got the collar of Rick's off-white shirt balled into your fists, frozen when you realise that none of it had been real. You’re laying in bed, your bedding soaked with sweat again.

Rick's face is close and his large hands are wrapped around your wrists, urging you with small tugs to loosen your tight grip on his shirt, "it's me," he repeats calmly.

"R-Rick?" You murmur as if you're unsure, but you can see that it's him and not Joel, or Tommy even, because your side lamp is on, the light of it hitting the left side of his face.

"Yeah," he murmurs as quietly as you had questioned him, "you were havin' a nightmare."

You feel your cheeks flush when you notice your thumbs coming into contact with Rick's jugular, still in attack mode, "sorry - I - I thought you were—" Joel - you stop yourself, but Rick isn't stupid, he knows exactly who you mistook him to be, "someone else."

"Hm," Rick leans forward on the wooden chair beside your bed and brings his hands together to rest on the edge of your mattress.

He looks worn out by the events of the day... It's dark out now, he must've been sat with you since you'd passed out at the shelter.

Oh shit.

Pearl.

Shimmer.

The thought of them starving makes you jolt your upper half up and tear your duvet off of you, "Shimmer - Pearl, they need feedin' - I - they’ll be wondering where I a—"

"They've been fed - don't you worry about that," he coaxes you back down without laying a hand on you, but you notice that you're no longer wearing your work jacket or boots, he must've taken them off while you were asleep.

"What? How? Pearl would never let you do that."

Rick nods, "Jean's been coverin' for me while I've been here 'n' - y'know Jean is Pearl's second favorite, you bein' her first of course," he talks to you as if you hadn't been on the verge of killing him minutes ago which calms your nerves, but it doesn't stop you from feeling guilty about it.

You nod, frowning. The red marks that you'd left on his neck are starting to bruise, "I'm so sorry, Rick."

"For what?"

"These," you mutter, timidly reaching out to point out the red patches, your index finger accidentally brushing one of them, "shi—"

"'S okay... Didn't get me quite so bad this time," he smiles, a glint of cheekiness in his eyes.

The fact that he's joking with you instantly relaxes you, but your back rests against your bed's headboard only for you to jolt forward again a second later, "but - the whole ranch - all your workers - they must be wonderi—"

"Maria got some extra hands in. Everything is covered so stop your fussin', you'll give yourself another concussion."

You huff, reluctantly sinking back against the headboard again, nodding. "Where's Maria now?"

Rick blinks up at you, "at the Tipsy Bison - probably helpin' Seth with clearin' up."

Shit.

You whip your head in the direction of the digital clock stood on the middle of your side-table by your lamp and that same framed photo of your mom you had on your desk in Austin twenty years ago.

21:57.

Triple shit.

The movie.

The 'date' - with Rick.

"Oh Rick - the movie," you sigh, wanting to just deflate back into your bed and cocoon yourself in your duvet.

Rick chuckles, "didn't want to see it anyway." His face flushes pink, making the forming bruises even more red than they were before, "I er - was only goin' for you, thought that much was obvious."

You smile shyly at his confession, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes and Rick sees it.

You wanted to see the movie.

You wanted to go on that 'date' with Rick.

You wanted to make amends with Maria... Tommy too.

Rick, careful not to startle you, slides his right hand across your sheets towards your own one that is laying palm-side up and slack beside your thigh. He watches as his warm fingertips brush over yours before searching your eyes, which instantly widen at his touch and meet his, "there's always tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

He nods, his already messy slicked back hairstyle from running his fingers through it all day to ease his stress falls in front of his ears, the curls at the tip of each strand framing his ocean eyes. "If you're feelin' any better, yeah, tomorrow - after work. We'll meet at the Tipsy," he slides his hand further over yours, testing the waters, "how about it?"

"Sure."

"Alright then - it's a date."

He covers your hand completely with his own and finally, you respond, turning your hand underneath his so that they're in the form of an 'x' and curling your fingers over his knuckles.

In the moment you don't feel so bad about passing out in front of several pairs of eyes because it got you here - yes, with an uncomfortable headache and a sore back, but also an actual date with Rick.

A firm knock at your front door bellows throughout your house, so loud that you feel the vibration of it in your bones too.

Rick lets out a small groan of annoyance while you jump out of your skin, your hand shaking underneath his. He diverts his attention back to you from the open doorway leading to the landing and staircase. "Must be that asshole again," he grumbles under his breath, shaking his head, disappointed at your moment being ruined by whoever it is.

Your eyebrows furrow... what asshole could he mean? "Tommy?"

It's not Tommy, you know it. He wouldn't show up at your house out of the blue like this, Maria wouldn't let him and he'd have listened to her.

No, you know who it is, you can see it in Rick's eyes too, the answer - you just don't want to admit it.

"No - the other one—" he breaks eye contact, dropping his gaze back down to your hand, which is holding his like a vice, "Joel."

If your head didn't hurt before, it certainly hurts now.

Your breath hitches, "J—"

"He's been out there knockin' all day."

"Did you - answer?"

"I did.” Rick bites his lips together.

"Heee - say anythin' to you?" You ask without thinking, curious, your heart hammering inside your chest harder than Joel is knocking.

"Not much... just that you're - old friends." 'Old friends' - that's one way of putting it - Rick notices the way that you tense up at Joel's exact words, "he - er - wanted to see you—" you subconsciously shake your head, "yeah, I figured as much so I told 'im to leave - this is the—" Rick counts, looking down at his fingers while he does, "sixth time he's come back."

You find that hard to believe at first, surely Maria would've warned him off, Tommy too... Then you remember that Joel was never one for rules that weren't his own.

He won't leave.

Not until he sees you.

What does he want from you?

To sit and reminisce on the old days with an 'old friend'?

Like they’re something fond to look back on - like they hold a dear place in your hearts - like you hadn't tried to forget them all with every ounce of your being for the last sixteen years - like you could forget what he did to all those innocent people... to you.

What more could he want from you than all of the time he'd already taken? Another minute - another hour - another day? Week? Year?

Your hand abruptly slips away from Rick's at the same time another knock is planted against your front door.

You look to the photo of your mom beside you.

Although the glass in front of it is cracked and the frame holding it is chipped from travelling with you from place to place since the beginning of the outbreak, the radiance of her smile hasn’t faded after everything and you still pleaded for advice from her from time to time…

She’d tell you to go open the door.

"Everythin's fine—" Rick nods before rising from the chair, "I'll just - send him on his way - again... and bring you up a glass of water," he mutters unconvincingly, knowing that it's not going to work - you know that it's not going to work.

Your hand reaches out to grab Rick's wrist, immediately he stops in his tracks to assist you with anything you need. He's prepared, tired as he is, to sit beside you all night until Joel eventually gets too tired to play this 'cat and mouse' game with you... but little to Rick's knowledge, you've already admitted defeat. You shake your head, "no—" your throat bobs up and down, "I'll do it."

Rick opens his mouth to argue, but nothing he can say will change your mind - or at least you don't want him to try to, otherwise you fear that Joel will be waiting for you outside forever.

"It's got to be me."

He nods once before stepping aside so that you have the space to lift yourself onto your feet, then he follows, keeping a hand in line with your back in case you lose balance. You're grateful for his help because your legs feel like jelly, wobbling with each step you take. Whether it's because of the fall earlier or Joel Miller at your door, you're not sure - probably both. You're also grateful for his support in your decision to answer the door yourself, you're not so sure you would if you had been on your own. You could imagine yourself laying in bed, Joel knocking like he is now, and doing nothing but hold your pillow over your ears.

The silence between you and Rick on the way to your front door would be deafening if all your thoughts running around in circles came to a halt and your heart's unusually fast pounding came to a stop.

You have a home, a life and work that Joel cannot interfere with anymore.

You're at the bottom of the staircase.

You have work in the morning and he can't be there when you leave so you might as well get rid of him now.

You're standing directly at the front door.

You might think this is stupid now, but you'll be thanking yourself tomorrow, when you're drinking with Rick and completely Joel-less.

You're gripping onto the door handle like it's a life or death decision, whether you choose to twist it or not.

This is the good kind of defeat that'll finally allow you to move on with your life, to say a final goodbye to Jo—

You open the door.

The door that acted as a wall between you is knocked down and you're exposed to the brown eyes that had the ability to turn you into a puddle of mush all those years ago. You're terrified that if you look into them again you'll find out that they still have that same effect, but you force yourself to anyway, convinced that this'll be the last time you’ll ever have to face him.

Joel's mouth is ajar - he'd expected for it to be Rick answering again just to tell him to leave.

He's still wearing the same clothes that he was wearing when you first saw him, but your vision is much less blurry than it had been before. He looks cold, his lips almost the shade of the purple grapes that grew in several batches outside the greenhouses during the summer this year. You watch them closely as he mouths what looks like 'it's you', but his lips must be so numb from waiting out here for you that they aren't moving the way he wants them to.

Your breath hitches when you sheepishly meet each other's eyes, neither of you blink, you just stare until you physically can't anymore - when your eyes start stinging, begging you to just close them for one millisecond, but even that's too long.

"Can I - come in?" He manages to ask, hugging his arms around himself, squeezing, but you're too busy examining everything that you'd missed earlier, everything that had changed since you last saw him: he has more salt than pepper hair on his cheeks and above his top lip, a scar under his eye, new wrinkles engraved into his skin and the scar on his right temple is much more faded than you remember it to be... he looks disheveled, but that isn’t new, Joel looked scruffy most of the time before, but now he looks even more like time had passed him by without even realising it, without him doing a single thing for his own health— the man himself interrupts by saying your name, "please."

His voice and your name had been a brutal combination from the moment that he first said it when he knocked on the door of your home back in Austin, so you're not surprised at your brain spiralling, trying desperately to process it without malfunctioning.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Rick chimes in, making his presence known to Joel, making it clear that while he had been out here freezing his ass off, Rick had been with you in your home.

It pisses Joel off, that Rick had had all this time with you alone, and as soon as he gets the opportunity to have some with you, he is being interrupted by some uppity stranger he'd not met twelve hours ago that clings onto you like fungus clings onto infected. "Do you mind backin' off a little, buddy?"

"Actually I d—" Rick goes to step in front of you, but you stop him by placing your hand flat on his chest.

"Rick," you scold him in a whisper, instantly grabbing the attention of both men.

Joel's eyes are wide while yours are peeking up at him, "what're you thinkin'?"

"I think she wants you to leave," Rick blurts, unwilling to back away like Joel had told him to.

"That might be what you're thinkin', not what she is—"

If looks could kill, Rick would be slaughtered by Joel and dead on the floor - your heart thuds at the possible outcome of this conversation if Rick didn't shut the hell up. "Rick!" You push at his chest with the hand that is still resting on it, "I've got this."

"You’re sure?" He asks, giving Joel the stink eye.

"Mhm, go fetch me that glass of water."

Rick nods, his eyes suspiciously flickering between you and Joel before he leaves the two of you alone... You didn't want this either, to be alone with the man who haunted your mind night and day, but if you wanted to end this once and for all, Rick couldn't be here gritting his teeth at Joel every five seconds.

"Now that your puppy dog is outta the way—" Joel keeps rubbing at his sides, “is it what you want?" His eyes, focused, trying to spot any trace of doubt in yours, "f'me to leave?"

Yes... no - god, you don't know anymore. The fact that he's giving you the choice disturbs you, like it's a trick question.

What'll he do if you say no?

Or if you say yes?

Why couldn't he just force his way into your home and be done with it?

You nod your head unconsciously - yes, you want him to leave, but you can't let him leave, not yet. You exhale, not believing that you're about to let source of your nightmares into the safety of your home, "no."

His thick coat, the colour of damp sand, brushes past the arm of your t-shirt, the same one that you put on for work this morning, it's just as discoloured as his from hanging around horses all day every day… You hadn't felt self-conscious about your appearance until now, stood directly under the main light of your living room.

Joel looks uncomfortable too under the bright light, knowing how much he had changed in the last sixteen years - how much older he must look to you now.

