#(on the FAINTEST technicality) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carnalcrows · 13 days ago

Text

NINE LIVES, ONE BULLET

pairing: outlaw! gojo saturo x male reader

synopsis: You’re a thief. He's a legend. All you wanted was the artifact — not a partner, not a bounty, and definitely not feelings. But there’s only one bed, one bullet, and maybe one shot at making it out alive. (And gods help you, you’re starting to like him.)

content warnings: 18+, outlaw/thief dynamic, bottom male reader, heavily inspired by puss in boots, Gojo is feral in a silk shirt, slow burn with explosive payoff, community bathhouse smut (fingering, p in a, reader receiving), one bed trope, fake marriage but the feelings are real, suggestive swordplay, magical artifact slowly corrupting the reader (he’s fine. probably), minor blood and injury, mutual possessiveness disguised as banter, major character death, emotional vulnerability in stolen clothes, they save the day but lose some of themselves, Gojo probably steals your boots.

word count: 10.5k 💪🏼

You were two clicks away from glory.

The last mechanism in the vault lock was nearly purring under your tools, an intricate thing of gears and whispers that had taken you three nights to decode. The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a stolen lantern and the soft red glow of rune-etched stone along the floor. Whoever built this place wanted the treasure buried and forgotten, but they hadn’t counted on you.

You adjusted your gloves, fingers nimble as the final latch gave the faintest click. Satisfaction hummed through you, the kind that only came from outsmarting kings and walking away richer.

And then you heard it.

A crunch.

You froze.

Not the stone-shifting crack of an ancient trap. Not the telltale grind of armoured boots. No—this was sharper. Wetter. Smugger.

You turned your head, slowly, already dreading what you’d find.

And there he was.

Satoru Gojo. Leaning casually against the far column, biting into a red apple like he’d strolled into a marketplace instead of a cursed noble’s vault. White hair gleaming. Mask angled just enough to be obnoxious. His boots were dusty, his grin shit-eating, and his eyes—fuck. Of course, he didn’t bother hiding them.

"Don’t stop on my account," he said, juice running down his wrist. "You looked so focused. It was adorable."

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then said, flatly, “What the fuck.”

He gestured with the apple. “Hi.”

“Did you follow me?”

“Technically, I was here first. I just took a more dramatic entrance route.” Another bite. “Rooftops. Rope. Possible broken window.”

You looked past him, and sure enough, one of the stained glass panels high above was cracked open, edges glittering with fresh damage.

“You’re a fucking legend,” you muttered, turning back to the vault.

"Aww, you do know me."

“I also think you're a fucking nuisance.”

Gojo laughed, low and pleased. "You say that like it’s mutually exclusive."

You exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “You planning on standing there eating fruit while I do all the work?”

“Actually,” he said, and there was the sound of something metal shifting behind you, “I was thinking I’d help.”

You spun, knives drawn in a blur.

But Gojo wasn’t threatening you—he was kneeling beside the pedestal now, peering at the exposed vault like it was a puzzle box.

He whistled. “Damn. You already disarmed the pressure plates?”

“You’re loud,” you said, circling him warily. “And messy.”

He looked up at you, bright-eyed. “But cute, right?”

Your blade hovered an inch from his throat.

“You’ve got five seconds to leave.”

“Oh?” His smile widened, infuriating. “Or what? You’ll stab the most charming outlaw in the land?”

“If it shuts you up, absolutely.”

“Harsh.” He leaned in, voice lower now. “You always this violent on first meetings, or am I special?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

"And you're hot when you're mad."

The moment stretched between you like a tripwire. His smile didn’t falter, but his fingers twitched near the hilt of the blade at his hip. Not drawn, not threatening. Just… prepared.

So he wasn’t an idiot. That was disappointing. You liked idiots. They bled easier.

“I know who you are,” you said finally.

“Everyone does.”

“I don’t mean your wanted posters. I mean your real reputation. You get people killed.”

His expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered behind his smirk. “People get themselves killed. I just make it interesting.”

You hated how good that line was. Hated more that it made you want to smirk back.

Instead, you sheathed your knives and moved past him to the artifact.

Small. Black. Humming with a pulse you felt in your ribs. The voidseed, they called it. One wish. One curse. Same odds, depending on how desperate you were.

Gojo stood too, closer now. You felt him behind you, tall and warm and irritating.

“Any chance you’ll split it?” he asked.

“Not even if you begged.”

“Mmm. I am good at begging, though.”

You straightened, turned, and faced him properly for the first time.

Sharp white hair. Lashes too long. Lips still stained from that damn apple. He was every kind of trouble, wrapped in silk and arrogance, and now he was standing between you and the exit.

You sighed. “I’m not fighting you in here. Too cramped.”

“Shame. I like it cramped.”

You stepped around him, slow, purposeful. “Touch me again and I’ll bury a dagger in your throat.”

He chuckled, following. “That’s not a no.”

You reached the exit passage, then paused. Looked back at him.

“You planning to follow me out?”

Gojo shrugged. “I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

“So rob someone else.”

“But you’re so much more fun.”

You stared. He smiled.

Then you threw a smoke vial to the ground and vanished into the haze, vaulting up the hidden escape shaft you’d scouted days ago. You didn’t bother looking back.

Let him chase you if he wanted.

You’d cut him off at the knees later.

---

The city was quieter at night—if you could call this a city. It was more like a stitched-together sprawl of forgotten temples, crumbling stonework, and wealthy cowards playing noble. Beyond the roofs stretched the distant outline of forest, where the real dangers lived. Where you were planning to disappear.

If not for the man currently chasing you.

You moved fast, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, leather boots gripping slick clay tiles. The wind tugged at your coat and hissed in your ears. You landed, rolled, and sprang again without pause—muscle memory and adrenaline making you feel half-feral, half-myth.

Gojo was still behind you.

Gods, how was he still behind you?

You glanced back just as he landed a story down, arms outstretched like a damn acrobat, long coat flaring, silver hair glowing in the moonlight. He looked delighted. Delighted.

“This is the most cardio I’ve done all year!” he called, grinning. “Is this foreplay? Feels like foreplay.”

“Try dying!” you shouted back, and dropped smoke behind you again.

But he didn’t slow. Didn’t stumble. If anything, he laughed harder—like this wasn’t a chase at all but a fucking game, and you were the only one pretending to play it seriously.

You hated how good he was at this.

You hated that it was kind of fun.

You pivoted hard, ducked under a broken arch, and slid down the angled side of an old cathedral roof, boots skimming the rain-slick edge. You landed in the alley with a sharp grunt, breath visible in the cold.

Then silence.

No footsteps. No Gojo.

You waited five, ten seconds—ears straining—then exhaled slowly and melted into the shadows, slipping through the gap between buildings you’d marked earlier. It led into the narrow passage behind the bell tower, where the stone was warped from age and easy to scale.

You climbed three stories before you heard it again.

Crunch.

You looked up.

There he was.

Leaning against the spire like a gargoyle, eating another fucking apple.

You stared. “How—”

“I’m very light on my feet,” he said cheerfully, tossing the core into the dark. “Also, you take the exact same route every time. Predictable, but sexy.”

Your hand twitched near your knife. “If I kill you, does the bounty double?”

He cocked his head. “Are you flirting?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached the top of the roof and sat, boots swinging over the edge, chest rising and falling from the sprint. Gojo watched you, then flopped down beside you like this was all part of the plan.

Below, the city was a patchwork of flickering lamps and watchfires. The guards hadn’t spotted either of you yet. You could still vanish. You could still shake him. But for some reason, you didn’t move.

“I should stab you,” you muttered.

“You keep saying that,” Gojo replied, voice lighter now. “But here we are.”

Silence stretched between you. Not tense, exactly. Just full—with things you weren’t going to say and things he probably already knew.

Gojo broke it first. “That vault was yours?”

“Obviously.”

“You cracked it clean.”

“Obviously.”

He grinned. “I’m impressed.”

You glanced at him. “That doesn’t mean anything coming from you.”

“It does to me.”

And there it was again—that thing he did, that flicker behind the jokes and showmanship. Like he saw something in you that he wasn’t supposed to. Like he was trying to get under your skin on purpose.

“Why do you keep chasing me?” you asked, finally. “You could be halfway to the next kingdom by now.”

Gojo stretched his legs out, boots scuffed and dusted with rooftop grit. “Maybe I like shiny things.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t even want the artifact.”

“Nope.”

“Then why—”

“I wanted to see who got there first.” He looked at you. Really looked. “And what they’d do with it.”

You met his gaze and felt something tighten in your chest.

“You think I’ll use it?”

He shrugged. “I think you’re not as heartless as people say.”

You laughed once, short and bitter. “And what gave you that idea? The knives or the running?”

“The way you looked at it. Like it scared you a little.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head toward the stars. “I’ve seen men go mad for things like that. Or worse—get hopeful. That’s always when it breaks them.”

“Hope?”

Gojo nodded. “It’s a fragile thing. Makes people desperate.”

You turned away. Looked down at the artifact in your coat pocket. Still warm. Still humming. Like it was alive. Like it knew it had just become yours.

“I’m not desperate,” you said quietly.

“No,” Gojo agreed. “You’re angry.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was guessing. Or maybe he really did see straight through people the way they said he could. Whatever it was, it made your skin itch.

“You gonna tail me all night?” you asked, voice back to flat.

“Depends,” he said, stretching. “Are you gonna make it worth my while?”

You stood abruptly. “Don’t follow me, Gojo.”

He didn’t rise. Just watched you from where he lay, too relaxed for someone who could be skewered in two seconds.

“You’re not the only outlaw after that thing, you know,” he said casually. “You might want backup. Or a partner.”

You looked over your shoulder. “I don’t do partners.”

“You might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Gojo smiled, softly this time. “I’ll see you again anyway.”

You disappeared into the shadows before you could give him the satisfaction of a reply.

And still, somewhere behind you, you heard him laughing.

---

You smelled blood before you stepped inside.

The tavern was quieter than you remembered, and that was saying something—it was already a shithole on a good day. You’d holed up here before: halfway between two borders, just obscure enough to be ignored by local law. Perfect for laying low after a heist. Perfect for disappearing.

But tonight, something was… off.

You kept your back to the wall and your hood up, fingers tracing the hilt under your coat as you passed between half-empty tables. A few men looked up—one blinked too slow, another’s hand twitched toward his belt. You kept walking.

The barkeep didn’t speak. Just jerked his chin toward the back room.

You slipped through the curtain.

Kaito was waiting. Ex-fence, part-time drunk, full-time coward. But useful—if you were willing to stomach the smell.

“You got it?” he rasped, eyes wide. “You actually got it?”

You didn’t answer. You pulled the object from inside your coat, still warm and faintly pulsing. The voidseed sat between you like a heart torn from a god. Kaito leaned forward, reverent.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You really pulled it off.”

“I need papers,” you said. “New name. New country. And I need it fast.”

Kaito nodded too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I got a guy—wait, no—had a guy, he moved east, but I can get—”

The door behind you slammed open.

You turned just as the first knife whistled through the air. You ducked. It hit the wall behind you with a dull thud.

Four bounty hunters. Maybe five. All armed. All grinning.

You moved before they could surround you, flipping the table and vaulting over it. The room exploded into motion—Kaito shrieked and disappeared under a bench, typical—and you drew both knives in one smooth motion, spinning as the first man lunged.

You slashed his thigh, ducked a club, kicked the third in the stomach hard enough to hear ribs crack. It was fast. It was brutal. But they kept coming.

They weren’t just here for blood.

They were here for the artifact.

Shit.

You were outnumbered, boxed in, and—

The window shattered.

Something slammed into the room in a blur of white and blue. The air twisted, and suddenly three men were on the floor, groaning or unconscious. One tried to crawl away. A boot stepped on his hand.

Gojo.

“Miss me?” he said, smile sharp and stupid and radiant.

You didn’t answer. You threw a bottle at the last standing hunter and watched it explode against his face.

“Charming,” Gojo said. “Didn’t know you could throw like that.”

“I’ll throw you if you don’t explain how they found me.”

Gojo crouched, yanked a bounty poster from one of their belts, and tossed it to you.

You caught it.

And froze.

Your name.

Your face—sketched, but unmistakable.

And scrawled beneath it in fat, blood-red ink:

WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE – POSSESSION OF AN ANCIENT CURSE REWARD: 5,000 GOLD COINS

You stared. “Five thousand?”

Gojo whistled low. “Even I’m not worth that much.”

“This wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Which means someone talked.”

You turned to Kaito. He held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything, I swear—!”

You kicked over his table. He screamed and ducked.

Gojo chuckled. “So. What’s your plan now?”

“Run,” you snapped. “Fast and far.”

“You won’t make it through the border checkpoints with that poster circulating. Every pair of eyes from here to the capital’s gonna be looking for you.”

“Not if I move fast.”

“Not if you move alone.”

You stopped.

Gojo smiled, all lazy amusement. “Travel with me. We’ll cut through the cliffs and loop around the marshlands. No patrols, no checkpoints. I’ve got people there. We’ll be ghosts.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s mutual.”

You glared. “Then why help me?”

He looked down at the voidseed, then back up at you.

“Because,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re not the only one who wants to know what that thing does. And I’ve got a map.”

You paused.

He added, “To the place it came from. The one no one dares go near. Not unless they want answers. Or power.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You could stab him. You could go alone. You could disappear into the woods and take your chances with the bounty on your back and the hunters at your heels.

Or you could take the risk.

You sheathed your knives. “Fine. One week. Then we’re done.”

Gojo grinned. “Whatever you say, partner.”

“I’m not your partner.”

“We’re travelling together. You’re not not my partner.”

You shoved past him. “If you talk this much while we’re walking, I will kill you.”

“That’s fine. You’ll miss me.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t look back, either.

Because for the first time since stealing the voidseed, you weren’t running alone.

And you hated that it made you feel a little less doomed.

---

You hated traveling with other people.

They slowed you down. They made noise. They had opinions about things like “breaks” and “which direction the cliffs are” and “not threatening every barkeep you meet.” And yet, here you were.

With him.

Gojo Satoru walked like a man who’d never feared a fall. Long strides, loose limbs, like the world was his to trip through. He hadn’t shut up for hours—about the voidseed, about local legends, about a mythical hot spring he swore was nearby and probably full of naked people.

You barely grunted in response.

Mostly to stop yourself from saying something you’d regret.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“So,” Gojo drawled as you both passed through the last arch of the ruined bridge, the cliffs yawning on either side like jagged teeth, “are you always this fun, or am I just special?”

“You talk too much.”

“And you glare like it’s a love language.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About killing me? Or kissing me?”

You didn’t answer.

Gojo laughed. “Ah, so both.”

The path ahead narrowed—just a crooked trail winding down into the ravine. No signs, no markers. You knew this route, barely. Smugglers used it sometimes, but it wasn’t exactly a highway. The wind picked up as you descended, sharp and biting, tugging at your coat and snapping branches overhead.

Behind you, Gojo sighed dramatically. “So… what’s your plan once we get across? Sell the voidseed? Hide it? Build a shrine and worship it?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “You really think I’d tell you that?”

“No,” he said. “But I like your voice. Could listen to it for hours.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat in your sleep.”

“I am lucky,” Gojo agreed. “Every day.”

You rolled your eyes. And still—somehow—didn’t stop walking next to him.

You camped that night in a hollowed-out cave, tucked into the cliffside like a secret. You’d found it years ago, when you were still running jobs with people who were now either dead or very, very far away. It was dry. Sheltered. Just big enough for two.

Which was annoying.

Gojo flopped down beside the fire you built, unbothered as always. He peeled off his coat, set down his sword with something resembling care, and stretched like a damn cat.

“You know,” he said, watching the flames dance, “you snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. It’s kind of endearing. Like a very angry bear.”

You threw a twig at his face. He caught it, grinning.

“You know you’re insane, right?” you said.

Gojo shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t reply.

The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind howled through the canyons like a warning. But in here, it was warm. Almost… peaceful.

You hated it.

“You’ve done this before,” Gojo said, after a beat. “Stolen something dangerous. Run from a bounty. Lived with a target on your back.”

Your jaw tensed. “You haven’t?”

“Oh, I have,” he said lightly. “But I tend to leave a trail of ash and broken hearts. You’re more subtle.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

Gojo turned his head, looking at you through the flickering light.

“No,” he said. “It’s impressive.”

You stared at the flames. Let the silence grow teeth again.

“I’m not interested in your compliments,” you muttered.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured. “Sharing fire. Sharing risk.”

“Not a team.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

The next day, you crossed the ravine and headed toward the outer reaches of the valley—closer to the forgotten routes that led to the Wastes. That’s where Gojo said the answers were. Where the voidseed had been found once before.

But first, you needed supplies.

And supplies meant towns.

You picked a smaller one. Backwater. No central guard. Fewer chances to be recognized.

Or so you thought.

The minute you stepped into the town square, Gojo nudged your side. “Don’t react.”

You didn’t move.

But you saw it.

A new bounty poster.

Your face, again.

And Gojo’s. Right beside it.

Same scrawled headline: WANTED FOR THEFT OF AN ANCIENT RELIC – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS REWARD: 7,000 GOLD – DEAD OR ALIVE

“Didn’t know you were that popular,” Gojo muttered.

“I thought you said your contacts were clean.”

“They were. Someone’s really invested in finding us.”

You ducked into a side alley, heart thudding. Gojo followed.

“What now?” he asked.

You were already scanning. Thinking. Calculating.

“They’ve got spotters,” you said. “We can’t stay long. We grab supplies and get out.”

“They’ll flag the wanted faces the second we walk into the market.”

“Then we won’t walk in as us.”

He blinked. “You’ve got disguises?”

“Better,” you said grimly. “A local custom.”

Gojo raised a brow. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two hours later, Gojo stood beside you in front of the town registrar, wearing ceremonial robes that didn’t fit and smiling like he was having the time of his life.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to punch someone.

The registrar blinked down at the paperwork. “So… you’re here to register a bond?”

“Just passing through,” Gojo said brightly, sliding his arm around your waist. “But my beloved and I are finally tying the knot. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You gritted your teeth. “Ecstatic.”

The woman beamed. “Well, congratulations! I’ll just need you both to sign here—”

You grabbed the pen before Gojo could write something stupid.

You didn’t look at him when you scribbled your name—fake, of course—but you could feel his eyes on you. Amused. Curious. Warm in a way you didn’t want to think about.

“Done,” you said. “Can we go now?”

The registrar handed you a scroll. “Welcome to marital bliss!”

Gojo winked. “We’ll try not to kill each other.”

“Please don’t!” she called cheerfully as you walked away.

Later, back in the woods with the supplies stashed and your cover intact, Gojo laughed until he almost fell over.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “We just got fake married.”

You didn’t respond.

“Do I get a honeymoon? What about a kiss? Should we consummate the union?”

“Shut up.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, hubby. Admit it. You liked holding my hand.”

“I was restraining you.”

“Semantics.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed harder.

And somehow, you weren’t annoyed.

Not really.

Because for the first time since this whole cursed job started—you didn’t feel like you were running. You felt like you were walking beside someone who might actually survive the ending with you.

Maybe.

If he didn’t die first.

---

You knew something was off the moment the birds stopped singing.

It was dusk. The sky had softened into gold, trees slicing the light into ribbons as you and Gojo crept along the overgrown trail just past the ridge. You were supposed to be half a day ahead of any bounty trackers. Supposed to be deep enough in the forgotten woods that no one would dare follow.

But the silence gave it away.

Not natural. Not safe.

You stopped moving.

Gojo stopped too. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer. Just drew one of your knives and slipped into the trees.

Behind you, Gojo made a low sound—approval, maybe. He followed without complaint. Quiet. Efficient. Annoyingly graceful.

Then the first arrow struck the dirt near your boot.

You reacted instantly, diving behind a fallen log as the air exploded with motion. Figures burst from the brush—five, six, maybe more. Faces masked, blades out, a full ambush party and not the amateur kind. These weren’t bounty hunters.

These were bounty killers.

Gojo cursed behind you. “Friendly crowd.”

You gritted your teeth. “They were waiting.”

“For us?”

“For me.”

“God, you’re popular.”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Instead, you moved.

Two in front. One on the ridge. Another circling left. You lunged for the closest figure, catching them by surprise, your blade slicing across their thigh as you twisted to avoid a second strike. Blood splattered the leaves. They went down with a grunt.

Gojo was beside you in a blink, staff spinning, cracking skulls with that infuriating ease of his. But you could tell he was holding back. Always did. Like he was dancing, not fighting. Like none of it really mattered.

Until it did.

Because one of them got close—closer than you expected. A blade slashed across your arm. Hot pain bloomed. You staggered, just a second too slow.

Gojo turned, face shifting from amused to lethal.

The man didn’t even get to scream before Gojo drove his palm into his chest with a sickening crack.

Then silence.

Not quiet like before. Not suspicious.

Just stillness.

Bodies on the ground. Blood steaming in the cool night air.

You hissed, clutching your arm. “Fuck.”

“Let me see.” Gojo stepped closer.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

“Stop being difficult,” he muttered. “You’re not impressing me.”

You glared at him but let him push your coat off your shoulder. He knelt beside you, fingers brushing the torn fabric gently—almost too gently. His hands were warm. Steady.

“Not too deep,” he said. “But it’ll scar.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then you scoffed. “You care about a lot of things that don’t concern you.”

Gojo didn’t answer.

Just tied the bandage tight and stood.

You stood too, slower this time. Wincing. You wiped the blood off your blade and sheathed it again, staring down at the bodies.

“They knew we were coming,” you said.

“Looks like it.”

“Which means someone’s tracking us. Close.”

Gojo was quiet.

Then: “Geto.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t teasing. That brightness he usually wore like armor had dimmed, pulled back like a tide.

You swallowed.

“You think he sent them?”

Gojo nodded once. “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask how he knew.

Not yet.

But something in your chest twisted.

You made camp deeper in the woods, away from the blood. The night was colder now, as if it knew something had changed.

Gojo didn’t joke. Didn’t chatter.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you sat with your back to the fire, knife in your hand, watching shadows flicker against the trees. You could still hear the sound of that last man’s chest caving in. Still feel Gojo’s hands on your arm. Still—

“You were good today,” Gojo said softly behind you.

You didn’t turn. “I’m always good.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Another pause.

Then:

“Thanks for not dying.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He was leaning back, arms behind his head, hair messy, eyes soft and unreadable in the firelight.

And for once, he wasn’t smiling.

You didn’t know what that meant.

So you said, “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

He met your gaze.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

---

The village wasn’t on any map. It didn’t even have a name, just a rusted sign by the gate that read STAY OUT in faded red paint. That didn’t stop Gojo from walking right in, of course—whistling like he owned the place.

You followed him reluctantly, steps slower, warier. Something about the place made your skin itch. The houses were squat, sagging under their own weight, and the streets were too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with sleep or peace—but the kind that settles when something is wrong.

You passed a farmer hammering wooden planks across his windows. He didn’t look up.

Gojo leaned toward you, voice light: “Charming little vacation spot, huh?”

You didn’t smile. “Let’s find a place to rest. In and out. No distractions.”

Gojo just nodded, but you knew better. The man couldn’t resist poking the bear—especially if the bear was cursed, dangerous, or full of secrets.

It wasn’t hard to find the inn. It was the only building still standing straight. The sign above the door read The Hollow Lantern in cracked gold paint. You pushed the door open, and the air inside smelled like dust and oil and something faintly metallic.

A woman sat at the counter. Her eyes flicked to you, then to Gojo. “Rooms?”

“Two,” you said quickly.

She shook her head. “Only one left.”

Of course.

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take it.”

You didn’t protest. Not out loud. But the look you shot him could’ve burned a hole through stone.

He just grinned.

The room was small—barely enough space for your bags, your weapons, and the one creaky-looking bed shoved up against the far wall.

The silence stretched.

Gojo flopped onto the mattress like it was a king’s feast. “Not bad! Sheets even smell clean.” He rolled onto his back, arms behind his head. “You want left or right side?”

You stared at him. “I’ll take the floor.”

“No you won’t. You’re still injured.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to suffer through worse now.” He patted the space beside him. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite—unless you ask nicely.”

You flipped your knife once between your fingers before sliding it back into your boot. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Gojo smiled, but didn’t answer. For once, he let it be.

You didn’t lie down. Not yet. Instead, you stood by the window, eyes scanning the dark street below. Somewhere out there, the forest still whispered. The same forest that had nearly buried you both in bodies just hours earlier.

Something wasn’t right.

You turned to Gojo. “Why this village?”

He blinked at you, sitting up. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t hesitate. You just… walked in. Like you were looking for it.”

Gojo looked away then, expression shuttering. His smile faded—just for a moment, but enough to catch.

“There’s a rumor,” he said finally. “Old one. Says this place was cursed after a voidseed burst under the mountain. Says anyone who stays too long starts hearing voices in their sleep. Seeing things that aren’t there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you thought we should spend the night here?”

He shrugged. “If it’s cursed, it means no one will look for us here.”

You didn’t have a counter to that.

But you still didn’t like it.

You lay down reluctantly that night, fully dressed, your back to Gojo, your hand never straying far from the hilt at your hip. The bed was warmer than expected. You hated that. Hated the way your muscles loosened despite yourself. Hated the way Gojo’s breathing, soft and even beside you, almost calmed you.

Almost.

“You awake?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

He continued anyway. “I get why you don’t trust me.”

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not your enemy.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the moonlight leaking through the cracked shutters. His eyes were open. Bright. Watching the ceiling like it held the answers.

“I’m not anyone’s ally either,” you said. “I work alone.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then softer: “You don’t have to, though.”

You closed your eyes. Tried to pretend it didn’t make something sharp twist under your ribs.

You dreamed that night.

Of fire. Of eyes in the trees. Of a voice calling your name in someone else’s tone. You woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding—and Gojo was already sitting up beside you, alert. Barefoot. Shirt rumpled.

He looked at you like he’d seen something too.

“You felt it too?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Something’s here.”

Gojo’s voice dropped. “Voidseed.”

You stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I’ve felt it before.”

There it was again. That crack. That space where the mask slipped.

You sat up. “How many times?”

Gojo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, crossing to the window.

“Geto used to track them,” he said finally. “Years ago. Said they were pieces of a bigger magic—older than anything in this world. Said if you collected enough of them, you could change fate.”

“And you believed him?”

Gojo gave you a sad smile. “I believed in him.”

You stood too.

And the floor creaked between you, quiet and heavy, like it was holding its breath.

Morning came gray and slow. You packed in silence. Gojo didn’t press you again. But something had shifted between you. Not quite trust. Not quite warmth.

But something.

You left the village by noon. The innkeeper watched you both with tired eyes. And just as you passed the edge of the woods again, Gojo looked at you sideways.

“One bed,” he said casually.

You grunted. “What about it?”

He smirked. “You didn’t stab me.”

You didn’t smile.

But you didn’t deny it either.

---

You’d barely made it past the village border when Gojo started whistling again. Same tune, same arrogance, like the ambush, the cursed bed-sharing, and the voidseed whispers hadn’t left even a scratch on his soul. You, on the other hand, were nursing a splitting headache and a very real ache in your side that you absolutely were not going to let him notice.

“Stop that,” you muttered.

“Stop what?” he said, cocking his head with a mock innocence that didn’t fool you for a second.

“That noise.”

“I’m creating ambiance. Mood. Vibes.”

“Your vibes are making me homicidal.”

Gojo grinned, “Well, at least they’re working.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer. Just adjusted your coat, made sure your dagger was still where it belonged, and scanned the horizon ahead.

A town lay a few miles out—marked on Gojo’s stolen, half-burned map as “Rookridge.” He’d claimed there was a shortcut through its back alleys that would take you both to the pass ahead. You didn’t trust him, or the map, or frankly even the ground beneath your boots right now. But it was the only real lead you had. That, and the faint whisper of voidseed still lingering like smoke on the wind.

The town looked normal at first glance. Dusty. Quiet. The kind of place where people didn’t make eye contact unless you paid them for it. But Gojo slowed slightly as you entered the main square, steps lighter than usual. His hand brushed yours—barely.

“Careful,” he murmured, just for you. “We’re not alone.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You felt it too. That ripple in the air. That hunter’s tension curling along the back of your spine.

And then they stepped into the street.

Two of them. Dressed like theatre villains, all leather and buckles and unnecessary capes. One was tall and lean, with a blade so polished it shone like a mirror. The other was shorter, broader, and carried a spiked flail that looked like it belonged in a torture museum.

But it was their faces that made your stomach sink.

They were smiling. Like they’d been expecting you.

“Well, well,” the tall one purred, pointing his sword lazily between you and Gojo. “If it isn’t the infamous sorcerer and his grumpy little bodyguard.”

Gojo perked up. “You think I’m infamous? Aww, stop.”

“I won’t,” the shorter one said, cracking his knuckles. “The price on your head is enough to buy a kingdom.”

You tilted your head. “Whose head?”

Both bounty hunters blinked.

Gojo elbowed you lightly. “Aw, don’t be shy. They’re clearly here for me.”

“You wish.” You rolled your eyes, but your hand was already on your dagger.

“Don’t fight over me,” Gojo sighed. “There’s enough bounty to go around.”

The tall one moved first—fast, practiced, but not fast enough. Your blade met his mid-air with a clash of steel and a flick of your wrist that sent him staggering back.

“Whoa!” Gojo laughed. “Look at you go, sweetheart!”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving—ducking a strike, spinning, slashing low. The flail swung behind you, a whistle of iron in the air, and Gojo intercepted it with a wall of crystal-clear magic that cracked the earth.

“Oh, come on!” the shorter bounty hunter shouted. “Magic?! That’s cheating!”

Gojo grinned. “I know.”

The fight spilled into the square, drawing attention from the nearby tavern and market stalls. But no one stepped in. They just watched—silent, sharp-eyed. Rookridge didn’t seem like the kind of place that interfered.

The tall one tried a fancy move—flipping off a crate and aiming for your head with a scream of overconfidence. You ducked, grabbed his belt mid-air, and slammed him into the ground.

He groaned. “You’re… stronger than you look.”

“Yeah,” you said, flipping your dagger once, “I get that a lot.”

Gojo, meanwhile, had turned the fight into a performance. He was laughing, spinning, summoning brief flashes of light to blind and dazzle. Every move was unnecessarily theatrical, but undeniably effective.

The flail came flying again, and Gojo sidestepped with a flourish. “You know, I thought about becoming a dancer once,” he mused. “But bounty hunters make such terrible partners.”

The flail-wielder screamed in frustration and charged.

Gojo just blew him a kiss and raised his hand—boom. A pulse of energy sent the man flying into a water trough.

Silence settled.

You stood over the tall one, breathing hard, dagger pressed to his throat.

“Still want that bounty?” you asked.

He wheezed. “You’re… both insane.”

Gojo popped a piece of dried fruit into his mouth and winked. “And you’re boring.”

The bounty hunters crawled off eventually, muttering curses and threats. You didn’t follow. You’d made your point.

“Do you always piss people off that quickly?” you asked Gojo, wiping blood off your blade.

“Only the people worth pissing off,” he said cheerfully. “That guy’s sword was too clean. He needed humbling.”

You glared at him. “They could’ve killed us.”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “But they didn’t. Because you’re terrifying and I’m fabulous.”

You exhaled hard and kept walking.

That night, you ended up at a tiny tavern on the edge of Rookridge. The innkeeper gave you both a once-over, eyes narrowing.

“You bonded?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Town’s prepping for the Moonbind Festival,” she said. “Only bonded pairs can stay the night. Security measures. Too many outlaws and opportunists about.”

You turned to Gojo. “Tell her we’re not staying.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders before you could move. “Of course we are! My darling and I just survived a double bounty ambush—we deserve a real bed.”

The woman squinted at you both.

You forced a smile. “We’re very happy.”

She handed over a key. “Only one bed.”

Gojo winked. “Even better.”

You didn’t punch him. That counted as restraint.

---

You woke up to the sound of bells.

Not the sharp clang of alarms or the echo of church towers—these were delicate, wind-chimed things, threaded between banners overhead and strung along doorways like blessings. The whole village had changed overnight. Rookridge was unrecognizable. The market stalls were blooming with silk and smoke, incense curling between jewel-toned tents, and the streets were packed with masked dancers who moved like water.

Gojo was already outside when you stumbled down from the room, leaning against the inn’s outer wall with a pastry in one hand and glitter on his cheek.

