#and i do this for the /entire/ chapter...TWICE

[tropiyas]

this really is one of the best panels of all time i couldn't get over it when i first read it

So Falin is this Damsel In Distress on account of her being dead or turned into an Evil Dragon for 3/4th of the story. But you already know it's decently done and not shallow from the start - lots of flashback sequences and the way the characters speak about her from the first chapter give her agency in the story.

You don't even think twice about the implications of "teleportation magic" when she sends the entire group to the surface to save them at the start of the story. It's just some standard Escape Spell that RPGs use all the time, and she sacrificed herself to do that, good stuff.

But then you start learning about the magic system in DM and realize how it's fairly limited and mostly grounded to reality. Mithrun is our second encounter with teleportation magic, and he immediately makes it clear that it's both extremely difficult and also very dangerous (teleporting preserves mass so it is really just "swapping" out two objects across space).

After that, it's kind of on the backburner again, we just know why it's rare and also that the Special Forces Elf is a big threat to the protagonists for having it.

FINALLY, we get this panel that recounts the Chapter 1 scene with a few extra moments of what happened before the spell. She knows she can teleport the party to safety, and is fully acknowledging the possibility of harm. The best case of harm, she teleports them above some people and they fall and hurt them. The worst case - she sends a few people to take the place of the party and get eaten by the dragon in their stead. She knows and she doesn't care!!! She's always been good at respecting the lives of other people and even monsters, but that expression shows just how much it was a desperation play, how far she was willing to go against her own values to save her loved ones.

You can't get much more agency in a story than "do something selfish and set off the events of the entire series" and she's even rewarded for this decision because she ends up getting saved in return because of just how important everyone sees each other in this found family

[hoemainexpansion]

Chapter Eleven: The Devil: You spend a lot of time with Satoru and the lead detective on his case holds some interviews to figure out what the fuck happened.

Also on AO3

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“Hello Mrs. Gojo, this is Detective Usami and I’m calling to let you know that there’s been a development in your husband’s case. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to schedule an appointment to speak.”

A development?

He said development, not arrest, so you wonder what’s going on. 

Did they learn who the attackers were but just haven’t found them?

Is it part of some bigger conspiracy that nobody realized?

What’s going on?

While there was a lot of coverage on the missing prosecutor, you’ve been mostly keeping him out of the spotlight since he’s returned, a lot based off of doctors and law enforcements advice. Doctors said that they didn’t want the stress of him being hounded by the media at this time and law enforcement didn’t want him returning to the public with a metric fuckton of publicity to scare the perpetrators into running so here you are.

Did a new tip come in that finally led somewhere?

This is so stressful.

You open your contacts to search for the Detective when Satoru snatches your phone out of your hand. “What the fuck? He said to call him.”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s been a long day. You’ve been up since this morning and spent all day draining your social battery at your shower. It’s time for you to get some sleep and handle this later.”

“But… we need to know what’s going on. What if it’s important?

He sighs before sitting down next to you on the bed, your phone still in his hand. “I’m here, I’m fine. It’s not like you’re going to get news that they found my body. I’m right here. So, there’s no reason that you can’t return his phone call tomorrow, after you’ve had your rest.”

“But… but…”

“He said he wants to schedule an appointment, that probably means to come in. And by saying he wants to schedule, he probably doesn’t mean showing up tonight, if it was life or death, he’d probably emphasize and call more than twice before just leaving a voicemail.” He’s right.

“Okay, fine. I’ll call tomorrow. But if it turns out to be super important, I’m absolutely gonna let you have a piece of my mind.”

“I’m sure that you will. But, that’s also another thing that can wait until tomorrow. Get comfortable in bed because that’s all that I’m going to let you do for the rest of the night.”

You agree and finally get cozy but you groan the entire time and you still can’t turn your brain off. It’s driving you crazy trying to come up with reasons as to why he called, but it’s possible that it’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be. 

And Satoru is right, you’re fucking exhausted. You’ve been up all damn day and it’s time for you to take a break. If it was a dire situation, not only would Usami have continued to call, he may have even showed up. 

“Roll over,” you hear Satoru say as he climbs into bed behind you. 

“Isn’t it a little early for you?” You know why you’re going to bed early, but him joining you is a surprise.

“So what? I can lay in bed and hold my wife for a bit.” You hum and adjust a little more so that you can finally relax. “Stop stressing yourself out.”

“I’m not.”

“You feel tense.”

You wait a minute before responding because how the hell can he tell so fast? “I’m just thinking about the case– your case.”

“Why does it bother you so much? I’m home. Everything worked out.”

“Somebody attacked you with a blunt force object when you went grocery shopping, two somebodies actually! They kidnapped you, beat you some more, left you for dead and set the car on fire. I can’t just let that go. I wouldn’t say that everything ‘worked out’ solely because you’re here. I want to know who did it and make sure those fuckers go to prison. What if they’re closer to us than we realize and your life is in danger because they’re afraid that you can point out who they are? The amnesia isn’t public knowledge so if anyone caught random posts online and they believe that you’re alive, they may view you as a threat. What if they show up here to ‘finish the job’ and our daughter or even myself are hurt just because we were the ones home? It’s a big deal, Satoru.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just allowing the silence to stretch for a while. You just hope that you didn’t offend him. You don’t want to act like you’re more of a victim than the actual one who was attacked, but you can’t stop worrying every single day about all of the crazy things that can happen until those lunatics are arrested. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t realize that’s how you were feeling about these things. I just assumed that since I was home, everything would be okay. It didn’t even occur to me that you could be living in fear on a daily basis, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, please. You’re not expected to know everything right away, and I haven’t vocalized these fears so please, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m going to worry. But I’ll help you through these things. I promise that we’ll call him first thing in the morning to find out what’s going on. Okay?”

“Okay. But I’m absolutely gonna let my anxiety take hold and stress about it until I fall asleep because I don’t know how to do anything else,” you say it in a light hearted tone even though you’re not lying.

“What do you think about naming our little girl Margaret?” 

“Is she being born in the 1920’s?”

“We can call her Gretta for short.”

“I am not going through nine months of pregnancy where my body swells up to four times the size, my back is killing me, I’m hungry and nauseous all of the time, and have fatigue like a motherfucker on top of all of that to finally tear my pussy apart to push out a big head baby to then look her in the face and call her ‘Gretta.’ Respectfully.”

“You’re so cute. What about Bertha?”

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

He starts laughing and it’s then that you realize what he’s doing, he’s just trying to distract you. “We can call her Berty for short.”

“You’re a menace.”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You wake up to delicate kisses being placed along your jaw and your neck and start to giggle when he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

“I hope that this is my husband or this is going to be a really awkward situation.”

“What if I said that I was Suguru?” You can hear the grin in his voice, so you decide to play with him a little bit.

“I’d beg you to keep going because it’s always been my dream to tug on that hair while he’s between my legs.” He freezes and you can just feel the look that he’s giving you and it causes you to let out a laugh that’s way too loud for the morning. 

“If you think that I won’t chase after my best friend with a pair of scissors to cut his hair, then you don’t know me at all.”

You continue to laugh because you know him very well and you know that he’d probably do that for less. “I’m kidding you psycho! Yours is the only hair I wanna grab onto while I’m suffocating you between my thighs.”

“Oooohhh, speaking of that, don’t mind if I do!”

“Satoru!” You start giggling. “What if I was still asleep?”

“I would have kissed those beautiful lips of yours until you woke up. And then I would have moved up and kissed your cheeks too.” 

This fucking guy.

“Don’t we have important errands to run today? Do we even have time?”

“Of course! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!” You didn’t realize that it was open mic night in your bedroom this morning but clearly it is. “Look, we haven’t called anybody yet, so we have some time to just spend together. We’re allowed to have some fun and then we can do the boring adult stuff later.” 

You hum and he takes that as a good sign to continue.

“Now, it looks like you’re not feeling too well. Please allow me to perform mouth to south resuscitation to make you feel better.”

You just stare at him blankly because even though you’re not surprised by what he just said, you also kind of are. It’s a weird thing, but these must be the jokes that Kento is always saying aren’t funny. However, if you weren’t in bed and that wasn’t a part of his seduction, you probably would have laughed.

Hell, you’ll probably laugh in like twenty minutes.

He’s ridiculous.

You love him so much.

“Oooooohhhhhh nom nom nom nom nom!” He yells out before he starts kissing your thighs and sliding your panties off and you start laughing unnecessarily hard.

You swear that a couple minutes go by of you just laughing because your stomach hurts from doing it for what feels like hours. You’ll never understand how people survived Mr. Smiley.

“Are you okay up there?” He asks you.

“Are you okay down there?!”

“Why wouldn’t I be? This is the best part of my day!”

“Well you’re acting like a dramatic cartoon character, I just wanted to make sure you were still in your right state of mind. You’re getting more hyped than Scooby and Shaggy with a sandwich.”

“And I’m about to have more fun with you than they do. Ruh-roh! Reakfast is ready!”

You just throw your head back into the pillow and exhale while staring at the ceiling and rolling your eyes.

But hey, at least he’s always enthusiastic about being with you. 

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“Do you need any help?”

“Why would I need any help, Satoru? You think I can’t take a shower by myself just because you held my legs open for like an hour and now they’re shaky?”

“That’s literally it,” he says with a laugh.

“You can wash my hair when I get out,” you close the bathroom door to get in the shower.

You called Detective Usami the second Satoru was done sucking the energy out of you for the day because not knowing the reason that he was reaching out was driving you up the wall. He didn’t go into any detail, he said that he wanted to discuss everything in person. But he didn’t say that your husband’s life was in danger so at least there’s that. 

You discuss going to meet with him sometime during the afternoon, but it’s stressing you out too much to wait. You decide to just start getting ready so that you can go and get this over with. 

You just hope that a big lead has panned out or progress has been made because living in limbo is doing a number on your nerves. You really don’t want the people who almost murdered your husband and flipped your world upside down to get away with everything that they did. 

As much as you can’t stand the bitch, you want to know if Mei has been questioned. You just want to know how she found him, where she found him, if anything looked suspicious besides finding a man who doesn’t remember anything. You are grateful that someone took him in so that he didn’t perish wherever he was found, which you don’t even know, but you’d like to hear the rest of the story since Satoru still can’t remember the attack and everything afterwards is very vague.

After a few minutes of being lost in your thoughts, you hear the bathroom door open and look over to see Satoru walking in with towels which confuses you seeing as you already have a couple.

“I’m way too big to have sex in the shower, Satoru!” You yell over the water.

“I’m just here to help you with whatever it is that you need.”

“Let’s see how long that lasts,” you mumble to yourself. 

Surprisingly though, he keeps his word.

He doesn’t attempt to seduce you for a second time this morning, he just helps clean you. He washes your hair while you're there so that you don’t have to do it separately even though you do love the portable washing basin / chair combo that Utahime got for you when she was doing everyone’s hair so frequently. After washing your hair, he lathers up your loofah and gently cleans the rest of your body, all the way down to scrubbing your feet which has been almost impossible to do since you’ve grown so much. 

After he’s done taking care of you, he tries to get you out and wrapped up, but you decide to stay because you don’t want him to have to get out to take care of you and then get back in to start over. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to take a shower with your husband and even though it may not be the steamy kind you used to take, it’s nice. 

Even though you’ve been spending basically all of your time together and have been taking full advantage of your sex life, there’s a different type of intimacy when you do things like this. You know that your husband looks at you with nothing but love in his eyes, but that still doesn’t mean that your insecurities disappear at the drop of a hat. You still don’t like being completely unclothed and struggle a bit with him seeing you in some of your least flattering moments. 

You know that your claims are unfounded because Satoru has done nothing except show you and tell you that they are, but it still feels like you have to hide those things. It kind of feels like when people talk about the beginning of a relationship and how they hold in farts and rush out of bed early to brush their teeth because they don’t want their partner to see any less desirable parts of them. 

This is the first time in awhile that he’s seen you completely nude and all the fears you learn that all the fears you had about him no longer finding you attractive or not liking the way your body has changed was proven to be just a waste of time and a waste of space in your mind. 

He always has a smile on his face when he looks at you, even if it’s a small one. He holds you so delicately, not like he thinks you’re some fragile little thing, but because he wants you to feel safe and not constricted. 

As he was cleaning you, he was so careful with how he held you and still left a trail of kisses wherever he could.

Why were you allowing yourself to overthink so much?

Yes, his memories disappeared. 

But he came back as the same person. 

And that means that he came back as the same man who loves you unconditionally, who thinks your beauty is unmatched, and spends everyday trying to make you happy. 

You’ve really got to stop letting your mind get the best of you like this.

When he turns around to rinse off his face, you take the opportunity to leave light kisses on his back.

“I thought you said that there'd be no seduction in this shower,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice.

“No seduction here, maybe I just love you.”

He hums before turning around and grabbing your face, “maybe I just love you too.”

You can’t wait until your hormones return to normal after you’ve made it through your pregnancy because this sappy shit is for the birds. You wanna go back to being the sarcastic bitch that you were before. 

“Alright, let’s get back on track. We’ve gotta go find out who was trying to kill you.”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“Why don’t you tell me how you came into contact with Mr. Gojo?” Detective Usami asks the prissy, platinum blonde woman sitting across the table from him.

“I saved his life. Didn’t you hear? You should be thanking me. He’d be just another number if it wasn’t for me.”

He’s already tired of this woman. He knew that when he found out the woman that his missing person was staying with was someone with an obviously over inflated ego like her, that it was going to be difficult to question her, but a necessity. He’s tried contacting her multiple times but was unable to get her down to the station until today. He reached out to her for the first time the day he met Satoru in the hospital and was given her contact information, but she always claimed that she was too busy. But his partner has continued to monitor her on the off chance that she’s a part of this and all she does is post photos online. Even today, she was supposed to be here an hour ago, but she showed up late and was completely overdressed for the occasion. You would think she was going to some event with how tight her dress is and how high her heels are. How busy could she be?!

“Thank you for that, Miss–”

“Mei. Just Mei.”

“Mei,” he looks down at her file, seeing that there’s nothing of note in there. “But could you please explain to me how all of that came to be?”

She sighs like she’s been asked that question a thousand times and she’s tired of explaining herself. “I was on the way to a secluded resort with a few of my friends. I’d been working particularly hard at the time and decided that I deserved a break. So my assistant was searching for the perfect place for me to be able to relax along with having some privacy. The last thing that I need is random people taking photos of me to get themselves some attention.”

The detective is already struggling with everything that she’s saying. Not so much because he believes that she’s lying, but more so because he can’t believe how full of herself she is. She takes photos for social media, why is she acting like some A list celebrity? Do people really chase down people like her and beg for photos and autographs? He’s so confused. This is clearly past his age group. He already knows that he’ll potentially have to spend hours sorting through her ego before he reaches any useful information, but he continues to take notes down anyway.

“Anyway, I woke up early in the morning to start my beauty routine, not like it takes much, and then I had my assistant finish my packing while my stylist got me ready for the drive. It was a while from my house so I just wanted to make sure that I looked good while we traveled. Eventually, we made it out of the house, to the car, and got on the road to the resort for my well deserved vacation.”

He’s so tired of this he can barely pay attention. But he knows that he desperately needs this information so he keeps his mouth shut and continues to act like everything she just said wasn’t completely useless.

“We were on the road for about an hour or two when we had to start driving through a somewhat desolate area. We wanted to avoid high traffic areas so that we didn’t have to be bothered with other people, even though that route took a little longer.”

He cuts her off because she was just brushing past crucial information. “I apologize for interrupting you, but could you fill in a few blanks for me before you continue?” He asks her to confirm her address along with the address for the resort that they were traveling to. He gets the time that they left home along with the time that they arrived to narrow down the timeline of when she could have found Mr. Gojo. “Please continue.”

“Oh, no problem. Where was I? Oh yes! So, we’re on the road when we start to see a man laying off on the side of the road next to a tree. Now normally, I’d be completely against stopping for a stranger, but he looked pretty bad so we just wanted to see if he was alive or if he needed help. My driver turned around and drove back to where we saw him before one of my friends got out of the car to go check on him.”

He gets the name of the friend who first made contact with him and it really surprises him when he realizes that this tall, white haired man, who looked hurt didn’t have any calls put into police about him. Nobody even called just in case he was a threat, you’d think someone would report it even if they don’t stop themselves. But then again, she did say it was a desolate area, so maybe they were the first ones to find him. 

“Anyway, my friend said that he was breathing, but that it looked weak. She was able to wake him, but she said that it felt like he looked right through her, like he couldn’t focus on anything. She didn’t think that he’d be a threat so we took the risk and loaded him in the car and continued on our way to the resort.”

He raises a brow before stopping her, “why did you take him to the resort instead of to a hospital?”

“We were closer to the resort and we didn’t know if he needed medical attention or just a good night's rest. We decided to try and heal him up ourselves, which we did, but he did end up seeing someone later for his migraines. We also didn’t want to rush him anywhere in case he was hiding out or someone was trying to kill him and he was unable to defend himself.”

He hums and she continues.

“Anyway, we get to the resort, check in, and have him room with my driver so that someone can watch over him.”

‘This poor driver,’ the detective thinks to himself.

“One of my other friends has some family in the medical field and we ran off what it looked like was wrong with him and they gave us some advice, which worked, and he woke up, fully this time.”

“What happened then?”

“He looked around, like he was confused and didn’t know what was going on, which made sense, of course. He asked us who we were, where we were, and how he got there. We explained everything to him before asking who he was. He was able to give us his name, but not really anything else. I asked him what the last thing was that he remembered, and all he said was ‘dark.’ Since he didn’t remember anything, I just assumed that he had nothing pressing to attend to and we decided to have him stay with us at the resort. At least that way, he had a few more days of peace and rest before hell potentially broke loose.”

“Hmmm.” He continues to take down notes of everything she says and while he does kind of understand her method for continuing on to the resort, running the risk of letting him die in your room still makes less sense to him than just calling an ambulance if you don’t want to make the drive. What if he was so dehydrated that he couldn’t be helped by just drinking bottles of water? What if he needed IV fluids? What if he had brain damage? It just still seems like a bizarre choice, but whatever, he’ll just put a pin in that for later. “What did you do with him when he finally woke up?”

“Oh we spoiled him rotten! We took him along with us for everything that we were doing from massages to skincare treatments for his beautiful bruised skin…” that was interesting. “We let him eat whatever he wanted, my treat, of course, and just spent a lot of time with him.”

“Did you ever ask him about himself, his life, where he’s from, etc…?”

“We tried, but he said that he couldn’t remember much. And the things that he could ‘remember’ he didn’t trust because of how vague everything was. He said that he was mostly able to remember his childhood to his very early teenage years, but that’s where it stopped. He also said that he was having trouble remembering faces.”

“So, when you found him, he couldn’t remember anything at all?”

“That’s right. He had a tan line on his finger so one of my girlfriends assumed that he was married, but we just brushed it off.”

“Why would you brush that off?”

“Maybe he got divorced, it was just a tan line, not the actual ring. Or maybe he just didn’t love her enough anymore to wear the ring. I assumed that if it mattered to him, he would have remembered it. But since he didn’t bring it up, I didn’t let it influence the way that I felt about it.”

Usami’s jaw is on the floor.

Well, mentally it is.

This woman really is a piece of work. How can you know that this man is clearly suffering from memory loss but then say that if he loved his wife enough, he’d remember her anyway? 

Why wouldn’t she also consider that maybe he was wearing his ring but it got stolen and that’s why all that’s left is a tan line? 

Why wouldn’t you consider that he may have a family at home waiting for him but something happened to him and they’re worried?

She literally found him on the side of the fucking road, brusied, bloody, and beaten, and she still has the mentality of, ‘yeah he had memory loss but since he didn’t mention a wife or family I assumed they didn’t exist.’

He’s not mentioning anything because he can’t remember anything you nitwit!

He takes a deep breath before starting up his next line of questioning, “what did you think happened to him?”

“I wasn’t sure. I think I settled on him getting into a car accident, stumbling out of the vehicle, and then passing out on the side of the road while trying to flag down help.”

“Did you happen to see any vehicles in the vicinity of where you found him?”

“No.”

It sounds like she just made up whatever she wanted to fit her narrative.

“Exactly how long did you stay at the resort?”

“We were there for about a week.”

“A week or ‘about a week?’”

She looks taken aback but answers anyway, “a week.”

“Did you go straight home after you returned?”

“We did. I had a lot of important work to get done so I didn’t have any more time to mess around.”

“And what did you do with Mr. Gojo at that time?”

“I took ‘Toru home with me.”

“‘Toru?” He asks her.

“Yes, that’s our little nickname I gave him. I had the space to accommodate him so I decided to bring him home with me.”

“How did that work?”

“I have a giant bed and some his and hers sinks in my bathroom so I gave him some space in my bedroom and even set up some space for him in my closet.”

“Did he have a bunch of things on him when you found him?”

“Oh no. I bought him everything that he needed from clothing to toiletries. I wanted to make sure that he had everything that he needed and that’s why I set him up with me and gave him everything that he was in need of.”

As she continues to speak, he can’t help but wonder what this woman’s deal is. 

Is she a part of this or is she just an awful person?

“That’s awfully nice of you to do all of that for him.”

“I know.”

Well damn.

“Why didn’t you ever go to the police?”

“Why would I?”

“You found a man who seemed like he was barely alive on the side of the road, speculating that he could have been in an awful accident, why didn’t you try to alert the police of something even if you didn’t want to take him to the hospital?”

“He was fine after we got him to the resort.”

“But what if he was in the car with his kids and he was trying to go get help because he was unable to get them out of the car and they just perished there because you took him on vacation?” He didn’t want to have to go that hard on her but she’s really working his last nerve.

“”It’s not my job to save the world, Detective.”

“It’s not, I’m aware. But you chose to save him, why didn’t you just make one phone call in case? I may not know one hundred percent how your job works, but I do know that it requires you to be on your phone a lot of the time. You could have just called him in to be safe.”

“I’m aware of that, but I didn’t feel it was necessary. He also didn’t ask me to, so I assumed that it didn’t matter to him.”

There’s that word again.

“But you know that he was suffering from memory loss, right?”

“Yes, I’m not an idiot.”

“Then why would you trust him when he’s not asking for help or for certain people? He probably just doesn’t remember them, and he didn’t.”

“It’s not my job to figure those things out, it’s yours.”

What a pain in the ass.

“It is, and I am. Let me tell you something, that man went shopping for his pregnant wife when he was attacked and left for dead before being found by you.”

“Well, that sucks for him. But he never brought it up so how was I supposed to know?”

For fuck’s sake.

“Yeah, it also sucked for his pregnant wife who was crying in my office.”

“I guess it does.”

He sees no sympathy or compassion in this woman. It seems like nothing is there except for self motivation.

“Anyway, back to my questioning, you spend a lot of time on your phone, do you not?”

“Obviously.”

“Humor me. I’m an older man, I don’t know how you work these things.”

“I spend more time on my phone than I don’t.”

“That makes sense. We have the world at our fingertips so I can’t blame someone for being hooked on them, it happens to me too. But my question is, how did you never come across any news of him on the internet?”

“Who says that I didn’t?” What?

“I’m not saying that you did, I’m just asking. Did you ever come across any news of his case while you were scrolling?”

“I came across bits and pieces of things but I didn’t put together that they were related to him.”

“How so?”