Just say it... tell him that you never want to see him again.

"J-Joel - I - I never—"

"This where you been all this time?"

There it is... the reason why you had left him and Tess without a word. He wouldn't have let you go without interrogating you, without trying to talk you out of it, knowing that you would've listened - and probably stayed in the same miserable situation, stuck in the Boston QZ, pregnant, living with a man who you feared that you didn't know anymore, who you loved, who was willing to sacrifice you and your unborn baby for supplies... and with his partner, who you had to listen to him fuck every night for two years.

A part of you doesn't want him to know what you went through to get here, what you sacrificed, what life had been like since then... that it hadn't been what you hoped for it to be. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that there was some regret on your part for jumping ship.

You wouldn't have lost your baby.

Charlie would still be breathing.

No, he can’t know the prices you had to pay.

"No," you nibble on your bottom lip.

"That's it—" he breathlessly chuckles, but he's not happy, far from it, "that's all you got for me?"

"It's the truth." The very vague truth.

"No it ain't."

"Yes it—" you're prepared for a back and forth of 'no it ain'ts' and yes it is-es', but Rick interrupts, bringing in your glass of water, which you snatch and chug down in a matter of seconds before slamming the empty glass onto the coffee table between you and Joel. The glass doesn't break, but the ring underneath wobbles on the table's surface due to the trembling of your hands, "is," you finish before muttering a 'thank you' in Rick's direction.

"No problem. I'll just be - in the kitchen," Rick sighs out, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, "call me if you need anythin'."

You nod, watching Joel closely as he murderously watches Rick leave the room.

The sound of glass circling over wood fades into silence.

Joel's eyes are back on you in a flash, "where were you before you got here?"

You shrug your shoulders, "I - I don't remember - we moved around a lot."

"We?"

"Mhm."

"Who's we?"

"Maria's group."

Joel's lips tighten into a thin line, mustering up more questions in his head. In a swift few movements he pinches his gloves off of his hands, flinging the garments onto the two-seater couch to his left and bringing a hand up to his forehead, rubbing his fingers over the creases on his skin, "'Maria - she find you out there?"

You gulp, blinking at him, "a - handful of her people took me to her."

"When?" He peeks at you through his fingers.

Your bottom lip quivers - why'd he have to do this? Why'd he have to remind you of the worst day of your life? "W-winter," your eyes gloss over, but you refuse to let any tears fall, sucking them back behind your eyes only for them to block your nose and make you sniffle, "sixteen years ago."

Joel's fingers trail over his nose, pinching the bridge of it with his index finger and thumb - his eyes are closed, "where?"

"A small town in Colorado - Silverton."

"Colorado," he repeats under his breath, letting his hand fall away from his face so that he can really see your raw reaction to his next question, "was Charlie with you?" Your jaw falls, immediately about to answer his question, that yes, your friend was with you, and you wouldn't have made it to Colorado alive without her... but Joel stops you before you can spill the truth in a frantic moment of weakness, "'cause there ain't no way you got to Colorado from Boston on your own."

You inhale a shaky breath, holding it in to distract you from his intimidation, "Charlie w-wasn't with me."

Joel shakes his head, looking down at the varnished floorboards under his boots, "so you're sayin' 's just a coincidence that she vanished into thin air the same night you did?"

"Yes," you lie as well as you possibly can, it's easier when he isn't staring at you. "I got to Colorado from Boston all on my own - in a car."

“A car?”

“Those metal things with four wheels—”

“Don’t do that - you know what I mean.”

“Fine. I found one with some gas on the freeway - it took me all the way there.”

Lie - lie - lie.

Silence takes over the room again as Joel processes all of the answers you had given him to questions that ran through his head more than he’d like to admit, they fill a crater on his brain that'd been left there since the morning he saw yours and Charlie's sleeping bags unzipped and empty - with no trail to follow, nothing... you'd gone, for good - or so he thought.

You're restlessly tapping your foot on the floor when Joel lifts his head again, anticipating the last question of his interrogation, one that you will have to answer with nothing but the truth, instead, he examines the room. All the furniture came with the house that Maria assigned to you, there were a few odd bits and pieces that you'd gotten from trades: books, cds, a boombox, a rug, flowers... it's not much, but it's yours.

"And the baby?" He'd been searching for any sign of him, photos on the walls of your son, drawings, toys... any indication that a teenage version of you was living here too. His search stops when he realises that there's nothing and he looks to you again, genuinely afraid of your answer, but his eyebrows raise, silently urging you to just say it - he'd avoided asking long enough already.

You knew it is was coming, but when the question actually leaves his lips you cannot stop the singular tear that falls from your eye. The liquid mixes with the blood pooling around your bottom row of teeth on the inside of your bottom lip from biting it so hard - the taste of your emotional and physical pain on your tongue at the same time.

"H-he - he didn’t make it."

'He', Joel mouths and bows his neck with a shaky sigh, taking a moment of silence for the baby boy that had kicked his large hand from under your skin, the baby boy he never got to meet, but had spent so much time with through your pregnancy. "H-he—" Joel's voice cracks, alerting your ears, you've never heard him do that. He places his hand over his heart, "how - when did he—"

You shake your head, warning him to just stop with the questions.

"I need to know - please." He looks so lost, his eyes round and glossy... You knew that pain all too well and you couldn't bring yourself to believe that he was really feeling it too.

"No - you don't," you state, your voice weak but as cold as ice, another tear rolling down your face. "What happened to my son has nothing to do with you."

"It sure as hell does!" He steps around the coffee table closer to you as he raises his voice, only for you to flinch and take a step back, desperately trying to keep the space between you before you melt into his arms like you always craved to before.

It did - it had everything to do with Joel.

After all, ‘Miller’ was your son’s last name, and you were constantly reminded of it whenever you visited his grave to replace his flowers.

"My life - my boy's life, it stopped having anything to do with you when you used us as bait for some fuckin' medicine and ammo," your harsh, but true words slip out of your lips and after, you could hear a pin drop it's so quiet.

Joel looks ashamed, guilty. His lips are downturned and the tiniest of tears falls from his own eyes... he no longer looks like the monster you imagined him to be in your nightmares, he is a pale imitation of himself. "I'm sorry,” he says gently, so unlike the venomous voice he used to threaten victims as a hunter, but he knows that this is an apology that could never make what he did right.

You take a slow breath, preparing to say what you'd let him into your home to say, "if - you - really mean it… leave. I never want to see you again."

You did it - you finally did it.

He's fighting himself, you can tell, his lips are doing that thing where they twitch as his nose scrunches up... It's not in his nature to do what he is told when he wants to do the opposite, but he also knows that the best and only option for him now is to leave... to do what Ellie wants him to do, to take her to the Fireflies and leave Jackson.

"You heard her," Rick announces from behind you again, he must’ve been alerted by the raising of voices and for a moment you wonder how much he’d heard.

Joel ignores Rick this time, nodding at you and sniffling back his tears before swiftly leaving the room, making sure to collide his shoulder with Rick's on the way out of your house.

The door slams, signalling Joel's exit.

Rick nods at you as a further confirmation.

You exhale out a long breath that you didn't even know you'd been holding in and collapse onto the couch beside you with your eyes closed, your hands landing on a rubbery texture that is definitely not your couch.

It’s Joel’s gloves.

Quadruple shit.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

You wish that you could say you felt any better this morning, but that'd be a lie.

You'd been telling a lot of lies recently and you didn't want to get in the habit of doing it... but they had been your only protection from facing your past - facing Joel.

Old Beardy snorts next to your ear while you scratch under his chin, reminding you that he is also your protector, he’d never let anything bad happen to you. You lean your forehead against his, it calms the ache at the back of your head, which isn’t as in pain as you thought it’d be, and it also calms your shot nerves, giving you a moment to properly catch up on the rest that you didn’t get last night.

Rick left soon after Joel did, he told you to ‘get some rest’ and that he’d sign you off of work for the day… You decided that you’d come to work anyway because you know that you’re better off in the stables with the horses than anywhere else, let alone your bed… you had nightmares in that bed every goddamn night for the last seven years so what would’ve made today any different?

The stable door behind you opens and slams shut, immediately alerting you because either it’s Rick coming in to update the board of patrol shifts for today, or it’s a patroller who has come in wayyy too early for their shift.

You peek one eye open and look to your right, realising that it’s neither Rick or an overly eager early bird.

It’s Joel.

He strides with purpose into the stable in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday, looking like he’d had about as much sleep as you did judging by the dark bags underneath his bloodshot eyes.

Old Beardy snorts again, urging you to keep showering him with the love that he gets from you all the time while your temple is rested above his nose as Joel fiddles around with the horse tack located at the corner of the stable next to the patrol board… clearly he’d not spotted you, too engrossed in whatever he’s doing here this early in the morning.

You and Old Beardy observe the man from afar as he picks up a bridle, saddle and an attachable bag, carrying them over to Callus’ stall - the stallion seems familiar with him, not fussing when Joel starts to pet, then dress him.

Is he doing what you think he’s doing?

Leaving - just as you told him to?

And on Callus?

“I’ll be right back, boy - I promise,” you whisper to Old Beardy, looking him in the eyes as you say it so he knows that you’re telling the truth before you intend to discreetly sneak out of the stable and report Joel’s attempted horse theft to Rick, wherever he is.

But Old Beardy, stubborn and talkative as he is, grumpily neighs so loudly that the sawdust from the old wood of the stable falls due to the vibration that the noise sends through each and every slat.

That’s your plan ruined.

Old Beardy has probably woken up the entire population of Jackson and you’re aware that your cover is well and truly blown… Joel is already staring at a frozen, crouched and wide-eyed you in the midst of placing the saddle he’d taken onto Callus’ back. 

This is awkward, given the last thing you’d said to him was ‘I never want to see you again’. You meant what you said, and definitely hadn’t considered the likely possibility of bumping into him this morning…

You stand up straight, resorting back to your normal posture stood in front of Old Beardy’s stall, giving the horse beside you a dead pan look that doesn’t last a second because you can never stay mad at any of your beloved four-legged friends.

“I see you haven’t got your barkin’ boyfriend on a leash this mornin’,” Joel grumbles, turning his attention back to attaching the saddle to the obedient Callus.

“I believe the ‘b’ word you’re lookin’ for is boss—” you grumble right back, bravely taking a few steps towards Callus’ stall so that you can see Joel’s entire rugged figure and block the gate, not letting him leave… not with Callus, “not that it’s any of your business.”

“Yeah you made that perfectly clear last night,” he grunts as he tugs at one of the saddle’s buckles, tightening it just enough.

You furrow your brows, planting your hands at each wooden post, ignoring the splinters threatening to impale your skin in your effort to trap Joel into the confined square, “what’re you doing?”

Your attempt at interrogating him catches Joel’s attention, he glances at you over his shoulder with his hands outstretched over the horse’s middle. His nose is red from the cold, or maybe from crying, and you try your best not to falter, not to show that you care because you don’t - you can’t. You expect his answer to be as shut off as your own had been, an ‘ain’t no business of yours what I’m doin’ or a ‘leave me the hell alone’, but he doesn’t say either, “ain’t it obvious?”

“I’m not letting you go with Callus.”

“Thought it was what you wanted - f’me to leave.”

“I’m not letting you steal Callus,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes while correcting yourself.

The determination fades from his features, like he’d expected you to change your mind about wanting him to leave. His eyes stay trained on you anyway, taking one last long look like he always did before he lost someone he cared about to a bite, to a gunshot wound… this almost seemed worst, you’re alive and he’d finally found you but you wanted nothing to do with him anymore - you’re slipping through his fingers again.

“I’m borrowin’ Callus,” he corrects you, resuming his movements, stuffing a few supplies that Maria or Tommy had probably given him because he cannot look at you any longer - treating you like you’re already a pile of ash on the ground.

Your grip on the poles to either side of you weakens until you completely let go, “w-what?”

“Your boss said I could take him with me.”

“Take him where?”

