#... with a penchant for angst I mean whAT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rootedinrevisions · 8 months ago

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Five Years

SUMMARY: Five years of friendship. Years of silent longing. One night that changes everything. When Tyler Owens, a charming, rugged man with a penchant for keeping things casual, finds himself at a crossroads with the woman he's secretly loved for years, he realizes he might have waited too long. After one too many moments where you've been left wanting more, you find yourself torn between the comfort of their deep connection and the pain of being stuck in the friend zone. Tyler has one last shot to show you that he’s not just the man you turn to in the hard moments—but the man who can make you believe in love, again.

A/N: Sorry for all the angsty Tyler lately! It's just been the mood/vibe lately so I've been rolling with it! Thanks to the person who sent this request in! I hope you like it!

PROMPT: "What was he doing back there? Flirting with you like he has a fucking chance?"

WARNINGS/TAGS: Angst.

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

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It’s late, the kind of quiet that comes when the night has softened everything into shadows. You and Tyler are back in the motel room, tangled together in bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arm drapes over you, and you’re curled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of whiskey lingers between you, mingling with the warmth of his skin, and you can still taste him faintly on your lips. Another night, another round of kisses exchanged under the dim motel lights, like something fragile and fleeting.

He stirs, his hand brushing along your back, and you wonder if he’s on the edge of sleep or just drifting in that space in between like you are. For a moment, you’re tempted to ask him the question that’s always on the tip of your tongue: What are we doing?

Instead, you stay silent, breathing in sync with him, wondering if he can feel the way your heart skips each time he holds you like this. He shifts, drawing you a little closer, and you catch a glimpse of something in his expression—something soft, maybe even vulnerable. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly slurred. “You’re comfortable, right?” His hand rests at the curve of your hip, fingers grazing your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you.

You nod, managing a quiet, “Yeah. Always.” You know he’ll pretend he doesn’t remember this in the morning, brush it off like it’s nothing, and you’ll let him because it’s easier that way. But tonight, you can pretend a little too—that these quiet moments mean the same to him as they do to you.

You close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear, wondering how much longer you can keep pretending before you’re forced to admit the truth—to yourself, if not to him.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “So… I just found out I’m being inducted into the PBR Hall of Fame.”

You blink, lifting your head from his chest to look at him. A smile lights up your face. “Tyler, that’s amazing! I mean, I knew you were a big deal, but… Hall of Fame?”

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head with that familiar modesty. “Yeah, kinda crazy, huh? Guess all those years getting tossed around finally paid off.”

You laugh, knowing he’s downplaying it. You’ve seen some of those old videos, clips of him taking on bulls with more force and heart than anyone you’d ever met.

“No one deserves it more than you,” you say softly, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

A faint blush colors his cheeks as he looks away, and then, clearing his throat, he glances back at you.

“Thanks, means a lot,” he says, his voice softer. Then, after a moment, he adds, “Actually… I get a plus one to the induction ceremony. I was thinking maybe you’d want to come with me?”

Your heart skips at that. He doesn’t even pause to consider anyone else; he’s asking you. For a moment, you feel a surge of excitement that maybe this is more than just a friendly invite. But just as quickly, doubt seeps in. If he had a girlfriend, he’d take her, wouldn’t he? A familiar ache settles in your chest, the quiet reminder that maybe this is just about convenience for him.

“Are you sure?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, and casual. “I mean, you could take anyone.”

He glances at you with a soft smile, his eyes sincere. “Nah. Can’t think of anyone better. You’d come, right?”

The words are on the tip of your tongue—Of course, I’ll go.

Instead, you hesitate, just for a second, wondering if this is just a placeholder invitation until he finds someone to fill the spot he’s never openly said he wants to be filled. But you can’t bear the thought of missing the moment, so you nod, managing a smile. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

He grins, pulling you back into his chest, and you settle against him, feeling the warmth of his arm around you. But even as you breathe him in, letting the steady beat of his heart calm you, a question begins to take root in your mind. Where do we really stand, Tyler?

It’s a question you keep to yourself, swallowing it down as you close your eyes and listen to the silence settle around you once again.

* * * * *

The ballroom buzzed with energy and anticipation, and you could sense the excitement radiating from Tyler beside you. The event space was elegantly decorated, with every table set with crystal glasses and gleaming silverware. But you hardly noticed any of it; all your focus was on Tyler. This was his night. And you were honored to be here with him, even if you didn’t quite know what that meant for the two of you.

You eventually found your way to your seats near the front of the room, and Tyler’s hand brushed against yours as you sat down. His fingers lingered just a moment, a subtle contact that sent a rush of warmth up your arm.

Before you could say anything, the lights dimmed as the emcee took to the stage, announcing the start of the ceremony. The audience fell quiet, and Tyler’s hand was warm on your knee, a comforting weight that made your heart race. You glanced down at his hand, then back up to his face, wondering if he even realized the effect he had on you.

A part of you wanted to reach for his hand again, to close the gap between you both once and for all, but you stayed still, holding your breath as the ceremony began.

As the awards were announced one by one, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Tyler. He seemed to sit straighter with each name called, his eyes never leaving the stage. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the emcee announced Tyler’s name, and the room burst into applause. You clapped the loudest, your heart swelling with pride.

You watched as Tyler walked to the stage, his stride steady and confident, shoulders back with that natural charisma he carried wherever he went. When he accepted his award, he stood there with his plaque, his gaze scanning the crowd until it landed on you. The spotlight hit his face, highlighting the small, crooked smile you knew so well. And his eyes—dark, intense, focused on you—seemed to say something unspoken.

You felt your breath catch, frozen under his gaze, and for a second, it was like you were the only two people in the room.

His acceptance speech was simple and heartfelt. He thanked the people who had been there with him through the highs and lows. He spoke of long, hard days, the sacrifices he’d made, and the passion that drove him. But you could’ve sworn that when he mentioned his gratitude for “the people who kept him grounded,” his eyes found you once again.

As Tyler wrapped up his speech and made his way back to his seat, you barely had a chance to process the pride you felt for him, for everything he’d accomplished. But that brief moment when he’d looked at you on stage lingered in your mind, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Could it have meant something more?

He sat back down next to you, and you leaned over, unable to keep the smile from your face. “That was incredible, Ty. I’m so proud of you.”

He looked at you, a soft chuckle escaping as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks. I think I might’ve fumbled a little bit up there.”

“Not even close,” you replied, squeezing his arm. “You were perfect.”

The atmosphere at the afterparty was more relaxed, a contrast to the formality of the ceremony.

The room buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, everyone here to celebrate the achievements of legends, past and present. You’re standing beside Tyler, trying to blend into the background of the room’s energy. But then, without warning, Tyler reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours before intertwining them completely. It’s such a small gesture, but it sends a rush of warmth through you. He glances at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment, almost as if he’s silently asking if this is okay, if you’re okay. You squeeze his hand, hoping he’ll understand that, yes, this is more than okay.

“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he says, his voice low and soft. He leads you through the crowd toward a man with a broad smile and lines etched deep around his eyes—Tyler’s old mentor. Tyler introduces you with a genuine warmth that makes you feel like you belong here, like you’re not just an accessory to his big night but someone he wants by his side.

As they begin chatting, Tyler’s hand drifts to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into your hip as he pulls you closer, fitting you against his side. You feel a warmth blossom in your chest, and for a moment, the nagging doubts you’d been harboring vanish. His mentor jokes about old times, and Tyler laughs, giving your waist a small squeeze as if to share the moment with you. You let yourself lean into him, letting his warmth melt away the walls you’d tried to build around your heart.

But then, as the conversation comes to a close, he lets go. Just like that, his hand falls from your waist, and he takes a step back, sliding his hands into his pockets, a casual smile on his face. He glances around the room, no longer focused on you, and the sudden distance sends a chill down your spine. You’re standing side by side, but the connection feels fractured, like a missed beat. He begins walking next to you, his attention now elsewhere, no hand-holding, no gentle touches to keep you close.

Half an hour later you’re standing next to Tyler, trying to stay engaged with the conversation he’s having with an old friend he used to ride with, someone who knows a side of him you’ve only heard about in stories. Tyler’s posture is easy, his laugh warm and unguarded in a way that you rarely get to see. You watch him as he reminisces, letting yourself get lost in the sound of his laughter, in the way his eyes light up with a spark of the past. But as they continue to talk, it becomes clear that he’s in his own world, like you’re not even there.

The laughter between them grows, each memory shared drawing them further back into the years before you knew him. You shift your weight, feeling a slight ache in your chest as you realize just how separate you feel from this part of his life. A sense of loneliness creeps in, one you can’t shake, and you find yourself glancing toward the bar. Maybe a drink will help dull the sting.

You start to turn, your heart heavy, but just then, you feel Tyler’s hand reach out, his fingers wrapping gently around yours. The touch is so familiar, so comforting, and for a brief second, that hopeful warmth flickers back to life.

You glance over your shoulder, catching his eye, a hint of something unreadable there.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter, as if trying to break through to you despite the noise around.

You swallow, forcing a smile to cover the twinge of sadness that’s growing in your chest. “Yeah,” you say softly, nodding toward the bar. “Just thirsty. Thought I’d grab a drink.”

He nods, giving your hand a slight squeeze before letting go, turning back to his friend with that easy laugh that now feels like a barrier you can’t quite cross. You turn away, your heart sinking as you walk toward the bar, feeling the absence of his hand like a chill creeping over your skin. You can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment that settles heavy and cold. Just moments ago, he was intertwining your fingers, holding you close with his hand on your waist, like you were more than just a companion for the night.

How did it change so quickly? How did he go from holding you, grounding you with those intimate touches, to leaving you in this limbo of almost but not quite? You realize that, despite how much he means to you, there’s a line between you that he doesn’t seem ready to cross. And that thought hurts more than you want to admit.

You’re leaning against the bar, lost in thought, when a voice breaks through the noise, smooth and warm. “Hey there. You look like you could use some company.”

You glance up to find a guy with a charming grin and a relaxed confidence that’s instantly disarming. He extends a hand. “Eli Vastbinder,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

For a moment, you’re taken off guard, but you shake his hand and introduce yourself, motioning to where Tyler’s standing in the distance. “I’m here with Tyler Owens.”

At the mention of Tyler’s name, a flicker of something—maybe disappointment, maybe surprise—crosses Eli’s face before he recovers his smile. “Owens, huh? How do you know the Tornado Wrangler?”

You can’t help but laugh at the nickname, feeling some of the tension ease as you explain. “We work together. I help him run his YouTube channel.”

Eli’s gaze shifts from Tyler back to you, a curious glint in his eye as if he’s sizing up the situation. He doesn’t linger on it for long, though, before flashing you a daring smile. “So, just coworkers, huh? In that case, you wouldn’t mind if I bought you a drink?”

The question lingers, sparking a twist of hesitation in your chest. You glance over at Tyler, hoping for some kind of sign, some acknowledgment of what you’re feeling. Your eyes meet his, and he offers you a casual smile before turning his attention back to his friend. The moment leaves you cold—another reminder of all the times he’s pulled you close, only to leave you feeling as if you’re just out of reach.

You turn back to Eli, a decision settling in your mind. Tyler isn’t claiming you. He never has. And he’s had five years to do so.

You give Eli a small smile. “Sure, why not?”

Eli’s grin widens as he orders your drink, leaning in just slightly as he asks about your work with Tyler. He’s charming, effortlessly making you feel seen and appreciated. There’s a warm intensity in his gaze, like he’s genuinely interested in hearing about your life, in learning the pieces of you that Tyler seems to take for granted. You laugh at his jokes, leaning in as he tells stories about the crazy things he’s seen on the road. Every so often, his hand brushes yours, sending a little thrill through you—like something you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in far too long.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel the weight lifting from your shoulders. There’s no ambiguity with Eli; his attention is clear, unburdened by mixed signals or unspoken boundaries. It’s refreshing, exciting, even, to be the center of someone’s focus without second-guessing their intentions.

You glance over at Tyler once more, but he’s still wrapped up in conversation, seemingly unaware of the ache you’ve carried alone. A part of you wants him to notice, to see what’s happening, to finally feel the urgency you’ve held onto for years. But there’s another part of you that’s finished waiting.

As you turn back to Eli, you find yourself smiling, the kind of smile that feels like letting go.

You’re laughing at something Eli just said, a relaxed warmth in your chest that’s been missing around Tyler lately, when you feel a familiar presence behind you. You glance back, and there he is—Tyler, wearing that easy smile that’s disarmed you a hundred times before. He leans close, his hand slipping around your waist, fingers warm and possessive against your hip. “Hey there, darlin’,” he greets, the pet name rolling off his tongue as naturally as the smirk tugging at his lips.

But Tyler doesn’t stop there. His gaze shifts to Eli, assessing him for a beat, and then extends a hand. “I see you’ve met my date,” he says, voice casual but with a certain edge, like a claim staked.

You freeze, glancing up at him, surprised and confused by his sudden assertiveness. Eli’s expression mirrors your own—slightly perplexed, eyebrows lifting as he takes Tyler’s hand and shakes it firmly. His eyes flicker back to you, questioning. “Date? I thought you two were just coworkers,” he remarks, eyes shifting meaningfully to Tyler’s hand, still resting on your hip.

Before you can answer, Tyler lets out a dismissive scoff, as if the notion of you two being “just coworkers” is absurd. “Coworkers?” he echoes, his hand tightening just a fraction. “Yeah, we’re a little closer than that.” He shoots a look at you that’s both playful and possessive.

You feel your blood simmer, heat rising in your chest at the presumption in his tone. As if you’re some claim he can lay when it’s convenient, without any real commitment. You step out of his grip, your voice firm as you say, “We are just coworkers.” The words come out sharper than you intend, but you don’t soften them.

Tyler’s smile falters, his brow furrowing, but you’ve already turned away, excusing yourself quickly to Eli before slipping out toward the exit.

Humiliation washes over you, prickling your skin as you push through the crowd, needing fresh air, needing space. You had been enjoying a perfectly nice conversation with Eli, feeling appreciated and even flattered, until Tyler decided to swoop in and turn the moment into something possessive and confusing.

As you reach the hallway, you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. Tears blur your vision, and you blink them back, furious with yourself for letting Tyler get to you like this. You’re tired—tired of being in his orbit only when he wants you to be, of being treated as something more only when it suits him. Because heaven forbid another guy notices you.

The hallway is quiet, save for the soft murmur of voices drifting from the ballroom as you stand there, waiting for the elevator. The moment stretches, tense and thick, when you hear his footsteps behind you, his voice calling your name.

You don’t turn around. “Tyler… don’t.” The plea is barely above a whisper, but he ignores it, closing the distance between you, his face etched with frustration.

“What was he doing back there?” he asks, motioning down the hall toward the ballroom, his tone hard, possessive. “Flirting with you like he has a chance?”

Your heart twists painfully at his words. His tone says it all—like he assumes you’re his, like it’s obvious. Like you should know.

But you’re done with the assumptions. The words spill out before you can stop them, thick with months, years, of unspoken hurt. “And why would you care, Tyler?” Your voice cracks, and you feel the first tear slip down your cheek, quickly followed by another. “It’s not like we’re together, right? You said it yourself—we’ll never be anything more than friends. We’re just…” You falter, searching for the right words, but the truth tumbles out, raw and painful. “We’re just really close, and we make out sometimes. Nothing more.”

The weight of it hangs in the air, and you can see the impact of your words in the way his face falls, his expression softening, regretful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out, but you shake your head, a mix of anger and sadness bubbling to the surface.

“No, Tyler.” You step back, keeping the space between you. “I’m done. I’m done with this… with you.” Your voice shakes, but the conviction is there, clear and sharp. “I’m done not being good enough. Done being yours only when you want someone on your arm or in your bed. I can’t keep doing this.” You wipe a tear from your cheek, gathering whatever strength you have left. “I’m done with everything. Our friendship. The channel. All of it.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with a quiet chime. You glance back at him one last time, taking in the hurt and confusion in his eyes.

“Go back to the party, Tyler. It’s your night. You deserve it.”

You step into the elevator, pressing the button as the doors start to close. The last thing you see before they shut is him standing there, looking lost and completely, utterly alone.

Back in the quiet solitude of the hotel room, you feel the emotions from the hallway encounter with Tyler crash over you. It’s almost overwhelming, but you shake your head, determined to focus on the immediate task. You kick off your heels and reach for the zipper at the back of your dress, letting it slide down as the gown falls in a pool around your feet. You step out of it, scooping it up to drape over the chair, and head to your bag, ready to change and leave before you can overthink it.

Digging through your clothes, you pull out the first shirt, but frustration prickles at you when you realize it’s one of Tyler’s. With an annoyed huff, you toss it on the bed. You dig deeper, pulling out another… his again. Why didn’t I pack more of my own clothes? you think bitterly, remembering that his shirts have been your usual comfort, your routine.

Finally, you find one of your own t-shirts and pull it on, then slide into a pair of jeans. You run a hand over your face, taking a deep breath to keep yourself from falling apart, and open your suitcase, methodically folding the rest of your things and stowing them away. As you pack, a plan begins to form, each step sounding clearer in your mind. You’ll finish packing, get a car downstairs to a nearby hotel for the night, and fly back tomorrow. It might be an awkward plane ride home, but you’ll put in headphones, turn away, and then… you’ll walk away from Tyler James Owens for good.

With your bag nearly ready, you look around the room one last time, eyes falling on the small pile of his things on the bed. His shirts, the ones you’ve wrapped yourself in so many times, now just reminders of all the blurred lines that never became anything real. You turn away, inhaling deeply to steady yourself, willing the resolve to carry you through whatever comes next.

You reach for the handle of your suitcase, ready to walk out of Tyler’s life for good, when the hotel room door opens behind you. Your heart races, and for a second you want to pretend you don’t notice him there, but when you turn, his expression says he’s already figured out exactly what’s happening. His eyes drop to the half-packed suitcase, then back to your face. His look of confusion shifts into something desperate.

“Please,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, almost raw. “Please, stay. We can talk about this. Just… don’t leave. Not like this.”

You shake your head, fighting the tears that are already building again. “Tyler, I’m done,” you say, your voice trembling. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me, either. You keep me close enough to feel like there’s something between us, but it’s never anything more. It’s just not fair anymore.”

You curse under your breath, blinking hard as the tears spill over. You don’t want him to see you like this—vulnerable, broken, hurt. Swallowing back a sob, you start to walk past him, head held high even as you feel yourself shattering. Just as your hand reaches for the door, he says it. Those three words you’ve been waiting for, holding onto, for what feels like forever.

“I love you.”

It stops you cold, and you stand there, hand frozen on the doorknob, not sure if you actually heard him or if it’s just some desperate wish in your mind. But then he speaks again.

“I love you,” he repeats, his voice steady, almost pleading. “And if you love me—if you can still love me—then I’m asking you to stay and just… hear me out. But if you’re done with me, really done, and I’ve already lost you… then go.”

The silence hangs between you, thick and charged. You turn slowly, meeting his gaze, and there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Vulnerability, sincerity, something real and unguarded. He’s finally opened himself up, given you the one thing you’ve been longing to hear, but the choice to stay or leave is yours.

Your chest tightens as you search his face, feeling the weight of all the years, the almosts, the near-misses, the longing. He stands there, his hands clenched at his sides, waiting, as if he’s holding his breath.

“You… really love me?” you whisper, the words barely audible.

“Yes,” he breathes, stepping toward you, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I just… didn’t know how to show it, and I was afraid if I did, you’d walk away. But losing you… that’s the one thing I’m really afraid of.”

You take a shaky breath, looking into his eyes, feeling every bit of his honesty, and for the first time, he’s offering you everything, without conditions, without holding back. The pain and hurt are still there, but as he waits, the tears in his own eyes now, you feel something else rising to the surface—a glimmer of hope.

The words are out before you can stop them.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Tyler steps forward, his eyes searching yours as if trying to understand the storm inside you. He reaches up, hesitantly at first, as though unsure if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, his hands gently cup your face, his touch warm and grounding. His thumbs swipe at the tears still streaking down your cheeks, wiping them away as if he can erase all the pain he’s caused with one simple gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I’m so sorry. For not telling you sooner, for not making a move sooner… for making you feel like you don’t matter. For making you cry. You deserve so much more than that.”

You’re frozen, his words sinking deep into the cracks of your heart that you didn’t even know were there. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, a silent apology that speaks louder than anything else could.

He takes a deep breath, his voice low but sincere. “I know I’ve messed up, but I’m asking… can you give me another chance? To do it right this time? To take you on a real date, to buy you flowers, to tell the world that you’re mine… to be proud to have you by my side. I want to do this right, with you. Will you give me one more chance?”

The weight of his words hangs between you, and you feel the walls you’ve built around your heart begin to crack. He’s standing there, fully exposed, offering you everything he’s held back for so long. The room feels smaller, the air thicker as you look into his eyes, where you see nothing but vulnerability and hope.

You swallow hard, emotions warring inside you. You’ve wanted this—wanted him—to say it, to fight for you. And now that he is, you’re not sure whether to run or to stay. But as you stand there, feeling the sincerity in his touch and his words, something shifts. The hurt, the confusion, the loneliness—it all starts to unravel, replaced by a flicker of something new: hope.

You take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper, but clear enough for him to hear. “Last chance, Owens.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but it’s softer, more relieved than triumphant. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Instead, he just pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a hug that’s full of promise, the kind that says he’s never letting you go. And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe him.

You stand there, still in his arms, the weight of his words sinking in. The tension that had built up over the last few days—hell, the last few years—seems to fade away in that moment. Tyler’s hands are warm on your back, his arms strong around you as if he’s holding on, not just to you, but to everything that was between you two. His breath is steady, the pulse in his chest calming yours. He doesn’t let go, not yet. You don’t want him to.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. There’s no need to. Words were said, the hurt was aired out, and now, the only thing left is the silence between you—a silence that feels like the promise of something better, something real.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze soft, full of regret and hope. His thumb brushes against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears. "I meant every word," he says quietly, his voice steady but raw. "Thank you for giving me this chance."

You nod, feeling something inside you shift, finally able to let go of the heaviness that had been pulling at you for far too long. You offer him a small smile, your fingers brushing his lightly as you give him a gentle squeeze.

He exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Hey…” His voice is quieter now, almost like he's considering his next words carefully. "How about we skip the rest of the party downstairs? We can grab some pizza, put on a movie, just... relax in here."

You glance at him, surprised by the suggestion, but something about the simplicity of it feels perfect. You nod, the corners of your mouth lifting into a genuine smile. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

Tyler’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. “Good. Go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll order the pizza. Whatever you want.”

You feel a sudden sense of relief wash over you. It’s not just the break from the chaos of the night, but the quiet, intimate comfort of knowing that it’s just the two of you, no expectations, no pressure.

Tyler watches you for a moment, his smile softening as he watches you dig through your suitcase for something comfortable. You pull out a pair of sweatpants, replacing your jeans, and as you move to crawl onto the bed, he’s already a step ahead of you.

Before you can sit down, he reaches for the bottom of your t-shirt, pulling it up over your head. You freeze, giving him a confused look, about to protest. "Tyler, I’m really not in the mood—"

He cuts you off with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Not like that," he says, his voice teasing but warm. "Trust me, I’m not asking for anything like that."

Your brow furrows slightly in confusion, but Tyler doesn’t give you a chance to dwell on it. Instead, he reaches down into your suitcase and pulls out one of the t-shirts you had tossed aside earlier—one of his shirts. He holds it out to you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Here,” he says, “put this one on instead.”

You take the shirt from him, still a little baffled. “What’s wrong with my other shirt?”

Tyler grins, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He steps closer, leaning down slightly as if he’s about to let you in on a secret.

“Because it’s not your boyfriend’s,” he says, his voice low and almost teasing. “If you’re gonna be my girl, you wear my shirt to bed.”

A smile tugs at your lips, and you can’t help but feel a flutter in your chest. It’s the little things like this—the small gestures, the inside jokes, the way he’s already making you feel like you belong—that make the tension from earlier seem a little less heavy.

You slip the shirt on, and Tyler's eyes soften when he sees you in it, the way it fits just right, the way it looks like it belongs on you. You glance up at him as you finish adjusting it, your voice quieter now, full of warmth. “This better for you, boyfriend?”

"Yes." He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "I think you look pretty damn perfect in it."

You laugh softly, and for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened earlier melts away, leaving you with nothing but the quiet comfort of his presence. You sit down on the bed, pulling the blankets up and patting the spot beside you. "So, pizza and movies?"

Tyler nods, settling in beside you, having traded his tuxedo for sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hand finds its way to yours as he lets out a contented sigh. "Sounds like the perfect way to spend the night."

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like things are exactly where they need to be.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens x reader #Tyler Owens x you #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction

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julielovesstars · 16 days ago

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Bad idea right? (Fred Weasley)

Summary: Y/n was sick of being chased by Miles Brown and decides to take drastic measure kissing Fred Weasley in the middle of the quidditch field, when this isn't convincing enough Fred offers her a mutually beneficial deal, what consequences can fake dating Fred Weasley really bring?

Warnings: kissing, angst, cute behavior

Word count: 10.1k (started writing and couldn't stop apparently)

(Not my GIF :))

Having basically grown up alongside the Wealseys wasn’t always easy- half the time it led to injuries, arguments and being covered in dirt, howevergbfv it did also mean buckets of laugher, inside jokes and always knowing you had someone that cared.

Your parents both worked at the ministry of magic in different departments, your father an aura and your mother near the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They both enjoyed working alongside Arthur Weasley, your parents met Molly and Arthur whilst they were all still at Hogwarts and stayed close since.

This was indeed ideal when they were both busy whizzing around running the wizarding world, and you were half living at the burrow. Most of the summer was spent helping out Molly in the mornings, playing quidditch in the afternoon and evenings filled either playing board games with all the kids in the house or trying to find some peace with Hermione and Ginny in her room.

Now however the chill was starting to creep into the world, leaves were starting to give signs that winter was upon as we boarded in early October. Hermoine, Ginny and I were stood in the Gryffindor stand watching the first quidditch game of the year, Gryffindor against Hufflepuff. As of forty-five minutes into the game we were winning by about 125 points.

“He was asking about you again,” Hermione’s voice finds me, and I find myself dying a little more inside, hand covering my eyes.

“I actually cannot even stand to think about him right now, can we just enjoy the game?” I begged genuinely. If I had to think about Miles Brown again, I would explode. Hermonie just gave me a sympathetic smile and faced back towards the field.

We won!

Harry caught the snitch so swiftly the other team didn’t stand a chance. The twins high fived so hard that George nearly fell off his wand as the cheers in the stand erupted. The excitement in the air palpable, a huge smile found its way onto my face. We all hugged before running down to the congratulate the team.

It wasn’t long before Fred just couldn’t help but strike a nerve. He had always been like this, had to be right all the time. It was enough that his penchant for mischievous and alluring energy already attracted everyone’s attention, he needed more.

“Oh God here they go again,” Ron said rolling his eyes, before pulling Harry towards the changing rooms. Ginny shot me a smile before saying she needs to ask professor McGonagle something before she got back to the castle and pulled Hermione away.

“You were distracted,” I stated simply crossing my arms.

“I was not,”

“You could’ve prevented that one score if you’d haven’t been too busy look around the stands, don’t worry Freddie your whole little fan club was there,” I say before turning to his brother, “George, can you tell him I’m right,”.

“Quite frankly I just want a hot shower and to not listen to you guys bickering,” he said with a fake smile and walked off in the direction of changing rooms as Fred tapped him hand on my head a few times.

“There, there simmer that temper down quidditch expert,”

Exasperated with his actions you continued to bicker about who was right, of course it was you but the boy was too proud to admit it, but deep inside you knew he knew you were right. Yet, him admitting it would give just the perfect amount of satisfaction.

That’s when you saw him, Miles Brown, 6th year Gryffindor, same year as the twins, coming straight towards you.

“Oh for fu-” you murmured to yourself.

“What was that Y/n?” Fred put a hand against his ear leaning towards me mockingly, “I’m right? I knew you’d come to that conclusion, you’re smart after all” the smirk painted on his face made what I was about to do so much worse the cheeky git.

“Y/n!” Miles’ voice boomed as he neared.

Fred went to turn his head towards the noise, but I took a deep breath whilst simultaneously reaching my hands to his neck and pulling him towards me, crashing my lips into his.

For a second he didn’t move, frozen. Then the next second his hands snaked around my waist, his bat and broom long forgotten, dropped onto the floor of the quidditch pitch. His lips moving against mine in ease.

Then I was pulling away from him, eyes immediately shooting back to where Miles stood, now frozen, quickly turning to go when I spotted him staring, he ran a hand through his hair as he sped up.

“Look that was hot and what not but if you’re in love with me you could have just-” Fred started saying, now too running a hand through his hair, a sly grin on his face.

“Shut it,” I said punching him in the arm, hard.

A small ‘ouch’ escaped him as he immediately went to soothe the spot. How could he forget that I did in fact learn to fight from him.

“Miles Brown bothering you?” he asked, his gaze following mine.

I sighed, my fingers running laps over my nape, the wind started picking up, “He’s a lovely guy don’t get me wrong, but he is not my type at all, and he just won’t get the hint,”

“And you thought this would help?” he asked and then very quickly added “Not that I mind I know everyone wants a chance to kiss me,” as if he was running out of air.

I rolled my eyes at him, “Tone the charm down Weasley, your fan club is waiting back at the castle,” I said, then with some guilt, “I just had to take an extreme measure, I’ve verbally rejected the guy three times since we started term, a month ago,”. That’s not even considering the many times in the last couple of weeks last semester.

I had been trying, really hard, to be nice, to let him down gently, and whilst this was a push it was better than me finally losing my shit and frustratingly screaming it at him, no?

“Ouch. For him this time,” he conveys picking his belongings off the floor, “that’s what you get when you have no class,” he shrugs his shoulders.

“And you think you have class?” I ask with mocking concern.

He looks back offended, “I am very charming.”

“Yeah whatever, never bring this up again or I’ll tell the whole school about that one time you-”

Before I could even finish the sentence he interrupted, “You’re telling me you’re not going to kiss me again, and here I was counting down the minutes,” he thought he was being funny, but he wasn’t.

“Never happening again,” I stated seriously, “and go shower, you stink,” I added pulling a face, he pulled one right back.

“You’re welcome by the way!” he shouts as I start ambling back up towards the castle.

“Thanks for being useful for once!” I called back without turning, I could imagine him lifting up his middle finger up at my back.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next evening, I was sat in the library hiding away in the very corner near the restricted area, Pince, the librarian, trusted me for some reason to not do anything stupid. I had five essays due in beginning of next week and so far have done half of one, having missed my study session with Hermoine to escape Miles. That girl was my personal coach, everything would get done in the designated time she assigned. I didn’t need her help with the content, I knew how to do it but my tendency to get distracted was phenomenal.

However, my peace was interrupted. I heard footsteps approaching and a shadow forming as the person’s frame neared. I knew who it was before looking up. Fred came over twisting the chair beside mine, so the back faced me, he sat down bracing both his arms as he leaned close.

“Your plan didn’t work quite as well as you wanted it huh?” his voice was gloating. Miles spent most the day talking to all my girl friends trying to figure out what the kiss between Fred and I meant and if he would still be able to ask me to be his date to the Yule Ball. I wanted to mentally smack my head against a table.

“What does he think it was? Some kind of freak accident that we were snogging in the middle of the quidditch field?” I could hear the agitation in my voice, which I knew meant Fred was about to challenge everything I was saying.

“I mean it kinda was” Fred said, “Okay keep those dagger eyes away from me woman,” he raised his hands as if in surrender.

I threw my head back closing my eye, squishing them shut as much as possible.

“Hoping that it was all a dream and when you open your eyes it won’t be true?” Fred kept talking, he always did, unfortunately this time he was right.

“Look I’ll make you a deal,” he introduces the idea, “I’ll be your fake boyfriend, so he leaves you alone,” he explains putting the offer on the table.

A million different reasons for him to do this shot through my mind and none were good, was he planning on embarrassing me somehow? Was he just doing this so he could have the gloating right for the rest of our lives, so he could make sure I would never be free of the thought?

“You just want to kiss me again admit it,” I prompted.

He laughed out loud harshly, “Your kissinf was passable at best, I on the other hand have never received a bad review” he retorted smugly.

“Whatever, what do you get out of this?” I asked cleverly.

“You’re not the only one with admirers right,” he said righteously, “I’m sick of all of the girls in the years below chasing behind me like I’m some kind of puppy,”

“You’re not cute enough for that,”

“You’ve literally seen the amount of girls that try to get with me,” he exclaimed sassily. This was weirdly true, I know most girls always fall for the class clown, it wasn’t like Fred was even trying, he was just going about his life as he would if there wasn’t goggling girls all around, because this is exactly how he acted at the burrow too.

“I meant to be a puppy, I love puppies, you are nowhere near cute enough to be compared to one,”. Fred was not bad looking, and he was funny- sometimes, but I could never admit that to him out loud, someone had to humble him or his head would be too big to get through any door.

“Okay whatever, I tried to help you,” he said going to stand up.