She sighs like this is the dumbest question she’s been asked in years. “One of my friends mentioned that there was a missing man and gave their age, but they didn’t show a photo so I didn’t know that it was him. He also couldn’t confirm his age so it’s not like I could just guess that it was the same person.

You literally found a man on the side of the road with memory loss but okay.

It must be in the air.

“And one day when I was on twitter, a video played of a woman crying about her missing husband. But it was a short clip and I didn’t feel like reading the text, so I didn’t know that it was related to him either.”

Wow.

She really is the worst.

The first thing that came to his mind when the detectives met with you was that your husband sticks out like a sore thumb. He has snow white hair, bright blue eyes, and is over six feet tall. If anyone is going to be recognizable, it’s that guy. So the fact that she claims that she had no idea that he was missing even though her friends thought he could be makes no sense to him.

“So, nobody went up to you and said, ‘hey Mei, I think Mr. Gojo might be that missing husband.” Her eyes twitches the second that the word husband rolls off his tongue and he’s starting to see why she’s choosing ignorance.

“Some people did, but I didn’t take it seriously. I mean, honestly, what are the chances that I came across a missing man? I just ignored it. I mean, if ‘Toru told me that he needed help or felt like something was going around regarding him, I would have helped. But he never did, so why should I freak out? When he wanted to go to the hospital, I let him go. I even had my driver take him, more than once, so it’s not like I was trying to keep him hidden.”

“But you do post pretty frequently on social media and never once posted a photo with him in it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It looks like you were trying to hide him.”

“I wasn’t. But he’s back with her anyway so why does it matter?”

How did she think this was going to work? 

Did she think that she was going to pick him up on the side of the road and that they were going to live happily ever after together while you were crying and pleading for him on the fucking news?

“Where were you on the day of Friday, October 30th, 2015?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, whenever I ask you about specific times and dates, you either pull out your phone or that pocketbook you have there and are able to recount in excruciating detail any information. I was just hoping that you’d be willing to check.”

She retrieves both logs to see if there’s any discrepancies and there’s not. “I was at home all day. I had received a pr box from a company that wanted to sponsor me so I was doing a photoshoot in my home studio. That’s where I was.” Usami takes down the notes without responding and that seems to irritate her. “Is that enough for you?”

He drops his pen on the table because he’s so tired of people who do this. “Look, I’m not accusing you of anything, but I have to do my job. You have to admit that it doesn’t look good that you had a missing person in your home for weeks and that you came across several posts about him but conveniently didn’t connect the dots. It doesn’t look good for you just like it wouldn’t look good for anyone. I’m just trying to get some answers for him, his wife, and their soon to be born baby. I’m trying to do you a favor by ruling you out so that we don’t have to do this several more times.”

“Are you saying that once I walk out of here I won’t have to deal with the police again?”

“It’s not guaranteed. We may have some follow up questions, but it shouldn't take as long as today.” He keeps making notes in his book as she sits there in silence. He can feel her irritation but that’s not the point of the investigation, the literal attempted murder is.

“Am I going to be charged with something?”

“Not if you’re innocent.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. How was your relationship with Mr. Gojo once his identity was discovered?”

“It was fine. I visited him in the hospital a few times and spent some time with him, but every time I went, they were there and it ruined the moment.”

“Who’s they?”

“That woman and her guard dogs. It was usually that long haired gentleman and that blonde guy who kinda looks like you.”

Usami drops his pen again and looks up at her like she’s grown a second head. His partner has been teasing him about that and he’s never seen the resemblance. But there must be something there if even someone who barely knows the both of them even feels that way. 

“Interesting. So you felt like you didn’t have any privacy?”

“Of course not. How the hell are you supposed to enjoy time alone with someone that you care about when every time that you go to see them, they’re not alone? I was a little disappointed that he never sent them away but I can’t really blame him. Everybody loves attention.”

Imagine complaining about a man’s wife being in the room.

“What happened after his stay in the hospital?”

“He came home with me, where he belonged.”

Oh boy.

“And then?”

“She pulled out some sob story about being pregnant and he felt guilty about leaving his child so he went back to her.”

He’s so fucking tired of this but he knows that he needs to pull through. 

On the bright side, he did get a more accurate timeline of when he was found and hopefully he can build something around that. 

“Do either of these men look familiar?”

He slides two screenshots of the cctv footage across the table and watches her reaction.

“They don’t look like anybody that I would associate with.” Ugh.

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if they look familiar to you.”

“How the hell am I supposed to be able to tell from a couple of low quality images?”

“I’m just doing my job. I have to ask these questions.”

“No. They don’t look familiar.”

He spends around another two hours speaking with Mei before he comes to the conclusion that he’s not going to get much more out of her today. She’s so full of herself and everything comes back to that and honestly, he needs a break from her.

He, for the life of him, can’t understand how your husband managed to tolerate her for so long. 

Not only does she act like the world revolves around her, but she acts like she deserves anything that she wants and if she doesn’t get it, she acts like everything is stacked against her.

He concludes the interview for the day, thanks her for her time, and starts walking her out.

He knows that you and your husband have arrived because his colleague notified him some time ago and he really wants to pick your brains instead and see if anything is more helpful.

As he walks Mei out of his office, through the halls and into the waiting room, she continues to blab on and on about how loved she is and how hard her job is. He may not do it for a living, so he can’t say that she’s wrong. But he also feels like living in a multi story house in a really neighborhood when all you do is product placement photoshoots is one of the better ways that you can live. It seems like she was mostly bitter about Satoru leaving but she had to have known that he was going to return to his previous life.

He doesn’t buy for one second that she didn’t know who he was.

He might believe that she wasn’t a part of what actually happened to him, but he doesn’t believe that she’s truly as ignorant as she claims.

As they continue to walk out, she suddenly goes quiet and Usami’s initial thought is that something happened. But when he looks around the room, he catches what she’s looking at.

It’s you.

It’s you and Satoru.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You and Satoru decided that it was best to just get this visit over with as quickly as possible.

After getting out of the shower, you rush to get ready but the case distracts you the entire time, causing you to lose track of what you’re doing and accidentally slow down.

Luckily, Satoru is always ready and excited to help you do literally anything, so today you take advantage of that and allow him to help you out. He helps you put on a pastel pink dress that’s a little fitted around your breasts, but is completely loose otherwise. It goes down to the floor so you don’t have to feel exposed, which kind of happens now when you’re not covered. It also has puffy long sleeves so it’s pretty cute. You have a pair of chucks in the same shade because one of the first things that you did when you found out you were pregnant, was get a bunch of comfy shoes in colors to match the stuff you already had or planned to get.

Think smart, not hard.

After finally making yourself look like a presentable person in society, you and Satoru make your way out the door and head to the police station. 

Once you get to the car and start the drive, you pull out your phone and start making a list of all the questions that you have based on what they might tell you. Your brain has been going a mile a minute, so you’re just ready to figure out what’s going on.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Satoru’s voice rips you out of your thoughts.

“Aren’t you worried?” You’re really surprised how nonchalant he seems about all of this.

“If he told me that he feels that my family is in danger, I’ll be worried then. But I just feel that if that was the case, somebody would have showed up when you didn’t return his call. It’s probably just more questioning or something.”

Honestly, he’s probably right.

When you arrive at the station, Satoru parks the car and then leans over to give you a kiss on the cheek. “Relax, everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can and I will. If it turns out that it’s something bad or could become that, we can pack up and move somewhere else to escape any risk. I’m not going to let anything happen to my family and I’m certainly not going to let anything happen to myself again because I’ve been thinking more and more about what you went through and I couldn’t imagine you having to experience that again. We’ll work everything out.”

You’re so happy to have his optimism to offset your crippling paranoia and negative worldview. 

Well, maybe not super negative, just realistic based off of the documentaries that you watch.

As you get lost in your thoughts again, he climbs out of the car and walks around to open your door for you. He reaches his hand out to help you get out of the car before going back in to grab your purse and he even carries it himself.

As you start to make your way across the parking lot and into the building, a gust of wind blows and decides to just blow your hair all over the place. You attempt to just toss it out of your way when you catch your husband quickly fishing his phone out of his pocket and trying to snap a photo of you.

“You okay over there?”

“Freeze, just like that.” You do as he says but you also start to laugh at how seriously he’s taking this and he takes multiple photos of you. “The way that the wind was blowing your hair, it just looked so beautiful,” he turns his phone around to show you and honestly, they did come out pretty good.

“Sap,” you joke and pull him towards the station. 

When you finally make it up the short staircase, you’re already over it and breathing for dear life. You rush over to the lady at the front desk and tell her who you are and who you’re here to see so that you can sit back down as soon as possible. 

Once you sit back down, Satoru starts rubbing your belly because he’s been absolutely obsessed with feeling the kicks. “Did you know that by this point our baby has fingerprints?” You nod your head because you haven’t read too many books because you were afraid to freak yourself out. “I thought that’d be an interesting fact considering where we are.” You don’t say anything in response, you just lean over to kiss him.

“Aaawwwwww!” You hear coming from the receptionist and it makes you realize that you’re probably being a little too affectionate in a public space. “May I ask how far along you are?”

“Thirty one weeks,” you respond and that lights up her face. “My sister is just a few weeks away from that, how exciting.” She walks around the desk to come over to speak to you and you welcome the distraction. 

You spend a few minutes chatting with her about everything from the nursery to how fast babies go through diapers and it freaks Satoru out some more. After some time, there’s a beep as a heavy door opens and Detective Usami starts walking out with none other than Mei. The receptionist wishes you congratulations before returning to her desk and you catch Mei staring at you with nothing but her irritation in her face.

You’re pregnant so you can’t physically do anything to her like you want. Also because you’re in a police station but that’s your second reason.

So, you do what you can do.

You look directly at her and flash her a bright smile. And when she seems taken aback, you throw in a wink as well just so she knows that she’s an awful person who’s manipulation didn’t work. Satoru had bent down to kiss your bump but looked up when he heard the clacking of heels in the room. As soon as he caught her gaze, he wrapped an arm around you and looked away as if he couldn’t care any less. 

At first it looks like she might say something, but then she doesn’t. She just keeps walking out of the station with Usami by her side to open the door before he turns around and comes back over to you.

“I apologize about that, I was just finishing up a meeting. Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says as you get up to follow him to his office. 

“Oh no problem! I was pretty eager to see what this was all about anyway.”

“Yeah, and by that, she means that she’s been panicking all day,” Satoru interjects and you slap his shoulder.

“I apologize for that as well but I promise that it’s nothing bad.” When you reach his office, he opens the door for you and even pulls out your chair. You’are absolutely gonna miss all the babying you’re experiencing when you finally have an actual baby. 

Satoru takes a seat in the vacant chair next to you as Usami sits at his desk and starts doing something on his computer.

“I just wanted to ask a few questions today and show you something, but we’ll start small. First off, how’s your memory?” He asks Satoru.

“It’s getting better, but it’s not perfect. I’m remembering things in chronological order, I think. I’ve been able to start recalling things from the past several years, but not from like the past two years.” He has been making tremendous progress even though it’s not without kinks in the chain. You just hope that it isn’t weighing on him too much.

“So I’m guessing that you still don’t remember anything from the assault?”

“I’m afraid not. Things may feel familiar, but I can’t just explain everything outright either.”

Usami hums and turns his computer around to show him something. “I know that we’ve been over this before, but I just wanted to ask you if any of this feels familiar now.” 

It’s the same footage that was shown to you and Kento the day that you came down here. You continue to watch your husband to see if there’s any serious reactions, but he just watches the video like it’s anything else. You know that he’s been a beacon of support for you when it comes to this, but you just want to make sure that he’s not compartmentalizing and that the flood gates don’t open at some awful time.

“I’m sorry, I’m still drawing a blank,” he finally admits. “I know that that’s me on the camera, but it feels like I’m looking at somebody else. 

“It’s okay. We do have forensic evidence that wasn’t destroyed by the fire in your car, but having the witness actually be able to recall events is still pretty useful. I spoke with that woman today, Mei, about how she found you and how that came to be. Do you remember anything about that?”

Satoru thinks for a minute before responding. “I remember waking up in a hotel room surrounded by people that I didn’t know. They were trying to talk to me but I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, it’s like I was underwater. They gave me bottles of water and after a few more hours of everything feeling ‘off,’ I was finally able to come to my senses a little bit and speak with them.”

“What do you remember from that encounter?”

“I remember them asking me who I was, where I was from, where I was going, and how I ended up on the side of the road. They asked if I’d been in an accident, but I didn’t have an answer to any of those questions. I didn’t even know where they found me because I can’t recall anything before the hotel room. They stopped asking me questions for a while and got me something to eat as they continued to speak, but I don’t even remember a lot of what they were saying at that point.”

“What happened then?”

“Uhhhh, we spent the rest of the night in the hotel room just eating and making small talk before the girls returned to their suite and I stayed in the room with their driver.”

You feel bad for your husband as you listen to him recalling all of this, but you also feel bad for the driver that had to spend a week with these people and then share his room at the last minute.

“What happened the next day?”

“The girls wanted to get massages and mud baths, so they took me with them as they continued to ask me questions that I didn’t have answers to. Ijichi– the driver, he’d been around all day because Mei also uses him to carry everyone's bags and to take photos everywhere they go. When we sat down for lunch, he asked me if I was married due to the tan line on my finger and Mei said something like, “we’ll worry about that later” which I thought was odd. But I didn’t know if it really was or if it was just me not being in the right state of mind.”

“Did you ever attempt to call the police or seek out medical attention?”

“I don’t remember saying that specifically. I remember mentioning something about needing help or finding family but Mei asked me who I remembered. When I said that I couldn’t remember anyone, she said that it’s probably because they don’t exist. She pointed out that I remembered my name and some of my early life so whatever happened to me must have only knocked out super recent things or things that weren’t relevant.”

You kind of want to call your doctor to induce labor just so that you can fight this bitch faster.

You won’t.

But you want to.

“Did that ever bother you or make you feel suspicious?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know if I ever thought about it that much at the time. She had a point, I knew who I was, I just couldn’t remember what I was doing when this happened. It made me wonder if that was the only thing that I was missing. The tan line on my finger threw me off as well, but there was always so much going on with her that I barely had time to think let alone contemplate anything more complex. You can imagine my shock when I learned that nine years of my life were wiped,” he says with a chuckle but you know it’s just a cover.

You reach over to hold his hand because this must be hard for him. But he doesn’t speak about these things with any anger, it’s almost more disappointment or resentment.

“She said that all of you spent a week at the resort, how did the living accommodations come about?”

“She said that she had a lot of room at her home and that I should stay there with her until I got everything figured out. She does this thing where she makes it sound like things are questions, but you know that they’re really not. I agreed to go because she helped take care of me so I assumed that she had my best interest at heart, I didn’t learn otherwise until much later.”

It’s quiet for a moment as Usami takes down notes of everything that Satorus saying. 

The more that you think about the situation, the worse you feel for him knowing that this fucking maniac took advantage of a vulnerable person the way she did. 

Gross.

“This may be a weird question Mr. Gojo, but how did you feel when you were there? Did you feel like anything was off? Did you feel like you had the option to leave? Did anybody act suspicious around you?” You know where Usami is going with this and you’ve had the same questions since day one.

“Uhhhhh, not really. There were times when I walked into the room and people stopped talking or switched topics, but I just assumed it was work related or was personal and didn’t make too much of it. As far as feeling trapped, not really. I left a few times to go to the pharmacy as you already know, and then I went to the hospital for the migraines. She had her driver take me but I didn’t think it was because she wanted to watch me or anything. I figured it was because of my injury and that I shouldn’t drive. Plus, she lives a very ‘hires someone to do literally any job’ lifestyle.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. So far, what you’ve told me matches up with a lot of information that we’ve learned so that’s good.”

“I’m sorry Detective, I don’t want to interrupt, but I have a question.” You’ve been quiet this entire time but after spending so much time with Kento, there’s a question that’s been on your brain for what feels like years. “Do you feel that she had anything to do with his kidnapping and attempted murder?”

You can’t read the expression on his face and that worries you. “I wouldn’t bet my career on my opinions of that, but, with the information that I’ve gotten over the past few months, it doesn’t lead me to believe that she was a part of the planning or the attack. I would have to get more questionable information regarding her or access to her phone records to find something but without probable cause, the likelihood of getting a warrant granted is low.” 

Lame.

You understand the situation, but it still sucks.

On the bright side, it does make you feel a little relieved to know that they don’t view her as responsible. As much as you’d like to get answers to everyone’s actions, it does make you feel a bit better to know that Mei was more than likely not involved in everything that happened to him.

Unless new information comes out, she’s just a succubus who takes advantage of vulnerable men.

What a fucking loser. 

“Alright, here’s the other reason that I called you.” You completely forgot about all of that once the questioning started. “We’ve made an arrest in your case.”

If it was possible, your jaw would be on the floor. Literally, on the floor. It feels like you’ve been waiting forever to get this update and you feel a wave of relief wash over you. You look over to Satoru and he looks just as frozen in shock as you probably did.

“I know that when a case is ongoing, you can’t reveal a ton of information. But, is it possible for you to tell us what happened?” You have to ask because these fears that these brutes imposed on you has been dragging you down on a daily basis.

“We received an anonymous tip from someone who said that they thought they recognized one of the men in the video. Unfortunately, we were only able to apprehend one of them at this time, but one is still better than none. We were given a name and we used that as a starting point until we were able to bring him in and obtain a dna sample, which happened to be a match.”

You squeal in excitement as you continue to squeeze your husband’s hand. 

“We are going to continue to look for the other perpetrator because the last thing that we want is for them to get away after doing something so horrible. The man we have in custody refuses to name his accomplice so it may still take some time, but we’ll figure it out.” 

After that, Detective Usami concludes the meeting and promises to keep you updated on any new information that should come to be. He walks you out of his office and back to reception where the lady at the front desk wishes you congratulations one more time before you step out of the building and go back to your car.

Satoru has barely spoken two words since you got the news about the arrest and it’s starting to make you nervous. He still does his usual things; holding your hand, opening your door, buckling you in, before getting in the driver seat and starting the car. But it seems more like he’s just functioning on autopilot at this time.

“Satoru,” you call his name but he doesn’t respond. But it doesn’t seem like he’s angry, more like he’s lost in thought. “Satoru!” You’re a little louder that time but you do manage to catch his attention. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You just… don’t seem like yourself. You’ve shut down since we got the news about the arrest. Are you okay?”

He leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath before answering you. “I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels like everything just hit me. The reality of the situation, everything that everybody went through, it feels like it just hit, just now.” You listen quietly, allowing him to get everything that he needs off his chest. “I know what happened to me, but it feels like I’ve been experiencing everything as an bystander. I didn’t wake up in some back alley covered in blood with some attacker standing over me. I didn’t have to fight my way to survival and cling to life in some hospital bed hoping everyday that I’ll get to wake up again. I woke up in some fancy fucking resort surrounded by strangers who contrary to popular belief at the time, I believed had my best interest at heart.”

Oh.

That’s what he means.

“It just… it just feels like this thing that happened to me was some monumental experience for everybody else and like I’m the outsider even though I’m the one that it happened to. My wife cried herself to sleep everyday, my friends made missing person’s posters and everybody went on searches. You got on the news and begged the public to help, Nanami was calling the police all the time, and Suguru changed his work schedule to be with you during the day while Choso moved in so that you didn’t have to be alone at night. Everyone in our lives bent over backwards to find me and make sure that you were getting by while I was hanging out in a mansion drinking bottles of wine and watching movies to cope with the boredom.”

Oh.

“I just feel like everybody has had to suffer from this except for me and I feel terrible about that. I feel so guilty that everybody dedicated their time to help me and I can’t even contribute because I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”

You move your hand down to hold his and he squeezes it tight. 

“I want to celebrate this with you because this is a big deal, especially for you. But I do apologize for… I don’t know how to explain it. Just–”

“I get it. But Satoru, you don’t have to apologize for not suffering with us when you don't even know what’s going on. Also, your ability to truly know was literally taken away from you, so stop allowing guilt to consume you. I promise that Choso is not holding a grudge about moving in and Kento is not upset about having to call his brother for updates.” He chuckles a little bit and that makes you feel better. “How do you feel now?”

“I think I feel better now. I don’t think I realized how long of a process this was going to be to get through. I think I was under the impression that when I came home to you, everything would fall into place and I’d be happy. And don’t get me wrong, I am, I’m very happy. But I didn’t anticipate that the healing process would be so long considering I didn’t even know what I was healing from.”

“That’s the brain babe, it’s a crazy thing. I don’t mean this in a bad way, but maybe you should talk to someone.” 

“But why? I have you,” he whines and it’s pretty cute.

“Because I’m not a trained professional. I will always listen, but maybe you need someone with the credentials to help you work through this and then I’ll continue to help you at home. We could even find someone who specializes in disorders or conditions similar to yours and you never know, it could be very beneficial.”

He groans, but reluctantly agrees. “Fine! I’ll go see a stupid therapist since my wife doesn’t want to talk to me anymore!”

“That’s not what I said you asshole!” You try to shout back while laughing.

“When did you stop loving me? I just want to know! Is it because of Suguru? Is it the hair? I can grow it out!”

“Oh my god! I have no interest in Suguru.”

“‘No interest’ in him as a friend, you mean? Are you gonna move me into the guest bedroom so that he can take my side of the bed?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m gonna move you completely out of our home if you don’t stop.” 

He keeps laughing and it ends up making you laugh too even though he’s an absolute menace.

“Alright, where to?” He asks while starting the car back up. 

“We have to celebrate!”

“What do you wanna do?” He starts driving down the street, driving aimlessly until you tell him where you want to go.

“I wanna egg Mei’s house and take a baseball bat to her fucking windshield,” and you say that with as much venom as possible.

Satoru looks over at you with his mouth agape and half lidded eyes like he doesn’t know if he should be turned on or terrified.

“Really?”

“Yup!” You reply with a giant smile on your face.

“Because we can absolutely do that.”

You love that he’s down for literally committing crimes. “Baby, you can’t. You’re a lawyer. That’d look bad when we get arrested.”

“So what! I’ll do anything for you.”

“Let’s save it until after I give birth because I can’t run as fast these days. So, rain check?”

“Deal.”

“By the way, did she ever give you a key?”

“Oooohhhh, wanna commit burglary?”

“I don’t wanna steal anything. I just wanna unscrew all her lightbulbs just enough that they don’t turn on. I also wanna switch out her laces so that they’re on the wrong shoes and take all lids to tupperware containers. And I wanna melt enough of her lipsticks that it’s still only classified as a misdemeanor for not committing too much property damage. And then when everything passes, I wanna show back up and leave a note on her car that says, ‘guess what I did’ and then move on.”

Just as you’re finishing your rant, Satoru is turning down an empty street and parking the car.

“Satoru. What are you doing?”

“You’re so hot when you’re evil and talking about committing felonies,” he unbuckles his seat belt and starts getting out of the car. “Get in the backseat!” He says before slamming the door shut.

It’s the middle of the day instead of some dark street so your mind is running through all the reasons that you shouldn’t do this. But instead, your desire to make questionable choices take over and you join him in the back.

As soon as you shut the door behind you, Satoru is all over you. He’s pulling you onto his lap, kissing you, biting you, and pulling your dress down with such force that you’re surprised that it doesn’t tear. 

“Keep talking about revenge, it turns me on,” he whispers in your ear and it sends chills all over your body.

“I’ll keep talking, but you know that I can’t actually do these things right? Not with you as my husband.”