A small huff of a laugh leaves Joel’s lips, but you don’t see it because you’re face to face with the back of his head, “Eastern Colorado.”

Eastern Colorado?

Is this all some kind of sick joke to him?

He’s actually… leaving?

With Callus?

And Rick’s approval?

You don’t believe him.

Joel has been here not even for a day and he’s going to get you in trouble.

After all the bullshit that you’d put Rick through, this is the bullshit that is going to get you fired?

Your hands ball into fists, knuckles brushing against the gloves that he left on your couch. You’d snatched them on the way out of your house this morning, about to chuck them in the trash, but then you decided against it, figuring that they’d be worth trading in for something so you tucked them into the waistband of your jeans… you’d forgotten about them until now.

Now that you notice the material of them against your skin, it burns. You reach for them and roughly tug them away, expecting to see bubbling ulcers and blood on your hips, but there aren’t.

Relying entirely on your anger in this moment, not your racing heart, your fragmented breaths or your doubtful brain, you stride towards Joel. He turns quickly upon hearing your loud footsteps brushing through hay on concrete, his hands flying upward at the same time yours do, both your defence mechanisms responding to each other’s with a dramatic flinch of your bodies.

“H-here’s your - stupid gloves,” you grit your teeth as you shove them into his hands after you both realise that neither of you intended to scare the other out of their skin.

You try desperately not to make any contact with him as you do it, like Old Beardy avoided touching you at first, because you’re also terrified of what his touch will do to you. How it’d probably send you into another episode, another series of sleepless nights and nightmares… How it’d break you if you made skin to skin contact again, you’d fall for him all over again, you’re sure of it, but you have no choice against the matter because as soon as your hands are in reaching distance, he takes them into his, gripping onto you like his life depends on it.

A small hiss leaves your lips as the coldness of his skin on yours burns more than his gloves did, but you don’t run from it… and there’s no pool of blood or dead bodies to be seen.

It’s just Joel - the real Joel, not the bloodthirsty alter ego of him you’d conjured up inside your head that you once knew him to be capable of being back in Boston.

“I’ve got somethin’ that needs takin’ care of at the university there—” his thumbs brush over your fingers when he sees that you’re lost in the physical contact between you, he bows his head towards yours, luring your panicked eyes away from his closed hands around yours, “listen to me - I’m comin’ back… and if Tommy and Maria let me - I’m stayin’—”

You shake your head.

“I’m gonna try to make things right between us—”

You shake your head again.

“‘Nd if you still want me to leave I will - I promise you’ll never see me again.”

The stable door swings open before you can rip your hands away and scream at him, the words on the tip of your tongue...

‘It’s too late to make things right.’

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫😭😭

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ↯

𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒

@eaterof-concrete @exzidss @pedrosgrogu @whirlwindrider29 @ccmoonshine @wheatmaze @hayleynott @peelieblue @senoratess @sunnypeachdream @puddles221b @kirsteng42 @piercethevic03 @bardot49 @maybe-a-bi-witch @xwackk @mellymbee @aurelialou @hjzghi-blog @dendulinka6 @hhjhgdaiqoqoan @holmesblogger @areyoutheretoru @dailyobsession @youusunshineyoutemptress @deansgirlsworld @merz-8 @orcasoul

𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑙 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

𓃗

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "The push and pull had always been intoxicating, a slow burn of control and surrender. But tonight, the rules shift—an unspoken goodbye lingering in the space where lips almost met."

WARNING(S): (18+) toxic relationship ⋮ situationship ⋮ hook-up buddies ⋮ fuck buddies ⋮ kissing ⋮ not exactly a happy ending, but if you like that reader got her lick back, then yes consider this a happy ending... ⋮ flashbacks to intimacy ⋮ not really sure what else I'm missing soo...

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ VELVET TRACES [P2] |

THE THING ABOUT PAIGE BUECKERS is that she doesn’t do attachment. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way I wanted.

She’s like a storm that never settles, all presence and pressure, rolling in heavy and hot before vanishing like she was never there at all. A name whispered in locker rooms, an echo in arenas, a breath against my neck in the dead of night. She loves like a shadow—only seen when the lights are dim, only felt in fleeting touches that never sink past the surface.

I should’ve known better.

But how could I, when Paige is all adrenaline and honeyed words, wrapped up in a body that moves like poetry, lips that turn even the most fleeting moments into something that sears? She’s a habit, a high, a hands-on-my-hips, teeth-against-my-skin kind of addiction that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I swear I will.

We started as nothing. Just a few run-ins at events, a reckless decision after too much tequila and neon lights bleeding into the early morning.

 Me, fresh off a sold-out tour, my name looping through radio stations like an anthem, still buzzing from the stage, from the energy, from the world’s obsession with me. 

Paige, the golden girl of the court, drowning in expectations but never once missing a shot. Our first time was impulsive, a collision of egos and sweat, hands grasping, mouths hungry, neither of us looking for anything more than the rush of it all.

And then it happened again. And again. Until suddenly, I had the code to Paige’s apartment, and she had a habit of pulling me into dark corners whenever our paths crossed.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because while Paige only ever wanted hands tangled in sheets and a body pressed to hers, I wanted something deeper. Something beyond the four walls of a dimly lit bedroom, beyond the stolen kisses and murmured goodbyes before dawn broke.

I wanted late-night conversations that didn’t end in tangled limbs. I wanted mornings where Paige didn’t slip away before the sun rose. I wanted to be something more than just a fleeting thrill, more than just a name she moaned into the dark before locking the door behind her.

But Paige?

She wanted nothing more than the sensation, the moment, the rush.

And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that’s enough.

That’s how I found myself in the studio late at night, the soft hum of the city’s distant chatter filtering through the windows.

 The overhead lights cast a warm glow, the dim shadows stretching like the quiet ache in my chest. The walls around me, lined with instruments and sound equipment, felt both comforting and isolating at the same time, as though they had absorbed every secret I had whispered into the microphone over the years.

Two days had passed since I had last sent a message to Paige, the blue text bubble sitting unanswered on my phone. 

My thumb hovered over the screen, pausing just before tapping it to send another message—my emotions like a tangled wire, too complicated to be untangled with a few simple words. 

Every minute that passed without a reply felt like a bruise on my heart, a dull throb that seemed to sink deeper with each second.

The night was mine now, a time to drown out the ache, to lose myself in music. I sat at the keyboard, fingers brushing lightly against the keys, a note breaking the silence in the room. 

My mind wandered as the melody spilled from the ivory, filling the space between the notes. My thoughts slipped into the lyrics that had been playing on repeat in my mind— Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

A small sigh escaped my lips, and I exhaled slowly, almost like I was trying to let go of the tension held within my lungs. My hands hovered above the piano once more, the next note suspended in the air, waiting for something, anything to push it into reality. 

I could feel the weight of the question—a question that had stayed in my mind since the moment Paige and I had begun drifting, a question I didn’t have the courage to ask aloud. 

Would Paige hear me? Would she understand me more if I approached things differently? Would the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy of whispering, make her more present in our connection? Would it make her feel wanted, or would it push her further away?

I bit down on my lip, the sudden wave of emotion flooding my chest. The lyrics replayed in my mind, Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? 

I didn’t mean to think about it like this, didn’t mean to feel the heat of the words burning in my veins, but the song had a way of weaving itself into my very skin, sinking under my bones.

 The “right here” was never a place—it was an act, an invitation, a vulnerable plea for attention, for connection. I could picture it: my fingertips barely grazing Paige’s skin, the tremor in my touch betraying the uncertainty in my heart. 

The thought of making that kind of contact—so close, so intimate—was both electrifying and terrifying.

I slowly stood, the music still playing in my mind, as my hand reached for the microphone stand. The cool metal against my palm felt oddly grounding. The intensity of my emotions surged, threatening to spill over like an ocean crashing against the shore. 

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned into the microphone, my breath steadying, and whispered softly, “Ah, ah.” It was just a sound, a simple exhale into the space around me, but in that moment, it felt like I had said everything I needed to.

 The vulnerability of the sound echoed, filling the room. A sensation of wanting, of longing, crept up my spine.

I moved to the center of the room, the dim light casting shadows across the floor, and closed my eyes, my body swaying with the rhythm in my chest. My hands floated just above my skin, as if reaching for something that was just out of reach. 

Would it be enough if I reached out and touched someone, poured my desires into every delicate movement? Would it be enough if I brushed my lips against their skin, against their thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word shared in the air between us? The question lingered, as heavy as the silence that hung in the room.

I exhaled slowly again, this time with more certainty, as if releasing the tension that had built up between Paige and me, between myself and the world around me. 

I wasn’t sure if this would be enough—if this small act of touching, of whispering, would ever be enough to bridge the gap of distance that had formed between us.

But there was something about the act of letting go, of offering myself in the quietest way, that made it feel like I could be heard. Even if it was only by myself.

My fingers brushed the strings of the guitar by my side, the soft strum of the chord filling the space with its melancholic sound.

It was almost as if the act of playing the song was a silent plea—a desire to be understood, to be touched not just physically, but emotionally, in ways that words couldn’t express. 

My heart raced, the lyrics flowing through me as if they were written just for me. Would you hear me more?

I paused, letting the silence settle in. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But in this moment, in the stillness of the room, I let myself be vulnerable, letting the music carry my thoughts into the night.

I snapped out of the haze, the weight of the emotions that had overwhelmed me suddenly lifting, replaced by a sharp, determined clarity.

My heart, still thudding in my chest, quieted as I reached for my phone on the corner of the desk, the cold screen feeling almost foreign against my palm.

 My fingers fumbled for a moment, as if they were still tangled in the last few lingering chords of the song that had played over and over in my mind, but soon found their place.

The familiar touch of the phone felt grounding, like a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

I pressed the call button, the sound of it ringing filling the silence, each ring seeming to echo my anticipation, my nervousness, my need for something—anything— to move forward.

It was as if I was trying to shake off the last remnants of the vulnerability I had just laid bare. I couldn’t stay here, lost in my head any longer.

When the line finally clicked, the voice on the other end greeted me with that familiar, steady calm, “Hey, it’s me.”

I exhaled sharply, as if releasing all the tension I hadn’t known I was holding in. “How fast can you get to the studio?” The words came out faster than I had intended, but they carried an edge—urgent, a little desperate. My voice shook, just barely, the slight crack betraying the layers beneath the surface.

I could hear the slight rustle of movement through the phone, as if my producer was shifting his position, maybe setting his coffee cup down, or running a hand through his hair.

It didn’t matter. I could feel the moment stretching between us, filling the space with an electric charge. I wasn’t even sure if I was asking for help, for direction, or for something else entirely, but the need was undeniable.

My hand, still gripping the phone, tightened around it as I gazed out the studio window, my eyes scanning the night outside. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, just a blur of movement that felt so far away, so detached from the chaos inside me. 

I was still on edge, still haunted by the unresolved feeling that had settled in my chest like a heavy weight. Paige. The distance between us. The things left unsaid. The longing that pressed against my ribs, urging me to do something, to make a choice.

But in this moment, I needed to focus. I had to focus. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my thoughts about her, about us. Not now.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need to get this out,” I admitted, my voice a little softer now. The honesty slipped through, unintended but there all the same.

 My eyes shifted over the studio, taking in the dim lights, the instruments scattered around like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to solve. The walls that had once felt so comforting now seemed like they were closing in on me, the air thicker with the weight of my feelings.

The producer’s voice came through again, low and calm, but with an undercurrent of reassurance. “I’ll be there in 20.”

I nodded instinctively, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally let my shoulders drop, feeling the tension melt away, bit by bit. It wasn’t over, I knew that. 

The song I was trying to create, the emotions I was trying to channel, the unresolved ache that lingered—it was all still there, pressing at the edges of my mind. But I had made the decision. I was going to push forward, try to create something, anything, to move past the confusion and the frustration.

As I hung up, the weight of the room felt just a little lighter. I wasn’t completely sure where I was heading with the song, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving, keep creating. Maybe in the music, I would find the answers. Or maybe, just maybe, the answers would find me.