“Wait,” I took a hold his arm and pulled him back to sitting down, “This is a bad idea right?” I asked already knowing the answer.

Fred’s head turned sideways, his fiery hair sitting just right, “I thrive on bad ideas and excel in bad situations,” he boasted.

Eyes squinting I turned to face him, “Not something to be proud of,”

“This could be fun anyways,” he says, “we’re practically just pranking the entire school. Fools.” He says with his usual pre-prank glow, “Don’t be so serious, you’re much more fun when you’re up to no good,” he continued. He was right this could be really fun, to mess with everyone, and maybe get myself someone I actually want to go to the ball with.

“We tell no one,” he says winking then looking towards me expectantly, I dug my teeth in my bottom lip, “Let’s do it,” I agreed.

“Great, see you around fake girlfriend,” he said getting up and kissing my check before walking away.

I shook my head, this was going to either work out excellently or be absolutely awful. I then proceeded to focus on the homework returning to the dormitories no earlier than one in the morning only having completed two and a half essays.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

I wasn’t sure how we were going to break into this new pattern, especially in front of our friends, but it was stupid thinking Fred wouldn’t come up with some kind of theatrics to make a scene. Sitting in the great hall for breakfast with Hermione, Ginny, Ron and Harry when the Weasley’s owl flew down in front of me dropping a small box.

Confusion wasn’t just painted on my face but all of ours. Miles also looked eagerly from a couple of seats down.

As soon as he realised what it was, a box of expensive looking chocolates, Ron reached for the box, “Stupid owl can’t even deliver mail to the right person,” Ron cursed.

“Wait!” Hermione exclaimed seeing the bottom of the box, a note was stuck there in questionable handwriting.

‘Y/n, the biggest pain in the ass, but a great kisser’

I could feel my entire face turning red as Hermione read it out, I bit the inside of my cheeks. I was going to kill Fred Weasley it was confirmed.

With an even more confused face and also slight disgust Ron passed the box to me, Ginny and Hermione next to me were gushing having been asked by Miles if a certain rumour was true but did not have the time to ask me last night.

I opened the box to find an assortment of chocolates in the shape of hearts.

Then a hand from behind was grabbing one, I turned around to see Fred plopping it into his mouth, “What?” he said after he swallowed, “I did pay for these I deserve at least one,” he argued. Immediately Harry and Ron’s faces look mortified, more than when they saw the note, Hermione and Ginny trying to hide smiles.

Fred kissed my cheek and sat down next to me reaching for the bread and butter. “Since we share DNA does that mean I also technically paid for them so also get one?” George asked as he sat down opposite Fred.

“Hang on a second are you trying to tell me that you two have…” Ron started as if his brain was lagging behind.

“From the note seems more than once,” Ginny egged on.

I realise all of the sudden that I was in a state of shock and had no spoken since the mysterious package had arrived at the table.

“You sure knew how to break the news,” I said sounding borderline sarcastic.

“Just wanted everyone to know how great of a kisser you are and that unfortunately they will not get to experience it,” he said just a tad too loud to make sure Miles could hear.

Whilst slightly awkward everyone seemed to settle into their own conversations, Miles looked over every couple of minutes, until it was time to head to first lesson.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered to Fred as he settled him arm around my shoulder, we headed towards the exit of the great hall.

“I’m being a good fake boyfriend,” he said, “Was actually gonna kiss you but thought Ron might yack over the food,” he laughed.

I just looked up at him, somehow, I never realised how much taller than me Fred actually was, I was like the perfect height for him to lean against me.

“Take it down a notch or no one is going to believe this real, no one acts like this,” I said.

“You’ve never seen Fred Weasley in a relationship so you don’t know what I act like,” he said in a matter of fact, “right I’ve got potions see you later,” he said normal volume again kissing the top of my head before messing up my hair with his hand and heading the other way.

I turned to see Hermione looking at me expectantly, Harry and Ron had already walked ahead, I took a deep breath to prepare myself for a series of questions.

“So why did I not know about this?” she asked pointedly.

I revert to the story Fred and I decided on, “Uh, it’s very fresh, you knew we talked more towards the end of the summer but it wasn’t anything like that until the other week when I came down to the common room cause I couldn’t sleep and he was there working on something for the shop,” I explained.

“Let me guess you guys had a row and then finally had this super romantic kiss?” she asked hopefully, who knew Hermione was such a hopeless romantic.

I shook my head slightly, “sure something like that,” I conveyed, she waited for me to continue, “We sat on the sofa when he said he’d do something stupid and I of course said he wouldn’t and he said I had to give him something if he did… and then he did it,” I said, “then he kissed me and you know,” I trailed off.

It felt awful lying to her, she was my number one friend and has been since we started at Hogwarts but this was for the greater good I had to believe that. My mental wellbeing was on the line, I don’t know how much longer I could’ve coped with Miles chasing me around. At first Hermione and I thought it was sweet but not anymore, now he was like a pest, and he made sure to be everywhere.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A couple of days later we were all gathered in the common room on Saturday afternoon getting on with our own stuff and just chatting. Fred was sat in one corner of the sofa, having spotted Miles he pulled me down next to him, pulling my legs over his lap, running his fingers over them.

Hermione and I started discussing the homework for arithmancy whilst Fred, George and Lee were talking about the next quidditch game and the strategy against Ravenclaw who seemed to have a basically all new team.

“This is sickening, when will it stop,” Ron burst out pointing to Fred and I

Fred chuckled, “Listen Ron, if you ever actually manage to get a girl interested, you’ll understand,” he said and then added in a whisper “you’ll never want to get your hands off her,”

I smacked his arm but it only made him and his friends laugh more.

“Please tell me you won’t be doing this at the house too,” Ron pleaded. With the look in his eyes I wanted to reassure him that it was going to be fine, we would only be keeping this up long enough to get to the Yuke ball, that everything would return to normal at the burrow.

“Shut up Ron, mum is so excited,” Ginny perked up from where she was sat with her boyfriend at one of the tables.

Brilliant, I did not know Molly knew about this, it was silly thinking Ginny wouldn’t let her know, what the hell were we going to say to her when we were through with this plan. Ginny had confided in me two years ago that her mum was secretly hoping I’d end up with one of her sons, ideally one of the ones that has some sort of life plan. It seemed silly to us then as I pretend yacked making us both giggle, and it still seemed silly now, however I did have to admit the two oldest Weasley brothers were not bad looking, damn the age gap.

We then played a couple rounds of card games, Mr Weasley recently acquired some muggle playing cards and Hermione taught us a couple of games, I actually quite liked the fact that they were much more boring and less destructive than games like wizard chess.

At some point two giggly girls from our year came walking past, “Hi Fred, hi George,” they said in unison waving their fingers at the twins.

“I’m here too girls,” Lee added as they had already passed.

Fred looked at me smugly, “Told you,”, so I elbowed him and gave him a wide, toothy grin as if it were an accident.

“Don’t be jealous love,” he said getting really close to me face, eyes shifting to my lips then back to his cards.

A couple of minutes later we watched Miles walk out of the room his head hung low.

Fred and I separated a little without it seeming too suspicious, Ron actually ended up winning most of the different games, a proud look on his face, his most favourite was ‘Go Fish’ which we all thought was a rather strange name for a card game, this made Harry and Hermione giggle. Fred, George and Lee suggested we create a magical version of the game with actual enchanted fish.

Not long later we were all making our way down to dinner, everyone seemed light-hearted and thankful that Hermione had planned a schedule for us to divide and complete our homework on Friday and Sunday so we could have a chill day today.

It was on the way back from dinner that he approached, Ginny, Hermione and I were talking about the latest edition of the Daily Prophet that once again managed to make up something ridiculous about Harry.

“Y/n hey,” he said fiddling with his hands, I looked up to meet his eyes green eyes, “I was wondering if you fancied a walk around the lake, I heard there’s loads of fireflies out recently,”.

I turned to look at my friends but seemingly Ginny had disappeared, Hermione looked sympathetic and turned around to talk to Harry and Ron. Brilliant. Thanks for the help girlies I thought to myself sarcastically.

“I was also meaning to ask, I know Fred isn’t a serious type of guy, and I can totally understand the pull towards him, he’s tall, funny, plays quidditch and from what I hear good at all kissing stuff” he stated “but I think we both know it’s not going to last,” he was walking alongside me, “I just think maybe you shouldn’t waste your time on something temporary when I’m here for the long-run,” he scratched his messy, blonde hair at this statement.

I shake my head at the absolute audacity, “You think I’m with Fred for what? Just so I can hook with him or something?” I couldn’t even believe that words that were coming out of my mouth. Part of me was offended, if I actually wanted to just snog with Fred Weasley I was good enough friends with him to just do it and not have to put a label on it. Not that I would. And not that I would ever just hook up with someone like a friends with benefits situation but still the point stands.

A panic strikes his features, “No no no, I didn’t mean that as an insult to you,” he quickly said.

“Brown I would appreciate it if you stopped discussing mine and Y/n’s sex life that’s a bit weird mate,” Fred said approaching laying an arm around my shoulder and kissing me, “but to satisfy your curiosity,” he starts after pulling away, “it’s fucking amazing- still I was the one begging for her to be with me not the other way around so get your facts straight,” he continues as we walked ahead.

“Stupid git,” Fred murmured when he was out of earshot, I just let out a laugh.

“How did you know I needed rescuing,”

“Ginny” he replied quickly looking down at me. Okay, I am no longer angry at her for abandoning me, “Merlin that guy is really non stop huh,”.

“But you’ve seriously got to stop telling people about our amazing intimacy life or I’ll have more guys like Miles chasing me, not that I’d blame them but-” I continued. Fred took the hand from around my shoulder to ruffle my hair and push my head away.

“George, Lee and I are gonna test some new fireworks later behind the lake if you wanna come,” he asked, he knew I loved fireworks, and whilst muggle ones were impressive wizard ones could not be beat, “get the others to come along too if you want,”. So that evening we snuck out from the common room wrapped up in warmer clothing. Even Hermione had a good time whilst breaking the rules.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A couple of weeks later Fred and I were coming back from Hogsmeade where we went on a totally romantic date that definitely wasn’t us being the biggest idiots and inconveniences ever, starting at the joke shop Fred ‘accidently’ set something off that caused the entire shop to smell like an old rotting shoe and ending at Three Broomsticks getting butter beer and sitting at the back making up fake stories about people.

As we stepped into the common room all the usual candles were lit, it having already been dark outside, the room only had a couple people in it. One hand was holding onto Fred’s the other holding a bag of sweets.

“Miles is here,” Fred whispered back to me, I had forgotten about him today, I looked around the room inconspicuously, he was sat at a desk reading some textbook.

I turned to watch Fred taking the bag out of my hand and putting it on the windowsill as he stepped closer to me, both hands on my waist, guiding me backward until I was against a doorframe. I smirked up at him shaking my head, I knew exactly what he was doing, and he was unfortunately pretty smooth about it which infuriated me further.

“He’s watching,” Fred whispered lowering his head to my ear, I turned to look but Fred’s other hand turned to stop my face turning.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered against my neck, the question made something in my stomach twist, unconsciously I turned my head slightly to give him more space whilst I nodded.

Fred’s lips brushed across the skin on my neck as he laid a simple kiss there, then another on my jaw, then one of his hands glided to my face getting me to face him. Then he was kissing me on the lips. It was nothing like the kiss on the field nor the time Brown was monologing at me in the corridor, not hurried, it was calm. Which was a word I never associated with the Weasley boy.

After a couple of minutes, he pulled away and rested his head back in the gap between my neck and shoulder. I lifted my hand to run my fingers up and down his nape. It felt awfully intimate; my brain wasn’t sure how to react even though my body seemed to know exactly.

When he took a step away and grabbed the bag of sweets, we moved towards the staircases which led to the dormitories.

“Weirdo,” Fred said messing up my hair instead of a goodnight.

“Idiot,” I say in reply and hurry up the stairs.

As much as I hated to admit it Fred Weasley was a good kisser, he seemed to know precisely what to do and exactly when to do it, and his hands fit on my waist just right. Ew what was I even thinking about. Then I reminded myself that I was allowed to enjoy it, yes he was an annoying little shit but it’s not like any of this was real.

I stepped into the bedroom to find Ginny and Hermione sat together on one bed and our three other roommates; they seemed to have been gossiping.

“Did you just make out with Fred Weasley in the common room Y/n Y/s/n,” Hermione asked shamelessly. I opened my mouth in shock.

“How did you-?”

“Not even denying it,” One of our other roommates pointed out.

“I was just trying to get my book that I left downstairs, but it would have meant I had to walk past what seemed like quite a passionate snog,” Ginny said.

“Was it with tongue?” Another roommate asked, I just flopped on my bed and didn’t answer any of their questions, after ten minutes they realised they weren’t getting anything else out of me.

After I had gotten into pyjamas and to bed I tired to get to sleep but something kept me twisting and turning. Yes, Fred Weasley had never been in a relationship during his time at Hogwarts, but I heard he’d made out with a couple of girls and he was clearly good and confident doing so, so why hadn’t he gotten into a relationship, and if he did was this actually how he’d behave because it seemed too good to be true.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It was actually happening, the Gryffindor common room was going to be holding another party, I’m still not quite sure what the reason for this one was, it started as a late celebration for their first win of the season, then they added it was because we were currently winning at house points then another reason was added and to me it seemed like everyone just wanted to party screw any reasoning.

The evening was going reasonably well, everyone was having fun, music was playing, drinks were being passed around, Hermione doing her best to make sure everyone under below 5th year was only drinking pumpkin juice. People were laughing and talking, it felt good, the atmosphere fun.

I had barely seen Fred all night as Miles didn’t have seemed to show to the party so we were both doing our own thing and it was weird I became so used to him being glued to me side these last couple of weeks. I was stood talking to Micheal who was in 7th year, he was good looking and smart and I could totally see myself going to the ball with him, we had been talking for a while but when the conversation was coming to an end, I was subconsciously searching the crowd for the red head.

I finally found him leaning against the fire, and there was a girl next to him twirling a piece of black hair around her finger. She was in the year between Fred and me.

“You know Fred I can see that Y/n is hot and cold with you like all the time, you deserve better than that, somehow who appreciates every part of you, not dimming your flame and passion,” she then continued to rest her hand on his arm.

Something about it just ticked me off, maybe it was because I actually had to fulfil my part of the deal and rescue him.

I set my eyes on the target and started moving towards them. With full credit to Fred, he was trying to get her off politely without ruining the vibe of the room.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” she said in a lower voice, she batted her eyelashes up at him. Seriously the audacity of some people, did she not know that he has a girlfriend or was she just a bad girl’s girl? Okay- fake girlfriend, but still she didn’t know that fact.

She didn’t move her arm as I approached, I couldn’t tell what Fred was thinking either, I just let out an obnoxious cough, then she turned towards me.

“Excuse me,” I say brushing her hand off him, and instantly wrapping mine around his neck pulling him down towards me, kissing him, deeply like that day in the common room, right in front of her face. I feel his hands grab hold of my waist, his nails digging in, holding tight.

Loud cheers erupted around us, I knew they would, but it was still awful.

“Damn,” Lee said as he patted both Fred’s shoulder like a proper bro.

Fred had a giant grin across his face, and were his cheeks turning slightly pink?

The girl look mortified.

“What were you saying about passion?” I asked her mockingly, she turned bright red, everyone was still watching the interaction, she quickly walked out the common room.

“Okay everyone mind your own business,” George exclaimed giving Fred a fist bump and going to get another drink. It was moments like this that I wondered whether George and Lee knew, I know we agreed not to tell anyone but George was his twin.

Still a fair amount of eyes stayed lingering on us so he grabbed my hand a pulled me towards the staircase which separated the girls and boys’ dormitories, Merlin it’s like he actually wanted to propel the rumours.

He stopped halfway up the stairs looking back towards me, now he was even taller, so much so that he sat down on the stairs before speaking, “What was that?” he asks, was he impressed? Was that pride in his eyes?

“I’m your knight in shining armour duh,”

A smirk appeared on his face.

“Don’t get too excited I was just holding up my part of the deal,” I reinforced.

“You might want to tone it down or no one’s going to believe this, no one acts like that,” he repeated my words back at me. I threw him a side eye, “you mad at other people than me might be my new favourite thing though,” he chuckled.

I wanted to give the same talk back as he did, but I have in fact been in two relationships since starting at Hogwarts four years ago and in neither was I particularly outgoing or so bold. Both of those guys were smart and kind but both of them failed to bring out that kind of joy, none of them made me giggle so much I couldn’t breathe or make my heart race like I imagined someone made for me would.

“It’s like come on though, have some common decency, like yeah this may not be real but come on to the world it is, how bad of a person do you have to be to flirt with someone else’s man when they’re literally in the room with you,” I find myself ranting.

“So I’m your man,” Fred teased laying both his hands on my waist, I was stood between his legs look directly at his face, never had I realised just how many freckles he had, suddenly the air seemed to become very still.

“You know they’re definitely thinking we’re sleeping with each other right now,” I say to break the tension.

Either his eyes seemed to darken a little or my sight was going funny from standing in near darkness, “Thought you’d never ask my rooms is right there,” he teased.

I shook my head at him, and suddenly the weight of his hands on me was heavier, without my consent my eyes looked towards his lips before shooting back to his eyes the moment I realised what was happening.

Fred and I stood there just talking for what must have been the best of an hour making fun of that girl and the others who seemed to have no boundaries. This just showed how ridiculous this whole thing was, such a weird pairing. Then the next week of planned pranks him and George sorted supplies for and which teacher would get the most mad.

When I made it back to the common room, the party still mostly going on downstairs, Hermione and Ginny were both sat on Hermione’s bed chatting to each other in their pyjamas, it’s as if they were having meeting without me every couple of days. Their heads both turned to me as I walked through the door and they tried to contain their eager faces and questions.

“Do you know what? Weirdly I always had a feeling you two would end up together,” Ginny said with a small smile playing on her lips.

Did they actually think this? After we’ve witnesses how many people found this unbelievable the last couple of weeks. Still Ginny and Hermion didn’t know this was all fake, were they just being nice or were they genuinely rooting for Fred and I behind my back all along, the thought disturbing.

“Mom is really excited to have you at the Burrow for Christmas,” Ginny says then her face falls, “though she has been referring to you as her ‘perfect future daughter in law,’ it’s kind of scary,”

“She’s happy he finally got his act together,” Hemione added,

“Wait you’ve also been exchanging letters with Mrs Weasley, what is this some gossip circle?” I ask, “feeling low-key excluded guys,” they both shot looks at me and I nod, yep, something told me I would not want to be involved in these letters.

After Ginny had left and I got in bed, covers up to my ears my mind started running laps, what did Hermione and Mrs Weasley mean by finally got his act together, it’s not like Fred liked me or was planning on ever making an actual move. Then a sort of dull pain struck. A reminder that this was not real, that it was going to end, that all the pet names, and hugs and kisses were for show. It wasn’t like I was feeling anything towards him, or was I?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It was as if the universe was poised against me, later the next week in potions Snape decided we were going to mix Amortentia. Someone explain why the hell the most cold, heartless professor in this school was suddenly feeling all sentimental and gooey.

To no one’s surprise there was only a couple successful attempts, Hermione’s being one, Snape sighed and told the class to sperate themselves out between the successful potions and each get a smell.

The second I stepped up to the cauldron I thought I could throw up, and not because the smell was bad, no, in fact it was familiar and I was quite fond of it.

Fireworks, trees and something ever slightly sweet.

Fred Weasley.

That’s what I could smell and all of a sudden my heart was in overdrive, beating too fast for its own good.

Hermione looked at me hopefully from her place behind me in line, so I gave her a kind smile in hopes she wouldn’t pester.

It happened, the absolute unthinkable, I had gotten feelings of some sort for Fred Weasley, out of all the people on this earth. How the hell was I attracted to him, when did this happen.

I stepped to the side watching as the brown-haired girl moved up a step and leaned forwards slightly, her face scrunched for a moment as she tried to figure out what it was, then something clicked, but I could not tell if the reaction was positive or negative.

“This is stupid,” she muttered on the way back to the common room.

“This is coming from the girl who worships anything to do with magic, a sad day has fallen upon us,” I lowered my head in feign mourning.

“Did you get Fred?” she asked, “I completely forgot to ask the whole stupid task had me distracted,”.

“I what?” said his familiar voice as we stepped through the painting.

“We made Amortentia in potions,” Hemione said simply before heading straight towards the girl’s dorm tower, I don’t know what she smelt in the cauldron, but it seemed like she wanted to hide.

“Ah,” he said coming closer, “And you were graced with my very manly smell huh?” he winked at me before pulling me into a hug, his chin atop my head.

Without even trying the very same smell that came from the cauldron enveloped me. There were a couple of students in the common room. I closed my eyes for a second.

Then we were in motion, Fred was walking towards the sofa never letting go of me in the process. He sat down on one side and pulled me next to him, our legs were pressed against each other, and it shouldn’t have got my heart racing as much as it did considering we have literally made out in front of the whole of Gryffindor tower.

“I was thinking,” he said reaching over to the table next to the sofa and passing me something rolled up.

As I took I from him our hands brushed, I unrolled it to see the surname ‘Weasley’ spelled out on the back. His quidditch sweater.

“Maybe you could wear it to the game tomorrow,” he sounded apprehensive but excited, how could I not agree? I looked around at all the other students and took it into my arms, Fred’s hand on my knee, his fingers soothing.

“Thank you,” I whispered before kissing his cheek and getting up the sofa and rushing up to the dorm before he could see how much I was blushing.

When I got up to the room Hermione was shooting curious eyes towards me, “Ooo you’re wearing his surname now,” she prompts, “sounds serious”

“He wants me to wear it to the game tomorrow, I’m going to look like an idiot,” I said putting the sweater in front of myself and starting in the mirror.

The other girls in the dorm disagreed very vocally saying it was so cute, and how they wanted a boyfriend like Fred. I tried to calm them down before heading to dinner.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Upon our return to the common room Fred dragged me back towards the sofa, this has somehow become our spot, the trio all headed to the library in the search of something. George and Lee went upstairs to work on some homework, so it was just Fred and I and a few other students. I wanted to escape to the room too, Miles wasn’t here, neither were our friends so there was no need to pretend, but before I could suggest the notion of going to bed early Fred spoke “I got that book from the library that you wanted to read,” he conveyed passing it to me as we settled into our usual position. He then reached for something that looked like sketches and said it was something for their next product. I turned around and leaned my back against him stretching out my feet across the rest of the sofa.

I don’t know how long we were there but by the time I ripped my eyes away from the page I realised how dark it had gotten outside, the only light being the candles and the roaring fire. Then something else clicked into place, Fred was running his fingers through my hair, my head on his lap. I don’t know how we ended up like this but he looked like he dozing off slightly, eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the sofa.

“You should get to sleep it’s an important game tomorrow,” I croaked out, this got his attention, he opened his eyes and smiled at me.

“I didn’t want to distract you, that book got you good you weirdo,” he teased, I rolled my eyes as I lifted my body up giving it a proper stretch.

As I started heading towards the two stairway that separated the girls and boys’ dorms, I felt arms wrap around my middle, Fred’s head settling in the curve of my shoulder. If he moved even a slight bit, his lips would brush against my neck.

Without thinking I retorted “there’s no one here you don’t need to pretend to be all lovey dovey,” I let out a laugh, he froze for a moment and pulled away, the sudden cold not pleasant.

“Right,” he said stiffly and started walking up his stairs.

“Night Weasley,” I said and waited, he didn’t say it back, didn’t turn around, then at the last minute “Night Y/s/n” and then he was gone. The interaction left me feeling sour.

Against all odds and reasoning I ended up in bed still holding onto the sweater, it too had that smell that I couldn’t seem to escape, nor wanted to apparently according to my body.

Merlin this was bad. This had to end, and soon. If Fred knew this, he would just burst out laughing, I could hear the snide comments already.

I pulled it closer now that my mind was analysing his weird behaviour upon separation, he looked exhausted, he probably forgot for a moment to look around before choosing how to act because he was so sleepy. Everything would be fine in the morning.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Morning came too early and I felt as though I hadn’t slept a wink. I avoided speaking to anyone before breakfast, Fred, George and Lee were sat with their other friends this morning and coming to think of it was probably the first time this has happened since we began this whole ruse.

“Finally, the honeymoon period is over,” Ron said stuffing his face, “Ouch,” he yelled and I saw that Hermione has kicked him under the table.

“Are you okay?” she whispered next to me and I explained that I didn’t sleep well, must be stressed about the upcoming potions test, she looked at me one more time and then laid her head on my shoulder. I tried to get some food into my system but my throat was dry.

After breakfast the two quidditch teams ran to get to the pitch to change and get ready whilst we headed back up to the common room to grab some layers before heading out into the cold. I couldn’t help but sigh when I saw the dreaded sweater waiting for me. It’s not like everyone didn’t already know but with the feeling that Fred was annoyed with me for some reason, and that I seemed to be feeling more for him than intended, I didn’t know if I should wear it.

“Come on Y/n Ginny is waiting downstairs we want to grab good seats,” Hermione hurried me, I threw the sweater over myself and grabbed some earmuffs and gloves.

We sat in exactly our favourite area, cheering as our team came out, it was windy which would definitely throw a spanner in the game but the boys had been complaining about how many extra practises they’ve been getting in with the weather was changing, but their captain was correct, it would help them out today.

“Did you guys argue? Fred looks distracted and… sad,” Ginny said, the last word coming out as a mixture of surprise and confusion. I had to agree with her there, I have never seen Fred with this little life and sparkle to him, especially when playing quidditch.

I pretended not to hear her and cheer as the game continued instead, though I could see the looked passed between her and Hermione.

It was a tough game, the teams were basically head-to-head until Harry managed to grab the snitch after an hour. Cheers erupted across the stands, the team gathered, hugging and high fiving each other. I watched Fred quickly say something to George before rushing to the changing rooms.

I bit into my bottom lip and turn to the girls telling them I’d see them later before heading to the exterior doors of the changing rooms. Head leaning against the wall watching all the guys leaving, congratulating them as they went by. George and Lee were the second to last to leave, I said hello to them and they smiled sympathetically.

Then Fred came out, running a hand through his wet hair, he stopped abruptly when he saw me.

“I’m sorry if I did something to annoy you,” I said, it came out faster weaker than I expected, never did I ever think I would be apologising to this boy and actually meaning it but I just wanted his smile to reappear.

He looked down at the sweater I was wearing, and he rolled his eyes smiling.

“It’s not fair how much better it looks on you,” he threw his arm around my shoulders, and we made our way back up to the castle. He started ranting about going to grab butter beer next weekend at Hogsmeade. It was a comfortable conversation as if the last couple hours of weird behaviour didn’t happen, he had probably just been stressed about the game.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

That evening Fred kissed me goodnight as I headed to bed early, it was warm and it make my stomach flutter with butterflies as he brought my body close to his. Pulling away from him I waved everyone goodnight and made my way up.

I laid in bed with my eyes closed for what felt like hours, I heard each of my roommates returning to the room, getting ready for bed, and falling asleep whilst I was still twisting and turning. I could feel the restlessness in my every single one of my bones. I could not get another night of horrible sleep, or there a lack of sleep at all.

Swinging my legs over the side of my bed and throwing on a jumper I made my way down to the common room hoping to get some alone time, that maybe a change of scenery could help me think. Think about how Fred and I were going to end this, how we would go back to normal, and how it needed to happen fast, it was getting out of hand.

Unfortunately, the world did have something against me because there he was sat in his usual spot, as I stepped onto the floor a board creaked, his head snapped towards me.

“Hey you,” he said softly, and something in me cracked, finally like a dam giving in, water flooding everywhere, my eyes stinging, “come here,” he continued patting the seat right next to him.

“I think we’ve done it,” I said weakly, he looked back at me confused, brows raised. I took one step forward and a deep breath, “Miles has left me alone and he has a date for the ball, your little fan club seems to favour George and Harry now, we need to stop this,” I stated looking directly into his eyes, mesmerised, as if I could not look away even as I watched something shift in his eyes.

“This has gone too far Fred, it’s been fun, but it’s time to return to reality,”

“It’s been fun,” he scoffed

“Yes, fun, you said yourself that’s what you said it would be, one big prank on everyone with mutual benefits,” I reminded him. I didn’t even want to think about what Molly would say when she finds out we’ve ‘broken up’.

“Are you serious right now?” his voice was hoarse as he stood up, I didn’t know where these emotions were coming from.

I just nodded.

“The Yule ball is next week,” he stated, I could hear the frustration in his voice. Was he angry that I didn’t leave him enough time to find a date.

“As much as I hate to admit this, if you ask any of the girls I’m sure they’d say yes, even if they already have a date,” I conveyed with somewhat of a smile, trying to be helpful even though every part of my heart was crushing like a delicate glass ornament brashly thrown.

He ran his both his hands over his face, then through his hair, “You know what,” he sighed and ran his tongue over his lips, brows furrowing as if he was struggling to appoint together words, “Screw this,” he called out and marched towards the stairs up to the boys rooms.

The minute he was out of sight it’s like my knees gave out, the bubble that was building up in my chest burst, the tears running down my face as I leaned on the sofa to keep myself steady. I just let myself cry at how pathetic I must have looked, how stupid I felt, this whole thing was so dumb.

After managing to calm myself down, hand digging into my side to forceful myself to get it together I snuck back to my room grabbing Fred’s quidditch sweater and the series of handwritten notes he gave me these last 3 months and crept to leave them before his door. For a moment I let me head rest against it, hoping to hear his voice. But it was all silence.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next days were bleak, the twins sat at the opposite side of the table for breakfast every day, Fred was never around in the common room, and he would not meet my eyes even in passing. Everyone quickly caught on that something was off, though they seemed to know it was better than to poke at it.

Life had become awfully quiet without Fred’s noisy self around, his boisterous laugher and the feel of his always warm hands. Mostly I seemed to miss the bickering, that was our dynamic our whole lives, even before this mess.

When it hit Ginny and Hermione that this wasn’t just a falling out, that our ‘relationship’ was through, on Saturday night they made it their mission to just chill in our bedroom and do things to get my mind off it, talking about Hogsmeade tomorrow and plans for the winter holidays.

Noticing me trying to make an effort Ginny pulled me close, “Whatever he did to mess it up I’m sure he’s very sorry, you know he’s stubborn, but I’m sure he’ll fix it,” Ginny said as I leaned into her, she brushed her hands through my hair.

How could I tell them he didn’t do anything wrong, that he actually had been quite the perfect boyfriend. I felt silly now to mourn to something that wasn’t real, that I had been stupid enough to fall for someone who took nothing seriously.

The next morning, I opted to stay in the castle under the pretence of not feeling well and not wanting to make it worse before the ball and considering I already had a dress it was fine. Even though I really did not want to go to the ball, seeing Fred with someone else would just push me over the edge. Particularly because he was not speaking to me.

The day of the ball arrived fast, I hadn’t heard whether Fred had secured himself a date or not and with the impending doom of going home for Christmas tomorrow everything was filled with a mixture of doom and excitement.

Ginny and Hermione looked beautiful and as we headed down, they met both their dates, Harry and Ron even looked impressed at their looks, I elbowed them both with a laughter, Merlin they were both clueless as they watched the two get pulled towards the dance floor by their partners.

I followed behind them into the great hall which was decorated grandly with smaller tables surrounding the outer layer of the room and the large glowing dance floor in the middle. Dim candles lit the room just enough for shadows to dance across the walls, snow covered Christmas trees and floating snowflakes glimmered.

After a brief introduction and welcome to the ball from Professor McGonagle and Professor Dumbledore a soft upbeat melody started to play, couple cuddled up close on the floor, even some of the professors.

I couldn’t help but look for him among the sea of students, Hermione looked enchanted, Ginny was giggling at something Neville had said and Ron kept stepping on his partners feet. George beside him dancing with his partner poking fun at his poor younger brother. But the one Weasley I both really wanted to see and also did not want to see was nowhere to be found.

Then as if my wish was a command I saw him sitting by himself on the opposite side of the room, he didn’t look angry or excited to cause some trouble, he looked sad. Then his eyes caught mine, we stared at each other for a second before he stormed out through the side entrance.

My feet were working against my will; I pushed past people as I rushed to follow him.

He was stood outside leaning against one of the stone pillar looing out into the courtyard.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly before even turning around.

I took the hit, I couldn’t stand this coldness between us, I could feel my lips pointing downwards, the only way we could move past this is if everything was laid out on the table.

“You’re going to laugh at me for what I’m about to say,” I said feebly, I couldn’t take this energy anymore, he turned with his brows up waiting for me to speak, “I think somewhere, at some point during these last few months I actually started to feel something for you and it really scared me,” I started, his face didn’t change, “and I knew that you’d find it ridiculous I mean,” I pointed to myself, “I started finding it hard to be away from you and your touch and the jealously would eat me alive whenever I would see you with another girl because I had to remind myself that what was going on between us wasn’t real and that you could flirt and touch and make any girls laugh and blush,” all the words tumbled out of my mouth and I couldn’t stop them.

“Y/n” he whispered.