“It’s fine. I’m a prosecutor. I’ll just drop the charges.”

This fucking guy.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[cannibalisticcorpse]

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU) Additional Tags: Age Play, Dom/sub, BDSM, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Daddy Kink, Plushophilia, Stuffed Toys, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne Has an Oral Fixation, Charles Rowland Has an Oral Fixation (DCU), Charles Rowland Cries During Sex (DCU), Charles Rowland Has a Payne Kink (DCU), Charles Rowland Has a Small Dick (DCU), Blow Jobs, Reading Aloud, Bratting, Self-Indulgent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Dacryphilia, Dry Humping, Frottage, Coming In Pants, Age Regression/De-Aging, Age Regression Caregiver Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Age Regression Little Charles Rowland (DCU), Cock Warming Summary:

If Edwin's being honest with himself, it wasn't surprising that Charles was in the bag. He thought it made perfect sense. What didn't was everything else. The way Charles was bundled under a white and blue baby blanket, the way he curled into himself, holding a stuffed bear, the way he was surrounded by stuffed animals and toys.

The peaceful look on Charles' face was perhaps the most perplexing.

--

Charles goes missing when he's upset and Edwin finds out where he's been hiding by accident. It awakens some interesting feelings.

[leupagus]

Really enjoying writing Book 2/Season 6 of this monstrosity, where instead of having Sansa and Jon fighting to regain Winterfell and all that nonsense with the "Battle of the Bastards," it's gonna be like 10K of Sansa being the Warden of the North equivalent of that mom who just needs FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE AND QUIET YOU GODDAMN KIDS

To the Lord Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and my Dear Cousin,

I write to you from Wint

"Sansa — sorry, Lady Sansa, you'll never believe—"

"Jeyne, you don't have to call me 'Lady Sansa,'" Sansa said as she looked up from her parchment. "You're the steward of Winterfell now."

Jeyne Poole, hanging onto the handle of the door and swinging it absently back and forth like she'd done back when they were ten years old, frowned. "My da always said the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were worthy of respect."

Sansa leaned back in her chair. Father had dealt with the business of the holdfast in the Library Tower, so he could wrestle with the accounts without being interrupted every twenty minutes. Sansa had always thought that a bit unfair, since it meant you had to climb all those stairs just to find him, but now she was wondering if she could perhaps build the tower twenty or thirty feet higher. The exercise would probably do her good. "Your father always called mine 'oi, you,' if I recall correctly."

The look Jeyne gave her was deeply unimpressed. "Aye, and you always complained about it. Do you want to hear about the cow loose in the guest house or not?"

erfell at last, which was the dearest wish of your beloved goodfather Petyr. His dying words were to express the hope that both his goodson and his niece be safe and secure in their homes, and I am glad to say tha

"Lady Sansa, Master Mikken has refused another dozen apprentices. He said they're all 'knuckleheaded clods who wouldn't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch." This time it was her master-at-arms, who'd been Rodrick Cassel's round-faced child named Beth when Sansa had left. Now he went by Cass and looked like he could wrestle a (very short) bear if needs be.

"I don't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch," Sansa replied, frowning.

Cass shrugged. "Well, and nor do I. But that's near fifty lads he's turned away. We need someone helping with the forges. We've been making do with the army smiths that Prince Stannis let us—"

"Prince Stannis?" He was going to hate that.

Another shrug. "We've got to call him something, milady. You won't call him 'king,' nor will any of your bannermen, but his soldiers give us no end of trouble when we call him 'lord.' So 'prince' it is. And he is one, too, ain't he? King Robert's brother. That'd make him a prince, right?"

Sansa answered with a shrug of her own. By the time Stannis and his companies returned from the Dreadfort, everyone in the North would likely have settled on Prince Stannis, which would lead to a great deal of shouting and probably threats of lighting people on fire, but she had at least a fortnight to think of something.

"As I was saying, we can't use the Baratheon smiths forever, and the ones from our bannermen have all gone home with their bannermen. Mikken needs apprentices, and we need our forge at full strength."

"All right, let's go speak with him," Sansa sighed.

t through the goodness of Stannis, of House Baratheon, and his masterful command of the armies of the North and the Stormlands, I am now secure as Warden of the North.

Not only that, but your dear cousin, my brother Rickon has somehow survived all the danger that the North has presented, while it was under the thrall of the Ironborn and House Bolton. He is now safe and I will reu

"My lady?" Maester Wolkan peered his head into the room.

[surelysilly]

The black flakes from Danny’s arm, reveals his bleeding fist wrapped up in razor thin strings of bright light — the metaphysical representation of the unraveling fabric of reality. Fingers dripping red and green, Danny squeezes and the fuzzy edges to his fritzing outline solidify.  Somewhere, somewhen, something is happening. Has been happening, and is now trying to draw itself to a close. 

[fruityumbrella]

Sugarspun 12 ♡

What do you like least about this fic?

hmm thats a hard one! im actually quite happy with how its turning out, and for the most part writing it has been really fun and expansive too, not to mention the stunning response ive gotten for it so far.

i think perhaps what i like least about it is how much insecurity i felt over how i was exploring sanjis journey. i often felt i wasnt doing enough or not doing it right compared to popular depictions/hcs about him and these issues. i also felt a bit like i had pulled my punches in some of the interactions between sanji and zoro, and im trying to allow myself to really just write as i want without toning things down to not upset some nebulous non existent potential reader, or giving in to the urge to overexplain to avoid misunderstandings from a reader yknow?

send me one of my fic titles + a question about writing it!

[syxnewt]

everything scares me so im gonna write warriors fanfic

[lucanderie]

Still need to mull this over some more, but it's very intriguing how much player-defying Kris proves themselves physically capable of this chapter.

They maliciously comply with our exact wording when asked to turn a doorknob. They cover their mouth midway through a sentence. When asked to say Berdly's name, they repeat themselves loudly in shock. They do PLENTY of physical actions or gestures unprompted, such as kneeling down and touching Ralsei when only prompted to talk, pushing Susie out of harm's way for the second time, giving her their knife with a flourish, laughing or nodding to clarify a statement... as well as their unprompted hijinks at the church. They act by themselves both in the spur of the moment and premeditated, in both low-stakes interactions and highly emotional, instinctive reactions. It seems like they're capable of doing any emoting, physical gesturing, or creative prompt interpretations they so desire apart from a) speaking, b) when directly commanded to do something else and c) in many weird route sequences (will circle back to this). They know entire commands word for word before they execute them, and they are aware enough of the fact that we have goals and what those goals may be to actively conspire against us. Kris knows our "rules".

This is extremely interesting because we saw very little of this in the previous chapters- leading us to believe Kris had basically zero input on Dark-World happenings, and had less understanding of their own situation then say, Ralsei did. But here, Kris isn't just getting more clever about or more accustomed to defying us- they're proving progressively more capable of just doing things of their own volition that any possessed kid who was randomly dropped into this situation with no warning or context would not wait two days to try.

Combined with the fact that from the beginning, they defy us to limit what we see long before they defy what we actually force them to do, (even when they clearly don't like doing it!), and that there's precedent for a character's mindset determining the player's level of control with Susie, it's seeming more and more like Kris is purposefully limiting themselves in earlier chapters. They have a vested interest in "playing the part", coming across to either us or someone else like they have less agency than they do, and they get progressively more open about the amount of defiance that they are capable of.

This is just, a fascinating jump in Kris's amount of agency! At the very least, they may know a similar amount of meta-info to even Ralsei. It changes some of their earlier actions from purely-forced to compliant. And there's a lot of (non-evil, you guys) reasons they would do this- they're probably at least, (at this point), afraid of some kind of retribution from us or their co-conspirators. They want to stay ahead of us by hiding their agency, they may not be comfortable enough with themselves to show express in certain instances... And this changes their defiant actions from things that they are allowed to do into things they are willing to risk doing- saving Susie twice, not hurting Ralsei's feelings, comforting Noelle, slorking down those juice cups like they're NOTHING- all little risks they're willing to take.

This just leaves the weird route- which may either be a route where the player simply gains more control over Kris, or maybe the "proceed" commands could be more general and therefore more inclusive. Or Kris could be initially, willing to play along with freezing the Darkners in order to achieve their goal, to bide their time, and once they realize how fucked up we can get it's too late.

I don't know. I'm definitely missing things, but I just love how much more Kris we have and are eventually going to get.

[virginreprise]

C A T C H ' A N D ' R E L E A S E ✧ . ┊    

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 𝐢 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ✧. ┊ 

┊ ┊ ┊. ➶ ˚ jackson!joel miller x reader

✧ . ddlg dynamics, toxic!joel, smut, angst, arguing, mean!joel, he's a little more dark in this one, unspecified age gap, manipulation, daddy kink, breeding kink is heavy in this one, established relationship, pussy spanking, joel slaps you twice, light bondage, sarah and ellie are dead because i don't give joel a break ever, joel is a whole ass oxymoron in this thing, joel also cums fast, and then there is also cum play because i am disgusting, this is probably the craziest thing I've ever written

words: 15.5k

┊┊. AO3 LINK

It started with an eye roll. A simple action, buried in petulance and arrogance that he had taught vehemently was wrong. That he had conditioned you to believe would have dire consequences.

"Don't talk back," he'd said sternly one day when you'd become too whiny, refusing to help him clean the dishes with the simple excuse that you didn't feel like it. And to your credit, you were quick to learn, quick to decipher his warning glances and become the perfect little girl he had taught you to be.

Rules had been implemented and subsequently followed. Praises had been uttered and kept you good. Little rituals that you followed with the sole reason of making him happy.

So when you woke up pouting, groaning as he leaned in for a good morning kiss and complaining about having to stay in the house all day and wait for him to get home, he knew something must have been wrong.

He'd mulled it over on a particularly boring patrol, knowing that if he was lucky he'd be back to you by before four o'clock. He'd wondered what on earth could've caused you to act in such a way towards him, focusing on the last thing he'd seen you do before he'd walked out the door.

You'd rolled your eyes at him.

He'd told you as softly as he could despite his growing irritation, to have a good day, to enjoy yourself and that he'd be back as soon as possible.

And you had rolled your damn eyes. 

At the time, he'd been too astonished to reprimand you, too late already on account of your abhorrent mood to do anything but stare in bewilderment and walk out the door whilst shaking his head.

This was not the good girl he'd trained, this was not the girl who did everything so willingly—gave yourself to him as easily and as naturally as it felt to slip a gun in Joel's palm and shoot. It had been eating at him the entire time he was riding alongside Jesse who hadn't dared speak up and ask him what was wrong; fearful of the perpetual scowl on his patrol partner's face that remained the entire time they were working.

As Joel walked around the corner, his house and its glowing windows falling into his vision, he wondered if the boy thought he'd gone mad. Perhaps he'd apologise to him at another time, although he probably wouldn't. He'd never exactly been one to apologise: prideful and stubborn even when he knew he was in the wrong.

But, goddamn, you had left him mad. You had left him furious and he had no choice but to think profusely about why you'd switched so suddenly. You had been perfect for him the night before, sitting between his legs patiently whilst he'd finished the chapter of his book, scurrying upstairs when he'd informed you it was bathtime and getting straight into bed when he'd asked you to. Hell, you'd even had his cock in your mouth and smiled about it like it was a privilege you didn't get to experience so often.

You hadn't woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He would know because he woke up on his preferred right side and you (unusually) far away from him on the left. It had been the first warning sign, the first indicator that he was in for an awful day of work and an even worse night when he stepped into the house and tried to gauge whether your mood had improved any or not.

When he finally made it home, hoping to be greeted by your soft kisses and pretty smiles, he realised that the house was not bustling with your hurried steps, arms flung wide open to greet him. It was instead, eerily quiet. The fire that he'd lain that morning was reduced to glowing coals, the wood piled in the basket beside it barely touched and the blanket on the couch tousled and creased—like you'd peeled it off in a hurry once you'd built up the courage to do what he'd suspected you'd done.

"Baby," he called into the nothing, irritation seeping into the floorboards as he slipped off his coat and shoes—the gun that he insisted he keep in the house despite Maria's passionate objections, placed against the wall where it would temporarily stay until the both of you went to bed and Joel would keep it just within reach. "Baby!" he repeated, louder this time in case you were listening to his CDs again.

Still, he did not hear a thing. Not a creak of the floorboards, or the light rain song of the shower. Not even a sigh. Deadly silent. And when his eyes flicked to the array of shoes parked near the door, he noticed the space the size of your feet—wood where your shoes should rest. Shoes you rarely ever use nowadays since he'd got you being his pretty little housewife.

He was back outside before he could bother to check if his suspicions were accurate, laces loose and coat unbuttoned, not feeling the biting cold that lingered amongst the setting sun. His sights were set on the house a short walk away, decorated in yarrow and anemone. The house that sheltered the reason he had met you at all.

"Tommy!" he banged on the red wood, chest heaving, rage overtaking him. How on earth could you just run like that? Why would you even think of leaving the house without him, never mind leaving without at least telling him beforehand? This behaviour was so unusual, so unlike you that it scared him. If he were to lose you…God, he didn't even want to think about it. The warmth of you, the sweetness that cut straight through the bitter nature that he had succumbed to ever since the world had become trapped in a cataclysmic nuclear winter. He could not let it go. Would never let you go, no matter how much you begged.

The question was falling from his lips as soon as the red was replaced with the face he would recognise even on the foggiest of nights.

"Where is she?"

Joel could've smacked his brother's oblivious look off his face and was seriously considering acting on his thoughts when he opened his mouth.

"Where's who?"

"Goddamnit, Tommy," he groaned, his face the picture of madness—his carefully concealed insanity shining brightly in the face of his loss, your name harsh on his lips when he clarified for his dumb hunk of a brother who exactly he was talking about. As if he would ever be talking about anyone else.

"Hell, brother, I don't know," Tommy exclaimed, perturbed by his brother's attitude, eyes narrowing at the sickness that clouded the man in front of him. "Wherever she is, she ain't gone far. She'll be safe, Joel," he tried to appease but Joel offered nothing in reply except a grumbled disapproval, complaining that his brother just didn't understand, and was off the porch and heading towards the centre of town before Tommy could get another word in.

Joel was steaming. Joel was so desperately, so disgustingly mad at you that he could hardly see any other colour except red. Just a complex, jumbled mess of feelings that he couldn't even begin to decipher as he stomped in the snow and thought of what he would do when he found you—if he would find you at all. God, you were probably dead. Probably buried in a ditch courtesy of whoever in Jackson he did not trust which had, for the past five years, remained pretty much no one. People had tried, with a smile or a home-baked good but it never ameliorated the lingering distrust that Joel had for everyone except those he was closest to. God, he was convinced half the men in Jackson were out to take you away from him and you weren't safe unless you were in the house, in his bed, and waiting for him to rock you to sleep.

If you had ventured any further than the front porch…if you were anywhere near anyone. 

He felt fucking insane: raging around town with his boots laced loose and his shirt flying untucked, looking for the object of his affection—the girl he would fall to his feet for. He had devoted so much time to making you perfect. This obedient little thing who did everything he asked and made him feel an amalgamation of jolting, sickening guilt and simultaneous euphoric bliss at the prospect of what could be. He was going to marry you one day. Damn, he was going to give you a kid while he was at it. Just to keep you close.

Joel knew, he knew completely how awful his tendencies were—how they would break you until you were afraid of him. In times like these, he thought of Tommy and how terrified he had been of what Joel would do to you. Nighttime conversations between two tipsy brothers, the drink making the younger sibling sentimental and the older too defensive to talk straight with. Joel had promised him under the low glow of a dying oil lamp, that he would do nothing to you. That, yes, you were young, but he would not treat you any differently because of it.

Both Tommy and Joel had known it was a bunch of bullshit. He'd lost too many people, and seen too many things that he could hardly comprehend. It started with blood-stained blonde and then blood all over the surgery floor when he couldn't get her out of that damn hospital on time. When Joel had come riding back to Jackson with her limp body—gunshot from where a stupid fucking firefly had accidentally hit—and a strong feeling that he had failed. Again. 

By God, he would not do it again.

So, marching into the Tipsy Bison with a furious look in his eyes, he could hardly care about the stares; what he knew everyone was thinking when he zeroed in on you talking to Gus—a kind old man who ran the library a street down from the bar and posed no real threat—with bright eyes and a wide smile.

A smile that teetered off the edge when the wind picked up against your face and fell away again—door slamming closed to see him huffing in the lamplight. There was a split second where they all looked, head snapping in the direction of your damnation and then, turned away—afraid of what Joel would do if they looked too close. They parted like the red sea when he advanced, guided by his small "'Scuse me," and his twitching hands as he reached for you.

Your name was harsh on his lips, Gus' words trailing as he looked at the man practically steaming with anger.

You looked terrified in the most delightful way. There was still a hint of defiance lingering in your stare—a brattiness in the pout as he reached for your forearm.

"C'mon we're goin' home," he announced, already dragging you away from the confused young man you had been accompanying.

"But I'm talking to Gus."

The disobedience was instant and he couldn't decide whether your attitude was on purpose, whether you just wanted to be a brat deliberately, or if there was something deeper. Some other issue you'd discovered in the middle of the night when you should've been sleeping. Joel remembered brief images of you slipping from his hold to go to the bathroom but he had been too exhausted to decide whether it had been a dream or not. Maybe it was then. Maybe it had been the hours of the sun's rest when you decided you didn't want him anymore.

"I said, we're goin' home, you've had your fun." His voice was low—warning. He didn't want to make a scene. He didn't want anyone to be looking at you at all, especially when you were in a mood that he couldn't fix by putting you over his knee. If he wanted to show you off at all, he'd want to show how much of a good girl you could be. How well mannered, how sweet and considerate. Not this unrecognisable personality you'd acquired whilst he'd been gone.

"I wanna stay." You were whining. He fucking hated it when you whined.

"We're goin'."

"I'm not—"

Your name came soft from Gus' lips then, a sweet hand on the small of your back that had Joel's fist clenching. "It's okay, Darlin'. You don't have to stay for me, I'll be just fine by myself."

The way you looked at him then, the softness in your eyes as you mouthed a small sorry—throat too dry to produce a sound, was infuriating. If he wasn't angry before, he sure as hell was now, his grip on your arm tightening as he began pulling you out of the bar.

"Joel," you called with a whimper as he guided you through the crowd. "Joel, it hurts." Your fingers were pulling at his, trying as hard as you could to pry him off you, but he refused to let go. He'd keep you tied to the bed if it meant you wouldn't pull a stunt like this again.

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, to Joel and those around you who didn't care enough to involve themselves in your proclivities and the cold was hitting your warm cheeks before you could apologise for bumping into John standing by the door.

"Joel," you said, firmer this time and it seemed to bring his attention back to you—away from the wild rage clouding his head.

He was too angry to speak but his eyes portrayed every word. They pierced you, right through the heart and froze your bones as you stood with the snow falling and the sun setting.

"We're goin' home," was all he managed to spit out and he had no idea what possessed you, where you found the goddamn nerve, but your mouth was opening before he could give you another warning glance—a promise that it wasn't going to end well if you kept up the bullshit.

"It's not my home." There was venom in your voice, a genuine, deep distaste that left him feeling shot in the heart. "I'm not going back there."

"Who do you think you're talkin' to?" He scolded, and he mirrored your scowl with a fire—a heat that blazed and coiled in his stomach. "Huh?" he questioned your lack of answer, disappointment mingled with fury in his eyes.

The snow dampened the silence as you heaved, chest rising and falling in succession with the quick, fateful breaths that passed your lips and danced in the air before falling softly to your feet. There was no reply amalgamated with that dance and he shook his head with a clenched jaw.

"We are goin' home, and we are gonna talk about…" he gestured between the two of you, looking frantically for the words to describe his predicament. "...whatever this is. I ain't dealin' with this out in the snow when all of them are in there-"

"They don't even know me!" you suddenly exclaimed, lip quivering no matter how many times you bit the shake away. "I feel like all of Jackson has tripled the months that I've been with you, I'm sorry that I wanted to familiarise myself." There was a crack in your voice at the end of your sentence, biting back a sob as all the emotions came falling on your head all out at once, dropping bricks from the sky and smothering you under the debris.

Joel had no sympathy. He refused to be deterred by your tears that melted the snow as they touched the ground, nor the delicate pout on your lips that was pushing him to a point of madness unknown.

"You complain' now, huh?" he asked exasperatedly, chin held high, jaw taut with the exertion of his anger. "What more do you want from me? You sayin' I don't spoil you enough? That I don't go out there every week just to keep you and your precious little prissiness safe?"

The door swung open then, hinges creaking as Walt—eyes glazed from the alcohol—looked between the two of you once, afraid of Joel's stare that pierced holes through his head, and scurried away—casting one sympathetic glance to your glistening tears. A pause. The man had interrupted the flow of the argument, emotions now contemplated and swallowed away.

Before Joel knew it, you were running—fast little feet on the move, hurtling through the thoroughfare.

He was chasing you before he could think twice. In truth, he could not think of anything except your pretty little skirt swishing in the wind as you sprinted past Tommy's house and turned right. The opposite way to home.

Joel called your name in the wind, old bones desperate for some relief as his long strides turned into a light jog, then a full sprint as your legs whipped around the corner and into a little alleyway. He knew you had no idea where you were going. He knew that you had barely been in Jackson three months before he'd picked you up and trapped you. Made you play house with his little fantasies that disgusted him in the depths of twilight when he gripped his rifle as tight as possible.

Joel also knew that in a few seconds, you would be faced with a dead end, and as he rounded the corner and cast his eyes on your shuddering frame, the apologies came swiftly from your lips.

"Daddy, I'm sorry."

God, it was so sweet. It itched every scratch, warmed his stomach like a kiss of sunlight and eased the ache in his jaw from his perpetual clenching.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't…" you paused to sniffle, blubbering little thing that you were and he could hardly keep up the bad guy act as he took careful steps through the alley's sludge and planted himself a few feet away from you. "I don't like it when you're mean, I just- just-"

He held his hand up to shush you, shaking his head.

"I don't wanna hear excuses." He truthfully didn't want to hear you blubbering your way through reasons why. He didn't want to hear you blaming it on anyone else except yourself. He did want an answer as to why you'd acted out so deliberately but what he did not want was lies. He knew how to calm you down, he just needed to get you so afraid of him that you'd let him leash you and drag you back home—no matter who saw the depravity.

"I know," you whimpered. "I know daddy, I'm sorry-"

"Stop." He said a measured tone that mirrored the imperceptible look on his face. "I don't need to hear you apologise, not when you don't mean it."

"I do mean it!" you protested. "Please!"

You were silenced by his stare, the creases by his eyes as he squinted and jerked his head behind him—looking briefly, then turning his attention back to you. His next words were simple, almost soft as they fell from his lips, but laced with poison invisible through your silver tears.

"You ain't sorry until I make you sorry." There was a growl in his throat, a twitch of his fingers and then the fire in his eyes dampened to a simmer of coal as he spoke again. "Baby, you know how this goes. You know I can't let something like this go just because you say a few words you don't mean yet."

You had nothing to say in reply then, nothing to indicate you were sorry at all with the way your breaths came heavy and your eyes spilt over with salt that stung the open wounds on your chest. There was a tension, meandering between the two of you, pacing up and down the length of your bodies and colliding in the middle of your union—a heat searing its skin until it crumpled and fell in a heap as you sank to your knees.