𖥔 A WEEK LATER 𖥔

The air was thick with anticipation, the bass from the speakers humming through my body like a second heartbeat. Backstage, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of my top—minimal, yet enough. 

The dim glow of the vanity lights flickered against my skin, casting shadows that felt almost poetic. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but not in a suffocating way. It was exhilarating. Electric. Like standing at the edge of a storm, just waiting for the thunder to crash.

For the last week, I had poured myself into two songs. Every lyric, every melody had come faster than ever, flowing through me like something inevitable. Like I was supposed to write them.

 Like they had been waiting for me to put them into words. I hadn’t released them yet, holding onto them for this moment—this night—when I could perform them live for the first time. A choice that was far from accidental.

I ran a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. It had been almost a week since I had last spoken to Paige. Since she walked away. Since I stood there, silent, replaying every word, every sharp edge of our argument, over and over.

"You act like this is more than what it is," she had said, her voice edged with something I couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe. Or indifference. "But it’s not. We’re not. You know that."

I remembered the way she had looked at me, the way something flickered across her face just before she turned and walked away. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew her words would stick to me, get under my skin, wrap around my ribs and refuse to let go.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the memory as I exhaled sharply.

The arena was dark, thick with anticipation. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the air, rattling through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd was already screaming, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of excitement, but they hadn’t seen me yet. 

Not yet.

A single spotlight flickered on, illuminating nothing but the stage floor. The massive LED screen behind it came alive with static, glitching shapes and distorted visuals flashing in time with the deep bass that rumbled through the venue like a heartbeat. The sound of distant sirens echoed—warped, haunting, looping. A breathy, distorted voice whispered my name, stretched and layered over itself until it sounded surreal, hypnotic.

This—this performance—was my way of getting the last word in.

Maybe Paige would see it as an eye-opener. Maybe she’d see it as an attempt to get under her skin. Truthfully? I couldn’t give a single fuck.

What mattered was the music. The stage. The way the lights would hit just right, the way the crowd would scream the lyrics back to me, their voices colliding with mine in a way that felt almost sacred. 

And the fact that I looked good. No—better than good. The deep purple lace hugged my frame just right, the dark fabric catching the glow of the stage lights in flashes as I moved.

A crew member signaled that it was time, and my pulse quickened, the air around me shifting. The venue was packed—thousands of bodies pressed together, waiting, the energy buzzing like static in the air. And right at the heart of it all—Madison Square Garden. The place where it all started. Where we started.

The music built slowly, a heartbeat turning into a racing pulse, synths creeping in like something alive. The fog machines hissed, rolling thick waves of smoke across the stage, swallowing the floor in shadows. And then—just for a second—total silence.

The arena went pitch black.

Suddenly..

The bass dropped. A blinding flash of white light strobed through the venue in sync with the first beat, illuminating me for the first time, standing center stage. Head down. Eyes closed. The breath of the moment curling in my lungs.

The screen behind me glitched again—flashes of old, grainy footage, a mix of blurred city lights, broken reflections in puddles, flashes of hands, lips, fleeting touches. Her silhouette. The past bleeding into the present.

A deep, sultry voice—mine, but distorted—spoke over the mic, just two words:

"You watching?"

And then—violins.

Soft at first, delicate, but haunting. They floated through the venue like a slow drip of honey, smooth, entrancing, weaving their way through the charged air. The LED screens behind me shifted—deep purple and black, slow-motion imagery of silk slipping off bare skin, fingers ghosting over lace.

The first beat crept in underneath, a subtle pulse beneath the strings.

Then the drums hit, and the violins swelled, twisting into something richer, more dangerous.

The lights flickered, shifting to deep reds and violets as the beat intensified, climbing into something sultry, hypnotic. The bass curled through the melody like smoke, smooth but intoxicating, pulling the entire track into the kind of rhythm that demanded to be felt.

I let the moment stretch just long enough—let the tension coil, let the crowd feel the buildup in their chests, waiting, craving.

And then, just as the beat fully dropped, I moved.

Hips swaying, chin lifted, gaze locked forward.

The mic brushed my lips, and I let the first words spill out.

“I been singin’, I been screamin’...

“...I been goin’ all night till my throat’s bleeding” 

If she was watching, good.

Because this time, I was saying everything I never got the chance to.

The LED screens flicker to life behind me—glitching city lights, reflections rippling in puddles, fleeting hands skimming over skin. A fragmented memory playing for thousands to see.

And then—my voice.

"Did my purple lace bra catch your attention?

Uh Yeah, the look in your eye made me question."

The words drip from my lips like honey, smooth, effortless, but laced with something deeper. Something raw. Something meant for only one person.

And somewhere above—watching, devouring—Paige.

She's here. Actually here, in New York. In the VIP section, perched above the stage with the best view in the house. I don’t see her at first, too lost in the rhythm, in the way my body moves in sync with the dancers around me. 

The choreography is sultry, deliberate, every step calculated. When I drag my fingers down my torso, lingering just slightly against the purple lace that clings to me, the crowd screams—but only one gaze matters.

Paige.

And the second I finally lock eyes with her—piercing blue, locked onto me with a fire that burns even through the darkness—I feel it.

The shift.

Her gaze settles on me like she owns me, like every movement is hers to consume. And then the realization hits—I see it in the way her lips part slightly, in the way her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand—this is a new song. 

She hasn’t heard these words before. Hadn’t known until now just how deep this ran.

A memory flashes, one neither of us could ever forget.

Me, sprawled against silk sheets, bathed in moonlight, wearing this same shade of purple. The lace barely covering me, teasing just enough to make Paige lose her mind. 

The way she had whispered against my skin that night—God, you’re wearing this just to kill me, aren’t you?

I had laughed then. But tonight? Tonight, I’m performing.

And Paige is watching.

"Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

Made all my inner thoughts sound like, ‘Ah, ah’

Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? Made everythin' I want sound like, ‘Ah, ah.’"

The choreography intensifies, fluid, seductive. I roll my hips, arch into the movement, dragging my hands down my curves before flipping my hair back, locking eyes with Paige again. There are thousands of people here, screaming my name, but I only care about one.

Paige’s grip tightens around her drink.

I smirk.

I feel the effect I have on her, see it in the way her chest rises and falls just a bit quicker, in the way her jaw tenses.

She’s unraveling.

And me? I’m going to make her feel every second of it.

"I could take it off for you and tell you what I'm goin' through, hm

'Cause my body positioning determines if you're listenin', ah-ah."

I turn, my dancers moving in sync with me as I twist my body, sinking into the rhythm. The choreography is intimate, teasing—slow rolls of the hips, fingers grazing down arms, lingering touches that set the stage ablaze. And the entire time, my eyes never leave Paige’s.

The flashbacks bleed into every lyric. Paige’s hands gripping my hips that first night, pulling me closer, our bodies pressed together in the dim glow of city lights. The way she had looked at me—like I was something to be worshiped.

And now?

Now, I’m untouchable.

"Did my dance on your lap pique your interest? Yeah

Now I got you like that, let me finish."

The words are a challenge. A reminder.

I run my fingers over my chest, pressing into the lace just enough to tease, enough to dare Paige to remember.

The chorus hits again, and I let myself sink into the song, into the power of it. Paige feels it—the way I own this moment, how every movement is meant to be felt, witnessed.

"I'm losin' my mind, I'm losin' my head

You only listen when I'm undressed

Hear what you like and none of the rest, 'est."

And Paige feels that lyric.

It’s the truth she never wanted to admit.

The way she ignored the things I actually needed to say, the words that got lost somewhere between tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"I'm-I'm losin' my mind 'cause giving you head's

The only time you think I got depth."

Her stomach drops.

I see it—the way her fingers dig into her thigh, her jaw clenching so tightly I swear she might crack a tooth.

Because fuck.

This isn’t just a song. It’s us.

I know exactly what I’m doing, the way I sway my hips, run my fingers along my thighs. I let myself sink into the music, into the feeling of being desired.

And Paige?

Paige is trapped. Watching. Needing.

But this time, she doesn’t get to have me.

But this time, she didn’t get to have her.

The final notes linger in the air, and I let the moment hang. I let her sit with it, drowning in the weight of the lyrics, the weight of me.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head, eyes flickering up to Paige’s seat.

 I smirked.

And it was as if I knew— felt the way Paige was losing her mind, unraveling at the seams.

And then, just before the lights went dark, I mouthed one final thing.

“Still listening?”

Paige had actually sat through the whole concert—watching, studying, caught somewhere between lust, anger, and something heavier that neither of us had ever put a name to.

 Her eyes had been fixated on me the entire time, tracing every movement, every note I sang, her expression an unreadable mask of longing and frustration, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, never quite reaching the surface.

By the time I was done with my last set, she was already out of her seat, her body taut with tension as she stood.

 I thought, maybe, that this was it. Maybe this was the moment she would finally walk away, truly done with me for good.

But the second I hit backstage, pushing open the door to my dressing room, I realized how wrong I was.

There she was.

Paige was sprawled across the leather couch like she owned the place—legs casually spread, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her fingers barely curled as if she had all the time in the world. Her body was relaxed, but there was something predatory about her stillness, something that told me she had been waiting for this exact moment. 

Her head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving me, watching as the door swung open, revealing me in all my post-show glow. The rush of the performance still lingered in the air around me.

 My skin was flushed from the lights, damp strands of hair clung to my neck, and though my body ached from the show, I could feel the hum of my confidence still thrumming beneath the surface, energizing me, keeping me upright. But in an instant, that energy started to flicker, replaced by something I hadn’t prepared myself for.

My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met.

Everything stilled.

The cool, collected air that had surrounded me the entire night faltered for a second—just long enough for her to catch it. That self-assured smile I had walked in with faltered, just barely, enough to let her know she had the power to break me, to make me doubt every inch of the poise I had so carefully constructed.

The weight of the silence in the room pressed against me, the distance between us shrinking with each heartbeat.

I stood there for a moment longer than I meant to, the tension between us so thick that it felt like it could snap at any second. My final outfit of the night clung to me like it was made just for this moment—soft fabric molded to my form in a way that demanded attention. 

The mini skirt skimming the tops of my thighs, the hem dancing with each subtle movement, while the fitted top traced the curves of my torso, leaving just enough skin bare to tease, just enough to make her notice. 

The dark brown chunky platform boots I wore added an edge to my look, the weight of each step grounding me but also making me feel powerful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And all the while, Paige’s gaze was on me—slow and deliberate, her blue eyes tracing me from head to toe, each movement of her eyes sending heat pooling in my chest. Her expression remained unreadable—calm, controlled, like she was watching a masterpiece come to life, but there was something else there too. 

Something simmering just beneath the surface—an intensity I couldn’t look away from. It was like she was waiting for something to break. Waiting for me to break.

I could feel the pull of her gaze like gravity, dragging me toward her without a single word exchanged. It wasn’t just her eyes that had the power over me. It was the tension, the rawness, the fact that I had never really escaped her orbit, no matter how many times I thought I had.

And I knew then, just as I always had, that she was never really done with me.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying. She was waiting. And I was no longer sure if I could fight it.

I broke eye contact with her, a scoff slipping from my lips before I even realized I was doing it. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the annoyance that flickered beneath my skin. 

If she thought I was going to stand there, locked in some silent power struggle with her, she had another thing coming.

I turned my back to her and walked deeper into the room, letting the door swing shut with a sharp click behind me. The sound reverberated in the otherwise still air, cutting through the tension that had settled between us like a thick fog. 

My hips swayed with the rhythm of my steps, the heavy click of my platform boots echoing off the cement floor. The sensation of each boot hitting the ground felt grounding, like I could still control this situation, even if my heart was already betraying me.

I moved toward the vanity, not daring to look back at her. Not yet. I reached for the small mirror on the edge, adjusting it slightly, watching my own reflection instead of facing Paige’s unwavering gaze.

 I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she affected me, not tonight. Not when I was so close to losing myself to whatever this was between us.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, unblinking, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t just the weight of her stare; it was the certainty that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many walls I built around myself, she always knew how to break through them. 