“Happy Moonbind,” he said, offering a bite like you hadn’t nearly murdered him in the night for stealing the blanket.

You took it anyway. “What the hell is Moonbind?”

“Seasonal festival,” he said, chewing lazily. “Magic’s thin during the solstice, so towns get nervous. The masks confuse spirits. The dancing keeps things grounded. And the baths—oh, those are for purification.”

You arched a brow. “You sound like a tour guide.”

He winked. “I did a season as one. Got fired for seducing the clientele.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because you were too busy trying to ignore the fact that he looked really good in the morning light. Loose shirt. Messy hair. Smudged charm and the kind of smile that had ruin me written all over it in invisible ink.

You hated him. You hated him.

You were starting to like him.

The festival carried on around you, full of performances and half-magic rituals. You watched a child pluck fire from a bowl with bare hands and turn it into confetti. A woman offered to tell your fortune for a coin and a strand of hair. Gojo convinced an illusionist to make him float six feet in the air, lounging like a cat on an invisible hammock, just so he could yell at you from above: “You should try smiling sometime, y’know!”

You did smile. A little.

Just not at him.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. Bastard probably noticed everything.

By midday, you reached the temple.

It looked abandoned—half-sunken stone and creeping moss—but the inside pulsed faintly with something ancient. The puzzle room was beneath it, down a spiral staircase so narrow Gojo kept bumping into you “on accident.”

“You don’t have to keep touching me,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered, too close. “But it’s more fun if I do.”

The trial was designed for two. Pressure plates. Mirrors. Glyphs that lit up when touched simultaneously from opposite ends of the room. It was built for partnership. Trust.

You hated it.

But you worked through it—together.

You read the symbols. Gojo solved the riddles aloud like a smug professor. At one point, he grabbed your hand to guide it toward a panel and didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

Not immediately.

At the end of the trial, a vision struck.

You touched the relic in the center of the room—and it hit you like a punch to the chest. You saw yourself, older. Alone. Blood on your hands. Gojo—gone. Or worse.

You stumbled back, dizzy with the weight of it.

Gojo caught you. Didn’t say anything. Just braced your fall like he’d known it was coming.

“Don’t touch it again,” he said softly, voice suddenly too serious.

“What did you see?” you asked, still breathless.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Something I deserved.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Not through the walk back, not through dinner, not even when Gojo tried to distract you by juggling apples for a group of children.

You kept thinking about what you’d seen.

Not just the blood. Not just the loss.

You were starting to understand why he moved the way he did. Like he was running from something.

Same as you.

The bathhouse was empty when you entered.

Steam curled along the surface of the water, warm and thick. The stone walls were carved with crescent symbols, and candles floated in little wooden bowls, their reflections soft and golden.

Gojo was already in, of course. Neck deep, hair slicked back, eyes half-lidded.

“You coming in or just planning to stare dramatically from the doorway all night?”

You didn’t answer. Just undressed, slow and deliberate, like it didn’t matter.

But his eyes tracked every movement.

You slid into the water across from him and leaned back.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence was charged—thick as steam, warm as blood.

Gojo broke it first.

“You really trust me this little?”

You opened one eye. “It’s not about trust.”

“What is it about, then?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He moved through the water slowly. Closer. Close enough that his knee brushed yours.

“You looked scared today,” he said. “When the relic showed you something.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve been scared of that future a long time.”

You watched him.

He wasn’t smiling now. No jokes. No theatrics. Just Gojo—quiet and tired and real.

And maybe it was the warmth. The silence. The ache in your chest that hadn’t left since the trial.

But you moved.

Just a little.

And he moved too.

When your mouths met, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Desperate. Sharp. You gripped his hair. He tugged you closer. Water splashed between you, arms and mouths and heat tangled like you were both afraid the other might disappear.

His lips trailed down your jaw. “Still hate me?”

You exhaled hard. “You talk too much.”

He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into his lap like it cost him nothing.

But it did. You could feel it—in the way his hands shook slightly when they touched your waist, the way he kissed like someone trying to memorise the taste of safety.

You let him.

Let him press against you, skin to skin, steam rising around your joined bodies like a prayer.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough either.

It was real.

Slow, gasping, fingers on hips, lips at neck. Your body burned. His voice broke. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel hunted. You didn’t feel like an outlaw.

You just felt wanted.

After, you stayed in the water.

Gojo rested his head against your shoulder, quiet. For once.

You let him.

You didn’t say it. Not out loud.

But you were falling.

And it was already too late to stop.

---

The last time Gojo saw Geto Suguru, the world was on fire.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Flames licked the rafters of the old church they’d hidden in for weeks, smoke curling like claws through the broken windows. Geto had been standing at the centre of it all, calm and golden and furious.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” he asked.

Gojo didn’t answer. He was too busy choosing which lie would hurt less.

Geto already knew the truth.

They’d grown up together—same orphan network, same underground circuit, trained to steal from sorcerers and run cons on temple grounds. Geto was the planner. Gojo was the charmer. And between the two of them, there wasn’t a vault in the empire they couldn’t crack.

They’d talked about building something. Not a gang—a sanctuary. A real home. For people like them. Outlaws. Half-magic runaways. Curse-born kids. No one else would give them peace, so they’d make their own.

But then the Voidseed came into play.

An artifact that didn’t just show the future—it rewrote it, anchored by whoever held it long enough to burn their soul into it. And Geto... Geto wanted to use it. Not to steal gold, but to change everything. Uproot the monarchy. Collapse the sorcerer courts. Win.

Gojo said no.

It wasn’t because he disagreed. It was because he knew what it would do to Geto. And to himself. You don’t touch a god and walk away unchanged.

So he stole it.

And ran.

Geto found him three days later with blood on his sleeve and the Voidseed gone.

“You always think you know better,” Geto said, voice like thunder in the silence. “You always think you’re saving people. But you only ever save yourself.”

The building collapsed before they finished that fight.

They haven’t seen each other since.

But Gojo still wakes up some nights with ash in his lungs and Geto’s words etched into his ribs like scripture.

---

You didn’t talk much after that night.

Which was funny, considering the things you’d done to each other in the water.

Gojo didn’t seem interested in defining anything. Just kept walking beside you like always—cracking jokes, stealing fruit, humming off-key under his breath like nothing in the world could touch him.

But it had.

You saw it in the way he paused before reaching for you now. The way his smile lingered longer than necessary. The way he said your name softer, like it meant something new.

He didn’t push. You didn’t ask. Whatever this was, it was becoming something more. And it terrified you.

The forest had grown thicker the closer you got to the outskirts of Serinfall.

Birdsong had vanished. The air was too still. Even the trees seemed to lean in, eavesdropping.

That’s when you felt it.

Pressure. Wrongness. Like the kind of curse that leaves no mark but still crawls into your bones.

You stopped walking.

“Don’t move,” you muttered.

Gojo froze, one hand halfway to his coat pocket. “You sense it too?”

Three shadows dropped from the trees. Silent. Sharp. Their movements weren’t human—smooth like oil, reeking of borrowed magic and blood money.

One of Geto’s, you realized. Or maybe all three.

“Well, well,” the tallest one said, voice like spoiled honey. “Look what the moon dragged in. Satoru Gojo and his latest fling.”

Gojo didn’t rise to the bait. He just tilted his head and smiled like he was bored. “You should’ve brought more than three.”

You didn’t wait for them to strike.

You moved.

It wasn’t clean. Fights never were.

Steel met steel. Cursefire crackled in the underbrush. You ducked, rolled, blocked a blade with your forearm and sent your dagger into the bastard’s throat before he even blinked.

Gojo handled two of them at once. No blindfold this time—just power barely held in check, lighting his hands like wildfire. He moved like sin, like something too beautiful to survive this world. You hated how much you liked watching him fight.

When it was over, you stood with blood in your mouth and a tear in your sleeve.

Gojo looked worse—cut lip, bruised cheekbone, smile still in place.

“You alright?” he asked.

You stared at him. “Did you let one of them punch you?”

“…Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to worry about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You didn’t answer.

Because it was starting to feel a little bit true.

You set up camp that night under a sky full of stars.

The fire crackled. The silence stretched. Gojo poked at the flames with a stick like a bored child.

You finally broke it.

“Why’d you leave him?”

He didn’t pretend not to know who you meant.

“I thought I was saving him,” he said, softly. “And I was wrong.”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared into the fire like it held the answer to a question he still didn’t want to ask out loud.

“He had a plan,” Gojo continued. “A big one. Clean the slate. Destroy the courts. Give power back to the cursed-born. But the relic… it doesn’t work like that. It takes. It always takes. It would've eaten him from the inside out.”

“So you stole it.”

“I stole everything,” he said. “His trust. Our future. Maybe his soul.”

You sat there in silence for a long time.

Then you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You don’t look like a hero,” you said.

He huffed a laugh. “You don’t either.”

You let his hand find yours in the dark.

Neither of you said anything after that.

But the fire burned warm, and the stars didn’t feel so far away anymore.

---

You felt it thrumming. Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you.

The Voidseed.

Still tucked safely in the hidden lining of your coat. Still pulsing like it knew you were close — too close. It had started earlier that morning, a low buzz under your ribs, and hadn’t stopped since.

“You’re twitchier than usual,” Gojo said, walking just behind you.

You didn’t turn. “Twitchier than you when someone tells you no?”

“Please. I thrive on rejection.”

The path narrowed as the trees thinned into pale, bone-dry rock. You could smell the vault now — stone and decay and something that didn’t belong in this world. A place that had been locked away for good reason.

And yet, you were headed straight for it.

Gojo adjusted the strap of his pack with a whistle. “So. End of the road.”

You exhaled. “Not yet.”

“Close enough.”

He caught up, his shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t move away.

“It’s still with you, right?” he asked, voice low but easy. “The Voidseed.”

“Yeah.”

“No sudden urges to use it? Wield a little death? Rewrite the laws of the known universe?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not today.”

“Good. Would’ve hated to kill you before dinner.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

The vault sat buried beneath the ruin of a forgotten temple — jagged stone stairs leading down into shadow. The door was etched in old language, crawling with vines. No lock. No trap. Just a sense of wrong that made the skin on your arms rise.

Gojo stood beside you, quiet for once.

“What happens if we open it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door like it had whispered something only he could hear.

“Depends,” he said eventually. “What Geto wants… it’s not just power. It’s change. Revolution. Burn-it-all-down kind of change.”

“And you don’t?”

“I wanted it too,” Gojo said. “Once. But not like this.”

He looked at you, eyes clearer than they had any right to be.

“I want to live. That’s different.”

You looked away.

Because suddenly the Voidseed felt heavier.

Because his hand was brushing yours again, and you didn’t pull back.

Because you weren’t sure who you were anymore without the violence, the chase, the lie.

And because you might want the same thing.

---

The air changed the moment you stepped inside.

Colder. Thicker. Like something was pressing down on your lungs, or maybe pressing in—watching. The stairs spiraled tight, stone slick with condensation and old blood. Each step you took felt louder than the last.

Behind you, Gojo didn’t say a word.

He hadn’t spoken since the door unsealed itself at your touch.

Didn’t have to.

You both knew what this place was.

Not just a vault. Not just the end of the map.

It was the place the world came to die.

At the bottom, the space opened wide.

A dome of black stone, pulsing faintly with light from no source at all. Runes crawled across the walls like scars. And in the center — a dais. Empty. Waiting.

You felt the Voidseed in your coat begin to ache.

Gojo stepped forward slowly, gaze moving across the carvings.

“This is older than the clans,” he murmured. “Before the curses. Before the courts. Before the Nine.”

“You think Geto knows that?”

“I think he doesn’t care.”

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“You know he’s here, right?”

Your jaw tightened. “How long?”

“Since the last town. Maybe longer.”

You exhaled through your nose. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the honeymoon.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

But the temperature dropped again—hard.

The shadows in the corners moved.

And then he stepped out.

No disguise. No mask.

Just Geto Suguru, dressed in travel-worn robes and half a smile.

He looked like a man who’d already won.

“Hello, boys.”

Gojo didn’t flinch. “You’re late.”

“I figured I’d let the newlyweds have their privacy.”

He glanced at you—at the Voidseed you hadn’t yet drawn.

And smiled.

“You brought it,” he said softly. “I knew you would.”

You held your ground. “I didn’t bring it for you.”

“No?” Geto tilted his head, almost fond. “Then why come at all?”

Gojo moved slightly—just a step, a shift in weight, the start of something violent.

And Geto raised one hand.

The air shattered.

A blast of cursed energy slammed the space between you, forcing you back.

Gojo caught your wrist to steady you, his own energy flaring like lightning beneath skin.

Geto didn’t press.

He just looked at the two of you like something hurt.

“You could’ve come with me,” he said. Quiet. Intimate.

“You could’ve stayed,” Gojo answered.

Their gazes locked. A thousand memories between them. All knives.

And you stood between them—Voidseed burning against your ribs, heart in your throat.

Because the real question wasn’t who was right.

It was who you were going to choose.

---

The air cracked.

No warning, no flare of ego, no last chance to run—just Geto, moving. His cursed energy split the silence like a fault line, and suddenly you were airborne, legs kicked out from under you by a wave of force that struck faster than thunder.

Gojo caught it before it could reach you again—his arm out, barrier flaring with that same searing white-gold burn that lived behind his blindfold.

“Language of violence, huh?” he muttered. “Guess we’re skipping the dance.”

You rolled to your feet. “Weren’t you the one saying he was sentimental?”

Gojo grinned without humor. “Yeah, and now I remember why that’s terrifying.”

Geto didn’t wait.

Another flick of his wrist and the temple shuddered, a wall of blackened energy exploding upward like a tide—jagged, writhing, wrong. Gojo met it mid-air, a flash of his Limitless energy spiraling into the blast and cracking it apart like glass.

You moved then. No hesitation. No warning.

Your dagger—your favorite one, the one hidden in the boot heel you never took off—was in your hand before your mind caught up, your body cutting toward Geto in a blur. He saw you coming. Let you come.

“You’ve been walking with him all this time,” he said as you struck. “Does he even know what you are?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Your blade met the edge of his cursed barrier and burned—not from contact, but from your own energy spiking harder than you expected. The Voidseed pulsed once against your chest, like it wanted out.

Geto’s eyes flicked to it.

And then he struck.

A cursed lash shot out from his palm like a whip of shadow, aimed not at you but through you—targeting Gojo. You twisted, took the hit sideways instead of clean through. The energy scraped through your side like acid, but you didn’t fall.

You screamed something raw and wordless—maybe Gojo’s name. Maybe just rage.

Gojo answered with silence.

And violence.

He vanished. Reappeared behind Geto with that cruel smirk he wore like armor. His hand curled around the base of Geto’s skull and slammed him forward, into the stone floor. The ground cratered. Dust filled the vault.

Geto coughed blood, cursed energy flaring around his body like a second skin.

“Still hiding behind your pretty face, Satoru?” he rasped. “Still scared of what you could be if you stopped playing the hero?”

Gojo didn’t reply.

This wasn’t about philosophy.

This was about the Voidseed. About you. About the temple that was not meant to open, and a past that refused to stay buried.

You pressed your palm to the wound on your side, felt the hot, slow trickle of blood. The Voidseed thrummed harder now, wild and hungry, like it was tasting the end before it came.

The world narrowed. Geto was rising. Gojo’s hands curled into fists.

And you? You moved toward the center.

Toward the dais. Toward the thing you’d carried through storms and near-death and stupid arguments and fake marriages and quiet, aching mornings where Gojo let you rest your head against his shoulder and didn’t say a thing.

It was time to decide what to do with it.

Whether to keep running.

Or finally let the whole world burn.

---

The Voidseed was screaming now.

Not with sound, but with want. With a pressure behind your eyes, a song in your teeth. Your skin burned where it touched your chest, your blood responding in time to its pulse. It wanted to be used. To become something.

You staggered toward the dais, vision tunneling. Behind you, Gojo and Geto were still locked in war—flashes of cursed energy so bright they lit the room in strobes, tearing cracks through ancient stone and memory alike.

“Satoru,” Geto was snarling, somewhere in the wreckage. “You always were too soft.”

“And you were always too bitter to admit you lost me first,” Gojo spat back. “Don’t take it out on him.”

On him.

You turned sharply. Gojo wasn’t even looking at Geto anymore. His eyes were on you.

Blood dripped from his temple. One arm hung at an awkward angle. His barrier flickered like a dying star—but his focus was clear. Steady. Like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hey,” he called out, half-laugh, half-desperation. “Don’t let it eat you. You’re more stubborn than that.”

Geto moved to strike him down. A flick of the wrist, a curse erupting in a black wave— —but you moved first.

You didn’t think.

You threw the Voidseed.

It spun in the air like a star too bright to touch— —and exploded.

Not outward. Not in heat or fire or destruction.

It unfolded.

The world warped inward, colors leaking, time hiccuping. Everything twisted like you were looking through broken glass. You felt your feet leave the floor. The dais cracked beneath you. Gojo and Geto were both flung backward like dolls caught in the mouth of a storm.

But you… You were still standing.

Because it had chosen you.

You don’t remember grabbing it again.

But suddenly, the Voidseed was in your palm, blooming like a flower carved from shadow and light.

And Gojo was dragging himself toward you, chest heaving, hand outstretched.

“Don’t—” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t use it. Not like this.”

Geto, on the other side of the rubble, laughed—ragged, ruined.

“You think he hasn’t already?” he spat. “You think he’s yours now?”

Gojo didn’t look away from you. Not even for a second.

“He’s his own.”

You looked at him.

At the man who saw you break open a vault, who shared meals and bathtubs and one stupid bed. Who let you steal the Voidseed and never once asked you to give it up.

And something inside you—something poisoned by rage and survival and so many lonely nights—broke.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. You weren’t even sure who you were talking to.

Gojo was there in an instant. Hands on your wrists. Warm. Real.

“I know,” he said. “I know. Just stay here. With me.”

The Voidseed flared.

And then—

You turned.

You faced Geto.

And you chose.

---

You didn’t remember lifting the Voidseed. You just remember how quiet it got.

Geto rose from the rubble, his body wrecked and bleeding, but still standing. He looked at you like he pitied you. Like he thought you were still small.

“You don’t know what that thing will do to you,” he said softly, like a prayer gone bitter. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a mirror.”

You stepped forward, past Gojo’s outstretched hand. Past his warning. Past your own fear.

“I know,” you said. And you let it bloom.

The world peeled open.

No light. No sound. Just pressure — the unbearable density of everything at once. Your breath caught as the Voidseed unraveled in your chest, carving lines of raw power across your skin like constellations.

Geto braced himself. Raised his hand.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The Voidseed reached out like a second spine, like your soul had teeth, like the universe remembered you owed it something — and this was how you’d pay.

You spoke his name.

Not out loud.

Not in a language with words.

You just spoke it, and the power knew what to do.

Geto didn’t scream. He just— folded in on himself.

Unmade. Quietly.

Not as revenge. Not even as punishment.

Just as balance.

When the light returned, the temple was cracked open like a wound.

You were still standing. Barely. The dais had crumbled beneath your feet, the Voidseed now dark in your palm — used, emptied, but still warm. Like it hadn’t left, just gone quiet.

You dropped it.

It didn’t bounce.

Gojo caught you before you fell, one hand steady under your ribs, the other cradling the back of your head like something fragile had survived.

“I thought I told you not to use it like that,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, blood in your teeth. “You also told me not to flirt with bounty hunters. We both ignore good advice.”

He laughed, then kissed your forehead like he needed to know you were real.

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

You sat with him in the broken vault, backs against the ruins, breath syncing up again. The kind of silence that meant you weren’t running anymore. Not today.

Eventually, he nudged your shoulder.

“You still got one bed in you?” he asked. “Because I’m thinking hot springs, low ceilings, terrible fake names.”

You looked at him — messy, bleeding, half-destroyed.

And grinned.

“I’ve got a hundred.”

Taglist: @axetivev, @peekaboo, @yyuinaa, @zaynesyumei, @sageofspades, @onyxmango, @puccigucii, @the-ultimate-librarian, @sooobiinn, @calgurl, @kissenturine, @bleedingbl0ssom, @rarealienbutt, @mazettns, @al3xinnn, @kuchi-sabi-shii, @abarelysentientmagic8ball, @ino77777777 @i2innie @umbrathefury @umbrathefury, @odins-archives, @pearleafie, @unini, @abarelysentientmagic8ball, @xreyi, @someone0vx, @kizeru, @rarealienbutt, @ungommasilku, @hyperrnovva, @gayaristocrat, @sageofspades, @tintenka1, @timaas-blog, @sae_see, @alien, @jun, @BelovedEngie, @lysanderplume, @leron1108, @kauo-writez

#male reader #bottom male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x male reader #gojo saturo #saturo x reader #gay #smut

1K notes · View notes

raevalyntine · 1 month ago

Text

what happens when sylus meets your possessive boy cat for the first time?

(sylus x reader) humour, fluff, possessive and petty sylus, suggestive

It started with you dragging Sylus to the grocery store.

He had shown up that morning in a dark maroon button-down with the sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly tousled, ready to whisk you off somewhere expensive and mood-lit. But when you met him at the door with a shopping list and a cheerful smile, he blinked at the paper in your hands like you’d just handed him an arrest warrant.

“You’re telling me,” he drawled, arms crossing as he leaned against the doorway, “that instead of letting me take you on a proper date, you want me to follow you around a fluorescent-lit store while we argue about produce?”

“Yes,” you grinned, pressing the list to his chest. “Consider it a bonding experience.”

He sighed. “Kitten, you know I could get all this delivered. Snap of my fingers. Why suffer?”

But you just grabbed his hand and brushed your thumb along his knuckles. “Because I want to do it with you.”

He stared at you for a long second, then let out that deep, rich laugh that you love so much under his breath, kissed your temple, and let you tug him along. “Alright, sweetie. Anything you want.”

Hours later, you finally stepped into your apartment, grocery bags in hand and the scent of fresh bakery bread trailing behind you.

Sylus followed in behind, setting down a few bags with a sigh. “That was not romantic,” he muttered, brushing away a rogue piece of lettuce from his shirt. “An old lady threw a head of lettuce at me. Why was I not aware that grocery shopping was equivalent to war?”

“It’s discount day today, she’s just doing what’s right,” you said, hiding your smile as you unpacked the fridge items. Sylus chuckled and was already helping you organise the groceries into their respective shelves. You shooed him away after a while, telling him to rest (you didn’t want him to mess up your organisation system).

As Sylus wandered into your home, he took in everything as if he were seeing your place for the first time. Sylus had technically been here before, but back then it had been late, the lights were off, and your front door had barely closed before things turned into a blur of kisses and discarded clothes. But now? Now he was really seeing it. The sun touched everything like it was showing off: your plants, your quirky fridge magnets, the soft pillows arranged just how you liked them. Sylus was quiet as he looked around. Reverent, almost. Like he was memorising it.

He ran a hand along your bookshelf. Paused by the photos on your console. Touched the mug with your chipped initials. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Once the last can of soup was stacked and you’d wiped your hands on a towel, you called out, “Sylus—here.” You offered him a glass of water. He took it, his fingers brushing over yours just a little longer than necessary, then set it aside after a sip.

And that’s when you noticed the shift.

He stepped in closer. One hand came to rest beside your hip on the counter. Then the other. And just like that, he’d caged you in–his arms on either side, his tall frame looming close, dark eyes simmering with something slower, warmer. His body heat pressed in, his eyes dark and glinting.

“I was very patient today,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your ear.

“Barely,” you whispered back, trying not to smile.

He leaned in, grazing your jaw with his mouth, his tone slipping into a dangerous purr. “You know,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, his breath fanning over your jaw, “I behaved all day. Didn’t cause trouble. Didn’t threaten anyone. Didn’t even bite you in the spice aisle. I deserve something sweet now, don’t I?”

Your breath caught.

Then he kissed you. Deep, slow, curling warmth that stole the air from your lungs and made your fingers tighten in his shirt. The kiss grew hotter, his hand finding your waist, yours sliding up his chest. His body pressed against yours, caging you between him and the counter.

His hands were slowly tugging the waistband of your jeans when—

THUMP.

Something heavy collided with Sylus’s feet.

“Wh–What the?!”

Startled, he stumbled back a step. His shoulder bumped the cabinet. Staring up at him with the rage of a thousand suns was a massive, fluffy orange cat. Tail puffed like a warning flare, blue eyes narrowed in betrayal. The cat let out a low, judgmental mrroooww and hissed at Sylus.

Sylus blinked in confusion and shock as you bit back a laugh. Sylus turned his gaze towards you, but you were already leaning down, your voice sweet as you called the cat over, “Hi Pumpkin, come here.”

Immediately, the snarling little menace transformed into a puddle of affection. He padded over like a lovesick marshmallow, weaving through your legs and purring so hard it vibrated the floor.

Sylus stared in disbelief.

You crouched to scoop him up, and Pumpkin climbed willingly into your arms, nuzzling his head under your chin. He made a little chirrup noise, then reached forward and gently booped his nose against yours.

“I missed you, baby.” You muttered as you nuzzled your face into Pumpkin’s fur.

Sylus gaped. “He tried to kill me and you’re rewarding him?”

You just smiled. “He’s just protective.”

Pumpkin blinked at Sylus from the safety of your arms, smug and purring like a motorcycle.

Sylus narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t the jealous type—really, he wasn’t—but something in his chest was rumbling. Maybe it was his dragon instincts. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of that cat. It’s fine. It’s not like that little terror–Pumpkin was it? –would do much. He’ll just take the hisses and glares and ignore it, like the calm and composed man he is. Right?

It started small.

You were sitting on the couch, Pumpkin curled on your lap as Sylus went to sit besides you. Sylus gestured vaguely toward the cat, then to you. “Wait, sweetie. How have I never seen him before? This is not a small animal. He looks like he could eat three sets of Mephistos.”

“He was at the vet,” you explained, stroking between Pumpkin’s ears. “Check-up. He stayed overnight for observation.”

“Ah.” Sylus narrowed his eyes. “So I didn’t dream this demon into existence.”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “Nope. Very real. Just… not around that night.”

There was a beat of silence before Sylus smirked, his tone turning deliberately low. “Right. That night.”

You stiffened slightly, cheeks flaring redder. Sylus stepped closer again, his smirk deepening as he leaned in just enough to brush a knuckle under your chin.

“That night…” Sylus echoed, voice thick with amusement. “The one where we didn’t even make it past your hallway. You were practically tearing my shirt off, kitten.” Your face flushed instantly, and you looked away, flustered. Sylus grinned, closing the distance, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

He didn’t get any further.

A low growl interrupted the moment.

Pumpkin—who had apparently been napping with one eye open—shot up, tail flicking, pupils dilated. Sylus instinctively backed off just as the orange menace prepared to pounce.

“Down, soldier,” he muttered under his breath.

You scooped Pumpkin into your arms just in time, cooing softly, “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Sylus’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “You're comforting him?”

You pressed a kiss to Pumpkin’s furry head, entirely unbothered. “He gets jumpy when he senses a threat.” Sylus narrowed his eyes. “I’m the threat?”

Pumpkin blinked slowly at him, clearly unrepentant. Sylus scoffed. “Unbelievable. I’ve fought trained assassins who were more welcoming.”

There were more moments like that. Too many, in Sylus’s opinion.

He’d try to slide his arms around you while you cooked—nothing scandalous, just a soft back hug, maybe a kiss to your neck—and BAM. Pumpkin appeared, claws out and hissing like a snake. During dinner, Sylus brushed his fingers along your thigh under the table, only for a furry missile to launch itself between you, knocking over a water glass in the process.

Movie night? Forget it. Sylus would settle in beside you, finally thinking he’d earned a moment of peace, only for Pumpkin to leap up, stare him dead in the eyes, and then physically wedge his fluffy body between you two with the weight and determination of a Wanderer. Hell, a Wanderer was easier to handle than this.

Sylus was patient. Until he decided he’d had enough.

It was the end of the night, you were headed to bed, and he was right behind you like a man on a mission. The moment you stepped into the bedroom, Sylus kicked the door shut and locked it with such speed and finality, you almost laughed—until you saw the look in his eyes. Dark. Heated. Done with being polite.

As you crawled under the sheets, he joined you instantly, curling around you like he belonged there. His hand rested on your waist, fingers flexing slightly as he inhaled your scent. Soft, warm, yours. All the missed opportunities from the day simmered to the surface. Every time he’d reached for you, only to be clawed or glared at by a fuzzy orange menace.

His lips brushed the back of your neck. “Now,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “where were we?”

His mouth found your skin again, trailing hot, slow kisses down your shoulder. You shivered, your breath catching—

And then.

“MRRRROWWWW!”

A banshee wail echoed through the apartment. Followed by frantic pawing. Sharp. Desperate. Unrelenting. Like someone was trying to break into the room with pure willpower and toe beans.

Sylus cursed under his breath. You sighed and offered a sheepish smile as you turned your head over your shoulder. “Pumpkin always sleeps on the bed…”

Sylus stared at you, slack-jawed, like you’d just told him that you were going to break up with him.

“Of course he does,” he said flatly, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand down his face. “Of course he wants to sleep in this bed with you.”

There was another insistent thump against the door. You giggled as you slipped out of bed to open the door. Pumpkin strutted in like a king returning to his throne, hopped up, and promptly curled between the two of you. Sylus stared at him, utterly betrayed. “…This is war.”

As you slept soundly with Pumpkin curled up with you, Sylus was seething. He wasn’t going to lose you to a thirty-pound fluffball with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. Not like this.

Something had to be done.

And that’s how, one week later, your bedroom door slammed open and Sylus marched in like a man possessed—carrying a sleek, regal-looking Bengal cat in a luxury pet carrier.

You blinked. “Sylus… what is that?”

He set the carrier down like it was sacred cargo, his voice resolute. “Your cat declared war. I’m giving him… a distraction.”

Sylus had brought a girlfriend for your cat.

And that’s also how, later that night, with Pumpkin and his newlady friend preoccupied in the living room—curious meows and soft purring barely audible through the closed door—you finally ended up exactly where Sylus wanted you: writhing under him, his name a breathless chant on your lips.

The cats purred. But in your bedroom, Sylus growled—low and possessive—as he claimed every inch of you, reminding you who’d truly won tonight—one heated kiss, one desperate moan at a time.

His lips trailed fire down your neck, his hands greedy with every inch of you he’d been denied for far too long. The bedroom was dim, warm, breathless.

Outside, the cats got acquainted.

Inside, Sylus made sure you only remembered his name.

His mouth brushed your ear, voice like velvet and fire.

“No more interruptions, kitten. Tonight, you’re mine—every. last. inch.”

#l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus fluff #sylus lads #lads #sylus x y/n #sylus x you #sylus x mc #qin che

2K notes · View notes

snail-day · 2 months ago

Text

Geto Suguru x Kitty Curse! Reader

Tw: NSFW, cream pies, overstimulation, mating press

Suguru is really trying to find the downsides of letting a little kitty curse like you hang around. Truly, he is. He’s supposed to be exorcising you, not letting you curl up in his lap like some pampered house pet, but you’re just so cute about it. All warm and purring, tail twitching lazily as you burrow against him with a soft little sigh.

What’s he supposed to do? Push you off? Please. He’s only human.

Moving to shift slightly on the couch, broad frame sinking deeper into the cushions as you rest your cheek against the firm plane of his stomach. His loose black shirt rides up just enough for your nose to press to bare skin - warm, smooth, with the faintest dusting of dark hair trailing below his navel. His long, thick fingers thread absently through your hair. Long hair hanging spilling over his shoulders as he looks down at you.

“I mean, technically this counts as curse containment,” he mutters under his breath, brushing a lock of your hair back behind your ear with ridiculous tenderness. “Very effective. Keeps you nice and calm. Look at that, textbook behavior.”

He dozes off more and more lately, his head tipped back and mouth parted slightly, violet eyes fluttering shut as you purr yourself to sleep on his chest. It’s fine. Totally professional.

And okay - maybe mating pressing a curse is crossing a line, but can you blame him? You look so sweet when you’re all folded under him, your soft thighs trembling as he presses your knees to your chest. Your claws dig into his shoulders, but you still roll your hips up like you're begging for more. The long black strands of his hair hang loose and damp with sweat, sticking to his flushed skin as he pants over you, chest heaving from exertion and need.

“Just one more, kitten,” he breathes, voice rough with affection. There’s a wild little grin playing on his lips, sharp canines peeking through as he hovers over you. “One more, and then you can hiss and bite me all you want, yeah?”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, then trailing lower to your throat with little nips and teasing licks. “My spoiled little stray,” he croons.