He watched you go: down and down and down. Your pretty eyes gazed up at him in wonder, conveying so much with a single simper as you shuffled your way towards him and hesitantly placed your hands on his thighs.

All he did was watch.

He said nothing, reacted to nothing, knowing that all you wanted as you wrapped your arms around his right leg and nuzzled, was his affection.

"I'll be good, Daddy," you whispered into his leg. "I promise."

His head fell back at your words, eyes squeezing shut as he tried not to succumb to your angelic nature��all soft and willing and obedient. He took pride in knowing that he had made you that way; that he was the reason you were willing to ruin your pretty little tights and hurt your delicate knees.

Hands fell to your head in surrender, brushing through your hair as he stared down at you, enamoured by the way you submitted to him.

"I know you will, honey," he reassured. "I know. You're my good girl, yeah? My perfect angel. Sometimes you just make mistakes, don't ya?"

You nodded into his thigh, muffled words he couldn't decipher and he pulled you back by the hair so he could hear you properly.

"Speak up."

Your reply was immediate.

"Yeah, just a mistake, daddy."

He smiled a little at that, a scoff pulled from his throat as he let your hair go and held out his hand. Your fingers were so cold when you placed them in his palm, your whole body shivering as he pulled you up from your position and dragged you tight to his chest.

"Now," he sighed. "We're gonna go home, ain't we? And I'm gonna be honest, babydoll, you ain't gonna like what I do when we get home but it needs to happen, yeah?"

"But-"

"Sh sh sh." He held your hands to his chest, not one to deny you the tiniest bit of comfort when he was being perhaps a little too harsh on you. Either way, you had worried him sick and he wasn't about to let his relief at your subservience show just yet. He needed to make sure that you were entirely with him, that this was just a one-off and that you wouldn't be running away again next month when you got scared. "It needs to happen. Don't it?"

Your eyes were hesitant, wide, angel-eyes—wings clipped as he held you as close as he could get you without displaying too much desire. Then, a nod.

"Yes, daddy."

Relief washed over him, bathed him in holy water and guided the spirit from heaven to its space above his head. He was revered by your spirit, enamoured by your waiting hands as he let them fall to your sides, eyes cold and not displaying his true feelings at your exhibition of devotion, and turned on his heel to walk back to the house.

"C'mon then," he called after you like you were a dog, snapping his fingers as his long strides and heavy footfalls made a guiding path in the snow.

At your confusion, the furrow of your brows as you looked longingly at his hands, he barked a short "Hey! Keep up," and fought every urge to keep you as close as possible on the roads. Every single time he took you past the threshold of the front porch—which wasn't an awful lot in truth—he would grasp your hand in his, guide you around every corner and past every wandering eye. He would never let go.

Joel could tell the separation had broken something inside you, snapping the strings of your heart and breaking open your chest as you trudged on behind him—slowly shuffling through the snow that seeped into your shoes.

There was little encouragement as the sunset bled across the sky, no words of praise passing his lips as you walked behind him like a sad little puppy, head down and playing with your fingers. You were anxious, he could tell. Anxious and curious and desperate all at once.

You always did look pretty with a pout.

Once he'd rounded the corner to the house, he paused at the steps, looking back at you with an expression indiscernible. No smiles or scowls, just a set stare that kept you on your knees. You paused with him and he couldn't help the thrum of approval that coursed through him at your fear. He shouldn't like it. He knew full well that he shouldn't, but being scared was better than being comfortable. He had learned, too many times, that getting comfortable amounted to pain. You needed to be different. The possessiveness was just a response to a need to protect; every possibility whispered to him through the wind.

It was all part of his need to defend and protect.

"C'mon, honey, up the steps," he encouraged, watching you waiting for his next instruction—his approval.

Obediently, you stepped past him, Joel briefly glancing at the wet dirt at your knees, the notion that it symbolised and huffed a breath of harsh, winter air as he grabbed your wrist before you could reach the incline. He leant in close, lips ghosting the side of your face, a tightness in his chest at the way you stared straight ahead: unmoving.

"I'm gon' give you a headstart," he muttered. "'Cause your old man needs a drink on account of all the runnin' around you been makin' me do."

"I'm-"

"Don't start." He gripped your wrist tighter, shaking his head softly as your eyes met his. "When I get upstairs, you better be waitin' for me how I like you, yeah?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a hint of defiance in your eyes that he shut down with a simple tilt of his head—just a flavour of his disapproval of your attitude. He didn't mind you being a brat, not when it was innocent fun in the comfort of your home, spurred on only by his teasing promise of a little harsh treatment that night. But this…he couldn't deal with the disobedience when it ran this deep.

"Yeah, okay, Daddy," you murmured, and you escaped his grasp before he could reprimand the attitude—up the steps as quick as your feet could carry you, and through the front door.

Joel watched you through the frame for a small second, seeing you disappear up to the second floor and he tried not to let himself get too carried away with the image of you stripping your clothes off and settling on your knees beside the armchair that nestled in the corner of his room. Patiently waiting.

He took his time getting inside, treating the occasion as normal as he could: shoes kicked off near the door, coat hung up next to yours, venturing into the living room to stoke the fire and try and revive the flame you had killed, and turn into the dining room to pick a whiskey from the alcohol collection he'd been adding to since he found a bottle of unopened, aged red wine near the old farmhouse near Flat Creek.

Scanning the bottles, his eyes landed on the Whiskey you'd got him for his birthday, the days when you were still allowed on patrol and had been searching for something special for him to commemorate the soft beginnings of your blossoming relationship. You'd told him of the glint under the dried leaves, the rotting wood sign that marked a lost general store, and the brown liquid sloshing near the brim when you'd picked it up.

Joel hadn't the heart to tell you on September twenty-sixth why he had not accepted the gift with gratitude, why he had angrily asked you how you'd found out that it was his birthday and why he'd gone storming off to Tommy's with rage in his eyes when you'd said his little brother had mentioned it in passing.

He'd been drunk from that birthday present when he told you about Sarah and Ellie, and he'd never mentioned them again after the fact. You had not pried, and he had not touched the whiskey since. But, today, it seemed commemorative to pour himself a measure, find some courage in his cowardice and he wondered if the curse of the drink would prevail today when he asked you why you were pulling away.

Maybe, it would be he, who pulled away instead. He was hardly one to care as he took a sip and glanced to the stairway, another sip and a gulp as he began advancing.

It was cold when he got to the landing. The heat had not travelled far yet and any heat from the fire he'd started this morning had dissipated. You'd probably be shivering. Poor thing. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the framed picture of the two of you, the blurry Polaroid you'd forced him to take in late May when you were more friendly with him in the month you'd known him than anyone else in Jackson.

He remembered your soft giggle as you told him to smile, the scent of your hair when you leaned in close and pushed the camera in his face. You'd been disappointed with how it turned out but had given it to him all the same—your initials scratched in marker on the white border and little heart that seemed as hesitant as you always were.

With another sip, he pushed the picture face-down, obscuring your faces from view and turning his back on the memory of your independence with a sigh.

You were cold. You must be and he couldn't wait a minute longer with the image of you shivering. He was cruel but he was not that cruel. All he wanted now was the truth, and if you were to give it to him if you were to submit yourself to him fully, he would pack up everything in the house and move you two far away.

Joel slinked into the bedroom with soft pads against the floor, your shaking body jumping when you heard the creak that gave away his silent position.

God, you were perfect, facing the chair on your knees, frame tensing as he stepped towards you and sat down; legs spread wide. You knew what it meant, knew the implication and you shuffled in between his strong thighs—hands scratching at his jeans to steady yourself.

Silently, he held out his drink to you, gesturing with a soft nod for you to take it.

"Just a little sip," he murmured, desperate to sing some praise, some words of comfort to you, but found that his throat was dry and he could barely speak the words he had just uttered. He coughed before he spoke again. "You're gonna need it."

You looked skeptically. He never let you drink. He'd said that it wasn't good for you and you hadn't known how serious he was about it until two months into the relationship when he'd seen you curled up on his couch with his wine. He'd taught you the best lesson he knew that day and you had not touched the stuff since. You knew you'd never get away with it and he prided himself on the fact that you would never even try.

"Daddy, I—"

"Just take a sip." You flinched at the irritation in his tone and grasped the glass with two hands to hopefully appease him. Just a simple sip, barely anything except a coat of liquid on your lips and you licked it away with a grimace, handing it back to him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He did not offer you what he knew you were asking for, those words of affirmation that always made you light up in the most delightful way. Instead, his voice was flat as he told you to put his drink on the side and he could tell by the quiver of your lip that you didn't like his behaviour one bit.

"Look at me," he instructed and you did as he asked in a heartbeat. His lips twitched as he almost reflexively told you how good you were, how proud he was as you, but he swallowed it down with his simmering anger—his desire for the truth. However, he did allow you a modicum of comfort as his hand came to the side of your face, cupping your cheek with warmth and rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. You nuzzled into him like a goddamn cat, desperate for his touch. "I need to know the truth," he said measuredly. "I need you to tell what's got that head of yours thinkin' so hard."

You looked away, ashamedly, bottom lip jutting out in a pout and back hunching as you tried to curl in on yourself. His grip tightened at that, thumb and forefinger travelling to your chin to force your eyes to his.

"Baby, I'm givin' you a chance here—"

"Okay!" you exclaimed suddenly, chest heaving like you were about to start hyperventilating—chin wobbling in his hand as you bit back the tears. "You just gotta promise me you won't leave me. All of this, I- I promise I didn't mean it."

Joel shook his head, grip loosening and thumb stroking along your bottom lip in comfort.

"I just wanna know, honey. Whatever it is."

You contemplated for a moment with your eyes on his, blinking away the glisten before averting your gaze to his lap. He allowed it whilst you thought, knowing that his gentle harshness was the oxymoron that ruled your life.

"Yesterday," you began, and he was surprised at the thickness in your voice. There was no whine, no hesitancy: you sounded like you used to. He reached for his drink to expel the fear. "You were gone. You were working."

The curl of your fingers in his jeans was the only sign of the girl he had turned you into. Even on your knees, naked, there was the shadow of who you were before, a looming figure behind you that grew closer the more you spoke.

"I was doing my chores, just…minding my own business like you always tell me to and you'd barely been gone an hour before someone knocked at the door and I know I'm not supposed to answer the door to anyone, I know." You were rambling. You grounded yourself again by taking a breath, glancing up at him and wondering if he was going to say something, but found that his mouth was sealed—his jaw solid and tense. There was a sigh before you spoke the words that had his simmering rage burning in blue flames to the surface.

"But it was only Maria, and I didn't think you'd mind…"

Your voice trailed off, his ears ringing as it all settled into place and it was undeniable that in that moment, he was taken by clarity—swept from the ground by a shuddering realisation. He was not angry with Maria. He was not angry with you. That fog had cleared, had disappeared right before his eyes and he was already formulating future conversations in his head. Plans that had been so hazy before when he rode past the lone structure that housed images that, at the time, seemed profoundly unreachable.

They seemed close now and he was shushing you with a hand in your hair before you could begin relaying what his sister-in-law had said. He already knew and he was almost grateful. Joel knew now that things would be good when he got you out of here.

"You don't gotta say nothin' else, baby," he said, softer than he had said anything today.

Your voice trailed off, staring at him with confusion—questioning with a furrow of your brow.

"You're not mad at me?" you asked. "You're not mad at Maria?"

Truthfully, Joel found it endearing how willing you were to defend his sister-in-law, how desperate you were to be his good girl again. The act of defiance…you could never keep it up for long. He'd moulded you so perfectly that you could hardly live without his praise and affection. Sometimes, it scared him. If he were to die next week, if he were to die tomorrow, what would you do with yourself? He'd spent hours pondering the likely situation, the number of close calls he'd been having out on patrol nowadays too frequent for him to believe he'd be living long enough to see you mature out of him. Right through his skin like a parasite, ripping through the flesh and leaving him bleeding with a broken knee.

He'd tried writing letters, feeling stupid when he put pen to paper and flinging them back into his drawer with the lock on it and promising that he'd try again tomorrow—just so you had a piece of him when he eventually left you. He'd try again tonight when he got you to sleep, although he knew that it would amount to nothing.

All he could give you was what he had right now and his grip on your face grew soft as he realised he could waste no time being mean to you. Not when you liked the pain so much.

"I'm not mad at you," he sighed, shaking his head and leaning back in the chair. "It's okay, baby." The rest of what he said became absent-minded mutters, not really meant for you to hear but you were on your knees and you looked so pretty. Just a little angel in his when he brought your head down to his thigh, feeling you nuzzle into the denim. "I'm gonna take you away from this soon. Gonna give you everything you want. Just you and me."

You were gazing up at him with wide, glazed eyes, remnants of bitten-back tears washing down the side of your face, traversing to your nose where they dropped off onto his thigh—nestling into the fibres of the fabric and drowning against his skin.

"C'mon," he murmured then because he could not bear to see the watercolour, the wetness that stung his soul as much as it stung your pretty eyes. The colour of the iris burned into the backs of his eyelids, the wideness of the pupils when you looked at him expanding in his dreams until all he saw was black and the call of your sweet voice lulling him deeper into his derangement. "Up you come, honey," he encouraged as you clambered into his arms and bracketed his thighs—arms circling his neck as he nestled you against him.

It was the clam before the storm—the sun before the snow.

Joel comforted you for as long as he would allow his brain to feel the clarity; the blissfulness of what the next stage for the two of you was going to be. He would talk to Maria tomorrow, tell her that you were on board and put the plans into place with a soft smirk as he stared at the black hole of delusion that had been sucking him in ever since there was blood in the blonde and auburn.

You were heavy against him, his hands gently stroking along your spine, beginning to bounce his knee a little just to keep you awake, and letting the scent of roses and thyme envelope the space. You were his baby. All his and he held you a little tighter when his hips caught the heat of you and your breath blew sharp from your throat.

It was slow, the way you started to rock and cry into his neck. He could feel the wetness, the deepness of your essence bleeding into him when you settled yourself over his thigh and pressed yourself to him so tight he could hardly breathe with the perfume of you suffocating him.

"That's it," he choked out when you sobbed. Heat against heat, friction burning between your thighs as you gripped his hair and tried regulating your breathing.

You did not call his name as you usually did, you just cried and rocked against him, spurred by his guiding hands and delicate kisses. Joel could barely stand the silence, and could hardly take the muffled crying as you rubbed yourself against his leg. Joel didn't like the way it was transpiring—not with the crystal ball in your court and his fate in your hands.

The hand in your hair tightened, dragging you from his neck and forcing your face to his. He licked away your tears with fervour, roughly pulling you to him, letting him drink from the salt of you and then forcing you back so your eyes bore into his.

"Don't make me hurt you, angel," he said through a scowl, and it sounded so dark coming from his lips that all he could see was the red of your eyes and the red of her blood. There was black on his soul, filth and rotting flesh, infested with maggots that buried themselves right to his core. Sometimes, he was convinced that your soul was made from daisies and angel feathers. Amalgamated, he sullied the freshness. Separated, there remained a hole ripped from the middle of both entities—only healed when he was here with you. Keeping you in place. "You want me to hurt you?"

When you nodded he almost greeted death like a friend. Take the hand of that phantom cloaked in black and drag him from his bloodied existence. But you were muttering, still rocking and muttering and he couldn't leave you as you were. So broken and desperate.

"Want you to hurt me, Daddy." The tears were streaming and they called to his tongue, dehydrated from the salt but greedy for the taste. His greed overcame his rationality in the end. After rationale was no longer needed and he could be safely trapped inside the gates—let out only when the full moon rose and the sun died.

He lapped up the wetness on your cheeks, pressing kisses to the skin, digging himself into you as he felt you seep into his tongue. The sweetness warmed his belly and made him drunk with the feeling—drunk and violent.

"That right?" he questioned with a barely-constrained growl. "Want daddy to hurt you?"

You nodded your head enthusiastically, sob wracking through your body as you clung to him, hips still rolling and rocking; wanting to take everything from him. He found it fascinating that you didn't know you already had. That you'd taken him, mind and soul, dipped them in formaldehyde and displayed them on your shelf—smiling at the collection of body parts until all that remained was his head, spurting blood from the harsh hacking of your heart.

"Goddman, baby." The name was muffled into your shoulder, biting down on your skin to restrain himself. Then, you called, begging him with pretty little whimpers not to be gentle with you. Words spill from your tongue like vomit, spraying him head to toe with your entrails and reminding him of his position. Your protector. Your daddy. Yours.

He would do whatever you wanted him to. He would move mountains, drain the sea and place the moon in your willing hands if it made you happy. He had realised long ago just how willing he was, how pathetic and liberated it made him feel to know that he would never let you go. Contradictory, in its base: he would do anything for you except let you go.

"You sure?" he murmured as he placed kisses along your neck, hands wrapped around your waist and guiding you back and forth over his thigh. "Don't want you runnin' off on me again when I get a little too mean."

"No," you choked out desperately, groaning softly as a sharp tick ran through you. "Never, Daddy."

Joel just kissed you through it all, unable to think of some clever remark or bite back with a teasing question. He just let you rock and wind your fingers into his hair, gripping so tight you were liable to break away with chunks of his skull. He would be nice for this moment, the short, lingering moment where he would let you go brainless with want, pretend that he was going to give you what you so desperately craved, and then strip it from you like Jesus refusing bread for the five thousand.

You were stuttering, hips losing their momentum, cute little whimpers falling from your lips in quick succession, toes curling—all indications. It would've done you better to restrain your noises, to keep rubbing your cute pussy over his leg in careful consideration. Maybe then you could've slipped through the cracks—deceived him into letting you cum.

However, you had not, and he was gripping your hips and ceasing the friction—speaking before you could start whining.

"If I hear one sound outta you, I'll tie you to that bed and leave you there." It was an idle threat considering how much he knew you'd enjoy such an activity. Unfortunately, you had never been bratty enough to warrant such a punishment and now, the sun was setting, the sky was getting dark and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't have the patience to embark on something so arduous. It did not mean, however, that he wasn't going to hurt you, that he wasn't going to bruise that cute little ass of yours and brand your cheek with his handprint. You'd never want to leave the house again if you were all marked like that—the humiliation was just too much for your sweet soul.

But, you were pouting at his scolding, tingling from the rejected orgasm and he couldn't find it in him to be sympathetic.

He was dragging you to the bed before you could so much as beg him for reprieve. He'd pushed you off his lap with disdain, towering above you as he grabbed your upper arm and led you to the bed. The sheets were fresh, he realised, and it helped your cause just a little: the fact that even though you'd been bad, you'd still found it in you to keep up with your chores.

"Sit," he commanded sharply and you crawled onto the bed with a whimper, pressing your thighs together and curling your fists to stop yourself from touching any inch of you.

Obediently, you nestled on your knees in the middle of the bed, eyes wide and glistening, fingers fumbling as you tried to cease your anxiousness. You looked so breakable it made him sick. For some reason, today of all days he couldn't stop thinking about who you used to be: fierce, completely independent. God, he remembered the time when he tried to adjust your stance when you were sniping some stray runners and you'd scowled at him and told him with vigour that you could do it yourself. If you dared do something like that now…hell, if you even tried picking up a goddamn gun, you knew he'd have your neck.

He understood, completely, what he had done to you. How he had broken every little bone in your body until you were just a mass of flesh.

"Arms out, honey," he muttered suddenly, right hand pulling at his belt buckle and slipping the leather from its loops. He was desperate to get his jeans off, desperate to tie you up and keep you down as you held out your hands, palms up and shuddered as he folded his belt in half and watched it come hurtling down against your skin.

Almost immediately, a harsh red line blossomed along your hands, a tear slipping down your cheek as he shushed your whimpers and began wrapping the leather around your wrists. He tugged tight, pulling on the item to make sure it was secure and letting your hands fall to your lap.

He smiled when you looked up at him with bleary eyes, stepping back to go and sit back down on his chair.

Your tears filled with more tears at the disconnect, and he palmed his bulge with a soft grunt when you began whining.

"Daddy, what—"

"What did I say?" he interrupted harshly. "Huh?"

Your voice was quiet and cracked like a dropped porcelain doll when you answered.

"No more whining."

He sighed in gratitude at your response, settling down and letting his old bones relax after an awfully long day of worrying about your stupid fucking head.

"That's right," he muttered, gazing at you with soft eyes that glinted with licentiousness. He wanted to touch you. You knew it, God knew it, but he would not allow himself. Not for now. "I want you to touch yourself, baby?"

Your eyebrows shot up, back straightening and he hushed you when you began asking how.

"You'll figure it out, you're a big girl, ain't you? Now, I want you to touch yourself, and if you dare cum, I'll throw you outside in the snow just as you are."

You pouted and he twitched. It disappeared in an instant when you realised fully how willing he was to smack the expression off your face. With hesitant, bound hands, you began searching between your legs, restricted by the loss of movement in your wrists and fingers fumbling as you tried to gain all the friction you could.

Your eyes bore into his, watching him watch you, stuttering softly when you managed to brush against your clit and fall back onto your elbows—spreading your legs to reach the sweet space between your thighs.

"There you go," he murmured, reaching for his whiskey. "You're so pretty when you listen."

You glared frustratedly, Joel knowing full well that you could barely get any kind of momentum with your hands bound in such a way.

"Don't look at me like that, you got all your fingers don't ya?" He shook his head as he took a sip of whiskey, the sweetness of honey dancing along his tongue as he honed in on your glistening pussy—unashamedly adjusting himself in his pants when you helplessly tried to find an angel that could give you the most pleasure.

After a few minutes of fumbling, a sob broke through your chest. Whining. 

"I can't do it, Daddy!" you exclaimed. "It doesn't feel good, you're just being mean."

"Would you rather not get touched at all?" he asked with a bite, gnawing into your psyche, breaking you down until you could hardly think.

"No," you drawled out. "Just want to cum, daddy."

"Then keep goddam goin', little girl. One more word outta you and I'm leavin' and sleepin' on the couch." The look you gave him then was the cutest thing ever, laced with a need so deep. A need not just for the sex, but for the love—for the kiss of his skin against yours when you fell asleep with soft snores. For the vitality that permeated the connection, you shared when he held you close and told you of times long past, aired his grievances and then apologized when he realised a little girl like you shouldn't be burdened by his impediments.

You craved him and he could hardly contain his pride at the notion.

He mumbled a short, "That's what I thought," when you started trying to touch yourself again, hiding his smirk behind his glass and letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in his stomach.

Watching you struggle, watching you so desperate had always been his favourite thing—something that kept him sane during the dark winter nights when even the moon seemed to lose its light. The image of you, bound and wet glistened in the slight lamplight that expelled from the cracks in the walls.

And here you were. His naughty little girl with your wrists tied together and your tears streaming as you tried to get yourself off.

Disgruntled moans fell from your lips, eyes wide as you stared at him with meaning slathering your gaze. He gauged your silent words and he downed the rest of his drink before his instructions came.

"Come over here," he commanded, legs widening as he settled, no intentions of coddling you, rubbing away the sores on your wrists and telling you that you were his good girl again. You had not atoned yet, you had not fully experienced the judgement day that befell as soon as the thunderclouds had rolled in and clapped with an almighty roar above your head. He wanted to be revered, wanted you to look at him how you used to—like he was God himself.

You pathetically scrambled off the bed, your body trembling as your sweat began to dry in the cold chill of the winter air. You could shiver all you want. It was your fault it was cold in the first place.