“I knew we couldn’t try to move from this unless everything was said and out there, so we know where we stand instead of shutting each other out,” I said just about ready to sink into the floor and disappear.

“It wasn’t fake to me,” he said, I lifted my gaze from the floor, he was still stood in the same place as if the delicate air around us would shatter if he so much as moved. My heart began racing, what was he saying? “Yes I wanted to help get Miles Brown off your back but the only thing that was in it for me was the chance to make you see me as an option, that I wasn’t just a stupid family friend who knows how to do nothing but cause trouble,” he said.

“I’m in love with you. Every part of you,” he said. It was paralyzing that the man in front of me, who could not take a single thing seriously was stood in front of me completely still, raw and real, it was unnerving “but what were the chances that you’d go for me when there are so many more ‘sensible’ options with their grades and lives sorted out,”. He echoed some of his mother’s words, that I deserved someone organised, ready for the real world.

I ran forwards and wrapped my arms around his neck pulling him into a tight hug, he pulled me close, every single part of our bodies touching, out breaths uneven.

“I would choose arguing with you every day over anything and anyone else always,” the words escaped my lips in a hurried tone. This boy aways pushed every single one of my buttons but he was also the one who pushed me to be my best.

He pulled away just enough to kiss me, it was hot and desperate and real. Pulling away it suddenly everything was worth it for that glimmer that sparkled in his eyes.

“Is this why you never dated anyone here at Hogwarts because you’ve just been so obsessed with me for years?” I asked looking at him.

“Yeah whatever,” he rolls his eyes.

I let a smile slide onto my face, “You know why none of my relationships worked out?” I ask and he nods curiously, “I don’t think I ever laugh as much as I do with you, never argued with anyone as much and never felt so appreciated for being the way I am,”

“So what I’m hearing is they were all boring, I’m amazing, and you’ve also been in love with me for years but in denial,” he boasts, and I just kiss him, tugging the hair at his nape with my hand, earning a satisfied sound.

After pulling away he said “Thank Merlin now my mother isn’t going to kill me,” he blew out a breath as if it were a close one.

I smack his arm playfully, “I see, that’s why you did this, to avoid hearing an earful from your mother,” I challenge him.

He just kissed me again, “I can’t believe we could have been doing this for years,” he kissed me again.

“So, what do we do know?” I asked.

“We have plenty of catching up to do,” he said smoothly changing the subject before turning me around, so my back hit the cold stone column and kissing me again.

He then told me that at that very first quidditch match of the year he was trying to find me in the stand, that’s why he was distracted, I knew I was right.

Since the feeling were pretty much always real it didn’t make sense to tell anyone about the deal, we were just together. Maybe this was all a bad idea but right now it felt pretty amazing.

Masterlist

#fred weasley #fred wealsey fic #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #Weasley twins #Harry potter #Harry potter series #fake dating #fred weasley imagine #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #Hogwarts imagine

266 notes · View notes

chronic-escapixt · 4 months ago

Text

Crush

1994!Kai x Witch!reader

content warnings/tags ~ Minors DNI, 18+ ONLY, dubcon, smut, bully!mean!Kai, first kiss, fingering, teasing, vulgarity, innocent!shy!reader, corruption, angst if your squint hard...

wc: 3k

K.P. Masterlist

You closed your books and moved to file them away in your bag after your weekly tutoring session had wrapped for the day.

“So.. I was thinking about going down to the pier this friday—you know, arcade.. pizza.. that sort of thing..” The younger brother’s sheepish attempts to ask you out went unnoticed as your senses honed onto one thing and one thing alone: Malachai Parker. His spiced mahogany musk wafts past your nose as a calling card before the man himself stepped into the kitchen. You can’t bring yourself to look directly at him unless you can play it off as innocent curiosity, so it was mostly from your peripheral view that you caught the way his gray eyes shifted to blue in the most ideal of lighting, the way his fingers were almost always adorned with at least a couple chunky rings, his cropped dark hair that was styled lightly with gel.

He moves to open the fridge and pulls out half a litre of soda, a cold slice of pizza then goes into the cabinet for a box of twinkies and a bag of pork rinds. With his arms full of junk food, he carries the slice of pizza between his teeth and as he turns to depart, your eyes briefly meet before yours dart away into your lap. His audible sneer reaches you as he disappears back into his cave, dragging your dignity away with him.

You’d be mortified if his presence didn’t give you butterflies. It was the first time he ever really acknowledged your existence. Kai usually stayed away, but on the off chance you crossed paths, he never even looked in your direction. It was something you began to internalize after a while, like he must’ve thought you were too much of a goodie goodie, a lame, a narc.

Eye contact, however brief, was a major step up from whatever spirit of awkwardness haunted his first impressions of you.

It happened when your parents brought you to the Parker household. They were looking for someone to tutor you in spellcasting since—as they put it—your magic was underdeveloped, their delicate way of saying they worried you were a dud—the worst thing you can be in a powerful family of witches. They hoped the natural prowess of one of the Parker kids would rub off on you. Kai came down during the meeting and you moved to introduce yourself but he looked right past you and walked away without a word. Not a moment later, his father formally introduced you to his younger brother Joey, and he became your tutor.

Joey’s glower follows his brother out of the room.

“He’s so inconsiderate,” he mutters.

“.. completely,” you half-heartedly agree.

“So, back to what I was saying.. do you happen to be free Friday night?”

“For what?” You ask genuinely.

“... to go to the pier?”

“Oh, Yeah! Totally free.. I mean, I’d have to ask my parents first, but I’m sure they’ll be okay with it, granted I’m back before curfew..”

“Awesome! No, yeah. You’ll be back with plenty of time.” He grins like a fool while walking you out.

Your parents adored Joey so it came as no surprise when they said you could go. He was a parent’s dream for their 18 year old daughter, about as straight and narrow as they come with his sweater vests and penchant for punctuality. But nothing could ever make you see him as anything more than a friend, if that—when his brother came around, he was completely invisible to you.

The ever considerate Joey left a message on your answering machine Wednesday night to let you know that your plans fell through because he had a training retreat that weekend with his family. The change of plans didn’t bother you a bit considering he wasn’t the Parker boy you wanted to be spending an evening on the pier with in the first place but since you didn’t hear the message until Friday morning, you had to rush over to the house to drop off the grimoire he let your borrow, hoping you could catch him in time.

You park and ring the doorbell once, then again when no one answers. You’re about to ring it a third time when the door opens.. to the brother you weren’t expecting. Kai was still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes at 10:30am. His perfect hair a tousled mess of short tresses, pieces stuck to his forehead. You could almost imagine waking up to that.

“Yes..?” his raspy voice, lilt with annoyance, interrupts your mindless gawking.

“Is Joey here?” you pipe up.

“Nope, just missed him,” he gives a flippant eye roll.

You let out a sigh, “but—I came to give him his spell book.” You try to hand him the heavy grimoire but he steps aside. “I’m not a drop box, just come in and put it in his room.”

Shaking off his rudeness, you come inside. You knew the way to Joey’s room, having often studied in there, with the door open, of course and only on the bean bag chairs. Truly, the only parents you’d ever encountered stricter than yours were theirs—or at least their father. He treated magic study as serious as death, hence why Joey and his other siblings were spending their weekend on a training retreat. All of them except Kai, but Kai was different and no one outside the family understood the details of his.. condition. Not even you.

After placing the grimoire on his desk, you move to head back downstairs to leave, but stop at the door jamb when you hear Kai’s voice. His back to you as he leans against the wall, the phone to his ear.

“Yeah.. babe.. no.. no.. next time I’ll give you one—yeah—somewhere you can’t cover.. I’d like that.. ” his low voice dripping with vocal fry, lewd words creating a faint throb between your thighs as your nails dug into the old paint on the wall.

“Hey, San-Sandy, I’m gonna call you back.” he hangs the phone on the receiver and slips his address book into his back pocket, likely full of the names and numbers of a roster of different girls he’s seeing.

“Enjoy that? Hope that gave you enough to flick your bean to tonight..” he snorts.

“I uh—EXCUSE ME?” you don’t know what to say, feet fixed to the floor as he stalks over to you.

“C’mon, how dumb do you think I am? You don’t think I know that you dig on me?” his eyes cut to you with a taunting edge, drinking in your shrinking flustered form. “Joey’s been trying to ask you out for weeks now, even asked Dad for permission.. but you’re too obsessed with me to notice,” he gives a deep bitter sigh, “Everyone wants what they can’t have.”

“That’s not—”

“I think it’s kinda cute.. but I prefer a girl with more..” he pauses briefly to think, pushing his lips forward, “.. substance, you know? Don’t get me wrong, you’re not completely unfuckable, but you’re no Pamela Anderson either..” His critical gaze rakes down your body, making you shamefully aware of yourself—you weren’t exactly the picture of sexiness, any semblance of your feminine silhouette swallowed up by your soft knitted sweater.

Satisfied, he spun around to leave you to stew in your humiliation, but you refuse to let him off that easily.

“You’re such a jerk! No wonder no one wants to be near you!”

He flashes you his middle finger before continuing on his way.

You gasp at his vulgarity as your rage boils over, shouting at him, “Fuck you Malachai!” You stomp toward the stairs but he grabs hold of your arms and pushes against the wall, pinning you with his body.

You take a shallow breath as he mouth comes down, just to ghost above yours, a threatening glint in his stormy blues.

“Watch your mouth,” he snarls. Everyone knew that Kai hated his birth name, so you decided to hit him where it hurt.

“You first—” you bite back.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You’re obsessed with me.. and if you shut up right now.. I might just let you kiss me..” he taps his cheek, “here.. or..” he taps his lips, “..right here.”

Your skin bristles with goosebumps as the heat in your body rises to your ears and you slump against the wall, ducking down to hide your face from him.

“Oh my god, you’ve never been kissed before, have you?”

You have nothing to say.

He mutters, “well this just gets better and better.”

Your frown deepens, “how incredibly presumptuous to think I'd wanna waste my first kiss on a jerk like you.”

His fingers grab hold of your chin, tilting your face to meet his, “because I’m your crush and the fact that I treat you like shit makes you want me even more.. doesn’t it?” you breathe in his words like oxygen before he pressed his lips to yours, letting him deepen it with his tongue, gently coaxing your mouth for access, which you grant willingly, before exploring your mouth.

When he finally withdrew his lips from yours, you couldn’t hide the shock on your face. lips parted, you gasped like a fish out of water.

“How was that?” He shot you a wink before leaving you alone in that hallway.

You’d take any excuse to go back and see him, the man that occupied your waking thoughts and nightly dreams, the feeling of his lips still vivid in your mind after the passing days. You finally get in the car to head over to the Parker residence on Sunday evening, knowing that the family would return on Monday, leaving you with tonight, your last chance to really talk to him and tell him how you feel.

You had to know if it was possible that the kiss meant something to him—that perhaps his knees buckled upon contact the same way yours did, that he felt the same fireworks between you. Or maybe you were just delusional, but your heart couldn’t rest until you knew for sure if there was something there.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Your feet carry you from your car to the doorstep before you ring the doorbell.

He answers on the first, lips curled into a cocky grin when he catches sight of you.

“Sorry, I don’t want girl scout cookies-”

“Move—” you brush past him into the house.

“What are you doing here? Came to collect a lock of my hair for your shrine?”

You willfully ignore his quips and take a deep breath, delicately finding your words, “you kissed me.. last time I was here.”

“I know, I was there,” he chuckled, “I’m a great kisser so I don’t blame you for coming back for seconds..” You narrow your eyes into slits as he adds, “hey, I’ve been thinking about what you said.. about why people avoid me and why I stay away.. It’s not the reason you think.”

You cross your arms over your chest and countered with a sour face, “oh, I’m so sure it has nothing to do with your attitude. You think you’re too cool for everyone and everything.” You find yourself becoming frustrated again. Wondering why you let him stir you up like this.

His face fell like a deflated balloon, no sign of that condescending sneer as he grabs you by your elbow, “Whatever—I wouldn’t expect you to understand.. just run on home to mommy and daddy before you miss your curfew and lose your tv privileges,” he pulls you toward the door.

“Wait!” you snatch your arm back and dig your heels into the floor, “why are you always such a dick to me? I’ve only ever been nice to you!”

“I don’t like nice! I like honest and you haven’t been honest once, not with me.”

He searches your eyes and you realize that he saw right through you, perhaps more than anyone else. You performed as the perfect daughter, perfect student, ever-improving witch, but you couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes the same as everyone else and that made your hands shake at your sides. You start to feel cornered by him all over again, all alone in that big house with him.

“What do you want me to be honest about?” you sigh.

“Your feelings for me..”

“Alright I like you, okay..”

“Why did you come here today?”

Now is your chance but you clam up, your darting gaze can’t avoid his vibrant blues, “to talk.. about the kiss. I’ve been thinking about it.. and i feel like..” your voice falters as you’re overtaken by your nerves.

“Yes..” he pressed, growing impatient with your shyness.

“..like I want to try it again..”

He reaches up to cup your cheek, running his thumb along your bottom lip, tugging at it as his gaze flits between your mouth and eyes, “... yeah?”

“.. yeah,” you confirm in a hushed whisper.

His lips consume yours, pulling and sucking on your pillowy pout with more ferver than before as your hands latch onto his shoulders, his hands find your waist. Goosebumps shoot across every corner of your skin, but then a thought occurs to you. You reach out and push at his chest, disconnecting from his lips.

“What?”

“This was a bad idea…”

“Why? Because your parents wouldn’t approve of their precious daughter dating the Parker family screw up?”

“no..” your faint whisper barely reaches him.

“I’m a magic dud, remember? At least when I date mortals I don’t have to be reminded of that.”

“No!” you grab onto his collar, pulling him to you, “I don’t care about that.. I just.. don’t want you to break my heart.”

The cold rings of his fingers press into your jaw, “Then don’t give it to me.” He releases you but your eyes don’t move from his as his hand trails down your neck, between your quivering breasts, past your belly button and stopping to finger the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Give me everything else instead..”

“.. okay..” your voice came out small on trembling vocal cords.

He’s back on you, ripping open the buttons of your cardigan, sliding the material down your arms while bathing your neck in unforgiving kissing and love bites that will blossom into marks you’ll need to cover in powder tomorrow. He nips at that sweet spot just behind your ear and you let out a sound, the likes of which have never escaped your virgin lips.

You slip your hands under his shirt, feeling the definition of his abs before he reaches back to rid himself of the faded band tee entirely. You could sit there and count the freckles on his skin but he’s pulling you into the nearby laundry room and pinning you to the door. The outline of his cock pokes your thigh as you ruin his hair with your fingers. His grip on your thigh keeps your leg up as he spreads you for the exploration of his hands. It all moves so fast it’s overwhelming, but you don’t want it to stop—yet undecided on how far you want to go with him right now in his dark room surrounded by baskets of laundry. What you do know is you want to get lost in the feel of his rough palms, grabbing and squeezing at whatever flesh he gets his hands on, pulling the straps of your tank down to admire your bra—the black push up one you kept in the back of your drawer for ‘emergencies’—even your modest bosom was made to sit beautifully in the lace garment.

His fingers dip into your panties, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves now soaked in your slick as he works you up. Soft pants and moans leaving your parted lips. He spreads your folds apart, rubbing the length of your slit with his ring finger. You breath hitches upon contact with the cold metal of his chunky ring. He consumes the moans that leak from your mouth, leaving your lips red and swollen.

Lost in the eruption of your passions, you both miss the sound of the minivan pulling to the driveway. It’s only when the front door opens that you realize they came home early. Kai tenses, clasping his hand over your mouth, but he doesn’t stop. You both listen in beyond the door. It sounds like only one person made it inside so far. Kai works two wet fingers into your cunt, the twinge of pain makes your eyes water as your slick walls adjust to the unfamiliar stretch.

You groan behind his palm and his stern eyes cut to you. “Shh-”

Joey is just outside the laundry room door when he notices Kai’s t-shirt—something that isn’t out of the ordinary for his slovenly older brother, especially when mom wasn’t home to take care of his laundry—but then he noticed your lavender cardigan. He knew it was yours by the color and if that didn’t give it away, the smell did—just like your perfume.

Your back trembles against the door. Just the slab of wood separating you from complete exposure.

Joey’s voice calls out, “I know you’re fucking my brother you slut! When dad finds out you’re dead, Malachai!” he storms back out the front door.

Kai started laughing and you didn’t know why but you did too. His voice pitched up in a squeak when he got mad and it was hard to take him seriously even though you were caught.

“I’m telling dad! He’s such a bitch,” Kai mocks, chuckling to himself.

You hear more voices outside the front door and the horny haze lifts instantly. You push away from him, rushing to readjust your skirt and top before heading into the hall to grab your cardigan.

“Oh my god… oh my god… oh my god..” you panic.

“Go out the back,” Kai quirks his head in that direction. You pause to study him. He’s so calm. It’s like he’s done this before. The door knob turns and you do as he says, making it out before anyone sees you.

taglist: @daisy-renae @quinsly @trizta @mcookie @loveanndthunderr @thoughts-and-thistles @blackreaderatrisk @sadcupcake (comment or reblog if you want to be included in the taglist & notified of future posts)

#kai parker #kai parker x poc reader #kai parker x y/n #kai parker x reader #kai parker smut #tvd #tw dubcon

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aishaspen · 2 months ago

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bullshit | james potter

pairing: james potter x reader

summary: james’ girlfriend should not be allowed near alcohol. ever.

warnings: angst, alcohol, language, vomiting, implied infidelity/relationship problems (its upto your interpretation), no use of y/n.

a/n: this just came up in my brain after i watched a stancy edit on ig lol. i might write a next part if i get any more inspo. also i’m picking up the pen after like three years so this might be shite.

The muggle music kept blaring on the from the speakers, as all their classmates danced and sang along to it. James paid no mind to it, for he was too occupied with trying, and failing, to get his girlfriend to let go of the almost empty vodka bottle in her hand.

“Baby, I love you, but please put the vodka down.” He huffed half-amusedly and tried to snatch the bottle from her hands again, only for her to frown and try her best to shove him away, and into the beer keg a few feet behind him.

“Bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit?”

“Love.” her swift answer made James wince.

“What do you mean by that, baby?” maybe she was just drunk and out of her mind. Surely she had no clue about the things she was sputtering, right?

“This– our love. Its bullshit.” she slurred as she glared up at her boyfriend. Her glare hardened further as she remembered her ties to him.

“You... You don't love me?” James' voice cracked as he looked at her. He contemplated getting down on his knees and begging her to disagree, to tell him that she did love him and always would. then they could pretend that this conversation had never happened, and then go back to their now perfect relationship, devoid of any slip ups or lies.

“It’s all just bullshit.” she spat out the words, voice laced with all the hate and venom her intoxicated body could muster up, before throwing up at his feet and then passing out in his arms.

James wanted to cry.

Foolishly enough, he had thought that she would have forgiven and forgotten about the things that transpired a year ago. But to his utter surprise and disappointment, she had not.

It was on him, he supposed. James’ girlfriend had been a kind and loveable person with a heart made of 24 karat gold, yes, but she also had a penchant for never forgiving a slight, real or imagined.

likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated<3

#james potter #james potter angst #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #marauders era #marauders x reader #james potter x y/n #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x you #harry potter fanfic #james potter x reader angst

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joannasteez · 11 months ago

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starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity

size

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?...

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'.

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree.

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'".

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice.

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction.

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me".

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would".

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you".

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go".

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm.

"did i wake you?", you ask.

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning".

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention".

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips.

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion.

"how does it feel?"

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine.

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it".

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare.

"thank you for being here".

"of course".

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other".

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it.

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore.

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin.

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin.

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth.

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires.

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still.

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early".

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business".

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then".

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later".

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order.

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe".

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear.

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could".

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well".

"you really did".

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks.

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm.

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless.

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious".

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever".

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way".

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time.

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird.

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden".

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe.

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am".

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug.

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact.

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand.

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same.

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay.

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze.

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again".

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them".

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious".

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me".

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you".

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits".

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs.

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two".

"oh fuck you punk".

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all".

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think".

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment.

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him.

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision".

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body.

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day".

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea.

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy.

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination.

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire.

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you.

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him.

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory. his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily.

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words.

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star.

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from.

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call.

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare.

"have breakfast with me", he starts.

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body.

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate".

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?"

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine".

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do.

"can you not?"

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space.

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop".

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right".

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat".

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it".

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about".

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him.

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart".

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment".

"then give me a time and place".

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings".

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin.

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things.

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still.

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd.

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek.

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves".

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back.

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens.

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd.

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze.

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe.

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking.

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone?

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me.

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television.

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you?

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here.

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling.

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection.

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news.

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually".

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough.

"what'd he say to you?"

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv".

"well it feels pretty damn personal".

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?"

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so.

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks.

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win".

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own.

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match.

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match.

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too.

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival.

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy.

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego.

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason.

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition.

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel.

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?"

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody".

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning.

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body.

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him.

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me.

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment.

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars.

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory.

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach.

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be".

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land.

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all.

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection.

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear.

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get.

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world.

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe.

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself.

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment.

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while".

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it.

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them.

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable.

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes.

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought.

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls.

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance.

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine.

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth.

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half.

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit".

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife.

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days".

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself.

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips.

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it.

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same.

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'.

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth.

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest.

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again.

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over.

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ".

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs.

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again".

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over.

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too".

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you.

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly.

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit.

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering.

"how do you want me?"

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress.

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful.

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead.

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips.

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion.

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole.

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly.

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums.

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal.

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy.

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume.

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones.

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process.

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart.

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk?

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy.

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed".

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable.

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing".

"unfortunately?"

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence.

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?"

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure".

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it".

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?"

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over".

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways".

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are".

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table.

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves.

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere.

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same.

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help.

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in".

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good".

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus".

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing.

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true.

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that".

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it".

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace.

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly.

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..."

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear.

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up".

"will do".

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time.

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area.

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?"

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling.

"time and place sweetheart".

519 notes · View notes

storiumemporium · 2 months ago

Text

Terminal

Chapter 1 - Spring Cleaning

It Happened™️did I think it would happen? No. But it happened and here we are and it's terminally bad 😭

“What can you do?” “Well…” you start after a pause that goes on too long. “I am- I am one of the foremost black hats in the country, cracking code is sort of my thing. I’m- Miss de Fontaine wishes for me to become the brain for your operation, handling the technological side of your missions so that you can focus on the physical parts.” "Is that why you’re not here, then? Keeping your identity concealed?” “Oh God no! No… I just- I work best from where I am right now.” And nowhere, nowhere else. --- Fourteen months following the void out of Manhattan, Valentine Allegra de Fontaine has you assigned as the newest member of her struggling superhero team. The New Avengers. You serve as their eyes and ears, their brain, and their personal AI in the style of famous JARVIS, though you lack the cool accent. Oh, and you also haven't left your home in nearly a decade, so.

Bucky thought himself to be a long suffering kind of guy.

Just… you don’t make best friends out of Steven Grant Rogers - any iteration of Steven Grant Rogers - without an unusually high penchant for tolerating bullshit in your day to day. Oh, your buddy is ninety-seven pounds and picked a fight with a guy bigger than you are, Buck? No problem, go get your ass kicked too if it means keeping him out of the hospital.

Oh, your buddy entered an experimental program while you were locked away in some HYDRA camp? No problem, just follow the lunatic wherever the hell he decides he wants to go.

It just didn’t matter, if Steve wanted to do something then Bucky was the guy.

The problem is - and half a dozen therapists have forced him to accept it by now - is that this isn’t just a Steven Grant Rogers thing. This is a James Buchanan Barnes thing.

Which is why he now is in charge of all of these assholes.

Fourteen months and twelve days since the New Avengers made their entirely unplanned debut to the world, and the barely rebranded New Avenger’s Tower had become something like a home and a hub all in one. It wasn’t as if the informally known Thunderbolts had anywhere else to go. Alexei wanted to be with his daughter, Yelena wanted to be an Avenger like her sister, Bob just wanted to be with people who cared for him, Ava did not oppose the lavish new means, and John was… himself.

Bucky? Well. He was between things, except the between period had only gotten longer and longer, and he was having a harder and harder time imagining being anywhere else than here. They’d grown on him, like mold. Or tumors.

Truth be told, they needed each other. It wasn’t outside the realm of Bucky’s psychology to understand that going it alone just wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t for ordinary people whose worst traumas were the goldfish they accidentally killed as a child, and it definitely wasn’t for people like them.

So he stayed, and really, he didn’t even try to figure out a reason not to stay.

The Tower, since it’s renovation, has undergone a nauseating trading of hands across the members of the Thunderbolts in a way that reminded Bucky of old school Tom n’ Jerry until finally landing on it’s longest and most comfortable configuration. The things that had stayed the same: all communal areas of the Tower remained squarely in the dead center, just above the neighboring office buildings, and positioned so that everyone had to be equally inconvenienced on travel time through the skyscraper. Bucky remained in the same floor he has been since they moved in- nobody was really willing to fight him on it on account of stubbornness. Bob got to keep the floor closest to the communal center, directly beneath. He didn’t like heights, and no one had the heart to force him to be far away.

Yelena took a floor close to Bob, Alexei took the floor closest to Yelena. John made sure to take the furthest floor he could from Bucky, leaving Ava in the middle.

Somehow this still created conflicts. Mostly in the fact that John and Bucky shared an elevator and the bastard was always racing him to use it first, leaving the other waiting there god knows how long dependent on where they were going.

In spite of their infrastructural warfare, the arrangement was nice.

Everyone stuck close by even with the immense amount of space afforded - often made uneasy by the scale - and the communal spaces of the Tower ended up being the most used for all things, sometimes even sleeping when nightmares or thoughts got severe enough to warrant not being alone. They all had them, but it was most often a divided line where some needed that space distinctly more often than others.

Bucky had categorized it into type S and type C, he was told type Stable and type Crazy were a little too harsh. So it’d been rebranded to Stable and Catastrophizing. He liked to think of himself as belonging to type S, sitting squarely alongside Yelena and Ava.

Progress for them meant a slow and arduous crawl from one rung of a seemingly infinite ladder to the next. Months on end of grueling and thankless work filled with uncomfortable conversations and deep personal confrontation to hopefully inch the tiniest bit forward on the path. The type of progress that Bucky knew intimately felt as if it wasn’t actually progress, at least in the moment. All these changes so minute that they could be overlooked in favor of all the places you should already be. You had to look back over the weeks, months, and years to really see how much you’d improved yourself.

John, Alexei, and above all else Bob belong to Catastrophizing.

He’s watched them make massive leaps and bounds seemingly in a matter of months, comparatively overnight versus his own progress. The sort of rapid adjustment to life that Bucky could bite steel over. Cutting their hair, putting on - conversely losing - weight. New clothes, a better outlook on life. It felt like some romanticized iteration of recovery where a hug and a ‘you matter!’ were enough for them to simply be cured of their afflictions.

Then the crash would come.

They would fall harder than Yelena, Ava, even he himself ever had. Possibly even combined*.* A total square one restart, if not at times worse*.* Like they’d taken eight steps back from when they first met each other. Somehow spitefully stuck themselves even deeper into the mud. It was always a titanic, catastrophic sort of mess. The kind of thing that couldn’t truly be prevented, only patiently waited out.

For Alexei that usually meant hiding the alcohol, forgiving the disappearance of food. Not acknowledging the couch has been robbed days in a row as he was robbed of the willpower to get off it and sleep in his own bed. Quiet nights spoken in Russian between himself, Yelena and Alexei. Tender with his daughter, reminiscing with Bucky.

For John, sparring matches that turned into outright fistfights. Vicious words that weren’t truly meant, met with stone until the soldier would hiss and seethe and retreat into himself and his room. He’d only reemerge days later looking a husk, a peace treaty offered by coffee and a conversation no one really wanted to have. Shave, Walker. Fuck you, Barnes. The shadow gone from his face and his eyes by next morning.

Bob? Holding on, no matter what. Sometimes that meant dealing with the ache of seeing him recoil harder from a gentle touch than he would a harsh slap. Dark, soft blue eyes turning beady and sharp with paranoia at the concept of freely given love and companionship. Catatonia met with meals, victories if he took even one bite. For Yelena, washing his hair when he couldn’t muster it. For Bucky, offering a hand Bob wasn’t afraid to crush in his sleep. When he needed to feel not-alone, but not-terrified of his own strength.

It was a system. A bad, fucked up, ill conceived one. But it worked, it was theirs.

They were getting better, their way.

This month has proven itself to be comparatively light in the mentalympics department, as Ava had called it and it had stuck. None of the Thunderbolts have been required to leave the Tower at any point in the last few weeks, taking it as their paid-for vacation meant that the only times anyone braved the city that never slept was to stock up on large amounts of booze and snacks- too impatient for the weekly drop off to arrive. From there? Game nights, movie nights, show nights. Charades has come up an alarming number of times with Yelena topping the scoreboard most frequently and Alexei consistently failing to guess almost anything. John and Ava have made a running pool on how many times the man can somehow derive Soviet era propaganda out of the weird undulations another member of the team is making.

All of this is pockmarked with training sessions, evenings taken to snoop around the tower (a year later and new things still keep getting found). And sometimes the overhead being stolen to play music while everyone brings blankets and pillows from their floor.

Ava and Yelena started it. Bob joined without much hesitation. Alexei joined with no hesitation. John and Bucky were pretty helpless to deny what they knew was coming.

The sleepover tradition.

Still, it’s early in the morning and there’s no guarantee anyone will posit that tonight be the night everyone clusters the sunken conversation pit with all manner of malleable objects to sleep on. Instead, Bucky scrolls through the The New Yorker on his phone while drinking dubiously spiced coffee out of a mug labeled ‘badass babysitter’ on the side with little cartoon flowers strewn across it in pastels. He’s already fully dressed for the day, and the deep navy blue and sheer black contrasts entertainingly with the salmon colored ceramic. Alexei’s word, not his. Across from him is Yelena, phone also in hand and feet on the table. John has been warring with her penchant for climbing on furniture for some time now, Bucky knows he’s already lost. She’s adorned in one of the many bundles of Avengerz clothing Alexei had procured for the team since everything went a touch sideways, avidly denying to ever be seen in public with it and yet unable to deny the softness of the pajamas. Her hair is unkempt, pale tresses scattered about and her face bare of any makeup. She looks unguarded like this, just taking space rather than commanding it per her usual.

“Do you think it’s been too quiet, lately?” Yelena’s voice cuts abruptly across the table at him, her head suddenly lifting from her phone and toward the ceiling, conversational but loud enough for the muscles in Bucky’s shoulders to twitch reflexively. Her brows pinched like she was wrestling with a puzzle. “I mean, there hasn’t even been a fire in the kitchen this last week. It feels wrong. We’re never this pleasant to be around.”

Bucky’s phone clicks dark, clattering gently on the steel-and-glass surface provided by Valentina’s many interior designers. Sterility was in, apparently. “Hello to you too, Yelena. Don’t jinx it, maybe?”

To that, Bucky is rewarded a shit eating smile from his friend. Though she’s still not exactly turned to look at him, her head has canted further in his direction knowing that he’s taken her bait for the morning. “Please, better to know now so that you’re prepared when all the good behavior comes back as something much, much worse for you later.”

The ‘for you’ was pointed, badass babysitter glinting ominously on the side of his cup as he took another sip from it.

“Well, I would like to continue believing you’re all just finally beginning to grow up. I’m very proud.”

“Who- uh, who is growing up around here?”

Bob found his way up from the floor below, finally. Though the man struggled with sleep it didn’t typically make him any more of an early riser, certainly not the way Bucky was- instead, if Bob wasn’t already camped out in the living room watching the sun come up, he was often close to the last to arrive.

“Absolutely no one, but we can let the old man dream.” Yelena is grinning once more at him, a little less sharp as Bob passes around the two of them on his way to the fridge. “I was just saying that this place seemed a little too quiet as of late.”

And without a beat missed; “Don’t see that lasting too long.”

“See! I told you.”

Eggs are tossed onto the counter, organic as demanded by John. A pan retrieved from it’s designated ‘we don’t care what happens to this one because it’s cheap and maybe someone stole it?’ spot, also known as Bob’s favorite spot in the kitchen (he lacked guilt if these ended up destroyed in some way or another) to be placed on the electric burner and warmed. Scrambled eggs, or omelettes? He was feeling pretty good, so maybe something a little fancier this time. He liked to treat himself in these tiny ways, because it felt like a reward but one he had to… earn? You don’t get nice omelettes if you don’t learn how to cook them yourself, type of thing.

Just as fluidly as he’d entered the conversation, Bob slips free of it, electing to become a background ear to the chaos of Yelena and Bucky chattering at each other. Their voices morphing into a fuzzy blanket over his still waking mind. A metaphorical radio turned on low so that he could focus on swimming to consciousness rather than the creeping anxiety of too much silence. The cadence of their voices soothing, the familiarity of it cozy and predictable. Today it seemed they were bickering over whether or not the Tower was going to be - wait, he wasn’t exactly paying attention. Something about firebombing the garden?