She always knew where to strike. Her jaw was clenched tight, her body unmoving, but I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

 She didn’t say anything, but the amused smirk that danced on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She was watching, waiting for me to crack, to give in, to say something. Anything.

I wasn’t going to give her that. Not tonight.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like it was daring me to do something. I stayed focused on my reflection, pretending that the quiet wasn’t eating away at my insides. But deep down, my mind was a storm. 

Thoughts swirled like a cyclone, each one more confusing than the last. Paige—her presence, her control, the way she always seemed to hold every card—was never easy to ignore. It wasn’t just her ego, the way she carried herself with an unshakable confidence, or how she always had a smirk on her lips like she was always one step ahead. It was the pull of her. The constant tug she had on me, whether I wanted it or not. The way she made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wasn’t some naive girl who couldn’t see the truth. I knew exactly what this was. Paige and I, we were never going to be anything more than what we were—hook-up buddies, tangled in this chaotic mess of lust, anger, and everything in between. Her ego was too big.

 Her confidence too loud. It was a game, one she always won. Always kept me at arm’s length, just enough to keep me wanting more, but never enough to let me close.

And yet, I found myself caught in it, every single time.

The weight of her presence grew more suffocating, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. But I refused to show it. I refused to let her see the way my heart raced when she was around, the way my body seemed to lean toward her without my permission. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction. I wasn’t going to let her win tonight.

She broke the silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You really think that outfit's going to distract me, huh?" Her eyes flickered over my form, her smirk widening as she took in the tight mini skirt I’d chosen for tonight, the way the soft fabric clung to my skin. "You think that’s gonna make up for what you did on stage?"

I didn’t look up, kept my gaze focused on my reflection. I wanted to give her nothing. I wanted to return to the calm, collected version of myself—the one that could walk into a room and own it without breaking a sweat. But the truth was, I was already unraveling, piece by piece. And Paige? Paige was the one who had the scissors.

Her voice was a poison, calculated and precise. "So tell me, Y/N, is this your way of proving something? With that little performance of yours? You really think you can just walk out there, do your thing, and not expect me to notice?"

But I refused to give in.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get a kick out of this,” she continued, her tone dripping with challenge. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

I let out a slow breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. Not tonight.

“You really think I care?” I finally said, my voice steady, but I could hear the lie in it. The cracks in my calm. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move.

Paige let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my pulse quicken. She stood from the couch, the smooth, calculated movement of her body almost predatory as she took a step toward me.

“I think you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, she was right.

I was in too deep.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating yet electric, and I refused to meet her eyes, even as I felt the weight of her gaze searing into me. 

The reflection in the mirror, though, was another story. I could see the smirk spreading across her lips like a slow burn—satisfied, triumphant. I hated that damn smirk. It was her weapon, a reminder that no matter how much I tried to hold my ground, she always had the upper hand.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much it grated on my nerves. Not once did I meet her eyes. Not once did I let her see how badly she was getting under my skin. 

Instead, I focused on the mirror, watching my own reflection, trying to cling to the remnants of composure. I could almost pretend that I wasn’t trapped in this web of tension, but I wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all, Paige.

She didn’t let it go. Her presence shifted, darker, closer. I felt the heat of her body pressing against mine, her chest just barely touching my back, and I bristled at the contact. But I didn't move, didn't flinch. I wouldn’t let her have that.

Her hands slid around my waist, just above the hemline of my mini skirt. The warmth of her touch made my skin prickle, my breath hitching slightly as she pressed her body further against me.

 Every movement was calculated, deliberate. Her hands were claiming me, possessive in the way they moved, gripping the soft curve of my waist with just the right pressure. My heart raced, but I didn't show it. I wouldn't show it.

I let her. I let Paige think she was winning, let her believe she had me right where she wanted me. Her kisses, slow and feather-light, trailed along my skin, familiar, almost too familiar. I knew what this was. I knew the drill.

 She wanted control, wanted to be the one in charge, and I was giving her that—just for a moment. But deep down, I was already ahead. I always was.

I kept my silence, my body still, my expression neutral, and I could practically hear her self-satisfied smirk. She took my lack of response as confirmation. 

"Did I hurt your feelings, baby?" Her voice, dripping with honeyed mockery, made my pulse spike as she pressed a kiss to where my neck met my shoulder.

The way her lips felt against my skin should have been comforting, but instead, it ignited something darker, something more dangerous. She was playing a game, and I was letting her think she was winning, letting her think she had the upper hand. But all I had to do was wait.

Paige didn’t give me any time to breathe. In one swift motion, she turned me in her arms, so I was facing her now, my back pressing up against the edge of the vanity table with a jolt that made my breath catch. 

The shift was urgent, messy, the kind of passion that made the air between us thick with anticipation. I didn’t flinch, though. Instead, I stayed still as she pressed her hips against mine, the pressure making me bite my lip to hold back a reaction.

 Her hands began to roam, tugging, gripping, finding familiar places that made my body betray me.

I could feel the way she took pleasure in it—the way I let her touch me, let her feel me respond to her. My hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind me, fingers curling against the cold wood.

 Paige’s lips found their way back to my neck, and I let her—let her think that she had me, that I was melting into her touch, that I was submitting so easily to whatever game she wanted to play.

I tilted my head back, giving her more access, playing into the illusion, letting her think she was in control. But it was all a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Her kisses were relentless, tracing sweet spots along my neck that made my breath hitch and my body tremble. 

Her hands slid around to grip my ass through the fabric of my skirt, and I couldn't suppress the soft noise that slipped past my lips—one she loved, one she craved. 

Paige was a menace, always knowing exactly where to touch, how to make me fall into this web of tangled emotions, of lust and anger and everything in between.

Her lips trailed up my neck, slow, deliberate, marking their territory, moving toward my jaw. The warmth of her breath on my skin made my chest tighten, but I could feel the moment approaching, the moment when I would stop this game. 

Just when her lips were about to claim mine, I opened my eyes, my gaze slicing through the thick haze of desire like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head to the side, deliberately slow, a teasing pout curling at my lips—a cruel mimicry of surrender. Our mouths were barely a breath apart, the ghost of contact lingering in the air between us.

If it had been any other night, I would have caved, let her take what she wanted, let myself get lost in her touch. But tonight wasn’t any other night. Tonight, I was the one pulling the strings.

Paige froze, her breath hitched, her eyes flickering with confusion, frustration—searching for confirmation, for any sign that she still had me wrapped around her finger. But I refused to give her that satisfaction.

“I’m not your toy, baby,” I murmured, my voice a quiet storm, steady and unwavering. The weight of my words settled between us like a final warning.

For a moment, nothing existed but the shallow, ragged cadence of our breathing. I watched the disbelief flicker in her eyes, the realization creeping in like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull her under. 

She didn’t move at first. But then, the smirk she always wore like armor cracked, faltering, and I pushed her back—gently, yet firm enough to carve a space between us, a boundary she had never encountered before.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her lips parted slightly in stunned silence. My gaze stayed locked onto hers, heavy with something she wasn’t used to seeing in me—control. And worse—rejection.

A slow smirk ghosted across my lips as I turned away, pivoting toward the vanity behind me. Paige wasn’t far enough for there to be real distance, so when I leaned forward, fixing my reflection with careful precision, the curve of my ass hovered dangerously close to her front—just barely not touching. 

A whisper of temptation. A reminder of what she wouldn’t have tonight.

I adjusted my hair, smoothed my lipstick, acting as if her presence didn’t unnerve me in the slightest. The silence behind me was deafening, thick with unsaid words, unfinished games.

Satisfied, I straightened, meeting her eyes in the mirror, the corner of my mouth twitching with something smug and unforgiving. I turned, stepping past her, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of her sleeve as I moved toward the door.

Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back just once, my voice laced with something light, but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“You know where the exit is.”

And with that, I was gone.

The air outside the dressing room was thick, suffocating, despite the hum of excitement still pulsing beneath my skin. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside,

I exhaled—a slow, deliberate release of breath that did little to steady the riot inside me. The hallway stretched ahead, a blur of dim, flickering lights and the distant hum of voices, but I moved through it like I was weightless, like my body hadn’t fully caught up to the gravity of what I’d just done.

I left her there—just like she had left me a thousand times before.

The symmetry of it should have satisfied me, should have made the ache in my chest shrink, but it didn’t. Instead, it spread—slow and creeping, like ink seeping into paper.

A stagehand passed by, tossing me a wide grin. “Insane show, Y/N. You killed it.”

I nodded, murmuring a thanks that barely scratched the surface of my lips. Their words felt distant, muted by the steady pounding of my heartbeat. My hands, wrapped in rings that glinted under the fluorescent lighting, flexed at my sides, still buzzing from the way she had looked at me.

Paige, sitting there like she had all the time in the world, like she had been expecting me to cave—to melt under her gaze the way I always had before.

But tonight, I hadn’t melted.

Tonight, I had watched the cracks form in her armor, had seen the exact moment realization settled in—that she no longer held the leash she thought she did. That I wasn’t hers to summon at will.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something electric—an aftershock of the show still clinging to the walls. But none of it compared to the static lingering on my skin, the ghost of her gaze burning into me long after I had walked away.

The night unraveled in a blur after that. The dressing room, the press, the distant hum of a celebration I couldn’t bring myself to care about. People talked, laughed, congratulated me, but I wasn’t there. Not really.

Because in the back of my mind, Paige was still sitting on that leather couch, still staring at the door I had walked out of, still replaying my words like a cruel, looping melody.

I’m not your toy, baby.

I wondered if she had stayed there for long, if she had run her hands through her hair in frustration, if she had exhaled sharply the way she always did when things didn’t go her way. If she had sat in the silence, replaying every moment between us with that same restless, hungry energy I had spent years suffering under.

And then the days stretched into weeks.

Paige didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

But she didn’t need to. Because I knew she had seen it.

The internet had erupted like an uncontained wildfire, speculation running rampant in the wake of my performance. Every move, every lyric dissected, pulled apart, devoured by fans and gossip columns alike.

The video of me on stage went viral within hours—the way I sang with fire in my voice, like the words had been ripped from my ribs, like I needed this to be heard.

The analysis was relentless.

"Did you see the way she looked toward the VIP section? SHE WAS SINGING TO SOMEONE." "The way Y/N sang that line… she meant that. You could feel it." "Purple lace bra. PAIGE’S FAVORITE COLOR. The way she moved during that part? She knew exactly what she was doing." "Paige was in the crowd. You think she didn’t feel that?? That wasn’t just a song; that was a message."

The evidence stacked, theory after theory, fans pulling together every little thread like detectives unraveling a scandal.

Then came the videos of Paige at my concert—sitting in the shadows of the VIP section, her eyes locked on me like a predator watching its prey.

She hadn’t moved much, hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the cameras had caught enough. The sharp set of her jaw. The tight grip on her knee. The way her chest had risen just a little too sharply when I had turned in her direction.

I should have ignored it. Should have turned my phone off, drowned out the noise, let the world do what it did best—talk.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself scroll. Let myself watch the videos, read the tweets, trace over every blurry, stolen moment that confirmed what I already knew.

She had felt it.

I pictured her in some dimly lit room, scrolling through the same chaos, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching as she watched the world speculate about us.

Wondering if she was regretting every moment that led up to this—the push and pull, the endless games, the times she had left me in bed, tangled in sheets and longing, only to disappear without a word.

Well, now she knew what it felt like.

And yet…

I missed her.

Not in the soft, romanticized way people spoke about heartbreak. Not in a way that felt poetic or tragic.

I missed her like a craving, sharp and unrelenting. Like something I had been forcibly weaned off, left to suffer the withdrawal.

I missed the way she would’ve laughed at all this—at the internet’s obsession, at the way people were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what we both already knew.

I missed the way she would have leaned in, breath hot against my ear, whispering, "Look what you did, baby."

But I wouldn’t break first.