When he witnessed you standing on two feet, ready to take a step, he shook his head.

"Hands and knees, honey, come on you gotta crawl."

"But, daddy, my hands—"

"I don't give a damn if you gotta army crawl, just get your ass over here."

He revelled in the way your lip quivered, the way you slowly genuflected at the altar of his cruel kindness and shuffled slowly to the crown of thorns he held between two calloused hands. When you nestled between him, he dug the thorns into the skin of your forehead and immortalised you with a bloody cross on your chest, giving so freely when he brushed his fingers through your hair to soothe the wounds.

You began apologising again, nuzzling into the feel of his hands against you, knees scraping against the floor as you pressed your face down against his thigh.

"Wanna make you feel good, Daddy," you whimpered. "Please, I'm sorry. Wanna let you hurt me."

Joel scoffed, smiling down at you as you leaned against him.

"You think you deserve Daddy's cock, huh?" he muttered. "Sometimes, I think the best way to make you listen is to make you go without. It ain't exactly a punishment when you like it so much, is it?"

You whined then, shaking your head and pressing your face fully against his crotch, no shame in the way you pawed at him, not heat to your cheeks when he went to grasp the sides of your face and pull your gaze to his.

"How do we ask?" he questioned with a tilt of his eyebrow, playing with the pout on your lips.

Your eyes went down at his tone, bottom lip jutting out even further as he brushed his thumb over it and words mumbled as you uttered the third rule on the ever-growing list stuck to the fridge.

"Can't hear you," he said, only catching the odd few words that you managed to enunciate properly.

"Ask like a polite young lady or I don't get what I want."

He sighed happily, nodding his head and tilting your head from side to side, admiring you from every angle before letting you go and muttering, "That's right." You basked in the minute praise, the implications of his words and his actions as he spread his legs a little wider with a silent command, and flicked his eyes to his crotch. "Ain't got all night," he uttered. "Already took the belt off for ya. Is a button too hard for ya?"

You shook your head vehemently, fingers clasped around the metal fly and tugged downward once you'd pushed the denim through the button. Reaching in with ardour, he settled into his chair, ready to watch you fumble with the size of him, your warm mouth encasing him whilst he gave no assistance or encouragement. The casualness of the licentiousness was always his favourite. Those moments on the couch when you were on his lap and he'd rub at your clit in soft circles—not intending to make you cum. If anything, it always made you sleepy, your body going heavy and slack against his as your eyes flickered.

It was the same now, with his face straight, reaching for the book that he'd left on the side table and opening up on the last page. In truth, he wasn't focused on the words. All he could think about was trying not to elicit a groan when your hand wrapped around him, a little too tight as if you were trying to get one back at him, and pressed a tentative kiss to the tip.

The feat became even more of a difficulty when you thanked him, all sweet and soft before taking him whole in your mouth—right down to the base, breathing heavily through your nose, eyes wet with tears that dripped into his grey pubes, and suppressing the inevitable gag that had you choking and spluttering as you surfaced for air.

"C'mon," he said suddenly, flicking the page like he'd even absorbed any of the information on the last one, and grabbed your hair to push you back down on his cock. "You don't stop unless you can't breathe, you understand me?" he asked authoritatively. Then, a little softer with his tone, just that touch lighter with a downturn of his eyes to reiterate something you already knew. "If you wanna stop altogether, you know what you gotta say don't you?"

You nodded with his cock down your throat, humming around him and basking in the small victory of a choked groan, then the desperation for composure when he shook his head and trained his eyes on the top of the page.

Diligently, you began to work, up and down, tongue running along the underside, catching the veins you had mapped—now muscle memory that lingered in the backrooms of your mind. Your dominant hand was forever caressing his balls, a comfortable weight in your hand—almost calming—as you took the entirety of him. The soft tip reached the back of your throat with every movement, reflexes smothered as you tried as best you could to not focus on the feeling of your jaw locking.

The tears were damp on his skin, the suction around his cock a malicious force that threatened to reveal his position and your pretty little eyes looking up at him with desperation for his attention. He could feel your gaze in his periphery and from the observant nature he knew still lay somewhere within you, you'd probably gauged that the book was nothing more than a disguise considering he had not turned the page in the past ten minutes. You knew the speed at which he read considering he read to you almost every night and with an extreme lack of restraint, his eyes honed in on you over the top of the cover.

"What're you lookin' at?" he asked with a strain, succumbing completely when his eyes flickered shut—giving himself a second to breathe. A moment of composure and his eyes were back on you. Yours had not left him. "Hm? What're you crying for, babygirl?"

His thumbs came to wipe at the corners of your eyes, holding underneath your chin to pull you off him gently. The string of spit that attached you to him had his position completely displaced—the stalemate broken as he raised the white flag in surrender and let the book fall gently against his lap. A forgotten entity as you leaned in with haste to lick the precum off his leaking tip. Just cause you liked the taste.

He still didn't know if you were lying about that or if you really were a little goddamn cumslut but he would take the wins as considerately as he took the losses.

Your eyes mystified him, the windows to your soul glistening like the heavenly gates of eudaimonia and you hypnotised him into acquiescing. Not forgiving. No, you were in no position to be forgiven just yet, not before he pressed your body into the bed and fucked his cum into you. The harshness just seemed to fall away.

"Goddamn, I can't stay mad at you," he said with exasperation, both hands cupping your cheeks and feeling his back crack as he leant down to kiss you.

Your tears wet his thumbs as his tongue slipped into your mouth, all spit and desire as you sobbed against his mouth. He pulled away to caress your hair, watching you blubber with carefully concealed guilt that he would bury down into the pits of the bruise on his chest by the day's end.

"I hate it when you're mad at me," you cried and it was so sincere he could hardly stand it.

"I know, baby, I know," he murmured. "But I don't like it when you're not good. And I gotta do what I gotta do. I don't want you runnin' off again, honey."

"I won't," you said, shaking your head. "I promise I won't."

In truth, Joel knew you wouldn't. Now, he knew that this temporary setback was nothing more than just that. You'd just got a little tetchy. It was understandable considering how much freedom he had taken from you. Your life had slowly transformed into a small slice of what it once was, the patrols dwindling to stable duty, then to greenhouse duty, and then helping keep the grocery store shelves stocked every other day, and then right down to Joel's house where nothing could get to you except the beast of a man who passed the threshold every day.

There was a short silence between your words and his next, licking his lips in contemplation before signalling over to the bed with his head.

"Go lay down."

Almost immediately, you did as he asked, bound hands placed on the ground, ready to crawl then stopping when you heard his no.

You looked in confusion, wondering what you had done wrong now. All he said was, "It's okay, you don't have to crawl just-" he sighed, looking at your hands and deciding he liked the scratches on his back far too much to restrict your movement for much longer. "Come here," he asked, and you obediently settled back into your previous position. He carefully removed the belt bind, rubbing at the marks on your wrist when the leather fell to the floor with a thud.

Then, the moment of softness was gone and he pushed you away with another nod to the bed before reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He smiled when you glanced back on your journey to look at him undressing, a suppressed smirk on your face when you nestled down on your side of the bed and pressed your face into your pillow.

You didn't sneak another glance when he started shucking his jeans down his legs, kicking them off alongside his socks until all the clothes lay on a pile next to his chair, and then stood with a crack in his knees to settle down next to you.

The bed dipped when he sat, reaching for you with a gentle hand across your waist, turning you to face him.

You melted into him, shuffling closer so you could touch him in any capacity, eyes raking over his old frame as if he were anything special. In times like these, when you shamelessly soaked in the pudge of his belly, the wrinkles in his forehead and the grey in his hair, he felt wanted. You made him feel wanted, loved, desired—something he hadn't in years. Even before all this goddamn shit, when he was focused solely on giving his daughter the best life possible, when he didn't have time to sink into some cliche romance with a woman of respectable age and a similar situation. Even Tess, goddamn Tess who lingered in his periphery when he was beating a runner to death—flashes of all the people he'd killed and tortured with her by his side. He did not even feel wanted then. Just a disposable commodity. He had known that he was not the only man she messed around with in that QZ. Everyone was looking for comfort, everyone desperate for the touch of another to soothe them to sleep when the bombs dropped and there was nothing to keep them from crying.

Even when he had walked into Jackson with his head held high and the pretty woman who led patrol group C asked him if he'd ever want to go out for drinks sometime, he had not felt wanted. He had sat in the secluded corner of the Tipsy Bison with her hand on his thigh and whispered promises between sips of whiskey and decided that it didn't feel right—that there was something in her eyes that told him she wouldn't devote herself to him as you had done.

God and he felt so guilty every time he thought about how he turned Jessica down with a frown, holding her hands between his and telling her that he had enjoyed every second, that it wasn't anything to do with her or her character but all down to the fact that Joel didn't want to lose someone he grew close to again. He couldn't make room for any more pain in his chest.

Sometimes, he felt like it with you, felt like he should let you run away just to prevent the feeling when you eventually left anyway.

But, you stared at him with so much love, naked and wide-eyed and he couldn't even fathom the thought of letting you go. In this moment, when you rested your head on the pillow and nuzzled into his waiting palm when he cupped your cheek, he couldn't bear the images that danced and fell of you running away. Of you turning your back on him like he hadn't given you everything.

"Daddy," you murmured, eyes worried at his intense thinking, the silence stretching just a little too long.

He was pulled from his reverie with a shake of his head, eyes catching yours, fixated on the deepness of your intent and absent-mindedly tracing his hand down your arm, tickling along the soft hair and reaching for your palm with a squeeze.

"You ain't ever gonna leave, are ya?" he asked suddenly, intent on hearing you say it without blubbering, without the girl he'd turned you into saying it for you. He wanted to see the girl in the Polaroid, the girl who had once been crucified by the horrors of the plains. He wanted to feel the nails in your palms and feet, the sacrifice of yourself streaming into your eyes where the thorns had cut too deep.

You got quiet, your hand wriggling against his until you could fully intertwine your fingers. You squeezed once, shuffling up the bed to sit up slightly, and brought the back of his hand to your mouth. You kissed, as delicately as he had ever seen you kiss, and fucked his soul with the softness of your affections.

Then, you shook your head, all guts no glory.

"No. I won't go anywhere else for as long as I live."

He let the words settle, let them linger for just a little while—struggling to swallow them down, his teeth ripped from his gums and blood spilling on his tongue as he attempted to chew. They didn't quite reach his stomach, just nestled somewhere in his throat, a space where he couldn't quite cough them back up but also couldn't quite force them down. So instead, he kissed you before you could say another word, tongue down your throat, a hand wrapped around where the muscle dug, and pressed you into the mattress with the weight of his mania.

In truth, he knew he had been crazed since the beginning of it all—completely insane by the end of it, too.

He gave it all to you, and it was too perfect that you took it so willingly. All of his derangement was given to you in a china bowl, a side of rotting flesh and a cup of piss to wash it all down. He masked you with the poison and made you just as deluded as he was until you both lived in your very own madhouse.

"You know just what to say to make Daddy happy," he breathed between kisses. "Know just what to do to make me forgive you, huh? Even when you've been bad."

You moaned in response, his lips latching onto your jugular, hands everywhere he could reach, working you into a sweat before he clasped your clit between two twitching fingers.

He shushed you when you cried out, using his other hand to press over your mouth.

"Sh, sh, sh, I know, baby, I know. It hurts so good, huh?"

You nodded desperately, jerking when he pinched harder, then let out a muffled cry when he swiftly pulled his hand away and then brought it right back down flat against your bare pussy. He revelled in the tears, the look of desperation on your face for more—for him to hurt you until you felt like you were his good girl again.

So, he hit again, landing square in the middle of your wet cunt, pulling back his hand to see the glisten—the lingering essence of you slicking the skin. You did not notice him staring through the blur of your tears, just tugging on the ends of his hair which was getting too long, to pull him down to your mouth. He went willingly, soothing over your clit with softer fingers and basking in the feeling of you against him.

It had been a long day. A long time alone, even with the company of Jesse. He had been worried about you and the relief that he had you where he wanted was insurmountable. An indescribable reprieve from the stress of his day and the panic of losing you like he had lost everyone else.

So, he slipped his fingers inside you with the grace of an arcing arrow, and reached for the transcendence of your moans, searched for the mystery of the sea in your eyes and the reverence of the Lord Jesus Christ in your devotion.

"There we go," he murmured when you started moaning, the heel of his palm digging into your clit to provide extra stimulation. "That's the one, ain't it, babydoll. My pretty little babydoll- fuck."

If it wasn't for the painful hardness of his cock or the consolation that you were here to stay, he would've been embarrassed by the way he moaned with you. Embarrassed by the way he hissed every time his cock dragged along your thigh. If he was someone else entirely, he would've been embarrassed altogether by the way he had you. By the way you had him.

Joel knew, had known for some time, that he needed you far more than you needed him. It was why, sometimes, he could never bring himself to worry about what you would do when he eventually left for the West—why he struggled so much to sit down and write that goddamn letter he had distressed himself over so much. He had faith that eventually, you would be okay. You would learn to live without him.

Because Joel Miller was nothing special. He was not glorious. He was far from good and a lot of the time, he believed that he deserved to die. That his penance for his misdeeds was God sending you for him to look after, knowing that your presence would make him utterly insane. He wanted to give you far more than he could, he knew that. Yet, he would love you like he loved the memories and believe you when you said that you loved him too.

If it wasn't for that sickening love, Joel would've been embarrassed by the way he asked you for the second time, "You ain't leavin'? You promise me?"

"Fuck," you whimpered and he didn't have it in him to scold you for cursing. "Fuck, yes."

He groaned when you gushed around him, a vice-like grip on his fingers when he brushed a thumb over your nipple and sucked your collarbone.

"Yes, what?" he breathed out almost desperately. "Tell me what."

You expelled a harsh breath, hand wrapping around his working wrist and squeezing tight until a ring of white branded itself into his skin.

"N-never leaving," you half-moaned, unable to control the desperation for his fingers. "Don't want you to leave ever, Daddy."

"Oh, baby," he muttered. "I ain't goin' anywhere, my pretty little thing."

You clung to him, then, arms wrapping around him to pull his chest to yours, to feel the weight of him crushing you into the earth, burying you with a pearl headstone adorning the grave of passion. The depths you fell, you were unsure, the way you tugged him with you into the abyss, Joel could not appease.

The adrenaline began coursing through him when you begged him to put it in, when you told him with a whine that you wanted to feel him deep—that you didn't just want it but you needed it.

"Daddy, please," you cried, eyes full to the brim with desperate tears, the salt sliding down your cheeks, another whine when he slipped his fingers from you to swipe away the tears.

"Goddamn," he muttered to himself, mesmerised by how gorgeous you looked with his wet fingers against your cheek, eyes red raw from the constant crying that symbolised so much more than the pain of knowing him. "You're beautiful, baby. So beautiful, I can't even hurt you."

"You can hurt me," you said so eagerly. "I want you to-"

"I can't," he cut you off firm and soft, shaking his head with a vulnerability he hadn't felt in a long time. "Not right now. Not when I've got you back."

"B-but I haven't been good," you protested. "Daddy, I haven't been good."

Joel shushed you, refusing to listen to whatever else you had to say.

"You're always good. Always my good girl, yeah?"

You shook your head and his hand came whipping down against the side of your cheek—an unconscious decision that he would've felt guilty for if it wasn't for the brightness in your eyes at the action. Still, he could not continue with these bouts of violence; could not position himself as a force of injudicious actions. You did not deserve what he gave you. You never had. But, he couldn't force himself to stop the power, to feel the domineering presence of his words fall over you like a ton of fucking bricks. You loved it, he knew you did. Just like he knew you loved his hate and his insanity. You craved it like he craved your innocence and, although both were completely twisted in their own ways, who was he to deny you what you wanted?

So, he asserted a simple, "Repeat it," one last smack to the side of your face before he gripped his cock in hand and eased the tip inside.

"Ah," you cried, never used to the stretch no matter how many times he peeled you apart.

"Repeat it," he asked again, trying to gain composure as you swallowed him whole.

"I'm- I'm…" The words fell away from you, your mind going blank as he pushed himself inside you. Inching further and further despite the resistance of your tightness.

"C'mon, baby, let daddy hear it," he groaned, breathing heavily to keep himself from moaning. "Repeat it."

"I'm a good girl," you garbled out, all in one mess as he simultaneously bottomed out inside of you, both gasping into each other's mouth at the feel of him nestling.

Joel gripped the sides of your face between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head from side to side, just to test how limp you were—how fucked out you were already despite him not even moving. He missed the days in late summer when he used to keep you on his cock all day long, too hot to make too much movement in fear you'd both overheat. Just you, lolling against him and spiralling into heaven with the tip of him rubbing against your cervix.

Your legs wrapped around your waist, pulling him in all that deeper and he had no words, no teasing phrases to punish you for breaking the rules. He didn't give a shit about that, not anymore. Not after what had been remedied here in your bed. As he looked at you, eyes closed shut, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, all he thought about was what would happen next. Where he would take the two of you. He had ideas, thoughts once private that he spewed between your lips when he started rolling his hips.

"Gonna marry you," he uttered. "Gonna make you a Mama."

You moaned in retaliation, babbling something he couldn't quite hear, ignoring the "no" that he thought had been strung within your incoherent sentences.

"Yeah, baby," he breathed out. "Gonna take you away from here. Gonna keep you forever."

Your chest was heaving, his was too, and he couldn't find it in himself to be deterred by his own words—the words that he had not thought of as anything more than a disparagement of his own sanctity when the nights got too dark and he couldn't see the future from where he stood.

His hips got quicker, adrenaline fuelling the ache of his bones and your pussy was so tight and wet he could hardly focus on the task at hand. His thrusts were quick and sharp, pistoning into you with the force of all his desires and holding back nothing at all when cupped your face in both hands and begged you for one thing.

"Look at me," he asked through gritted teeth.

You complied as best as you could, eyelashes fluttering and eyes hooded, unable to look at him properly with the incandescent nature of the sensations.

"God, I love you," he breathed out and he could barely keep the contact anymore, the wet squelching coming from your legs keeping him grounded at the moment, Yet, he could feel himself floating with each ringing in his ear, so desperate to cum that he neglected to touch your clit, giving you the much-needed stimulation that would send you floating on high right next to him; bathed in sunlight and the reverence of God Almighty.

Chasing his orgasm only, he thrust as fast as he could, groaning into your ear with each snap of his hips and burying his face into your neck to keep the noises from embarrassing him when he thought back on them later. And suddenly, with one sharp shout, he came, fast and hard and underwhelming—deep inside you as he sagged and shuddered above you.

You both lay there for a moment, his breath hot and heavy against your neck and as the high faltered, his cheeks began to heat.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit, baby, I'm sorry."

He pulled away to face you, gauging your reaction and finding nothing but a soft smile on your face.

"You came before me," you whispered, unable to control the giggles that spilt from your mouth. "You never cum before me."

His stomach was still clenched, his humiliation unable to overpower the spinning in his head and he was so bewildered that he looked at you with an expression of complete confusion. It took a moment for the giggles to settle in his ears before he began to crack a smile, shaking his head and unsuccessfully trying to get you to stop.

"Alright, alright, it ain't that funny." For some reason, that made you laugh harder and it was so infectious that he began laughing with you: complete easement, not even bothering to feel embarrassed about the way he'd just cum as fast as a virgin and hadn't even bothered to attempt to make you cum as well.

It felt normal, like you weren't both fucked in your own ways, called to the west and blinded by the sun in the east. The two of you were just you and Joel. The nice couple down the street who always kissed each other goodbye: a wife who made blueberry pie for the potluck and a husband who cooked sausages on the barbecue with the neighbours, telling him all about how lucky he is to have you. A little sickly sweet but normal all the same. But how could you be normal when the world did not adhere to the definition? How could anyone pretend that the situation of the globe was usual? Ravaged wasteland. Disparaged morals.

The two of you were not normal and, he decided, that he was fine with that. That neither of you wanted normality, and he was kissing away your laughs with a soft smile, teeth clattering in an unrefined connection. It was slow, almost sleazy the way your tongues began to touch, the humour fading to something more complex—a dependency so profound it maddened him.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmured into your mouth. "Sorry I didn't make you cum on my cock, I know you like it best like that, don't ya?" Joel smiled at your nod, humming along with you. "Yeah, I know you do."

His kisses trailed down to your neck, down down down to your heaving breasts, nipples just desperate to be kissed and he sucked one into his mouth with ardour. You were so soft, always were and the smoothness of you beneath his tongue was something akin to heaven. He knew he would never reach the kingdom, and knew that eternity with God was impossible, so he would take what he could get while he was here. He would sin: murder, sex, and love with no bounds. He would deny His existence and then beg on judgement day for the feel of you one more time, his lips along your stomach as he kissed his way to your waiting cunt, spilling with his cum.

It was utter depravity when he saw the sticky white contrasted against the colour of you, dripping down onto the bed sheets and looking so incredibly appetising. And he was always crazed in his arousal, whispering words of insanity against your pussy in the hopes that one day he would indoctrinate you into believing them too.

"You think it's gonna take one of these days?" he asked, pulling you apart with his fingers, just to watch it fall out of you again. "You think daddy's gonna knock you up, hm?"

You were looking down at him with wide eyes, propped up on your elbows and looking so unsure of yourself in the moonlight. It only occurred to him then that it was now completely dark, the moon hanging bright in the sky, the day far behind you and winter subtly coming to a close. He refused to believe you when you shook your head, flopping back down to the pillows with a sigh when he traced the white all the way up to your aching clit.

"No?" His lips came down to your thighs, kissing the insides of the plush flesh and gracing you with soft bites, careful not to hurt you too much as you buried your flushed cheeks into the feathers. "You sure?"

You shook your head, moaning softly as he pressed his lips to the crease where you met, Joel's breath hot against you as you awaited the kiss of death.

"Please," you muttered. "Just wanna cum."

"Oh, she wants to cum?" There was condescension to his tone, harsh sarcasm that he didn't really mean and your hips bucked into his face in retaliation. He almost groaned at the scent of you, the sight of you so desperate for his tongue. He would make you cum if it was the last thing he did and he was ashamed that it would not be on his cock but he was getting older and the one hard-on was plenty for his body to handle. "It's okay, I'll make you cum, honey."

There, his lips latched onto your clit, moaning into the sensation, tongue lapping up the remnants of his cum with a single swipe and holding it dangerously in his mouth. Pulling away, he tapped his finger against your chin, crawling back up to face you with a mouthful of seed and disgusting thoughts he couldn't reconcile once all was said and done. You opened your mouth with no abandon, eyes wide as he gathered the combination of fluids in his mouth, and spat them directly into yours. Swiftly, he pushed on your chin, closing your mouth with a simple command of "swallow," and watched the bob of your throat as it all slid down to nestle into your stomach.

"Atta girl," he uttered, mesmerised by your obedience, slipping down your body again to begin eating you once more. Between kisses and sucks and licks, he murmured praise between your legs, promising you that you were his good girl—that you always were even when you broke the rules, even when you made him so mad and worried he could hardly think.

Joel's lips stayed clasped around your clit, fingers working into your cum-soaked cunt without abandon and stroking at the spot inside you that expelled every cry and moan from your mouth.