He hoped not. He liked it out there. Being outside without, y’know. Being outside. Still wasn’t quite good at that one.

Omelette to plate, plate to table, Bucky watches Bob situate himself dead in the center of his exchanging of light barbs with Yelena. The food passing into his mouth without much consideration, dark eyes blinking out at the windows across from them. This, itself, was an update for Bob. At the beginning even false tensity tended to make the mans’ hackles rise, waiting for the moment it turned severe and he needed to duck out of the way of whatever aggression was working it’s way out.

Now, he snorts to himself when Yelena calls Bucky frostbitten.

He’s a little like Yelena in that regard, in that he feels like a person inhabiting a space these days. But where Yelena hid behind a deadly persona, Bob had just seemed ashamed to need the same air they did. A little ghost with his shoulders to his ears. Now? Now he lets the tongs of his fork clink against the plate without wincing, and openly pays attention to the conversation he hasn’t reentered himself into.

John and Ava have returned after their first round of disturbing Bucky’s well needed relaxation in the breakfast area, and Alexei is finally arriving for the first time that day as Bucky is retrieving his and Yelena’s third cup of coffee, Bob’s first. (He wasn’t the most fond of coffee, but he appreciated the pick-me-up, especially when a frankly nauseating amount of creamer was involved.)

“We really need some kind of big spectacle, yknow? Just- yeah we can say we’re the Avengers and we can live in the old crews place, but we really need to kick some ass to secure our hold in it.”

“Well what do you propose, John? Beam a signal out into space? ‘Hey aliens, come here and pick a fight with us so we can look cool to the other people here!’”

“Pfft, no. They’d never agree to that.”

Ava is squinting at him from her position, close to Yelena who has now moved close to Bucky as the chairs shuffled around to accommodate the other three bodies clustering in. Bob has started to hit proximal capacity, with his shoulders squeezed slightly even though no one came close to brushing with him. It didn’t help that the man got caught between Alexei and John for company, both make their brand of obnoxiousness into a flag they bear proudly.

“Look, I’m just saying! We wouldn’t be having these problems if we were doing more than fight people the public never get to hear about in the first place.” John was poking at his second breakfast of the day, something he’d apparently ordered off Doordash? to be brought to the tower of all places, pushing around browned sausage and crisp hashbrowns and gravy and other assortments of things. “At this point we’re just doing the same thing we always did but together. And with matching suits.”

“Matching suits are good! Make us look strong, united!”

“It’s better that the public doesn’t know,” Bucky interjected over Alexei’s enthusiasm of identical attire, and had an elbow on his armrest now, waving about the other hand freely as he spoke. “If they know, that means we didn’t get there in time to stop them from doing something.”

“So you’re saying we’re too good at our job?” Ava, incredulous and scathing as ever.

“Yes!”

“No, not exactly. Just that sometimes this is thankless work.”

“Well maybe I’d like to be thanked.”

“Or at least keep getting paid.”

Bob’s eyes are darting about the conversation, watching how it develops without any really desire to partake. It’s not that he isn’t part of it, exactly. But that he doesn’t necessarily… care.

So what if they aren’t Avengers? Do they need to be? Isn’t the important part that they’re helping people?

His mouth opens to posit that question - dumb as it might be - to his friends, when:

“Ladies, gentlemen! I hate to interrupt.” It was like dousing ice across everyone in the room, for all the way all warmth and fondness fled out the windows and down the stairwell to some place they did not occupy.

Valentina’s voice still inflicted some sort of deep seated anger in Bob, he wasn’t sure why. Though he knew she was the one originally trying to kill all of them in the vault, and that according to Yelena and Ava she’d done… something with him while he was in his Sentry state, he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Maybe the part of him that twisted with rage still did.

It had him smacking his lips irritably, pushing the plate away curt enough that it let out a mild whistle against the surface of the table that didn’t go unnoticed. John’s eyes were on him steadily, recognizing that flare of temper for what it was. It was one of the few more serious conversations they’d ever had with each other. Anger, and managing it in ways that didn’t result in broken furniture or self inflicted bruises. He didn’t need to say anything for Bob to nod at him. I’m cool.

Little could be done by way of explaining the idiosyncrasies of a body fundamentally divorced from itself.

“There’s an exciting new update for all of you. Something very important. Non negotiable. Head for the boardroom, you have thirty.”

---

Less could be done to provide comprehension to the scope of deprivation it required to no longer feel apart of the species you were, by all rights, born to.

Basically, you were a rather difficult creature to explain or understand. Not that you had much by way of practice in doing that.

So, here’s the thing:

Manhattan, New York is one of the wealthiest areas in the world - much less the country, that you could live. Brownstones, historic districts, lavish parks, beautiful boutiques. It was a gorgeous place, green and lush, industrial and waiting with open palms for those who had the means to take it.

You were buried a quarter mile beneath Manhattan.

With the cold war came the advent of nuclear hysteria, the world ever terrified for a mushroom cloud apocalypse that would bring with it the winter to end all winters. The world would crumble away to ice and decay and all life would slow to a crawl until only the most adapted and isolated of creatures could outlast the Earth repairing it’s destructive near-end.

And then none of that happened, actually.

But the important part of that is what came from it. What you got out of it. Circa the 1960’s full terror had gripped the nation that our world was going to end, but if you were a particularly savvy (and exorbitantly rich) hotel owner in one of the nicest areas of the entire country, you were building fallout bunkers and you were doing it before it was cool. And with so many of these incredibly intelligent wealthy individuals making shelters of all different shapes, sizes, and needs… Some of them just slipped through the cracks, entirely forgotten about.

Which made them ripe for the picking, if you happened to stumble upon one that hadn’t been registered with local authorities.

This place was your baby, your home. Eight feet of solid concrete reinforced with steel, shored up with external struts to protect against water instability from the surrounding ocean, heavily ventilated, and thoroughly treated. Vault door, cameras everywhere, back up generators, a pantry you’ve meticulously stocked over the years. This thing was frankly massive, built to sustain an entire family comfortably, and not just a singular societal reject.

This place was built for the end of the world, and now it’s your entire world.

Most of your days are spent right here, well - okay - all of your days are spent right here. But not all of them in this exact spot. With your feet kicked up on the dashboard of your very own surveillance system. Thirty-two chest-sized CRT screens imbedded into the wall stare back at you with footage from all across the city on their static clung faces. Traffic, weather cameras, even random footage from peoples’ doorbell cameras. You weren’t invasive enough to go inside, even if the curiosity ate at you sometimes.

Your station has been meticulously equipped over the years of your stay. Some of it is as brand new as you could get, others are classics. An IBM Model M is sitting in front of you, retro old keyboard in the same dingy green-yellow-beige that the rest of the bunker is, unaided by the old fluorescents flickering above. It’s what you use to do your work - what they use to do all of your work for you. More like a marionette to their ministrations. Beside it are a DAC and amp stack for a nice pair of German headphones found on Guitar Center or Amazon, and a bougie Shure microphone you acquired by shorting people out of bidding on it on eBay. Your guilt assuaged by running a cursory background check on the seller, wife beaters don’t deserve money.

Right now, your heart is in your throat.

There was a reason you came down here. A reason you stocked and live in this place that you illegally siphoned hot water and AC and all the other good shit to, without anyone ever knowing. Because you didn’t want anyone to know.

People… the outside… It’s terrifying. And not in the- the casual shakes or the nervous rambling or even the puking kind of way.

In the way that you’d open a manhole cover and crawl down it, wait there for hours until you were starving to make sure absolutely no one is around, scrambling from tight corner to tight corner to find your den to hide inside. That level of fear.

Blood curdling terror.

Now you’re willingly going to be introducing yourself to an entire group of people. Digitally. But still.

You knew them too, sometimes New York has something interesting happen to it and you’re so far beneath the crust that you get to witness it like a fun little spectator. So when a massive chunk of the city had - they recently dubbed it - voided out, you didn’t get to experience the misery and the terror the people up top did. You watched it all happen from your wall of screens and your expensive speakers and your everything else. Insulated and safe.

You also watched the people you’re about to talk to, stop the void. Somehow. Nobody really knew. It just kinda- unvoided everyone and thing. Lucky, y’know?

Valentina had contacted you after months of relatively low interaction, mostly just sent missions where you surveilled and reported back to her team whatever movements or information you could gather from your eye deep, deep beneath the sky. And then collected the paycheck that let you buy all the nice things that currently sat around you.

Pain in the ass to get here, mind. Since you didn’t let anyone so much as see the area that leads to your home. Better safe than sorry, besides, the locally delivery guys have come to an understanding with you. The extra hundred for every delivery without inquiry helps.

Now though?

“It’s time.” Her voice, grating as ever, made worse when it sounded over the heavy speakers you had set around your home base. “You’ve coasted by on little jobs this far, but we finally have need of your assets. You’re coming out of the dark, Terminal.”

This wasn’t what you were built for, but even with all the skills at your disposal money still became a necessity after a point. Not everything you could ever want or need could be procured by scams and technobabble-savvy. Not everything came without a hit to your conscience.

Still, the laminate counter and all the peripherals you’d accumulated have been dusted and disinfected three times now, all thirty-two screens have been fussed at to no end and you’ve shocked yourself enough times that the muscle in your ring finger was beginning to respond angrily to the uninvited stimuli. The whole place hums passively, the buzz off the fluorescents had grated your last nerve over an hour ago and have been relegated to some incredibly old desk lamp you stole and repaired from an abandoned library ages ago. The room, usually bright and weirdly pear colored has now been reduced to shadow and blue and a blanket of orange. Your shape cut across the concrete floor. It makes the place feel smaller, somehow.

Admittedly, and you knew this was an incredibly morally dubious choice to make, but you were kind of… stalking them?

It was a little too easy to get inside the New Avenger’s Tower, the artificial intelligence that Valentina supplied in the wake of JARVIS and FRIDAY being disbanded was little more than a rudimentary shadow of it’s predecessors. It could lock and unlock areas, manage cameras and microphones, knew the locations of every room in it’s premises, could tell time, and weather… But that was about it. It was a glorified app hiding in the ceiling. This meant that what you thought would be a battle that could backfire and get you in hot water with Valentina slipped by so easily that you were watching your future teammates make dinner, oblivious to your existence.

And the intelligence, CASEY (Central Authority, Surveillance, something-something. Valentina had tried to tell you and it’d already been terrible before the third letter in the abbreviation) was either none the wiser or not well programmed enough to alert anyone of the extra eyes in their home.

It felt wrong, it was wrong, but your excuse to yourself as muttered into a dingy mirror in your bathroom was that it provided you with pregame knowledge and ample preparation. So you wouldn’t fuck this up, or react too badly to how they react to whatever is about to happen. It was just you doing your own reconnaissance! Don’t head into enemy territory unprepared.

Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking of them as enemies. But- oh well.

It’s t-minus thirteen to the formal introduction and conversation has been entrenched on the big reveal, the big you. Some think it’s going to be good- two, precisely. The rest are thoroughly geared toward this being a disaster because Valentina’s print is on it. Not, honestly, a bad way to gauge it. Still, it had your teeth sliding against each other in anticipation. They won’t trust you, they probably won’t like you. It’s an uphill battle from go, and the worst part is that your odds are lower than terrible with her branding all over you. Not- not literally. But still.

If she has a hand in it, they’ll think you’re just as bad as her. And that’s something you have to fight past, starting in a matter of minutes.

“Listen, she doesn’t have control over us, we can just ignore whatever the hell kind of stunt she’s trying to pull.” Crackles over speakers situated at each corner. They’re a good quality, but the microphones installed at the Tower are not, so that it almost rings every time sound pushes through.

“But do we? We have no idea what this is going to be, and no guarantee we can worm our way around it.” Distinctly from James Barnes, arguably the most easy to identify of the entire group. His arm a glowing beacon of acknowledgement for who he is and who he was.

Again. Fundamentally untrusting people. You’re walking into Siberia in a Hawaiian-dad shirt.

“She hasn’t done anything too crazy since this began, and it’s been an entire year. Maybe she knows better with all of us being the face now, you know, after attempting to set us on fire?”

In a morbid way, you wish you didn’t already know about that. It would have been a good distraction from the lead ball in your gut. But alas, O.X.E. has had you in their pocket for awhile now, and that means you’ve been panty raiding their intelligence for ages at this point. The moment you’d seen her face pop up on national television following the blackout, you’d gone on a fun little deep dive to see what she fucked up that badly.

So much. Like an embarrassing amount, really.

Another candy wrapper is discarded to the half full trash can at your side. You’ve pretzeled your legs into the recliner you use as your desk chair in perhaps the least professional display of your state anyone has ever witnessed. Only topped off when you drag a blanket off the back and burrito yourself into it.

Walking into humiliation with comfort.

The screens switch camera to camera without your added input - they handle it for you as you worry away at lifted skin around your cuticles, taking not chewing your nails as enough victory for the evening - as they pass through something like a million tons of steel, marble, granite, concrete, and two inch thick panels of tempered and laminated glass on their way to the room where your debut will be announced to them post hoc.

Good god, you’re going to be fucking sick.

Valentina is already standing there when they arrive, and even through fuzzy and less than pixel perfect resolution you can see the ripple of discontent. They didn’t realize she was already in the building, and they didn’t like the following thought.

She’s as polished and corporate as ever, every texture and color her suit and jewels were clad in most likely approved by an entire team of stylists to convey a particular image and sentiment just for this evening. Like armor of a slippery, slimy variety. They all sit as her face stretches around an interpretation of a smile, her eyes dark and flat and calculating. She’s judging how difficult the sell is about to be.

“Thank you for arriving almost on time, perhaps this time next year you won’t embarrass us in front of national press by showing up when you’re told.”

“Look if you’re just here to berate us about the quality of our answers on what ice cream is our favorite—”

“Oh, Jesus no. I know better than with any of you. No, I have something much better for all of you to get used to.”

Again, as your fingers curl in tightly enough around your pants for the material to sting against your skin, the room seems to get even more coiled without you physically being there.

“Terminal, my dear. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Fuck. Fuck.

You go to introduce yourself, realize your mic is cut, set it hot and clear your throat at once. A part of you, however small but certainly tangible and real, dies horribly. Why didn’t you clear your throat before the mic was live, dumbass?

“Well, I- I believe the introduction has just been made for me, but hello there,” this part has been rehearsed for you a thousand times. You’d written out a script and paced the entire bunker for a solid week following this day, editing, scrapping, and then rehearsing the things you wanted to say. To sound perfect, polished. Like you might not be a total mistake for Valentina to introduce.

Your voice is a little squeaky and off kilter, instead of energetic like you’d been going for. Your delivery feels as rehearsed as it is, and the tackiness developing on your ankles has you kicking the blanket you used for comfort mere moments ago away and onto the floor.

“I go by Terminal, and Miss de Fontaine - if she does not mind me saying - has brought me on board to be a-”

You can hear the quiet groan that passes from someone’s mouth, and your voice flattens unintentionally as you wish more and more that the bunker would suddenly lose all structural support and simply turn you into red mist.

“-a new member of the team. I hope that… we can get along, and I am- excited, to get started.”

Again, because the first two times weren’t good enough: Fuck.

There’s a ripple of disbelief and apparent anger, resignation, even a touch of outrage in some of their faces. Barnes seems the most ready to roll with it, his slow head bob visible from where the camera is fixated upon them. Walker immediately the most outraged by this, shouting something to the effect of how she could expect them to work with someone without their approval or - even knowledge that this was going to happen.

“Who the hell is this guy? And why don’t we get a say in it-?”

“There’s no way you’re going to just- forcibly slot some random person in and expect us to be okay with it-”

“Oh, please, more members are good for team! Means we get stronger and more official looking, eh?”

Their objections and affirmations blend into noise, and your head hits the back of your recliner hard. And then a few more times, for good measure. It was honestly just more frustrating, for once damning the cushion for not letting you get a satisfying thunk out of the abuses you wished to laud against your own skull.

Then, across the table and cutting everyone off:

“What can you do?”

It’s the one that nearly destroyed Manhattan, you realize after a stunned pause. He’s sitting there somewhat folded in his seat, his elbows on his knees as he stares in a random direction. Like he’s aware of your presence but maybe a little too oblivious to notice he should be staring at the camera that just moved to point directly at him.

He doesn’t seem particularly invested, one way or the other. Instead, just… curious maybe? There’s a sort of innocence in it, like he’s more fascinated by whatever specialty you’ve been given than the fact that Valentina is trying to throw off all the team dynamics because she can.

It’s also not a question you were particularly ready for, given that you thought Valentina would use that opportunity for further pitching you to your new team.

“Well…” you start after a pause that goes on too long. “I am- I am one of the foremost black hats in the country, cracking code is sort of my thing. I’m- Miss de Fontaine wishes for me to become the brain for your operation, handling the technological side of your missions so that you can focus on the physical parts.”

“Is that why you’re not here, then? Keeping your identity concealed?”

“Oh God no! No… I just- I work best from where I am right now.” And nowhere, nowhere else.

Bucky seemed to right himself then, more of his face becoming visible within the eye of the camera you’d hijacked some time ago. He still doesn’t look particularly happy with what is occurring here, and yet unlike the others - there’s some level of acceptance.

“There’s a reason you’re doing this, Valentina. We haven’t needed a tech up until this point, what’s going on?”

The wobble of her expression is visible, even here. “Can I not just bring in more hands for the New Avengers? Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, the polish erodes and something annoyed and acidic and acrid crosses her face. The posture never leaves, but her hands move in a way that’s far less diplomatic and vastly sharper. Little stabs and slices that indicate the deep set dislike she holds toward the man who has called her on her shit.

“Fine. There’s a situation. Look- O.X.E. has reason to believe that someone is looking to replicate what was done with Robert. They’re sifting through old files, poking about in shut down facilities. I’m not concerned that they’ll find anything on account of the fact that we got rid of the evidence, but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop.

We’ve grabbed what intel we could, and beyond a few dozen mercenaries with almost as many murders under their individual belts as our favorite Widow here. They’ve also begun to collude with the likes of Mikhail Doyenko and Aantu Haikali.”

Manila folders are thrown by Valentina into the center of the conference table they’d clustered around, and after a moment of heavy pause, each member of the New Avengers reaches forward to grab their copy of the report. It’s thick, filled with a few dozen pages of information on the named individuals as well as the organization they’d fallen in with.

Enmis.

Their known goals are listed, what little scraps were found from each abandoned base O.X.E. has raided, too late to get them while they were still escaping. They were slippery, skilled, and growing vastly more dangerous by the day. You knew because you’d read the same thing they were, days ago.

“I recognize the name, Doyenko.” Belova is the one speaking, the Widow with the pale hair and the eyes too clear. The one who had charged headfirst into pitch darkness and managed to save the world in the process. “He’s a trafficker, isn’t he?”

“Precisely, but worse than your regular. He specializes in the enhanced, whether that’s serum or something else.”

“Which means he’s got the experience and the equipment to handle a group of super soldiers.” Comes Barnes’ following reply, voice steady as he follows what Valentina has provided on a candy trail.

“I mean, c’mon! How good could they be, just some random souped up idiots this guy snatched off the street to sell? We’re actual soldiers, we have combat experience!”

“And we are team, they most likely run alone, no? Not prepared to be overwhelmed by the mighty Avengers!”

You were glad to be irrelevant in the conversation again, your little tatters of self esteem were still smoldering after being so thoroughly dashed on your lack of communication skills. The most successful exchange you’d had today was one of the members of the team asking you what you even do to warrant being on the team, though you suspected that maybe that was a more harsh reading of his question than he’d meant.

Robert Reynolds, Bob. The Sentry, or The Void. Supposedly the very strongest on that entire team, but in a sort of arrested development situation. From what you’d gleaned off your own eavesdropping and the information Valentina offered you to try and use to your advantage, Bob - as he preferred to be addressed - had not initially been an active member of the team following the void out on Manhattan. It was only as he grew more listless from being left at base constantly, combined with the burgeoning realization that just because he wasn’t using his more extracurricular power hadn’t negated the part where he’s bullet-proof that they decided to put him on the roster.

Bit of a disaster, at first. Some reports about near void-outs, some things being destroyed that were meant to be preserved. Lots of communication issues. Just the whole gamut of throwing a random- random guy into the middle of active combat. Even training looked to be a bit of a doozy, if the recordings you’d plucked were anything to go by.

It wasn’t that Bob didn’t try, he tried very hard- and what he picked up on he seemed to learn reasonably fast. But the issue came in the fact that- a lot of sparring tended to involve one side losing in order to learn from their mistakes.

Bob can’t… exactly lose. Hard to get the physical element of training by failure when kicking him in the head as hard as you can might actually break your ankle before it bruises his head. So instead of learning instinctively through the pain and the mistakes that cost, Bob has to go about it the long and conscious way. Deliberately taking in the lessons he needs instead of it just becoming imprinted on his dislocated shoulders and broken collarbones.

In spite of this, he sees rather regular combat in the modern day. He’s less of an aggressive force and more of their bulwark. A big living meat shield, bulldozing clean through walls and tearing reinforced doors off their hinges to make progression almost frighteningly convenient. All the while he served as a happy lookout while they took on all the action. He was quite content with this arrangement, it seemed.

He definitely looks different from the initial photos the press released, back when no one knew who the hell this guy was and yet he’d been cloistered into the center of the group of heroes you see now. He’s gained weight and his hair is - well, not short. But certainly shorter than it had been. Curling wildly in these thick ringlets that caress his ears and neck, dangling down in front of his face where he habitually pushes them aside as he speaks, offering timid bits of opinion and potential advice that his team receives with a surprising level of openness. It looks healthy, he looks healthy. More flushed and alert than he had been when those reporters descended like hawks to snap every picture they could get.

“Haikali is the bigger problem,” Valentina cuts into the discussion as it turns about. Drafting up early ideas of how to circumvent Enmises silver bullet for seemingly half of the entire team. “Doyenko might be a problem in combat, but Haikali worked on Riptide back during the blip. The man is a genius and a certified lunatic, if anyone would come into approximation of what we did here with Robert, it would be him. Issue being, it would be a far uglier and more botched serum, and he wouldn’t care. They don’t need to survive long, they just need to get the job done.”

And that was the crux of it, now wasn’t it? Bombs didn’t last beyond one use, they just needed to take everything else out with it.

It sets a sort of unsteadiness throughout the group, even you who sits with your knees to your chest and your chin propped as you parse through the cadence of everyone you are now expected to get to know.

“Terminal, it’s your turn to take it from here. Whatever they need, you get it. Got it?”

“Y-Yes, de Fontaine.” Your eyes squeeze tightly as you response, desperately believing that you don’t sound pathetic as you address her.

“Well, with that in mind. All of you play nice with each other! I have six interviews this week to try and deal with yet another one of your messes.” Valentina had abandoned any false pretenses of amicability, and her clicking heels manage to reach the microphone as she heads for the door.

“We’ll get you more information when they become active again, in the meantime. Do something that seems at least a little heroic, hm?”

When the door closes, you’re left with the crackle of your speakers and the deafening silence of their rigidity. They’re about as happy as you expected them to be, which is absolutely none at all.

This was going to be torture of the worst kind.

#bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #the sentry #the void #robert reynolds #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu #thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob x reader

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thewinter-eden · 6 months ago

Text

Don't Look At Me Like That

images are mine (except middle HH pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 4 of the skz crack!horror series (this concludes the Hyung Line).

pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: hitman!Hyunjin’s next target is you, the child of a foreign diplomat. But when he shows up to do the job and finds you ambivalent to the threat upon your life, he can’t help but ask what the hell is wrong with you.

warnings: Terminal illness, smoking, asshole family, political family, angst, unrealistic trust fund, drugs, implications of overdose, implications of involuntary overdose, assault, discussion of surgery, depictions of cysts/tumors, USD instead of Korean Won, Gossip Girl reference, some language, kidnapping.

word count: 6k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info PART 2 INFO

The first igniting drags of your cigarette feel like a second glass of wine. For a second, you’re lighter than air and the world tips on its axis.

Your family hates your penchant for cigarettes. They call you disgusting; unhygienic; stupid.

Although, In a way, your literal toxic trait has actually strengthened your personal hygiene—a rigorous unskippable skincare routine, to fight the weathering of your face, expensive and regular dental care to prevent the yellowing of teeth, your hands under a constant layer of hand sanitizer and scented perfume to combat the clinging stench of smoke, every surface of your bedroom cleaned daily and your laundry crisply pressed and regularly washed—just because you’re a shameless human chimney doesn’t mean you intend to wear the grime of cigarette smoke as an accessory.

Not that any of that matters anymore.

You take another drag and feel your body settle into the familiar rhythm. In front of you, on the other side of your glass cage (read: bedroom window) the city stretches out in front of you, lights poking holes in the blanket of darkness that covers it.

The clock reads 6 PM.

Lifting one hand, tapping a black-polished nail against the glass, watching your arm tremble, you give a resigned sigh and blow a puff of smoke through the opening. The plume rises and disperses into the atmosphere, vanishing before your eyes.

You finish your cigarette and crush the filter into your ash tray, yanking the curtains closed. The next few minutes are muscle memory—shrugging out of your robe, spritzing it with vodka to remove the smoke smell, exfoliating your hands and arms with a sugar scrub, brushing and whitening your teeth, covering yourself head to toe in moisturizer.

All for the sake of appearances.

When you close yourself into the bathroom to change half an hour later, all you smell is coffee from the sugar scrub and the sickly sweet aroma of your flowery lotion.

“You’re coming, right?” Your best friend Lisa’s voice booms through the phone, the sound of pounding music and raucous laughter filling the background.

You’re already dressed, brushing excess highlighter and powder off your face as you stand before your mirror. “Of course I’m coming, I promised you I would. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” You take a second to check your watch.

Lisa had made plans with you to meet at the party at 8, but she always arrives early enough to be four or five drinks ahead by the time you show up. This inevitably leads to her finding someone to spend an hour in the closest lockable room with and you calling your dad’s driver to take you home.

It’s not that you don’t ever want a hook up or a boyfriend or anything, it’s just that you’re the seventeen-year-old daughter of a politician and you have rules.

You can’t be out after 11, you can’t be seen with mile-deep cleavage or thigh-high hems, and you certainly can’t be drunk in public—especially as a minor. So you smooth the fabric of the just barely appropriate outfit you’ve chosen and check your reflection one last time.

It takes a second to convince yourself that the heaviness of your eyes isn’t because of your dark liner, that the dullness in your expression isn’t obvious.

“Well hurry on over. I’ve found someone you just have to meet.”

When you arrive, you’re wading through a house that’s teeming with high schoolers, the walls reverberating with pounding music. You find Lisa near the kitchen, one arm slung around the neck of one of her friends, the other hand clutching a plastic cup.

When her eyes land on you, she all but screeches your name over the clamor and reaches for you. The girl that she was just leaning on takes the opportunity to pull away and stretch her arms upward, trying to correct the awkward hunch that Lisa had put her in. She shoots you a grateful smile and disappears into the crowd, looking for her boyfriend.

Lisa’s in your face in the next second, her breath already reeking. She catches you in a tight, sloppy hug, the contents of her cup splashing your shoulder as she trips. “I’m so glad you’re here,” She says, and if her body language says drunk, her voice certainly doesn’t. Her lipstick is smeared and she’s staggering a little but her voice is crisp and sharp. “I was worried you’d change your mind again.”

She runs a hand up the back of your neck and playfully squeezes the knot of your hair that you’ve taken the time to elegantly pin.

It’s a ritual at this point.

You have the worst habits—smoking and drinking and slipping your curfew after everyone’s asleep—but you don’t go anywhere without a Princess Grace-like appearance. Because it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you’re not shitfaced on the front page the next morning. Even if you’ve snuck out at night to meet a boyfriend, when the cameras catch you on the streets you’re perfectly coiffed and sleekly styled.

Even now, you don’t look like you’re dressed for a high school party so much as a cocktail one, but Lisa tells you it makes you look more like Blair Waldorf than the homeschooler you’re always worried you emulate.

You push her hand out of your hair and check to make sure the pins haven’t come out. “Did you get me one of those?” You nod towards the cup in her hand and her eyes light up.

She nods towards the kitchen. “I got you, babe, come with me.”

You follow her, one hand reaching for her hip to steady her when she falls off one of her high heels, and then you’re in the kitchen and the noise of the party is muffled behind the heavy swinging door.

There’s one other person in the room with you, a tall, slender guy near the sink, shoulders hunched slightly as he gazes out the window. You’re still trailing after Lisa, but your eyes are taking in the long black hair that the guy has pulled back in a half pony, the slim-cut jacket with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the ripped jeans that cinch at his small waist and hang loosely around his legs.

When the two of you enter, his head turns, and you see the sharpness of his jaw, the definition of his features. There’s a flutter in your chest when his dark eyes land on you, and you whip your head away, crowding yourself behind Lisa.

She’s crushing something with a spoon, dumping it in the cup she’s just poured for you. Then she spins on one heel—surprisingly stable as she does—and passes it to you. “Here.”

You stare at the powder floating on top, and then back at her. “What did you put in this?”

“Nothing heavy.” She assures you, and knocks back a couple of the tablets herself. “Just something to take the edge off. Go ahead.”

It doesn’t matter anyway.

You drink, sucking in the yeasty beer with fervor, trying your hardest not to taste it as it goes down. Before you can finish the cup, Lisa catches your arm and turns you towards the man at the window. She introduces you without giving you a chance to question her, and tells you his name is Hyunjin—the guy she wanted you to meet.

He turns to you fully, eyes tracing you head to toe. There’s a gentle smile on his full lips as he notices the blush that rushes to your face. “Nice to meet you,” He says kindly. “I think I’ve seen you on TV.”

As the words reach your ears, you feel yourself growing more guarded despite the opposite effects of the alcohol. You’re used to being recognized, you’re used to being used for your dad’s fame and fortune. You’ve been burned before, and you have no intention of using this time to be manipulated again.

So you pull yourself up into a respectful posture and prepare to treat him like the occasional politically-conscious “fan” who asks you to take a picture. It doesn’t happen often, but you do tend to be popular amongst the poli-sci students at the local college.

“He’s a senior.” Lisa says, and gives you a nudge towards him. “He’s going to study art.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, and you look over Hyunjin again. At second glance, he does look the type. He’s effortlessly fashionable, quiet, reserved—at least on first impression. You extend your hand politely. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you a practitioner or a history buff?”

At your strictly professional tone, Hyunjin laughs under his breath and steps in to take your hand, enveloping it in the warmth of his own. “A little of both, I suppose. I sketch and paint. Lisa tells me you’re quite the watercolorist?”

You blush a little at the recognition of your most intimate hobby. “I play around with it a little, but it’s just for fun.” When you notice he’s still grasping your palm, you gently pull your hand back.

Lisa grips your arm again, and leans in so close that you can smell the cologne of the last boy she had her hands on. “Why don’t you two hang out a little? You’re both the same about parties, so I figured you’d get along. Cool? I’m going to go find Mingyu.”

There’s nothing you can say to make her stay, even if you could think of the words to try. So you just watch her disappear, the noise of the party warbling strangely as the door swings back and forth behind her.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Your eyes snap back to Hyunjin. “What?”

“When I said I’d seen you on TV.”

“Oh.” You pull another long sip from your drink and wince. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re standing like you’re at a press conference.” His eyes are alive with mirth as he watches you subtly try to shuffle your posture, brows lowering.

You’re coming back to yourself, your body acclimatizing to the atmosphere and whatever it was that Lisa put in your drink, your nerves no longer responding to every little glance that Hyunjin gives you. So you just shrug a shoulder and search the kitchen for your drink of choice. “I’m not uncomfortable as long as you’re not interested in some kind of fifteen minutes of fame bullshit.”

There it is.

You drain your beer as Hyunjin chuckles behind you and rinse your cup of the vile liquid, instead filling it with about four ounces of whiskey from a glass cabinet.

Hyunjin watches your movements with an eyebrow cocked. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant to be a party favor.”

You nurse the drink slowly, settling into the comfort of the initial burn. “You gonna tell on me?”

He examines you again, shaking his head. “Not if you pour me one.”

You do, and then settle back against the counter. “Why come to a party if you’re going to hide in the kitchen?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Kinda surprised your dad lets you come to something like this.”

You used to be, too. Now you just huff. “As long as I’m not a scandalous headline tomorrow, he doesn’t care where I go or what I do. And I don’t usually hide in the kitchen.” It’s true, you don’t. There’s a handful of people out there that you like to talk to, a couple of them you even like to dance with if the occasion calls for it, but right now you’re not itching to leave where you’re at.

Hyunjin’s eyebrows raise as he looks at you, and he glances towards the door. “Then why—”

“Because I’m talking to you.” The confidence comes with the whiskey. The taste of it in the back of your throat distracts you from the blush you would ordinarily be fighting if you had said those words soberly to someone as attractive as Hyunjin, and right now you’re just enjoying the way his eyes crinkle and the sweet smile explodes across his face.

It’s cute.

He’s cute.