His big, calloused palm slides down to your plush belly, slick, squishy, and so full of him. He presses lightly, feeling the warmth spread beneath his hand. Watching a bit of his cream ooze on out.

“…You’re fine. Probably. It’s not like you can get pregnant, right?” His soft voice falters just a little.

“…Right?”

His grin wobbles. He swallows. A flush on his cheeks as he looks down at you licking the inside of his wrist.

“…God, I’m in trouble.”

What's so bad about a few more rounds?

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #geto suguru #Geto x reader #Suguru x reader #Geto suguru x reader #Suguru geto x reader #Jjk au #jjk x reader #Jjk geto

1K notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 4 months ago

Text

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men find themselves stuck in ridiculously tight spaces with you—too close for comfort. Tension is high, tempers flare, and maybe, just maybe, something else lingers in the air.

What happens when there's nowhere to run?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

As a writer who absolutely adores her dearest readers—and remembers almost everything—I suppose it’s finally time to give the people what they want.

Yeah… it’s really come to this.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The kitchen smelled like sugar, vanilla, and the faintest hint of burning from the last batch of muffins Crowe pulled out. He hadn’t said anything, but you knew he was silently judging himself for not taking them out sooner.

Not that it mattered—you were still determined to get one before they cooled completely.

You leaned on the broom in your hand, watching him move around like he owned the place. Well, he kinda did. As much as he loved you, he didn’t trust you near an oven anymore after the incident (which, in your defense, was totally not your fault. Mostly).

That’s why he’d handed you the broom and kept you at a safe distance, probably so he could supervise while you did something harmless.

“Hey, grab the flour,” he said, focused on lining up the muffin tin for the next batch.

You sighed, abandoning your post as Official Kitchen Sweeper and heading to the pantry. Reaching for the sugar on the highest shelf was another story. You stretched up, fingertips barely brushing the bottom of the bag. Seriously, who put it this high? Oh, right—Crowe, who probably didn’t consider your not-tall-enough height when he stored it away.

“Crowe,” you called, still reaching. “Can you—”

Before you could finish, he was already there. And way too close.

You hadn’t even heard him move, but suddenly, his chest was inches from your back, arm reaching effortlessly over your head. He grabbed the sugar with zero struggle, like he hadn’t just waited for you to fail first.

“…Did you just let me struggle on purpose?” you asked, turning your head slightly.

Crowe didn’t answer immediately, but you knew he was smirking. “Maybe.”

You were this close to elbowing him when the broom in your hand, which you’d forgotten about in your mild irritation, slipped from your grip. There was an ominous clatter, then a soft thump—and then, the unmistakable sound of wood against wood.

You blinked. Turned your head.

The pantry door was shut.

And when you tried to push it open, it didn’t budge.

Crowe exhaled through his nose, sounding way too amused.

“Great job,” he said.

“Oh, shut up, this is your fault,” you shot back, jiggling the doorknob. Nothing. The broom must have fallen just right to wedge itself against the door.

Crowe knocked once on the wooden panel like he was testing its durability. “You locked us in a pantry.”

“Technically, you locked us in the pantry.”

“Technically, you dropped the broom.”

You turned, glaring up at him. “You let me struggle for the flour.”

Crowe lifted the bag slightly, gaze unreadable but definitely smug. “And I’d do it again.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Okay, genius. How do we get out?”

He considered the question like he wasn’t already aware that brute force was an option. Eventually, he sighed, shifting to lean against the nearest shelf.

“I’m not fully sure. Could call Geo, he has the spare key,”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You wanna be stuck here for hours?”

“Geo would get us out in five minutes.”

You groaned, debating your options. You could call someone. Or, more realistically, you could let Crowe deal with it while you sat back and did nothing.

…But then again.

You eyed the bag of flour in his hand.

Crowe caught the look immediately. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Too late.

You lunged, swiping for the bag, but he yanked it away with zero effort, holding it out of reach like you were some kind of misbehaving child. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. But still.

“Give me that,” you said, reaching again.

Crowe tilted his head, considering. Then, with the smuggest expression you’d ever seen, he lifted it higher.

You knew what had to be done.

With zero hesitation, you smacked the bottom of the flour bag.

A cloud of white exploded between you.

Crowe inhaled sharply, taking a full breath of flour straight to the face. You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh as he coughed, shaking the powder from his braided brown hair.

“…You little—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he lunged.

You yelped, dodging to the side, but he was faster. In a single movement, he snatched the flour bag back and retaliated, dumping half of it over your head.

You gasped. “You ass!”

Crowe only smirked, but you could see the challenge in his eyes—like he was daring you to try something else.

Oh, it was on.

You grabbed a handful of flour straight from the bag and flung it at him, coating his shirt. He retaliated by smearing it across your cheek with his thumb, and before you knew it, you were both full-on brawling in the tiny pantry, shoving, dodging, laughing—until, in one swift motion, Crowe grabbed your wrists, spun you, and pinned you against the wall.

The breath left your lungs.

You barely had time to register the shift before he lifted you, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. Instinct, mostly. His grip was strong, hands firm against your thighs as he leaned in, his breath warm despite the ridiculous amount of flour covering you both.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Crowe tilted his head, looking up at you with a lazy smirk. “You good?”

You huffed. “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned. “And yet, here we are.”

You rolled your eyes, still catching your breath. “Y’know, if we ever get out of here, you’re cleaning this up.”

Crowe hummed like he was actually considering it. “Mmm. Nah.”

You squinted at him. “Nah?”

Flour clung to both of you like snowfall, dusting your clothes, your skin, even the strands of Crowe’s hair—but neither of you cared.

Because before you could get another word out, he leaned in and stole a kiss.

It was quick—at first. Just enough to catch you off guard, just enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair out of pure instinct. But when he felt you kiss him back, he grinned against your lips, wasting no time in deepening it.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as the pantry shelves dug into your back. The scent of sugar and flour mixed with something distinctly him, something warm and addictive. He kissed like he did everything else—with confidence, with a teasing edge that made you want to smack him and pull him closer all at once.

“You—” You barely managed to exhale when he finally pulled back, your face burning hotter than the oven outside.

Crowe only smirked, looking way too pleased with himself. “Figured if I was gonna be stuck in here, I might as well get something out of it.”

You smacked his arm, sending a puff of flour into the air. He just laughed, shaking some from his hair before grabbing your wrist and tugging you right back into another kiss.

Yeah. You were never gonna live this down.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol was pissed.

You could feel it in the way he stomped beside you, in the sharp inhale through his nose, in the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was aching to throw a punch.

And honestly? You wouldn’t blame him. The guy totally deserved it—hitting on you like that, all cocky smirk and stupid one-liners, right in front of Sol. If it were anyone else, maybe he would’ve let it slide. But you? Sol wasn’t the type to stand by and let someone act like you were up for grabs.

Which is why you were currently dragging him down the hallway, ignoring his half-hearted protests, his muttered curses, and the death glare he was sending over his shoulder toward the guy still standing near the lockers.

“Let me go,” he growled, low and tense.

“Nope.”

“I’m not gonna let him get away with that—”

You rounded a corner, yanking him into the nearest door. Sol barely had a second to register what was happening before you shoved him inside and locked the stall door behind you.

A pause.

Then—

“…Did you just pull me into a bathroom stall?”

You leaned against the wall, exhaling. “Yes.”

Sol stared at you. Then at the stall walls. Then back at you.

“…Why?”

“Because,” you said, voice slow and pointed, “I’m not letting you fight a guy just because he shot his shot. It’s not worth it.”

Sol scoffed, crossing his arms. “Not worth it? He was—”

“Flirting.” You raised a brow. “That’s all.”

Sol’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, and that’s enough.”

You sighed. There was no reasoning with him when he was like this—fists clenching, shoulders tense, barely restraining himself from storming right back out.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

“And you’re insane for thinking I’m gonna let that slide.”

“Well, guess what? You don’t have a choice.”

Sol huffed out a frustrated breath, raking a hand through his hair. He looked like a caged animal, shifting his weight, practically vibrating with pent-up aggression. It would’ve been funny—his broad frame stuffed into the cramped stall, visibly suffering—if not for the fact that he genuinely looked like he was debating whether or not to climb over the door and bolt.

“…You really think I’d lose?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You pulled me in here like I’d lose,” he muttered, eyes narrowed. “Like I couldn’t take him.”

“Oh my god.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Sol, I know you could take him. That’s the problem.”

His scowl deepened. “Then why—”

“Because it’s stupid!” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “It’s a waste of time, you’d get in trouble, and for what? My honor? Please.” You rolled your eyes. “Like I can’t handle a guy flirting with me.”

Sol was quiet for a second. He looked away, flexing his fingers before stuffing them into his pockets.

“…Still,” he muttered.

You glanced at him. “Still what?”

His jaw clenched. “Still don’t like it.”

Something in his voice was different—lower, rougher. He wasn’t just pissed anymore. There was something else beneath it, something raw and unreadable.

For once, you softened.

You exhaled, somewhat over his shit, “I know.” before turning around to look though the gaps of the stall.

Sol didn’t move for a moment. But then, finally, he sighed, letting his head fall back against the stall like he was exhausted—more like he was embarrassed.

You see—you pressed yourself against the stall door, carefully peeking through the small gap to see if the guy had followed.

Sol, still leaning against the back wall, let out a slow, controlled breath, finally starting to relax—until you shifted back against him.

He stiffened.

You didn’t notice. Too focused on scanning the hallway, you pressed in closer, unknowingly making the situation worse. Sol’s hands twitched at his sides, jaw locking as he tried so hard to think about literally anything else besides the fact that—

“Oh, good, I think he’s gone,” you muttered.

Sol said nothing.

You frowned, turning your head slightly. “You good?”

Still, nothing.

…Weird.

Shrugging, you went back to peeking out, oblivious as you unknowingly rocked back against him again.

Sol flinched. His hands immediately shot out, grabbing your hips to stop you before this got any worse.

You finally noticed that. “Hey, what are you—”

“I need you to move.” His voice was strained, almost a growl.

You blinked, glancing over your shoulder. “Move where? There’s no—”

Then you felt it.

Oh.

Realization slammed into you like a brick. You went completely still, processing. Sol looked like he wanted to die.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, finally—

“…You’re kidding.”

Sol exhaled sharply. “Help me.”

You choked on a laugh, smacking a hand over your mouth. “Oh my God.”

“This isn’t funny!” he hissed, keeping his grip on your hips firmly so you wouldn’t make things worse.

“It’s hilarious!”

“I’m suffering!”

You were fully cackling at this point, bracing yourself against the stall door as Sol groaned behind you, deeply regretting every decision that led to this moment.

“…So, uh,” you teased, grinning. “Still mad about that guy flirting with me?”

“Shut up.”

He glanced at you, then shook his head, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. “We’re literally hiding in a bathroom stall.”

“Yeah, and?” You questioned.

Sol rolled his eyes, but his posture relaxed, tension slowly easing out of his shoulders.

Sol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before dragging it down his face. His other hand curled into a fist at his side, like he was trying to keep himself in check.

“…Can we—” He stopped, rolling his shoulders back as if that would somehow fix his problem.

You smirked, arms crossed, enjoying this way too much. “Can we what, Sol?”

His jaw tensed. He looked at you, then away, then back again—like he was debating whether he actually had the guts to say it. His fingers flexed at his sides before he finally gave up, resting his head back against the stall wall with a quiet groan.

“…Help me out here?” His voice was strained, low enough that it barely carried over the hum of the bathroom fan.

You blinked. “Oh?”

Sol shot you a glare, but there was a hint of desperation beneath it, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Don’t make me say it,” he muttered.

You grinned, absolutely reveling in this. “Help you out?” you repeated, feigning innocence. “Sol, I’m not sure what you mean.”

His glare sharpened, but the way his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides betrayed him. He shifted, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to force some kind of patience into himself.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he ground out, his voice thick with frustration.

You tilted your head, tapping a finger against your chin. “Hmmm… I dunno. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Sol let out a low, irritated growl, leaning in just enough to close the already small space between you. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“…You’re really gonna make me say it?” His voice had dipped lower, a quiet challenge woven into it.

Your pulse skipped, but you kept up the act, arching a brow. “I mean, if you’re asking for my help, you should at least use your words, Sol.”

He dragged a hand down his face again before gripping the edge of the stall, his knuckles white. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

He scoffed but didn’t argue, which only made your grin widen.

You had another teasing remark locked and loaded, ready to fire—but then your breath hitched. Just for a second.

Because he stepped closer.

Too close.

The air in the stall shifted, heat radiating from him as he loomed over you, his expression unreadable. Your back pressed against the stall door instinctively, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the weight of his stare.

Your throat went dry as you swallowed.

Fuck.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

The hotel was busy with the usual chaos that came with a trip involving your friend group—Crowe’s over-the-top plans, Sol’s constant complaints, and Brittany’s never-ending search for the perfect selfie lighting. You and Geo had just been about to head downstairs to meet up with the others when you suddenly groaned, realization hitting you like a brick.

“My sunglasses,” you muttered, already turning back toward the shared room. Geo sighed beside you, hands tucked into his pockets. “Seriously? You couldn’t have remembered before we left?”

You shot him a look as you grabbed the door handle. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Perfect Memory. I’ll be sure to consult you next time before I breathe.”

He half smirked, unimpressed, as you pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Rolling your eyes, you made your way to the nightstand where you were pretty sure you’d left them.

Geo trailed in behind you, muttering something about how he should’ve just left you behind. But before he could make good on that threat, he paused, watching as you tossed your phone onto the bed.

“You forgot sunscreen,” he pointed out.

You groaned again, already annoyed. “It’s cloudy outside, I’ll be fine.”

Geo folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Uh-huh. And when Crowe roasts you for looking ‘crispy’ in the group photos, I don’t want to hear it.”

Sighing, you grabbed your sunglasses off the dresser. “I know, I know.” You huffed and reached for the sunscreen bottle on the counter. “But it’s fine. I’ll just do it real quick.”

Begrudgingly, you squeezed some into your palm and started rubbing it onto your face. Geo made a noise of approval—until he actually saw what you were doing. His expression immediately shifted to disapproval, and he shook his head.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he muttered, his usual calm demeanor just a little off. “You missed a spot.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

Before you could protest, Geo walked over and plucked the bottle from your hands. “Here. Let me—”

Rolling your eyes, you lifted your chin to make sure you didn’t get a weird streak across your neck. “You’re supposed to just let me do it. I’ve got it.”

Geo raised an eyebrow. “Let me help. You’ll burn otherwise.”

You gave him a look. “Oh, please, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah, you said that.”

Geo sighed dramatically, stepping closer—the kind of sigh that meant he had no intention of letting it go. You barely managed to suppress a grin before he was right next to you, his hands gently but firmly adjusting your arms so he could rub the sunscreen in properly.

“You’re gonna burn,” he muttered, his voice a little more intense than usual. You could hear the concern creeping through it, and despite yourself, you softened at the way he touched your shoulders with care, making sure every spot was covered.

You stared up at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan at how overly concerned he was. “It’s just sunscreen, Geo. I can do it myself.”

“No, you can’t,” he replied matter-of-factly, unscrewing the cap. “You always miss spots.”

You shot him a playfully offended look. “I do not.”

He glanced at you with an unimpressed eyebrow raise. “Really?”

“…Fine, whatever.” You sighed, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing over sunscreen of all things. Besides, if there was anyone who knew skincare, it was Geo.

He stepped closer, rubbing the sunscreen onto your shoulders. The cool lotion made you shiver slightly, but his touch was strangely gentle, careful not to be too rough. His hands moved with ease—practiced, almost—as if he’d done this before, and you let out a slow breath, focusing on the task at hand while he worked on your neck, your face, everywhere you’d missed.

“Better?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper as he adjusted the way you were standing.

You nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

“About time.” He smirked, stepping back to assess his work.

Then, you heard it.

The door handle clicked.

Both of you froze, the room instantly turning too quiet.

“…No.” You whispered, dread creeping in.

It was Brittany.

“Why is she back so early?” you hissed, panic rising in your chest.

Geo glanced at the door, then at the closet. Then at you. “You need to hide.”

“What?”

Before you could blink, he grabbed your arm, yanking you toward the closet. You barely had time to react before he practically shoved you inside, following right after and pulling the door shut just as Brittany entered the room.

“Geo—”

“I’m not dealing with this right now,” he whispered sharply.

You barely managed to swallow back a retort before you heard Brittany moving around, shuffling through her things. You froze, pressing yourself against the closet wall, trying not to make a sound.

Unfortunately, Geo had the same idea—only there wasn’t much space to work with.

You were practically nose-to-nose, his chest lightly pressed against yours, every breath shared in the cramped darkness. It was suffocating, but not just because of the lack of space.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to be with him like this.

And yet, here you were, pressed close in a way that made every nerve in your body hyperaware.

Geo shifted slightly, but the movement only made things worse, his hand brushing your waist as he adjusted his stance. His breath was warm against your cheek as he leaned in—so close that if Brittany weren’t in the room, you might’ve accused him of doing it on purpose.

You swallowed. “Geo—”

“Shhh.” His voice was barely more than a breath, the word a soft command that vibrated against the air between you. But there was something dangerously amused in the way he spoke, like he knew exactly what kind of mess he’d dragged you both into.

“I told you, you need to be more careful.” Geo’s words were a low murmur as he leaned back against the closet wall, crossing his arms. His proximity was almost suffocating. You could feel the warmth of his body pressing into the space you barely had, his breath quickening just enough for you to catch it.

“Oh, shut up.” You whispered back, unable to hold in a nervous laugh. The tension was palpable, a strange cocktail of adrenaline and something else that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re the one who shoved me in here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not trying to deal with Brittany walking in on us,” Geo’s voice dropped an octave, the irritation thick in his words. “Remember? No one knows we’re together yet.”

You froze at his words, heart thudding a little faster. That was true—no one in the group knew. No one had ever seen you and Geo alone, and with him being the usually aloof and distant guy, everyone would be suspicious if they saw him helping you with sunscreen.

The realization made your skin flush, and your stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and nervousness. How would Brittany react if she saw you two like this?

You could hear Brittany moving around the room, rummaging through your things, her steps growing closer to the closet.

And then, Geo was even closer, if that was even possible. You could practically feel the heat radiating from him, his body a mere inch away from yours. His presence filled the space, making everything feel suffocatingly intimate.

“Geo…”

His eyes flicked over to you, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch. He muttered under his breath, his lips brushing your ear just barely. “Shut up,” he snapped, the irritation in his voice mixed with something more—something that made your heart race even faster. “We need to stay quiet.”

You bit your lip to hold back the laugh that threatened to spill out, but the way he was so close, the way you could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, had your stomach doing somersaults. You shifted slightly, trying not to make a sound, but the cramped space left you with no room to escape the warmth of his body pressing into yours.

Brittany’s voice drifted through the room. “Where is my damn bag…”

Your stomach twisted as Brittany’s footsteps drew closer—too close for comfort. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, the air growing thick with tension. Every movement felt like it might give you away, but Geo was quick to react.

Without a moment's hesitation, Geo’s hand shot out, pressing firmly against the closet door. His fingers gripped the edge, holding it in place, the door threatening to creak from the pressure. His body tensed, muscles coiling under his shirt like a predator ready to spring into action at any moment.

The space between you, already nonexistent, seemed to shrink even more, his arm hovering above your head, blocking the door. The way he positioned himself so close to you, his chest almost touching your back, only made the situation more intense. The faintest brush of his breath against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.

Brittany’s hand gripped the door handle, turning it with a soft click. Geo’s body shifted subtly, every inch of his being still, but you could feel the power in his frame—he wasn’t going to let her open it.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the silence so thick you could almost hear it. If she pushed harder, you would both be caught, and everything would fall apart. You could feel Geo's pulse quicken as he held the door steady, his arm a firm barrier above you, ensuring that nothing moved.

The heat from his body, the tension in the air—it all felt like a warning. But you could only stand there, frozen, hoping that Brittany would just leave.

Brittany's hand tightened on the door handle, twisting it again, but Geo didn’t budge. His arm remained above your head, a solid barrier, his body blocking any possible movement. You could feel the gentle pressure of his chest against your back, steady and unyielding, as he silently willed the door to stay shut.

Her hand tugged harder at the handle, and you could almost feel her frustration radiating through the wood. You held your breath, praying she wouldn’t push too hard, or worse, get suspicious. The seconds felt like hours.

"Ugh, this door's stuck," Brittany muttered under her breath, sounding more annoyed than worried. “Guess I’ll have to ask one of the guys to open it for me later."

Your heart skipped a beat. You could practically hear her disappointment, and you were certain she was none the wiser to the fact that she was so close to catching you both.

Geo’s body slowly relaxed, his grip loosening just a fraction as she finally stepped away from the door, the soft thud of her footsteps retreating making the air feel a little less suffocating.

You let out a quiet breath you didn't realize you were holding, the tension melting away for just a moment. Geo, however, didn’t move immediately. He stayed close, his hand still braced against the door, and his voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too soft to hear.

"That was too close," he whispered, his words laced with the same urgency that had gripped you both moments before.

"Yeah," you agreed softly, your voice barely audible. "Too close."

Then, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. His voice was barely above a whisper, low and edged with something unreadable. “We’re not supposed to be like this right now, you know?”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“And yet,” he murmured, almost amused.

You barely resisted the urge to shove him. “We don’t have a choice.”

Brittany’s footsteps halted just outside the closet, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Is this my bag?” she muttered, rummaging through the room.

Then, a sound that made your stomach drop—your ringtone.

Geo tensed beside you, fingers pressing harder against the door to keep it shut. His body was practically caging you in, his heat radiating off him in the already suffocating space.

Your pulse hammered in your ears. “You didn’t have to do this,” you whispered, barely moving your lips. “We could’ve just told her.”

Geo let out a sharp breath, jaw tight. “Not now.”

His tone was firm—final. No room for argument.

You glanced up at him, catching the flicker of tension in his expression, but his gaze remained locked on Brittany, who now held up your phone with a triumphant look.

“Found it! And I guess they left their phone under my bag,” she said, her voice growing fainter as she hurried toward the door.

She turned, heading for the door.

Only when you heard it click shut did Geo finally exhale, the tension in his body loosening—but his expression didn’t ease. Instead, his brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

You frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Geo pulled his phone from his pocket, tilting the screen toward you.

A single missed call. From him.

Realization crashed into you like a wave. Your heart skipped a beat.

“…Geo.”

He’d called your phone. On purpose. To make sure it rang loud enough for Brittany to find her bag before she even thought about checking the closet.

Geo exhaled heavily, glancing back at his phone. “I’m really not in the mood to tell them about us right now.”

You shook your head, but before you could respond, the door creaked open just a fraction. Geo had already managed to free himself, and you didn’t even have time to protest. He wasn’t about to let this moment drag on any longer.

Smart. Calculated. Unbelievably risky.

And, worst of all, it worked.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜 [ 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝒹𝒹𝑒𝒹 ]

It had started with something innocent enough—Sol was sick. Too stubborn to admit it, of course, but sick nonetheless. He’d skipped class for the first time in forever, and when neither you nor Hyugo received your usual sarcastic texts from him throughout the day, it was clear something was wrong.

Hyugo, ever the opportunist, had immediately latched onto the idea of sneaking into Sol’s place. “We can’t just let him rot in there alone,” he’d said, dramatically clutching his chest like this was some grand mission. “And besides, if he’s too weak to fight back, this might be our only shot at pulling off the perfect prank.”

You had agreed—not for the prank, but because, despite Sol’s grumpy exterior, you actually cared. Hyugo did too, even if he’d never admit it outright.

So, naturally, sneaking in was the next step.

Getting inside was ridiculously easy. Sol had forgotten to lock his window, a mistake that would haunt him soon enough. Hyugo had hoisted himself up first, barely containing his laughter as he reached down to pull you through. You had landed in a crouch, both of you moving like trained professionals—except for the part where Hyugo knocked over a stack of books.

You both froze.

Silence.

No yelling. No threats of immediate violence. Just the distant sound of Sol’s snoring from his living room.

Hyugo had grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. “He’s dead asleep. Perfect.”

And that’s how you ended up crouched beside him, hidden in Sol’s bedroom like two criminals, your mission shifting from simple food delivery to pure chaos.

You nudged Hyugo with your elbow, whispering, “Alright, we dropped off the food. Let’s go before he wakes up.”

But Hyugo wasn’t even listening. His eyes were locked onto the narrow space beneath Sol’s bed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“You know what would make this even better?” he muttered, barely able to contain his grin.

You sighed, already regretting whatever he was about to say. “I swear, if you—”

“Hiding under his bed.”

You stared at him. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, already lowering himself onto the floor. “C’mon, this is once-in-a-lifetime stuff. Imagine his face when we grab his ankles.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the thought of Sol’s reaction, that brief moment of pure, unfiltered terror before rage inevitably set in? It was too good to pass up.

“Fine,” you grumbled, sliding down next to him.

Hyugo barely stifled his laughter as you both squeezed under the bed, pressed close in the cramped space. The scent of detergent mixed with Sol’s cologne, clinging to the air, but all you could really focus on was the warmth of Hyugo’s body against yours.

He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.

“Stop moving,” you whispered, trying to ignore the way your bodies were practically molded together.

“I have to move,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “I’m not built for these conditions. Tell me, do all peasants live like this?”

You scoffed, nudging him with your elbow—except the space was so tight, it ended up feeling more like a lingering touch.

Hyugo let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly so his lips were close to your ear. “Careful,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “If you keep touching me like that, I might start thinking you like being pressed up against me.”

Your breath caught for just a second, and that was all he needed to smirk.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but the way your body tensed against his didn’t go unnoticed.

Hyugo only grinned, voice a playful whisper. “And yet, here you are, trapped with me. So close.”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. The space under the bed was suffocatingly small, but it wasn’t the lack of air that was making your heart pound—it was him.

Hyugo shifted again, deliberately this time, his body pressing just a little firmer against yours. His hand found your hip, fingers barely brushing over the fabric of your shirt. “You know,” he mused, voice slow and teasing, “I think I could get used to this.”

You narrowed your eyes at him in the dim lighting. “Hyugo.”

“Yes, sweetie?” He grinned, using that damn pet name that always made your stomach do flips.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your composure. “Focus. We’re supposed to be scaring Sol, not—”

“Not what?” he interrupted, leaning in slightly. “Not making things… interesting?” His voice dipped, low and smooth as if he was daring you to react.

Your fingers twitched against the cold floor. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you still let yourself get stuck here with me,” he murmured, thumb grazing over your hip before he pulled away just enough to let the tension settle in.

You were about to retort when footsteps sounded from the hallway—Sol’s, unmistakable and approaching fast.

Hyugo smirked, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Showtime.”

The sound of the door opening made both of you freeze. Footsteps—heavy, familiar. Sol’s voice grumbled something under his breath as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

Hyugo inhaled sharply beside you. You could feel his excitement radiating off him.

Sol let out a long sigh before muttering, “Finally.” There was a shuffle, a soft thud as he tossed something onto his bed. More footsteps, pacing. You could barely make out his silhouette through the slats of the bed frame.

Hyugo gave you a silent count with his fingers. Three… two…

One.

Without hesitation, both of you reached out and grabbed his ankles.

Sol let out a noise that was not human.

It was somewhere between a grunt and a strangled shout, followed by a blur of motion as he leaped onto his bed like it was a lifeboat and the floor was shark-infested waters.

“The fuck—?!”

Hyugo was already wheezing beside you, gripping his stomach as he tried to contain his laughter. You were barely holding it together yourself.

Sol, meanwhile, was not amused.

His head poked over the side of the bed, eyes dark with fury. “Are you two out of your damn minds?!”

Hyugo finally lost it, bursting into a fit of laughter as he rolled out from under the bed. “That scream!” he gasped between laughs. “Oh my god, I think I ascended.”

You crawled out after him, grinning as you dusted yourself off. “Totally worth it.”

Sol narrowed his eyes. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

Hyugo draped an arm around your shoulder, still grinning. “Actually, it was my idea. But they were an excellent accomplice.”

Sol exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Both of you are insufferable.”

“Aw, don’t be mad, Sol,” Hyugo teased, poking him in the arm. “We only traumatized you a little.”

“You’re lucky I don’t throw both of you out that window,” Sol muttered, flopping back on his bed with an exhausted sigh.

Hyugo leaned in a little closer, his usual mischievous grin softening just a touch, as if the playful moment had shifted to something more genuine. With a sudden, almost teasing move, he placed a quick, unexpected kiss on your cheek. The touch was brief but warm, and as he pulled back, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction, clearly enjoying the chaos he had caused. “Mission: success,” he whispered, the tone laced with a quiet, victorious amusement.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the surprise, your heart doing a little flip before a smirk tugged at your lips. “What was that for?” you asked, trying to mask the flutter in your chest with feigned indifference.

Hyugo simply shrugged, the playful spark never leaving his eyes. “For being an accomplice, of course,” he said, his voice light, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And despite the teasing, despite everything, you couldn't help but smile.

God, you loved his silly ass.

1K notes · View notes

abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

This City Doesn’t Forget (part two · 6:00 AM)

read part one here

a/n : ok so this one’s a little unhinged. there’s sex (messy, desperate, not soft), jealousy, manipulation, and jack’s brother being genuinely the worst. it gets dark toward the end—coercion vibes, threats, and that feeling of something way bigger starting to spiral. also yes, the porch scene is that kind of porch scene.

word count : 5192

content warning: emotional manipulation, coercion, implied blackmail, explicit sexual content, stalking, sibling rivalry, obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content (consensual but emotionally intense), sex on a porch (public semi-exposure), vaginal penetration, dominant/submissive language, unprotected sex, mutual desperation, alcohol present but not impairing.

MONDAY – 6:00 A.M.

Hospitals don’t sleep. They hold their breath.

Allegheny General is already alive—buzzing, sterile, too bright. The fluorescents overhead cast no shadows, only a cold kind of clarity. You breathe in recycled air that smells like metal and memory—saline and bleach, the faintest echo of sweat, coffee and loss.

The elevator doors shudder open behind you with a mechanical sigh.

You step out alone.

Your new badge is clipped to the collar of your scrubs, stiff and unfamiliar. Dr. [Y/L/N], PGY-1. It hangs there like a dare. Like something you’re not sure you’ve earned.

You move inside the resident lounge, fingers curled tight around your phone like it might anchor you. The screen’s already gone dim, but you tap it back to life anyway. You scroll the assignment sheet again—like maybe the fifth time will hit softer than the fourth.

It doesn’t.

TRAUMA – Dr. Abbot, J. Residents: [Y/N], T. Santos, V. Javadi, D. Whitaker

Your name next to his. Not even bolded. Just… there.

The coffee in the lounge is burnt, the pot half-empty already. A few early risers shuffle in—Javadi muttering to herself, Santos nursing a Red Bull like it’s the last one she’ll ever have. You try to act like it’s just another Monday. Like it’s not your first shift. Like it’s not him.

You’re mid-sip when the door swings open.

Black scrubs. Jaw set. That gait you’d know blind—shoulders squared, spine rigid, right leg bearing a slight shift in weight. Not a limp. Not a stumble. Just deliberate. Just Jack. Every step measured like he doesn’t waste movement on things that don’t matter.

He walks in like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Not technically, but no one questions it.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Of course he isn't. He meets your eyes once. Just once. And then nods, calm as ever. Like this was always inevitable.

“Rounds in five,” he says to the room. His voice cuts through the low hum of morning chatter. “Get your shit together.”

And that’s it. He turns, and the others fall in line. No one questions him. They never do.

You move to follow, slower than the rest. Deliberate. Like maybe if you take your time, the ache in your ribs will fade, or your legs will remember how to be steady again. But they don’t. Your shoes squeak faintly against the tile as you trail after the others, staying back just enough to avoid the orbit.

You follow last. You always follow last now.

But you watch the way he walks ahead of you—how his hand occasionally brushes the side of his thigh, how he doesn’t glance back once.

HOUR ONE

Jack doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t ignore you either.

He does what he’s always done when he wants you to rise to the moment—what he used to do back when you were eighteen and stubborn and still figuring out how to be taken seriously. He doesn’t coddle, never did. He throws you into the deep end and watches to see if you’ll swim.

He asks you the hardest questions. The ones with weight. The ones where the line between right and wrong is thinner than breath—where the answer could be the difference between a pulse and a flatline.