She had spent years teaching me patience, teaching me the pain of waiting, of wanting. Now, it was her turn.

I stood in front of my mirror, makeup wiped clean, skin bare, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. My reflection stared back at me, lips curling at the edges with something dark, something smug.

You know where the exit is.

I wondered how long it would take before she found herself standing at my door.

𖥔 J'S JOURNAL 𖥔

Dear sweets,

this was a quick write--- well more of a get done to test the waters fic. But, here's my first Paige Buecker's fic <3

Not sure if I should leave it as it is or write a second part and make y'all happy...

Anyway's please let me know :)

P.S my main account is: @angelshxt. Thought the wifey deserved a separate blog, so here it is :p

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Ooo hii can I please request an TFAWS Bucky x female reader where when Bucky was the Winter Soldier, he killed this man for Hydra, and Y/n was there in the man’s apartment and witnessed it (but he didn’t know she was there because she hid in the closet), now years later she is on his of amends (her and Bucky become friends because she lives in his apartment complex, right next door to him and near Yori. He wants to make amends to both Yori and Y/n because he thought that the man he killed was her bf, but in reality, Y/n had been abducted by the man that Bucky assassinated so he, without intentionally doing so, saved her life when he was the winter soldier. They have both fallen in love with each other after being neighbors and dating for a while and are cuddling on the couch, and she tells him he loves him, and he says he loves her too, but he feels so guilty that he hasn’t told her about who is was and all that, so he (pretty much blurts out) reveals to her about what happened (and that he was the winter soldier and he’s there to make amends), he is shocked to find out that she is only upset that he lied to her (she’s worried he only said he loves her out of guilt), but she explains that he actually saved her life that night and that the man he killed was not her bf

Should’ve Told Me » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky makes amends with you for something he did as the Winter Soldier in his past. After falling in love with him, you find out he’s been hiding the fact that he’s the Winter Soldier from you.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, language, neighbor!Bucky/neighbor!reader, boyfriend!Bucky/girlfriend!reader, neighbors to lovers, mentions of HYDRA, mentions of murder, nightmares, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the lovely detailed request @kpopgirlbtssvt 🩵

A/N #2: Italic text is nightmares and flashbacks.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIFS ARE NOT MINE! Gif credits go to the creators.

Bucky tossed and turned in his sleep. His eyebrows were furrowed and sweat covered his face.

The Winter Soldier busted through the window, looking for the man HYDRA has been wanting dead for years. He found him in the bedroom, loading a gun with bullets to defend himself. The Winter Soldier smacked the gun out of his hand and wrapped his metal hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall.

“Hail HYDRA.” The Winter Soldier said.

Little did the Winter Soldier know that you were hiding in the closet. You cautiously and quietly poked your head out of the closet to see what was going on. You seen a man with long brown hair, with a metal arm, and dressed in tactical gear. He had the man who abducted you a while ago pinned against the wall. You watched his right hand grab the gun out of the holster on his hip. Your eyes went wide. You knew what he was going to do. Before you knew it, the Winter Soldier shot the man and dropped his now dead body on the ground. You quickly and quietly moved back into the closet before he seen you.

Bucky’s eyes shot open and he sat up, breathing heavily. He scooted backwards and leaned his back against the wall. He stayed like that until he caught his breath. He stared at the TV, watching whatever show was on to calm himself down.

That’s not the only nightmare he had that night. Earlier that same night, he had a nightmare of when he- the Winter Soldier killed Yori’s son. Bucky really needs to make amends with you and Yori. If he doesn’t do that soon, he feels like the guilt is going to eat him alive.

That following afternoon, Bucky finally found the courage to make amends with Yori and tell him the truth about what really happened to his son. Bucky nervously knocked on Yori’s door to his apartment.

“Hi, Bucky.” Yori greets Bucky after he opens the door.

“Hi, Yori.” Bucky says.

Yori stepped aside so Bucky can come inside. Bucky saw a picture of Yori’s son as soon as he walked in his apartment.

“I-” Bucky cleared his throat. “I have to tell you something about your son.” He says.

“What is it?” Yori asks.

Bucky and Yori sat down. Bucky took a deep breath before saying anything.

“I was there the night your son was killed.” Bucky begins.

“You were?” Yori asks.

Bucky nods.

“He was murdered by the Winter Soldier and that was me.” Bucky tells him.

Yori stared at Bucky with the look of disbelief on his face.

“Why?” Yori asks.

“I-I didn’t have a choice.” Bucky says.

It was quiet between the two men before Bucky stood up.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky apologizes.

Bucky leaves Yori’s apartment. He thought that making amends would make him feel relieved, but he isn’t. As Bucky was walking down the street, he was lost in his mind and not paying attention to where he was walking and accidentally bumped into some. That someone was you.

“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.” Bucky apologizes.

“It’s ok. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking either.” You say. “I’m Y/N.” You introduced yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake.

“I’m Bucky.” He shakes your hand. “Have we met before?” He asks curiously. “You look familiar.” He says.

“I live in the apartment next door to you.” You say.

“Oh yea. I remember now.” He says.

“It was nice seeing you, neighbor. Maybe we’ll bump into each other later.” You say with a smile.

Bucky nods and smiles. On the rest of the walk to his apartment, your name lingered in his mind. Something about your name sounded familiar to him. As soon as he walked inside of his apartment, he opened his little notebook that he used to cross off names of the people he has made amends with. He crossed off Yori’s name. Bucky had one more name left… you. He waited until you got home so he can make amends with you.

Bucky knocked on the door to your apartment and patiently waited for you to open it. You smiled when you opened the door to see Bucky.

“Hey, Bucky! I was wondering when I was going to see you again.” You say with a smile.

You stepped aside to allow Bucky to come inside of your apartment. He gave you a smile as he did so.

“Are you ok? You look like you have something on your mind.” You say.

“I uhh- I have to tell you something.” Bucky says nervously.

“What is it?” You asked.

You sat down on the couch and Bucky sat down next to you.

“I’m not sure if you know this or not, but years ago, your boyfriend was killed by the Winter Soldier.” He says.

“I didn’t have a boyfriend years ago.” You say.

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. He describes the man he- the Winter Soldier killed years ago.

“Oh, him!” You finally realized who he was talking about. “That man wasn’t my boyfriend.” You say.

“Then who was he?” He ask.

“He kidnapped me.” You tell him. “I was hiding in the closet when he was killed. If I’m being honest, the Winter Soldier saved me that day.” You say.

“Oh.” Bucky says softly.

Silence fills the living room for a couple minutes.

“Do you know the Winter Soldier?” You asked. “I would like to thank him for saving me that day.” You say.

Yes. I am him.

“No, but I heard about him.” He lies.

“Oh ok.” You say.

Silence fills the living room again. You couldn’t help but notice how handsome Bucky is.

“You’re handsome.” You say after a few minutes.

“Oh, umm- thank you.” Bucky smiles. “You’re pretty.” He compliments.

You smiled and blushed.

“Do you want to hangout sometime?” You asked curiously.

“I would love that.” He says.

You and Bucky handed each other your phones so you guys could have each other’s phone numbers.

“I’ll text you the details later.” You say with a smile.

“Sounds good to me, doll.” He smiles.

———

A few weeks later, your feelings for Bucky grew stronger. Bucky’s feelings grew stronger for you too. You two went on a lot of dates. In that same few weeks, Bucky asked you to be his girlfriend, in which you happily said yes to.

As of right now, you and Bucky are cuddling on his couch and watching a movie. You’re snuggled against his side with your arm across his stomach. Bucky had his arm wrapped around you protectively. A blanket was draped over yours and his laps.

“Bucky?” You say softly, looking up at him.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky asks, looking down at you.

“I love you.” You smiled.

“I love you too.” He smiles back, pecking your lips softly.

You two focused back on the movie. As Bucky let the words “I love you” settle in, he felt guilt coursing through his veins. He’s been hiding the fact that he’s the Winter Soldier from you. The guilt was eating him alive. He couldn’t take it anymore. He has to tell you.

“I’m the Winter Soldier.” Bucky blurted out.

“What?” You asked, looking up at him.

“I’m the Winter Soldier.” He says again.

You sat up and looked at him.

“You’re the Winter Soldier?” You asked, making sure you heard him right.

“Yes.” He confirms.

You just scoffed and stood up, walking to the door. Bucky quickly stood up and followed you.

“Doll, wait!” He pleads.

“You lied to me, Bucky!” You say.

“I know and I’m sorry.” He says.

You shook your head and opened the door, walking next door to your own apartment. Bucky followed you. He put his hand on the doorknob to your apartment before you could unlock it.

“Please let me explain.” Bucky pleads.

“I don’t want to hear your explanation right now, James.” You say.

James. Not Bucky. Not a cute pet name. James.

Bucky’s hand fell from the doorknob. You unlocked the door and you went inside of your apartment.

“I…” You slammed the door shut. “Love you.” He says.

Bucky went back to his apartment, feeling even more guilty than he already is. He sat down on the couch and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m such a fucking idiot!” Bucky says.

You and Bucky have a great thing going on and he might’ve just ruined it. Now, he thinks he’s going to lose you. He should’ve told you the truth and not lie to you. He hates himself right now. He hates that he lied to you. He only lied to protect you.

The next morning, Bucky went out to get you a bouquet of your favorite flowers, coffee, and breakfast. He got little sleep last night and so did you. He went to your apartment and knocked on the door. You opened the door to see Bucky holding a bouquet of flowers, two cups of coffee, and a paper bag. You stepped aside, allowing him to come inside. Bucky didn’t miss that your eyes were red from crying.

“These are for you.” Bucky says, handing you the flowers.

You smiled and took the flowers from him. You smiled… that’s progress, right?

Bucky followed you to the kitchen and watched you put the flowers in a vase with water. He put the coffee and paper bag on the kitchen counter.

“Do you want to explain why you lied to me?” You asked, leaning against the edge of the counter and crossing your arms over your chest.

“I lied to protect you. I know I should’ve told you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I am so sorry. I will never lie to you again.” Bucky apologizes. “Please- Please don’t leave me. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years.” He says, his voice cracking.

Now, you’re the one who feels bad. You wouldn’t have gotten upset if you just let him explain himself.

“Oh, baby.” You whispered, reached up to cup his cheek. “I’m not going to leave you.” You whispered. “I was just upset that you lied to me.” You say.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes again, his eyes tearing up.

“I know you are.” You whispered.

You hugged him tightly. Bucky felt the guilt leave his body. He feels relieved now.

“I love you so much, babydoll.” He whispers.

“I love you too, baby.” You whispered back.

You stood on your tippy toes and kissed him sweetly.

“What’s in the paper bag?” You asked curiously.

“Your favorite breakfast sandwich from that coffee shop down the street.” Bucky says.

“You’re the best.” You smiled, pecking his lips.

From that day forward, Bucky vows to never lie to you again.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[tacticalprincess]

life with retired!könig… he’ll take you on whatever vacations your heart desires, because he can’t say no to you and takes pride in being the one to show you the world, but as for home life; i see him hauling you somewhere rural and mildly secluded with green land that stretches on for miles. a large yet humble home with lots of open windows and old architecture.

not quite an animal farm, but youve got some adopted dogs, cats, and rabbits to keep you company, and you always pad sleepily into the kitchen to see him with the smaller ones perched on his broad shoulders while he sips his coffee and watches the news, a puddle of big grumpy old dog at his feet.

he harvests fruits and vegetables next to your flower garden, and pretends not to notice you accidentally drowning one of your plants, transfixed by how attractive he looks all sweaty and dirty, soft bulky muscles bulging out of his shirt.

food becomes a love language — cooking meals together is könig’s favorite activity to do with you. though he’s always coddling, insisting you let him handle the sharp knives and getting food in and out of the oven. buzzes like a fly around your homemade sauce, arms wrapped around you from behind, until you let him have a taste from your fingers.

at night, sitting on the bathroom sink with him between your legs, leaning down with his arms braced on either side of you so you can massage various oils and creams into his slightly overgrown stubble. he’ll furrow his eyebrows at it and ask if it’s all really necessary, but he loves the feeling of your soft hands all over his face too much to stop you, something akin to butterflies swirling in his stomach from you doting on him so gently. he can’t complain when the razor cuts like butter along his face, giving him the smoothest shave of his life.

holding his face to your chest, fingers raking through his hair as your soft voice soothes him back to sleep after he’s waken abruptly from a nightmare of flashbacks from his past jobs, his strong arms wrapped around your middle devastatingly tight. you’re his peace, his safehaven, adding a tranquility and softness to his life he’s never had before. he doesn’t plan on ever letting you go.