He shuffles his feet beneath him for a second, the air between you comfortable as he lets the effects of your statement fade. When the flustered state is mostly gone from his face, he glances up at you again, almost shyly. “You’re really pretty.” And then, feeling the weight of his own words as they drop off his tongue, his eyes widen and he hastens to soften their impact. “I like your earrings.”

But you just smile, watching the pink in his cheeks as he swallows a regrettably large gulp of whiskey.

“You’re really pretty, too.” You say, and his head snaps around to you.

For a long second, he just stares at you.

It’s not often that you find yourself talking to someone you want to open yourself up to, someone you like to see so flustered, but he’s so completely enchanting that you can’t take your eyes off him and you don’t want to stop saying things that make him look at you like that.

There are only so many things that you can enjoy in a life like yours, and you want to enjoy this.

Hyunjin pours you both another drink.

You’re grateful, especially because there’s a nagging part of you telling you to go outside and smoke a cigarette, so instead you bring your cup to your lips and sip. You move to reach for a bottle of lemon juice and it puts you right next to him, feeling the radiating warmth of his side as you mix your drink into a whiskey sour.

He doesn’t move away.

Out of the corner of your eyes you catch the faintest tremble of his hand, and a smirk curves your lips.

His eyes are on you as you pinch a sprinkle of sugar into the drink and then suck the granules off your thumb.

You turn slightly, so close that you don’t even have to reach to offer him your drink. “Want to try?”

His eyes flick from yours, to the drink, and back to your face. Hyunjin’s tongue appears to swipe across his lower lip, and then he nods, taking the cup from you.

You thoroughly enjoy the swirling in your stomach when his fingers brush yours.

He drinks from your cup, face scrunching slightly as he takes in the taste of it.

At the crumpling of his eyebrows, you frown, suddenly interrupted from the sense of control you feel. “You don’t like it?”

Hyunjin lowers the cup from his lips with a look of surprise, shaking his head. “I love it.” He holds it out to you. “Would you show me how you made it?”

It’s not a complicated drink, the whiskey sour.

You find yourself smirking again, and push the cup back towards him. “Keep it. I’ll make myself another one.” And you take his whiskey from him, turning to fix yourself another drink. When he just stands there, mentally processing how he somehow ended up trading drinks with you, you know you have him.

So when he edges closer, the heat of his body flooding into your skin, you’re not surprised. You keep your hands moving, your eyes on your drink, pretending you don’t notice the way he’s suddenly leaning into your side.

“You smell good,” He says lowly, and your heart does a flip.

But you play it off casually, focused on getting the lid off the lemon juice bottle. “You like it? I’m not so sure yet.”

It’s gotta be the oldest trick in the book, but he takes the opportunity like it’s a written permission slip and then his face is at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the whisper of his breath on your skin.

“I like it,” He murmurs.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him place his cup on the counter next to you, and then both of his hands settle on your arms. His touch is light, gentle, his thumbs smoothing questioning strokes against your sleeves, asking permission.

When you tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck to him, it’s a yes.

His lips are on your shoulder then, his fingers wrapping firmly around your arms.

Your entire body heats up.

He’s leaning into you, trailing his mouth from your shoulder to your neck, then slowly up your throat until your head is edging back, leaning against his shoulder, giving him access. Hyunjin’s hand slides up one arm, cupping the curve of your neck as he litters wet kisses across your jaw, and his other hand reaches around to cover both of yours where you realize that at some point you abandoned your efforts to make a drink.

He turns you around and you let him, throwing your head back as his mouth leaves a glistening trail across your collarbones and up your throat, moving up to suck gently at the point of your jaw beneath your ear. “I really do like your earrings.” He whispers, and you feel him flick the dangling gemstone with his tongue.

You’re trembling under his hands, and you wish you could say it’s from his highly effective ministrations, but you know it’s not. You peel your eyes open, all but panting as his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead drops against yours, and you watch his tongue dart out to lick his lips.

“Can we move this somewhere more private?” He whispers, and then he’s sucking at your jaw on the other side, his fingers gripping the flesh at your hips.

You can’t help a laugh. “More private than the closed kitchen where it’s just us?”

“Please?” He whimpers against your throat.

You have absolutely no reason to protest. You’re nodding, aching, allowing him to push you towards the kitchen door, because this could be it. This could be your last. He’s every fantasy you’ve ever had, the absolute embodiment of beauty and seduction, and even one night with him could be everything.

What do you have to lose?

You stand to lose more by turning him down at this point.

So when his hands guide you through the living room, your ears barraged by music and laughter, your eyes assaulted by the flashes of too much skin and way too much pda, you just lean into his touch around your waist and let him find a room to duck into.

That’s how you find yourself pushed onto your back on someone’s bed, your heart in your ears as Hyunjin straddles you, his face returning to its spot against your throat, kissing his way towards your collar.

You feel his hands trail up your sides, his thumbs sweeping at the swell of your breasts, and for a second, you panic.

You’re not sure what he’ll think of you, how he’ll react to you when he finally gets his hands on you, but you can’t even worry about it for long because he’s nipping at your throat, his hands dragging your arms above your head.

Breathing in gasps, heart hammering as he laces the fingers of one hand through both of yours, trapping your hands above your head, you arch yourself into him as his free hand comes back towards his hip.

“You really are very pretty,” Hyunjin breathes into your ear, and then he presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to your cheek. “I just want you to know that.” Still holding your hands, he settles his weight back on your hips and pulls something out of his pocket.

You frown at him, chest heaving with breathlessness, confused. “What do you mean?”

Hyunjin brings his free hand back into view, now holding something cylindrical. Bringing the end of it to his mouth, prying off a plastic cap with his teeth, you can see the object as it catches the light.

A hypodermic needle, filled with something.

He spits the cap out of his mouth, eyebrows pinched in concentration. “Don’t move, angel, this doesn’t have to hurt.”

But you’re not moving, you’re just staring at the needle, trying desperately to make sense of the complete shift in atmosphere. You’re no longer trapped in a lovers’ embrace, you’re trapped. He has your hands immobilized, your lower body caught beneath his own, completely vulnerable.

He arches his body, reaching to slip the needle into a vein in your arm, and you understand.

You understand.

A deep sigh rushes out of your lungs.

You thought you’d have more time, but at this point, what does it matter?

Just before the needle pricks your flesh, Hyunjin seems to realize that you’re not fighting him at all. His eyes flick down to you, and he finds you blinking solemnly at his shoulder, not a single emotion on your face.

He pauses.

You close your eyes, suck in a deep breath, and let it out.

There’s no fear, no more surprise, no apprehension.

Just exhaustion; resignation.

It doesn’t matter. He leans in towards your arm again, angling the needle to prod your vein. You don’t even flinch as it pricks your skin, sliding into your flesh. His thumb hovers over the plunger, but doesn’t press.

He’s never had a mark just lay there.

They’ve never just…accepted it.

He glances at your face again. “Angel…do you know what’s happening right now?” You had only had a few drinks, and the flush of your face could be from the drugs or the drink or his lips on your throat, but surely you should be a little concerned by the sheer volume of what he’s about to push into your bloodstream.

“I know,” You respond flatly. “He shouldn’t have bothered, honestly, but it’s not like he knew.”

Hyunjin’s brain stutters with confusion. “He?”

“My father,” You say, and your eyes meet his. “He wasted his money, hiring you to kill me.”

Huh.

That’s not at all how he expected this to go.

“I guess he’s paying Lisa, too, since she started with the pills.” It stings, knowing your best friend would accept cash to kill you, but you also know that your father wouldn’t have offered an insignificant sum.

Whatever he’s paying Lisa will set her up for life.

“So they’ll find me, tonight or tomorrow, just another stupid teenager who tried to have too much fun, and the two of you are just the dumb high school friends to corroborate that it was just an accident. Right?”

You don’t cry, you don’t fight, you don’t yell.

He stares at you, shocked. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“You don’t seem apprehensive about killing a girl for money.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens. “It’s my job.”

“So you don’t go to this high school, then.” You mutter sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t go to any high school.” Then he catches your gaze again. “But it really is my job. It’s not like it’s personal.”

You take a second, absorbing the reality of what’s happening to you. It’s over.

It’s over.

This is it.

Forget three months.

It’s over now.

You weren’t prepared for this timeframe, but you are prepared. You have coped.

It’s not a new idea.

So you just nod. “Okay.”

It’s like he starts to lean to finish the job, and then pulls himself back. “Why did you say he shouldn’t have bothered?”

You laugh then, a loud, inelegant burst of laughter, almost directly into his chest.

He’s startled, eyes wide, leaning back on your hips to stare down at you. “Angel, I’m literally about to kill you, why the hell are you laughing? There’s no way you’re that drunk.”

And you’re not.

The sheer adrenaline of his lips on your skin burned through that alcohol what seems like hours ago, and now you’re just sinking into oblivion, still laughing.

Finally, tears of irony in your eyes, you wheeze up at him. “Go ahead and finish it, Hyunjin, or whoever you are. It doesn’t make a difference anyway. I’m alright. Finish it.” You nod upwards, towards the direction of your joined hands, and wish that the scent of his skin wasn’t still making your head swim.

It’s really not the time to be attracted to the assassin whom your father hired to murder you.

But he’s stuck, indecisive.

Because you’re laying underneath him, sniffling past a rush of humor—of all things—completely unconcerned and telling him that you’re alright with him killing you. That you’re alright with him subjecting you to a drug overdose that’s going to be painful and terrifying and the end of your life.

At this point, you seem to be more alright with it than he is.

And then you’re smiling at him. “Thanks for being nice about it.”

His heart lurches. “What the hell.” He yanks the needle out of your skin, releases your hands, and sits back on your hips again, eyes wide and unbelieving. “I mean—what the hell? What is wrong with you?”

You roll your eyes. “He must not be paying you much if you’re willing to back out just because I’m pitiful.”

Which isn’t true, he’s supposed to be paid quite a lot for this job, but he just can’t comprehend how you’re reacting.

“Why shouldn’t he have bothered?”

You’re no longer trapped except for the way he’s straddling your hips, so now you’re just laying against an uncomfortable pair of pillows, feeling the pins of your updo poking into your neck. If he’s supposed to kill you, why won’t he just do it? You search his eyes, finding only confusion and concern.

Sighing, you reach for his hand—the empty one that used to be holding both of yours against the headboard.

Oh, how you expected a very different outcome from this situation.

He flinches as he suddenly finds you bringing his hand towards your chest, jerking it back when you lay his palm over your breast.

It’s almost comical the way his face heats up.

Clearly, his earlier show of attraction towards you had been aided by a hurriedly consumed volume of alcohol and a professionally put-on flustered attitude, but now, when you made him touch you, he seems genuinely awkward.

And, for your side of things, you were going to let him feel you up anyway, so what’s the difference now?

You quirk an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you for anything, just give me your hand.”

He doesn’t protest when you catch his hand again, his cheeks flushed pink, until you drag his fingers across the slope of your breast and they trip over a lump of flesh that’s hard as a rock. The flustered color drains from his face, and then he’s frowning, leaning in, moving of his own accord to swipe his fingers over the place once more, as though he wasn’t sure he felt it the first time.

You let him.

When he pulls his hand back into his lap and stares at you, you just smile. “Did you know, in the early days of breast cancer surgery, a woman went in to have a lump removed, and when she came out of anesthesia, she was missing an entire breast, some ribs, and like half of the muscle wall of her chest? And the fuckass doctors were like “we got it!” Like, you don’t burn down the house in order to kill a spider and then say, “Don’t worry, we got it!””

Hyunjin blinks at you, mentally parsing your unexpected rambling. “They’ve, uh…come a long way in terms of cancer surgeries, I think.”

A puff of breath escapes your lips, another sardonic laugh. “It’s too late for that. It’s in my bones, my lymphatic, everywhere. I got to it too late.” You roll your eyes and press a palm to your forehead. “So, yeah, he shouldn’t have bothered. Three months and I would have been out of his hair for free.”

A few seconds pass as you process the words you haven’t yet admitted out loud to anyone, as he processes what you’re telling him.

He’s trying to kill a girl who’s already dying.

No wonder she didn’t care.

“So, how much is he paying you?” You question lightly, eyes searching for the syringe. You assume he’ll finish the job—everybody has to pay the rent, and it’s not like you’ve got your life ahead of you anyway.

Hyunjin scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Three million.”

You outright scoff at that, shocking him once again. “He’s ripping you off, dude. Did he tell you why he hired you?”

“I don’t ask. I am a professional, you know.” He brings his hand to his chest like he’s offended, and allows the slightest smile to twist his lips when you roll your eyes again.

You wedge your hands under you. “Can I sit up? I need to smoke and you’re killing my back.” You wiggle your hips and try to scoot yourself back. As he lifts his own hips off of you, you raise an eyebrow. “Not that I mind.”

At that, he flushes again.

Laughing softly, you pull yourself up to sit against the headboard, dragging your knees to your chest, and watch as he sits himself in front of you, cross-legged. For the time that it takes you to slide a cigarette from your purse and light it between your lips, he’s silent, watching you.

The syringe is at his side, laying between the wrinkles in the blanket, forgotten.

“My trust fund defaults back to him if I die before I hit eighteen.” You inform him. “And it’s 25 million dollars.”

His mouth falls open. “Why the hell is your trust fund so much money?”

“When my mom was dying, my father promised her he would help her allot her estate into a trust fund for me, plus a hefty sum from his own assets as a romantic gesture. For all his faults, he’s never loved anyone the way he loved her.” You scoff, sucking in a comforting drag of smoke. You’re careful to blow it away from him, to knock your ashes into the ring tray on the bedside table instead of allowing them to fall into the carpet. “But that was fifteen years ago, and I guess he forgot that he loved her once.”

“So he wants your trust fund.” Hyunjin says, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palm. “Because he forgot he loves you too?”

Your lips pinch. “I’m just a reminder of when he used to be a better man.”

Silence ticks between you, and the smell of your cigarette permeates the air. You can’t care enough to apologize to him for your filthy habit, because if it’s the last cigarette you’re ever going to have, you might as well enjoy it.

But he doesn’t seem put off by it, instead wrapping his hands around your ankles and pulling your feet into the criss-cross of his legs so he can scoot closer to you, resting his hands on your thighs.

You’re surprised, but not displeased with the gentle embrace of your legs.

“I don’t want to kill you, angel,” He says, and rests his chin on your knees.

It’s too much, the doe-eyed boy staring at you through the dim light, holding you close to him and running his hands up and down your thighs, fingers sweeping low enough to run across your hips.

You can’t look at him.

Turning your eyes away, you knock the ash off the end of your cigarette and laugh. “That’s so kind, thanks.” You drop the rest of the butt into the tray and brush your hands together. “Alright. I’m ready. Let’s get you paid.” You scoop up the syringe and hold it out to him, eyes wide and inviting.

He takes it from you, but he doesn’t take your arm again.

In the quiet of his indecision, you can’t help yourself. Your fingers find the soft swoop of his hair falling over his forehead, letting a few strands slide through your fingers before you pull yourself together and extend your arm to him. “Do it, Hyunjin.” You say softly, ignoring the way your movements made him look at you. “If you don’t do it, he’ll hire someone else. His campaign isn’t doing well, he’s facing asset forfeiture—he needs the money. If you don’t kill me, someone else will.”

Hyunjin’s hand finds yours, his fingertips smoothing up the underside of your forearm towards that vein that he found earlier. A drop of blood has gathered where he pricked you, the trail where it dripped dry and crusted.

You’re not scared, you’re not worried.

You’re a little relieved, actually, that you don’t have to pretend anymore. Because you’ve known for months that your time is running out. You’ve known for months that no one would care even if you told them.

The pounding of the music outside the door fills the space, reminding you that you were supposed to come in here to have the night of your life, and now, instead, the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen is going to inject poison into your bloodstream and leave you to die on a stranger’s bed.

That does dishearten you a little bit.

He presses his thumb against the vein. His eyes flick up to yours. “When is your birthday?”

You cock your head curiously, wondering. “Next month.”

Hyunjin lets the vein go and sets the syringe down near his hip. “I’ll make you a deal.” He takes your other hand, too, peering into your face with sincerity. “If I keep you alive until your birthday, we split the trust fund, 70-30. Then at least you don’t let your dad win, and maybe you can see if there’s some super expensive doctor who can help you. Or something. What do you think?”

You blink. “You’re going to trade being an assassin for being a bodyguard just for eight million dollars?”

He smirks, a flash of teeth in the dark. “Seven and a half, actually. And it’s a better gig than killing a dying seventeen-year-old just so her asshole father can take her trust fund. So, what do you say?”

You’re almost a hundred percent sure there’s no doctor or surgeon in the world who can fix your cancer at this point. All the ones you’ve spoken to so far won’t even recommend radiation or chemo, because there’s no point. They keep saying things like “quality of life” and “keep you comfortable,” not, “if only you had more money.”

But it’s interesting, this deal he’s put forward.

Die tonight or spend a month with a gorgeous young assassin?

Is it even a choice?

“We split it 50-50.” You say. “All I want to do with my half is give it to cancer research.”

He’s surprised again, his mind now struggling to grasp an influx of almost thirteen million dollars, and he nods slowly. “Okay. So we have a deal?”

He’s already holding your hands, so you can’t exactly shake on it, but you nod with a shrug. “Deal.”

You’ve never seen a smile as sweet as the one he gives you after that. “Good. Get your coat, angel—you’re coming home with me.”

Eyebrows skyrocketing, you follow his movements as he bounds off the bed and scoops up your purse. “So you’re going to kidnap me instead of murdering me?”

He holds out a hand and waits for you to take it. “Are you arguing?”

You let him haul you off the bed and find yourself laughing as his arm circles your waist and he hurries you out of the room. “Not in the slightest.”

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 1 year ago

Text

Follow Me

Luke Castellan x daughterofares!Reader

Summary: Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Warning: Major spoilers if you haven't finished the first book(/season depending on when you read this), canon-level violence, weapons, injuries, angst

Word Count: 5.5K

Masterlist

A/N I haven't watched the show because I don't have Disney+ so I'm working from (memory of) the books. No characters are specifically book or show so descriptions are left vague. Imagine whatever you want.

I stumbled my way up Half-Blood Hill, determined to get to Thalia’s tree. This was my last year being a summer camper. After I graduated high school I’d decided to become a year round camper seeing as the real world was getting more and more dangerous for me. And I'd be damned if I let myself be killed right before I was in the safety of camp for good.

I was in so much pain, there was blood pouring out of my abdomen caused by the crocotta’s razor sharp claws slicing at me. My short break gave it enough time to catch up to me so rather than continuing to flee, I was forced to turn and face it. I pulled out my father’s gift to me, a sword made of celestial bronze that grew from a steel knife that could harm mortals. When he claimed and gifted it to me I found the steel useless. Why would I ever need to harm a mortal? The reasoning behind the dual blade still eluded me. The only reason I could think of was just that Ares had a penchant for violence.

As the crocotta bounded closer to me, all I could do was stand and wait for it to get within range. But upon reaching me, it just swiped the sword from my grasp, pouncing on me. I felt a tear slip down my face as I realized I’d failed to reach safety one final time. As it growled in my face and opened its jaw, I sent a silent prayer to my father and a goodbye to Luke. But before it’s jaws could clamp down on me, the weight lifted and a shimmery cloud of ichor rained down on me.

As the golden dust settled, I could see my boyfriend’s face above mine, standing over me, clutching his dagger. “Luke,” I practically sobbed in relief.

“Oh my gods,” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to me. His hands went to my stomach, pressing against the open wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Can you walk?” he asked, fear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I nodded, letting him take my hand as he stood. Truthfully I probably couldn’t really walk but it was either walk 10 feet to the tree or lie here waiting for someone else to help Luke carry me in and potentially getting attacked by another monster.

I let out a groan as Luke slung my arm over his shoulder, pulling me up from the ground. “C’mon,” he urged, “just get to the tree and then we’ll get some more people to help you.” I nodded, not bothering with a verbal agreement as I let my boyfriend practically carry me just past Thalia’s tree. “There we go,” he said gently as he eased me to the ground.

“Go. Go get Lee or Michael,” I urged him as he kneeled by my side again.

“No,” Luke immediately shot down. “I’m not leaving you like this and so close to the edge of the barrier.” I glanced to my left. We were about three feet from the edge of the camp’s protective barrier. “Help!” I heard him yell towards camp.

“What? Do you think I'm accidentally gonna roll down the hill?” I tried to joke. But my chuckle made my wounds hurt even more.

Seeing my pain made Luke even more unamused. Soon enough a few other campers ran up to us, having heard Luke’s call.

“Y/N, oh my god.”

“What happened?”

“Another one?!”

I heard the various reactions from other campers. Another one? What did they mean another one? But I didn’t dwell on my questions for long because Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew were running towards me. A few of my siblings followed them carrying a stretcher. As the Apollo boys started to try to stop the bleeding, I was moved onto the stretcher. But the pain of being lifted was so bad I blacked out.

When I came to in the sickroom of the Big House all I could feel was pain. I let out a soft groan, snapping Luke to attention. He was slumped over on my bedside, seemingly sleeping. He immediately grabbed a piece of ambrosia off the nightstand next to the cot, bringing it to my lips. I immediately rejected it, not feeling like eating anything.

“C’mon, it’s ambrosia. It’ll make you feel better,” Luke pleaded. Reluctantly I let him coax the food into my mouth and ate it. The comforting taste of my mother’s chocolate cake filled my mouth. Despite the fact that it tasted good, it felt heavy in my stomach and I pushed the food away. “You gotta eat more than that,” he tried again.

“Let’s start with water or nectar,” I suggested, my throat sore.

Luke looked at the floor angrily. He sighed. “We’re out of nectar for a while. Ambrosia is all we have.”

“What?” I asked in shock, sitting up in surprise. Luke was quick to coax me back down.

“Grover and the kid he was helping got attacked by the Minotaur on their way here. Just like the crocotta attacked you.”

“Oh my god,” I murmured. “Is that why someone said ‘Another one?’ as they were bringing me here?”

He nodded once again. “His name was Percy. He showed up the night before you did.” He suddenly stopped talking. Like he had something more to say. I urged him to continue and he did so reluctantly. “Poseidon claimed him the second night he was awake… and now he’s on a quest.”

I looked at him sympathetically. I knew all about Luke’s anger about going unclaimed for so long. And then when he finally was claimed and had trained to be a great hero, all Hermes could give him to do was steal some golden apples. But after countless rants about this I knew he wouldn’t want sympathy. “You said he’s on a quest already? How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. Chiron and Lee kicked me out for a while.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, we already need new practice dummies for combat training,” he admitted sheepishly. I laughed and fortunately Luke did too.

By now, Chiron had sensed I was awake and entering the sickroom. As he ducked his way through the door he shrunk down back into his wheelchair so as to not overwhelm me. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare for a few days,” he smiled.

“So I've heard.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my guts were ripped out by a crocotta,” I answered.

“Well the ambrosia should help the pain and scarring. Lee stopped the bleeding and stitched you up but he said you’d be out for a few days.”

“Can you get her some nectar?” Luke interrupted. “She’s not exactly in a place to be eating solid foods.”

“Mr. D is trying to get into contact with Apollo. Apparently he’s concerned that Dionysus is overindulging.”

“That’s crap!” Luke suddenly burst out.

“Luke!” Chiron immediately cut him off. “I know you’re concerned for Ms. L/N, here but the food of the gods is in of itself a privilege.” He then turned his attention back to me. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well but ambrosia will have to do until we’re able to get more nectar.”

“Thanks, Chiron,” I tried to dismiss him, giving him a tight lipped smile. Sensing my disappointment he took his leave, wheeling out of the room.

Luke was back by my bedside with more pieces of ambrosia that I reluctantly took.

Thanks to the godly food I was up and walking within two days much to cabin 5’s relief. So many of my younger siblings were saying that Clarisse had been a terror in my absence. Something about a bathroom exploding and then she apparently tried to electrocute the new camper. I made a note to talk to her later but for now I was focused on getting my cabin back in order. They responded best to authority and a routine so I quickly had them out in training, telling them that I wouldn’t tolerate us losing capture the flag again.

We made our way down to the arena for sword fighting lessons. Luke and I were both instructors seeing as we were the oldest two campers and the best with blades. Our childhood competitiveness had eventually grown into love but for a while, we hated each other. We used to spend hours trying to get the upper hand over one another.

But now that we were dating, the younger campers always tried to goad us into sparring with one another. We always said that we’d save our sparring match for our own training or a reward for the others doing well but usually a few teasing comments had our swords pointed at one another.

I was correcting a Hermes camper’s form when he asked me to try fighting Luke. “Not today,” I laughed.

“Why? Is it because you’re scared?” he asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No,” I corrected him. “It’s because once we fight, none of you will care about what we teach you.”

“Sound like you’re scared,” the boy just repeated.

I just rolled my eyes, prepared to dismiss him when Luke’s voice interrupted. “Yeah, Y/N. It sounds like you’re scared.” I rolled my eyes again as he approached. “I wouldn’t want to fight the capture the flag champion either.”

“You only won because I was recovering from being chased across the country by a monster. Just wait until the next game, I’ll show you how Cabin 5 does it.” That elicited a few cries of encouragement from my cabin, eager to win their flag back.

“You need a bit more time to train, I get it,” he mockingly offered. A few of his siblings joined in on the taunting with their exaggerated reactions.

“I don’t need time. I’d just rather not cut you up this early into the summer,” I smiled. A few ‘ooh’s came from our audience.

Luke bristled a little at that. “C’mon,” he gestured to the arena, “let’s settle this once and for all.”

I picked up one of the practice swords that resembled the size and weight of my real sword, stepping into the middle of the arena. “You say that every time.” Luke smiled, taking his spot in front of me with his practice sword as the other campers backed up.

I barely gave him a chance to settle before I was moving. I had the advantage of my father’s knack for fighting and aggression but I wasn’t as strong as Luke. Unfortunately, he knew all my moves and tricks so he was able to block me. But that also meant I knew all of his moves and tricks because I could anticipate his subsequent moves.

We continued on, trying to outmaneuver each other. He kept forcing me out of range, protecting his body, whilst I tried to find an opening to get close to him. The other campers had been within the walls of the arena but we moved around so much they were forced to jump out.

The only reason we stopped was because our little “lesson” had gone on too long and Chiron was wondering where his students were. Neither of us noticed him until he yelled our names. “Y/N L/N! Luke Castellan! What are you doing?” We both immediately stopped, facing the centaur like guilty children.

“We were just introducing them to technique,” Luke offered. I could tell Chiron saw right through his excuse but it was good enough reasoning.

“You both know you’re supposed to hold off on sparring one another. Children,” he turned to the other campers, “what did your instructors teach you?”

“Stance!”

“What to do if your opponent has a longer sword!”

Those were the answers our siblings offered but one Aphrodite camper’s answer ruined the whole thing. “How to waste time.” Luke and I both sent her stares.

Fortunately Chiron didn’t take it too seriously. “Save the sparring for your own sessions,” he warned us. “Everyone move on to your next activities. I’m sure your instructors are waiting.”

As everyone else filed off, Luke and I looked at each other. “You’re disgusting,” I laughed, observing his sweaty shirt.

He looked baffled at that. “Wow. I was gonna ask if you’re okay but clearly you don’t value me that much,” he answered in mocking offense.

“No, no, no,” I corrected through laughs, going to him. But as soon as he tried to hug me, I pulled away with a wrinkled nose. Seeing my disgust, he forcefully hugged me, drowning me in his B.O. When I finally wrestled my way out of his arms I was disgusting. “Ugh we both need showers.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he promised. He stepped closer to me, kissing me quickly before heading off towards the showers. I watched him leave for a moment before heading to my cabin.

Later that night at dinner, I was talking to my cabin-mates when Luke came over, crouching by me. “Hey,” he smiled up at me as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” I laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Being a good boyfriend. I’m just giving you a heads up that our spar from earlier isn’t over yet.”

“What?”

Chiron stood up and so did Luke. “Gotta go, bye,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple before scurrying off.

Bewildered, I looked up at Chiron. “We have a special activity tonight per the request of the reigning capture the flag champions. We’ll be playing again tonight seeing as some claimed our last games were unfair due to a missing counselor.” Cabin 5 erupted into cheers, eager to win the flag back. “Luke Castellan and Y/N L/N are captains. Same rules as the prior games.”

Not willing to let my cabin lose again, I jumped into action. “Cabin 5, armor on, get to the creek in 5!” They all quickly scrambled off. Our allies for this game, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Demeter, and Hephaestus followed their lead.

I followed after them to get my armor as well and soon enough I was stood by the creek, discussing strategy with my teammates. Once our discussion time drew to a close, I faced my opposing captain. “You’re going down, feather feet,” I sneered.

“We’ll see, hot head,” Luke taunted.

I laughed. “Oh yeah, one more thing,” I told my teammates. “Bring me Luke’s sword and helmet.”

“In your dreams,” he taunted back. He looked at his team. “Bring me Y/N.”

“Okay,” Chiron interrupted us. “Before we begin I think we need a reminder that killing is not permitted. Are we clear?” A few unenthusiastic agreements came from the crowd. Nodding, Chiron blew into the horn, signaling that the games had begun. Some of my campers who hadn’t already been stationed bolted into the trees, doubling back so they could hopefully sneak through Hermes’ cabin’s defenses. The others stayed with me to defend the most obvious point.

One Hermes kid immediately jumped at me but I slashed him in the chest, (his armor protected him so he just got the wind knocked out of him) knocking him back into the water.

He got back up, running at one of my campers but he was immediately disarmed and taken prisoner. By the time I looked back, the other campers and Luke were gone. I realized with a frustrated scream that this kid was a distraction. “Find them!” I yelled at the others.

“Their territory or ours?” I observed the 5 campers in front of me. “You three, stay on our side. Fan across the creek, look for signs they crossed into our territory. The rest of you, we’re gonna either hunt them down in their territory or take their flag.”

My group leapt over the creek, running into the forest.

As we searched, we picked up a few of our own teammates, running through the woods and strangely finding no opposing campers. We continued on nonetheless until Athena and Apollo campers all of a sudden started darting through the trees.

Eventually they stopped moving enough for us to have a proper fight. I faced Malcom Pace, easily disarming him. But suddenly his older brothers were on me. As I was busy fighting twins, Leo and Cato, another one of the boys found an opening. Quinn wrapped his arms around me, a dagger at my throat. “Drop the sword,” they told me.

Seeing as I wasn’t getting out of this but my teammates were gone while many of the Athena and Apollo campers were still here, I dropped the sword. Most of my campers got away and were likely hunting down the flag.

Before they could decide where to stash their prisoner, the horn blew again, signaling the end of the games. But as I tried to leave, the others stopped me. “Woah, Luke said he wanted you so we’re taking you.”

I rolled my eyes, letting them lead me to the creek. “Yeah, well when my cabin gives me his stuff and the flag, you can apologize to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn dismissed. “You’re just mad I beat you.”

“You only ‘beat me’ because there were three of you. And you guys still lost the rest of my team.”

“We still got you!” Leo taunted in a sing-songy voice. By now we had reached the creek and I saw Clarisse holding the flag, a helmet, and a sword. Luke was kneeled beside her looking humiliated, clearly a captive.

Both sides let us go and I went to Clarisse. “Your spoils,” she presented me the flag, helmet, and sword. I smiled, wrapping the flag around her shoulders and taking Luke’s stuff.

“Thank you!” I said emphatically, pointing a look of victory at Luke.

He just shook his head, standing up. As he approached me I figured he was grabbing his belongings but instead he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss. When he pulled away he explained. “You’re my spoil.”

Camp life continued on as normal for a while. I finally met the newest hero who had returned Zeus’ masterbolt— he did not like my father. He seemed surprised that Luke and I were dating and I learned that Luke had become a sort of mentor to Percy over the days that I had been asleep. That also surprised me, given how resentful Luke had seemed towards him when I first woke up. Regardless, everything seemed normal as we continued our routines throughout the summer until I was woken up one night.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, shaking me. “Y/N.” I reluctantly opened my eyes, finding one of my younger brothers, Aiden, shaking me. “Luke’s asking for you.”

“What?” I asked, sitting up.

“Luke wants to talk to you. He gave me a coke if I woke you up.” The boy excitedly held up a shiny red can as if to persuade me to go.

I rubbed his messy hair as I sat up. “Don’t let Clarisse see that,” I advised, throwing on a hoodie. He nodded, going back to his bunk as I headed outside. “Luke!” I whispered into the night upon exiting the cabin. I didn’t notice him sneaking up towards me until his hands were around my waist. “Luke!” I exclaimed in surprise.

He quickly hushed me. “Do you want the harpies to find us?”

“Well we wouldn’t have to worry about that if you weren’t trying to talk to me in the middle of the night. What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing it’d be serious. He let his playful facade drop as he urged me to follow him, taking my hand. I went with him, silently trusting him until I realized we were heading to the woods. I stopped, letting my hand fall out of his grasp. “What? Are you gonna kill me in there?” I laughed shallowly, trying to lighten the mood and quell the alarms in my brain.

Luke returned my shallow laugh, clearly nervous. “Of course not. Look, I have to talk to you. It’s serious.” I could see the genuineness in his expression so I let him retake my hand. “I’d never hurt you,” he promised. So I followed him further into the woods until he deemed us far enough. “The nymphs may hear us but it’s kind of impossible to avoid them,” he chuckled.