"Daddy," you whimpered. "Daddy, please, I-"

Muffled, he questioned you, asking if already after maybe only a few minutes of working, you were already on the edge—already ready to jump. Sometimes, he thought that maybe you always were. Maybe you were always just waiting for the moment he would push you—needing the extra little bit of assurance to tip you off the side of the cliff. You came so quickly and it was so cute. So special to him. So he sucked harder, fingers moving faster and your hands were in his hair and tugging with the force of the wind smacking against your face as you arched and fell and came into his waiting mouth.

Yet, he did not stop there, did not think you deserved just the one experience of falling, so he pushed that little harder, undeterred by your hands pushing against his head to force him away and placed his forearm over the expanse of your bucking hips to keep you down. He lapped and basked, the feeling of himself and you on his tongue an amalgamation of nature that could rival the wonders of the world. Surely, you were the eighth wonder, at least a figment in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, at least something greater than conceivable.

Because when you came, there was nothing but you, nothing but the expression on your face and feel of your fervour and he was determined to experience it again, despite your oppositions.

"T-too much, Daddy, it's- gonna." You were babbling, tears streaming into your temples, eyes squeezed shut from the overstimulation and your hands going limp against his head as you gave up the fight. You were leaning into it, he could tell. Rising higher into the darkness of the sky to find peace from the calling glare of the Lighthouse of Alexandria

When you got like this, he knew he'd have to rock you back to safety, find comfort in the uncomfortable when you were lolling in a headspace that cast a spell on your psyche, dug so deep inside you that it took bit by bit from your common sense each day.

"Daddy," you droned out, the moniker repeated over and over until you were gasping and twitching. "Daddy, I love you…love you s-so much." You cut your crying with a moan, revered by his tongue, motivated by the feel of his thick fingers inside you stroking and baiting you into coming again.

It came even quicker this time, the clenching of your stomach, the stopping of your sharp breaths as it built and built, rising tall until it shadowed your trembling figure. Then it all came tumbling down like a ton of bricks, a piece hitting you straight in the head as the heavens opened and the rain came pouring.

A chorus of "daddy" came tumbling from your lips, a hymn reserved for your own personal mass and you sermonised your affections with the snapping of your restraint—your thighs clamping down around his head, fingers digging into the mattress and tugging on the sheets. Seizing from the pleasure and then falling away completely as a long, drawn-out moan graced his ears.

Slowly but surely, his suction loosened, his fingers slipping from your sticky pussy and slathering over the skin of your stomach. Both of you were out of breath, a string of spit connecting you that mirrored the depravity that had taken place in the armchair not so long ago. He licked it away with a smile, crawling over you to press a kiss to your unresponsive lips.

Your thighs came together to remedy the aftershocks, your whimpers muffled by his mouth; an action that you had no energy to reciprocate. Knowingly, he moved away from your panting and practised your special dance, lips against your cheeks, your forehead, your nose and then burying his face in your hair.

"You okay?" he asked softly. "Want me to go get you some water."

You shook your head immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, pulling him down against you.

"Please don't go," you whispered, throat hoarse and eyes drying to a crust.

"Okay, okay," he appeased, softly manoeuvring you onto your side and tucking in beside you—letting you shuffle yourself as close to him as you could get. "There we go…did so good for me, babygirl. So good."

The regular moment of silence befell the both of you, the time after the fall when you were wrapped up in the feeling of each other and gave yourselves a moment to contemplate. Moments where sometimes, he got worried about what you were thinking, if the clarity that he felt after the fact was the same for you, or if you felt just as manic and possessive as he did when the intelligibility gave way to new sensations that trumped the lucidity.

Yet, you always managed to ease his wandering mind, always had something to say, all muffled and sleepy once he'd tucked you both in bed and buried you in the covers—just so you wouldn't complain about the cold and not sleep skin to skin with him.

"I'm never leaving," you said against his chest. All the promises at sundown—this one an addition to the long list of equivocations. "I'm just worried one day you'll leave me."

"Hey now, I ain't ever-"

"Not that," you corrected, eyes appearing from underneath him, chin resting on his chest and looking up at him with watchful, waiting eyes. "I'm worried that one day you'll leave even when you don't want to."

Joel understood the meaning as easily as he understood his own impending doom, wondering briefly if it had been the imminence of his oncoming suicide that had permeated your thoughts as much as it had his. He had to give it to you, you were one observant motherfucker, even if you tried pretending that you weren't. He knew that you felt it too, every time he went out into the snow: the thought that maybe he won't come back.

"You know I try my best to get back to you every day, don't you?" he uttered, fingers trailing up and down your arm, the other raking into your hair and pulling you back down to his chest. He didn't think he could bear to look at you, to see your scepticism when he denied the feeling that it was coming someday soon.

"I know," you murmured. "I just…Joel, I was wrong today."

His movements along your arm stopped, time ceasing altogether at your tone, at your stability. He couldn't quite stop the lump in his throat or the filling of tears in his eyes as you poured your heart into him.

"This is my home," you whispered, voice cracking. "I don't wanna be anywhere else, I don't wanna be with anyone else, you make me feel something I've never felt before and I need you."

A pause. A moment. Then you repeated it, the three words that almost meant more than the expression of your love.

"I need you. I don't think I can live without you." He almost begged you to stop, his hand firmly placed on the back of your head and holding you against his chest so you didn't see the tears that he desperately tried to blink away. "Please don't leave."

Joel wished you hadn't spoken, almost wished the entire day hadn't happened altogether. It was all too real, all too goddamn strange and harsh; he could feel his heart shattering when he cleared his throat and lied right in your fucking face.

"I promise," he falsified. "I ain't leavin' you ever."

a/n: ngl it's one in the morning and half of this has barely been edited because I was proof-reading as I wrote (which has been over the course of a few months tbh) and I just really wanted to get this out and finished and I don't want to ever think about it again but IF you see anything that doesn't make sense then please tell me so I can go back and correct. I hate having bad grammar, so it is of utmost importance to me. There also may be a few bits that don't read as well, especially towards the end, because I had a rough time writing smut for some reason. Either way, this went in so many directions, and I hope you enjoyed it!!!

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

I am historically quite bad at longfic. But for the one person who requested this: we're giving it a go! Expansion of this

Ghostxfem reader. No warnings this chapter.

PROLOGUE:

Ella the Enchantress had nails like ambergris and a cunt like a steel trap, with a personality to match.

Feared for her tempestuous nature and reviled for a demonstrable lack of empathy, enlisting the assistance of this witch-cum-altruist was an exercise in self-flagellation.

Ella enjoyed attention.

Her preferences varied with the weather, but speculation had it that her skills as a seductress far outstripped her talent with magic. A modern medusa, the wrong look could chain a petitioner to her, life and limb, for as long as she so pleased.

The right look was frequently difficult to come by - Ella wasn't always naked, but she was never far away.

Not that they'd regret looking, necessarily. She was certainly skilled. But she left marks, had a way of destroying livelihoods and relationships.

Her real name was Sally, and she was technically a sorceress.

A relationship with her would be akin to juggling a live grenade, and that would be stupid.

Ghost isn't stupid.

He just likes living on the edge. And sex.

For all her failings as a member of civilized society, Ella was hot. The aforementioned cunt didn't hurt, either.

Bit of a vindictive bitch, though.

"Y'know where the door is. Y'can let yourself out."

Ghost is brave for a man with all his softest bits hanging out.

Then again, the soft bits were always her favorite part of him - it certainly wasn't his personality or emotional fluency.

At least he knows what to do with his dick.

Sally storms through the apartment in a manner more literal than metaphorical, fuming with hot embarassment and anger, as she stomps her legs into the suggestion of a dress she was wearing when she'd seduced him.

Ghost doesn't notice. He's already dismissed her, rolled back over to her side of the bed and buried his face in the pillow instead of her lap.

That rat bastard. How dare he!

She's Sally Le Fucking Fay, great-great-great-great-great...great step-granddaughter of Morgen le Fay, and she cannot believe she made the mistake of handing her self-worth to a man.

No - that she can believe.

What she can't believe is that Ghost of all people would so callously reject her charm. He was an unlovable bastard, with no family and no prospects, and she had lowered herself to take him into her willing bosom.

And he had still turned her away.

She seethes the whole way home, ignoring the way her anger makes her magic flare around her. The scum of the night scramble out of her way, keen to avoid a gale that rips lids from trash cans and sends them careening into the nearest stationary object.

Sally has care to spare for one thing and one thing only. Usually it's herself. But tonight, it's going to be retribution.

Big hard man. Ha.

She'll show him.

Ghost peeks out from under his arm when he finally feels the front door shake the foundation - he's not entirely convinced she won't come back, and he's not as fearless as he'd like to pretend.

His room is a mess. Even more-so than after a normal night of athletics. Ella had imposed herself upon him for a week, and he'd tried every trick in the book to get her to leave.

He'd even turned down sex. Twice.

He'd seen it on the horizon, but he'd really thought the sorceress would take it better. It was part of the agreement - no feelings, blah blah blah, not ready for anything else.

She didn't want a man to cramp her witchy vibes, and he didn't want someone asking more of him than he was ready to give.

And then she'd decided they were "the perfect match" and they were "fated for each other", like characters in some cutesy Disney tale, and not who they really were -

A morally grey sorceress with reality debt, and an emotionally constipated weapon of destruction.

He'd had to pull out the big guns: alas, "it's over" didn't go over too well.

She'd nearly destroyed his room - it had rained, and if she wasn't so mad he'd have been worried about her flooding the basement. As it was, she'd steamed him like a shellfish.

He slips out of bed and sneaks over to the door, an intruder in his own home, afraid to summon her by accident. He'd kill for a good night's sleep, without hands crawling down his pants, but the climate in his room is unbearable.

The couch is good enough.

If he makes it through the week without hellfire raining down on him - literally - he's going to take a break from women.

He should have listened to Soap.

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 1

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One (you're here) | Two

Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.

But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.

WC: 11.9k

Authors Notes: Slow Burn, Competitors to Lovers, SLOW, I'm heavy into world building so expect a lot of story, SMUT in next chapter. I've like proof read 70% there's already 40k words written and I've changed shit up like 40 times by now lol

They say there are two kinds of impossibilities in basketball: the ones you laugh at, and the ones that make you hold your breath. Your entire career has been about the second kind.

The numbers shouldn't exist: 847 shots attempted in college. Two misses. A percentage that makes statisticians check their math and then check it again. The first miss was a seventy-footer your freshman year that hit the rim so perfectly the sound echoed through the arena like a bell. The second? Sophomore year, caught an elbow to the face that had blood streaming down your jersey—the shot still almost went in.

Two misses in three years. They call you The Prophecy because watching you miss is like seeing a meteor strike, so rare that people mark their calendars by it.

Every sports network has tried to explain you. ESPN did a special called "The Prophecy: Breaking Down Basketball's Perfect Player." Sports Illustrated put you on the cover: "The Future Came Early." The New York Times ran a feature: "Harvard's Double Threat: Engineering the Perfect Game." They all tried to capture what makes you different. None quite managed it.

Because how do you explain someone who turned down every basketball powerhouse in the country—UConn, Stanford, South Carolina—to study Aerospace Engineering at Harvard? How do you rationalize someone who spends mornings in advanced fluid dynamics classes and afternoons making impossible shots look like a simple routine?

Your teammates get it, though. They've nicknamed you "Rocket”— partly for your major, partly for how you launch yourself through defenses. You're the heart of a Harvard team that's won three straight championships, turning the Ivy League school into a basketball dynasty that no one saw coming.

But that legacy isn't built on game days alone. It’s forged in moments like these: the hum of anticipation, the camaraderie, the banter that cuts through the tension as the team gets ready to take the court.

They say the silence before a storm is the loudest. But whoever said that never sat in Harvard's women's basketball locker room before a big game.

"I swear to god, if you try to explain zone defense using thermodynamics one more time—" Sierra launches a rolled-up sock across the room that you catch without looking up from your pre-game ritual: left shoe, right shoe, double-knot both, check laces twice.

"That was ONE time," you protest, but Maria's already cackling.

"One time? Girl, last week you tried to break down UNC's press using some dynamic—“

"And it WORKED, didn't it?"

The locker room erupts in laughter, the kind of easy joy that only comes from three years of championships, late-night practices, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. Taylor's already started your pregame handshake sequence; each title has added new moves until it's practically a full choreographed dance. 

"Speaking of Carolina," Jasmine pipes up while adjusting her headband, "did y'all see their point guard tried to claim she's almost as accurate as you?”

"How'd that work out for her?" Sierra grins.

"Shot 3-for-15 against Duke." Taylor shakes her head. "Meanwhile, our girl over here—"

"845 for 847," the team chants in unison, then breaks into laughter again.

You roll your eyes but can't hide your smile. 

"Yo, check this out though," Sierra's scrolling through her phone. "LSU's talking mad shit on Twitter. Their center says she's gonna 'expose the myth’ tonight."

Tonight's game against LSU has been circled on calendars since the schedule dropped. Defending national champions versus the team that's rewriting what's possible in college basketball. 

The banter continues as everyone goes through their pregame routines. Maria's got her headphones in, mouthing the same Drake lyrics she's been using since freshman year. Taylor's meticulously re-taping her ankles for the third time. Jasmine's practicing her crossover in front of her locker, adding a little extra flair each time.

That's when Coach Matthews steps in, game face already set. The room doesn't exactly go quiet- this team's never been good at that, but the energy shifts— focuses.

"Ladies," she begins, but Sierra can't help herself.

"We know, we know, sold out crowd, national TV, time to show them why they call us the best team in the country."

The locker room buzzes with the easy confidence of a team that knows what they're capable of. You've all been together three years, grown from underdogs to unstoppable. 

Coach tries to look stern but fails. "I see three rings have made you cocky."

"Nah, Coach," Jasmine grins. "We were cocky before the rings. Now we’ve just proven that we were right all along.” 

The team cracks up again, but you catch something in Coach's expression, a mix of pride and concern. Her eyes find yours across the room. You know what she's thinking: LSU's not here just to play basketball. They're here to make a statement. To prove that Harvard's dynasty, your perfect record, all of it, is just smoke and mirrors.

You peek out at the arena as you head to warm-ups. Every seat filled, signs everywhere:

"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"

"845/847 ≈ Perfection"

"Future WNBA GOAT"

"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"

The student section erupts with enough thunder that you’d think there was an earthquake outside as you step onto the court. Three years, and the roar still hits different every time. Your teammates spread out for warm-ups, but you can feel every eye in the arena tracking your movement.

"Remember freshman year?" Sierra bumps your shoulder as you start stretching. "When you were still trying to convince everyone you were just 'pretty good' at basketball?"

You laugh, remembering that first practice. You'd shown up in glasses and a Harvard Engineering t-shirt, trying to downplay the high school highlights that had ESPN calling you the next Sue Bird. Then you went 50-for-50 in shooting drills.

"Pretty good," Taylor mimics, feeding you the ball. "Meanwhile Sports Center had a ticker counting your made shots."

The ball feels alive in your hands as you start your warm-up routine. Crossover, behind the back, step-back three. Swish. The Harvard crowd counts each made shot, a tradition that started your freshman year. They're at "thirty-seven" when a murmur ripples through the stands like a shift in the air pressure.

That's when you see them.

The entire UConn women's team, filing into their seats behind your bench. Their presence is magnetic, commanding, like the world has suddenly shifted to center on them. Your breath catches for just a moment, but you keep moving. Eyes forward, muscles loose. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Your gaze flickers up, and that’s when it happens. Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden child, the face of their dynasty—locks eyes with you. The briefest of seconds, but it feels like a spotlight on your skin. She's not just watching; she's studying. Calculating.

Without breaking stride, you add a little extra spin to your next move. A crossover that’s sharp enough to slice, a step-back three so effortless it’s almost insulting. Swish.

"Showing off for UConn?" Maria teases, but her voice feels distant, barely cutting through the thrum in your chest. You don’t answer. The crowd is at "forty-two" now, and so is Paige. You can feel her counting.

"Please," you roll your eyes, draining another three. "They're the ones who showed up to our house."

The arena's practically vibrating now. LSU's warming up on the other end, trying to look unbothered. Their coach keeps glancing your way, everyone knows their game plan will revolve around stopping you. Good luck with that.

"Rocket!" Jasmine calls out. "Give them the space shot!"

It's another team tradition. End of warm-ups, you launch one from near half-court, high enough to clear the International Space Station. The crowd holds its breath as the ball arcs through the air—

Bucket.

The place goes absolutely nuclear. Even some LSU players stop to watch the replay on the jumbotron. You don't celebrate, just turn and jog back to the bench, but you catch Paige Bueckers leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, she felt that one, too.

In the huddle, Coach Matthews keeps it simple. "They're going to try to get physical. They're going to try to get in your heads. But what do we do?"

"Let the scoreboard talk!" the team responds in unison.

You look around the circle—these girls who've become family. Sierra, who's never met a defensive assignment she couldn't lock down. Maria, whose no-look passes seem telepathic. Taylor, who crashes boards like gravity's just a suggestion. Jasmine, whose trash talk is almost as legendary as her three-point shooting.

The starting lineups are announced. LSU's players get scattered applause, but when they call your name, the sound is deafening. "At guard, a junior from Boston, Massachusetts, averaging 32.5 points per game, shooting 99.8% from the field—The Prophecy!"

You high-five down the bench, each teammate adding their own flourish to the routine. The crowd's chanting now:

"M-V-P! M-V-P!"

But you're already in game mode, that familiar calm settling over you. You can feel Uconn’s members watching from the stands, feel the weight of every expectation, every camera, every scout with an NBA team's future in their hands.

The referee holds the ball at center court. LSU's center—all six-foot-five of her—tries to stare you down.

You just smile. They have no idea what's coming.

The game opens exactly how LSU planned: double-team before you even touch the ball. Their guard and forward shadow your every move, leaving gaps all over the court. Rookie mistake.

You catch Maria's eye, give her the smallest nod. She drives right, drawing attention, while you slip backdoor. The defender realizes too late—you're already airborne, catching the lob one-handed. The rim's still shaking as you get back on defense.

"That's my point guard!" you shout, giving Maria her props. The crowd's already going wild, and you're only thirty seconds in.

LSU tries to establish their post game, but Sierra's having none of it. She strips their center clean, and suddenly you're off to the races. The ball finds you at the three-point line. One defender recovers, rushing at you with a hand up.

Time slows. You see every option: the drive, the pass, the shot. But there's something poetic about making the hardest choice look easy. You rise up, release. The defender's hand grazes your wrist—doesn't matter. Swish.

"And The Prophecy strikes first! Two possessions, two baskets!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "She's making this look like a shoot-around!"

Your teammates are feeding off the energy. Taylor's owning the glass, Jasmine's picking pockets, and Maria's threading passes through impossible angles. By the six-minute mark, you're up 18-7, and LSU calls their first timeout.

"They can't guard you for shit!" Sierra laughs as you huddle up. She's right—they've tried three different defensive schemes already.

Coach Matthews keeps it tactical. "They're getting frustrated. Gonna start trying to bump you off your spots. Stay composed."

You nod, taking a quick swig of water. Your eyes drift to the UConn section. KK Arnold shoots you a smile which you return. Sierra’s shown you enough of her Tik Tok’s for you to recognize the Freshman.

Back on court, LSU switches to a box-and-one. Four players in a zone, one dedicated to face-guarding you. Cupcake stuff compared to what you see in practice.

You set up on the wing, let them think they've got you contained. The defender's playing so tight you can smell her shampoo. Maria starts her drive, draws the zone's attention. You wait... wait...

Then it happens. Quick as thought, you plant your back foot, cut hard to the corner. The defender's still turning when you catch and release in one motion. The ball hasn't even hit the net before you're heading back on defense.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" The announcer's losing it. "The Prophecy with another! She's 5-for-5 to start the game!"

The Harvard student section's going ballistic. Even your teammates are shaking their heads—three years, and you still find ways to surprise them.

LSU's getting chippy now. Their forwards are throwing elbows on screens, talking under their breath. You've seen it before: when skill isn't enough, they try to get physical.

"Yo Rocket," Taylor mutters after a particularly hard screen. "They're hunting."

You just nod. Let them hunt. You didn't get here by backing down.

With two minutes left in the first quarter, they try to trap you at half-court. Two defenders, both bigger, trying to muscle you into a mistake. You hit them with a crossover so nasty the crowd gasps. Split the double-team, euro-step around the help defense, and finish with a finger roll that looks like it defies gravity.

The LSU coach is screaming now, face turning purple. Nothing's working. Every scheme, every adjustment, every physical play, you've got an answer for all of it.

Ten seconds left. You let the clock drain, waving off the screen from Taylor. Your defender's in perfect position, textbook stance. Doesn't matter.

You rise up from NBA range, the defender's hand right in your face. The ball arcs high, the crowd holding its breath—

Swish. At the buzzer.

Harvard's bench explodes. Your teammates mob you as you head to the sideline, perfect quarter in the books. 15 points, 6-for-6 shooting, 3 assists. Just another day at the office.

"Show off," Sierra teases as you sit down.

"Actually," you grin, slipping into your best professor voice, "according to my calculations, that was just the warm-up."

The team cracks up. This is what the cameras miss, what the stats can't show. The joy of playing the game you love, with people you love, at a level few have ever reached.

But LSU's huddle looks different now. There's an edge to their expressions, a darkness in their eyes. They're not just losing—they're being embarrassed on national TV.

You've seen that look before. It usually means someone's about to do something stupid.

Second quarter opens with LSU trying something new: they're running a full-court press, getting extra physical on every possession. Their coach has clearly given them the green light to push boundaries.

"They big mad now," Jasmine laughs as she inbounds the ball to you.

You weave through the press like it's a morning jog, finding Maria with a no-look pass that has the crowd buzzing. She drains the three, and you make sure to flex for the LSU bench on the way back. Their coach calls for a substitution, sending in Williams—their enforcer, known for walking the line between aggressive and dirty.

"Heads up," Taylor mutters as she runs past you. "Number 32's got that look."

You've seen players like Williams before. They show up in every big game, thinking they'll be the one to throw you off your rhythm. They usually learn.

The next possession, Williams tries to bump you off your cut. You absorb the contact, spin away like water, and catch the ball in perfect position. She's still recovering when you rise up for three. Nothing but net.

"That's 20 for The Prophecy!" The announcer's voice carries over the roar. "Still perfect from the field!"

The Harvard student section starts a new chant: "YOU CAN'T GUARD HER!" 

You spot some NBA scouts courtside, furiously taking notes. There's already talk about you leaving early, being a top pick. But that's future stuff. Right now, there's just this game, this moment, this next possession.

Williams is getting frustrated. Each bump gets a little harder, each screen a little later. The refs are letting them play physical, and LSU's taking full advantage.

"Yo Rocket," Sierra says during a free throw. "Want me to accidentally trip her?"

You shake your head, smiling. "Nah. I got something better planned."

Next play down, you call for a clear-out. Everyone knows what's coming, your teammates, the crowd, even the UConn section leans forward. Williams squares up, trying to look tough.

The move is pure poetry: crossover so quick it looks like the ball's on a string, between the legs, behind the back. Williams lunges, trying to stay in front. That's when you hit her with the step-back, creating just enough space to rise up.

The shot is perfect before it leaves your hands. Williams can only watch as it drops through, pure silk. The crowd absolutely loses it.

"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Jasmine screams, running past Williams, tongue out in mockery. "But not for her!"

Even some of the LSU players are trying not to smile. What else can you do when you're watching someone operate on a different level?