“Y/L/N, what’s your plan?”

No warning. No setup. Not even eye contact.

The question slices clean through the noise of the trauma bay—sharp, surgical, and aimed squarely at you.

You straighten your posture, mask the jolt behind practiced composure. You've had years to perfect it. Your voice doesn’t shake when you answer. You don’t let it.

He nods. Just once. No praise. No correction.

Just keeps going.

Calls on you again ten minutes later. And again after that. Never when your hand is raised. Never when you’re ready. He cuts you open mid-thought, mid-breath, and waits to see if you can stitch yourself back together.

He wants you sharp, perfect, unshakable.

You are. You have to be.

Because if you crack now, it won’t stop at the surface. You’ll bleed through your scrubs, through the silence, and everyone will see just how deep it goes.

Each patient blends into the next—a teenager with a punctured lung, an elderly man whose arm won’t stop spasming, a woman who coded twice before sunrise. Jack moves between traumas with his usual focus: fast, efficient, exacting. He’s the kind of attending who doesn’t waste words unless they’re necessary. Or sharp.

He never corrects you in front of the others. But he never lets you coast either.

“Do better,” he mutters once after a missed detail on an intake report.

It’s not unkind. But, it’s also not soft.

By minute thirty-seven, Santos starts to notice—the way Jack’s questions keep hitting you, deliberate and precise, like stones dropped into still water. Like he’s less interested in your answers and more in watching the ripple.

Like he’s not testing your knowledge at all.

He’s testing how long you can hold your breath.

She quirks an eyebrow after a particularly brutal round of questioning and mouths: Damn.

By minute forty-two, Whitaker’s brows are knit, and he’s side-eyeing you both like he’s mentally building a conspiracy board with red string.

By minute fifty-eight, Robby leans against the trauma bay door, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Jack like he’s piecing something together. He lets out a low whistle, more observation than surprise.

“Tense crowd this morning,” he murmurs, not really to anyone—but not not to you, either.

You pretend you don’t hear. Just double-check the patient chart and re-wrap a gauze bandage like your hands aren’t trembling just slightly.

You and Jack move like muscle memory—one step apart, never overlapping, never straying too far. It’s precise. Practiced. Like something that used to be intimate and has since calcified into distance.

The space between you hums with it. Not quite anger. Not quite nostalgia. Just the echo of something scorched down to the foundation, still radiating heat.

Once, you moved in sync for different reasons—quiet kitchens, shared secrets, summer nights nobody talks about now.

Now, it’s choreography by necessity.

Now, it’s survival.

After the patient is stabilized and you’re headed toward CT, Santos falls into step beside you, unwrapping a granola bar she has no intention of eating.

“You sure you and Abbot never crossed paths before?” she asks, casual as anything, but her tone says bullshit.

You glance at her. Offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I’m sure,” you lie.

She raises an eyebrow, but you keep walking. No follow-up. No clarification.

Because the truth is messy—threaded through empty parking lots, old voicemail drafts, and all the nights you said too much without saying anything at all.

It lives in the way he used to steady your wrist when you were younger and unraveling, when you hadn’t learned how to hide the panic behind your badge.

In the way he doesn’t reach for you anymore.

No one here knows the girl who met Jack before the scrubs. Before you learned how to keep your voice even and your hands clean.

They don’t know the version of you that belonged to a different life.

And if you can help it, they never will.

FLASHBACK – THE PUNCH : The house smells like mildew, smoke, and something that used to be family.

The kitchen reeked of warm beer and something burned in the toaster two days ago. The linoleum was warped near the fridge. One of the ceiling lights buzzed loud enough to make Jack’s head hurt.

He stood near the sink, arms crossed over his chest, bottle of Yuengling sweating in his hand. The dog tags under his shirt clinked softly when he shifted.

The stereo in the living room crackled with static between tracks—Linkin Park’s Numb, warbled and low. The CD was scratched. Everything in this house was scratched.

His younger brother strolled in like he owned the place—barefoot, jeans half-zipped, red Motorola flip phone in one hand, confidence in the other. Hair sticking up. Eyes still bloodshot from the night before.

He tossed a greasy pizza box onto the counter without looking. “Cold as hell,” he muttered, cracking open a can of Coke. “Still better than whatever powdered crap they feed you in the desert.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just sipped the beer and kept his eyes on the clock.

The phone buzzed in his brother’s hand. He flipped it open. Read the screen. Snorted.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grinning to himself. “Daniella’s still sore from last night.”

Jack didn’t move.

“You’ve got a girlfriend,” he said flatly.

His brother looked up, unbothered. “And?”

Jack stared. “And you’re still sleeping with other people.”

A beat.

His brother shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s not like we’re married.”

Jack turned his head, finally looking at him. “You’re with her.”

His brother scoffed. “Jesus, relax. You act like she’s made of glass or something.”

Jack’s grip tightened around the bottle. His voice didn’t waver.

“She loves you.”

“Yeah? That’s her mistake.”

The stereo crackled in the corner. The room went still, heavy with it.

Jack didn’t blink. “You don’t even feel bad.”

His brother let out a dry laugh. “About cheating? Not really. You being jealous, though? Kinda figured.”

Jack said nothing.

But his silence said everything.

“I see the way you look at her,” his brother said. “Still do. But last summer? The cutoff shorts, her in my lap—you looked like you were about to fall apart.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“And she looked back,” his brother went on, like he was proud of it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were standing in the dark like a creep, and she couldn’t stop glancing over.”

“Shut up.”

“She bit her lip when you walked past, man. Like she knew she shouldn’t be looking, but did anyway.”

“I said—shut your goddamn mouth.”

His brother grinned wider. “What’s the matter? Pissed because you never got to find out what she sounds like when she—”

The bottle hit the floor before Jack’s fist hit bone.

The punch landed clean—jaw, hard enough to knock him sideways into the fridge. The Motorola flew out of his hand, battery clattering across the floor.

Blood hit the linoleum in sharp, red flecks. His brother let out a grunt, staggered back a step, and caught himself on the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the laminate.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, wiping his mouth and seeing red. “There’s the big brother I remember.”

He looked up. Smirked.

“Thought the Army would’ve taught you how to hit harder.”

Jack moved again—this time fast, all weight and fury. He grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt, yanked him upright, slammed him into the cabinet.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he said, voice low, rough, almost shaking. “You don’t get to say her name.”

His brother spit blood onto the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why not?” he shot back. “Because she means something to you? Please. She is a break from the noise. Something nice to think about while you are cleaning sand out of your boots.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. His fist connected again—this time slicing open his own knuckles. His brother hit the fridge with a thud, a streak of blood blooming across the dented metal door.

“You cheated on her,” Jack growled. “And you meant to. You wanted to hurt her.”

“Yeah,” his brother coughed. “Maybe I did.”

Jack’s chest heaved.

“You don’t get to say you love her,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk around like none of it matters. She is—” He caught himself. Jaw clenched. “She is the only good thing in your goddamn life.”

His brother laughed again, voice thin, bloody. “And she still picked me.”

Silence.

Jack didn’t swing again. His brother had found the spot that hit deeper than anything he could’ve thrown.

“She was never yours,” his brother said, eyes gleaming. “And you hate that. Hate watching her kiss me. Cling to me. Like you aren’t in the room.”

Jack’s voice dropped, flat and quiet.

“She trusted you.”

“And you want her,” his brother said, stepping forward, blood trailing down his chin. “Don’t act like you don’t. I see it. The way you look at her legs. The way you stop talking every time she walks in.”

Jack was shaking now. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he said. “About Daniella. About everything.”

His brother blinked. “You think that makes you a hero?”

“I don’t care what it makes me.”

“You gonna hold her while she cries? Pretend you weren’t waiting for this exact moment to slide into her bed?”

Jack stepped back, blood on his hands, heat crawling down his spine.

He didn’t speak again.

Just turned and walked out the door, into the heavy summer dark—knuckles burning, jaw clenched, heart pounding with everything he hadn’t said and everything he still could.

He was going to tell you. He was ready to tell you.

But by the time he found you—curled up on the porch in the clothes you’d been crying in, eyes already glassy and far away—it was too late.

You already knew.

Not because Jack told you.

But because his brother beat him to it—mumbled it like a joke, too sloppy to sound honest, too late to sound like regret.

And still—when your eyes met his in the dark, when you blinked and tried to swallow what you were feeling—

Jack knew.

Whatever this was between you… it wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

Not ever.

PRESENT – LUNCH HOUR

You’re in the lounge, halfway through your charting, trying to ignore how much your scrubs itch at the collar and how nothing feels like it fits—your body, this badge, this hospital.

The door opens, and you know it’s him before you look.

Black scrubs. Posture still rigid, but slightly more relaxed now that no one’s coding in front of him. The chaos of the shift has passed, but he hasn’t shed it—still wears it in the way his jaw ticks when he sees you.

He walks past the counter. Doesn’t grab coffee. Doesn’t speak.

Just stands across from you. Quiet. Present.

Too close to ignore. Too familiar to look at without unraveling.

You don’t look up. “If you came to say I fumbled the trauma workup, you’re a little late.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “You didn’t fumble it.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I needed to see where you were,” he says simply.

You blink. “And?”

His gaze holds yours, steady as always. “You’re exactly where I thought.”

That shouldn't sound like anything. But it does. It hits somewhere low, somewhere unguarded.

“Well, I hope that was satisfying.”

Jack crosses his arms, weight shifting slightly onto his left leg. You notice the way he favors the right knee less when he's off-shift. Small things. Things you shouldn’t still track.

“I told you I matched here,” you say. “At the wedding. And you still ran me like I was some clueless walk-in.”

“You told me where you matched,” Jack replies. “You didn’t tell me who you are now.”

That stops you. Briefly.

“I’m a resident,” you say.

Jack nods once. “Exactly.”

“This going to be how it is?” you ask. “You treating me like everyone else?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you don’t know the answer. Not really.

Jack exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just tired. Heavy in a way that says he’s thought about this moment a hundred times and still doesn’t know how to hold it.

“You weren’t supposed to end up here,” he says. “Not this hospital. Not this city. Not with me.”

“Well,” you say, standing slowly, “here we are.”

He looks at you. The kind of look that saw straight through you once. The kind that hasn’t touched you in years—but still feels like it remembers.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you this morning,” he says.

“Maybe not,” you answer, voice steady, “but you weren’t trying to protect me either.”

“That’s not my job anymore.”

You almost flinch at that. Almost.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

“You were the one who said it couldn’t happen again,” you say quietly. “You made that call.”

Jack doesn’t blink. “And I meant it.”

“Then stop looking at me like you didn’t.”

That does something to him. A fracture you barely catch. Just in his eyes. Just in the space between the words.

“I wasn’t expecting to still feel it,” he admits.

And there it is.

You look at him like he’s a landmine you’ve already stepped on.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my first day, Jack.”

“I know.”

“Because you left.”

“I know.”

You pick up your chart. Your coffee. Whatever’s in reach.

You need to leave before something gives.

But he says one more thing—quiet, and almost too late:

“I didn’t think I deserved you. Especially not after what my brother did. After what my mother said. What she made you feel.”

You freeze in the doorway.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence.

Just lets the truth hang there, stripped bare between you.

You don't turn around.

You don't give him the relief of softening.

You just say, steady and quiet:

“You didn’t.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him standing there in the silence he made.

FLASHBACK – THE PORCH, POST BREAKUP

Summer. Late. The kind of air that tastes like rain and rage and everything falling apart. The porch is still damp from the storm earlier, your bare legs sticking to the wooden step. You’re sitting curled in on yourself, sundress wrinkled, damp at the hem, a phone slipping from your hand and landing face-down beside you.

His voice still echoes in your ears: "I fucked up, but come on, babe. It's not like I don’t love you. We can work through this."

You didn’t shout. You didn’t sob. You ended it like it was a business transaction—calm, efficient, like the weight of it hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

Then you sat on the porch and sobbed until your throat burned.

Jack's truck pulls up less than twenty minutes later. Fast. Loud. No subtlety, no headlights. The door slams shut and heavy boots hit gravel. You hear the urgency in every step as he climbs the porch.

He doesn't speak. Just hands you a beer, cold and dripping. You take it with shaking fingers.

He sits beside you.

And waits.

No pressure. No questions. Just the steady presence of a man whose hands are still raw from hitting someone who deserved worse.

You sip the beer in silence. So does he.

When the tears finally stop clawing at your chest, you whisper, "He told me. Thought I'd forgive him."

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just mutters, low and sharp, "I broke his nose."

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. Then turn to him.

He’s already watching you. And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel invisible.

Your hand finds his. You run your thumb over the split skin of his knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper—soft, but not fragile. Like the words are heavier than they look.

Jack doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard, throat working like he’s holding something back. Regret. Anger. Want. Maybe all three.

You turn toward him slowly. Your hand is still wrapped around his, your thumb tracing the bruised skin of his knuckles, and you feel it—how warm he is. How solid. How close.

And then you lean in.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t give yourself time to question it.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not shy. Not the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re thinking clearly. It’s desperate. Messy. Like trying to fill a hunger that’s lived under your skin for too long.

You kiss him like you’ve imagined this moment in the dark—like you’ve pictured it while lying next to someone who didn’t deserve your body or your heart. You kiss him like he’s the answer to a question you were never supposed to ask.

And Jack—

Jack responds like he’s been waiting for this since the second he laid eyes on you. Like he’s spent years biting his tongue, burying his hands in his pockets, refusing to look at you for too long because he knew this was what would happen if he did.

He pulls you into his lap like it’s instinct—like his body was always meant to hold yours like this. No hesitation. No breath between cause and effect. One second you’re beside him, and the next you’re straddling him, sundress bunched around your hips, thighs sliding over denim, sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Your knees plant on either side of his hips, and you settle down slow, your core pressed right against the thick, unforgiving length straining behind his fly. He’s already hard. Painfully so. And you feel every inch of him through your soaked panties—thin, useless fabric that does nothing to dull the friction.

Jack groans, low and guttural, his hands flying to your ass, gripping it tight, like he can’t decide if he’s grounding himself or dragging you closer. Maybe both. His fingers dig in like he owns you—like he's been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and the sound that leaves his mouth borders on obscene.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he growls. “You always were.”

He grabs your face with one hand, fingers splayed across your cheek, his palm cradling you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. And then he kisses you—hard. No hesitation. No sweetness. It’s all teeth and breath and years of restraint crashing down in the space between you.

His other hand finds the hem of your dress and shoves it up roughly around your waist, exposing you to the humid night air. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t slow down—just snakes his hand beneath the thin fabric of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds like they belong there.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are—low and wrecked and filthy.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breath hot against your jaw. “You’re soaked.”

Your head falls back, hips canting forward, needing more—needing him.

“I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you,” you whisper, voice cracking like it’s been caged too long. “Used to stare at you when he wasn’t looking. I wanted it to be you—every fucking time.”

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then lets out a broken sound, something between a moan and a growl, like the confession punched the air out of his lungs.

“Jesus,” he grits, his thumb dragging hard over your clit. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.”

His voice is wrecked. His pupils blown. His jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread. “You looked at me like that—walked around in those tiny shorts, laughing with your mouth wide open, and I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t even breathe.”

Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging him closer, needing to be devoured.

“You can touch now,” you whisper. “No one’s stopping you.”

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, breath hitching, hands shaking—not from nerves, but from how badly he wants this. Wants you. When he finally frees himself, his cock springs forward—flushed, thick, leaking at the tip. Your eyes flick down, and your breath stutters. God, he’s big. And he’s hard in a way that makes your thighs clench around nothing.

Jack notices. Smirks. But it’s not cocky—it’s wrecked.

He drags his hands up your thighs, slow at first, then rougher as he grips the waistband of your panties. His eyes stay locked on yours as he tugs them down—wet and ruined, sticking slightly to your skin. He peels them off like they’ve kept him from you too long.

You lift your hips, bracing one palm against his shoulder while your other hand wraps around the base of his cock. He’s hot and pulsing in your hand. You guide him to your entrance, slow, teasing, your slick folds already parting for him.

Jack’s jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s anchoring himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

And then you sink down.

Slow. Stretching. Devastating.

He groans—low and broken—as your body swallows him inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

He fills you like no one else ever has. Like he was made for it. Like this is the only place he’s ever belonged.

“That’s it,” Jack growls, voice dark and thick with hunger. “Take it. All of me.”

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, whimpering against his neck as he bottoms out. The pressure. The fullness. The way he doesn’t move—just lets you sit there, trembling around him.

But then he thrusts.

Hard.

Deep.

Brutal.

And all that control shatters.

You cry out, clawing at his back, nails dragging down muscle and cotton.

He grips your hips, guides your rhythm, makes you ride him right there on the porch like you’re the only two people in the world.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Jack—I’m yours.”

Your dress is bunched at your waist, your bra yanked down, your breasts bouncing with every slap of skin. His mouth latches to one nipple, sucking hard while his hips slam up into you over and over and over.

“You look like sin like this,” he whispers. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted and never should’ve had.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please, don’t ever stop.”

He moves faster, snapping his hips up, and your world tilts sideways. You’re close. You’re shaking. The porch creaks beneath you.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants. “Gonna let me feel you lose it?”

You nod wildly, whimpering, and he brings his thumb to your clit.

One circle. Two. Three.

And you break.

You come with a gasp, clenching around him, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it. Jack thrusts twice more, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan, holding you so tight you think you might shatter.

Neither of you speak.

Not for a while.

You stay wrapped around him, forehead to forehead, bodies slick and trembling, the air thick with everything that’s finally been said without words.

And Jack whispers it. Finally.

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

You believe him.

You want to.

PRESENT – NIGHTFALL / PARKING GARAGE

The lowest level of the hospital garage is silent—too silent. The kind of silence that hums, that stalks. Fluorescent lights flicker in the corners. Your footsteps echo against concrete, sharp and too loud, your keys clenched in your fist.

You’re not just tired. You’re unraveling—held together by caffeine and obligation, by the way Jack looked at you earlier like he still remembered the way your breath caught when he was inside you.

You reach your car. Unlock it. Open the door.

And freeze.

There’s a manila envelope sitting on the driver’s seat.

No name. No label. Just waiting.

You glance around the garage. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Your pulse spikes.

You climb into the car, slam the door, lock it, and tear open the envelope with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

Inside: a photo.

Not just any photo.

You. Jack. That night. That porch.

Your sundress hitched above your hips. His hand gripping your thigh. His mouth on your chest. Your face slack with pleasure. His face buried in the place no one else ever got to see.

The photo is blurry, but not enough. Taken from a side angle. Someone had been outside. Watching.

Watching the moment everything changed. The moment you stopped pretending.

Taped beneath the photo: a line scrawled in thick, angry ink.

Doesn’t look like nothing to me.

You choke on air. Sit back. Your ears ring.

There’s a second note, folded once, paper already creased at the corners. You unfold it with dread curdling in your gut.

The handwriting is familiar. Sloppy. Aggressive.

You were mine first. Jack always takes what’s mine. The Army, med school, the fucking applause. You.

You think I didn’t notice how the whole goddamn room turned when you walked into my wedding? Everyone looking at you like you were the bride. Everyone looking at him like the fucking hero.

You stole the spotlight. He stole everything else.

But I saw it before anyone. The way you looked at him. The way he looked back. Like I didn’t exist.

You should've stayed gone.

The envelope slides off your lap.

Something moves in your periphery.

You snap your head toward the window.

He’s there.

Jack’s brother.

Leaning casually against the wall of the garage, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, like this is just another night and you’re just another conversation.

He steps forward slowly, shadows wrapping around him.

That smile—the one that used to pass for charming in daylight—is something uglier now. Tighter.

“Hell of a photo, huh?” he says. “Shame it wasn’t taken by someone more professional. But the message lands.”

You say nothing.

He laughs. A hollow sound.

“You think Jack protected you by keeping his distance? You think sleeping your way into a white coat gets you immunity?” He shakes his head, then takes another step closer. “No. That’s not how this works. Not anymore. I will make sure that photo ends up in every hospital inbox from here to the board.”

He steps into the light now. You can see the bitterness etched into his face. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Rage. Jealousy. Obsession.

“You were supposed to be mine. The one who stuck around. The one who smiled on command, played perfect even when I fucked it all up. But he—he gets to be the hero. The golden boy. The war vet. The guy who swoops in wearing black scrubs like he’s some goddamn knight.”

He sneers.

“You didn’t choose him because he was better. You chose him because I was real and messy and too fucking close to what you didn’t want to admit you were.”

You open the door. Slowly. Controlled.

He blocks it with one hand.

“We’re gonna play by my rules now,” he says. “You want to keep this residency? This clean-slate new-girl reputation? You want to walk through that ER tomorrow with everyone thinking you earned it? Then you’re gonna listen. And you’re gonna be nice. Real nice.”

He leans in closer, breath hot and sour.

“Because if you think I won’t blow it all up just to watch Jack crawl out of the ashes, you’re dead wrong. And you?”

He lifts the photo. Holds it up.

“You’ll be collateral."

You don’t flinch. Not yet. Not until he steps back.

Not until he drops the photo at your feet.

And disappears into the dark.

The only sound left is the flicker of the lights.

And your breath, sharp and shallow.

Because this?

This isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.

#I fear this is too obscure #but oh well #Jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt #smut #angst #enemies to lovers #shawn hatosy

731 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, McLaren almost making a generational fumble, pregnancy, strong language, implied sexism in motorsport

Notes — Missed you all so much! Enjoy this longggg chap <3

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 09:17 AM

Attachments: F1A_AdvisoryBoardOverview.pdf

Amelia,

I’ll get straight to it, as I know you don’t love preamble.

I think now is the time to formally invite you to join F1 Academy as a technical advisor and consulting board member, effective from the start of the 2025 season. Your experience, both practical and personal, is precisely what this program needs.

This role would involve quarterly strategic reviews, input on technical education frameworks, mentoring touch-points, and representation at select events — all designed to build a tangible technical pipeline.

I, of course, understand that this role would have to work-around your prior F1 commitments.

Let me know your thoughts. If you’d like to speak in person.

Warmly, Susie

From: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

To: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 12:04 PM

Hi Susie,

First: thank you.

Second: I’ve read the overview twice already (I annotated the PDF, sorry in advance). It’s smart. Practical. Grounded. That’s rare in programs like this. You’re doing it right.

Third: Yes, I’m in. Fully.

I’ll carve out the time. If we’re serious about keeping girls in the sport, and I am, then this is the most productive way I can help. I’d also like to propose a technical “shadow program” for the engineering side — similar to what the Driver Academy does. We can talk more about it when you have time.

Appreciate the offer. And the trust.

Best, Amelia

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 1:30 PM

Amelia,

That’s the best “yes” I’ve received in months. And I’ll happily take annotated PDFs if they come with your brain attached.

Let’s lock in a short meeting before we fly out next month. I’d love to dig into the shadow program idea — it’s aligned with something I’ve been building out with the FIA technical department. Timing might be perfect.

(Also, your idea about reinforcing retention through non-driver career tracks? Spot on. We’ll need that thinking on the board.)

Thrilled to have you with us.

Susie

From: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

To: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 2:18 PM

Let’s do Thursday morning — Monaco? I’ll bring revised notes and a framework draft for the shadow pipeline.

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 3:04 PM

Thursday it is. I’ll send you the address of a lovely little restaurant on the harbour.

Looking forward to what we’ll build together. The sport’s lucky to have you.

Warmly, Susie

—

It was 8:12 a.m. and the kitchen smelled like toast, fresh coffee, and the faintest lingering whiff of washing up liquid — and Amelia's nausea was only made even worse when Lando toasted the wrong kind of bread.

“Why is there no oat milk?” Amelia said flatly, standing in front of the open fridge and glaring into it.

Lando, half-asleep and shirtless in his McLaren joggers, yawned into his coffee. “What do you mean ‘why is there no oat milk’? You finished it yesterday.”

She didn’t turn around. “No, I finished the backup oat milk yesterday. The good one ran out two days ago. You said you were going to pick some up.”

“I did! They didn’t have your usual so I just got almond instead.”

Amelia shut the fridge and pivoted slowly, expression blank. “That’s not the same.”

Lando blinked. “It’s... kind of the same.”

“I can’t froth almond milk, Lando.” She told him.

“You can’t even drink coffee right now, baby.” He tried.

She stared at him. “Every morning, I drink a decaf latte with oat milk, and you know that, but you’re trying to act stupid so I can’t be mad at you.”

Lando set his mug down very slowly. “Okay. Okay. Let’s breathe through this.”

Amelia pointed at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to start throwing things at you.”

“I feel very lucky,” he said, smiling despite himself as he crossed the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll go get your silly oat milk after breakfast.”

“My oat milk is not silly. It is gentle and stable and doesn’t split under pressure. Unlike some things.”

“Oh wow,” he muttered, grabbing the butter. “We’re speaking in metaphors now, are we?”

She sat at the table, still glaring at his toast. “You bought the one with sesame seeds. You know I can’t do the texture right now.”

Lando stared at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t think I had to! You should just know! You’ve watched me do complex simulations while dry-heaving at the smell of overripe bananas. Sesame seeds are in the same category.”

Lando looked down at his toast, then back up at her. “Okay. So we’re adding a sesame embargo. Got it.”

She let out a sharp sigh, then scrubbed her hands down her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just—”

“Gestating a human?”

She nodded. “It’s so much. Like. All the time.”

Lando softened immediately. He took his plate, dumped his toast in the bin, and set a banana-free, sesame-free bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “Here,” he said. “Neutral foods only. Plain and safe. Like... Switzerland.”

She blinked at the bowl. “This has potential.” She poked the spoon. “You made this with the almond milk?”

“No. Water.” He said. She sighed with relief. He smiled, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “You have my word that I will never again confuse almond milk with oat milk ever again.”

Amelia muttered into her oatmeal. “You’ve lost food shopping rights.”

He grinned. “I’ll earn them back. Watch me.”

She ate in silence for a minute, then reached for his hand under the table, fingers curling around his.

He squeezed gently. “Better?”

“I still want my oat milk latte.”

“I’ll run down to the shop and get your oat milk.”

“And a bottle of caramel syrup.”

“Of course, baby.”

—

The café on Rue Grimaldi was just beginning to hum with the late-morning crowd when Lando ducked in, hoodie pulled up and sunglasses still on, despite being indoors. He made a beeline for the counter — three cartons of oat milk secured in a small paper bag under one arm, coffee on his mind — only to stop short when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, mate,” came the familiar voice, warm and unmistakably Monegasque.

Lando turned to find Charles, dressed casually in a t-shirt and sunglasses pushed up into his hair, holding a takeaway espresso and looking smug about catching him off-guard.

“Shit. Sorry. Hey,” Lando grinned, adjusting the paper bag before offering a quick one-armed hug. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“You know that I live only three buildings away,” Charles said, amused. “You’re out early for once.”

“Amelia sent me to get oat milk,” Lando told him. “Life-or-death situation. I’m on a mission.”

Charles laughed, gesturing to the barista for another coffee. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Lando said, instantly softening. He leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes going distant for a moment. “Actually... she’s kind of amazing.”

Charles raised a brow, sipping his espresso.

“I mean, I always knew she was brilliant, but now with the pregnancy, she’s like... this whole new version of herself. Still very Amelia. Like, intense and sarcastic and kind of terrifying. But also just... soft sometimes. Like, in ways I’ve never seen. And she lets me see it.”

Charles’s face melted into a smile. “You’re in love.”

Lando snorted. “Well yeah. We’re married, remember?”

“But this is different. You sound like... you’re seeing her again for the first time.”

Lando paused. “Yeah. I think I am.” There was a beat of quiet between them as the barista handed over his coffee. He took it with a small nod of thanks, then glanced at Charles. “Think I’ve managed to fall in love with her all over again, you know?”

Charles blinked, visibly touched. “Mate.”

“I know,” he said, grinning awkwardly and taking a sip of his drink. “I’m being all sentimental and shit. Don’t tell Carlos, he wouldn’t let me live it down.”

Charles laughed. “I won’t. But Amelia might appreciate hearing it.”

“She knows,” Lando said quietly, then added, “But yeah. I think it’s good to keep reminding her.”

They stepped outside together, the warm Monaco sun washing over them.

“You’ll be a good dad,” Charles said eventually, nudging his shoulder.

Lando scoffed. “God, I hope so.”

“You will,” Charles repeated with certainty. “I’m sure of it, brother.”

They parted ways at the corner; Charles off to his sim session, Lando heading home, oat milk secure. And for the rest of the day, his smile didn’t quite leave his face.

—

The sun was low, bleeding orange across the horizon and painting long shadows down the winding streets of Monaco. The forest-green supercar purred beneath them like a living thing, gliding effortlessly through the city’s golden-hour glow. The streets shimmered with reflected light, windows catching fire as they passed, the sea winking silver to their right.

Lando’s hands rested easy on the wheel — one perched casually at ten o’clock, the other drifting occasionally over to Amelia’s thigh. The car, already easily recognisable in a city full of fast cars, was still impossible to ignore when he was driving it. Monaco might be saturated with wealth and speed, but Lando Norris in a sleek green supercar turned heads.

Especially when he was wearing that hoodie.

The white Playboy logo, stretched across the back of a black hoodie, had become something of an internet legend. Worn in interviews, airport photos, Twitch streams — it was a piece of lore now. And tonight, with the hood pulled halfway up and his curls just visible underneath, he looked more like a teenager sneaking out after curfew than a world-class F1 driver. But it didn’t matter.

Everyone still knew exactly who he was.

Amelia sat in the passenger seat, the window cracked open slightly, letting the wind tug loose strands of her hair. Her head rested against the seat-back, eyes closed, soaking in the smooth hum of the engine and the scent of salt in the air. After a day full of logistics and troubleshooting — packing, chasing suppliers, managing Oscar’s sim data issue, redoing schedules for Bahrain testing — this was the first moment she’d had to simply breathe.

“This is nice,” she said softly, voice barely carrying above the low purr of the car.

Lando glanced at her and smiled. “Told you it would help. You needed to de-stress.”

“And you needed to stop pacing around the apartment like a caged animal.”

“Fair,” he said with a shrug. “But I pace elegantly, don’t I?”

She cracked one eye open, amused. “You pace like a man trying to calculate the optimal lap around the kitchen island.”

They wound up the coast slowly, not in any rush, Lando deliberately choosing the scenic roads, detouring through the quieter corners of the city. Monaco rolled out around them like a movie set — warm light, quiet glamour, the soft hush of money that didn’t need to announce itself. But eventually, as the streetlights began to flicker on and the sea turned indigo, he turned off toward the familiar façade of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, its gold-lit entrance grand and welcoming.

Amelia blinked as he pulled up to the valet. “We’re eating here?”

“Yeah,” Lando said easily, already unbuckling. “Come on.”

Before she could protest, he was out of the car and jogging around the front, hood still up. She rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged into a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a good husband,” he corrected, pulling open the door.

Phones were already up. Across the street, a handful of passersby had clocked him immediately, cameras out, the sound of whispers and low murmurs rising like static.

She stepped out into the warm evening air, and he offered his hand — palm up, open, steady.

She took it. “You know this is going to be everywhere tomorrow.”

He shrugged, brushing a curl off her forehead. “Let them look.”

And they did.

By midnight, the photos had already gone viral.

One showed Lando — hoodie on, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other casually holding open the car door with a soft grin. Another showed Amelia stepping out of the passenger seat, hand lightly resting on her stomach in a way she hadn’t even noticed at the time. Her dress fluttered slightly around her legs in the breeze, and her smile was half-laugh, turned back toward Lando like he’d just said something that made her forget that the rest of the world existed.

The captions rolled in fast.

“lando norris taking his wife out for a quiet dinner before sakhir testing”

“is she touching her stomach???? IS SHE PREGNANT?????????”

“that bump is bumping i fear…”

“i swear if they announce they’re having a baby i’m throwing myself in the sea”

“seeing the hoodie again has awakened something in me…”

“her HAND is on her STOMACH and he’s wearing the PLAYBOY hoodie i’m going to PASS OUT”

Inside, the Casino’s main dining room was quiet and dignified — white linen tablecloths, the hum of polite conversation, low light glittering off the crystal chandeliers. They were led to a booth near the back — a soft, curved corner table with views of the harbour, tucked just far enough away from the main room to feel like a secret.

It was their table.

Amelia leaned across the polished surface and tilted her phone toward him. “I’m being tagged in a million things.”