“Hear what?” I asked.

He took a breath, seemingly composing himself. “You know how I went on that quest? For my dad?”

“Yeah. What? You want to go out into the world again?” I asked, a little relieved.

“Sort of,” he offered. “But on that ‘quest,’” he mocked the word, “I realized something: the gods are useless.”

“Luke!” I immediately reprimanded him.

“No,” he cut me off. “You don’t have to pretend like not fawning over the gods is a crime. We shouldn’t be blindly worshipping them. Y/N,” his hands were clasping my shoulders as if begging me to believe him, “your father waited for the last day of summer your first year to claim you. Why? Just to mess with you? Because he just couldn’t be bothered to do it until he remembered at the last second? That’s messed up. The gods aren’t fit to rule. The West is going to hades. My quest? To repeat Heracles’ quest? All the gods know how to do is repeat the past. Their glory days.”

“Luke, you’re scaring me.” I was practically begging him to stop talking so we could go back to the way it was. This was the first year I’d be staying year round. We were supposed to be celebrating Christmas together for the first time in a few months. Yet here he was, spouting off heresy.

“Open your eyes,” he insisted. “The gods are poisoning the world and they’ve been using us as pawns to do it. The only way to fix it is to destroy it and start over with something more honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been having dreams sent by the Titan Lord.”

A shiver ran down my spine and I stepped out of his grasp. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Luke, he’s using you. You remember what Chiron taught us. We are not better off, no one was better off when the Titans ruled. We didn’t even have fire. He will kill all the humans. He’ll kill us.”

“Not if we join him willingly,” Luke promised, trying to take my hand again but I pulled away. “He said when I bring down the gods he’ll reward me. He’ll make me immortal. He promised you’d become like me too.” He quickly grasped my wrist tight enough so I couldn’t escape, pulling me closer. “We can rule together, forever.” He was pleading with me to take his offer, his hands finding a stray lock of hair to tuck behind my ear.

“Luke… this isn’t- you can’t…” I was at a loss for words.

“Please, Y/N,” his voice was cracking.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. This isn’t right. This is dangerous, can’t you see that?”

“This isn’t me just trying to get back at my dad. I’ve thought about this.” He stiffened, still tightly grasping my wrist. “Y/N, I need you with me.”

“Then don’t go,” I begged him. “I won’t even tell anyone. We can just go back to how things were.”

“No, we can’t,” he shook his head. “Because you’re gonna try to help me by telling Chiron and he’s gonna turn me in.”

“No he won’t! Luke, he trained you. He’ll want to help you.”

“Camp isn’t safe for us anymore. We have to go.”

This was the first time I actually started fearing for my safety. I tried to pull out of his grasp but he held firm. “Go where?”

“Our Titan Lord got us a ship. We’ll be safe there until I get my next orders. The monsters on it won’t harm us.”

“What?!” With a hard wrench I pulled my wrist out of his grasp. I immediately started running, hoping a nymph would find me before a monster did but Luke was on me in seconds. He knocked me to the ground and after a little struggling he had me pinned. “Luke, please don’t do this,” I begged as I saw him reach into his pocket. When I saw the milk of the poppy I began to thrash underneath him but I couldn’t manage to throw him off of me. He forced my mouth open, dropping the liquid onto my tongue and forcing me to swallow. Before I blacked out, I could vaguely hear him speak.

“You’ll be okay in a few days and then we can talk.” A few days???

The next morning Luke was woken by frantic cries of his girlfriend’s name heard throughout camp. He immediately rushed out of bed, putting on a concerned boyfriend facade. Finding one of his brothers, he asked what was going on. “What? Did you just wake up?” Luke nodded frantically. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Uh, Y/N wasn’t in bed this morning. No one can find her. One of her little brothers said you asked to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah to talk about potentially allying for capture the flag but she went right back in,” he insisted frantically. He ran a hand through his hair, acting stressed. He kind of whished he’d be gone by now but he needed to get rid of Percy before he could go.

He ran out of the cabin, immediately going up to Cabin 5. Clarisse spotted him, her expression becoming sour. “What’d you do Castellan? Aiden said you wanted to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah, we were talking about capture the flag but she went right back in 10 minutes later. You sleep 20 feet from her, where’s my girlfriend?” he challenged. Clarisse sent him a scowl but otherwise stormed off, the other Cabin 5 campers following her with similar expressions.

“Luke, I'm so sorry,” a young voice called. He turned, finding Annabeth running towards him. As she hugged him, Luke couldn’t help but think about how much he’d miss her. She was too smart for her own good but he still couldn’t help but think of the seven year old he had found hiding from monsters. “She could just be out somewhere?” she offered, trying to console him.

“I hope so,” he smiled down at her. He then spotted Mr. D and ran over to him. “Mr. D, can you find where she is?”

The god gave him a tired expression. “I’m not omniscient in this state. All I know is she’s not in camp.”

“Well can’t you get a god who is? Surely her father wants to know where she is,” he insisted. But Ares had plenty of demigod children and most of them went missing in action or died tragic deaths. Y/N would be just another hero child that fought in his name.

“Lord Ares has other concerns,” Mr. D at least tried to soften the blow. “If she hasn’t returned by the end of the summer then we must assume she is dead. Even if she left of her own volition.”

“But summer is ends tomorrow. You can’t do this. She could still be out there. She could need our help. Let me go out and search,” he pleaded. By now, Chiron, Clarisse, and a few others had joined them.

“No one is leaving,” Chiron declared. “I’m not letting anyone else go missing. Luke, I understand your concern but her blade was found in Cabin 5. If she’s not in camp she is likely already dead.”

“No,” Luke insisted, putting on the performance of a lifetime, “you’re wrong.”

After nearly two whole days of searching camp and the closest borders, (that was the furthest Chiron would let anyone go) Y/N L/N was declared dead. Her siblings reluctantly built a funeral pyre, decorating it with some of her things. Luke did his best to look devastated and it seemed to be working because no one looked at him twice other than to offer their sympathies. That at least made it easy to lure Percy off into the woods just before he left.

When I woke up I was in a strange room. It looked like a hotel room except for the fact that the floor to ceiling windows showed that I was on the ocean. That triggered all the memories of Luke. A sense of hopelessness came over me and I was immediately breaking down in sobs. I didn’t want to believe that he had joined Kronos and turned his back on everything he knew or that he was determined to drag me with him.

Once I finally managed to compose myself I went to the door, hoping to find a radio so someone could get me. Or maybe even find Luke so I could talk him into letting me go. But once I opened the door I was met with the massive jaws of a hellhound. I immediately shut the door and locked it.

Still feeling unsafe I went to grab the dresser to block the door but either it was too heavy or bolted down. I tried the desk next resulting in nothing. I was running out of time as the monster was probably just trying to process what it saw. Soon it’d smell me and start trying to break down the door. So I resorted to the chair, dragging it across the floor and jamming it under the door handle. I then went to the massive windows, realizing there was a hidden door. I wrenched it open, stepping out into the fresh air. I looked around, seeing no land I’d be able to swim to. But just as I was considering my chances, I noticed the body of a massive whale-like creature. I was willing to bet that whales weren’t just swimming around a cruise ship, this was a cetus.

Seeing as I had nowhere else to go, I went back into the room. I went to the attached bathroom, searching for something to defend myself. There wasn’t really anything in there except bar soap and toilet paper. Luke must have removed everything, even the towels, so I couldn’t hurt him or anyone else. Frustrated, I went to the closet, finding it completely empty. Not even a hangar to pull apart and stab someone with. So I reluctantly grabbed the soap seeing as it was literally the only thing remotely resembling a weapon, and sat on the bed, watching the door.

I don’t know how long I sat there but eventually I heard the door shake, like something was trying to get in. As I was preparing to clobber the monster with my bar of soap, a voice I recognized called through the door. “C’mon, Y/N! Open the door,” Luke said. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to see him. “Open the door or I break it down!” he demanded.

It was either open the door or have absolutely no protection from the monsters so I reluctantly got up. “Okay, okay!” I answered. “Just give me a second.” I climbed off the bed, removing the chair. I only twisted the handle, letting the door open slightly before going back to the bed to put some distance between us.

As Luke was locking the door again, I took my chance. Jumping, I tried to bring the bar of soap down on him but he turned, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, you had to have known that wouldn’t work,” he smiled.

I only gave him a burning stare. “It was worth a shot,” I said, trying to pull my hand away. But his grip held fast, not letting me pull away.

“So I guess you still hate me?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “You kidnapped me and are now holding me hostage on a monster infested ship.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he dismissed, once again brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Then we’ll be together forever.”

Masterlist

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #pjo x reader #the lightning thief #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #ares #daughter of ares #x reader

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fluentmoviequoter · 10 months ago

Text

Paying for the Sins of Our Fathers

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: A new serial killer arrives in Los Angeles with a penchant for girls with bad relationships with their fathers. After you offer yourself up as bait to catch him, Deacon shows you that you're not as hard to love as you think.

Warnings: angst to fluff, serial killer, secondary character deaths, age gap, depiction of terrible father-daughter relationships (going to say allusion to DV just to be safe but if there is it's nuanced not explicitly stated)

Word Count: 3.6k+ words

A/N: Alexa, play Glasshouse Children.

*This is not a rewrite of Sins of the Father, just a titling coinkydink.

Picture from Pinterest (I love this scene so much)

“Caramel pumpkin chai for Lia!”

Lia sighs as she stands and walks to the counter. The coffee shop, one of Santa Monica’s hidden gems that most people walk right by, is nearly empty at this hour. A writer wearing headphones slaves over a laptop in one corner, three young girls read together, pausing every few minutes to discuss the previous chapter, and a man draws in a weathered leather journal. This is how Lia likes the café, but she’s not sure it’s what she needs tonight.

Sitting with her drink, she ignores the envelope in her bag. Her father sent a message from prison, where he’s been since she was a freshman in high school nearly a decade ago, but she’s yet to open it. She’s not sure she can, not sure she wants to, even. Tapping the screen of her phone, she smiles when she sees a reply from her best friend.

Come over, and we’ll talk. Catch this love <3

“Excuse me,” the man with the journal says, standing sheepishly by Lia’s table. “I just wanted to say hello, and, uh, I hope you don’t mind, but I included you in my sketch of the coffee shop.”

“Oh,” Lia replies, smiling at the interruption. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Good, good. I won’t keep you, but it’s a hard anniversary for me, but drawing helps and it was nice to have a friendly face in the scene.”

“I understand completely. I hope the rest of your night is good.”

“Thank you,” he replies, nodding once. “You, too.”

“Wait,” Lia calls as he turns. “Could I maybe see the picture?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he answers with a chuckle. “I’m not very good. My father told me I should find another hobby, but, well… he’s why I’m here tonight drawing instead of remembering the past.”

Lia shakes her head and offers, “Dads are tough, believe me, I know. If you enjoy drawing, though, keep doing it. Good for you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The man pauses and waves generally as he adds, “About your dad, I mean.”

“It is what it is,” Lia says, shrugging. “Are you sure I can’t see the picture?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“The last scene I drew was a visiting area in a state prison, so it’s a light in this sketchbook.”

“I haven’t been in a prison in years, but I’m sure a setting that grim can’t be easy to draw.”

“I like the challenge, but the distraction was the real reward. After I visit the prison, I go up Getty Center Drive just to get away from it all, you know?”

“It’s gorgeous up there,” Lia sighs.

“You should go sometime, to clear your mind. Even alone with your thoughts, everything just seems more peaceful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

The man nods and steps toward the door. Lia pushes the envelope from her father deeper into her bag before she stands and picks up her drink. She’s ready to talk, and her friend is waiting, like always. As she walks toward her car, Lia smiles.

“Good night,” the man calls from beside his car. “You should really go to Getty after you return your dad’s letter in person.”

Lia’s smile drops as she presses the button to unlock her car. “How did you know that?”

“On second thought,” the man muses lightly, walking toward Lia’s car. “Why don’t we go together? Right now?”

Lia tries to scream, but his hand presses against her mouth, a damp rag silencing her cries.

You yawn as Street continues his story about the motorcycle race he allegedly won last night. Before he can tell you the epic conclusion, a group of at least thirty cops walks into SWAT HQ and heads directly to the situation room. Street silences, and you watch the officers and detectives walk through the building.

“20 Squad, situation room!” Hicks yells. “Now!”

You follow Street inside and find a place at the back to stand. Deacon, Hondo, and Luca enter from the other side and look at you questioningly as they join you. You shrug, and Street stands by Luca as they theorize what the large meeting could mean.

“I’m Detective Ryan Carradine of the Mid-Wilshire division,” Carradine introduces, gesturing for everyone to quiet. “We have patrol officers, Metro SWAT, UCs, and the homicide division from several different stations here today because we have a county-wide case.”

A map with nine red dots appears on the screen behind him. Each dot has a date and time beside it, each one five days apart.

“By which I mean there is a new serial killer in Los Angeles. In the last 45 days, we have located nine bodies, each a female in her early-20s to late-30s. Early this morning, we found Lia Carter, a 24-year-old woman from Rustic Canyon. Carter was attacked sometime between midnight and 2 a.m., and she was left for dead in brush off Getty Center Drive. She’s in critical condition, but if she pulls through, she will be the only survivor.”

“What’s the connection between victims?” a homicide detective inquires.

Carradine tsks, then answers, “Our teams are working on that now. What we’ve got tentatively is the age range, females, and…” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he adds, “They all seem to have strained or nonexistent relationships with their fathers.”

You look at Street, who purses his lips and shrugs.

“Carter was found with an unopened letter from her father stapled to her shirt, he’s serving life in Lancaster State Prison for killing her high school boyfriend,” Carradine explains.

“What does this have to do with us?” Street whispers.

“So, because of the extent of this case, we need everyone in this room on their A-game. If that’s not you, I want you out and I will find someone to take your spot.”

No one moves, so Carradine nods and steps to the side as Commander Hicks joins him.

“I’m Commander Bob Hicks,” he begins, “I’ll be assisting Detective Carradine in an operational capacity. I’m also placing my 20-David SWAT team on standby for anything related to this case. The moment we get a warrant, they’ll be ready to roll.”

“That being said,” Carradine interjects, “Mid-Wilshire’s Metro is prepared to pick up slack for other tactical calls. If you need immediate tactical support for this case, alert Hicks, otherwise, dispatch will get you a team from another station.”

“What other information do you have?” an officer asks. “Suspects, forensics?”

“Short answer: nothing.”

The undercover chief suggests, “We can get UC officers out, advertise poor paternal relationships, try to bring this guy into the light.”

“It won’t work,” an officer states as he enters the situation room. “Lia Carter regained consciousness. She said he knew; that the man had details about her relationship with her father, things she’d never told anyone other than police and therapists.”

“Then UC is out,” Carradine murmurs, rubbing his forehead. “Any other ideas?”

You inhale before you say, “Send me in.”

The officers standing between you and Carradine look back and step to the side so he can see you clearly. Hicks looks from you to Hondo, then back to you, and shakes his head gently.

“If he can get his hands on that kind of information, then he could find out that I fit. I’m the right age, no relationship with dad,” you explain. “It’s as good as a UC as you’re going to get in this.”

Standing beside you, Deacon tenses his jaw. He doesn’t want you to do this; he wants you to be as far from this serial killer as you possibly can, but it’s not his place to ask you to stay. No matter how much he wishes it was.

“Absolutely not,” Hondo says instead.

“There’s way too much at stake,” Luca adds.

“He could know even more,” Street exclaims. “We don’t know his MO, what he does before or after the killings.”

You look to Deacon rather than answering your other teammates, and he licks his lips before he says, “It’s your decision. We’ll be here for you, whether you stay or go.”

Nodding, you keep your eyes on Deacon as you say, “Then let’s catch a serial killer.”

“Oh, he’s got a name now,” a cyber-tech says from one of the desks. “Papers are calling him The Fatherless.”

“Classy,” you murmur.

“Get prepped,” Hicks tells you. “20 Squad, you’re on standby, so stay close.”

“The rest of you stay here to receive your posts,” Carradine announces. “We’ve got five days until he strikes again. So, let’s do this in four.”

In the locker room, you sit in your civvies and prepare for the worst. The door opens as Street walks inside, his steps purposeful and hurried.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, stopping beside you. “No one will blame you for changing your mind.”

“Street,” you begin.

He squats before you and shakes his head. “No, listen, I understand. Probably better than anyone else here. I know that you still feel that pain, even if it’s the last thing on your mind. Those wounds, the ones that your parents carve into you as a child, they never fully heal, and they reopen easily.”

You nod along with Street. He’s right, you know that. Yet, you know what you have to do.

“We’re glasshouse children, Street, you know that. But I’m done paying for the sins of my father. And I’m not going to let another innocent woman be murdered because of hers.”

Street sighs and leans back against the lockers. “We’re here for you. You better be careful, or I’ll tell Deacon that you have a crush on him.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms to match Street’s stance. “I’m always careful. Don’t confuse your recklessness for my perfection.”

Hondo knocks on the open door, serious and sympathetic, as he says, “Hospital just called. Lia Carter didn’t make it.”

Over the next two days, every moment outside HQ is spent setting up your role as the perfect target. On a walk, you slow by a park and watch a father and daughter play together, letting yourself long for something you don’t remember having. In crowded areas, you identify men who remind you of your dad or are alone and steer around them, giving yourself a wide berth. You avoid talking about your family, even inviting a friend to dinner just so someone asks how everyone is. No matter where you go, you keep your guard up with your gun within reach. You’re living like someone is watching your every move because you want them to be.

The most important thing you do requires help. With a picture stowed in your backpack, courtesy of the forensic team, you return home at the end of the second day. Carefully, you hide the picture in a book, then make dinner and try to forget it. When you settle in with the book for the night, you “accidentally” find the picture. The ink shows you and your father, cheek-to-cheek and smiling, and you stare at it until it blurs. Then, you shove it back in the book and throw it against the wall. Dropping your head into your hands, you feel like you’re being watched, and if the picture hadn’t affected you more than you anticipated, you might be scared by that.

Sitting alone in a rundown diner, you tap a sugar packet against your cup. It’s been five days since Lia Carter was attacked, and if you aren’t approached by The Fatherless tonight, he’ll kill another woman. You shift as if you can feel the picture of your dad in your pocket. It’s halfway out, so anyone who approaches your table can see it, yet another piece of bait to get yourself on a serial killer’s radar. You wish he could see it so no one else has to see him.

“Evening,” a man greets as he slides onto a barstool directly to your right.

You look over your shoulder, and when the man’s eyes drop to the picture, you fight down a smile. A killer sits beside you, his complete attention on you, and you’re exactly where you wanted to be.

“Good evening,” you reply lightly.

“Young love, huh?” he asks, gesturing with his chin to the young pregnant couple sharing a milkshake at the other side of the diner. “I bet they’ll be fun parents.”

You laugh humorlessly and look down at your sugar packet as you murmur, “I wouldn’t know what that looks like.”

He frowns sympathetically and offers, “Let me get you another drink?”

Though you want to agree and speed through this part, you remain hesitant, a faux vigilance. The Fatherless leaves plenty of room between you, making it feel like you’re in charge.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says to the waitress. When you look at him again, he smiles and shrugs. “It looks good.”

“It is good,” you reply, letting your eyes drift back to the happy couple.

“I used to imagine that my parents looked like that,” he muses. “But then I remember my dad was a deadbeat who left before I started preschool.”

“Now that I can understand.” You nod as you look at your empty cup.

“Ready for that drink?” he guesses.

You smile sheepishly, and he turns to order another drink before he slides off the barstool and sits on the other side of your booth.

“Your dad leave too?” he inquires, treating it like another mundane subject.

He asks open-ended questions but feeds you information he shouldn’t even know. You know what he’s doing, and you will play his game for as long as it takes.

“Yeah. I mean, in hindsight, I guess I should’ve seen it coming,” you answer.

“You were older?”

As you continue answering his questions, talking more and touching your drink less, you notice his eyes keep flitting to your cup. There was no evidence of him drugging the previous victims, so he must be pulling out all of the stops for you, his first target who defends herself and others for a living.

“So, you go hang out by yourself when you’re feeling like this?” The Fatherless asks.

“Depends on the day,” you say. “And the feeling.”

“I used to go sit on one of the bridges over the Los Angeles River and just stare into it.”

“That helped?”

“Almost every time. Something about the concrete lining on what should have been natural just… put everything into perspective, I suppose.”

“Typically, I try to escape thoughts of my dad,” you point out with a smile.

“And staring into murky water doesn’t help with that?” he challenges.

“That’s fair. I think I’d like to see it, give it a try.”

“We aren’t far from a viaduct.”

“I didn’t drive,” you complain. “The one time I decide to walk to clear my head.”

“I’ve got a car. If you’re comfortable with that.”

You pretend to deliberate his offer, then smile and stand. He leaves some cash on the table – cheap tipper, you think – and then leads you to a nondescript black Mustang. As he walks to the driver’s side, you slow and memorize the license plate.

“You know, one thing I never considered before is how lucky I am that I don’t have to worry about who will walk me down the aisle,” he says as he opens the door. “I guess your daddy issues are why you go for Sergeant Salt ‘n’ Pepper, though, huh?”

You don’t expect the comment, and it makes you stop. How The Fatherless managed to find the one thing you haven’t thought about for years, your wedding day, and how strange it might be without a father figure confuses you. More, the fact that he brought Deacon into this causes you to freeze.

“C’mon,” he urges, likely sensing your sudden discomfort.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “Got lost there for a second, didn’t I?”

As you get into the car, you know you’re doing the right thing but are admittedly scared now. If he knows that much about your life presently, who knows how much information he has on your childhood or family. He talks during the short drive to the viaduct, and you force yourself to keep the conversation going.

It’s weird. Your dad is who he is; you’ve moved on from the pain and heartbreak he put you through, and that’s what this guy is supposed to care about. But, because of The Fatherless, you’re thinking about something else. Is it possible that everything that exists or could exist between you and Deacon is just because of that?

Standing on a viaduct over the Los Angeles River, The Fatherless stands too close to you. He reaches for a weapon, but you’re too slow, not even raising your hand before there’s a gun in your face. Defenseless, you stand still as an engine rumbles before footsteps pound against the pavement.

“LAPD SWAT, drop the weapon!” Hondo yells.

“You’re surrounded, man,” Luca adds. “It’s over.”

“Put the gun down and step back!” Hondo repeats.

You stare into his eyes, looking past the gun. The moment he begins to lower his arm, Luca and Street rush forward and detain him before passing him off to another officer. With the police lights reflecting off the water below you, you look to your team as you fight to keep your emotions inside.

“That was the stupidest, most reckless act of incompetence I have ever seen!” Hondo yells, taking a heated step toward you.

Street raises his arm quickly, slapping his hand against Hondo’s chest. When Hondo stops, Street shakes his head but keeps his eyes on you. He can tell there’s something else wrong, more than you not defending yourself. You’re surprised, however, when someone else seems to notice it.

Deacon walks toward you, where you stand at the edge of the concrete platform. Stopping several steps back, Deacon doesn’t touch you but waits for you to do something. Down the bridge from you, the surveillance team that was watching and listening from the moment you stepped into the diner tells Hicks, Hondo, Luca, and Street what The Fatherless said to you.

When they hear that he brought someone you care about now into the conversation, they look back to you and Deacon. Hondo sighs while Luca runs his fingers through his hair, and Street murmurs, “No,” under his breath.

“I told Street I didn’t want the daughters of Los Angeles to pay for the sins of our fathers,” you begin. “But we can’t escape it. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to forgive him and move on, I’m still broken inside because of what he did.”

“You’re not broken,” Deacon insists.

“Then why do I look for love everywhere but only find it where I can’t have it?!” you ask, your voice rising as you step back.

Deacon raises his hands as you near the edge of the overpass. Your team moves forward, too, but everything else slows down.

“He was right, Deacon,” you murmur.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Yes, he was! I love things that I can’t have because one of the few times I loved something with my entire heart, my dad shattered it.”

“Look where you are now,” Deacon demands, his arms still out toward you. “Despite that pain, in spite of everything he did to you, you are here. You have a career you love, a team that loves you like family, a-“

“Please stop saying love,” you interrupt.

“We love you,” Deacon finishes. “And we don’t care about what your dad did or didn’t do because we love you, scars and all."

You wipe a stray tear from your jaw, and Deacon takes another step toward you.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Differently than I’ve ever loved anything before.”

Your breath catches, but Deacon would never lie to you. You sniff and ask, “So, you don’t think I’m attracted to you just because of my daddy issues?”

Deacon smiles at your question, shakes his head, and offers his hand. You place your hand in his, grateful for the warmth of his glove, and then he pulls you against his chest and hugs you tightly. Safe in his arms, you let yourself cry, barely registering his movements as he carefully directs you away from the viaduct.

A moment later, more arms wrap around you as your team joins in your group hug. You laugh through the tears, loving each one for different reasons. And, just as you love them, they love you. This is your family, and this kind of love transcends generational curses and past traumas. You’re all different people, shaped by your pains and experiences, but you fit together. The people in this hug are your family: perfect pieces held together by love.

As Deacon follows you into your home, you know he will offer to stay, but you have something you’ve needed to say for a long time.

“I love you, too,” you admit. “I’m in love with you, and I have been for years.”

Deacon smiles as he offers his hand again; you take it, willing to go anywhere with him. He kisses your forehead and then leads you to the kitchen. The possibilities are endless now that your feelings are out in the open. You can do anything, be anything with Deacon.

For tonight, though, you want to sit with him and remember that you’re loved, and you can love as hard as you want because the sins of your father are not your responsibility nor a weight you must bear. Who you are now is who Deacon loves, and that’s exactly what you want to be.

#david deacon kay x reader #deacon kay x reader #david kay x reader #david deacon kay #deacon kay #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#swat cbs #swat x reader #swat

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jamilelucato · 6 months ago

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Secrets We Keep - 4 [F. W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. It’s been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]’s bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if it’s dark. Thank you for sticking with me!

PART FOUR

The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sent—date, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.

“The Carrows are a respectable family,” [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. “This union secures alliances and ensures my… comfortable life.”

Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own family’s. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.

Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany desk—a letter from Alecto Carrow’s eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: “I am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.”

She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?

Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of him—his name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of ‘A’ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.

[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he clever—prone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.

But none of that mattered. Not really. Whether charming or dull, she would marry him. She had no choice in the matter. Yet, as she stared at the letter, she found herself scoffing not only at its lack of substance but at the bitter truth beneath her dissatisfaction: he wasn’t Fred Weasley. No description of his athleticism or cleverness, no fiery wit or daring spirit leapt from the page. Her fiancé’s words painted no picture of a man who could make her laugh, challenge her, or infuriate her with his reckless bravery. He wasn’t Fred, and that fact gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

Fred Weasley—a reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.

“You are a Malfoy,” Lucius’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. “Act like it.”

And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.

The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessory—a passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.

She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.

Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,” she said, her voice polished and detached.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],” he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.

She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didn’t know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.

All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in age—a mere four years—might bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.

Her mother’s subtle gestures through the evening—a gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glance—were meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.

The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.

When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.

She desired it.

She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhood—beautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.

There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.

That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewellery—not as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional love—bound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.

Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parents’ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.

[y/n] could see it in her mind’s eye—everything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.

Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.

With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept once—something she scoffed at, even feared—but now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.

[y/n] Malfoy—though she’d long since shed that infamous surname—had carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldn’t think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didn’t wonder for long. Humans, she’d learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.

Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiency—she conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, she’d climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of London’s poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.

Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. She’d caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoy—the name she’d once worn like armour—was now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the family’s fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.

She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.

Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.

Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had made—they felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.

But life in the Muggle world wasn’t entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where she’d come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.

To them, she was just [Y/N]—quirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the “office wizard,” a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than she’d expected.

They didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer, didn’t pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.

It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. “You’re always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?”

[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good people—Muggles, yes, but kind ones.

“Not many,” she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been… focused on work.”

Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territory—Clara’s latest Tinder misadventures and the office intern’s questionable taste in trousers.

[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

Fred Weasley.

She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadn’t faded. And then there was the kiss.

She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. She’d pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her then—surprised, confused, and just a little hurt.

The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was alive—that much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.

And yet, the name Weasley—his name—remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.

It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life she’d left behind.

So why wasn’t it?

TWO MONTHS LATER

Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.

It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasn’t.

Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, I’m still here. Now open already.

Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.

Maybe it was right. She didn’t belong—not any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.

Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricity—a calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. She’d imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, she’d got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, “We see you, Little Malfoy.”

And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.

And yet, here she stood, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.

“Are you alright, Clara?” [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.

Clara hesitated, biting her lip. “You told me about that boy from your… younger years, didn’t you? The red-haired one?”

[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. “Fred?”

“I think… I think I saw him in my dream last night,” Clara said, her tone unsure. “I’m not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt… strange.”

That had caught [Y/N]’s attention. “Go on.”

Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. “He asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It was—well, creepy, honestly. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasn’t her. He was tall with broad shoulders.”

The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldn’t be anyone else.

For hours afterward, Clara’s words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasley—that she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?

It wasn’t normal.

It had to be Fred’s doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the day’s first customers.

But the shop remained stubbornly closed.

“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.

After everything it had taken her to get here—alright, so Apparating wasn’t that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been daunting—she wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. She’d be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.

Still, she couldn’t shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.

Her eyes roamed the building’s vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something she’d nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didn’t lead into the shop itself—that much was clear—but to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.

“Bingo,” she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldn’t they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.

Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldn’t come to her, then maybe she’d just have to go to him.

The first door—the one leading to the staircase—was conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.

The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.

Oh, right. Magic.

The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wards—it felt… simpler.

At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldn’t say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.

The real question, however, was which door led to Fred’s flat. She could knock, of course—work her way down the line, one by one—but the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?

Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasn’t just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadn’t seen in years. Fred wasn’t the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?

Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasn’t ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.

And here she was, almost a CEO—practically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retired—and she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.

Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fred—or George—would have to leave the flat.

A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadn’t thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?

Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadn’t touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since she’d used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.

In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground up—money, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up on—and the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much she’d changed, some parts of her would always remain.

“Blimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?”

The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surprise—definitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasn’t one she was expecting to hear.

She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead she’d remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.

Ron was leaving one of the flats—the second one on the right—and just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fred—[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not George—peered over Ron’s broad shoulders, his gaze searching.

Fred glanced over Ron’s shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.

“Hello, Ronnie,” [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?

From Ron’s reaction, she couldn’t help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasn’t really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone who’d survived shared—the one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.

Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easier—no longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.

As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.

[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.

“Thanks,” she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts… in that damn battle?” he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.

She could lie. She could say yes, tell him she’d been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didn’t.

“No, I think you saw me last at my graduation,” [y/n] answered honestly.

“Oh!” Ron’s face lit up. “The one Fred and George didn’t get.”

[y/n] couldn’t help but grin at the memory. In another life—one where she wasn’t standing here like an uninvited ghost—Fred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.

Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasn’t for Ron—it was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: “What on earth are you doing here?”

Or perhaps it was more like: “What the bloody hell do you want?”

[y/n] couldn’t decide. Either way, it didn’t seem good.

She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fred’s and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.

“So, what brings you here?” Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, let’s respect her age) on Fred’s doorstep.

Or did it make sense?

As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.

“I need to talk to your brother, Ron,” [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldn’t help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.

That wasn’t to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt of—broad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.

And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didn’t matter—Fred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through it—soft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.

What had initially seemed like disinterest—no, scratch that, anger—suddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasley’s face.

Ron grinned awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I think I’ll head over to the shop now, if that’s alright with you, Fred?”

Fred didn’t bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain he’d left her—and her family—far behind.

“Do you open at nine?” [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. “Who opens at nine?” she almost laughed.

“It’s my shop,” Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than he’d intended. “I open whenever I want.”

[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. “Well, you're losing money, then,” she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about business—and how to make a proper profit.

Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. “Do you want me to show you my income statement?” he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it was—Fred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.

“There’s no need,” she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.

At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Invite her in,” he suggested helpfully. “Offer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.”

Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brother’s head—unsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.

The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on in, then. Can’t have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.”

Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'it’ll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, and—strangely enough—several unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.

There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculine—warm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fred’s cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.

[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchen—a narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ron’s advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didn’t join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.

“To what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?” he asked, casually annoyed.

“To yourself, I suppose,” [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. “I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t tormented me.”

Fred’s brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I torment you?” he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. “Blimey, I don’t see how, but somehow I’m proud of myself. Although…” He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I suspect, somehow, it’s all your fault.”

The look she shot him—arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes—spoke volumes. It was a “don’t-you-dare” glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, “your unconscious’s fault, maybe?”

“I don’t see how,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence he’d just used.

His grin broadened.

“Now, Malfoy,” he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, “it’s not my fault you’re still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.”

Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the table’s edge, her posture straightening. He couldn’t still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, he’d grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.

Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent history—a truth they both remembered all too well—or she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.

The “what ifs” always stung sharper than the “so it was.”