That's when you notice Paige Bueckers isn't just watching anymore—she's studying. Taking in every move, every counter, like she's downloading your game for future reference. You catch her eye for a split second and there's something there: not just respect, but recognition. Game recognizing game.

The half continues like a highlight reel. You're seeing everything in slow motion: every cut, every screen, every defensive rotation. It's like playing basketball in IMAX, everything crystal clear, every possibility visible.

With three minutes left in the half, Harvard's up 45-28. The game's starting to feel less like competition and more like an exhibition. That's usually when things get dangerous.

You see it coming in slow motion: Sierra bringing the ball up court, Williams setting up for what looks like a normal defensive position. But there's something in her stance, something in her eyes.

Williams launches herself at Sierra, sending her crashing into the scorer's table with a sickening crack. The crowd gasps as Sierra crumples, blood already streaming from her nose.

The arena goes dead silent.

Then everything happens at once. Your teammates rush to Sierra. Jasmine gets in Williams' face. The refs are blowing whistles. But you, you're standing perfectly still, a different kind of calculation running through your mind.

Three years of friendship. Three championships. Countless late-night study sessions where Sierra helped you with orbital mechanics homework while you ice your knees. All those moments flash through your mind in an instant.

You start walking toward Williams, and something in your expression makes everyone—teammates, refs, even the crowd—go quiet.

The silence in Lavietes Pavilion is deafening. Blood drips from Sierra's nose onto the hardwood—each drop echoing like thunder in your ears. Your teammates are surrounding her, but your focus is laser-locked on Williams, who's still trying to act tough, shoving Jasmine.

"Get the fuck out my face," Williams snarls, pushing your teammate back.

You cross the court in long, measured strides. Your teammates part like the Red Sea, something in your expression making them step aside. Williams turns just as you reach her, and for the first time tonight, you see fear flicker across her face.

The crowd holds its breath. Every phone is up, every camera pointed at this moment. Even the refs seem frozen, waiting to see what happens next.

You step right into her space, close enough that only she can hear you. Your voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Touch my teammate again," you say, each word precise as a scalpel, "and I promise you'll regret ever stepping foot in this fucking gym."

Williams tries to maintain her tough act, stepping forward. "Oh yeah? What you gonna—"

"Try me one more time," you cut her off, voice even quieter now, "and when I catch you outside this gym I’ll make sure you don’t get back up.” 

The refs finally restore order, whistles blaring. Technical fouls all around. As you check on Sierra—her nose definitely broken but she's insisting she can play—you hear the murmur rippling through the crowd. Nobody's ever seen you like this. The Prophecy's always been about grace under pressure, about making the impossible look easy.

This is something else entirely.

Coach sends you to the bench to cool off. You end up near the Harvard section, your teammates who aren't on the court surrounding you like a protective wall. Behind them, the UConn section hasn't made a sound, but you can feel their attention like a physical weight.

"I've never seen you like that," Taylor whispers, a mix of awe and concern in her voice.

"Nobody touches our people," you say simply, eyes locked on the court where LSU is shooting their free throws.

Sierra's getting patched up beside you, tissues stuffed up her nose. "You know I've taken worse hits in practice," she tries to joke.

“That’s beside the point." Your voice is still deadly quiet. "They came into our house thinking they could punk us. Thinking what—because we're Harvard we're soft? They can suck my dick.” 

The energy in the arena has shifted. Your teammates are fired up, talking amongst themselves. The crowd's still buzzing, cameras alternating between you and Williams. But you're not playing for them anymore. This isn't about highlights or SportsCenter or draft stock.

When the buzzer sounds for you to return, your teammates stand as one. "Light them the fuck up," Sierra says through her swollen nose, and the team erupts in agreement.

You step back onto the court, and the ball finds its way to your hands like it's meant to be there. Williams tries to meet your eyes, but she flinches when she does. She knows what's coming.

They all do.

The ball leaves your hands before their defense can set. Swish. 34 points.

Maria screens Williams hard—legally, but with extra emphasis. You curl around it, catch, release. Swish. 37.

"The Prophecy is taking no prisoners now," the announcer's voice carries over the chaos. "This isn't just basketball anymore, folks. This is personal."

Each possession is a message. No more fancy moves, no more style. Just pure, devastating efficiency. Catch and shoot. Drive and score. Again and again until the numbers blur together and the only sound in the arena is the whisper of the net.

Williams tries to guard you on a switch. You look her dead in the eye as you rise up. She knows it's good before you even release. 45 points.

The fourth quarter becomes a massacre. Not just because of your scoring, but the way your whole team moves now—like sharks that have tasted blood. Every screen is a statement. Every cut is a challenge. Harvard basketball isn't just winning anymore; they're sending a message.

With thirty seconds left, Harvard up by 35, Coach tries to sub you out. You wave her off. There's one more thing to do.

You catch the ball at the opposite baseline—ninety-four feet from your basket. The crowd realizes what you're about to attempt and rises as one. Williams is still trying to guard you, bless her heart.

You don't even look at the basket as you launch it, eyes locked on hers the whole way. The ball soars through the air, high enough to scrape the rafters. Time seems to stop as 4,000 people hold their breath.

Swish. As pure as a layup.

The arena explodes. Your teammates storm the court as you take off on a victory lap, tongue out, arms spread wide. The Harvard band is playing, the student section is losing their minds, and somewhere in the chaos, you catch Paige Bueckers standing up, shaking her head in amazement.

December hits Boston like a cold slap to the face. Three months since the LSU game, and Harvard's still undefeated, 12-0, ranked #2 in the country. Tonight's the game everyone's been circling: #1 UConn at Harvard. The Game of the Year, ESPN's calling it. Every headline is the same story in different words: you versus Paige, like the rest of the teams are just here to watch.

You haven't spoken to any of the UConn players since that night in your locker room. Sure, you see the occasional Instagram story when Jasmine reshares KK's posts (they're dating now, apparently, something that started with DMs and turned into weekend visits), but, that's about it. You don't even follow Paige Bueckers on social media. Why would you? 

"Earth to ____,” Sierra waves a hand in front of your face during warmups. "You good?"

"Yeah," you snap back to reality, draining another three. "Just locked in."

The arena's packed to the rafters, twice as loud as the LSU game. During layup lines, you catch glimpses of the UConn players, especially Paige, who moves with that same fluid confidence you remember. She's got that look in her eyes, the one you recognize in your own reflection: the quiet certainty of someone who's never doubted their greatness.

Your pregame outfit, fitted black turtleneck under your warmups, gold chain catching the light, has already made its rounds on social media. “She looks SO good!!” is trending on Twitter, complete with fire emojis. Not that you care about that stuff. (But okay, maybe you spent an extra minute on your appearance today. Professional reasons only.)

The game starts like a prize fight, both teams trading blows, neither willing to blink first. Paige opens with a three; you answer with a step-back jumper. She hits a floater; you counter with a drive that leaves her defender spinning. It's not personal, you tell yourself. Just basketball.

By the first TV timeout, you've both got 8 points and the crowd's already losing it. The energy's different from the LSU game, no cheap shots or trash talk, just pure, elite basketball. Almost like you're speaking the same language, even if you're on different teams.

"Yo," Maria whispers during a free throw, "is it just me or is Bueckers playing extra hard when she's guarding you?"

"Everyone plays hard against me," you shrug, but you've noticed it too. The way she locks in, the extra intensity in her defense. Like she's got something to prove.

The second quarter is where you start to take over. UConn tries everything, double teams, box-and-one, even a triangle-and-two. Nothing works. You're seeing the game in slow motion again, every passing lane, every defensive rotation crystal clear. By halftime, you've got 24 points on perfect shooting, and Harvard's up 48-39.

In the tunnel heading back out, you pass Paige. There's a moment— brief but loaded— where your eyes meet. She gives you this little nod, competitor to competitor. Nothing more. (But why does it feel like something more?)

The second half is a masterclass. You're not just scoring anymore; you're conducting an orchestra. No-look passes to Sierra for corner threes. Behind-the-back feeds to Taylor for breakaway layups. And when UConn makes their inevitable run in the fourth, you shut the door with a sequence of moves so filthy they'll probably end up on SportsCenter's top 10.

Final score: Harvard 89, UConn 78. Your stat line: 38 points, 9 assists, still haven't missed a shot this season. The handshake line is respectful, none of that LSU energy, and when you reach Paige, her grip is firm, professional.

"Good game," she says simply.

"You too," you respond, and mean it.

After the media obligations, your phone buzzes. It's Jasmine: 'Bar. Tonight. Both teams. No excuses.'

You consider begging off, you do have that Thermodynamics problem set due Monday, but something makes you change your mind. Professional courtesy, you tell yourself. Networking.

The bar is one of those trendy spots where the grad students pretend they're not drowning in student debt. You show up fashionably late in black jeans, a cream-colored silk shirt, and boots that add an extra inch you definitely don't need. The teams are separate at first, Harvard at one end, UConn at the other. Only Jasmine and KK bridge the gap, wrapped up in their own world.

You stick with your teammates initially, nursing a Moscow Mule and trying not to notice how Paige looks in a baggy jeans and a button up when she arrives with some of her teammates. The groups slowly start to mix as the night goes on, pulled together by Jasmine and KK's gravitational field.

"So," UConn's shooting guard, Emma, ends up next to you at the bar. "You always play like that, or were you just showing off?”

You arch an eyebrow, a light smile tugs at the corner of your lip. "Just playing my game." 

"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink. 

You change the subject, asking about their upcoming schedule. Basketball is safe. Basketball makes sense.

The night continues, groups shifting and reforming. You end up in a conversation with some UConn players about the WNBA draft, carefully maintaining your distance when Paige joins the discussion. But you can't help noticing things: how she commands attention without trying, the way her laugh carries over the bar noise, how she seems to know exactly where you are in the room at all times.

Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe, you’re just down bad.

"Paige is single, you know," KK says later, appearing at your elbow with the subtlety of a brick through a window.

"Good for her," you say neutrally, even as something flutters in your chest.

"Good for you, you mean," KK mutters, dodging the half-hearted shove you send her way before melting back into the crowd.

The night winds down, groups splitting off for Ubers, some players already making plans for late-night food. You're standing near the door, tugging your coat tighter around you against the Boston chill seeping in, when you hear your name.

You turn, and there she is, bathed in the hazy glow of the bar's neon sign, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. For the first time all night, it's just the two of you, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.

"Good game tonight," she says, and it’s almost funny how understated it sounds after the week of media buildup and ESPN countdowns.

"Thanks." You pause, letting the silence stretch. "You too."

Her smile tilts, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. "You don’t have to play it cool all the time, you know."

"Who says I’m playing?" you counter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, quirking up just enough to give her the edge.

Paige steps closer, the space between you shrinking but still electric. "You’re good, Rocket. Even better than the headlines give you credit for."

"Don’t tell me you came out here just to boost my already inflated ego," you say, leaning back just enough to keep the balance of power from tipping entirely her way.

"Maybe," she says lightly, though the way she holds your gaze feels heavier than that. "Or maybe I just wanted to see for myself what all the hype’s about."

"And?"

Her smile deepens, slow and deliberate. "I wasn’t disappointed."

The air between you crackles, her words lingering in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. But before you can decide what to say—or if you should say anything at all—one of her teammates calls her name from the curb.

She glances back, then at you again. 

"Don’t overthink your game plan," you say.

"And you don’t underestimate mine," she calls over her shoulder, her voice light but the glance she throws you anything but.

You stay there a moment longer, the cold biting at your skin but your chest feeling oddly warm. As you finally step outside, something about the night feels unfinished—like a play halfway through its best scene.

As you slide into the car, you realize your heart's racing—and it has nothing to do with the cold.

Maybe KK was right. Maybe this is good for you.

Later that night, lying in bed, you find yourself replaying moments from the game. Just the game, you tell yourself. The way she moves on court, like water finding its path. Her defensive intensity. Her competitiveness that mirrors your own.

Your phone buzzes: a follow request on Instagram from Paige Bueckers on your private Instagram.

You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, you press accept. No big deal. Just professional courtesy.

But you can't help smiling as you set your phone down.

March suddenly feels very far away.

That night, sleep feels impossible. The win keeps looping in your mind—every play, every shot, every moment after the final buzzer. You’re still riding the high, but it's the interactions off the court that keep replaying, too. The way Paige’s eyes locked on yours during the game, that quiet intensity between you two. It was almost like there was something unspoken, an invisible thread pulling you together.

You try to shake it off as you lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Eventually, you post a late-night story: just you in your Harvard champion sweatshirt, hair a little messy, looking tired but satisfied. Caption: “some nights hit different 🏀✨"

You're not thinking about anyone in particular when you post it. Really. No, seriously.

But a couple of minutes later, your phone lights up with a notification: "paigebueckers viewed your story."

You freeze. Your heart does that annoying skip, the one you wish you could ignore. You try to play it cool, but the small smile on your face gives it away.

Before you can stop overthinking it, another story pops up from Paige. It’s her on the team bus, the weariness on her face somehow just makes her look even more perfect. Caption: “good games make you better. great games change you. 📈"

You stare at the story longer than you should. Three times, maybe four. Then you catch yourself. No, you're not doing this. You’re being professional. Totally. You swipe past it, but not before watching it once more—just for, you know, "research purposes."

Wednesday practice, you’re on the floor with Sierra, trying to explain orbital mechanics while stretching out your legs. The routine’s familiar, your voice calm and focused, like you’re explaining a simple layup. "So basically, if you account for gravitational force and initial velocity—"

"Rocket," Sierra interrupts, "you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."

You look at her, feigning confusion. "Have not," you protest, but your fingers are already reaching for your phone, like they’re on autopilot. You can’t help it. Paige posted a drill video this morning, just pure basketball content—nothing that special, just her hitting a perfect jumper, maybe some footwork drills, nothing groundbreaking. You dropped an eyes emoji in response. Professional admiration only. That's it. Nothing to see here.

"Right," Sierra raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "And I'm sure you've watched every other point guard's practice clips fifteen times too."

You give her a deadpan look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching for your foam roller and throwing it at her.

Thursday afternoon finds you in Advanced Fluid Dynamics, usually your favorite class. The equations and concepts feel like second nature to you, but today, your thoughts keep drifting elsewhere. You keep finding yourself thinking about basketball — about how certain players move like water, finding the path of least resistance, flowing through defenses with a grace you can’t help but admire.

You’re not sure if it’s the subject of the class or the strange pull you’re feeling, but your mind is elsewhere.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down discreetly. It's a notification from Instagram: Paige has liked your last three posts.

Including one from six months ago.

You blink. The screen feels like it’s glowing too brightly in your hand. You immediately glance around, making sure no one saw you checking, before quickly hiding your smile behind your textbook.

Because yeah, you definitely didn’t mean to feel this giddy. But here you are.

Friday night, you're in bed scrolling through film when you get the notification. Paige posted a new story: her at the gym, late night shooting session. Caption: “late-night grind. gotta stay sharp for what’s ahead. 😤"

Before you can overthink it, you reply: "living rent free in that head huh? 😌"

Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.

just practicing for march 😘

You stare at that emoji for a solid minute. Professional rivals don't use kiss emojis. Right?

Saturday morning practice rolls around before you can even process what happened last night. Your mind’s still buzzing, trying to dissect the interaction with Paige, but you push it aside. Focus. You can think about that later.

As you’re stretching before drills, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When Coach catches you grinning at it, she narrows her eyes.

"Whatever’s got you distracted better help us win games."

You quickly stuff your phone back in your bag, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "It’s just a text. No big deal."

"Sure, sure." Coach raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You try to shake off the grin still tugging at your lips. Definitely not in the middle of a debate with Paige about whether Kobe or Jordan had the better footwork. No. Definitely not.

Sunday night in the library, you're supposedly working on your Thermodynamics problem set. But your eyes keep flicking back to UConn's schedule page, calculating when they’ll be back in the northeast. You try to focus, but you find your thoughts drifting back to Paige.

A message pops up: "Shouldn't you be solving rocket equations or something?"

You bite back a smile, tapping out your reply: “shouldn't you be working on your left hand? Saw that weak drive yesterday 😴"

A few seconds pass. The dots appear, then disappear. You try not to let your heart race.

Finally, the response comes: “wow. and here i was about to say your last IG fit was 🔥"

You stare at your screen, biting your lip. The banter is easy, but there's something else there—something electric. Your pulse thuds louder than usual as you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. It feels like there's more hanging between you than just jokes. Did she feel it too? You quickly swipe back to your notes, trying to shake the feeling

Something that makes your skin buzz.

Tuesday, 2AM. You can’t sleep. Again. But this time, it’s different. The nervous energy swirling in your stomach isn’t from the game. It’s... something else.

Your phone lights up with a message:

you up?

Your breath catches in your throat. Two words. That’s all it takes.

You hesitate for just a second, fingers poised over the screen, and finally reply: “depends who’s asking 👀”

A beat. Three dots.

just your future march matchup.

You feel a grin tug at your lips, even as you try to keep your response cool. 

bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far.

guess you’ll have to wait and see.

You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out. There’s something about these late-night exchanges that feels different.

You roll over, pulling your blanket tighter, trying to convince yourself it’s just another game, just another rival. But when your phone buzzes again, you’re already looking forward to her next message.

A month after the game, your phone buzzes again as you’re reviewing game film late at night. You glance at the time—1:47 AM. Too late to be analyzing, but you can't help it. The game keeps replaying in your head. Then another message appears:

you always study film this late?

You glance at the reflection of your laptop in the dark screen of your phone. It’s like she knows. You smirk, replying.

how'd you know i was watching film?

saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story

Something warm settles in your chest. You didn't think anyone had noticed those details.

stalker much? 🤨

just scouting the competition 😌

You're about to reply when three dots appear again.

want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape

Your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting this. You pause before responding, a nervous twinge running through you.  "facetime?"

Seconds later, the call comes through. You almost hesitate, but there’s something about it that pulls you in. You accept, suddenly hyper-aware that you're in your oversized Harvard hoodie, glasses perched on your nose, hair tossed into a messy bun.

When her face appears on the screen, you’re momentarily struck. She’s wearing a UConn sweatshirt, hair tied back, no makeup. She’s raw, real—like you’ve caught her in an unguarded moment, and for some reason, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"So," she starts, then seems to lose her train of thought. "Um. Basketball?"

You laugh, some of the tension breaking. “Uh-huh.”

"Listen," she grins, "I'm better at talking with a ball in my hands."

The conversation shifts easily into basketball, the two of you sharing screens and breaking down film together. She catches things you miss, and you point out nuances she hasn’t noticed. The back-and-forth flows—something about it feels natural. Like you’ve been doing this for years.

Hours pass without you even realizing it, and suddenly you’re talking about other things: favorite movies, worst recruiting stories, childhood dreams.

"Wait," she's saying through laughter, "you really wanted to be an astronaut AND a basketball player?"

"Still do," You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as something inside you aches with the lightness of the moment. "Who says I can't be the first WNBA player in space?"

Her expression goes soft for a moment. "You know what? If anyone could do it..."

There's something in her voice that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat. "Anyway, uh, it's late."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "This was... this was nice."

"Yeah," you agree, not quite meeting her eyes through the screen. "Maybe we could do it again sometime y’know?”

"I'd like that."

Neither of you moves to hang up. The silence stretches, full of things unsaid.

Finally, she breaks it: “Well, goodnight, Rocket."

The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.

"Night, Paige."

You end the call, staring at your screen for a moment before you finally fall back onto your bed. The silence is deafening, but your mind is racing. You force yourself to calm down, to let your heart slow to a normal pace.

Then your phone buzzes again:

sweet dreams 🌙

You definitely don’t replay the entire call in your head. Definitely not.

And you certainly don’t dream about the way she looked when she laughed at your space joke.

Definitely not.

You’re sprawled on the couch in the apartment you share with Jasmine and Sierra, supposedly reading your Aerospace Engineering textbook. Actually, you're doing everything you can to avoid looking like you're grinning at your phone. The cursor keeps blinking in the reply box, like it’s daring you to type something stupid.

"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"

"why are you even awake?"

"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"

"homework doesn't count"

"nerd 🤓"

"bet you won't say that to my face"

"bet i will. next time i see you"

"when's that gonna be? 👀"

A part of you knows you should be focused on the problem set in front of you. But instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the screen, to her messages. You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something different about this—about her—that you can't quite put into words. Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast for it to just be casual.

"Oh my GOD," Jasmine’s voice startles you, making you jolt and nearly drop your phone. She's leaning over the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with that grin that’s a little too knowing for comfort. "You're texting Paige!"

"What? No, I'm—" you fumble your phone, nearly dropping it. "I'm doing homework."

"Mmhmm." Jasmine vaults over the couch to land beside you. "That's why you're making the same face I make when KK texts."

"I do not make a face."

"You literally look like this—" Jasmine demonstrates an exaggerated dreamy expression that makes you throw a pillow at her.

"I'm going to KK's this weekend," she says after dodging the pillow. Her voice is deliberately casual. "UConn has a home game Friday. You should come."

Your heart does a little flip. "I have that Physics midterm Monday..."

"Right, because you definitely weren't just texting about wanting to see her."

"I wasn't—" you start, but your phone buzzes again, Paige’s name lighting up the screen in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

"Girl," Jasmine says, softer now. "It's okay, you know? To want something besides basketball."

You stare at your phone, fingers hovering again over the keys as those three dots show up. Paige is typing, and your chest tightens. Your heart’s racing now, too fast for this to just be some rivalry. You’ve never felt this way about an opponent before.

"It's complicated," you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.

"When is it not?" Jasmine squeezes your shoulder as she gets up. "Think about it, okay? KK says the whole team's been asking about you anyway."

Later that night, Sierra finds you on the roof of your building. It’s your thinking spot—the place where you go to clear your head when the world feels too loud or when the equations refuse to make sense. Tonight, though, the equations have nothing to do with physics.

"Spill," Sierra says, sliding down to sit beside you.

"What?"

"You've been different lately. Good different, but different." She bumps your shoulder. "And I saw you smile at your phone six times during practice today."

You let out a long breath. The city lights blur below you, and somehow it feels easier to talk without making eye contact.

"I think... I think I like her," you say finally. The words feel huge in the quiet night air. "Paige, I mean."

"No shit," Sierra laughs softly. "I figured that out when you watched her coffee story four times."

You blink, feeling caught. "You saw that?"

"Girl, everyone saw that." She pauses. "The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

You lean back against the roof, your gaze on the stars that are barely visible through the light pollution of the city. "I don’t know. It’s complicated," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "We’re rivals, and we’ll probably face each other in March. If the media got wind of us, it’d be a circus. Not to mention—" You cut yourself off, because it sounds even worse when you say it out loud.

"Okay, forget all that for a second." Sierra interrupts, her voice quieter now. She turns to face you, her eyes soft. "How does she make you feel?"

Your breath catches in your chest. How does Paige make you feel? You think about those late-night video calls that always start with film study but end with laughing over something stupid. About how she remembers little details about your life—like your favorite late-night snack, your favorite places on campus, or how you sometimes still get nervous before big games.

"Like I can be both," you say finally, the words tumbling out before you even realize their weight. "Like I can be The Prophecy, but also just... me."

Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you've spent three years being perfect. Maybe it's time to be happy instead."

You stare at the stars, trying to find your footing in this new reality that feels both foreign and exciting. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."