He squinted at the screen. “That’s a lot of caps lock.”

She scrolled. “Someone says that if I have a baby I should name it after Daniel Ricciardo.”

He smirked, sipping from his water. “Hilarious idea.”

“They’re very invested.”

“They like you.”

“They like you. I’m a side character.”

“You’re my favourite character,” he said easily, and something in her eyes softened.

Bread and olive oil arrived, without needing to be ordered, and Amelia absently dipped a piece, still half-scrolling.

She looked up again, a small crease between her brows. “Do you think I make it obvious that I’m pregnant?”

Lando shrugged. “Maybe. You look happy.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t expecting people to notice this fast.”

He reached over and gently wiped a smear of oil from her mouth with his thumb. “You’ve got a glow. And It’s not your fault people are obsessed with you.”

“I think it might be your fault, actually.”

He smiled again, soft and private. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Their food arrived. Lemony pasta for her, grilled steak salad for him. She picked at her plate for a while, quiet. Then, finally, she set her fork down and said, “It’s going to be different soon, isn’t it?”

He looked up. “What is?”

“This. Life. Dinners. Feeling like we still get to be just… us.”

Lando didn’t rush to answer. He leaned back a little, watching her — her face, her hands, the quiet vulnerability creeping in at the edges. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But different doesn’t have to be bad.”

She nodded slowly. Bit her lip. “You’re going to get such an ego when the fangirls start calling you a DILF.”

He grinned. “Won’t be a lie.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m just saying." He said. She rolled her eyes at him and he huffed out a laugh. "If our kid has your attitude, I’m going to need divine patience.”

She stopped mid-bite. Blinked. “Oh.”

Lando tilted his head. “What?”

“What if…” she hesitated. “What if they are like me?”

He sat forward, instantly alert. “Baby—”

“I mean it,” she said, voice cracking just slightly. “What if they’re too smart, or too intense, or too weird, and they don’t fit in anywhere? What if they’re… different, and it’s hard, and people expect them to be like you, but they’re not?”

Lando reached for her hand. Held it steady. “Then they’ll be lucky.”

She looked at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said, voice soft. “If they’re like you, they’ll be brilliant. Strong. Honest. The world doesn’t make it easy on people like that, but you’ll show them how to do it anyway.”

Her mouth trembled.

He leaned in. “I didn’t fall in love with you despite those things, Amelia. I fell in love with you because of them.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, muttering, “Now I’m crying into my pasta.”

“Adds flavour,” Lando said.

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

She smiled through it, eyes still glassy. “You’re going to be a really good dad.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Not strict,” she said, teasing. “But good.”

Lando grinned. “I can’t even tell you no. How am I supposed to say it to a miniature you?”

She laughed, soft and real, and somewhere between the candlelight and the quiet clatter of cutlery, everything settled.

It was different now — but maybe, just maybe, it was... better.

—

The apartment was quiet when they got back. Amelia slipped off her shoes in the hallway, sighed, and leaned briefly against the wall as Lando locked up behind them.

She trailed behind him, fingers tracing the edge of the marble countertop in the kitchen. Her body was tired, heavy in a way it hadn’t been before pregnancy; like her muscles were constantly working overtime to keep up with the quiet, miraculous thing happening beneath her skin.

She stood at the sink, sipping a glass of water slowly, letting the silence settle.

Lando reappeared a few moments later with the familiar glass bottle in his hand. It was half-used now — the bump oil she’d started applying a week ago. Some natural blend that smelled faintly of neroli and sweet almond, promising hydration and elasticity and comfort.

But more than that, it had become a ritual. A pause. A grounding point at the end of the day when everything else felt like it was moving too fast.

He held it up. “You want the honours, or shall I?”

Amelia stared at him. “Your hands are warmer.”

Lando grinned. “You just like being pampered.”

“Who doesn’t?”

They migrated to the bedroom, the soft white light of the bedside lamps casting everything in a low, golden haze. She pulled her dress off and tossed it gently over the chair, leaving her in a bralette and cotton shorts. The curve of her stomach was still so subtle — just a hint of bloating that she never usually suffered with, a visible whisper of the life growing inside her.

She lay back against the pillows, propped slightly up, and Lando sat cross-legged beside her, the bottle uncapped, hands already slick with oil.

He started slow, careful, hands gentle as he spread the oil over her skin, fingers smoothing in slow, deliberate circles. He was quiet while he worked, but it wasn’t a heavy silence. It was reverent. Focused. Loving.

“You’re getting good at this,” she murmured, eyes slipping closed.

“I practice on watermelons when you’re not home.”

She huffed a soft laugh.

His thumbs moved lower. “I’m absolutely obsessed with you.” He mumbled against the skin of her hip.

“I know.” Her voice was sleepy now. She reached out, hand brushing against his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, then pressed a kiss low against her stomach, just beneath his hands. “Hi, baby-bunch-of-cells,” he whispered, lips brushing warm against her skin. Her lips twitched. “You’ve got the coolest mum in the world, you know that?”

Amelia blinked hard. “Stop making me cry,” she muttered, voice cracking.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said, smug and soft.

She smacked his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, twined their fingers together, and settled down beside her, cheek resting gently against the swell of her belly.

They lay there like that for a while — the room quiet, the scent of the oil soft in the air, his palm warm and open against her skin.

Eventually, Amelia got up to change into a sleep-shirt, all bleary eyed as she wandered back into Lando’s waiting arms.

“You okay?” Lando murmured into her hair, thumb brushing over the bare skin of her hip where her sleep shirt had ridden up as she wriggled her way under the covers.

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “Just tired.”

He didn’t answer right away, just let the silence stretch, the rhythm of their breaths syncing. Her hand was pressed to her belly again — not dramatically, not even consciously. It was just where it always landed now.

And Lando noticed.

“Tell me more,” he said quietly.

She lifted her head. “More?”

“About what you’ve learned. About... all of it.” He tilted his chin toward her stomach. “I know you’ve been reading non-stop. I want to know.”

She blinked, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. All of it.”

Amelia yawned, then launched in; quieter now, but no less enthusiastic. “Okay, so the placenta doesn’t fully take over hormone production until about ten weeks, which means all the weird mood swings and the nausea and the exhaustion are mostly just the hCG hormone hijacking my system.”

“That’s the one doubling every couple of days?”

“Exactly. I read this one article that called it ‘a hormonal rollercoaster without a seatbelt,’ and it’s one of the only metaphors that I’ve every genuinely understood.”

Lando chuckled softly, fingers drawing slow, idle shapes along her back.

“And apparently,” she continued, “the nausea’s not about throwing up. It’s like this constant, cloying, edge-of-sick feeling that never fully goes away unless I’m horizontal, full of carbs, or momentarily distracted by you being sweet.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll do my best to be a cure.”

“You’re good at it.”

They lay there quietly for a beat.

“I can’t eat sushi,” she said suddenly. “Or swordfish. Or soft cheese. Or deli-meats. Or sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts?”

“Alfalfa sprouts.”

“Oh. Honestly that feels like a win.”

“I also can’t take long hot baths or sit in saunas. No ibuprofen.”

“That one seems unfair.”

“Right?” She sighed. “And then there’s this thing called round ligament pain, which apparently is just surprise stabs in the pelvis because your uterus is growing too fast and the ligaments are mad about it.”

He winced. “Sounds... ouchie.”

“Everything about pregnancy is ‘ouchie’. It’s just all been politely marketed.”

Lando let out a low laugh, his chest shaking beneath her. “Baby.”

“I’m serious.”

He turned onto his side, bringing them face to face, his hand splaying wide across her lower stomach like a gentle shield. His thumb brushed slowly just below her navel.

“You’re really doing it,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“This.” His voice softened. “Making a whole human. Half you, half me.”

Her throat tightened. She blinked hard, fighting the familiar sting behind her eyes. “I don’t feel like I’m doing anything most of the time.”

“You’re doing everything,” he said. “Even when you’re just laying here talking about ligament stabs.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with the edge of the duvet and muttered, “Now I’m crying in bed.”

Lando smiled. “Well, there goes the dry side of the pillow.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

When she finally fell asleep, it was with his hand still resting over her belly and a vow stitched into the silence of their bedroom.

—

The cabin lights were dimmed to a sleepy gold, the hum of the engines a constant low white noise in the background. Lando had kicked his shoes off an hour ago and was now curled sideways in his seat, legs stretched across the aisle to rest against Amelia’s footrest, a battered hoodie bunched around his shoulders like a blanket.

Amelia had her noise-canceling headphones looped around her neck, but wasn’t using them. Her head rested against the window, fingers lazily tracing patterns on thigh through the soft cotton of her leggings.

Her seat was reclined, her feet tucked up beside her, a half-finished crossword open on the tray table. She wasn’t filling in the answers anymore — just twirling the pen between her fingers, eyes glassy with that deep-travel fatigue that always hit halfway through long-haul flights.

Lando cracked one eye open and looked at her. “You asleep?”

“Nope,” she said, voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About the car?”

“About the twelve hours I’ll spend at the track tomorrow.” She rubbed her temple. “Oscar’s nervous. The aero team still hasn’t patched the instability in the rear. And I’m definitely going to throw up in the hospitality bathroom at least once before 10 a.m.”

Lando yawned, unbothered. “Sounds like a normal Thursday.”

Amelia kicked lightly at his shin. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to distract you.”

She glanced at him, skeptical.

He sat up slightly, stretching across the console between them to brush a piece of hair out of her face. “Want me to list all the things I think you’re going to smash tomorrow?”

“No.”

He grinned. “Tough. You’re gonna boss Oscar’s testing schedule. You’re going to yell at one engineer and make them better for it. You’re going to make that car faster in a week than some teams do in three months. And you’re going to throw up very discreetly, like the absolute professional you are.”

She snorted, biting back a smile. “Helpful.”

“I try.”

Amelia tilted her head against the headrest and murmured, “Love you.”

Lando reached for her hand under the shared armrest and laced their fingers together, thumb brushing slow circles against her skin.

They sat like that for a while, not talking, not needing to, the lights dim, the flight steady, and the love endless.

—

The paddock wasn’t quite awake yet.

The early morning desert sun cast everything in long gold shadows, and the garages buzzed with that low, electric anticipation that only came with testing. Engineers murmured over telemetry, coffee steamed in paper cups, and the distinct scent of warm asphalt clung to everything.

Amelia sat on the wide concrete step outside the hospitality unit, a bottle of water between her hands and her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She didn’t look pregnant yet, not unless you were looking, but she felt it anyway — in the way her shirt tugged tighter around the middle, in the constant low hum of her body doing something without asking her permission.

She didn’t look up when Celeste dropped down beside her with two iced coffees in hand.

“Stolen from Red Bull catering,” Celeste said brightly, offering one. “I’m not above crimes, and they all love you too much to snitch. Yours is decaf, obviously.”

Amelia took it without a word. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sun hot on their skin.

Eventually, Celeste nudged her knee. “You good?”

Amelia hesitated. Then. slowly, like peeling something back, “I’m not... bad. But I’m not good.”

Celeste looked at her, eyebrows lifted, but didn’t interrupt.

“It’s just…” Amelia gestured vaguely at her stomach, then let her hand fall again. “Everything’s changing and I didn’t give it permission to.”

Celeste blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah?”

“I know that’s sort of the point of pregnancy,” Amelia said, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “But my body doesn’t feel like mine right now. And not just the physical stuff. My routines are off. My sleep feels weird. I don’t like food I used to like, and I suddenly love things I used to hate. And I can’t regulate my temperature or my moods and none of my bras fit and—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I just... I feel hijacked. And it’s really hard not to spiral about it.”

There was a beat. “That makes perfect sense,” Celeste said, voice low and steady. “You’re used to having a say in everything. Your clothes. Your space. Your schedule. Your comfort. Your body. And now all those things are changing at once, without warning.”

Amelia nodded, quick and tight, eyes stinging. “And the worst part is — I want the baby. I love the baby. But I feel like I’m being dragged behind my own life, and I keep thinking... ‘If I’m already this overwhelmed, how the hell am I supposed to do the next seven months?’”

Cleste didn’t offer clichés. She didn’t say “you’re strong” or “you’ll be fine.”

Instead, she reached out and gently touched Amelia’s forearm. “Okay. So let’s start with what isn’t changing today. What do you still have control over?”

Amelia sniffled and looked down at her shoes. “My spreadsheets.”

Celeste smiled. “Great. What else?”

“My noise-canceling ear defenders. My sleep playlist.”

“There you go. Small things are still yours.”

Amelia let out a shaky breath. “I keep telling myself that it’s just sensory overload. That I’ve handled worse. That it’ll pass.”

“But even if it doesn’t,” Celeste said gently, “you’ll adapt. You always have. And if it helps at all, I think what you’re feeling is incredibly valid — and not remotely selfish.”

“I feel selfish.”

“You’re not. You’re neurodivergent, pregnant, and also a woman working in the highest level of motorsport. If you weren’t feeling overwhelmed, I’d be worried.”

Amelia huffed out a laugh, surprised. “That’s... actually helpful.”

Celeste bumped their shoulders together. “You’re allowed to love the baby and hate what pregnancy does to your routine. Both things can be true. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

For the first time all morning, Amelia’s posture eased slightly.

“Do you wanna come hide in the RedBull motorhome for a bit?” Celeste offered. “I think I saw one of the catering guys stash the good pastries behind the juice bar.”

“I shouldn’t abandon my team on day one,” Amelia said, already standing.

Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s lunch time. I think you’re allowed a croissant.”

—

The sun was beginning to sink behind the Bahraini paddock, casting long gold stripes through the motorhome windows. Most of the team was trickling into the hospitality area for water, air-con, and a brief moment of respite.

Amelia was halfway through a half-melted protein bar and hunched over her laptop, squinting at a CFD report that felt like it was written in Elvish. Her brain had long since checked out. She barely noticed the door open until a familiar voice cut across the quiet.

“Well, if it isn’t the boss herself.”

She looked up — and grinned, the kind of grin that cracked her whole face open with genuine affection.

Oscar stood in the doorway, sun-browned from a week back home in Melbourne, hair a little longer, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looked… relaxed. And irritatingly cheerful.

“You’re late,” she said, standing up and crossing the room in three long strides before throwing her arms around him in a hug that knocked the breath out of him.

“Jesus,” he wheezed, but hugged her back without hesitation, forehead dropping against her shoulder. “Missed you too, I guess.”

“Shut up,” she said into his hoodie. “You were gone for seven days. That’s the longest we haven’t spoken in two years. It was disorienting.”

He laughed, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” she said flatly. “They changed the diffuser without me.”

Oscar winced. “I heard. Sorry. Want me to key somebody’s car?”

“No, I can’t have you being charged with a crime this close to the first race of the season,” she sighed. “But thank you anyway.”

They sank into the cushy booth under the window, Amelia tucking her legs up beside her and watching as he peeled open a protein bar of his own.

“Home okay?” She asked.

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Mum made me a list of things to bring back that I forgot entirely. My sister says hi. Oh — and Dad said ‘congrats on the rugrat’.”

Amelia snorted. “He did not.”

Oscar shrugged, his lips twitching. “He did.”

She laughed, leaning her head back against the booth. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m very loveable. Anything explode while I was gone?”

“Just my patience. And there was a very minor fire in the CFD department.”

Oscar winced. “Anyone hurt?”

“No. Just some bruised egos.” She sighed. They sat in companionable silence for a while. Outside, the sound of reporters and tool carts echoed through the alleyways. Inside, it was calm. Steady. After a moment, Amelia nudged him with her knee. “It’s good you went home. Family time is important for optimal motivation.”

“I know.” He said. He was smiling at her.

“Did you bring me back a souvenir?” She asked.

Oscar grinned. “Check my backpack.”

She leaned over, unzipped the top pocket; and let out a delighted noise at the sight of a tiny stuffed koala wearing aviators.

“His name is Downforce,” Oscar said proudly.

Amelia held it up and stared at it. “I’m putting him on the dash of the simulator.”

“Please do.”

And just like that — they were back. Her with her sharp edges, him with his dry sarcasm, and something between them that felt like a shared backbone. Stronger for the distance. Ready for whatever testing, and the season ahead, threw at them next.

—

The desert heat hadn't even peaked yet and Amelia was already sweating.

Engineers in crisp polos darted between garages with clipboards and headsets; pit crew rolled tires across the hot concrete; camera crews hovered at the edges, hungry for glimpses of shiny new bodywork or strained facial expressions.

Amelia stood just inside the garage, arms crossed tight over her chest, her clipboard clutched in one hand like a weapon. Her sunglasses were perched high on her nose, more for the glare of her own frustration than the sun. In front of her, the MCL38-AN, her car, in every way that mattered, sat on its stands, monitors blinking with diagnostic readings. And she hated what she saw.

It wasn’t bad, technically. Nothing catastrophic. But it was wrong.

The wrong wing configuration. The wrong ride height assumptions. The rear diffuser changes she’d flagged three weeks ago had been pushed through without her sign-off — a democratic decision made by the broader engineering committee while she was out for the afternoon with a migraine. The moment she’d seen the telemetry from Oscar’s first handful of laps, she’d known that’d cost them at least two-tenths on the straights.

And now? It was too late to fix it.

“Still gathering data,” one of the aero leads said beside her, hopeful. Too hopeful.

Amelia didn’t look at him. “You’re gathering confirmation bias. You want the data to tell you it was worth it.”

He blinked. “We can’t reverse the updates before the first race.”

“I know,” she said tightly. “I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you that they shouldn’t have been implemented in the first place.”

He took a step back.

Oscar pulled back into the garage just then, visor up, sweat beading at his temples. He popped the wheel off and offered her a sheepish smile. “Feels like I’m dragging a parachute on the straights.”

Amelia didn’t smile. “You basically are.”

Oscar winced. “Well, that’s nice.”

She handed the clipboard off to a mechanic without a word and turned on her heel, storming down the garage tunnel toward the back paddock.

Lando caught up with her a minute later, jog-walking like he knew better than to grab her arm when she was in this mood. “Hey. Hey—baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She spun to face him. “They changed my car, Lando. They changed my car without consulting me, and now it’s dragging down the straights like a brick with wings. And everyone’s acting like it’s going to be okay because they modelled it that way.”

His expression softened. “You told them that diffuser adjustment was a mistake.”

“I told them ten times.”

“You also told me you’d be polite and calm in front of the media,” he teased gently.

“I lied.”

He stepped closer, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “We’ll fix it.”

“No,” she said, throat tight. “We’ll mitigate it. We’ll bandage the decision they made without me. But it’ll still be wrong, Lando.”

Lando didn’t argue. He knew her well enough not to.

Instead, he stood beside her quietly, both of them staring out at the line of cars rumbling through pit lane in the rising heat.

After a long moment, Amelia let out a breath. “I hate when I’m right.”

“I don’t,” Lando said. “That’s why I married you. It’s helpful to always have the smartest one in the room on my side.”

She didn’t smile, not quite, but the fury softened at the edges, just enough.

—

The room was too bright. Too cold. The kind of sterile that made every emotion feel like a liability.

Amelia stood at the end of the table, spine ramrod straight, her hands braced on the glass surface like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor. Zak sat near the head, arms folded tightly across his chest. Andrea was beside him, flipping aimlessly through the printed test data, though his eyes never left her.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. She didn’t sit.

“This isn’t working out.”

Zak blinked. “Amelia—”

“No. Don’t try to explain it to me.” Her voice was even, but it cracked with a sharpness that made Andrea stiffen. “I’ve been quiet about the changes. I’ve followed the chain of command. I’ve backed off. I’ve trusted the process. But I’m telling you now: the car is wrong.”

Andrea opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“I don’t care what the wind tunnel says,” she continued, tone clipped and fast, like she had too much to say and not enough runway. “I don’t care how many simulations you run with this configuration — the car is fundamentally slower through mid-to-high speed corners and we are losing straight-line efficiency. I flagged this four months ago when the adaptions were suggestion, and I was ignored.”

Zak exhaled slowly. “We made collective decisions, Amelia. You were—”

“No,” she said, and it wasn’t loud, but it hit. “Decisions were made, yes. But I wasn’t listened to. There’s a difference.”

Andrea’s voice was quiet but firm. “The engineering team felt—”

“The engineering team,” she cut in, “is brilliant. I have never questioned their intelligence. But they are second-guessing me — consistently — because I’m who I am. And don’t you dare try to tell me that’s not part of it.”

Zak’s expression tightened, and for a second, he looked like her father again — not the CEO, not the face of McLaren, just a man caught between protectiveness and policy. But he said nothing.

Amelia leaned forward, tone even sharper now. “You gave me my title. Chief Technical Director. You paraded me in front of press as the future of McLaren. But when it mattered, when it came down to actual performance philosophy, you let them override me. You didn’t back me.”

There was a long, taut silence.

Her hands curled into fists against the glass.

“I am telling you now,” she said clearly, eyes burning but voice terrifyingly calm, “You have until Miami to revert the floor spec, the rear suspension setup, and the aero surfaces back to my configuration. You have until Miami to stop pretending that compromising on half a dozen micro-decisions makes a faster car. It doesn’t. And I won’t let my work, my life’s work, be slowly watered down until it’s just another near-miss.”

Andrea looked at her, slow and wary. “You’re saying you’ll quit.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m saying I’ll walk.”

Zak looked like she’d punched him. “Honey—”

“No,” she said. “I’m not bluffing. I’ve given everything to this car. I built the MCL38-AN from the ground up. It is mine. And I’m watching it get torn apart by people who didn’t have the vision and don’t have the stakes I do.”

Her voice caught, just for a second; not from tears, but from fury held too long in her chest.

“I am not normal. I’m autistic,” she said bluntly, like she was listing part numbers. “I have spent my life learning how to make people take me seriously. I have sat in rooms where grown men laughed at me. I have had to make everything perfect just to be considered competent. So when I say that the car is broken, that your changes are wrong, it is not emotion. It is not ego. It is fact.”

She let that hang in the air.

Zak looked stunned. Andrea finally glanced down at the table.

Amelia straightened, pulling her hands from the glass. “Miami. That’s your deadline. Fix it, or I walk. And don’t think for a second that I won’t be taking both of my drivers with me.”

She turned before they could answer, too wired to hear excuses, too angry to be placated.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And somewhere down the hall, someone exhaled like they’d been holding their breath the entire time.

—

SkySportsF1 — An Interview with Amelia Norris

Naomi Schiff smiled at the camera as the red light blinked on. “Welcome back to Sky Sports F1. I’m joined now by McLaren’s Chief Technical Director, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, and — of course — Lando Norris’ better half, Amelia Norris.”

Amelia, seated beside her in her team polo and her aviators hooked neatly into her collar, gave a small nod. “That’s a long title.”

Naomi laughed. “It’s earned. You’ve got more job descriptions than most team principals.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Efficient, not overcommitted.”

Naomi grinned. “Noted. Let’s start with something beyond car development — I know, shocking. F1 Academy is heading into its second year. More races on the main calendar. More visibility. How does it feel to see that kind of progress?”

Amelia’s expression shifted. Still composed, but with the slightest hint of warmth. “It feels... structural. Like we’re finally reinforcing the foundation instead of just repainting the surface.”

Naomi raised a brow, impressed. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“I don’t do metaphors often,” Amelia said dryly. “But that one felt accurate.”

Naomi leaned in slightly, tone softening. “You’ve spoken before, pretty openly, about how difficult it was to be taken seriously in motorsport. As a woman. As someone neurodivergent. What does this shift toward real support for women in the sport mean to you, personally?”

Amelia paused, more out of precision than hesitation. “It means I don’t have to keep hoping someone else fixes it. I can actually contribute. Visibility isn’t enough. It has to come with access. Tools. Pathways. F1 Academy’s starting to offer that.”

Naomi nodded, clearly moved. “And — not to blow up your spot, but — there are rumours that you’ll be working more closely with them in 2025?”

Amelia gave her a dry look. “Did Lando tell you that?”

Naomi smiled innocently. “I have many sources. All of them chatty.”

A breath, then Amelia gave a small, firm nod. “Yes. I’ll be joining the F1 Academy as a consultant next year. I’ll be working with Susie Wolff to develop a clearer technical development route for girls who want to work behind the scenes; not just drivers, but engineers, analysts, strategists. The full picture.”

Naomi’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s overdue,” Amelia said plainly. “You can’t call it a pipeline if it only works for certain people. And I know there are girls watching now who love this sport but don’t dream of being the one in the car. I’m doing this for them. Or someone like me, fifteen years ago.”

Naomi nodded. “And I assume McLaren’s more than happy for this to happen?”

Amelia shrugged. “Can I be honest? I haven’t even asked. It won’t affect my workload, and it certainly won’t affect my ability to do my job.”

Naomi laughed. “So you’re not going to slow down anytime soon?”

Amelia shook her head. “Statistically unlikely.”

Naomi turned slightly to the camera. “Well, there you have it. Amelia Norris — technical director, race engineer, soon-to-be F1 Academy consultant, and managing to make the rest of us look lazy.”

Amelia leaned toward the mic. “If anyone catches me napping in the background of any kind of weekend coverage, keep it quiet.”

Naomi laughed again, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she added, teasing, “One last question, off the record — and this is very important. Have you tried ginger nut biscuits?”

Amelia blinked. “I don’t really like cinnamon.”

Naomi tilted her head. “They’re not made with cinnamon.”

Another blink. Amelia was processing.

Naomi just winked. “Woman to woman.”

There was a beat of silence, then Amelia deadpanned, “That’s a reach.”

But her hand twitched toward her stomach, just slightly, as Naomi stood to wrap the segment.

“Thanks for joining us, Amelia,” Naomi said with a smile. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you — and your napping schedule.”

“Please don’t,” Amelia muttered as she removed her mic.

Off-camera, Naomi gave her a wink again. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Amelia looked at her, unreadable. “That’s just my moisturiser.”

Naomi grinned slyly. “Sure it is.”

—

The desert heat shimmered off the tarmac in visible waves.

Oscar’s McLaren skimmed past the pit wall with that clean, calibrated roar, and Amelia tracked the car’s movement without flinching, her eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

“Box this lap,” she said calmly into the headset.

“Copy, boxing,” came Oscar’s voice, easy and even, like it always was. There was something reassuring about his tone; not casual, but not strained either. Balanced. Controlled.

Andrea leaned over her shoulder, pointing to the small uptick in temps on the left rear. “He’s pushing.”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Yeah. That was the instruction.”

Oscar pulled into the box, the car gliding to a stop just as the garage crew surged into motion — tire blankets off, engineers at the ready. Amelia stood, tugging her headset off and walking to the front of the garage.

Oscar cracked his visor. “That middle sector’s still a bit off.”

“Because you’re braking into 10 a touch early,” she said, handing him a bottle of water. “You’re playing it safe.”

“I like keeping the car in one piece.”

“You’re not going to bin it.”

Oscar arched a brow. “You say that with such confidence.”

“I built the balance map. I know what it can take.”

He took a sip of water and gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been a bit grumpy today.”

Amelia crossed her arms. “Because I feel like I’m being ignored and I don’t like it.”

Oscar smirked. “You sound like Lando.”

“I married Lando,” she muttered.

Oscar exhaled a quiet laugh and climbed out of the car. “Alright. Back in ten?”

“Back in seven,” Amelia corrected, already turning toward the data wall.

As he walked past her, he added, “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“I missed clean telemetry,” she replied without looking up.

But her mouth twitched.

Oscar tugged off his gloves. “I’ll take it.”

She didn’t say anything, but when he sat back down in the debrief chair, she handed him the revised turn-in model she’d finished before lunch — already annotated, already highlighted, already calibrated to his feedback.

He looked down at it, then back at her. “You ate lunch, right?”

“I did,” Amelia said flatly, taking her seat at the pit wall again.

Over comms, the crew confirmed readiness.

Oscar nodded to her. “Let’s go again.”

“Push lap. Use the whole track. Let it breathe in 12.”

“Copy.”

—

The moonlight caught Amelia’s cheekbones when she leaned her head against the headrest, her arms folded tight across her chest.

Oscar was on her left, earbuds in but not playing anything. Lando sat on her right, one leg folded beneath him, picking at the label on a water bottle.

The car was quiet in that post-testing way; all of them wrung out, smelling faintly of heat and rubber, the air-conditioning humming low.

Amelia finally broke the silence.

“I gave them a deadline,” she said.

Lando glanced over. “Who?”

“My dad. Andrea.” She didn’t look up. “I told them they have until Miami to either revert the car back to my spec and implement the rest of the changes — or I walk.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly pulled his earbuds out. “You what?”

“I’m not doing this,” Amelia said, voice cool and measured. “I refuse to accept excuses and be forced to sit back and watch the car become less than what it could be.”

Lando didn’t speak. He just reached over, his hand warm where it closed around her wrist, grounding.

Oscar leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You said that to their faces?”

“In Zak’s office. Door open. With Andrea across the desk. I told them straight — they’ve got until Miami to course-correct, or I’m done.”

Lando’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet.

Amelia kept her eyes fixed out the window. “They know it’s true. They’re letting politics win over performance. And if they don’t fix it, I’m not going to sit there and let them ruin our chance of a championship to preserve some internal power structure. I’m tired of pretending the problem is something else.”

Oscar shifted. “You think they’ll actually listen?”

“I think they’ll think about the gap they’ll have to fill if they lose me mid-development. They’ll run the numbers.”

Lando exhaled through his nose. “You shouldn’t have to threaten to leave just to get them to listen to you.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. Blunt. “But they weren’t going to do it otherwise. I’ve tried calm. I’ve tried patient. I’ve tried proving them wrong. They still my decisions be overridden. So now they get consequences.”

Lando rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll back you. Whatever happens.”

Oscar nodded. “Same.”

Amelia finally looked at them. “You’re both under contract.”

“And you’re the reason we were podium-capable last year,” Lando said. “If they don’t see that, they’re idiots.”

Amelia didn’t smile. But the line of her shoulders softened just a little.

Oscar leaned his head back against the headrest. “Miami’s in, what — two months?”

“Eight weeks,” she said.

“So... no pressure.”

Amelia snorted. “You’re driving the car, ducky. Pressure’s on you.”

That earned a tired chuckle from the Aussie.

Lando leaned into her shoulder gently, head tipping against hers. “Whatever happens, we’ve got your back, okay?”

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to breathe it in. “I know.”

NEXT CHAPTER

569 notes · View notes

pearlymel · 11 months ago

Text

"The Masks We Wear"

Summary: as a journalist, you are itching to find the identity of this mysterious hero. But could it be that the hero is closer to you than you think?

Wc: 7.3k eat up

Warnings: Wriothesley x afab!reader, gn! reader, modern au, hero and villian au (one of each), reader is a journalist/cameraman, fluff, making out, crack (i laughed a lot writing this), angst (oops), one small sex scene, slightly under the influence, cursing, it's pretty unrealistic, petnames used: sunshine, love, and sweetheart.

Notes: i poured my heart and soul into this, i think it's my best piece so far ^^ give it a chance, maybe you'll love it. (Pleasepleasepleaseplease) Rbs are greatly appreciated!

Credits: banner art by the great @/danijaci

Click!

The city is absolutely beautiful today. No, no. It’s not because of the lights that makes the place brighter and a bit more magical, how it seems livelier with a group of teenagers laughing together while buying street foods together, or the old couple that seem still very much in love, the gentleman kneeling down and tying her shoes just to make sure she wouldn’t trip this time.

Humans can be cute, you think.

But of course, among those innocent ‘humans’ are those who desire destruction.

This time, you think you might have caught something in the shadows, and you stare intently at your camera, zooming it in to see the faintest color blending in with the darkness. Hair? A part of clothes? You don’t know, but you got it.

you have this obsession of finding out who the hero of this city was, or even the villian. Although, you would be technically be walking into death if you try finding out who the villian is.

Where did this hero come from? No one knows. Sure the crime rate has lowered, but it felt like the world became even more messed up.

It all started a couple of years ago when you were in your college days, one day almost dying from a falling building, and you thought you saw the scythe waiting to take your soul at that very moment but, no.

The mysterious hero of the city that you never thought you would never encounter carried the building with his super strength power, apparently.

He who has no name, took your hand and lead you into a safer area with the police.

cliché story, right. But that’s what got you into journalism and media now.

And let’s say… you’re too far into the deep black hole to back down now.

The almost blinding light made you come back to your senses, the sounds of engine roaring in the air as the bike approached you, and your shoulders were already slumped.