“Fred,” she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, “I won’t get into this petty squabble with you.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. “I only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggle—an innocent person.”

Fred’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. “A Muggle?” he echoed, straightening slightly.

“Yes,” she pressed on, her tone sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? That’s low, even for you.”

The confusion on Fred’s face deepened. “Clara?” he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.

[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. “She’s my friend,” she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.

Fred’s head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. “And… she’s been having nightmares about me?” he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.

[Y/N] didn’t answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. “She dreamt of you,” she admitted, her tone clipped. “But that’s not the point. The point is…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. “If this is your doing, you’ve crossed a line.”

For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughed—a low, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, “you think I’m invading people’s dreams now? What do you reckon I am—a rogue boggart with a wand?”

Her glare didn’t waver. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was playing. “You’re capable of far more than you let on.”

Fred’s grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. “Well,” he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, “if I’m such a menace, then you’re just going to have to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after all—and if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.

“For God’s sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, aren’t you?” [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. “I’m not going to curse you. I want my peace—and Clara’s—back. Just tell me you’ll fix this, and I’ll leave. Go back to my life.”

“‘For God’s sake’ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?” Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. “Turned into a squib?”

“I wish I was,” she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. “Then at least these nightmares would stop.” She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. “You know magic, Fred. You know how it works. It’s more about emotion than the fancy incantations.”

“Yes,” Fred tilted his head slightly, “and so what?”

“So,” she pressed, “we need the goodbye we never got. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want your goodbye, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams… they won’t stop.”

For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.

Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “Tell me you haven’t been dreaming too, and I’ll walk away. Tell me I didn’t show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and I’ll go away. I’ll claim to the world that I’m the emotionally immature one, that I couldn’t get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.”

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knew—knew—he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“I knew it!” [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. “You have been dreaming about me.”

Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. “Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “And don’t act like this is my fault. I didn’t invite myself into your dreams—you did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.”

Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. “It’s not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldn’t choose you as my nightly torment.” He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. “Unless you’re saying I’m just that irresistible?”

She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to haunt you—”

“Funny,” he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.”

“Fred,” she breathed, and this time, it wasn’t a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.

The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.

She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. “They were right, you know,” she said softly, as though admitting a secret she’d kept hidden for years. “It’s all about the ‘what ifs.’”

Fred didn’t reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behind—my name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought… if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps you wouldn’t matter.”

She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. “But it didn’t work. You’re still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.”

Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasn’t often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.

“Poorly written ghost?” he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.”

“Fred—” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Or Shakespeare,” he added with a smug grin. “Can’t you see it? ‘O Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?’ It’s tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.”

Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of mockery there. “It’s the ‘what if,’ isn’t it? Our ‘what if.’ What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, it’s us—haunting and being haunted.”

SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER

Oh, her silence spoke volumes.

That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprises—none of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.

The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.

It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George weren’t just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t just fear—it was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didn’t know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.

When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time alone—to figure out who he was without being defined by “Fred and George.” Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.

In the first year of George’s travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasn’t. It was easy to forget that George wasn’t his neighbour next door.

But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same place—discovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.

It hadn’t been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]—his siren, his tormentor—appeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.

Ron had noticed Fred’s downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to George’s absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoy—just like her brother Draco—and someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret he’d carry to his grave.

But now, here she was—his siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.

Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadn’t changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sure—but not in the ways she claimed.

She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldn’t quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. She’d smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.

The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the air—not cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.

It was almost… domestic. And that was the problem.

Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. “So,” he began, his voice low, measured. “Are we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don’t have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. It’s your fault.”

[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. “Not me, Weasley.”

“Right,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because running off after a kiss isn’t a concern at all. It’s perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.”

She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You want to know why I ran? Because I’ve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my family’s destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasn’t like them. Someone who could… break the cycle.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I had to grow up and realize that no one—not even you—could be my saviour. I have to be my own.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. “Do you know what it’s like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didn’t have two Sickles to rub together. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to prove them all wrong?”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.

“I heard about your engagement,” he said, his tone dipping. “The moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to… Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realized…” His voice softened. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.

“When I heard that you ran off, disgracing your family’s name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?” Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. “You don’t have to… any more.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”

Fred’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“This is a bad idea,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.

Fred’s breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “I like bad ideas. They’re the bestsellers at the shop.”

And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fred’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.

It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worlds—so different, so at odds—collided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fred’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.

“See?” he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. “Bad ideas can be brilliant.”

[Y/N] couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. “You’re insufferable, Weasley.”

“And yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,” he shot back, grinning.

At that moment, standing in Fred’s cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas weren’t so bad after all.

Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this moment—something plucked out of the pages of a story she hadn’t dared to believe could ever be hers.

“So,” Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and what’s her name.”

[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. “Friends?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call us.”

“Oh?” Fred’s grin widened. “And what would you call us, then?”

“Two idiots,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone—only a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, stepping closer again, “I say we’re bloody brilliant at it.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just them—two people who had spent years running from what-if’s, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.

TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)

The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fred’s mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.

[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin.

“I don’t know how this house is still standing,” Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. “I mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy, and I’m certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.” She paused, then added, “Honestly, it’s like a miracle.”

“Structural spells,” [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. “Er, I mean, I’m kidding! Fred’s dad’s very… handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s… charming. Ridiculous, but charming.”

Then, as kind as always, she added, “It’s… unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,” her Muggle practicality shining through. “You look perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“Nervous?” [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. “I’m a CEO. I don't get nervous.”

And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.

“Oh, is that right?” Fred’s voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because from here, it looks like you’re about to bolt.”

“Fred,” Clara said with mock exasperation, “you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony!”

“It’s bad luck,” [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Bad luck, good luck… I think we’ve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.

Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.

“George!” Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. “Told you he’d make it.”

George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.

“Sorry, I’m late,” George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. “Had to pick up a plus-one.”

“Fashionably late as always,” Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. “I was starting to think you’d run off to Peru again.”

“Not this time,” George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. “Couldn’t miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.”

[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t lost your charm, George.”

“Nor my memory,” he quipped. “Always knew I’d see you again, Malfoy.”

“Lovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you don’t mind…” [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. “I’d like to get married sometime this century.”

George raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more.” He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siren?” he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.

“Let’s,” she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.

The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.

“I do.”

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. “Told you bad ideas are brilliant.”

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt free—free of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldn’t help but smile.

After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.

Weasley.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x malfoy!reader #fred and george #fred weasley #harry potter #fred weasley fic #george weasley

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jjkamochoso · 3 months ago

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Yuji Itadori SFW Alphabet

Angst, Fluff

Yuji Itadori x gn!reader

Request from Wattpad

Warnings: none

A: Anxiety: does he get nervous around you?

He definitely does but not in an awkward, can’t-breathe-around-you type of way, more of like you’re-so-attractive-I-can’t-believe-you-like-me-like-that type of way. He lives to laugh and have fun so if he ever gets nervous, expect him to be open and honest with you about it!

B: Balloon: how does he celebrate milestones with you?

Yuji LOVES a good get together. Any excuse to bring his favorite people together in celebration of anything (birthdays, holidays, the newest installment of Human Earthworm…). If it’s your birthday, expect a huge party filled with your favorite foods and a bunch of presents. Anniversaries are quieter with him and he would treat you to a large bouquet of flowers and a well thought out gift that will bring tears to your eyes.

C: Cute: what does he do when you call him cute?

His smile is so big and bright, it can be seen across the globe, blinding millions!

D: Dates: what kind of dates does he prefer?

Movie dates!

Did I mention movie dates???

He pounces on any chance to snuggle up with you and watch a good (or bad!) film; it fills him with indescribable joy to laugh along with you at comedies or have you cling to him during scary scenes.

E: Erupt: what do disagreements or fights look like between you?

You often debate silly things such as which chip flavor is the best or what seat in the subway has the greatest views, which can admittedly get pretty heated. True arguments are few and far between, and mostly surround his penchant for running into danger headfirst as you don’t want to see him get hurt or die any more than he already has.

F: Favorite: what’s his favorite body part on you?

Yuji loves your stomach! No matter if you’re lean, chubby, hairy, or anything in between, his hands always find their way to your stomach, eager for the comfort he feels when pawing at your skin. His favorite part of the day is when he can lie with his head on your perfect stomach and rest; it’s his most sacred safe space.

G: Goals: what does he want from this relationship? (Long term, casual, etc.)

Yuji is a simple man when it comes to romance: he’ll be with his partner as long as his partner wants to be with him. If that means you’re together forever, that’s more than fine by him! He definitely isn’t envisioning marriage any time soon, but he’s excited for it after he hits a certain age.

H: Hugs: does he like giving/recieving hugs?

You genuinely have to PRY this boy off of you if you don’t want his hugs to last all day. Yuji takes any chance he has to envelop you in his arms and hold you close to him, smushing your bodies together tightly as he rambles about whatever is on his mind.

Can you tell physical touch is his favorite love language?

I: Insecure: what are his biggest insecurities in the relationship?

They definitely have nothing to do with the fact that he’s hosting an ancient, extremely deadly and bloodthirsty curse that could take control of his body and mind at any given moment.

Nope, not at all.

But really, his biggest insecurity is that you’ll wake up one day and realize there are so many other men that could provide you with the stability and protection you deserve. Yuji often stresses about hurting or killing you if Sukuna ever takes control of him again.

J: Jealousy: does he get jealous often?

Not really! Yuji’s not shocked that others flirt with you; you’re stunning! He usually just laughs it off, happy that you got a discount from the cashier who thought you were cute or enjoys the free drink you received from the employee at the boba place. If it somehow seems like you’re liking the attention from others too much, though, he’ll get down in the dumps until you reassure him that you’re his.

K: Kiss: where’s his favorite place to kiss you?

Your cheeks! He loves the up close view of your eyes crinkling with joy every time his lips land on your face.

L: Love: who says “I love you” first?

He does! The words easily slipped from Yuji’s mouth one day while you two were hanging out. It all felt so natural and instinctual that it took you a few minutes to register what he had said!

M: Mornings: how are mornings spent with him?

One word: lazy.

Yuji never wants to get out of bed. You would describe him akin to an anchor, holding you down in your giant sea of a bed and blankets. Never does he wake up early and rarely does he get up on time, choosing to cuddle with you as long as possible.

N: Nights: how are nights spent with him?

Yuji is one of those people who immediately falls into deep sleep as soon as their head touches a pillow. There’s no nightly routine with this boy—he’ll be snoring before you have your pajamas on.

O: Open: when does he start to reveal things about himself to you? Is it gradual or all at once?

Beneath the bubbly, happy-go-lucky exterior, Yuji is very thoughtful and caring. He’d be ready to tell you things about himself quickly, but would do so in a manner that wouldn’t be overwhelming to you since he’d been through many hardships in such a short amount of time.

P: Protective: is he very protective of you?

YES. YES YES YES. Did someone look at you wrong? He’ll talk to them. Wrong order? It’ll be fixed, don’t you worry. A man is making you uncomfortable? He can and will fight him if needed. Yuji doesn’t want anyone else he cares about to get hurt so he’d do his best to protect you from anything and everything.

Q: Quiz: how much of the little things does he remember about you?

He remembers some things about you, especially surrounding your likes and dislikes, but his memory could use a little work. His saving grace is that he’s an extremely good guesser which works out in his favor when he buys you gifts for holidays.

R: Regret: what does he wish he could change about your relationship?

He wishes he had a family to bring you home to. Growing up, the prospect of his family hosting a huge dinner in honor of the first time they met his partner sounded like such an amazing time to him, yet when he came of age, all of this family members had passed on, leaving him to be the last Itadori. That doesn’t bother you in the least bit, however Yuji gets upset that he’ll never be able to experience big family holidays with both of your families.

S: Show Off: does he show you off to his friends or family?

Does a star shine in the dark? Is the sky blue?

Um YES. He takes any chance he can get to show you off to anyone and everyone who looks your way. He’s proud to hold you tight in a crowd and is quick to shout words of approval your way and tell everyone exactly who you are to him (i.e him yelling, “good job, y/n!” *turning to strangers around him, beaming like a lighthouse in the depth of night* “that’s MY partner!”)

T: There, there: how does he comfort you when you’re upset?

Yuji is the king of distraction! To get your mind off things, he’ll offer to take you somewhere fun, watch a movie, even pick at grass outside, anything to wash away the sadness you’re feeling. Between all the distraction, though, Yuji will grace you with profound sayings and wise advice that helps you work through whatever you’re going through.

U: Utopia: what’s his dream life with you?

This poor boy needs a break from all of the suffering he’s dealt with in the short span of his life thus far. His dream life is sure to come true as long as you’re there—he’s not picky about the details. He wishes for fun days with you and his friends, and easy nights with the two of you cuddled up on a couch.

He also can’t wait to adopt an animal with you one day :)

V: Values: what are fundamental traits he looks for in a partner/relationship?

Kindness—he needs someone that treats him with a special kind of tenderness he can’t find anywhere else

Positivity—someone who can usually keep a smile on their face, and in turn, his face, is a definite plus for Yuji

Trust—as the vessel for the monstrosity that is Sukuna, Yuji can barely trust himself; to know that his partner has his back no matter what they both experience is a huge deal to him

W: Work: what effort does he put in to keep the relationship strong?

Academically, Yuji might not be the best, but when it comes to personal relationships, he’s the top of his class. He works HARD to keep your relationship on the right track, making sure you’re feeling secure and loved the way you deserve to be. He never gives up on anything he believes in and refuses to let one of the best things in his life (you, of course!) slip through his grasp due to a lack of caring or communication on his part.

X: eXpressive: how does he show his love?

Yuji shows love through physical touch and words of affirmation. He likes to keep at least one hand on you at all times, often slinging an arm around your shoulder or holding your hand while in public. He throws you compliments like they’re candy and you’re at a parade; that’s to say, you’re never going to be without sweet words from him!

Y: Yikes: what bad habits or red flags does he possess?

Yuji’s propensity to run headfirst into danger is commendable, but this bad habit stresses you out to no end. If you ever try to talk to him about it, he’ll understand where you’re coming from but would never agree to turning the other cheek in the face of injustice.

On a lighter note, I feel like he’s also a bit messy and doesn’t keep up with cleaning his room as much as he should, clothes and old snack packages strewn about the floor and bed.

Z: Zany: what silly things do you do together?

You two love to take silly pictures! You always strike the funniest poses whether in the frame together or with one of you behind the camera. Of course, your phone wallpapers are constantly updated with every new selfie or photo of each other!

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always-andromeda · 4 months ago

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₊⊹⁀➴ 𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝑨𝒍𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒕

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Benson x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4,107

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Soooo...uhhh...I've been into Kyle Gallner for a while now...and I've been very into him as Benson in The Passenger specifically. So this is me sort of warming up to write him in some actual fics. Forgive me if my characterization is off at all. I haven't seen The Passenger in almost a year so I'm basing some analysis on my terrible memory lol. Anyhoo. I actually enjoyed prattling this one out!! I tend to get a little longwinded and let myself write a bit more casually with these. I like having fun with alphabets. So I hope this is enjoyed by the handful of Kyle fans on here lol. Credit for all dividers goes to @strangergraphics!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | no smut (regardless, I am not comfortable with minors interacting with my blog, period), bits of fluff and angst, elements of toxicity, allusions to Benson's neglectful childhood and possible SA, doesn't follow the canon of the film, nothing else I can think of!!

A = Affectionate (How affectionate are they?)

Benson’s generally pretty minimal on touchy-feely stuff. He thinks public displays of it are especially tacky. However, he will use it to his advantage if he can. If he’s trying to convince you of something he’ll get real close and cup your cheek or the back of your neck. More disarming than the physical aspect is his penchant for intense eye contact. His eyes themselves are just so expressive, you come to learn exactly what each one of his little looks mean and can read him better than pretty much anyone.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How does the friendship start?)

For a long while you’d sort of think he hates you. He’s on the quiet side. And not a shy sort of quiet. It’s a say the wrong word to him and you’ll regret it sort of quiet. You’d be walking on eggshells around him until he makes first contact. Maybe one day he’ll catch you doing some activity you enjoy on your lunch break. He’ll make you jump out of your skin when he says, “Didn’t peg you as that kind of girl.” And before you can even ask what kind of girl did you peg me as? he’s already walked off.

Had you ever even heard his voice before that moment? You can’t even fucking remember. But you’re kind of surprised his first words to you aren’t also the last.

Both in the sense that he just emanates that “could snap at any moment” energy but also in the sense that he just keeps randomly projecting himself into your life. He makes more little comments, watches you in a way that makes your skin crawl, yet he actually sees you.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How do they cuddle?)

Only in the middle of the night and sometimes mornings. At the end of a long day, he wants his personal space. But don’t be surprised if you wake up in the middle of the night with his arm slung around you and his face buried in your neck as he snores softly. He’ll hold you so firmly; in his eyes it’s something close to possession.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How good are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Honestly, Benson’s sort of surprised to have lived as long as he has. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine being with someone who he could tolerate and who could tolerate him in return.

So domesticity and everything it entails is completely lost on him. So many single men live like absolute creatures and Benson is on a similar level. I mean, he can clean decently enough. Hell, cleaning is part of his job. So he prefers keeping his space clean. Cleanliness isn’t an issue with him as much as disorganization and discordance is?

He has like three plates in his cupboard. None of them match. And one of them has a massive crack down the middle of it so he doesn’t use it. He has one (1) mug for coffee in the morning. And that’s the one (1) dish he doesn’t ever clean because he heavily believes that all his years of using it has “seasoned” it. Can’t really cook for shit. He can feed himself adequately enough but he still doesn’t eat very well. He sort of uses it as an excuse to find all of the cheap, hidden gem restaurants and food trucks in town. This man will get himself a burrito at some food truck and bada bing, bada boom, that’s dinner and then breakfast in the morning!! What a resourceful guy!!

E = Ending (If they had to break up with you, how would they do it?)

No matter how fucked up this guy is, I don’t think he ever would. If he loves you, he’s there for fucking life. But for argument’s sake, I firmly believe he’d be a break up in person type of guy. Even then, I still think he’d be somewhat flippant about it. He can’t bring himself to be the asshole who throws out the cliché it’s not you, it’s me routine even though that’d 100% be his reasoning for doing it in the first place.

He’d very bluntly tell you, “This isn’t working out. It’d be better if we went our separate ways.” That’s the most he’ll give you. No explanations. No opportunities to work things out. Absolutely nothing. If he doesn’t think he can be good for you, then he’ll banish himself. And since you only deserve good things, in his mind it’s incredibly simple. Probably traumatizing or at the very least moderately upsetting for you to go through and that part especially kills him. But it’s for the better. So even though it’d break his heart too, he’d deal with it.

F = Fiancé (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Loyalty and commitment? He fucks hard with those sentiments. Marriage, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. He definitely has a I don’t need the government to say it’s cool we’re together sort of mindset about the whole thing. All the formality is jack shit to him.

If you absolutely have to get married someday, he’ll settle for a small courthouse shindig and even that would be pushing it. A big wedding is the one thing he’d vehemently and guiltlessly deny you. Just the thought of all the fake family members showing up for a photo op, the relentless judgement, the pageantry, and the money wasted that could’ve gone into getting a more comfortable place for you and him? It all makes him seethe.

All he needs is you. He doesn’t need witnesses or approval from anyone. Only you.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, physically and emotionally?)

He fluctuates pretty wildly between tenderness and severity. Some moments he’s cold, quiet, and can't handle being touched. Other times he’s your gentle guy, laying his head on your lap after a long day just to flush out the frustration from his system.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often would they hug you? What are their hugs like?)

Not the biggest hugger in the world? And he definitely doesn’t consider himself to be the kind of guy who wants or needs them either. I think he’s just so touch starved that he doesn’t even recognize how truly starved he is. If you’re more inclined to expressing your love through physical affection, it takes a while for him to get used to it. Slowly but surely he’ll become your stubborn black cat that cuddles up with you as if this is just part of the job description as your boyfriend. But you best believe if you disentangle yourself before he’s ready to let go, he’s pulling you right back against his chest.

I = I love you (Who is the first to say, "I love you"?)

You would absolutely have to be the first to say it. Because he just wouldn’t see the importance in stating it outright. In his mind, words don’t impact anything. He knows how he feels. And he tries as best as he can to show it. If you need to be told it, he must be fucking things up. Verbal communication isn’t his strong suit in that way.

So when you first say it, he’s almost startled. There’s a small voice in him that immediately wonders what did I do wrong? Are you breaking up with me? Because why else would you look at him like that? Why does he suddenly feel like a dog being fed chocolate because they’re being euthanized the next day? He doesn’t really understand that sometimes words do matter and just hearing them aloud can be reassuring.

A lot of the time he’ll return you saying it with a gruff, “Love you too,” before pushing the anxiety from his mind as quickly as he can.

J = Jealousy (How jealous are they?)

Benson’s jealousy is uhhhh…borderline lethal? Granted, that anger isn’t directed at you. And he knows you wouldn’t fuck around on him. But even when he’s getting up in the face of some other guy and telling him that you’ve already got a boyfriend, it can get a little too intense.

For your sake, he tries to keep his fists out of the equation. He’ll still keep a mental note of any guy around you who might be a little too close for his liking. Juuuuust in case.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like?)

Benson kisses the correct way (according to him): deep and slow. There’s no quick, sloppy kisses with him. Just ones that completely steal the air from your lungs and all thoughts from your brain. He’ll typically grasp your chin or cup your jaw while doing so. He also has the tendency to groan into them a little bit which makes it all the worse. When he pulls back for air, he’ll rest his forehead against yours and keep his eyes closed for a few seconds. Even if he’s not intending to go any further, he kisses like he wants to.

L = Little ones (How are they around kids?Do they want any?)

Kids make him a little antsy. Working in the service industry almost his entire life he’s seen droves of shitty parents who let their kids scream and run around the store rubbing their sticky little hands all over everything. It makes his job about a hundred times more difficult.

Say you’ve got younger relatives or children of friends that you bring him around. He’s very reluctant about spending much time around them. They’ll show him their toys or whatever “cool trick” they learned and he’ll just tersely smile at them before saying, “That’s great, kid.”

He’s annoyed by them at first. But if they’re decently behaved, they’ll grow on him. He’ll let your niece practice hair braiding on him (as long as she washes her hands at least twice beforehand). He’ll reluctantly sit in on tea parties even though he thinks it’s kind of silly that he’s being expected to pretend your nieces teddy bears and dolls give a single shit about etiquette. But hey, if it makes you and her happy, fine.

He’ll play action figures with them too. You know how kids will “yes, and…” their way through playing pretend? Benson is fucking brilliant at it. Your little cousin will go, “My guy has laser eyes and he just cut your guys leg off!!” and Benson will go, “Well…my guy is part lizard so his legs grow back.” And he says it with such a “yeah, that’s right, get fucked” sort of tone that you have to roll your eyes at your boyfriend beefing with a child through Minecraft action figures.

Despite all this, I still firmly believe he wouldn’t willingly have kids of his own (unless it was an accident…but that’s a whole different story lmao).

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings can be a little messy. If he’s scheduled for an opening shift, he’s probably out of the door before six. If you don’t have to be awake, he’ll try his best not to wake you. But he’ll softly kiss your head before leaving for the day and telling you he’ll see you when he gets home. He definitely uses his off days to catch up on sleep. That means waking up to him clinging to you like his life depends on it and groaning grouchily if you pull away.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Benson’s first priority at the end of the day is having a nice, long shower. He probably reeks of sweat and oil and his skin just feels disgusting. So he won’t even let you touch him too much when he gets home. He gives you a quick kiss at the most before heading off to the bathroom and washing away the day.

And I’m sorry, but the man isn’t afraid to bitch about his day. Like when he emerges from your shared bedroom with some comfier clothes on, he is venting about something one of his stupid coworkers said or a difficult customer he had to deal with. Whatever semblance of a “customer service attitude” he puts on at work is just GONE.

Once he’s tuckered himself out, he’ll ask how your day went, hoping it was better than his. Aside from the talk, he likes spending evenings catching up on whatever shows you and him watch together or diving into a shitty movie; maybe I’m just projecting (I’m 100% projecting) but he really strikes me as a guy who enjoys laughing at a bad horror movie in order to destress.

O = Open (When do they start revealing things about themself? Is it all at once or bit by bit?)

Benson is very much a mixed bag. When you’re first getting to know him, you wonder where his angst and pessimism comes from. Has he experienced some sort of trauma that’s influenced him in this way or is he just another guy who thinks being a dick is cool? You aren’t sure which one you’d rather it be.

Unfortunately, however, it’s the former. And Benson keeps it extremely close to his chest. For one, he refuses to let you meet his mother for an extremely long time. And when you finally do, he promises himself that that’s the only time you’ll be in the same room as her. After that point he’ll start to tell his story in bits and pieces. He’ll admit that he used to be a pretty happy kid but won’t go much further than that. He’ll explain that his dad left the picture when he was young so he doesn’t remember much of him. He’ll list the string of shitty, nameless boyfriends his mother brought home.

You gather that she wasn’t there for him almost ever. Not even when it mattered the most. You start to understand why he wears such a hard shell. Though there are a lot of things he leaves unspoken, you make it as clear as possible to him that he doesn’t have to be afraid of whatever’s left inside him; that if you can ever lighten the load for him, you would in a heartbeat. He appreciates it, truly. But there are some things he’s not ready to see in the light of day yet.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

You’re probably one of the only people in the world he extends any amount of patience towards. Because most things sort of annoy the shit out of him. And even if you’re trying to annoy him, he probably just finds it sort of silly?

I just have this image in my head where you played a joke on him by signing him up for some random ass mailing list. So now whenever he gets an email for fucking farmersonly dot com or a Michael Jackson fanclub that’s all in Bulgarian, he can’t help but roll his eyes and tell you that you’re so dumb while laughing under his breath. He could never really get truly mad at you unless you were doing something sincerely stupid.

Q = Quizzes (How much do they remember things about you? Do they remember everything in passing or do they forget everything?)

This man remembers fucking everything. Even the smallest, unspoken things end up seared into his mind. Of course there are the mundane things like the way you take your coffee or tea. But then he’ll recall just how much you spent on jeans the last time you went clothes shopping. He’ll remember the exact date you said you got your childhood pet. He has a pretty phenomenal memory but he’ll always brush you off when you point out how crazy his accuracy is.

R = Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?)

It’s the most innocuous moment from before you and Benson really defined your relationship, actually. Back then it was this nebulous connection; not quite a friendship, but definitely not a romantic relationship yet. Instead it was some strange third thing where he found himself wanting to be around you more than most people.

So he invited you to a little get together with some of his friends. They’d meet every once in a while to catch up. They’re old friends; people he trusts. So he asks if you’d like to come with him sometime.

You’re hesitant. For one, you couldn’t fathom him having friends. Then you scold yourself internally for the assumption. Of course he has friends!! And he must consider you something akin to one too if he’s inviting you to go out with them outside of work!! The butterflies are fluttering in your stomach before you even say yes to tagging along.

Perhaps you like Benson. Perhaps you’d like him to like you too. So you try the whole night to make the best impression possible. His friends tease him about bringing a girl along until you clarify that you and him are just friends and Benson agrees. Then both of you try to pretend that that assertion doesn’t sting just a little teeny tiny bit.

But there’s a moment when he’s dropping you off at home when the night ends. You thank him for the invite and say you had a lot of fun as he pulls up to your place. And when you get out, he expects you to be gone. Instead, you walk around his truck and linger at the driver’s side.

Then you say with a tired smile, “See you tomorrow, Benny.”

Benny.

Normally only his mother calls him that. And he fucking hates it when she does. It makes his blood boil and pound in his ears. Makes him want to tear something apart and scream at her for daring to treat him like he’s still a boy. And yes, hearing you say it puts him on edge and his blood starts to simmer. But it stays right there. The nerves in his fingers begin to twitch and he’s fidgety the whole drive back to his place. Like he’s just waiting to hear it again. Waiting to hear your voice call him that sweet little nickname again. Knowing that he’d now forever think that just Benson was so stuffy and ancient sounding.

His favorite memory is the moment he realized he wanted to be your Benny.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Extremely protective. Similar to his jealousy, when Benny goes into protection mode, all bets are off. As far as protecting him goes, he likes to think that he doesn’t need protecting. He’s got all the answers. He can take care of himself.

So, naturally, you often end up protecting him from himself. Which means talking him down from the occasional anxiety spiral before he slips too far down the drain, encouraging him to be a little gentler to himself, and reminding him that he can’t solve every issue with brute force.

Benson tries to protect you from the world, you try to protect him from the big black void that is his anger.

T = Try (How much effort do they put into dates/anniversaries/etc?)

He tries his best, truly he does. He never forgets an anniversary and is as attentive as he can be when you’re together. But sometimes he just doesn’t have the cash to give you everything he wishes he could. The cynical side of him says that the fancy dinners and expensive gifts are all superficial bullshit and that he shouldn’t care that he can’t give everything on a silver platter. The other part of him (the part that’s in looooove <3) so desperately wants to give you everything. He wants to give you a reason to look at him with that soft expression of pride you get sometimes.

To make up for it all, he takes you to all of his favorite spots in town. The back alley food trucks, the hole in the wall bars, the takeout places where everything on the menu is in a language he doesn’t even understand. He shows you the few bright spots in his world and hopes that you’ll see what he does in them.

U = Ugly (What is a bad habit of theirs?)

Aside from the jealousy and overprotectiveness, Benson’s definitely got some bad habits that are a little less cerebral. The worst is probably his smoking. He tries to break the habit a few times, especially when you remark once that his kisses taste like ash. But he ends up getting another pack at the gas station after less than a week of trying. The least awful of his bad habits are how he picks at his skin. I just know this man chews the fuck out of his cuticles, especially if he can’t have a smoke for whatever reason.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He’s pretty average as far as the care he takes in his appearance. He keeps clean, grooms his facial if it starts to get unruly, and tries to keep his work uniform as spotless as possible (though he’ll never be able to get rid of the stench of beef fat and stale fry oil).

He’s actually got a pretty fun sense of style outside of work. He’s got an exquisite collection of t-shirts with super metal art pieces on them that he takes pride in. And man, we’ve all seen his furry hazelnut yellow cardigan!! The man likes to be comfy!! So I definitely see him as the type to typically lean towards comfort over fashion. Still got some dope ass t-shirts though!!

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He’d be reluctant in admitting it to himself; being so dependent on someone is so far out of his wheelhouse. But he’s inclined to believe that he has no clue what he’d do if you weren’t there.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

I see him being a big vinyl enjoyer. And a guy with a DVD collection. He’s just a massive physical media snob in general in my eyes. Those are pretty much the only things he has an abundance of and he gets really defensive if you tell him to just stream something lol.

Y = Yuck (What is something they wouldn't like either in a partner or in general?)

Straight up? Asshole behavior. Like if he sees you being mean to a service worker? Or witnesses you being needlessly rude to anyone in general? His opinion immediately sours. Everything he once thought was interesting about you immediately becomes so ugly to him.

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

Terrible!! Benny’s sleeping habits are terrible!! Those tired eyes of his aren’t a fashion statement!! They’re a lifestyle, babe!! You don’t get dark circles like that on accident lmao.

He tries to sleep most nights. But there are some where he’s just…awake. He’s getting up just so he can stop staring at the ceiling; just stop thinking about the world and his life and how you fit (or don’t fit) into it all. Then he’s mindlessly turning on the TV but not really watching it before going outside to smoke a cigarette.

He’s taking a long puff of his cigarette when you find him outside. Your eyes are bleary, face a little puffy, and hair a bit of a mess. And you’re freezing standing out in the cold night air with your thin pajamas. Immediately the guilt overwhelms him. Just because he’s fucked, it doesn’t mean you’ve gotta be fucked too.

Even though he says you don’t have to wait up for him, you do anyway. With your arms crossed over your chest and chattering teeth, you wait. Benson doesn’t even finish his smoke. He puts it out and lets you lead him by the hand back to bed. He lets you wrap yourself around him, holding him to you as if you hope it’ll keep him there until the end of time itself. He breathes deeply and gradually melts into your embrace as your body warms back up.

Floating somewhere between reality and dreamland, you manage to mumble, “Love ya, Benny. Night.”

Amongst all that trauma and guilt and the overwhelming desire to take care of you always, he can occasionally admit that it’s a little nice to be taken care of too; to be seen.

Just because he’s fucked now, it doesn’t mean he’s gotta be fucked forever.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#the passenger #the passenger fanfic #kyle gallner #kyle gallner fanfic #benson the passenger #benson the passenger x reader #benson x reader

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luciddaydreamingworlds · 12 days ago

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My au versions of Brainy (she/her), Jokey (he/him), and Tuffy (he/him).

I was planning on waiting till I got more official refs done of them, but I figured I might as well post these anyways.

In my AU, they are triplets (meaning they were delivered in the same basket)! As well as the shortest of the canon adult Smurfs.

More thoughts about their dynamic + lore under the cut:

Sorry for how disjointed this stuff is gonna sound, I'm just writing down random thoughts I have about them.