[athenamikaelson]

Klaus Mikaelson X Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson Ch. 23

Word Count- 5k

Warnings-Swearing, sexual innuendos, Elijah being a little asshole, mention of blood

“Damon if you don’t move your foot, I swear to whatever holy power is out there I will tase you,” I growl into my pillow as I feel Damon’s foot land on my upper back. 

After waiting a moment and not getting a response, I turn around on my back, grab Demon’s foot, which is now resting on my upper chest, and throw it off of me.

Damon, who is currently passed out at the end of my bed at the Salvatore’s, releases a groan but doesn’t wake up.

I rub circles into my temple as I look around my bedroom which is currently trashed with an assortment of empty alcoholic beverages and junk food. After Damon and I left the party last night, we made our way back here and while Damon found alcohol to mend his worries and broken heart, I turned to Twinkies, chocolate, and the shitty pancakes a drunken Damon made me. While Damon cooked for me he went on a love-sick 30-minute about his heartbreaks over the past century. When he was done, we tried tackling my problem but a drunk Damon wasn’t much help. Well…a sober one isn’t either but y’know.

Flashback

“Alright,” I watch from my stool at the kitchen island as Damon pours the entire package of chocolate chips into the pancake batter, “Sooooooo, what you’re telling me is that,” He points his spatula at me, “Not one, but two of the Original brothers claim to be your soulmate and that you have a piece of each of their human souls in you?”

I throw my head onto the counter and groan, “That’s what the masses have said.”

“Interesting,” I lift up my head slightly to peer at Damon who is tapping his chin with the batter-covered spatula, resulting in batter covering his lower chin, and seems that in his drunken state, he doesn’t seem to notice or care, “And Klaus was actually the one who gave you that necklace you’ve been wearing all this time, and Elijah is like head over heels for you as well as his brother,” He pauses and then talks to himself, or babbles to himself, “I mean it was pretty obvious, I mean a blind person could see how either one of them look at you. Especially Elijah, dude has that lovesick puppy dog look on his face since the moment he pulled out those two guys' hearts,” He taps his chin again, “Or was it three?”

“Demon, seriously, not helping,” I exhaust and he shrugs turning back towards the pantry. I watch as he grabs yet another bag of chocolate chips.

“Dude, seriously? That’s the third bag. I think we have enough.”

Damon looks up at me with a glare, “My kitchen my rules. My chocolate chips.”

“And my stomach ache,” I mutter to myself as I watch him pour in the chips.  

“So what do you think I should do,” Hopelessness clear in my voice.

Damon sighs, wipes his hands on the apron he’s wearing, and walks around the island to me. He stands in front of me places his hand on my shoulders and leans down to my face. 

“Fuck them both. Get them out of your system. We’re planning on killing them anyway so the problem will fix itself momentarily. In the meantime, go to Poundtown,” Damon smirks and then nods his head to himself as if he just gave me the greatest piece of advice ever. 

“You’re disgusting,” I glare at him and he smiles. 

“And you’re a prude.”

A knocking on the downstairs door shakes me out of my head and I send a kick to Damon’s stomach.

“Demon, someone’s at the door,” I hiss and Damon rolls over onto his side but doesn’t wake up.

“Damon!”

Damon whips around and glares at me, but the sunlight protruding from my window makes him close his eyes again, “Then go answer it,” He hisses.

“What if it’s someone trying to kill us,” I whisper and he runs a hand over his face.

“Pukey…If someone was here to kill us, do you really think they would knock first?”

I think about Damon’s question for a moment then realize he’s probably right. 

“Fine but if I get killed, I’m haunting you,” I say to him as I put on my slippers and head out the door.

I hear Damon mutter a sarcastic “yay” as I descend the staircase. 

I get to the door and cautiously open it and when my eyes meet dark brown ones I release I low swear.

“Good afternoon to you too, Elskan,” Elijah’s eyes trail from bedhead and my makeshift pajamas which consist of Damon’s button-up shirt from yesterday and a pair of sleep shorts that barely cover my ass. 

“Or should I say good morning,” Elijah’s eyes move back up to Damon’s shirt and I watch as his upper lip seems to morph into a snarl but after a split second returns to a forced smile. 

“What are you doing here, Elijah,” I grip the handle of the door as I wait for his answer.

“I told you yesterday that I would answer any questions that you had for me,” Elijah gestures behind me to the living room, “May I come in?”

I glance at the living room for a moment before turning back towards the suited Original, “Don’t you have your family to deal with?”

“My siblings have lived with themselves for a thousand years, I’m sure they can go one hour without getting themselves killed,” He smirks but something in his tone makes it seem like he doesn’t believe anything he just said.

I pinch my temple and move to the side, “Ya, fine. Come on in.”

Elijah’s smile doesn’t falter as we walk into the living room and he places himself in a leather chair while I sit on my favorite sofa, tugging my knees under my chin. 

“Are you dead?”

I turn around at Damon’s sarcastic voice and roll my eyes. 

Damon enters the living room with a blood bag and hand and no shirt on.

“Ew, gross. Put on a shirt,” I gag and cover my eyes.

“I would but you’re wearing it, Pukey,” Damon snarks back and I move my hand away and look down at the white button-up I’m wearing.

“This is quite literally your house. Go find another shirt,” I exhaust and Damon just shrugs his shoulders and then looks over at Elijah. 

I turn back towards the Original who is watching Damon and me with a flat expression. His usual smile is no longer present. 

“Good morning, Elijah,” Damon smirks at him, “Funny you're here. Y’know since last night you were such a present figure in Y/n and I’s girl chats.”

I whip my head around and send daggers at Demon but he doesn’t seem to notice and if he does he certainly doesn’t care. 

“Is that so,” Elijah says and I back to see him glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. 

“Nope,” I grab an empty root beer can that is placed next to me on the couch, from Damon and I’s movie night last night, and hurl it at Demon. Sadly, he dodges it.

“Oh that’s odd,” Damon looks down at me and taps his chin, “Because if I’m not mistaken there were talks of a certain suited Original and going to Poundtown with him,” Damon turns to Elijah, who lets out a cough, as I watch on in horror, “Hmm, must’ve been someone else then. My mistake. You two enjoy your little chat,” Damon says with a final wink to me as he practically skips into the kitchen.

I’m frozen in horror as I stare at Elijah who is staring back at me. Elijah's face appears a tinge redder than before and I can’t even imagine how fucking uncomfortable I look to him. 

“I can explain,” I chirp out quickly.

Elijah raises an eyebrow and seems to have collected himself as a shit-eating grin comes over his handsome features, “Please do. I insist.”

“Well…well,” I try to think but come up with nothing, “I got nothing.”

Elijah’s smirk deepens and if it didn’t make him appear even hotter than he already is, I’d probably slap him.

“Well, you’ll just have to enlighten me on the conversation later on. I’m quite interested in learning what this, “Poundtown” place is,” Elijah says as he does air quotes around Poundtown.

“I’m going to kill myself.”

Elijah’s smirk drops and he frowns, “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

I nod, “I’m never going to be able to show my face ever again,” I pause, “Well first I’d have to kill Damon. Mutual destruction. But that could take some time, so it appears I’ll have to postpone it,” I say sadly and look back to Elijah who looks incredibly confused.

“I can’t quite tell if you’re being serious or not?”

I just shrug, “Who knows? Anyways… you said you came here to answer my questions?”

Elijah leans forward to unbutton his suit jacket, “Yes, that is correct. But,” He looks back towards the way Damon went and I swear I saw him roll his eyes, “Perhaps there is somewhere we can talk, away from listening ears.”

“Don’t mind me!” I groan at Damon’s loud voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. 

“We can talk in my room,” I stand up and gesture for him to follow.

—

“I didn’t realize you had a room here,” Elijah says as he stands at the doorframe of my room. Glancing around at the trash littered on the floor along with the bottles of alcohol. 

I quickly make work of gathering the littered trash and bottles, “I moved in here over the summertime and Damon gave me this room. He let me pick out the decorations and everything,” I pick up an empty bottle of bourbon and look back to Elijah, “The alcohol isn’t mine. Damon was in here last night, drinking away his sorrows.”

Elijah lets out an almost annoyed sound, “You and the eldest Salvatore brother seem to be rather…close,” He practically spits out the word as I place the trash in my pink trashcan.

I shrug, “He’s alright company, y’know when he’s not being a cunt.”

“Language, Elskan,” Elijah chastises and I roll my eyes. 

“Umhm.”

Elijah takes a few steps in and starts inspecting my room more. I don’t have much in here other than some summer clothes, makeup, and other little knick-knacks that I picked up over the summer.  

“Did he sleep in here last night,” Elijah questions as he picks up a glass mouse I have sitting on my mantel. 

“Uh, ya. We were watching season 3 of Supernatural and his drunk ass fell asleep, why do you ask?”

Elijah sets the mouse back down and then turns to stare at me. Or really the shirt I’m wearing, “I don’t mean to intrude. But, are you and the Salvatore brother…something more,” Elijah asks the question like he’s afraid of the answer.

I stare at him for a moment and then let out a huge laugh, “Damon and I!? Never! Ew! As if! I’d rather take a hot poker to my foot than let that Neanderthal anywhere near my lips,” I laugh disgustedly and I watch as Elijah’s tense shoulders drop.

“Why? Are you jealous,” I squint my eyes at him, and his upper lip twitches?

“Jealously isn’t something I’m quite accustomed to,” Elijah walks over to me and runs a finger along the sleeve of my shirt, “But, I must admit seeing you in another man’s shirt has stirred up many unpleasant feelings, and thoughts in me.”

I bite down on my inner lip as I listen to Elijah’s deep voice.

“What kind of thoughts?”

Elijah pulls lightly on the collar of my shirt making me stumble at bit into him, “Thoughts like how much I’d like to rip this shirt off you and burn it and never let another man’s clothing touch you ever again.”

Oh Good Lord. 

I open and close my mouth, “I’ll go umm… change if that’s what you want?”

I gesture to my closest and Elijah smirks proudly, “I’d appreciate that highly, Elskan.”

I nod and quickly run to my walk-in closet throw off Damon’s shirt and grab one of my dark blue Henleys.

I exit the closet to find Elijah lounging in my armchair, strumming through “The Duke and I.”

Shit. 

Elijah, noticing my presence, lifts his head from the book and eyes my new attire.

“Good girl.”

Jesus Fucking Christ I’m going to-

“Stop doing that,” I stutter out as I point a finger at him.

Elijah tilts his head, quite adorably, “I’m not sure what you mean?”

I sit on the edge of my bed, across from the chair, and glare at him, “You know exactly what you’re doing. That whole smirking, flirting thing you’re doing.”

Elijah leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, “Once again, Elskan,” He locks eyes with me, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I glare at him until a shit-eating smirk comes back onto his face.

“See! There it is,” I turn around and grab a pillow and throw it at him, “Jerk!”

Elijah catches the pillow easily, and a warm laugh escapes him.

“It appears I’ve got to work on my flirting skills. It has been quite some time since I’ve tried wooing a woman,” Elijah tells me and I try to look anywhere but him. 

“You don’t have to woo me,” I say as I play with the hem of my shirt.

“On the contrary, my love, yes I do. Not just as your soulmate,” I pick up my head at his words, “But as a man who is hugely infatuated with you.”

“You’re only feeling things for me because of our bond, or whatever it is. If there wasn’t a bond you wouldn’t have even looked in my direction that day with Rose.”