“How did you find me?” You raise your voice due to the loud engine running, covering parts of your vision from the light.

“Lucky guess.” Wriothesley replied gruffly, pulling his helmet off and shaking his head slightly to fix up his messy strands.

“Care to explain what on earth are you doing here in this shady alleyway? At nine thirty where the moon is out and wolves could be coming for you?” He starts scolding you, quirking an eyebrow when you give him the bored expression, and he immediately mimics it back.

“Taking pictures.”

“Of the rats?”

“Wriothesley.” You shoot him a look and he raises his hands in the air. “I understand your… obsession. But it could hurt you in the process, mentally and physically.”

You know he’s saying all this because he cares so much about you. Loves you too much that it would break his soul piece by piece if one day what you’re doing will hurt you.

“Hop in, sweetheart.” He hands you the extra helmet, and you take it with a sigh. Securing it around your head before taking your place behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist as he revved the engine.

The whole ride back was silent, yet traffic, which entirely ruined the whole mood. With the constant car horns ringing in your ear.

You tap at his thigh to grab his attention, “Why’s it traffic?” You grumble, rising yourself from the seat to look at the row of cars trying to get through.

“Not any holidays or events i can think of,” he responds back to you.

Red mixed with orange fills your vision, suddenly the car at the very front explodes. The car parts flying in the air and landing at the other vehicles which makes you frozen in shock.

Wriothesley’s clenches his hands tightly as he turns the bike around, speeding his way far away from the scene. “Hold onto me tight, and don’t look back, you hear?” He yells enough to grab your attention, and your arms tightens around him, but you have your head turned around to see the people yelling and dashing out of the vehicles. You want to capture the moment with your phone so you could submit it in for the news, but you know more than to ignore Wriothesley right now.

It’s not rare to see destruction happen in your city, it’s just… terrifying every time anybody witnesses it.

Maybe it wasn’t an accident, maybe it was planned.

“You’re not allowed to go out after seven.” Wriothesley makes it clear to you with his firm tone as you both step inside your shared apartment, locking the apartment with a click. He then tosses his keys into a bowl on a small table, before turning to look at you.

“Are you seriously setting a curfew for me? Please. what happened was not new—”

Your face is now being cradled by his rough hands, but the way he swipes a thumb under your eyebags really makes you melt. And you forget what you were going to say when his lips curl the slightest.

“I don't want anything happening to you. Ever.” He takes you in his arms, holding you like you were the most precious thing he ever held. “I didn't mean to pressure you like that. I'd hate it if you were in the position of those injured people.”

You pat his back to reassure him that hopefully nothing like that will happen. “And, if, hypothetically, something like that happened; What would y—”

“I'll kill everyone.” he doesn't even let you continue before he answers, though the chuckle against your hair followed after makes your tense shoulders relax.

“maybe not to that extent,” he lifts your head up to lean in and press a tender kiss on your forehead.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“what is it?”

“… something or someone.”

Your boss gives you a nonchalant sharp look when you eagerly showed him the bits you managed to capture last night before you were interrupted by your great boyfriend.

His eyes squints at the more of a blurred photo that sits on the display of your camera, taking the glasses that hanged from his collar.

The sigh afterwards makes you feel discouraged when he hands you back your camera.

“i see it.” He starts and you perk up immediately.

“it looks like a blurred image of a fucking bird taking a shit on the electrical cords.” You press your lips into a thin line at his description. Too detailed of a description,

what a bastard.

It.. certainly didn't look like that.

You clear your throat, pinching the bridge of your nose to compose yourself.

“You're lucky i like your determination or you would've been fired,” he utters out in a lax tone, resting his glasses on his big bald head that you want to spill with ketchup.

“Keep looking, i need the hero's face, details, anything. Just think of the money you and i could both earn.” He seems too enthusiastic about it, showing you determination with his fists pressing together and his wide ear to ear smile.

You leave work early that day, starting your daily walk of looking around for at least two hours or—one hour?

No, Wriothesley would be too worried if you came back after… nine. Your words not his.

You need to rearrange a schedule in your head.

Step one: somehow convince your boss that you need to leave early everyday.

Step two: search every nook and cranny of the city, ask every shady person if they get to talk to the hero in person or got a glimpse of his name.

Step three: go to the dark web— is that car flying infront of you right now?!

Shit. Just why does everything have to go down wherever path you go?

The people around you panics, and you equally panic with them because you're no fucking hero to tell them to get away from that flying car.

You take your camera out hurriedly from its case that slung around your shoulder, pressing record while frantically looking around. The ground shakes, it shakes so much that it feels like an earthquake almost.

“it's him! The villian!” Someone shouts from the distance, and just like that the screams that follows are in sync.

You know why the ground shook, the street has become a battlefield for the hero and villain fighting together with all their strengths, the air is filled with tension as they both clash in an epic confrontation. The ground trembles beneath your feet again as they traded blows, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. The once tranquil street has now been transformed into a chaotic arena of power and destruction. As the battle rages on. The hero and villain continue their fight, each strike more powerful than the last, their movements a blur of speed and precision.

You try capturing anything with your camera, but your hand shakes that it was impossible. When the villian lands a powerful punch on the hero’s shoulder, sending him way back, it makes you think it's time to leave.

You run with the rest without stubbornness this time. You should've listened to Wriothesley, why did you always have to be so curious about everything?

This curiousity will kill you next after the cat.

“Taxi!” You shout, waving your hand at the yellow vehicle, but every taxi seems to ignore the people's pleas, determined to save themselves instead.

Guess it's time to burn calories and run back home.

You were a panting mess once you reached back to your comfort space, eyes zeroing at the running television in the living room. Watching the newscaster talk about today's battle and how it affected the shops and buildings.

It seems like the battle lasted twenty minutes before the villian gave up and fled away.

Your head snaps to the bathroom once you hear the sink water drip, you didn't even think if he would be here this early.

“Wriothesley,” you say breathlessly when you swing the door open, arms squeezing his side as you take a deep breath in.

“woah, easy there. What happened?” He takes you in, hand rubbing at your arm.

“i was…” nevermind. Maybe you shouldn't tell him what you have witnessed, he'll know once he checks the news.

You only realise that he was chest bared at the moment, and you furrow your eyebrows once you see a bruise on his shoulder.

“What happened?” It was your turn to ask, talking a gentle finger and running it over the bruise, earning a hiss from him.

“was changing the car oil at the repair shop.” He mumbles, gaze turning to the mirror, “then accidentally hit my shoulder once i got up.” he turns his arm, swinging it slowly.

“but you don't work at a car repair shop?”

“it's a side hustle, sunshine.”

“why didn't you tell me?” You press on, and he hangs his head low, both of his hands gripping the sink bowl.

Okay, maybe you have annoyed him a little too much now. Upon sensing your incoming apology, Wriothesley smiles at you.

“don't worry your pretty little head too much. The bruise will fade.”

“i can massage you later?” You offer, and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “You're the best.” He gives you a chaste kiss on your lips on his way out, which makes you feel a little fuzzy.

The evening gave way to the night sky, and you found yourself lying on the bed, replaying the video captured on your camera. The footage was far from perfect, shaky and lacking in clarity, but it still managed to capture fragments of the intense confrontation between the hero and the villain. You couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement as you watched the brief glimpses of the clash that had taken place earlier.

How the villian managed to blow a punch on the hero’s shoulder, sending him way back. Must've hurted.

It's almost like the same spot Wriothesley got his bruise on.

…

Wait, the same spot? You sit up on the mattress, replaying the video on repeat of their fight.

The hero was about the same height as him, the same physique, same cake—

You shake your head, focus. Wriothesley can't be the hero, no that's impossible. He was a busy man, doing… side jobs and whatnot.

Sure he was kind, always helping everyone, even walking the neighbors dog because they got sick one day.

But then again… you never saw Wriothesley and the hero at the same time,

Or was it merely a coincidence, a random alignment of physical features?

“Sunshine?” You gasp when you snap your head up to find Wriothesley leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“y-yes?” You set the camera aside on top of the drawer. He moves closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixated on you then glancing at he camera.

“dinner's ready.”

You nod, silence fills the room after. You know he's waiting for you tell him more, on why you were so shocked.

“was looking at the hero's pictures.”

“not mine? I'm wounded.”

You roll your eyes, a slow smile creeping up your face, and he loves it. He takes it as an invitation to lean closer, suddenly pinning you down on the bed to capture your lips with his.

It's slow, and gentle. It makes you hum softly, taking his face in your hands to kiss him back, moving your lips together until you were gasping for air.

You forget you were even suspicious of him a second ago.

Your fingers lightly trace his jawline and you feel the pricks of his growing facial hair. A small smile plays on your lips as you inform him in a soft tone, "You need to shave." Wriothesley chuckles softly, the sound warm and low. He reaches up to your hand, gently taking hold of it and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss on your palm. "Is that why you stopped kissing me?" He says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No! I find you more.. attractive. Plus it.. yeah, it feels like little needles on my face.” you admit quietly.

Wriothesley presses his face into your neck, his lips tracing soft kisses along your skin. His hands begin roving your body, each touch sending a gentle shiver across your flesh. He whispers quietly next to your ear, his voice low and smooth as he responds, "I'll shave after dinner." The sensations of his lips against your neck and his hands exploring your body mix together, creating a heady combination that heightens your senses and ignites a slow fire within you.

“I'll.. help.” You whisper, bringing both of your arms to wrap them around his back. “What a sweetheart.” he uttered out, voice muffled from trying to mold into your skin.

Your mind stops working for a second when he presses his knee gently between your legs to pull them apart, “Wriothesley, what about dinner?” You frantically ask him, tugging his hair up so both of your gazes could meet. And the almost drunken expression he has on makes you let out a shaky breath.

“later,” he drawls, his fingers tracing lazily along your sides.

Hero? Pftt, what hero? This is just your wriothesley, it's quite impossible for him to be the hero.

You snap out of your daydream when your colleague hands you a cup of coffee, he raises an eyebrow at you and you smile back awkwardly.

A sip of the coffee to get a bit of energy, but only just a bit, since too much caffeine makes you nervous.

“You filmed the crazy battle yesterday?” Your colleague sneaks from behind you, watching the video replay again on your camera.

“they do movies about them now, insane huh?”

“well atleast the hero knows he's popular.” You reply bluntly, taking anothsr sip from your hot beverage.

“flash news, someone heard that his name starts with the letter ‘W’ or som—”

You spit out your coffee all over your white attire. You both exchange surprised looks, but you quickly wipe your mouth using the back of your hand.

“where exactly did you hear that?” You get straight to the point, gesturing them to sit next to you.

“from my father's friend’s cousin sister.”

His reply makes your eyes twitch, from who and who?

“Okay…” you whisper, turning around and thinking of the utter nonsense they spouted.

“you don't believe me.” he sighed, “I've been telling this to everyone in the building but no one is believing me! Just tryna’ do my job here.”

Let's say maybe you believe him. But the dots are connecting too fast that you want to refuse from believing it.

Was your target closer to you than you had expected?

“I'm clocking out, can you cover for me today?” You inform your colleague, and he crosses his arms while eyeing you up and down.

Your roll your eyes, “I'll be the cameraman for next week. So you could get three days off.” You force a smile and they smile back enthusiastically.

Wriothesley is definitely home. Earlier than the usual time he'd be back.

Oh, he's asleep on the couch. Leaning back tiredly with an almost stern expression on, but his body seems relaxed.

Now is the time to do anything. Investigate? Go through his things without his permission? That sounded all awful… surely he's not hiding any—

“go search his things.” You furrow your eyebrows when the devil on your left shoulder speaks, it makes you rub your face in annoyance.

Then a sudden white little angel poofs on your right shoulder with a disappointed face, “no, don't do it. He's a little scary when he gets mad. But he'd never betray you!” you feel reassured at it's words and you nod in agreement.

“don't listen to it. He could hurt you if you keep it a secret.” The red devil whispers again and it makes you shiver a bit.

“he would never hurt you.” The angel frowns.

“yes he would, he's a man.”

“a good man.”

“yeah? You're no better than me, you just want that—”

“okay shut up both of you. Shoo.” You brush both of your shoulders off before taking a deep breath to brace yourself.

You'll just search his.. clothes.

You feel guilty once you pocket his jackets and pants in his side of the wardrobe, checking every hidden pocket thoroughly while glancing at the door once in a while to make sure he doesn't wake up.

As your fingers brush against his jacket, you notice an unusual sensation – a cool, metal feeling hidden underneath the fabric. Your eyes widen in surprise as you recognize it to be the form of a gun's handle. A mixture of curiosity and concern floods through you, freezing you in place.

It really is a gun. You study it carefully, turning it around and feeling it's heaviness in your palm.

But you feel your heart run out of your ribcage when two pairs of arms wrap tightly around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

Shit.

“hi,” he whispers next to your ear, but you're too nervous to even look back at him.

“nice thing you got there.” He muses, and you feel like you're losing oxygen once he tightens his grip around you even more.

“… i just found it.” You mutter, mostly to yourself. Your head hanging too low to avoid his eyes.

“Could've just asked me, no?” He clicks his tongue, almost in disappointment.

“i have it on me because—”

“because you use it for the good, right? Because you're the hero?” Your voice is shaky when you ask, the gun in your hand shaking with you, and you're afraid to drop it.

“hero?” Wriothesley repeats, shaking you gently awake and you gasp harshly, taking in big breaths, your boyfriend immediately trying to soothe you.

it was a dream.

“you were mumbling something about a hero in your sleep. Are you okay?” He asks in concern, brushing a strand off your face. You were sweating too much for your liking.

“when did i get here?” You look around, taking your palms to rub the sleepiness off. “Right when you got off work. You slept on the bed without changing your clothes.”

Oh… so you never checked his clothes. Deciding to just sleep instead.

Your head turns back to the wardrobe, staring at it intently. Could the jacket be in the same arrangement as you found it in your dream? Or will the gun also be there?

“you're going to poke a hole through it if you keep staring.” He stifles a laugh, and you couldn't help but try to smile as well. “Drink up. Slow sips.” He offers you a glass of water, and you hold the glass firmly in your hand.

“so… what was your dream about? Even this hero appears in your dreams? Can't say I'm not jealous.”

“You'll have grey hairs too early from overthinking.” You tease, sitting upright in bed, “oh no, you already do, old man.” you frown, tracing the grey strands along with his black hair. He watches in amusement.

Wriothesley lets out a deep sigh, “give your old man a break. They're a badge of wisdom and experience,” he rests his head on your lap, nuzzling close as you massage his scalp.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Breaking news: the ‘’lola” flower shop sets on fire just three hours ago. Our dear hero saves the day yet again, protecting the old lady just in time before her shop explodes. The cause of the fire is still unknown…”

Destruction out of nowhere again. Accidents out of nowhere again.

The voice of the newscaster on the television fades away in this little diner you're in. You drive your attention away from it, instead focusing now on the Polaroid pictures laid out infront of you.

The hero always wore a mask to cover his identity, obviously. But even after watching the countless of interviews he had, the deep tone slightly matches Wriothesley’s voice, or maybe he's changing his tone on purpose. You can see it by zooming in on the video, how he's catching his breath everytime he speaks when he's just sitting down.

Asthma? Nah.

You tap your fingers impatiently on the table, this is not helping at all, and the slightest itch in your brain worsens as the time goes by.

You think about giving up on this, but the possibility of finding the answer on how or why did all of this happen is probably closer to you than you think.

“Bad guys never end with their schemes. Bunch of attention seekers.” The hero speaks on the television, and you hum curiously as the hero salutes the camera playfully before disappearing from the crowd.

Is it possible that there are multiple heros? Working all together in some basement and taking turns to go out and do a better job than the police?

Possibly, and you write down your new theories down on your little notepad.

You check your phone next, Wriothesley still hasn't answered you back from your most recent text to him.

It's nothing to worry about, but the thought that he's busy saving the city is gnawing at you.

Batman?

You shake your head again, gathering your things to stand up from your seat. You should be blunt asking him about it tonight.

It's cold. Colder than usual. Was the air conditioning on? No. But the windows are sure wide open. You look around the living room before closing the windows and curtains from the outside world, as you draw the curtains, the outside world becomes obscured, leaving the room in a soft semi-darkness.

“Wriothesley, honey?” You call out softly, peeking through the bathroom, not there. The bedroom? Nope.

That leaves the kitchen, you slowly peek your head in he kitchen, and sure enough, he was there.

Wriothesley was rubbing his face in exhaustion while mumbling words under his breath that you can't quite hear. Having one singular glass of some drink in his hand.

“hero this.. hero that..” you finally listen to his mumbles, which makes you furrow your eyebrows together.

"Wrio...?" You call out softly, flipping the switch to turn on the light. His sharp eyes immediately dart up to look at you, and you can't help but shiver under his intense stare. You let out a small gasp of surprise as he suddenly stands up, the glass in his hand slipping from his grip and shattering on the ground along with its contents.

Taken aback by his sudden movement, you instinctively take a step back as he approaches you. But before you can even register what's happening, he crashes his lips against yours in a hasty, rushed kiss. Caught off guard, you cling tightly to him, desperately seeking support to prevent yourself from toppling over.

“You love me,” Wriothesley's voice breaks through the heated kiss, his words coming out in a low, guttural groan. He grips the back of your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall and wrapping your legs around his waist. “right?” His voice holds a hint of vulnerability and desperation, as if seeking reassurance and affirmation of your feelings for him.

And when you don't answer him right away, he takes your lower lip between his teeth, nipping at it gently, “answer me.” He almost growls.

“love, what are you taking about? Are you drunk?” You ask breathlessly in concern, your lips feeling swollen.

His jaw clenches, “Why can't you say it?” he inhales your perfume, your scent filling him that it makes him groan, his mouth lavishing your neck and collarbone, leaving kisses and littering marks then soothing the area with his tongue that it makes your pant softly, pressing your face into his hair while your fingers weaving through his black-greyish strands.

“i love you,” you utter quietly, and it suddenly makes him start grinding his hardened length against you. “I'm sorry in advance, sweetheart.”

One minute you're confused about his words, and then the next he's pounding so hard into you like there was no tomorrow.

Strings of “don't leave me,” and “i love you’s,” are echoed in the air. Wriothesley's mouth moves against yours with a sense of urgency and haste, his tongue gliding and tangling with yours in a fervent dance. The bed creaks so loud underneath you that you think it might break anytime, the embarrassment of the headboard banging against the wall immediately gone once he hits your sweet spot rapidly.

Poor neighbors

"Wrio... Wriothesley?” you slowly flutter your eyes open, still in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness. The sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, and you blink a few times as you take in your surroundings. A quiet sense of contentment washes over you as you remember the events of the night before, the memories of Wriothesley's body against yours and his lips on yours still fresh in your mind.

You prop yourself up using your elbows, only to look down at the sight of your sleeping lover with his head pressed up on your chest. You collapse back on the bed with a tired sigh.

You still couldn't understand the reasoning behind his.. desperate actions last night. He seemed so pent up and stressed, you'll forgive him this time.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• It's the day where you're covering for your colleague, being the cameraman for tonight's news. Yes, tonight.

Wriothesley would kill you if he knew you were working so late at night, but only because he cares about your safety. Good thing he's out of the city for a day.

Or he claims to be out of the city for some important work.

You press the button on your video camera, adjusting the lens to focus on the newscaster standing in front of the camera, holding the microphone with a serious expression. The news van is parked in front of a desolate, run-down neighborhood known for its high crime rate and dangerous reputation. The newscaster speaks into the camera, her eyes boring into the lens as she reports on the neighborhood.

“We are now standing in the heart of one of the most dangerous areas in the city. This neighborhood is notorious for its high crime rate and volatile atmosphere.”

Your senses are heightened at this rate and you really try to focus but the moment you hear the faint crunch of leaves, you lose composure just a bit.

Okay you're a bit scared, but as long as your workmates are he—

a group of armed gang members suddenly appear from the alleyways between the buildings, surrounding the news van and the camera crew. The newscaster, taken off guard, gasps and steps back.

The gang members brandish their weapons, circling the news crew menacingly. One of them shouts at the newscaster, waving his gun in the air. “Hold it right there, pretty lady. This is our turf! You ain’t gonna be broadcasting nothing about us!”

You're about to shit your pants for real this time.

“Drop your cameras and get outta here, or things are gonna get real ugly real fast,” he growls, and one of them points the gun right on your camera.

“I'm talkin’ to you too.”

Yeah, you're not going to fight anyone and act all big. You simply drop the camera on the ground to raise your hands in the air.

As the gang members close in on the news crew, the atmosphere is suddenly shattered by the sound of footsteps pounding against the pavement. Everyone turns to see a tall, muscular figure approaching from the distance.

It's the hero.

You watch in awe as the hero strides towards the group of armed gang members, his movements fluid and precise. With a swift swing of his fist, he lands a powerful punch on the leader's face, sending him stumbling backwards. The other gang members are taken aback by his sudden appearance and the display of force, their eyes widening in surprise and fear. They exchange nervous looks, realizing they're facing a much stronger opponent than they anticipated.

“Hey, let's go!” Your workmate calls for your name. Her hand waving at you so you could all retreat back to the van.

And before you could follow, the van explodes.

The sudden explosion catches you off guard, jolting you out of your stupor. Shouting in surprise, you recoil from the loud blast, ducking instinctively as debris and fragments fly through the air. Your colleague, sitting next to you in the van, lets out a terrified yell as the force of the explosion propels the driver backward. The van shudders and lurches from the impact, the windows shattering and various objects sent flying.

“in the building! Let's go!” All three of you dash to protect yourselves inside this tall company building.

“I will call the police,”

“but the hero is here!” the driver of the van speaks, almost yelling in frustration.

“the hero is also a human. Just a strong one. We can't rely on him—” but before you could continue, you all cover your ears once you hear gunshots come from outside.

Ohmygosh. It’s—it could possibly be Wriothesley who's getting hurt right now. What are even the chances?!

“Fine! Just call the fucking police!” The driver gives up, leaning back against the wall while breathing heavily.

You want to go out there. You want to see. It's your chance to see who the hero is if he got hurt. Just to get the crumbs of news in exchange for your life apparently.

When it grows quiet, you peek outside, “it's clear, I'll take a look—”

“No, you're not.” her hand is firm as she grips your wrist, “just let them go.” He, on the other hand, scowls.

“Be safe!” She shouts at you as you make a run for it, running down the alleyway while looking left and right.

Someone's in the area.

You dart behind the nearby dumpster, heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline courses through your veins. Hiding as best you can, you press yourself against the rough metal, trying to keep your breathing steady and quiet. Peeking out from behind the dumpster, you cautiously scan the surroundings, trying to catch a glimpse of someone nearby. For now, the area seems to be clear, but you can't shake the feeling that someone is in the vicinity, lurking in the shadows.

“Where ya at, lil’ birdie?” You cover your mouth when you hear someone speak, it sends a chill down your spine and you can feel your heart drumming in your ears.

Your sharp eyes turn to your side to find a metal rod, you don't hesitate to grab it before smacking the shit out of the guy.

No that did not happen, but you wish it did.

Instead, the minute you see his feet pass the dumpster, with a swift movement, you grab hold of both of his ankles, using your weight and leverage to pull them out from under him. He lets out a pained shriek as he suddenly loses his balance and topples to the ground, his body hitting the pavement with a thud.

Alright, you can be cool sometimes.

Stepping at his hands to hear him cry again, you run put of the place, making turns and finally spotting the hero sitting down against the building wall while panting, seemingly exhausted.

“…” you take slow steps once you approach him, looking down at him with your eyes already glistening.

This is it, you just have to confirm it.

Your hand pulls at his mask, “Wrio—”

Huh?

This…

Is not

Wriothesley.

“Ah, what the fuck?” He grunts, the blonde grabbing the mask from your hands and you take a step back.

“Elias?!” You yell out in confusion, it's your colleague that you're covering for supposedly today's shoot.

“You're the hero??”

“not a word. Scram, you freak.” he mutters, eyes diverting away from you and staring up at the roof. “The roof,” he whispers to himself, making the effort to stand back at his knees.

Is this bitch serious? He's the last person you expected to be the hero. With his stupidly arrogant and lax attitude.

You give him an almost death stare, studying his features again before making your way out.

You need to check the other people that were with you.

But when you arrive back at the building, they were gone.

Did the police arrive? You don't hear any sirens. Could they have possibly went up on one of the floors to hide?

You find yourself in the elevator next, watching as the doors close with your hands clasped infront of you nervously.

You take deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and steady your nerves. Hey, at least there's nice elevator music.

As the elevator comes to a halt, the doors slide open with a soft ding, revealing the rooftop and the figure standing in the open space.

There's a figure standing at the edge of the building, you can see the person's silhouette clearly now, but you can't make out their features just yet.

Your steps are hesitant as you slowly approach the figure, the wind gently billowing around you. The city lights twinkle below, but your attention is entirely focused on the person standing at the edge of the roof. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever may come, and call out tentatively, "Hello?”

Your voice rings in the air, that the person's shoulders tense.

When they look around, you're met by the same blue eyes you've known for three years now.

“Wriothesley.” You whisper, in shock, breathlessly under your breath.

He's holding.. a gun? The same gun you remember seeing in your dream.

Something in his mind snaps when you turn around, in fear. Like it was a mistake to ever see him in the first place.

Wriothesley doesn’t even give himself time to think before his body suddenly reacts, suddenly reaching out and circling his hand around your wrist to forcibly tug you back.

He yanks hard enough that you lose your balance and fall against him, his other arm coming up to wrap around your shoulders, preventing you from going anywhere.

“W-wrio—”

“think it's time we talk, sunshine.” He speak into your ear.

When you try to move the slightest from his hold, he grips you around him tighter. You figure it's best to stay still for now.

“what? Are you going to kidnap me now?” You manage to chuckle out, nervously though, your voice coming out more shaky than you intended to.

“Is that going to satisfy your little fantasy? What, I should play into it and shove you into a corner, keep you under my thumb until you’re begging me to set you free? Or no… you want to be saved by the hero.”

"You know you're not helping with your case, right? You really sound like the bad guy now.”

You’ve definitely found his breaking point because that comment makes him snap.

Wriothesley suddenly whirls you around so you’re facing him before he’s pinning you against the nearest wall, his body practically covering your own.

“Well…” He whisper, raising an eyebrow calmly in the way you look being at his mercy. “Aren’t I?”

Your jaw practically hangs at his words. Is he... Playing the bad guy now?

Or was he really… not the opposite of the hero?

He sees the shiver you try so hard to suppress and smirks at that, clearly satisfied with your reaction, “What’s wrong, sunshine? Finally realize that the man you’ve been dating isn’t the hero you've obsessing over?” He chuckles.

“i… i knew it—”

“You didn’t,” he says, his tone suddenly becoming cool and firm.

Wriothesley leans forward, pressing into you so that you’re smashed between him and the wall. His hand suddenly comes up, cupping your jaw so that he tilts your chin up to look directly into his eyes.

“If you’d known, you’d never have come within twenty feet of me. You’d never have been alone with me or spent a single night in our bed.”

He's right. And you hate it. You feel betrayed, lied to, even.

It makes you rethink your life choices.

You've gotten too comfortable with him that you didn't even think about him being the villian. You've gotten too close while you were being a complete idiot.

“you hid it.”

Wriothesley laughs, the sound almost sounding cold, “of course I hid it, sunshine. I wasn’t going to just come strutting in wearing a big, red sign saying ‘look at me, I’m a bad guy!’ was I?”

You clench your fists together, “you tricked me.”

“Tricked? No.” He shakes his head slightly. “I simply… left out key details.”

“Why?”

“ah, there it is.” He steps back, giving you space to breath, to recollect your thoughts.

“why? Because the hero isn't a hero. He started all of this destruction. Why? To get fame, recognition, power, and to be seen, to look like he's doing something when he's not.” He lets out all in one breath, and you lips part again.

“four years ago when the building almost fell on you? He did that, on purpose. then saved you to make it look like he's the one that everyone needs.”

What the hell?

“Wriothesley, we were strangers to each other four years ago. How did you know?” You don't hesitate to step closer to get more answers out of him, but he only stares at you.

You swallow thickly when he draws infront of you once again, “i did this all for you, love. I-i will do everything in my power to stop him, i will kill him so you wouldn't get hurt—”

“Okay, fucker. Out of my way,” Elias, the ’hero’, suddenly barks, and without warning, a gunshot rings out. The bullet pierces through Wriothesley's shoulder, causing him to flinch and stagger backwards.

Your eyes widen in horror as you watch the scene unfold. "Wriothesley!" you cry out, watching as he turns around despite the injury and charges towards Elias.

Despite the pain he must be in, Wriothesley doesn't relent. Ignoring the gunshot wound, he barrels towards Elias with unmatched determination, closing the distance between them.

"Bastard," Wriothesley manages to grit out as he collides with Elias, knocking him off his feet and sending them both crashing to the ground.

You don't hesitate to rush forward, with adrenaline fueling your actions, you move quickly towards them as they roll dangerously close to the edge of the roof.

"Stop!" you shout, your voice filled with desperation. "You'll fall!”

And surely enough, Your two hand clamps down on Wriothesley's, desperately grasping onto anything you can to prevent him from plunging off the edge.

Meanwhile, Elias grips Wriothesley's leg, using his strength to anchor him in place. The three of you hang there, suspended over the city, Wriothesley's body along with Elias’s dangling in the air.

“Sweetheart—”

“shut the fuck up I'm not letting go.” They're both too heavy, the feel of his fingers slipping away from yours increases everytime you try to pull them up.

Elias is purposely pulling Wriothesley's leg down to drop them both, your lips quiver, crying when two of his fingers slip now.

“hey,” his voice is soothing when he calls for you.

“at least… i protected you till the very end, right?” He tries smiling but it only makes the lump in your throat grow.

“i love you.”

“Wriothesley!”

…

“Wriothesley—!” You gasp harshly when you open your eyes so wide, finding that your hand was already reaching out for nothing.

You rest your hand on your chest before leaning back on your seat.

“are you okay?” The newscaster, the friend you made, offers you her handkerchief so you could swipe the sweat off your face.

“i think… continuesly searching about this, is making you stressed.” She points out, looking at the papers and drawings splayed out on your desk.

More theories of the disappearances of the hero and villian. Not their death. Their bodies were never found.

“it's been a year.”

The realization is like a punch to the gut as you bring a sweaty palm to rub at your temples.

“This is not over.” You whisper, more to yourself than to her. “We got no more trouble. No more heroic or bad guy news. The world is back to normal, almost like they never existed huh?”

Never existed.

She then suddenly gasps, which catches you off gaurd, “are engaged??” She eyes at the gem resting on your left ring finger.

The ring you found in one of his jacket pockets when you sorted his things out.

“yeah…” you decide to drawl out before sitting upright on your seat.

“now, if you'll excuse me, i got work to do.”

You're never going to stop searching, to find another answer of the question; 'why?'

Even if it will mean risking your life this time.

#Wriothesley #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin fluff #genshin angst #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley fluff #wriothesley angst #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #fanfic #wriothesley #genshin wriothesley #wriothesley genshin

1K notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

saw this prompt and i just had to do it w/ my cutie<3

you're not proud of your methods.

but desperate times call for desperate measures.

you don’t know when it started—this unbearably asinine crush on your insufferable upperclassman named gojo satoru. maybe it was the way he always singled you out during training, his teasing laced with something more than just playful annoyance. maybe it was how he always acted like he was untouchable, smug and insufferable, yet every time you made the smallest victory against him, he grinned like he actually enjoyed losing to you.

or maybe it was just that damn pretty face of his.

either way, you’ve had enough. he gets to fluster you all the time, making offhanded comments about how adorable your frustrated expression is, how cute you are when you’re pouting, always managing to pull a reaction out of you. but today? today, the tables are turning.

which is why you’re here, in a ramen shop infamous for its impossibly spicy bowls, sitting across from satoru with the most innocent smile you can muster.