So, basically, what I have in mind is siblings that tease/bully the fuck out of eachother, but would also fight to the death to protect eachother. Classic "I'm gonna make my siblings' lives a living hell, but god help anyone else that tries to harm them" dynamic. They each know how to fight because of the others.

They all share the traits of being clever, mischievous, and hot-headed, and they're each pretty dang strong in their own right. Not Hefty strong, mind you, but strong enough.

Jokey and Tuffy know how to dodge stuff pretty damn well because Brainy often throws what's in her arms' reach at them when she's upset at them. On the flipside, Brainy's got a strong arm and an accurate aim because of how often she's thrown stuff at the other two.

Brainy, Jokey, and Tuffy share conjoined shrooms (like those townhouses that are connected by a hallway that can be locked on both sides). Jokey and Tuffy live on the shrooms at the ends, and Brainy lives in the middle shroom. Which does mean that whenever something explodes, Tuffy doesn't know which of his siblings did it until further notice.

Brainy does end up bearing the brunt of the teasing due to her being more book-inclined and rule-bound. Plus, her consistently and stubbornly talking herself out of her gendered feelings since she was a small Smurfling up until the Grove Smurfs were found gives her brothers another avenue to (lightly) tease her with. Regardless, her brothers try not to give her too hard of a time. She has a very fun and experimental side to her that does often get her in trouble with the other Smurfs, but Tuffy and Jokey find it rather delightful. They'll often encourage her as much as possible to keep this side flourishing.

Jokey is, obviously, the most mischievous of the three. Besides all the time he spends making and pranking people with his explosive surprises, he also has quite the penchant for rule-breaking. He enjoys sneaking around, in and out of the Village when he's not supposed to, and can be quite the klepto at times. Jokey also has several books on all the dirty little secrets each person he's ever come across has, just in case he needs to.. coerce something out of them. He also just has a lot of books filled with snippets of knowledge in general. Jokey doesn't have great memory recall skills due to all the head-damaging accidents he's been in, so he's had to start writing in journals and meticulously keeping track of time so he doesn't forget and miss out on anything. It's not a perfect system, but at least he's also got Brainy and Tuffy to help him remember things when he's struggling particularly hard.

And now, Tuffy, the hot-headed, self-declared strongman of the triplets. He goes out of his way to find people to fight, regardless of whether or not he's got a good chance of winning. The main subject of his angst-fueled ire is Hefty, and it's Tuffy's dream to be able to beat him in a fight. Hefty doesn't really know why Tuffy has it out for him, but, surprisingly, he is up for helping Tuffy train and get stronger. Which, honestly, kinda irks Tuffy even more because it feels like preferential treatment in his eyes. So, what, Brainy and Jokey aren't spending their time exercising and roughing others up, so they're not worth Hefty's oh-so-precious time? Needless to say, Tuffy is the most protective of his siblings, and he finds the treatment they endure from the other Smurfs to be unfair and unnecessary. Like, sure, Tuffy bullies them sometimes for fun, but he's never been malicious about it (to his knowledge, at least).

I think I'll cut my thoughts off here. I have plenty more, but I want to draw at least a few pictures of them interacting with each other and with other Smurfs before I hit my dopamine limit and completely run out of motivation /lh

Hope yall enjoy!

#tuffy smurf #jokey smurf #brainy smurf #the smurfs #smurfs #smurfs fanart #smurfs au #my art

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anto-pops · 22 days ago

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The Serpent's Paramour CH 24 - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Upon sneaking into the manor, you see first hand just how comfortable its new inhabitants have made themselves. You want nothing more than to bring the ceiling down on everyone inside– after all, you do have a penchant for demolishing buildings. Biding your time is key, though, so with the rest of your companions, you wait and prepare to spring your surprise attack on Henri and Victor. None of your plans ever go according to plan, however. They always seem to blow up in your face.

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit language, Unforgivable Curses, angst

New chapter is also up on Ao3 :))

There was a brilliant flash of white light that came from somewhere over your shoulder, the noise sharp and quick as the unknown spell whizzed by your head. Before you could think to do much of anything in response, you watched with wide eyes as the gruff looking Poacher that had spotted you went stiffer than a board, then collapsed in an unmoving heap perpendicular to the side of the manor.

Frozen solid– only not frozen. Paralyzed.

You broke one of Sebastian’s rules without even realizing it; your Disillusionment charm faded away, leaving you fully exposed as you gaped at the Poacher before spinning around to pinpoint the culprit for his subdued state.

Poppy, much like yourself, was standing in full view of your group. Her wand was leveled steadily at her target, her brows drawn harshly over her narrowed eyes as she glared daggers at the Poacher. She had moved so fast that you hadn’t even realized that she’d seen the man at the same time you had. Her instincts were startling fast and wickedly precise, and it dawned on you then that she hadn’t been kidding at all earlier.

She really had adapted to her new lifestyle efficiently. Attack first and ask questions later… perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her.

“Bloody hell,” Garreth gasped, his Disillusionment charm dissipating and revealing his stunned expression. “I didn’t even see the bugger– well done, Pops.”

“Make sure he’s the only one out here,” she replied smoothly. Her eyes didn’t waver from the incapacitated man once as she gave the order, and Garreth– much to his credit– obeyed without a single complaint.

Sebastian and Devlin also allowed themselves to come into full view, but wisely refrained from stepping out from the shadows. If you, Poppy, and Weasley ended up spotted, that was one thing… but your dark wizard companions were familiar faces. The alarm would be raised in a heartbeat if any Poachers or Ashwinders caught sight of them.

Devlin swiped at the rim of his hat, scowling as his gaze jumped over the limp man before landing on Sebastian. “Do you recognize him?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t recognize us.”

“What do you want to do with him, then?”

“You’re not going to do a thing with him,” Poppy barked, turning her cold gaze on the two men. “The spell will buy us about an hour. Hide him somewhere out here, then leave him. But you’re not going to kill him.”

Devlin sneered at the no-nonsense tone the smaller woman spoke to him with, whereas Sebastian just shook his head in bewilderment. Their opinions on the matter were quite clear, but there was little they could do to argue with Poppy– especially with how strict she currently sounded. She wasn’t going to beat around the bush at all, not with her and Garreth’s lives on the line.

You wordlessly strode over to help the Gryffindor move the Poacher behind a row of hedges, then covered his rigid body with some of the dried vines that had crumpled at the base of the cobblestone walls. The entire time you worked to make sure the man was hidden, his beady eyes were boring into the side of your head– the animosity radiating from him so palpable that you swore you could feel the hatred searing against your skin. You did your best to ignore it before breaking away fast, returning to Sebastian’s side and recasting your Disillusionment charm along with the rest of the group.

“Alright, the plan stays the same,” he whispered softly. “Stick to the shadows, and don’t make a sound. We’ll take this nice and slow.”

Slow was one hell of an understatement, because the next ten minutes consisted of everyone moving at the pace of a snail. It was reasonable when you considered that despite the Disillusionment charms everyone was using, it didn’t make you completely invisible, but Merlin– traversing one foot every minute was a massive test of your patience.

There were no more Poachers or Ashwinders meandering around in the garden, so after Devlin used Alohomora to unlock the doors leading inside, you held your breath in your desperate attempts to stay quieter than the dead. Creeping through the minuscule crack in the doorway was a challenge in and of itself, but to your immense surprise, everyone managed to slip in without being detected. It was a stroke of pure luck– especially considering how many opponents were waiting for you on the other side.

The spacious dining room within the manor was riddled with masked dark wizards; some were lounging about at the long table you used to eat at, while others were posted up against the walls. The hallway off to the side of the room that led towards Sebastian’s office seemed to be the center of most of the activity. Clusters of Ashwinders and Poachers alike flowed in and out of the tiny room, talking to one another and breaking off from their respective groups to sit at the massive table or head to the front door. In short, the entire downstairs was bustling with activity.

But thus far, there was no sign of the men in charge.

A hand appeared against you then, curling imploringly over your shoulder. You were met with the distorted sight of Sebastian’s translucent silhouette, and you could faintly see the outline of his finger pointing towards the far corner of the dining room. There was a small alcove there– decorated with a small end table and surrounded by chairs that otherwise belonged at the dinner table. Once, you had seen one of Sebastian’s Ashwinder underlings knitting in that very spot.

But now, the shadowy corner was occupied by a familiar face. One that made your blood run hot in your veins when you took in his relaxed appearance.

Henri.

He was encircled by a throng of people, many of whom were presumably delivering reports and giving him updates on whatever was going on within the manor. The Frenchman hadn’t changed at all; he still had on that same, dragon skin coat that made your stomach churn with nausea. His tawny eyes glimmered with silent focus as he nodded slowly in response to something someone had said, his chubby fingers stroking down the length of his beard all the while. Looking at him now– sitting back enclosed by a ring of his loyal followers– made you hate the man more than you already did.

Henri looked way too comfortable for your liking. He had shown up here, tortured Nora and Joshua, then set up shop as though it was his natural born right to do so. He was a stain on this world– a blight. He was a monstrous leech that needed to be squashed, and the muscles in your calves twitched with the desire to do the stomping.

You wanted everything about him to disappear. His name, his legacy, his influence, his memory. All of it.

“Easy, princess…” Sebastian murmured softly in your ear, quietly enough that you were certain you were the only one who had heard him. “Your projecting again. Deep breaths– don’t cause a scene yet.”

You did as he instructed, because the last thing you wanted was for everything to fall apart sixty seconds after entering the manor. The previously overlooked feeling of Isidora’s dark magic festering beneath your skin eased up, and you sighed shakily. “Yet?”

“Yet,” Sebastian confirmed. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “As soon as we get him and Victor alone together, I won’t stop you. It might be one of the only times I encourage you to bring a building down on top of us.”

Huh. Go figure.

Sebastian’s hand slipped away from your shoulder, and at the same time he blindly felt around for the rest of the group, you watched as Henri rose from his seat in the corner. His gravelly tone carried throughout the room despite the cacophony of different voices filling it– although whatever he’d said was beyond your comprehension. Stupid French speaking lunatic… you hated that language now. The Poacher hobbled away from the alcove leisurely, getting closer and closer to the staircase that led to the second floor, and it was at that point you realized he was walking towards someone.

Not a Poacher, you deduced instantly. An Ashwinder. The dark wizard was clad in black clothing, the only source of color in his attire being a brown, wool overcoat that was draped over his shoulders. Strangely enough, he looked a bit like Sebastian… tall, brown hair, brown eyes, and a lighter smattering of freckles, but he was most certainly older. Maybe forty, if you had to wager a guess. The newcomer had his hands stuffed in his pockets, waiting patiently for Henri to close the distance.

Once he had, there was a brief exchange of words, and then the Ashwinder jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the staircase.

“Lincoln,” came Devlin’s hushed voice to your left. You didn’t bother looking– you already knew you wouldn’t see much of your companion’s appearance– but his voice gave away his distaste for Victor’s henchmen well enough. “Seems like he and Henri are getting along well.”

Lincoln and Henri both turned towards the steps, ascending them slowly as they continued to converse. There wasn’t a chance in hell you would be able to overhear what they were saying– not with the ambient chatter taking place in the dining room already– but you still squinted in your vain attempts to read their lips. When their backs faced you so they could disappear up to the second floor, your efforts became futile.

“We have to catch up to them,” you whispered. “They’re probably going to Victor.”

“Slow and steady, princess,” Sebastian reminded you, his voice so low beside your head that you could practically feel the vibrations. “Stick to the sides of the room and move carefully. Don’t let anybody trip over you.”

You had half a mind to wave off the warning, but as soon as everyone started moving towards the stairwell, you found that there was some validity to Sebastian’s words. No one in the blasted room would sit still. Poachers and Ashwinders alike were constantly shuffling around, shouting, and laughing about one thing or another. Just as you were crossing in front of the alcove Henri had been in previously, a random masked man stood and unpredictably backed up a step, forcing you to lean away so suddenly that the back of your head cracked against whoever was behind you.

There was a pained grunt that was then followed by a large hand appearing against the middle of your back, steadying you to prevent gravity from toppling you over. The faint smell of cedar wood graced your nostrils as strands of Sebastian’s curly hair brushed against the side of your cheek, and once you were sure you wouldn’t fall, you reached back to give his thigh a grateful, apologetic squeeze.

Once the masked man had moved away, Sebastian’s fingers flexed against your back as he murmured, “That wasn’t very careful, princess.”

“Sorry.”

“What would you do without me?”

“Will you shut up?”

Sebastian’s laughter was stifled, but he thankfully listened. The remainder of your nail-biting journey through the dining room was done in silence, and as much as you wanted to check in with your companions to make sure everyone was still together, you couldn’t afford to so much as sniffle with so many enemies around. The familiar stairwell was devoid of any people– including Henri and Lincoln– and upon reaching the top landing of the second floor, they still weren’t anywhere to be found. The only place they could have gone was into a bedroom, and seeing as your former chambers were the largest, it seemed reasonable to assume they’d absconded in there.

It made your skin crawl to think about them cozying up inside what had once been your safe space, though.

A low whistle sounded from behind you, and you turned around to find Poppy, Garreth, and Devlin sans their Disillusionment charms crouching beside the wall at the top of the steps. Sebastian revealed himself soon after, and you followed suit. Your lover’s eyes landed on you in an instant– his gaze softening in a way that told you he was relieved that you had made it through unscathed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more anxious,” Garreth whispered, looking more serious than you had ever seen him. “The sooner we get this over with, the happier I’ll be.”

“Likewise,” Poppy concurred. Her short hair brushed across her shoulders as she chanced a cautious look down the stairs, doing well to keep out of sight as she made sure no one else was coming up after you. “Where to next?”

Sebastian nodded towards your old bedroom. “If they’re not in there, then I’m not sure. It’s the only room big enough to fit three grown men, but that’s assuming Victor is inside.”

“How cute. Rookwood likes to cuddle,” came your deadpanned response. Devlin had to physically cover his mouth to smother his snicker, and Sebastian smirked.

“There’s just something about that room that brings out the baby Mooncalf in everyone, apparently.”

Memories of the last night you’d ever spent in the manor flooded your brain against your will, and your cheeks turned a rather telling shade of red. Now was so not the time for you to lose focus. Pursing your lips, you turned your attention back to the door and steeled your nerves, mentally psyching yourself up for whatever might potentially be waiting for you on the other side.

“There’s a time and a place, Sebastian…” Devlin groused around a sigh. His icy blue eyes narrowed as he strained to pick up on any sounds within the room, but it was pointless. Aside from the downstairs noise filtering up the stairwell, there was nothing of note you could discern from outside the doorway. “Alright… I can move in first.”

You wanted to object purely because you didn’t want Devlin to be the one to get an Unforgivable Curse launched at his head by the occupants of the room. But Sebastian’s jesting demeanor vanished in a flash, replaced wholly by the authoritative one he reserved for his underlings. “Not a chance, Dev. This is my mess– I’m not letting anyone else risk themselves.”

“It’s not just your mess,” Devlin snapped, scowling in the face of Sebastian’s assertiveness. “We both worked for him, and I have as much a right to do this as you do. In case you’ve forgotten, that bastard put his hands on my daughter.”

“Which is all the more reason for you to let me do this. If something happens, you need to be able to make it back to Nora. She’s going to need you, Devlin. Don’t put your life on the line just for the sake of vengeance.”

Poppy and Garreth side-eyed one another nervously, and you couldn’t help but shift uneasily. In all honesty, you didn’t want either one of them to go in first. It made sense for it to be you. You had the most power at your disposal. You were the one who had trained to throw up shields and send out bolts of ancient magic at the same time. It might have only been three days of lessons in wandless casting, but your confidence in your abilities made you feel like it was the right call, and you knew you would be able to react in the blink of an eye. “I’ll go first.”

“Fuck no,” was Sebastian’s flat out refusal. “That’s not even an option.”

You frowned. No surprise there.

As though you hadn’t even spoken, he returned his full attention to Devlin and fixed the older Ashwinder with a pleading look. “Please just listen to me on this, Dev. Please.”

Sebastian wasn’t above being polite, but it was definitely a rarity to hear him beg so hopelessly. It made your eyes widen, and even Devlin bristled– shaking his head as his shoulders sagged in defeat. Evidently he didn’t have it in him to argue when his boss and long-time friend turned into a pleading maudlin. “I… fine. I’ll be right behind you, though. You can’t force me to stay out of this completely.”

Sebastian’s relief was palpable, and his smile was dazzling as it showcased those twin dimples you loved so much. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With that issue resolved, everyone drew their wands– yourself included. As your group neared the door and got further away from the top of the staircase, no one bothered to crouch down any longer. You needed to have your wits about you and be light on your feet in the event of any trouble, which seemed so likely that it made you nauseous.

Everything boiled down to this moment. Years of living on the move and isolating yourself with only your guilt to keep you company. Sebastian getting you to agree to help him cure Anne. Reuniting with Ominis, going to Uganda to see Natty, and partnering up with Poppy and Garreth. All of it had led you here, and reaching the ancient magic site hinged on your success now.

Remove the heads of the snakes. Kill Victor and Henri. Do that, and then you could obtain the relic to cure Anne and finally put an end to all of this.

Sebastian squared his shoulders as he slowly stalked towards the door, rolling his wand between his fingers in a bid to expel his anxiety. His movements were slow, measured, and calculated– his gait eerily similar to that of a wolf. Not a single one of his steps were made without consideration, and Devlin matched Sebastian’s pace easily, only a few feet behind the larger man.

You, Poppy, and Garreth fanned out behind the two dark wizards, watching and waiting with bated breath as Sebastian reached out to grasp the handle. His broad back was the only thing you could see before Devlin’s body blocked your view, but then he was recoiling suddenly– jumping back so abruptly that Poppy audibly gasped– and your heart plummeted into your stomach when you were met with the sight of nothing but empty space.

Sebastian was no longer there. He was gone. In the blink of an eye, the space he had occupied seconds before was now void of his figure, and the door to your old bedroom remained mockingly closed. It was like he hadn’t just been standing there about to open it. Poof. Vanished– like smoke in the wind.

No… he couldn’t be…

No.

“Where did he go?” Your voice was clipped. Tight. It shook uncontrollably and was laced with a frantic edge that had Devlin whirling around to stare at you in shock– his own expression drawn and pale as he rationalized what had happened far quicker than you. “What the hell just happened?! Where is he, Devlin–”

Someone appeared at your side to slap their hand over your mouth– and you started to thrash until you heard Poppy shushing you from over your shoulder. “Stop. You have to quiet down– you’ll get us caught.”

To hell with being caught– where the fuck was Sebastian!?

You wrenched her hand away from your face hard enough that you felt your nails rake along her wrist, and she hissed under her breath at the same time you demanded, “Where is he?” When no one answered you, you swore vehemently and started for the door with purpose driving your every step. Devlin stepped in front of you with his hands raised in warning, though, which prompted you to come up short and glare at him incredulously. Unable to handle the distraught glimmer in your eyes, Devlin looked back at the door, a muscle in his stubble-lined jaw flexing continuously. “What the hell is going on? Move! He was right there–”

“It’s a Portkey,” he exclaimed breathily. What? “The handle– they must have enchanted it behind them.”

“A Portkey?”

Garreth cursed behind you, his hands flying up to rake through his hair as he processed the new information. Poppy sucked her teeth loudly, walking around both you and Devlin to get a closer look at the apparently enchanted door handle. All the while, you and the elder Ashwinder just stared at each other. It was a toss up for which one of you looked the most heartstricken; both of you were rigid, your eyes stinging from the threat of tears while Devlin’s shone with unspoken apologies.

“Victor must have known,” he muttered. “They all must have known we were coming, or that we were here.”

Fuck. Fuck! You’d known it all along– your instincts had never steered you wrong before, and ignoring them had clearly been a monumental mistake. Of course they had known you were all coming. Obviously they would have put safeguards in place to ensure that your plan blew up in your face. And now Sebastian was gone– whisked away to Merlin only knew where by himself– but the thought of him alone with Henri and Victor superseded your fear.

Your heart thrummed violently against your sternum, newfound resolve festering to life within you alongside your magic. It had been a long time since you’d felt all of it twining together in your veins. Then again, it had been a long time since you’d been this pissed off. Panic wouldn’t serve you well now. In a startlingly short amount of time, you managed to squash it beneath your anger– all of which was directed at the monsters responsible for your lover’s disappearance.

You would make them regret ever having crossed you.

Without saying a word, you started for the bedroom door. The sight of you moving so fast snapped Devlin out of his momentary stupor, and even Poppy positioned herself in front of your old room as though to stop you. The Ashwinder slammed his hands into your shoulders to hold you in place, “No. I have no fucking clue where that thing will take us, and I already know Sebastian would tell me not to risk finding out.”

“Well he’s not here, is he?” You snapped, shoving at Devlin’s chest. All that did was earn you a chastising look from the elder man. “I’m not going to stand here while Sebastian is almost certainly face to face with Rookwood as we speak.”

“Just think for a second, kid. Would Sebastian really want you to put yourself in danger over this?”

Unable to stop yourself, you bellowed, “He would do it for me!”

“Then you’re both idiots!”

“Who’s up there?”

Everyone froze. The unfamiliar voice from the base of the staircase echoed off the walls, prompting your now group of four to clamp their mouths shut and crouch down instinctively. Shit. It was hard not to blame yourself for that… you’d definitely been yelling. Poppy looked to Garreth since he was standing closest to the steps, and he dipped his chin once before creeping towards the edge of the landing.

As he peered over, there was silence. Then the unknown voice sounded again, “Who the hell are you?”

Dammit.

Garreth bolted away from the stairs as fast as he physically could, the heels of his boots squeaking against the hardwood floors as he pivoted and planted himself protectively in front of Poppy. There was more yelling that sounded from downstairs as whoever had spotted Garreth sounded the verbal alarm, and that was what finally caused your mind to shift into self-preservation mode.

The stairs were about to be overrun with Ashwinders and Poachers. Unless everyone felt like throwing themselves through the window at the end of the hall and plummeting twenty feet to the ground outside, there was no way for anyone to get out unscathed. The sheer number of inhabitants you had seen downstairs spelled a disastrous end for everyone– you were outnumbered by at least forty dark wizards.

But… technically there was a way out of here. It just so happened to be the one path you were still dead-set on taking.

When your eyes landed on Devlin’s, you knew he was thinking the same thing. His brows furrowed, and the expression on his face was one that you recognized all too well. You had seen it in the past when you’d brought the dragon fighting ring down on top of him, and when he had met your gaze while petrified in the Detention Area of the Ministry. He knew things were about to implode all around him, and he knew there was only one feasible way out.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Unbelivable,” he shook his head, reaching out to grab Poppy by her elbow and tug her towards him. “Be ready for a fight. Chances are there’s an entire army waiting for us on the other end of this Portkey.”

Poppy grabbed Garreth, and together they backed up towards the door with their fronts facing the stairs. Footsteps thundered all throughout the corridors as a horde of assailants made their way towards you, different voices yelling over one another as varying commands were hashed out. The gist of all of them was largely the same, though; “Get them.”

Ripping your wand from its thigh holster, you scrambled towards the door and met the eyes of all of your companions. “Together– on three, okay?”

Poppy nodded and withdrew her own wand, chancing a quick glance at Garreth before her lips pressed together in a hard, thin line. “This is way more than I bargained for…”

Garreth swallowed thickly, capturing the shorter woman’s free hand in his own. “You and I both.”

As the deafening sound of feet pounding against the steps grew louder, your count to three was steady and firm. All at once, the four of you reached out to touch the handle, and the sensation that overtook your body was one of the most jarring things you had ever experienced. Discombobulating, but not unfamiliar. You had felt it before with Professor Fig. It was like your body contorted and twisted, then stretched and caved in on itself, all while a piercing breeze stung your eyes and flashing lights blinded you. The feeling was startlingly different from apparating– infinitely more physically trying.

It wasn’t appropriate to say you landed once everything was over. It was more like the bizarre, dimensional pocket you had traveled through spat you out, sending you crashing into the ground in complete disarray. The wind was effectively knocked from you– leaving you momentarily breathless as you wheezed pitifully in place. Your fingers dug into the damp soil hidden beneath the soft blades of dewy grass you found yourself sprawled atop, and as the first real intake of oxygen reached your lungs, you heard similar coughing from all around you.

Apparently everyone had suffered the same, unceremonious fate as you.

“Fuck…” you heard Garreth groan from somewhere to your left. Cracking your eyes open, you weakly lolled your head sideways to locate your companions, but it was at that point you realized that you knew where you were.

A lifetime ago, you and Professor Fig had been here at the behest of Charles Rookwood’s portrait. You had come to complete a trial– discovering a depleted repository in the process that had clued you in on Ranrok’s plans. Back then, the dilapidated castle had been overrun by Ashwinders and Goblins. Now, though…

Apart from the three people sprawled in the grass alongside you, there was only one other person you could see standing near the castle’s main gate. Short, bearded, and illuminated by the moon in a way that made his dragon skin coat glimmer.

Henri.

But it wasn’t the Frenchman’s voice that reached your ears next.

“Ah the illustrious Hero of Hogwarts.” Your hands spasmed against the ground as you hurried to push yourself to your feet, on guard the second the first syllable had registered in your brain. You knew that voice. “Lovely of you to spare me the hassle of tracking you down, my dear. It’s been far too long.”

From within the dimly lit gate behind Henri, two figures emerged. The taller one was Lincoln, his expression betraying nothing of his innermost thoughts as he dutifully pushed a wheelchair-bound individual forward. The man in the seat was pale, waifish, and far too skinny to be deemed the pinnacle of health. His weathered, sagging skin was adorned with more scars than you had ever seen– the raised, red lines intersecting all across his face and leaving his once thick stubble patchy and uneven. The dense head of hair he’d sported beneath his pipe hat in the past was almost entirely gone, replaced by a flaky skull that was sickeningly dented in one spot.

Even though Victor Rookwood looked ten different kinds of terrible, his aura was unmistakable. The man radiated authority from his wheelchair as well as the tangible scent of dark magic. It was strong– so acrid that it made bile rise in the back of your throat from all the way across the courtyard. He had to have just cast an Unforgivable. It was the only logical explanation you could come up with.

And there was still no sign of Sebastian.

Your stomach sank at the implications.

Devlin appeared at your side suddenly, placing himself a step ahead of you protectively, but Victor ignored the Ashwinder and kept his beady blue eyes trained solely on you. It filled you with a unique kind of insecurity that the feeble man managed to make your skin crawl even looking as pitiful as he did. His penetrating gaze made you feel insignificant. Small. It was as though you were fifteen again– being cornered by him in his prime outside of Ollivander’s with no one to call on for help.

Hoping that you sounded more confident than you felt, you managed to say, “Rookwood. You look like shit.”

Victor’s hands curled into weak fists against the arm rests of his wheelchair, his murderous stare intensifying when his brows furrowed in agitation. “No thanks to you. You saw to it that I would never live another day in comfort when you unleashed that magic of yours on me.”

Said magic had been stirring beneath your skin, but the direness of the situation had it being quashed by your other power. The darker, sentient one that manifested of its own accord when danger was near. It bubbled within your veins, demanding to be let loose so it could wreak havoc on the man who had tormented you for an entire year. He had chased you, kidnapped you, and tried to kill you all because of your magic. He had lied to Sebastian for years and tricked him into doing his bidding under the guise of curing Anne when it was him who had inflicted her curse upon her in the first place.

You wanted the man dead. This time, you would make sure he stayed that way.

But the fact that you had yet to spot Sebastian made you pause. Your body trembled from the strain as you did your best to stifle Isidora’s magic, knowing deep down that if you killed Victor now, it would just make finding your lover that much more difficult.

As Poppy and Garreth came to stand on your other side, your eyes scanned the battered expanse of the castle’s courtyard. There was no sign of the man you were seeking, which told you that he must be inside. It was an unfortunate turn of events. You already knew the interior of Rookwood’s family home to be massive. Victor snickered under his breath abruptly, drawing your attention back to him, and you scowled at the smug expression he bore.

“Looking for something, dear?” he taunted knowingly, glancing at his nails to further convey his boredom. “Or perhaps… someone?”

Bastard. “Where is he?”

Victor’s laugh was akin to nails on a chalkboard. Your blood ran cold as thousands of scenarios whizzed through your mind, the most prominent one being that of Victor casting the Killing Curse on Sebastian before abandoning his dead body inside the castle to come out and greet you.

No, you mentally silenced the thought, digging your nails into your palms as your anger mounted. Sebastian wouldn’t let that happen. He’s too stubborn to die.

“Sallow is back where he belongs,” Victor declared with a vague wave of his hand. Maybe you were imagining it, but the man seemed weaker in the wake of cackling like a madman. “His insolence was amusing, but only for a short while. That boy should have known better than to grow a conscience and abandon our arrangement. I’m always in control of my lackey’s. He knew that better than anyone.”

Garreth chanced a nervous look at the side of your head, and it took everything in you not to meet his questioning stare. Now wasn’t the time to delve into the finer details of Sebastian’s relationship with Victor Rookwood. Finding him was the most important thing, and then Weasley could drill him with as many questions as he liked.

Devlin stepped closer to the trio of dark wizards, squaring his shoulders at the same time his flat voice rang out across the courtyard. “You’re lying. You were never in control of a thing, Victor. Sebastian was ten times the leader you ever were, and the only reason you have any semblance of authority now is because he let you keep it.”

“Then he should have taken it from me!” snarled Rookwood, his bony shoulders hunching inward as he sat forward in his wheelchair. “He should have fought me for my position. He should have clawed at the shackles I placed on him and asserted dominion over my men if he was such a true leader. But he didn’t. Now he’s another mindless puppet in my arsenal– a tool that I will use however I see fit. He has too much potential for me to condone him turning his back on me.”

This time, when your darker magic thrummed to life in your veins, you let it. Violent, suffocating waves of Isidora’s magic emanated from you, prompting Garreth and Poppy to back away from your side entirely. You heard them gag, but you didn’t pay them any mind. You were too focused on Henri and Rookwood, the latter of which had the good grace to look mildly put off by the potent magic radiating from you. Henri, on the other hand, looked disgusted.

“I won’t ask again. Where. Is. Sebastian?” All around you, the grass began to wilt– your abilities draining the very life from the Earth beneath your feet. Henri’s eyes turned into narrow slits as he was no doubt reminded of the very same magic filling the foyer of his own castle. What had he called you back then? A terror? An abomination?

There was no second guessing yourself; you would show him just how monstrous you could actually be.

“Merlin…” muttered Poppy. She clasped her hand over her nose to block out the rotten scent you shamelessly gave off. “What is that?”

Up ahead, Victor’s face shifted. His apprehension had quickly transformed into something eerily similar to approval, and the manic gleam in his blue eyes only made you want to see him turned inside out more. “My, my… you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? Sallow failed to mention what a prize he had warming his bed. I suppose I should applaud myself for sending him after you.”

Another pulse of power burst from within you, and a massive crack came from behind Henri. The Frenchman whirled around in time to watch as a giant fissure snaked its way up the wall beside the castle gate, the sound of rock crumbling against rock incentivizing Lincoln to push Rookwood’s wheelchair away from the entryway. The dark wizard held his hand up to halt his vassal, though, appearing far more amused than was normal.

“Very well, little girl. You want to see Sebastian so badly? Fine. Go on– ask him yourself how he’s feeling.”

Your power let up for the briefest of moments, in which time movement from over Victor’s shoulder captured your undivided attention. The sound of heavy, dragging footsteps echoed from within the main gate’s hallway, and slowly but surely, Sebastian’s familiar form came into view. The broad shoulders, the narrow waist, those long legs, and his wild, curly hair. The sight of him became clearer and clearer the closer he crept up behind Rookwood, and the relief you felt was so strong, you nearly burst into tears.

“Sebastian,” Devlin practically sighed, his own body language relaxing a bit with the confirmation that his boss was alive. But the closer you both looked, the more you began to realize that something was wrong.

His movements were sluggish. Jerky, almost. Sebastian walked like he had weights strapped to his feet, but when you looked down in search of any, your assumption was proven incorrect. There was nothing attached to him to warrant such an irregular gait, and when your eyes returned to his face, tears welled up in them for reasons that had nothing to do with relief.

Sebastian’s expression was blank. Impassive. The dull, lifeless stare he fixed you with didn’t contain an ounce of recognition– like you were a complete stranger he was glimpsing for the first time. He wasn’t even looking at you– more so through you. But it wasn’t just his lack of a reaction upon seeing you that made you audibly sob in horror.

It was the fact that his normally brown eyes were tinged with an unnatural green glow.

He wasn’t in control of himself. He hadn’t willingly walked out to you at all, and he wouldn’t be able to say a damn thing of his own volition. Rookwood knew it, too, because the wretch was fucking relishing in your despondent appearance– a cruel, mocking grin splitting his already ugly face. Poppy and Garreth swore in unison, stepping back even more upon realizing the same thing you had.

Sebastian had been placed under the Imperius Curse.

#sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x female!reader #garreth weasley #poppy sweeting #victor rookwood #WIP TSP #I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger #it was a conscious decision to leave everything there though so if you hate me that's okay #was brainstorming the progression of the next chapter at work last night and I made myself sad so I can't guarantee it'll be much better #my writing

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