Elijah stands from his chair and comes to stand before me, he reaches his hand down and grabs my chin, so I have to look up at him.

“Let me assure you, bond or no bond, that a beauty like yours is one that not even the darkest of nights can hide away. You are the sun to me, Elskan. And maybe, yes,  the bond is what led me to you, but the woman you are is what has made me wholeheartedly obsessed with you. In my many years of living, I have rarely come across a soul like yours. One so…pure. You’re full of this light that somehow has kept shining even when everything around you has tried to snuff it out. I have seen the heart you have with others and can only hope that one day I may be given the opportunity to be let into it as well.”

I stare up at the breathtaking man before me. My mind seems to go blank as I stare into his deep brown eyes, eyes that are filled with such longing and heartbreaking devotion. 

“You truly can’t think all that of me. You’ve only known me for a few months, Elijah,” I shake my head out of his hold and he lets out a sound of disagreement. 

“Elska-...Y/n,” Elijah draws my attention to him as he comes to kneel in front of me. Now it’s my turn to look down at him as he reaches his hands up and gestures for me to take them. I release a breath as I place my hands into his. 

“For one thousand years, I have fought with my humanity. I have done horrendous things in the name of my family. For years I lived with this self-hatred, never thinking that one day I might be able to calm this storm I feel inside of my mind,” Elijah looks to be in pain as he seems to be thinking back to something, “But then,” His scorned look lightens as he locks eyes with me and his upper lip lifts into a smile, “I felt my heart lighten. I locked eyes with a beautiful y/e/c the day Rose-Marie called me about the doppelganger, and for the first time in a millennium that storm settled. All my mind could focus on was the angel in front of me. Seeing you gave me this sense of, calmness. As if everything I had ever done before that day meant nothing. I’d lived for a thousand years, but the moment you looked at me,” Elijah lifts my hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my inner wrist, “I became alive. That is what you are to me, Y/n. You are my life. My immortality.”

Elijah continues, “And you may say I don’t know anything about you, and you may be right. But here are some things I do know. I know that you love learning and reading,” Elijah smirks to himself, “Even if the literature you read is just sex,” Elijah releases a laugh at my horrified expression, “After I had seen what books you have in your collection. I spent my time buying my own copies and reading each of them.”

I shake my head, “Why, though?”

Elijah stands up and squeezes my hands, “What other reason do I need other than that you enjoy them? You were wary of me, but I still wanted to know everything I could about you. When I saw your stack of books I thought the closest thing to you, would be your books.”

I release a shaky breath as I look up at the man before me. 

“I also know you love your family and friends more than you love yourself. Theodore is incredibly lucky to have an older sister who puts herself and her feelings second when it comes to him. I also know how you’re able to find the best in people,” He makes an annoyed face, “Clearly since you spend your time with the eldest Salvatore brother. I dislike you being around him, but even I can see how you’ve changed him. Yes, he’s an irrational insolent little child,” I send him an eye roll and he smirks, “But even I can admit his change since you’ve come around. That’s the kind of person you are, you insight goodness in others. Being around you changes people. Y/n, you are an amazing human being and I intend to show you how much I appreciate fate for blessing me with you.”

I smile up at Elijah, “You really have a way with words, y’know?”

Elijah lets out a deep chuckle, “Yes, I’ve been told this a few times before,” Elijah reaches a hand down and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear.

“How do you intend to show me?”

Elijah’s upper lip twitches and he brings his fingers down and lightly pinches my cheek, “As much as I’d love to show you, I don’t think I have enough time. And I promised to answer some of your questions.”

I let out a startled cough and nod my head, trying to act chill as hell. Oh lord, this man is freaky deeky. 

“Oh ya, um, totally,” I stand up quickly and almost knock Elijah in the nose while doing so. He takes a quick step back in time and releases a chuckle. 

“Okay, let me just collect myself real quick,” I take a deep breath as I start pacing my room, “Lots of emotions going around right now.’

“Take your time, Elskan.”

Elijah sits back in my armchair and I watch him. He’s back to his composed self and I wish I was able to be as calm and nonchalant as he is. 

“So how old are you exactly?”

“Approximately, 1,200 years old.”

My mouth drops open.

“You’re old as fuck,” I blurt out.

Elijah raises an eyebrow, “You and that language,” He mutters while shaking his head, “But…yes. I am old as fuck.”

A loud snort escapes me and I quickly slap a hand to my mouth. I stare wide-eyed at Elijah, who appears to be quite entertained by my outburst. A light pink tinge covers his cheeks as he stares at me with a soft smile. 

“Moving along…what’s your birthday?”

Elijah gives me a confused look, “Why do you ask?”

I put my hands on my hips, “Didn’t you agree to answer all of my questions,” I give him a pointed look and he smirks. 

“Yes, I did. My apologies. But birthdays weren’t a big thing when I was born. So all I know was I was born sometime between November and January.”

A sense of sadness fills me, “So you really don’t know what day you were born?”

Elijah shakes his head. 

“Alright…,” I tap my chin, “Then we’ll just have to give you one,” I squint my eyes and stare at him. He watches me with an unphased look, “Hmm. I don’t think you’d be a Sagittarius so that leaves either a Scorpio or Capricorn. Scorpio sounds better for you. How about November 15th?”

Elijah places one leg over the other and nods his head, “November 15th it is.”

I nod happily and then sit down on the floor across from him, “Next question…Klaus said that he was able to tell I was his soulmate by my eyes and that the soulmate thing works because I got your human soul. Is all this true?”

Elijah nods, “Like my brother I had dreams of your eyes. They gave me a sense of comfort in my moments of weakness. I knew that when I meant the person who they belonged to I would be wholly devoted to them. And I know for certain now that I was correct,” He smiles down at me but I can’t keep looking at him because I know if I do I’ll let out a stupid giggle. “Cool. Cool. Cool.,” I fiddle with my fingers, “So what exactly comes with this thing,” I gesture between us, “Like, I don’t feel like drinking any blood so I don’t think I’ve developed your hunger. And I’m not like super strong or fast so…that sucks.”

Elijah leans forward in his seat, “From what I’ve read over the years about the bond, you will not have to worry about developing a taste for blood. Nor, will you experience my speed or strength. There isn’t much about soulmates but what some witches have suspected is that when one of of feels a strong emotion, such as pain, our counterpart will also feel it.”

At his comment, I frown. 

“Wait. Pain?” Elijah frowns deeply, “I would never want you to feel any pain because of me, Elskan.”

“While you were daggered…I got these strong pains in my chest. It would hurt so bad that sometimes I would pass out. Was that because of the bound?”

“Why did you never tell me about this?”

At Elijah’s concerned tone, I shrug. 

“It’s not like we’ve had much time to hang out since you’ve been undaggered, dude.”

Elijah sighs and nods, “It is possible that is the reason.”

“Oh my god,” I jump up slightly, “During the ritual when you guys were trying to kill your brother,” Elijah slightly flinches at the recollection, “I felt like I was having a heart attack and I had blood gushing from my chest. Alaric said it was like I was dying, and honestly it felt like I was,” I cringe, “Was that the bond with Klaus?”

Elijah has a look of horror on his face, “I didn’t know I caused you such pain,” He stands up and rubs a hand over his face, “Elskan, I understand if you never forgive me, but you must know how truly sorry I am. I never wanted this to-.”

“Woah, Elijah. Chill,” I stand up and hold my hands up, “I don’t blame you for what happened. Like at all. I’m just relieved that I have an explanation for what was happening. You have no idea how many medical bills I racked up on Damon’s credit card for all the doctor’s appointments that we went to. I thought I was like actually dying from some unknown disease.”

Elijah looks at me with an odd look, “So you don’t hate me? And also…Damon went with you to the doctor’s?”

I nod, “Ya…it was a weird summer. Many trips upstate. Many diner stops with him as well. If you think his presence is a lot when you’re out in public with him, imagine being stuck in a car with him for hours,” I shiver.

“I will make sure to talk to him and have him send me the bills for your medical expenses so I can take responsibility for it.”

I shake my head and laugh, “Don’t worry about it, Lijah. I like draining him for his money, it pisses him off. Which gives me joy.”

Elijah’s dark mood seems to lighten at my joke. 

“Do you have any other questions for me?”

“Ummm. Nope.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow in skepticism, “Really? You don’t seem so sure.”

“Well…there is one question that has been nagging at me,” I look at the wall in front of me and pretend to find the wood interesting.

“And what question would that be?”

“Um, well… I know you like to flirt or whatever, but um…soulmates is kinda a big thing if you didn’t know,” I look back to him and he nods.

“I did know.”

“Well, what exactly do you expect to happen here,” I gesture between him and I. 

A look of realization comes over Elijah’s face as he realizes my apprehension.

Elijah releases a breath and stands up. I stand silently as he walks over to me with a soft smile on his face.

“I understand your confusion here. But, I want you to know this, Elskan,” Elijah uses his hand to brush my hair off my shoulder, “I will accept whatever you want. I have waited for you a thousand years, to be in your presence is enough for me. If you want a friend, then I will be a friend. Or,” He lets out a soft breath, “If one day you decide you would like to explore something…deeper. Then I’d be incredibly happy as well. I don’t want you to feel rushed or uncomfortable. So, whatever you decide, I will agree.”

A warmth flows through my chest at his confession.

I try to push back my smile but I can’t seem to help it as I look at the nervous look on his face. 

“I’d like a friend,” I say and Elijah seems almost a bit upset.

“Then a friend I will be,” Elijah agrees.

“But…if in the future, after we get to know each other better,” Elijah's eyes widen slightly at what I’m saying, “Maybe we could revisit the idea of something…more.”

Elijah’s smile widens enough to where I can see his slight dimples, “I would like that…very much.”

“Great,” I bite my lip nervously.

“Great,” Elijah responds.

Elijah and I seem to be stuck in a staring contest until a chime from my phone interrupts us. 

“Sorry,” I mutter as I pull my phone from my pocket. I frown as I read the text from Matt Donovan. 

“What’s wrong?” I look up at Elijah after hearing his concerned voice.

“Someone called in sick for work and Matt needs me to come in and cover her shift,” I groan at the thought of going to work today. 

“You have a job?”

“Sadly. But, if I want to pay for college I’m going to need to save up money,” I sigh as I walk over to my desk and start putting some mascara on.

“I’d pay for your college. You don’t need to worry about work,” Elijah’s comment has me turning over my shoulder to look at him.

“Like a sugar daddy?”

Elijah looks incredibly confused, “A what?”

I think it over a moment before shaking my head, “Never mind. But, I would never take your money.”

Elijah shakes his head, “You’re the only one I’d want to spend it on.”

I roll my eyes trying to hide the effect his words are having on me.

“That’s usually not how one friend talks to another,” I jest. 

I turn back towards my mirror, that sits on my desk, and I put on some concealer. In the mirror I see Elijah behind me walk up towards me. 

“And how exactly do friends talk to one another,” Elijah says and I smirk as I continue blending in my makeup. I feel him stand behind me and pull slightly on a piece of my hair that is hanging down my back. I turn to glare at him and see him smiling at me like the devil.

“Now I see where Kol gets it from,” I snark and Elijah releases a sound of annoyance.

“Please never compare me to my younger brother again,” Elijah says as he wraps a piece of my hair around his finger and twirls it. 

I finish up my makeup, stand back up, and face Elijah who smiles down at me. 

“Ok…first rule of us being just friends. You’ve got to stop looking at me like that.”

Elijah tilts his head, “Like what?”

I point at his face, “Like that! That handsome smirk you’ve always got on your face.”

“Handsome?”

I let out a frustrated noise, walk over to my sweater, and begin to put it on. 

“You’re impossible.”

Elijah comes up behind me and takes my sweater from my hand and helps me put it on.

“Thanks…”

Elijah smiles at me, “What else are friends for?”

I let out a laugh, “Whatever. But…a friend would also give me a ride to work?”

Elijah smiles at me, “I’d be delighted to.”