“you sure you can handle this, shortie?” he drawls, tilting his head as he examines the bowl in front of him. the neon lights reflect off his ever-present shades, concealing the bright blue eyes that always seem to catch on your every expression.

you scoff, grabbing your chopsticks. “oh, please. i could eat five of these.”

technically a lie. but he doesn’t need to know that.

he hums, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers, the lenses of his glasses glinting with amusement. “if you say so~”

you both take the first bite at the same time.

the spice immediately slams into you like a jujutsu technique straight to the gut. your throat burns, your tongue is on fire, and for a horrifying second, you think you might actually start crying.

but then you glance at satoru.

he’s frozen, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, lips slightly parted in what you can only assume is pure betrayal. behind his glasses, his pupils dilate—those pretty, glacial blues dilated with sheer, unfiltered suffering.

a single tear slips down his cheek.

victory has never tasted so sweet. (and also so painfully, unbearably hot.)

his face is turning red—no, scarlet—from the heat, and you can tell he’s fighting for his life to maintain his usual nonchalant façade. his jaw clenches, his hand trembles just slightly as he sets his chopsticks down. he swallows, and you watch his adam’s apple bob, a deep breath hissing through his teeth.

“this is fine.” he croaks.

you almost laugh out loud. instead, you force another bite into your mouth, trying desperately not to let your own suffering show.

“told you.” you manage to say, though it comes out weaker than intended.

satoru, not to be outdone, takes another bite. and then another.

but then he hiccups.

you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh. he shoots you a glare, though it lacks any real heat (unlike the ramen, which is currently setting both of you ablaze).

“s’not that bad.” he mumbles, voice thick with bravado and regret.

another hiccup.

you press your lips together, cheeks burning—not just from the spice, but from how stupidly, unfairly cute he looks right now. his usually pale complexion is completely flushed, snowy lashes damp from the sheer force of his struggle. his bottom lip is slightly swollen from where he bit down too hard, and behind the tinted lenses, you swear you can see the faintest glimmer of unshed tears.

and then, as if sensing your internal crisis, he grins.

even now, especially now, he still finds a way to tease you.

“aw, what’s wrong? don’t tell me you’re blushing,” he drawls, voice still slightly raspy from the spice.

you shove another mouthful of noodles into your mouth just to avoid answering. bad decision. horrible decision.

your face practically erupts in heat. your eyes water. you choke.

and satoru, smug even in his own suffering, leans forward with a lazy smirk. “oh? you okay there?”

you glare at him, reaching for your drink.

he reaches for his at the same time.

only to find that it’s empty.

for a moment, there is only silence. a brief, sacred pause in which satoru realizes his own downfall.

“... i’m stealing yours.”

“absolutely not.”

he tries anyway. you swat his hand away. he groans, forehead resting against the table, his entire body practically radiating defeat. you sit back, arms crossed, savoring the sight—gojo satoru, the untouchable, the smug, the insufferable, reduced to a miserable, red-faced mess because of you.

but then he peeks up at you through damp lashes, lips curling into something soft, something almost fond.

“you planned this, didn’t you?” his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

you blink, suddenly feeling too warm in a way that has nothing to do with the spice.

“what?” you scoff, forcing your gaze anywhere but his face. “as if i’d waste my time on something so—”

“you just wanted to see me blush.”

your entire body locks up.

satoru grins, even as he sniffles, even as another hiccup escapes him. “cute.”

you shove the rest of your drink into his hands and storm out of the shop before he can see just how red your face really is.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk drabbles #satoru gojo fluff #gojo x gn!reader #reader insert #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fanfic #౨ৎ — flash reports

616 notes · View notes

dismalflo · 12 days ago

Note

Hi lovely!

I was wondering if you could do a poly!marauders x male reader? Gn is also fine. Where the reader and boys all move in together? And it’s just them getting used to all living together? Only if it’s okay with you.

Thank you for considering this 💗✨

hi darling, thank you for requesting! i went with gn!reader <3

poly!marauders x reader your first morning living together ✩ 933 words

cw: fluff

There’s a warm weight draped across your waist, and for a moment, you're unsure what’s dragged you from sleep. Exhaustion had claimed you quickly last night, the weight of hauling box after box, reshuffling the fragments of a life into unfamiliar corners. You’d assumed it had worn everyone out just the same.

That assumption falters when you crack your eyes open to the empty space beside you – James’s space – cold and untouched.

You blink against the light filtering through half-drawn curtains, the faintest rustle of movement slipping in from the living room. Muffled voices follow. James’ low, chipper cadence carries easily, punctuated by Remus’ quieter, more deliberate tone. They’re talking, laughing, the occasional scrape of cardboard and the thump of furniture filling the morning air.

You shift slightly beneath the blanket, the sheets rumpled and warm around you. Just as you begin to push yourself upright, an arm tightens around your waist. A low, gravelly groan huffs against the back of your neck.

“Don’t.” Sirius mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You pause, a smile already tugging at your lips as you turn in his hold. His bleary eyes blink up at you through a curtain of dark, sleep-mussed hair. One side of his face is squished into the pillow, the other half haloed in soft morning light. His arm remains tight around your waist, fingers flexing slightly as if to anchor you there.

“I was just going to see what they’re–”

“No,” Sirius interrupts with a groan that borders on a whine.

You laugh quietly, lifting a hand to brush the hair from his face. Your fingertips trace lightly along his cheekbone, down the rough stubble of his jaw. He leans into your touch with a pleased hum, eyes fluttering shut again.

Letting your fingers linger and brush down the slope of his neck you trace the soft curve of his collarbone where his shirt – your shirt, technically – hangs loose. It’s an old tee you’d lost months ago to the black hole that is Sirius’ wardrobe, and now it’s stretched and worn soft from constant wear. On him, it looks absurdly good.

He sighs like he can feel your thoughts drifting toward practicality, and without opening his eyes, he mumbles, “Move, and I swear I’ll start something neither of us have the energy to finish.”

You snort, ducking your face into the crook of his neck to hide the flush of warmth spreading up your cheeks.

“That’s the least effective threat you’ve ever made.”

“Promise, not a threat.” He corrects with a lazy smirk, his mouth twitching into something fond. “You should really learn the difference.”

Before you can respond, the bedroom door creaks open, and a familiar voice cuts in.

“Thought I heard you two whispering in here.”

James is grinning, shirtless, sweat dotting his temples like he’s been up for hours. He’s holding two mismatched mugs. “Brought you coffee. Because I’m perfect.”

Sirius perks up at the sight of him, pulling himself away from your shoulder and grinning wolfishly up at James.

“Perfect is right.” He winks.

James steps fully into the room, the soft scrape of his bare feet against the hardwood barely audible. He holds out one of the mugs, his warm hand extending it toward you. Steam curls lazily upward from the mug, the rich, comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee teasing at your senses.

“For you,” James says, settling beside Sirius with an ease that makes your chest tighten. His shoulder brushes against Sirius’, a quiet confirmation of their shared joy. Sirius leans into the contact, his lips brushing James’ temple in a fleeting kiss.

James chuckles, nudging Sirius with his elbow. “Rem made it, so you’re safe,” he adds with mock solemnity, his voice warm and affectionate.

You take the mug from him with a grateful smile, the bitterness of the coffee waking your senses more than the soft chatter around you. This perfect morning – this perfect moment – is the beginning of something new. The boxes, the exhaustion, the sweat, all of it fades away.

The door creaks again, and Remus steps into the frame, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep but fond.

“Are you planning on getting up today?” he asks, voice playful.

You shake your head, muffling your answer against Sirius’ shoulder. “Not anytime soon.”

Remus grins and, without hesitation, slides onto the bed beside you. The space between the four of you shrinks as he folds into your side, settling easily. His fingers find yours beneath the blanket, lacing together without a second thought.

Sirius stretches out, arm draping over you to pull Remus closer, and James props himself up on his elbow, his gaze sweeping over the three of you like he’s memorising all he can.

“Can we just unpack tomorrow instead?” you ask, half-joking, half-hoping for an answer that allows you to stay here.

Remus chuckles, low and soft, the sound rumbling through his chest. His fingers squeeze yours gently, his thumb stroking over your hand absentmindedly. There’s a tenderness in the way he shifts, a quiet affection that fills the space between you all.

“I don’t think so,” he says, sounding almost disappointed with his answer. “We’ve got work to do.”

Sirius hums in agreement, though his voice is slow and warm. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think he’s right.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you, contradicting his words.

No one shifts an inch and no boxes get unpacked until far later in the day.

masterlist <3

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders x y/n #poly!marauders x self insert #poly!marauders #poly!marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders drabble #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader

240 notes · View notes

therogueflame · 6 months ago

Text

Through Storm and Silence

Hi my darlings,

I have decided to post my new Cregan x Reader fic a day early because I have started to hate it the more I look at it. I did change it since posting the teaser, so my apologies to everyone that is expecting that beginning. This fic is long, sad, and DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!! (Please let me know if this makes you feel things, my prozac stops me from knowing if this is Actually Sad)

Summary: The loss of your first pregnancy has you shattered in unspeakable ways, and Cregan does his best to comfort his Lady Wife.

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

📝 My WIP List 📝

❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

WC: 13.4k

Warnings: Pregnancy loss, depression, fem!reader, isolation, intimate care, just sad fluff (or hurt/comfort if you wanna get technical)

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The fire in your chambers had long since burned out, leaving the hearth cold and lifeless. Its ashes, once bright with promise, were now a bleak monument to what had been lost. The flames that had warmed you, like the fragile spark of life that had stirred within you, were extinguished, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. Shadows sprawled across the stone walls, bending and twisting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the frost-covered window. The light was weak, just enough to sharpen the edges of the cold that seeped into the very bones of Winterfell—and into yours.

The chill wasn’t just in the air; it lived in you now, settling deep in your chest, pressing against the raw, hollow ache that had taken root there. This cold wasn’t the familiar bite of winter—it was sharper, crueler, born from the absence of the life you had carried. The fragile hope that had grown inside you, so small yet so powerful, was gone. Its absence left a void so vast it consumed you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to move from the high-backed chair by the window, where you sat motionless, staring into the dark expanse of night. The frost on the glass distorted the view beyond, transforming the swaying trees into ghostly silhouettes, their barren limbs stark against the sky. They reminded you of how you felt—stripped bare, fragile, and exposed to the harsh winds of grief.

The gown you wore clung to your body, its once-delicate fabric now feeling oppressive. Days ago, it had been chosen with care, a garment meant to hold the quiet anticipation of the life you carried. Now, its weight pressed against you like an accusation, its seams digging into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. It didn’t just hang on you—it felt as though it was marking you, reminding you of the absence that had replaced what you once held so dear.

You hadn’t changed out of it. The thought of doing so felt too heavy, too meaningless. To strip it away would be to acknowledge the finality of what had been lost, and you couldn’t face that yet. The woman who had smoothed its fabric with pride, who had worn it with a small but steady joy, was no longer there. All that remained was the crushing weight of who she had become—a shadow wearing the remnants of something she could no longer be.

Your trembling hands rested in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric as if trying to find something to hold on to. A faint breeze stirred from the window, its icy touch brushing against your skin like a cruel reminder of the emptiness inside you. You shivered, but still you remained frozen, the weight of Winterfell pressing down on you, heavy and unyielding.

The world outside went on, its voices and footsteps distant and indifferent. The quiet of the castle was unbearable, the oppressive stillness broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the faintest sigh of wind. It was as if the walls themselves conspired to remind you of your solitude, of the storm raging within you while the world beyond carried on, oblivious.

Tears slid silently down your cheeks, warm against the icy stillness of your skin. You made no effort to stop them, nor could you if you tried. They came endlessly, flowing in a slow, aching rhythm that mirrored the grief clawing at your chest.

You were alone with the memory of what had been—a fragile, fleeting spark of life that had slipped through your fingers. And now, with nothing but the cold to hold you, it felt as though you might never be whole again.

The rhythmic thud of boots against stone drifted faintly from the courtyard below, a distant murmur of life pressing onward. A horse’s whinny cut through the air, joined by the indistinct hum of voices carried on the wind. The world beyond was alive, indifferent, ceaseless. But none of it touched you. It all seemed unreal—muted fragments of a life you could no longer claim, slipping through your fingers like mist. You stood at the edge of it all, a silent shadow, severed from the world that churned on without you.

Time had abandoned you, or perhaps it had conspired against you, trapping you in this endless moment while everything else moved forward. The castle walls, so full of life, seemed oblivious to your sorrow. Their quiet betrayal, their unshaken permanence, was unbearable.

Inside the room, the silence pressed down on you, thick as the weight in your chest. It should have been a comfort, this room. Once it had been. But now its quiet corners and heavy drapes felt suffocating, its walls tightening around you with every passing hour.

You clenched your fists, the delicate fabric crumpling beneath your trembling hands. Tears welled, spilling before you could stop them, tracing hot, aching paths down your cheeks. You couldn’t stem the tide, nor did you try. The gown bore the stain of your despair, but it was nothing compared to the jagged wound that bled unseen within.

The whispers were always there, clinging to the edges of your thoughts no matter how desperately you tried to banish them. They were cruel and unyielding, slipping into every quiet moment, lurking in the shadows of your mind. Their voices were soft but sharp, cutting deeper with every repetition. You should have done more. You should have been stronger. You should have saved him. This is your fault.

They weren’t Cregan’s words, nor the maester’s, nor anyone else’s. They belonged to you, born from the hollow ache in your chest and the guilt that had taken root there. They poured through your mind like a poison, insidious and unrelenting, twisting everything they touched. You could almost hear them in the silence of the room, louder than the crackle of a distant hearth or the sigh of wind through Winterfell’s ancient walls.

No matter how tightly you closed your eyes, no matter how fiercely you tried to silence them, they persisted—a constant, merciless drumbeat. Each word struck like a blow, reverberating through your body, the weight of them pressing down on your chest until you could barely breathe. The air felt thinner with every beat, as though the whispers were siphoning it away, leaving you gasping in the darkness.

You tried to fight them, tried to find some small thread of reason to grasp onto, but they always returned, louder and sharper than before. And the worst part was, some part of you believed them. You clung to the guilt like a lifeline, as though holding yourself accountable might make the loss hurt less. It didn’t. It only sank you deeper into the suffocating pit that you couldn’t seem to climb out of.

They weren’t just whispers. They were chains, binding you to the pain, and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn’t make them let go.

The knock shattered the oppressive silence, a sharp, jarring sound that cut through you like a blade of winter air. For a moment, you froze, the sudden noise startling you out of the haze that had enveloped you for days. The weight in the room, in your chest, had been so heavy, so all-encompassing, that you’d almost forgotten the world outside existed. The knock was a cruel reminder that it did, and that it still demanded something of you.

You stiffened, every muscle tightening as though bracing for an unseen blow. Your breath hitched, thick and shallow, your throat closing as if even the act of breathing might betray you. You didn’t want to answer. You couldn’t. What could you say to him? What could you possibly offer, except more of this broken, hollow shell of yourself?

The knock came again, softer this time, a gentler plea that only seemed to make the silence more suffocating. And then his voice followed, threading through the stillness. The voice you had once found so reassuring, so unshakably warm, now felt like a ghost of itself—steady, deep, but laced with something unfamiliar. Fragility. Desperation.

“It’s me,” Cregan said, his words low, insistent. There was a trembling edge to his tone, a quiet urgency that twisted in your chest. “Please, my love. Let me in.”

The sound of his voice sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through you, tightening around your throat like a vice. You clenched your hands in your lap, your nails pressing into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you in the only way you could manage. The guilt, the grief, the weight of it all threatened to crack you open. If you could just keep still, hold yourself together for one more moment, perhaps the pieces wouldn’t scatter completely.

But the truth was, you didn’t know how to answer him. You didn’t know how to let him in—not into the room, not into the space where your grief lay raw and unguarded. He hadn’t come before. Or maybe he had, and you had been too lost to hear him, too consumed by the darkness to recognize the sound of his voice. You didn’t know which possibility was worse—that he had stayed away, honoring the space you had begged for, or that he had tried and failed to reach you.

Neither was kind. Neither was something you could bear.

His knock had stirred something inside you, but it wasn’t hope. It was the sharp, aching reminder of how much you had pushed him away—and how much you had wanted to. Because if he saw you like this, if he saw how fractured you had become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And yet, even as you tried to steel yourself against the sound of his voice, it lingered, wrapping around you, pulling at the frayed edges of the wall you had built between you.

“I’ll wait as long as I need to,” Cregan’s voice broke through the silence, quiet yet unyielding, like the steady strength of the man you had once leaned on without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

His words were meant to soothe, to offer comfort, but they only deepened the ache in your chest. The tenderness in his tone was unbearable, like a hand reaching out to touch a wound too raw to bear. The sting behind your eyes flared, tears threatening to spill over once more. But you refused to let them fall. Not again.

You had cried enough—alone, in the suffocating stillness of the night, when the walls of Winterfell seemed to close in and the weight of your loss crushed you in the darkness. You had let the tears fall in those moments when no one could see, when no one could judge you for the depth of your grief. What good had they done? They had left you feeling even emptier, as though each tear carried away a piece of yourself until there was nothing left.

What would tears accomplish now? They couldn’t undo the pain that had carved itself into your soul. They couldn’t bring back what you had lost, couldn’t fill the gaping void that echoed inside you. They wouldn’t erase the crushing guilt that clung to every breath you took, whispering that you should have been stronger, that you should have done more.

The words you longed to say lodged in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of your grief. Cregan’s steady presence was a balm, but it felt undeserved—a kindness you couldn’t allow yourself to accept. The part of you that ached to let him in warred with the part that wanted to push him away, to protect him from the broken, fractured pieces you had become.

But still, he waited. And still, you remained silent, the battle within you raging on.

The door remained closed, an unyielding barrier between you and Cregan, the space between you stretching into an insurmountable chasm. Your lips stayed pressed tightly together, as if the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile hold you had on yourself. Words felt dangerous, too revealing, too raw. So, you stayed still, frozen in the quiet, every part of you locked in place. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t respond.

Maybe if you stayed silent, he would leave. Maybe if you sank deep enough into the well of your grief, the guilt would loosen its grip on your chest. Maybe if you let the silence consume you entirely, the pain would finally relent. But even as the thoughts flitted through your mind, you knew they were lies. The grief, the guilt, the unbearable ache in your chest—they weren’t things you could escape. They were woven into you now, so tightly that nothing—not time, not distance, not even silence—could unravel them.

Deep down, you knew nothing would ever be the same again. The fragile thread of hope that had once connected you to the world had snapped, leaving you untethered, adrift. No amount of hiding, no fortress of silence, could change that.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, pressing against you like the cold that had seeped into your very bones. It wrapped itself around you, a crushing weight that left no room for breath or thought. It wasn’t just in the room—it was in you, winding through every broken part of yourself.

Cregan’s steps broke the stillness, each one deliberate, careful, as though he feared his presence might break you further. The sound of his boots against the stone was soft, almost hesitant, but it still felt too loud, too intrusive in the suffocating quiet. He was close now. You could feel his steady presence, warm and grounding, even through the chasm you had built between you.

But still, you didn’t move. You didn’t turn to meet his gaze, didn’t even lift your head. Your heart was too heavy, weighed down by guilt and sorrow so profound it felt like a physical ache. You couldn’t bear the thought of looking at him, of letting him see what you had become—shattered, broken, unrecognizable even to yourself.

You were afraid. Afraid of what he might say. Afraid of the gentleness you might hear in his voice, the love you might see in his eyes, when you felt you deserved neither. Afraid that if he saw you like this, saw the depth of your ruin, he might try to put you back together. And you weren’t sure you could survive being pieced back together only to fall apart again.

He paused, his boots just inside the door, hesitating as though waiting for you to make the decision he couldn’t. As though he wasn’t sure if crossing the distance you had carved between you would help—or only deepen the divide. The silence between you was palpable, stretching wide and unyielding, a vast chasm neither of you knew how to bridge. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world was holding its breath, caught in this fragile, suspended moment.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped forward. Just one step, careful and deliberate, the sound soft against the stone floor but carrying a weight that echoed in the quiet. His presence, once a comfort you had never thought to question, now felt too close and yet too far all at once. He moved with a kind of reverence, each step slow and measured, as though approaching something sacred—and fragile.

It was almost unbearable, the way he moved toward you as if you were still the woman he had once known. As if you hadn’t been hollowed out, stripped of the light you had carried, replaced by a grief so consuming it felt like you were drowning. You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t dare. But you felt him, his quiet strength radiating through the cold space, the air between you shifting, growing warmer as he drew closer.

“My love…” His voice was soft, a gentle murmur that carried through the silence like the brush of a hand against frayed fabric. There was a weight to his words, though—something raw and aching, unspoken but undeniable. His concern was threaded through every syllable, tangled with the love he couldn’t seem to put into words. It was the kind of love that refused to be turned away, no matter how fiercely you tried to shut it out.

Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t even turn toward him. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unblinking, unseeing, your breath shallow and uneven as if even acknowledging him might break the fragile hold you had on yourself.

But his presence pressed gently against the edges of your grief, like a tide brushing against jagged rocks, refusing to retreat. You couldn’t face him, couldn’t let him see the ruin you felt you had become. To turn to him would mean letting him see the cracks, the unbearable weight of your sorrow—and you didn’t know if you could survive his gaze.

Your gaze remained fixed on the frosted window, your eyes tracing the jagged, crystalline patterns of ice etched into the glass. They spread like fractures, distorting the world beyond into blurred shapes and muted shadows. The courtyard below lay buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, its stark silence mirroring the hollow stillness inside you. It looked untouched, serene, as though the world itself had withdrawn, retreating from the weight of your grief. But the chill that gripped you had nothing to do with the winter outside.

This cold was deeper, more insidious. It had rooted itself in your chest, in the fragile places you had once protected. No fire, no warmth, could touch it. It wasn’t a chill of the skin but of the soul, spreading through every part of you, leaving you numb yet unbearably aware of the ache it carried.

Your fingers moved restlessly, pale and trembling as they tugged at the fabric of your gown. The motion was small, unconscious, but relentless. You picked at loose threads and seams, tearing at the delicate material with a quiet desperation. It was all you could do. The stillness of your body demanded an outlet, something to echo the storm raging within you. Each thread pulled free, each tiny rip in the fabric, felt like a hollow attempt to give shape to the suffocating emotions you couldn’t put into words.

You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. The motion kept the grief from swallowing you whole, even as it frayed the edges of your gown. The tears in the fabric mirrored the fissures in your heart, small and splintering, growing with every passing moment.

Each movement, each tug, was a silent rebellion against the unbearable weight that threatened to crush you. The storm inside you had no outlet, no escape, and the restless motion of your hands was the only way to keep from falling apart completely. Rest felt impossible. Stillness only amplified the ache, the sharp-edged sorrow that had taken over every part of you. Rest would mean surrendering to it, drowning in the pain you weren’t sure you could survive. And so, you tore at the fabric, as though unraveling it might somehow loosen the tight grip of grief around your chest.

But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t. Nothing could.

Cregan didn’t press you, though his silence was as heavy as the grief that hung between you. He didn’t demand answers, didn’t push for words you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he moved closer, his footsteps slow and measured, each one deliberate, as though the air itself might break beneath the weight of his approach. It was as if he were walking through a fragile dream, afraid that one wrong step might shatter it entirely.

Each careful step spoke of his restraint, his quiet struggle to respect the space you had carved out for yourself, even as it tore at him to see you like this. To see the woman he loved, his steadfast, fierce-hearted wife, lost in a pain so profound that even the strength of his presence couldn’t seem to reach her.

He stopped a few paces away, his form solid and steady against the shadows that filled the room. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching again between you, an invisible barrier neither of you knew how to cross. And then, his voice came again, softer this time, carrying a tenderness that wrapped around you like a quiet plea.

“I know you’re in pain,” he murmured, his words low, heavy with the weight of his own helplessness. The emotion in his voice twisted in your chest, each word landing with quiet precision, like drops of water against a stone worn thin. “But I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

The pause that followed was almost unbearable, his voice trembling just slightly as he added, “Please, look at me.”

The plea lingered in the air, hanging between you like a fragile bridge you weren’t sure you could cross. His words carried no demand, only a quiet yearning, a love so raw it pressed against the edges of your sorrow, threatening to unravel the fragile defenses you had built around yourself. But you stayed where you were, frozen, your gaze locked on the frost-covered window, as though the jagged patterns of ice could hold you together in a way that his love couldn’t.

You didn’t move. His words reached for you, a lifeline cast across the vast, aching distance between you, but you couldn’t take it. You couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t let him see the broken pieces of who you had once been. Not when those fragments felt so sharp, so jagged, that even you couldn’t bear to look at them. The woman who had once stood beside him, who had promised him a future filled with light and hope, was gone. In her place was this hollow shell, weighed down by grief so consuming it left no room for anything else.

Your hands fell still in your lap, the nervous fidgeting replaced by an unnatural rigidity, as though any movement might crack the fragile dam holding everything inside. You stared down at your trembling fingers, clutching at the fabric of your gown not to tear it, but to stop them from betraying you further. The storm within you churned violently, and the stillness felt like the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

The ache in your chest grew sharper, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. It wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into yourself, away from the voice that tried to reach you.

The air between you felt heavier with each passing second, thick with unspoken words and the weight of all you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It pressed down on you, isolating you further, trapping you in this cocoon of silence where your grief felt too vast to share, too all-encompassing to explain.

You could feel Cregan’s presence, his unwavering patience like a quiet flame, waiting for you to let him in. But that only made the guilt burrow deeper, sharper, as though it might carve you out completely. He was waiting for you to open the door you had closed so tightly, waiting to shoulder the pain you were too afraid to show. But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t let him see you like this—shattered, hollow, and drowning in the sharp edges of your grief. If you turned to him now, if you let him see the raw ruin of what you’d become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And so, you sat there, silent and unmoving, unable to cross the distance that had grown between you.

Your shoulders trembled, the motion small at first, barely noticeable, before it grew into a tremor that rippled through your entire body. Without warning, your head dropped, your face cradled in your trembling hands. The tears that had lingered just beneath the surface for so long finally broke free, spilling over in a torrent that you couldn’t stop. They came hot and unrelenting, each one carving a path down your cheeks, a relentless reminder of just how much you had lost.

You tried to stifle them, swallowing sobs that clawed their way up your throat, desperate to hold onto some semblance of control. But the tears came anyway, unchecked and unforgiving, a flood that swept away the fragile walls you had tried so hard to build. The warmth of them against your skin felt like a cruel mockery, a vivid contrast to the hollow, icy ache in your chest. You resented them—resented how powerless they made you feel, how impossible it was to push them back, to push any of it away.

You couldn’t. The grief was too deep, too consuming. It wrapped around you like a tide, pulling you under, dragging you further and further away from everything you had once been.

Behind you, Cregan watched, his gaze softening as his heart broke for you in ways he could neither stop nor fully understand. He stood frozen, torn between the overwhelming need to comfort you and the fear that his touch might only deepen the chasm that stretched between you. The sight of your shoulders trembling, of your body folding in on itself as though the weight of your sorrow was too much to bear, left him helpless.

He had always been your shield, your steady foundation, but now he could do nothing but stand there, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by a pain he couldn’t ease. It was a kind of helplessness he hadn’t known before—a sharp, piercing ache that left him stranded on the other side of the distance you had placed between you.

He wanted to reach for you, to do anything to pull you from the storm that raged inside you. But every tear that fell, every breath that shuddered through your frame, seemed to widen the gulf between you both. It felt as vast as an ocean, deep and unbridgeable, leaving him stranded and uncertain, his love for you a light that couldn’t yet pierce the darkness of your grief.

He moved toward you, each step slow and deliberate, as though afraid that even the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile thread tethering you both. The air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and the raw ache of your grief, but he pressed on, his presence steady and unyielding.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak. Words would have felt too small, too inadequate. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the chair, his movements careful, reverent, as though kneeling at an altar. His presence alone was a quiet comfort, a steady flame in the storm of emotions that had consumed you.

His hand reached out, large and calloused, yet impossibly gentle as his fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your trembling hand. His touch was grounding, warm, and steady—a reminder of the life that continued outside the walls of your sorrow. He didn’t force you to respond, didn’t demand anything from you. His hand simply rested over yours, offering a quiet strength that asked for nothing in return.

The restless motions of your hands stilled beneath his touch, the anxious picking at your gown coming to a halt as his warmth seeped into your skin. It wasn’t much—just the smallest of shifts—but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the unbearable weight of your grief seemed to loosen, if only by the slightest degree.

It was as though his presence alone could hold some of the pieces of you that had fallen apart, his touch a silent promise that you didn’t have to bear the weight of your sorrow alone. But still, the distance between your heart and his felt vast, the walls of your grief too high to climb. And yet, his quiet persistence, his unwavering love, pressed gently against those walls, searching for a way in.

“Let me be here for you,” Cregan said quietly, his voice a low murmur that carried more weight than the loudest declaration ever could. There was a raw tenderness in his tone, so unguarded and sincere that it pierced straight through you, cutting past the walls you had so carefully constructed around your grief. His words were a balm, gentle against the fractured pieces of your heart, but they also undid you, unraveling the fragile composure you had clung to.

The echo of his voice lingered in the heavy silence, filling the space between you with a quiet plea that wrapped around you, impossible to ignore. Each word was steeped in a love so deep, so unshakable, that it made your chest ache with its enormity. A breath caught in your throat, sharp and jagged, as the storm inside you began to crack open.

Before you could stop it, a sob clawed its way out, raw and ragged, tearing through the stillness. You tried to fight it, to swallow the sound of your brokenness, to hold on to what little control you thought you had left. But it was too much. The weight of it all—the loss, the guilt, the unbearable isolation—pressed down on you with crushing force, and you were helpless against the tide.

Your chest constricted, each breath uneven and shallow as the cry escaped you, desperate and guttural. It shook you to your core, your entire body trembling under the force of the emotion that had been building, unrelenting, inside you. The sobs came like waves, relentless and consuming, each one pulling you deeper into the grief you had tried so hard to bury.

And yet, through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t waver, his quiet strength anchoring you even as you fell apart. His hand remained steady over yours, grounding you against the tempest within, silently reminding you that you weren’t alone—even when it felt like the weight of the world rested entirely on your shoulders.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a balm against the deep, raw wound carved into your soul. The words were so simple, yet they carried a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. His free hand rose slowly, his fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from your face with the lightest touch. His fingertips grazed your skin like a soft whisper, gentle yet steady, a silent promise in every motion. He wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay, even as you unraveled before him.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” he said softly, his voice unwavering, even as the weight of your sorrow seemed to hang heavy in the air between you.

You didn’t respond. His words settled around you, warm and grounding, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. There were no words left, no explanations to give, no answers to offer. Only the tears that fell, unrelenting now, streaking down your face like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

The dam inside you had finally burst, and the grief poured out in waves, racking your frame with sobs so raw they felt as though they were tearing you apart. Each shuddering breath brought fresh pain, the ache you had buried beneath layers of guilt and restraint now laid bare. It was unbearable, and yet, in this moment, you didn’t try to stop it. For the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of the loss, the overwhelming ache that had been clawing at you from the inside out.

And through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t falter, didn’t try to pull you from the depths of your grief. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes meant to fix what couldn’t be repaired. Instead, he stayed steady, his hand a constant anchor against the storm inside you, his touch firm yet gentle. He held you in your brokenness, without expectation, without judgment, simply letting you break.

For the first time, the room didn’t feel suffocating. The walls that had seemed to close in on you, threatening to crush you beneath their weight, now felt less oppressive. The silence wasn’t a void anymore; it was filled with something warm, something alive. His presence was like a steady flame in the cold, a quiet reassurance that you didn’t have to carry this alone—not in this moment, at least.

And for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of relief. It wasn’t enough to banish the grief, not even close, but it made the unbearable weight just a little easier to carry. For this fleeting moment, you weren’t drowning alone.

Cregan watched you as you wept, his heart breaking with every sob that tore from your chest. Each tremor that shook you felt like a blow to him, a pain he couldn’t bear to see yet refused to turn away from. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his presence steady and unwavering, a quiet anchor in the storm of your grief.

His hand remained gently over yours, grounding you without words, offering a silent reassurance that you hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. His touch, so steady and sure, was a lifeline in the chaos of your emotions, speaking the things he didn’t need to say aloud: I’m here. You’re not alone.

As your sobs began to slow, the tears that had flowed so freely now reduced to quiet streams, Cregan shifted slightly. His hand lifted from yours, the motion so soft it felt like a whisper. And yet, there was an undeniable strength in it, a quiet promise that he wasn’t leaving, that he wasn’t going to let you fall alone.

“Come on, love,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a balm against the raw ache in your chest. The words, though simple, carried a weight of their own—love, patience, and an unshakable tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull you from the chair or try to force you to move before you were ready. Instead, he stayed close, his presence a steady flame against the cold emptiness that had consumed you. Every quiet movement, every gentle word, was filled with care. He was waiting—not for you to be whole, not for the grief to pass, but simply for you to take the next breath, the next small step forward.

Cregan felt it all—the weight of everything you had been carrying, the unbearable burden that had pressed down on you for days. He felt the tremble in your body, the exhaustion etched into every line of your frame, and the grief that seemed to radiate from you like a storm that refused to pass. It was heavy, but he bore it willingly, silently vowing to carry it with you, no matter how long it took, no matter how much of himself it demanded.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with concern, each word carrying the weight of the thousand unspoken emotions he didn’t know how to name. There was no rush in his tone, no expectation—only a gentle insistence, a quiet plea wrapped in love.

His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you across the room, his movements slow and deliberate, each step careful, as though afraid that anything too sudden might undo the fragile calm that had begun to settle between you. His touch was steady, grounding, a tether to hold onto as the overwhelming weight of your grief threatened to pull you under again.

When you finally reached the bed, he guided you to sit, his movements steady yet hesitant, as though reluctant to step away. His hand brushed lightly over your shoulder, the touch brief but deliberate—a fleeting attempt to offer something words couldn’t convey. But as his eyes lingered on you, seated and so visibly burdened by your grief, something shifted in him. It wasn’t pity—it was a deep ache, an unspoken understanding that settled heavily in his chest.

He forced himself to take a step back, his instincts warring with his restraint. He wanted to stay close, but he knew this moment wasn’t about him. You needed space, even if only enough to draw a breath, to navigate the depths of what weighed on you without intrusion.

“I’ll be right back,” Cregan said softly, his voice low, a quiet murmur that carried more emotion than he could name. His gaze flickered to you, filled with a concern so raw it nearly stopped him in his tracks. “I’ll have a bath prepared. You need to rest—and take care of yourself.”

You didn’t answer. There were no words left, only the faint hum of your breath as you sat still, your hands resting in your lap. As he turned, the smallest movement caught his eye—a barely perceptible nod, as fragile as the first stirrings of a winter thaw.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes. It wasn’t permission, nor surrender, but something quieter. A thread of trust, unspoken but present. And though the gesture was small, it was enough for him to continue, his steps quiet but purposeful as he left the room to prepare what was needed.

As Cregan stepped toward the door, the soft click of the handle as it closed behind him seemed to echo through the room, sharp and final. The sound sliced through the oppressive stillness like a cold wind cutting across bare skin. For a fleeting moment, everything seemed to hold its breath. The door’s finality hung in the air, and with it, an even deeper silence settled around you.

The space he left behind felt vast, as though the room itself had stretched in his absence, a yawning chasm you couldn’t cross. You slumped against the headboard, your body sinking further into the mattress, drained of the strength to do anything but exist in the quiet. The exhaustion in your bones was total, a kind of weariness that no amount of sleep could touch.

You had hoped for peace in the quiet, but it wasn’t peace that came. It was weight—heavy, stifling, pressing down on your chest, pinning you to the bed. The room around you seemed to breathe with the creak of old wood beneath you, a low, familiar groan that filled the silence alongside the soft hum of your own breath. And yet, none of it filled the aching void that stretched endlessly inside you.

It wasn’t that you wanted Cregan to return. His presence couldn’t undo what had been broken, couldn’t turn back time or mend the wound that had hollowed you out. But his absence carried its own kind of pain, sharp and relentless, a reminder that life would never return to what it had once been.

Still, you stayed where you were, motionless, surrendering to the stillness that wrapped around you. The weight pulled you deeper, like a tide dragging you under, but you couldn’t summon the energy to fight it. Your body was too tired, your mind too spent, and so you simply let yourself sink into the waiting quiet, waiting for nothing in particular, only the endless passing of time.

Cregan’s footsteps echoed through the stone corridor, quick and determined. The chill of Winterfell’s air was sharp, seeping through the heavy walls, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were focused elsewhere, running over what needed to be done and how little he could seem to do to ease the storm inside you. Each step carried the weight of his resolve, even as his chest tightened with the ache of seeing you as you were—exhausted, hollow, a shadow of the woman who had once met life with unshakable strength.

He reached the servants’ quarters, his broad frame filling the doorway as his voice broke the relative quiet of the space. “Prepare a bath,” he ordered, his tone low but firm, brooking no hesitation. “And make sure it’s hot. Bring fresh linens, too.” He paused for a moment, his hand pressing briefly against the rough stone wall beside him as he steadied himself. “And food,” he added, glancing between the startled faces of the servants. “Simple, but warm—and enough to sustain her.”

The urgency in his voice was tempered by the restraint he’d forced upon himself. He didn’t bark the commands, but the sharp edges of his words made it clear how quickly he expected them to act. The servants, accustomed to the steady, measured demeanor of their lord, exchanged quick glances before hurrying to carry out his instructions.

Cregan lingered for a moment as the scurry of footsteps and murmured acknowledgments faded down the hall. He stayed still, his hand curling into a loose fist at his side, his breathing measured but heavy. The weight of the past days bore down on him like the snowdrifts against Winterfell’s walls. He could feel the strain of it in his chest, in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ached from holding his emotions in check.

He replayed the image of you sitting on the edge of the bed, your shoulders slumped under a grief that seemed to consume you whole. The tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes—it was enough to twist something deep inside him, a pain he couldn’t name and couldn’t shake. But he couldn’t allow himself to falter. Not now.

Straightening, he turned on his heel, his boots striking the floor with purpose as he made his way back through the dimly lit corridors. His thoughts remained focused, calculating what else could be done to make this moment, this night, a little less unbearable for you. He couldn’t take away the grief or the pain, but he could ease the harsh edges of it, if only for a little while.

When he passed another servant, he stopped briefly, his voice softer but no less insistent. “Make sure there’s firewood brought to the hearth. I want the chamber warm.” The servant nodded quickly, moving to comply, and Cregan pressed forward, his steps quickening as the ache in his chest deepened.

As he neared the door to your chambers, his hand brushed the rough stone of the wall beside him, grounding himself in its cool solidity. He paused for the briefest of moments, drawing in a breath to steady the emotions that threatened to spill over. The bath would be ready soon, the food prepared and brought, but none of that felt like enough.

Nothing ever felt like enough.

With one final breath, he opened the door quietly, stepping back into the room where you waited, fragile and silent, the weight of your grief filling the air. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the threshold, his steps careful, his presence steady, bringing with him what little he could offer.

The servants were already hard at work preparing the bath, their quiet movements echoing softly in the background, but none of it mattered to Cregan. His eyes found you the moment he stepped into the room, and the sight of you—the broken posture, your head bowed, shoulders slumped—made his breath hitch in his chest.

You sat so still, as though the grief had hollowed you out and left only a fragile shell in its place. Your movements were barely there, faint and withdrawn, blending into the dim shadows that seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. To him, it felt as though you were slipping further away, piece by piece, retreating into a darkness he couldn’t fully reach.

Cregan didn’t speak right away. He didn’t ask you to move, didn’t press you for words or force you to acknowledge him. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, but it was yours. It was the only thing you had chosen in days, and he would respect it, even as it clawed at his chest to see you like this.

But respect didn’t mean standing idly by.

He stepped toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, each one measured with a care that spoke of his understanding. Your pain was something fragile, delicate, and he approached as though the wrong move might fracture the brittle calm you had managed to hold onto. When he reached you, he knelt down beside the bed, lowering himself to your level.

His hand extended toward yours, palm up—a quiet offering, an invitation to let him in, to let him share some small part of the burden you carried. His fingers lingered, close enough to touch but not forcing contact, allowing you the choice to accept or reject the gesture.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet but unshakable determination. Each word was gentle but carried the full weight of his resolve. He wasn’t asking for much; he wasn’t asking for words or answers. He was simply offering himself.

“I’m not leaving, love,” he continued, his tone soft but firm, the steadiness of it cutting through the stillness. “Not until you’re taken care of.”

There was no flourish to his words, no attempt to dress them up. He had never been a man of many words, but the ones he chose always carried meaning, each syllable weighted with purpose. He couldn’t fix what had been broken, couldn’t mend the wound that had torn through you, but he could do this. He could stay. He could make sure you were cared for, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do it alone.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and patient, waiting for you to decide.

His words lingered in the air, their quiet warmth brushing against the edges of your sorrow. Cregan didn’t press you, didn’t rush you to respond. Instead, he simply stayed where he was, his steady presence a quiet assurance that you wouldn’t be left adrift in this moment.

After a few breaths, he gently helped you to your feet, his hand firm at your back as he guided you toward the chair by the hearth. “Let’s sit here for a while,” he murmured, his tone calm and patient, as though the rest of the world could wait.

The flames in the hearth flickered faintly, their light casting soft shadows across the walls. You sank into the chair with a heaviness that seemed to seep into your very bones, your gaze falling to the fire as it crackled softly. The minutes stretched on in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the muffled sounds of the servants working quietly in the background.

The faint hum of their activity filtered through the stillness. Logs were added to the hearth, the fire growing brighter and stronger, its warmth beginning to fill the room. The linens on the bed were stripped and replaced with fresh ones, their crisp folds smoothed with precision. The rhythmic sound of water being poured into the bath drifted faintly from the adjoining room, mingling with the scent of lavender as steam curled softly into the air.

Time passed slowly, each moment marked by the subtle changes around you. The room grew warmer, the air lighter, as the servants completed their tasks and slipped out with quiet efficiency. Through it all, Cregan remained close, his movements purposeful but unhurried, his gaze flicking to you every so often to ensure you were still with him, still grounded.

When everything was ready, he returned to your side, crouching down beside you. His hand found yours again, his touch steady and sure as he said, “The bath is ready.”

With deliberate care, he helped you to your feet once more. Each step toward the steaming tub was slow, measured, and supported by his arm at your back, his presence grounding you as you moved forward. The weight of exhaustion still clung to you, but the quiet warmth of the room and the promise of rest seemed just within reach.

The room was a haven of comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive silence that had held you captive for so long. Flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls, casting soft, shifting shadows that softened the room’s edges. The gentle sound of water filling the bath added a steady rhythm to the quiet, a soothing backdrop that eased the weight pressing against your chest. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a long-forgotten embrace, the promise of relief so close you could almost feel it seeping into your bones.

But it wasn’t just the room that brought this fragile sense of solace. What truly began to thaw the ice that had settled in your heart was Cregan. His presence, steady and grounding, was a force that anchored you without demand or expectation. His eyes, unwavering and filled with a tenderness you hadn’t thought yourself capable of receiving, never left you as he guided you forward. Every movement he made carried with it a quiet purpose, an unspoken promise that you were not alone in this moment.

When you reached the edge of the bath, Cregan’s hand was firm yet gentle against your back, steadying you as you lowered yourself into the water. He moved with the same deliberate care, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile calm that had begun to form around you. The warmth of the water enveloped you immediately, wrapping around your tired body like a soft, tender embrace. The heat seeped into your aching muscles, melting away the tension that had clung to you for days, while the chill rooted in your skin seemed to dissolve into the bath.

Yet, even as the water soothed you, it was Cregan’s presence that truly began to untangle the knot in your chest. His quiet care, his unwavering devotion, and the unspoken promise in his every action brought with them a peace you hadn’t known in what felt like a lifetime.

As you soaked in the warm water, something deep within you began to shift. The tears you’d been holding at bay for so long finally began to fall again. But this time, they were different. They weren’t the sharp, jagged tears of grief that had torn through you in your solitude. These were softer, quieter—tears of relief, of release. They came hesitantly at first, as though testing the safety of the space around you, before flowing freely in an unbroken stream. It was as if the warmth of the water and the quiet strength of Cregan’s presence had unlocked something within you, giving you permission to let go of the pain you had carried for so long.

Cregan didn’t speak as you cried. He didn’t try to comfort you with words or fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, his hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady, an anchor amidst the wave of emotions overtaking you. His silence was filled with understanding, speaking louder than anything he could have said.

Cregan moved with deliberate care, his touch light but steady, as though the very act of tending to you required all the patience and gentleness he could muster. He reached for the soft cloth resting at the edge of the tub, dipping it into the warm water before wringing it out with precise, measured motions. His movements were purposeful, each one imbued with the quiet reverence he reserved for the things that mattered most to him—things that needed protecting, things that needed care. And in this moment, nothing mattered more to him than you.

You sat there, unmoving, as though the water had become an extension of the emptiness within you. It felt as though you had become hollow, a presence without weight, without purpose. Your eyes, distant and unfocused, stared into the space beyond the water, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. The grief had settled so deep within you that it had worn you down to a mere shadow of the woman you once were. The person who used to laugh freely, who found joy in the smallest of moments, felt so far removed from you now. It was as though the agony had stolen her away, leaving only an echo, faint and fragile, drifting somewhere beyond your reach.

Cregan’s movements didn’t falter, even as he watched the faint tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes. He began at your shoulders, the warm cloth brushing over your skin in soft, soothing strokes. His hand followed the curve of your neck, careful and unhurried, as though afraid that anything more abrupt might fracture the fragile calm around you. The heat of the water and the rhythm of his touch seemed to melt some of the tension in your body, loosening the weight that clung to you, though you still felt adrift.

The silence between you remained unbroken, filled only with the faint crackle of the fire and the soft ripple of water. It wasn’t oppressive; it was gentle, a quiet space where words weren’t needed. Cregan’s hands, rough from years of work yet impossibly tender now, moved down your arm, washing away not just the remnants of the day but the faint traces of neglect that marked your solitude.

When he reached your hands, he paused, his fingers brushing over the places where anxious picking had left their mark. His thumb lingered on those faint lines, his touch featherlight, as if trying to soothe both the physical signs of your grief and the deeper wounds that lay unseen.

He continued with the same deliberate attention, his focus unbroken. The cloth moved down your back, across your legs, each motion slow and purposeful, as though he understood that rushing would rob this moment of its meaning. This wasn’t just about cleansing your body—it was about showing you, without words, that you were still cared for, still seen, even in your most broken state.

As he finished, he set the cloth aside, his hand lingering at the edge of the tub for a moment. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his expression full of unspoken tenderness. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, a quiet reminder that there was no need to rush, no expectation beyond this moment.

And as the warmth of the water embraced you and the quiet intimacy of his care settled around you, the faintest flicker of something stirred within. It wasn’t enough to mend the hollow ache or restore the woman you once were, but it was a start. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of your grief wasn’t all-consuming. In the stillness, in the warmth of the water and the strength of Cregan’s presence, you felt a fragile sense of being held—not by words, but by the simple, steadfast care of someone who refused to let you drift away.

You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, to give voice to the storm tearing through you. But the words wouldn’t come. They caught in your throat, heavy and sharp, refusing to escape no matter how much you willed them to. Every syllable you might have spoken was swallowed by the weight of everything you carried inside—the guilt, the loss, the crushing sense that you had failed not just yourself, but everyone who had ever cared for you.

Your chest tightened, the pressure rising until it felt as though you might shatter under it. Your lips closed again, trembling as the turmoil inside you deepened, the ache in your heart becoming more unbearable with every passing second. The silence stretched on, not a reprieve, but an oppressive reminder of how the words remained out of reach, leaving you trapped, drowning in the depths of your own sorrow.

Cregan, kneeling beside you, felt the subtle shift in your body—the faint tremble of your shoulders, the way your breaths grew shallow and uneven, as though your grief threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. He paused, his hands still resting gently on your back, not pressing, not rushing, but simply waiting. He gave you the space to feel, to process the rawness of the emotions tearing through you, even if you couldn’t find the words to name them.

The room was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was filled with the weight of your sorrow, heavy and palpable in the air between you. Cregan’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his dark eyes steady and filled with a resolve that didn’t waver.

It was as though, in that silence, he was speaking to you without words, telling you that it was okay to feel this, okay to break. His presence didn’t demand anything of you—there was no impatience, no expectation. Only the quiet assurance that no matter how many tears you shed, no matter how fractured you felt, he would stay.

His hands, roughened from years of labor but impossibly gentle now, remained steady on your back, offering a constant, grounding support. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his warmth a quiet contrast to the storm raging within you.

Without a word, Cregan reached for the towel resting beside the tub. His movements were deliberate, his hands steady as he prepared to help you. He extended his hand, firm but careful, guiding you to stand. The water rippled softly as you rose, the warmth slipping away as cool air wrapped around you. Without hesitation, Cregan wrapped the towel around your shoulders, covering you fully before helping you step onto the soft rug beside the tub.

He led you to the nearby stool, lowering you gently into the seat. The towel stayed draped around you as he knelt and began drying you, his hands purposeful and precise. Starting at your shoulders, the soft cloth moved over your skin in slow, even strokes, absorbing the water that clung to you.

He worked silently, dabbing at your arms, your back, your legs, each movement unhurried. When he reached your hands, his touch was impossibly light, the towel brushing carefully over the faint marks left behind by your anxious picking. He dried your feet last, the warmth of the towel a small barrier against the cool air around you.

Once he finished, Cregan reached for the folded nightclothes he had set aside. He unfolded the soft fabric, his hands moving with the same deliberation as he slipped the robe from your shoulders. He held the nightgown open, guiding your arms into the sleeves with gentle care. The fabric fell over you, light and soft against your skin, as he carefully smoothed it into place.

Leaning closer, he adjusted the ties at the neckline, his fingers working deftly but without haste. He paused briefly, ensuring the gown fit comfortably, before retrieving the thicker robe that lay nearby. He draped it over your shoulders, its weight heavier and warmer, securing the belt loosely at your waist.

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire and the rustling of fabric. His hands lingered briefly at the edges of the robe, tucking it into place, before he stepped back. He didn’t speak, his focus solely on ensuring you were fully dressed and shielded from the cold.

You sat still, your gaze fixed downward, the weight in your chest as heavy as ever. A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away. Another followed, your breath hitching as the sobs that had been building broke free once more, shaking your frame.

Cregan knelt again, his hands steady as he adjusted the robe around you, the simple action wordless but full of purpose. When he was done, he rose quietly, leaving the space untouched by words, as if to respect the unspoken weight of the moment. The room held only the sounds of your breathing, uneven and raw, and the faint crackle of the fire as the night stretched on.

As Cregan helped you to the bed, his movements were slow and deliberate. One hand stayed steady at your back, the other guiding you by the arm, each gesture careful, as though ensuring you wouldn’t falter. When you were finally seated, he lingered, his hand resting against you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flickered briefly to your face, searching for something—perhaps assurance that you were steady, perhaps something unspoken. He didn’t rise, didn’t retreat. Instead, he knelt before you, his broad frame folding quietly to the floor, his presence grounding without intrusion.

His hands reached for yours, large and warm as they wrapped gently around your trembling fingers. His touch was firm but cautious, like cradling something that had already been cracked too many times. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the slow, deliberate rhythm neither asking nor expecting anything. It was a touch that seemed to say everything he didn’t—an offering without pressure, a steadiness that didn’t waver.

The silence between you was dense, weighted by everything that had been left unsaid, yet it didn’t press for answers. The faint crackle of the fire filled the air, mingling with the sound of your uneven breaths, each inhale and exhale catching on the edge of a sob. Your hands trembled beneath his, the effort of holding yourself together visible in every small movement, threatening to break apart at any moment.

When Cregan finally released your hands, it wasn’t to leave you. He moved quietly, rising to retrieve the small plate of food that had been left on the table beside the bed. Without a word, he brought it closer, setting it gently on the mattress within your reach. His movements were careful, unhurried, as though even this simple act demanded the same precision and attention as everything else he did.

Your gaze fell to the plate, and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Its simplicity felt almost cruel, a stark contrast to the enormity of what weighed on you. Your hands trembled in your lap, the act of reaching for the plate feeling like an impossible task. When you finally lifted your hand, it hovered uncertainly, your fingers stiff and unfamiliar as they wrapped around the fork with halting movements.

The food sat heavy on your tongue, its taste muted and distant. The mechanical act of chewing felt disconnected, each motion foreign and wrong. When you swallowed, a sharp twist gripped your chest, the weight of the action pressing against you with suffocating force. It wasn’t just the food—it was the reminder that you were still here, still breathing, still alive, when everything inside you felt hollow and undone.

A sob tore from your throat, sudden and raw, breaking the fragile quiet of the room. It came without warning, jagged and unrestrained, and with it came the tears—hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in an unending torrent. Each one dragged something deeper, more painful, to the surface, leaving you trembling in their wake.

The plate sat untouched as your body folded in on itself, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as though it might keep you tethered to the ground. The sobs wracked through you, your breaths coming in uneven, shallow gasps, and then the words came—soft, broken, slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

“I failed him…”

The words lingered in the air, cutting and bitter. They twisted in your chest like a blade, the weight of them sharper now that they had been spoken aloud. Saying them didn’t ease the ache—it only made it heavier, more real. The truth of them pressed against you, unrelenting, as though it might suffocate you entirely.

Cregan knelt again, his movements measured as his hands returned to yours. His fingers curled around them, their warmth a quiet counterpoint to the trembling in your own. His grip was steady, firm without being constraining, and his thumb resumed its slow, deliberate strokes across your knuckles. The rhythm was calm, offering no pressure, no demand—only an unspoken reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You didn’t fail him,” he said softly, his voice low and even, the words carrying the weight of his certainty. “You loved him. That’s all anyone could ask. And I will love you through this, no matter how long it takes.”

The words hung between you, unshaken and sure. But as they reached you, they didn’t sink into the places they needed to. They echoed faintly in your mind, the edges of them dulled by the roar of guilt that refused to be silenced.

Your gaze lifted to his, and his eyes reflected nothing but tenderness, a love that was steady and unflinching. But in their reflection, all you could see was your own brokenness, your own failings laid bare. The ache in your chest twisted sharper, the weight of your perceived failure pressing harder with every breath.

And in that moment, as your heart shattered once more beneath the unbearable weight of everything you had lost, it felt as though the grief might crush you entirely. It pressed against your chest, unrelenting, a force that hollowed you out further with every passing second. The ache seemed endless, a constant presence that had carved itself so deeply into you that it felt inseparable from who you had become.

But even within the depths of that pain, there was something else—something faint yet immovable. It wasn’t hope, not exactly, nor was it solace. It was Cregan. His hands on yours, his steady presence, the quiet certainty of his care—it didn’t lessen the weight of your sorrow, but it didn’t waver either. It was simply there, an unspoken truth that remained even as the grief threatened to consume you.

It didn’t ease the ache in your chest or silence the voice in your mind that told you you’d failed. But in the pit of your broken heart, you knew his love was unyielding, something that had existed long before this moment and would remain long after. It wasn’t a cure for the grief, but it was steady, something that wouldn’t falter, no matter how deep the sorrow ran. And though you couldn’t yet bear to hold it fully, it lingered, waiting in the quiet.

Cregan sensed the shift in you before you could fully grasp it yourself. His gaze softened, the faintest flicker of understanding reflected in his eyes. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from you. His hands remained steady, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed along the curve of your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was rhythmic, unhurried, an unspoken promise that he would stay—not to fix you, not to pull you from the depths, but simply to be there, however long it took for the storm inside you to rage.

The plate of food sat nearly untouched on the bed, a quiet acknowledgment of his respect for what you needed in this moment. He made no move to bring it closer, no effort to coax you into eating before you were ready. Instead, he let it rest there, unobtrusive, as though understanding that the weight of even that small act might be too much to bear.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold or empty. It was a silence that held no expectations, no pressure. It was gentle, patient—a space that allowed you to exist as you were, unfiltered and raw. In that quiet, there was no demand to explain, no urgency to heal. You could simply be.

And though the grief remained sharp, unyielding in its hold, there was a small comfort in that silence, in his steady presence. It didn’t take away the ache, but it gave you permission to feel it without pretense. To sit in the heaviness of your sorrow without the burden of pretending to carry it differently..

As you sat there, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the rest of the world seemed so far away. Yet the overwhelming weight of everything began to creep back in—a steady, suffocating pressure that settled heavily in your chest. The plate of food that had once felt distant now sat in front of you, an unwelcome reminder of what you had lost, of everything you hadn’t been able to protect. It wasn’t hunger that repelled you—it was what the food represented. The simple act of eating felt trivial, almost offensive, in the face of the emptiness that consumed you. The ache within you was too vast, too deep, to be touched by something so mundane.

Your hand moved almost instinctively, pushing the plate away with a motion so gentle it was barely perceptible. It wasn’t defiance or rejection—it was an admission of what you couldn’t give yourself. You couldn’t force yourself to be whole, couldn’t pretend that eating would fill the void left inside you. The untouched plate sat between you and the world, its presence quietly mocking.

Cregan sat beside the bed, his broad frame still and his posture calm, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile balance of the moment. His hands rested lightly on his knees, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the rough fabric of his trousers, his gaze fixed on you. He didn’t try to convince you to eat, didn’t say a word. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full of quiet understanding. There was no expectation in his eyes, no disappointment, only a steady acceptance of what you couldn’t yet bring yourself to do.

He didn’t judge you for it. There was no reproach, no impatience. His gaze, steady and unflinching, carried only a gentle acknowledgment of your pain. In the quiet of that moment, his presence eased the sharp edges of your self-doubt, not by removing them, but by offering a space where you didn’t need to fight against them. He had seen you at your strongest, at your best, and now, as he looked at you, he saw you at your most vulnerable. Even here, raw and fractured, he looked at you with the same certainty, the same unwavering care.

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you beyond the occasional flicker of his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested near your knee. Yet even without words or gestures, his presence spoke volumes. It wasn’t a love that sought to fix you or erase the weight of your sorrow. It was a love that existed without expectation, without conditions—a love that offered itself freely, regardless of how broken or fragile you felt.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t falter, even as you pushed the plate away, even as your breaths grew uneven under the weight of it all. He sat beside you, offering nothing more than the certainty of his presence, the quiet assurance that you didn’t need to be anything other than what you were. In that silence, his love wrapped around you—not as a solution, but as a quiet anchor, holding you steady when everything else felt like it might slip away.

The tears that had once flowed relentlessly began to slow, though the ache in your chest remained—a constant, gnawing presence. It wasn’t something that could be banished or fixed with time or words. It felt woven into the very fabric of your being, an ache that refused to be soothed.

Cregan rose from his seat beside the bed, his movements deliberate as he reached for the plate that sat untouched. He lifted it gently, carrying it away and placing it back on the small table with care, as though even this small act deserved respect. When he returned, his attention shifted to you. He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze steady and unhurried, silently asking for permission as he helped you lie back against the bed.

He lingered as he pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it lightly against your shoulders before stepping back. Without a word, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the moment demanded nothing less. Once ready, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled into place.

At first, Cregan didn’t reach for you. He allowed the space between you to remain, as though giving you time to decide how close you wanted him to be. When you shifted toward him, seeking his warmth, he responded without hesitation. His arm wrapped carefully around your waist, drawing you closer with quiet purpose. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, a barrier between you and the cold emptiness that lingered at the edges of the night.

Though the ache in your chest didn’t fade, with him beside you, it felt a little less suffocating. His presence didn’t erase the grief that had hollowed you out, but it steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected. Slowly, you began to let yourself rest, the weight of his arm and the quiet rhythm of his breath coaxing you into a fragile kind of calm.

Your forehead came to rest gently against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you. The rise and fall of his breathing guided your own, slowing the uneven rhythm that grief had imposed. His warmth surrounded you, cocooning you against the chill of sorrow that still lingered in your heart.

Cregan’s arm tightened slightly, his hand resting against your back as though shielding you from the weight of your pain. He didn’t speak or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He simply held you, his presence unshaken, offering quiet strength without demand or expectation.

He could feel the tension in your body, the stiffness that came from holding too much inside. The way you tensed against him spoke of the struggle to keep your grief contained, as though letting it spill out would unravel you completely. He wished he could take that weight from you, even for a moment, but he didn’t ask you to let it go. Instead, he held you tighter, his warmth enveloping you, a silent shield against the sorrow that pressed so heavily upon you.

After a long stretch of stillness, Cregan’s voice broke through the quiet. It was soft and low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. His words carried a thoughtfulness, the weight of a memory he had been holding close, now offered to you in the stillness of the night.

“I remember a time when I was a boy,” he began, his voice low and tinged with nostalgia. “It was a winter, much like this one. We were up in the mountains with my father. The cold was so sharp, so bitter, that even the wolves sought shelter in the trees.” He paused, his fingers gently tracing a slow, absent rhythm on your arm, as if anchoring himself in the memory. “We were hunting, tracking a stag, but my father—he always taught me that you don’t chase after something just because it’s there. You have to be patient. You wait for the right moment.”

His words hung in the air, deliberate and weighted, as though each one carried more than just a memory. It wasn’t about the hunt, or the bitter cold—it was about something deeper. About waiting. About endurance. About knowing that some things take time, even when the waiting feels unbearable, even when the pain seems endless.

You kept your gaze on him, watching as the memory unfolded in his eyes. It wasn’t just the words he spoke—it was the way he offered them, the quiet conviction in his tone. A simple story, yet it carried the quiet strength of patience and resilience, a lesson that reached beyond the moment. It wasn’t about fixing what was broken. It was about surviving. Enduring. And as you listened, you began to understand that this was a truth he had carried with him for a long time—a truth he was now sharing with you.

Cregan’s voice softened even further as he paused, the weight of his words settling into the quiet around you. His hand rested lightly against your back, steady and warm, as though trying to shield you from the storm of your thoughts. His gaze met yours for a moment, unflinching, before drifting away again as he spoke.

“I didn’t get it then, not fully,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, each word carefully chosen. “But now… now, I think I do.” He exhaled softly, his breath brushing gently against your face, the realization in his words carrying the weight of years. “There are moments in life that feel like they’ll break us. Moments where we feel like we’re lost, as though nothing we do will ever be enough. And in those moments, it’s not what we do to fix it that matters most. It’s how we endure. How we wait through the pain, knowing that, eventually, it will pass. It’s about having the patience to let the hurt come—and the patience to let it leave when it’s ready.”

Cregan’s next words came slowly, each one deliberate, heavy with the weight of his love and the quiet strength he offered. It was as though he were trying to bridge the chasm between your pain and his desire to hold you together, even in the brokenness that surrounded you.

“I won’t pretend to understand the full depth of your sorrow, or the weight that rests in your heart,” he said, his voice low and steady, thick with meaning. The tenderness in his tone was undeniable, each word chosen with care. “But I do know this—you are not carrying it alone.”

He paused, letting the words settle between you. They hung in the air like a fragile thread, something so delicate yet so vital, connecting the raw edges of your grief to the steadfastness of his presence. His gaze remained fixed on yours, unwavering, as though willing you to believe him.

“We are here together,” he continued, his voice softer now but no less certain. “And I’ll stay beside you through it all—no matter how long it takes, no matter how much time you need.”

As he spoke, his arm tightened around you, just enough to make his promise tangible, to emphasize the truth of his words. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t meant to erase the pain that clung to you so fiercely. But it was constant, unyielding—his presence a silent vow to remain with you, no matter the weight of the sorrow that bound you both to this moment.

You could feel the steadiness in his voice, the raw honesty behind each word. It wasn’t just a story he told—it was a promise, woven into the quiet strength of his presence. It was a reminder that grief, with all its weight and anguish, was not something you had to face alone. And though the journey through it would be long—perhaps longer than you could imagine right now—he would wait with you. Just as he had waited patiently that day in the mountains, not rushing the hunt but trusting that, in time, the right moment would come. Cregan understood the power of patience, the way it shaped everything, even in the darkest of times.

The warmth of his body and the quiet strength of his words began to settle in your chest, providing a fragile comfort amidst the storm of your grief. The ache didn’t vanish—it gnawed at you still, sharp and relentless, pulling at the edges of your heart. But his presence offered something more, something small yet significant: a sense that you didn’t have to face this alone. You were still broken, still lost in the enormity of everything you had endured, but in his arms, there was a flicker of solace. Not hope—not yet. But the smallest inkling that, with time, the pieces might begin to mend.

Cregan wouldn’t ask you to hurry through this pain. He wouldn’t demand anything you couldn’t give. He would wait beside you, steady and unwavering, until the day came when the ache didn’t feel so suffocating. He would wait for you to heal, not by rushing you forward but by standing with you through every difficult step.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself rest. You loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your grief, just enough to lean into him, to let his arms hold the weight you no longer could. In this moment, with him, you didn’t have to be strong. You didn’t have to understand what came next. You only had to exist, to breathe, and to trust that in the silence between you, the promise of healing was waiting, just like the moment Cregan had waited for in the mountains.

518 notes · View notes