Sierra nudges you, her tone playful again. "Then at least try. You deserve it."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for a moment, you forget about everything else. You pull it out, heart skipping when you see the name on the screen: Paige. The message.

 miss watching film with you

Sierra leans over to peek at the text, a grin spreading across her face. "Smooth," she says, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Shut up," you laugh.

"Is that why Jasmine invited you to Connecticut this weekend?" Sierra asks, an eyebrow raised.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "She told you?"

"Girl, I’m not blind," Sierra says, standing up. "Please. She’s been planning this whole setup for days. And you know what? You should go."

You look up, your gaze meeting hers. "I don’t know. The physics exam is coming up, and—"

"Physics will still be there when you get back," she interrupts, her voice light but serious. "But this? This might not be here forever."

You chew on that for a moment, the weight of it settling in.

"She’s waiting for you to say something," Sierra says quietly, her gaze flicking between you and the screen.

You hesitate, then smile softly to yourself. This is your chance.

You type back: "guess you'll have to come study in person sometime."

Sierra gives you a teasing look. "Oh, it’s on now."

Your phone buzzes again, and this time, Paige’s response comes quickly: "is that an invitation?"

Your fingers hover over the keys for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, you reply: "maybe. you gonna show me around campus?"

The message comes back almost immediately: "only the important spots. like where i practice my weak left hand drives 😏"

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter, your heart light and carefree for the first time in what feels like forever. Sierra shakes her head, smiling fondly at you.

"You’re totally down bad, huh?"

"Shut up," you laugh, feeling the warmth of it rush through you. But even as you tease her, you feel it too—this rush of excitement, the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.

Sierra heads for the roof door, pausing just before she goes inside. "Hey Rocket?"

"Yeah?"

"Just... be careful, okay? Not because of basketball or rankings or any of that stuff. Just... because your heart's on the line too."

You nod, your chest tight as the weight of her words settles in. "I will."

She gives you one last look before disappearing inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your phone, and the lighthearted texts you’ve been sending all night.

Another buzz from Paige lights up your phone: "but seriously. come this weekend? i want to see you."

Her response makes your whole body warm: "can't wait 💫"

You stay on the roof a while longer, letting the night air cool your flushed cheeks. March feels both too far away and too close, but right now, in this moment, you let yourself focus on a different kind of countdown:

Three days until Connecticut.

The minute you step onto UConn's campus, you remember why being The Prophecy is complicated.

"Oh my god," you hear someone whisper. "Is that—"

"Holy shit, that's really her—"

"The Prophecy is here—"

You pull your hoodie up, hoping for some anonymity, but it’s futile. Jasmine’s already ditched you to find KK, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly clutching your duffel bag. You check your phone, hoping for a distraction, when you see a text from Paige.

how’s campus so far? are you surviving the hype? 😂

You type back quickly, trying to act casual.

surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄

Before you can put the phone down, a text buzzes again.

i’m in the quad, come meet me? i’ve got your escape route ready 🏃‍♀️

You smile at her message, your nerves a little lighter now, but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less surreal.

"Should I just text her when I get there?" you mutter to yourself, typing out a quick reply:

on my way. see you soon.

The crowd's whispers grow louder, and as you move through the sea of students, your phone buzzes again, this time with a message that makes your heart skip a beat.

turn around

You turn, and there's Paige, looking unfairly good in joggers and a UConn hoodie. For a second, you both just stare at each other, all those late-night texts and video calls suddenly feeling very different in person.

"Hi," you manage, hyper-aware of the growing crowd pretending not to watch. "Um. Nice campus."

"Thanks, I—" she starts, just as you say, "Should we—"

You both stop. Laugh nervously. God, where did all your game go?

"Yo, Paige!" some guy calls out. "Is that The Prophecy? Can we get a picture?"

Before either of you can respond, the crowd swarms in like a tidal wave. Students materialize from every direction, phones out, voices overlapping, and it’s all happening too fast. You’re caught in the whirlwind of questions and flashes.

"Can you sign my jersey?"

"Is it true you haven't missed a shot since high school?"

"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"

"Can you do the space shot right now?"

It’s nothing new. You've done this a thousand times, but today, it feels different. You're hyper-aware of Paige standing there, watching, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flick from the crowd to you, amusement playing at the corners of her lips, but there’s something else there too.

You keep your composure—signing autographs, taking selfies, answering questions—but it’s harder when she’s so close. You try not to look over at her too much, but you catch her looking at you once. And her smile? It makes the whole world feel lighter, even in the chaos.

Then someone from the crowd asks, “Yo, did you come to see Paige?”

You freeze. All eyes are suddenly on you, the crowd waiting for your response.

“Just checking out the competition,” you say smoothly, though your heart skips a beat. But then you catch the subtle curve of Paige’s lips as she tries to hide her smile.

“She's already kicked our ass once,” Paige adds, her voice playful. “Maybe I’m trying to learn her secrets.”

The crowd laughs, and the tension in the air eases. You finally manage to break free from the swarm, and Paige leads you out of the madness, pulling you toward a quieter part of campus. She glances over at you as if to gauge how you’re holding up, and then says, “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you… You’re kind of a big deal here.”

“Here?” You raise an eyebrow. “Not just at Harvard?”

She rolls her eyes with that charming little smirk of hers. “Please, you know what I mean.”

She bumps your shoulder lightly, and for a second, you’re both frozen in that little moment, and then—quickly—she steps away, as though surprised by the contact. She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly before continuing, “The perfect record? The space shot? Your major? You’re like basketball mythology at this point.”

The words settle over you, like a weight that makes you stand a little straighter. It's odd, but you can't deny the truth in what she’s saying. You pass a group of girls, and they absolutely squeal when they spot you. One of them is wearing a t-shirt with your number and "The Prophecy" written on the back, and it's like you’ve stepped into some weird alternate reality.

"That's..." you start.

"Weird?" Paige offers.

"I was gonna say flattering, but yeah, weird works too."

She chuckles, a little breathless, as you continue walking. You can’t help but notice how she looks at you—like she’s caught between admiration and something else.

By the time you reach the athletics center, the crowd starts to thin, but there's still a palpable buzz in the air. Students part for you like you're some kind of celebrity, whispering as they pass.

"—never misses, like ever—"

"—turned down every WNBA scout—"

"—heard she's already got a NASA job lined up—"

"—next GOAT for sure—"

You can’t hear it all, but enough of it sticks to your skin. You make eye contact with a few of the UConn players as you pass, and they do double-takes. The whispers don’t stop. The world still hasn't figured out how to react to you, and you’re still trying to wrap your head around it yourself.

When you get inside the locker room, you spot KK, draped over Jasmine on a bench. She sits up as soon as she sees you, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

“The Prophecy graces us with her presence!” KK announces, her voice carrying through the room.

You and Paige both turn to each other, saying “Shut up” at the same time. You exchange a glance, and immediately, you both look away, your cheeks heating up.

“Oh my god,” KK stage-whispers to Jasmine, her voice dripping with mischief. “They’re actually awkward. This is adorable.”

“I will literally murder you,” Paige threatens, but her face is flushed, the playful tone in her voice not matching her serious words.

You drop your bag, trying to act casual despite your racing heart. "So, this is where the magic happens?"

"Something like that," Paige responds, her voice quieter now. Then, her tone shifts, just a little, as she adds, “Want to see where I practice those trash left-hand drives?”

Her smile is nervous but hopeful, and something in your chest flutters in response. You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes meeting hers.

"Lead the way, Bueckers."

The gym is quiet, empty this late—just the two of you and the space stretching out around you like a vast, hollow echo. The squeak of your sneakers against the court floor seems louder than usual, and the rhythm of the ball bouncing between you is a steady heartbeat in the silence.

You grab a ball, the motion automatic, instinctual. Some habits don’t break just because your heart’s doing backflips.

"So..." you start, dribbling slow, almost hesitant. Your palms feel too hot on the ball, like everything about this moment is too much, too close, but you can’t pull away.

"So..." she echoes, her voice low, mirroring your movements with a fluid ease that makes your pulse pick up a little faster.

"This is..." you trail off, looking for the right word. Something that fits the electric tension hanging in the air. 

"Weird?"

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "I was gonna say nice," you add, voice a little softer, but still trying to brush it off, to keep control. "But yeah, weird too."

She laughs—just a soft sound, but it breaks something between you. You feel your shoulders loosen, and the tightness in your chest starts to ease. "Want to play? Or are you scared I'll ruin your perfect record?" Her words are light, playful, but there’s an edge of something else there. Something beneath the surface.

"Please," you scoff, but the words come out softer than you expected, a little breathless. "You couldn’t guard me with a restraining order."

Her smile widens, but her eyes stay locked on yours, sharp, like she can see right through you. "Big talk from someone who's been stalking my coffee stories."

You nearly drop the ball at that. "I— that’s not—" You choke on your words, heat rushing to your cheeks, the sudden shift in conversation throwing you off-balance.

"Four views," she grins. "I counted."

"Professional research," you manage, trying to ignore how your face is burning.

"Right." She steps closer, her body moving fluidly, effortlessly, still dribbling the ball with that same steady rhythm. "And all those late-night texts?"

"Scouting reports," you shoot back, but your voice cracks, betraying the lie.

"The two-hour video calls?"

"Film study," you mutter, voice barely a whisper.

"And coming to Connecticut?" Her tone shifts—lighter, but with a question in it now. A challenge in her eyes, daring you to say something.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your chest. "Would you believe advanced aerospace research?"

She's too close now. You can smell the faint scent of her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her as she steps forward just enough to close the space between you. The ball’s still bouncing, the rhythm matching your heartbeats, and you can hear the beat of her pulse too—steady.

"Try again." Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.

You take a breath, the air thick with something unspoken. "Maybe... I just wanted to see you."

The ball stops bouncing. It’s almost like everything around you freezes for a second. The echo of the gym fades out, and all you can hear is the steady thrum of your heartbeat, racing now, too fast, too loud.

Her eyes search yours, the gold flecks in them catching the light, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. She doesn’t move. You don’t either. There’s a moment between you, raw and exposed, like you’re both just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

Then, her phone buzzes, breaking the stillness—KK, asking where you both disappeared to. The moment shatters, and you both step back, like you’ve both just been jolted awake.

"We should..." she starts.

"Yeah," you agree quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Team dinner, right?"

"Right." The word comes out like a sigh, a soft release, but neither of you move for a beat.

You both head back toward the locker room, but it feels like the distance between you has doubled, despite being only a few feet apart. You’re careful to maintain some space, but the air around you still crackles with the memory of the moment.

Just before you reach the door, you feel the lightest touch on your wrist. It’s a shock to the system, warm and soft, and you freeze.

"Hey."

You turn to face her, heart still thundering in your chest, your breath caught in your throat.

"I'm glad you came," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.

You open your mouth, but no words come out, your mind a blur, trying to make sense of the shift in the air between you. Before you can speak, though, she’s through the door, vanishing into the locker room, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You stand there for a moment, your heart still racing, trying to collect yourself. The touch of her fingers on your wrist is still warm on your skin, like an electric spark that lingers long after the contact ends. You can still feel the weight of her gaze on you, the way she looked at you just before she left—open, vulnerable, and for a second, everything in you just... paused.

You’re so fucking screwed.

Inside, KK takes one look at your face and starts laughing immediately. "Oh yeah," she says to Jasmine, her voice full of knowing. "March is gonna be interesting."

You throw a towel at her, but you can't help smiling. Because yeah, March is going to be complicated. But right now, watching Paige try not to look at you while she gets ready for dinner, you can't bring yourself to care.

Some things are worth the complication.

The team’s already piled into the upscale Italian place, the kind of restaurant where the hostess gives your group a double-take, eyes wide as she tries to figure out if you’re all really who she thinks you are. Emma starts giggling beside you, and you can’t help but let a laugh slip too. The entire UConn starting five, plus you, Jasmine, and a couple of bench players, fill up the space like a small parade. The table’s enormous, but somehow, fate—or possibly KK—decides that you should sit next to Paige. You know it's not her doing, but the thought of it makes your stomach do flips. Definitely not subtle.

Your knees brush under the table, and you both jerk away so fast it feels like a live wire just zapped both of you. It’s... a weird moment, but it’s over quickly.

"So," Caroline leans in, practically smirking with that devious look of hers. "We finally get to hear how The Prophecy got her name."

"Oh god," you groan, sinking back in your seat, hoping to disappear into the padded booth. But Paige perks up next to you, eyes lighting with interest.

"Wait," she says, "I don’t know this story."

You shoot Emma a glare, but she’s already opening her mouth, ready to spill the beans.

"Nobody tells it," you warn, but Emma's already launching in.

"Freshman year," Emma begins, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly quiet room, "first practice. Coach put her through this insane shooting drill—"

"It wasn't insane," you protest.

"Hundred shots from five spots," Emma continues, undeterred. "Most freshmen hit, like, sixty percent if they’re lucky. She goes perfect. Coach thinks it’s a fluke, makes her do it again. Perfect again."

You can feel Paige’s eyes on you, her attention sharp and focused. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you try not to squirm under her gaze.

"Third time," Emma's building to it now, "Coach says 'What are you, some kind of prophecy?' And right as she says it, this girl—" she points at you, "—sinks a half-court shot backward without looking."

"I was stretching!" you defend, but the table's already losing it.

"The name stuck," Caroline finishes. "Even before the no-miss streak."

"Speaking of," Tessa jumps in, her voice suddenly a lot more serious, "how do you actually do that? The never-missing thing?"

The entire table quiets down, all eyes suddenly fixed on you. Even the waitress, hovering nearby, pretends not to listen, but you catch her glancing over every few seconds.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention on you, but the pressure isn’t all bad. You glance over at Paige—she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to focus. She shifts slightly closer, and it makes your heart race.

"I just..." You pause, unsure of how to explain the weird, inexplicable thing that happens when you’re on the court. "I guess I see it differently. Like, you know how some people have perfect pitch in music? They hear things that other people can’t even pick up on?"

Nods around the table.

"I see angles that way," you continue, trying to sound more confident, but you’re still not used to talking about it. "Trajectories, force vectors... like physics and the feel of it—they just... merge in my head, I guess?"

Jasmine, who’s been watching you this whole time, cuts in with a smirk. "She’s being modest. Yesterday, I watched her solve a quantum mechanics problem while sinking thirty straight threes."

You roll your eyes. "Multitasking," you mumble, but Paige’s knee brushes against yours again. This time, neither of you pulls away, and your concentration goes from laser focus to absolute mush. You feel heat rising in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.

The conversation shifts, but you’re barely listening anymore. Every little movement from Paige, every time her hand brushes your arm as she reaches for her water, every time she leans in a little closer to hear you speak—your mind is barely keeping up. Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, making it impossible to think straight.

"Y'all should see her in class," Jasmine's saying. "Professors literally use her as an example in physics."

"One time!"

"Three times," Jasmine corrects. "Remember when Dr. Peterson used your jump shot to explain projectile motion?"

KK, who’s been silently watching you both like this is her personal reality TV show, grins. "No wonder half the team has a crush on you."

You nearly choke on your water. Paige freezes next to you, and you can feel the shift in the air.

"I mean," Caroline chimes in, clearly trying to smooth over the tension, but only making it worse, "who wouldn’t? Best player in the country, genius-level IQ, and look at her—"

"Okay!" Paige cuts her off, a bit too loudly. "Who wants dessert?"

The change in pace is enough to shake everyone out of the sudden tension. But as dessert menus are passed around and people start laughing again, your mind is still racing.

Later, as the group walks back toward campus, you notice how easily the team starts to scatter. KK and Jasmine vanish into the distance almost immediately, making some excuse about practice. The rest of the team drifts off to their own plans—study groups, dorms, whatever—but you and Paige end up walking together, side by side in the cool night air, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

"So," Paige says, her voice soft but a little uncertain, "the hotel’s that way."

You glance at her. "Yeah."

Neither of you turns toward it.

"I have, um," she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I have a single. In my dorm. If you wanted to watch a movie or something."

Your heart goes into overdrive, doing flips and twists like it might just leap out of your chest. The words feel stuck in your throat, but your mind is running wild.

"Or something?"

Even in the dim streetlight, you can see her blush. "I didn't mean— I just thought—"

"I'd like that," you cut off her rambling, and the smile she gives you makes your knees weak.

Her room is exactly what you'd expect - basketball posters, team photos, neat desk with game notes spread out. What you don't expect is how intimate it feels, being in this space that's so completely hers.

"Make yourself comfortable," she gestures to her bed, then immediately looks panicked. "I mean, you can sit— I'll take the chair—"

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

She laughs, some tension breaking. You sit on her bed, back against the wall, and after a moment she joins you, careful to leave space between you.

"So," you say.

"So," she echoes.

"Half the team has a crush on me, huh?"

She groans, covering her face. "KK has the biggest mouth—"

"Just half though?" You're pushing it, you know you are, but something about the way she's blushing makes you brave.

She lowers her hands, looks at you directly for the first time since dinner. "You know exactly how many people have a crush on you."

"Do I?"

Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "You must."

The air feels thick, charged. Your hand is on the comforter between you, and slowly, so slowly, her pinky finger hooks over yours.

Just that small point of contact sets your whole body on fire.

"Paige?"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't come to Connecticut for film study."

She turns her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with yours properly. Your breath hitches.

"I know," she says softly.

You sit there for what feels like hours, neither moving except for her thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. The touch is so light, so careful, but it feels like the most intense thing you've ever experienced.

"I should..." you start reluctantly.

"Stay," she says quickly, then blushes harder. "I mean, it's late, and the hotel's far, and—"

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay?"

You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."

Later, lying in her bed (she insisted, taking the floor despite your protests), you stare at the ceiling in the dark. Your hand still tingles where she touched it.

"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.

"Yeah?"

A pause. Then: "I'm really glad you're here."

You close your eyes, smiling into the darkness. "Me too."

Neither of you mentions March. Neither of you talks about rankings or rivalries or what any of this means. For now, there's just this: her steady breathing in the quiet room, the lingering warmth of her touch, and the feeling that something huge is beginning.

Just before you drift off, you hear her whisper something that might be "perfect." But you're already falling asleep, wrapped in her blankets that smell like her, dreaming of basketball and physics and the way her hand felt in yours.

Some equations, you think hazily, don't need solving.

Continue to part two.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 3

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (now skeptical!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. A/N: I’ve already outlined the entire thing–now it’s just a matter of writing it, so don’t worry! Even if some chapters take me longer to update, I’m gonna finish this one way or another. Promise. *fingers crossed* Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, reader thinks she’s losing her marbles because of a certain someone

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“Alright—okay, don’t be stupid,” You chant to yourself as you pace restlessly from the kitchen area of your studio, to the coffee table where you’ve set your phone lying facedown. “Just open the damn thing.” 

You’ve just arrived back at the condo a little past seven PM after a, frankly, productive—if not slightly distracted—day of running errands. You’re home, and you haven’t even got to unpacking the two paper bags (and a box) worth of groceries that were all but thrown carelessly on the kitchen counter, and already, you’re back to stressing over all the weird shit that's been happening to you.

Throughout the afternoon, you tried your hardest to resist the urge to check your phone, especially whenever you see the screen light up—whether it was in your hand or stashed away in your half-zipped fanny pack.

It’s at the most random times too, but always when you act on your unfortunate tendency to monologue your thoughts out loud. 

Sure, it could just be some random push app notifications. Text messages from the few people that hit you up on the weekends—invitations to hang out, maybe. A few newsletters you forgot to unsubscribe from if you’re unlucky. 

But you think the timing’s far too deliberate to be purely coincidental. 

“Do I get a dozen eggs or just half? What do I even need a dozen for?” (Phone vibrates)

“Oh, hey, Indomie’s on sale if you buy in bulk. How much for a box?” (Screen flashes. Twice.)

“Who the hell is holding up the line, damn–oh, it’s an old lady. Better hurry the fuck up, grandma.” (Screen flashes) “...Sorry! I didn’t mean that.” 

“Ughhh… my tummy hurty…” (Phone vibrates) “What—” 

“Everything’s perfectly normal. Just your average, sunny Saturday! You are an independent, capable adult… who’s fucking losing it.” (Screen flashes– after a minute interval) 

Of course, you have an inkling as to what’s—or who’s—blowing your phone up; in fact, he’s never left your mind since this morning.

So presently, you’re in the middle of having a small existential crisis over what that means, for you and your sanity. No big deal. 

You puff out your cheeks for a couple of seconds before letting out a deep breath. Don’t be a pussy. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation to all of this. You’re— you’re not crazy. 

Landing heavily down in front of the low table, you finally grab your phone, hand shaking with the teensiest amount of trepidation. Not giving yourself any more time to think and second-guess, you flip it over, switching it back to Ring mode as you swipe up to see—

—a barrage of notifications; one popping up after another. 

Some of them are what you’ve expected: plain, old push notifications from banking apps, others from varying socials. There’s one from your mom. A reminder to email her the flight tickets you still haven’t gotten around to booking yet. 

And. Six banner notifications from the game. From… from—him. It’s something you’ve already braced yourself for. It doesn’t prepare you, however, for what they actually said. 

A knot grows in your chest, spreading rapidly like slithering twine as your mind tries, and somewhat fails, to make sense of what your eyes are seeing. 

Grab a dozen, sweetie. It won’t add much to the total cost, and you need that protein every morning. Cereal’s not gonna cut it. 

You really ought to lessen your sodium intake, kitten. (and) Do NOT get the box. Stop. 

Haha. A feisty one, aren’t you? 

Mmm, poor baby.

I– we can talk about this later when you get home.

Each notification contains a completely unique dialogue you’ve never seen before. A play-by-play commentary specifically in response to you—to your personal remarks from earlier, spoken out loud—that there is absolutely no way anyone could still pass this off as simply being system-generated. 

A faint ringing echoes in your ears as you slowly draw back, putting some distance between the onslaught of text and… you. You can’t seem to tear your gaze away from the screen, though. Even if the back of your head bumps against the seat edge of the sofa behind you from how far you’ve already leaned back. 

Blinking in stunned silence, the only thing you could croak out is a strained “what the fuuuck.” 

... Ping!

Still mustering the courage to face me? Don’t keep me in suspense, darling. 

The sudden message jolts you back to reality. You suck in a deep breath.

… Despite everything, you can’t help but find his nonchalant response to your gradual spiral into hysterics—because he knows—a little amusing. Also rude. But mostly funny. 

(It’s also probably just your brain’s last-ditch effort to find some semblance of control, but whatever.)

At this point, you know that you’re merely delaying the inevitable. Swallowing, you press on one of Sylus’ messages and it immediately boots up the game. 

Instead of soothing your nerves like it usually does, the orchestral background music from the loading screen puts you more on edge; your anxiety builds up to a crescendo, harmonious to the heralding of what you know will undoubtedly change the trajectory of your life. 

Dramatic, but true. 

48%... 82%... 98%...

There’s a hollow drop in your stomach when the screen—finally—reveals the familiar sight of the café. The golden ambient light enters your field of vision for a split second before your eyes flit reflexively to the man standing in the middle of the screen, whose presence commandeered your full attention.

He’s wearing his motorcycle jacket—the black one with the red and white thorn(?) accents, paired along the pair of leather pants with the iconic double zipper. Aside from the black zircon studs, he’s not wearing anything out of the ordinary. Nothing is looking out of the ordinary, actually. 

Holding your breath, you wait for the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you waiting for me to say hello? Then–” Sylus muses with an amused lilt to his voice, sauntering closer to flick “your” forehead. There’s a beat before he continues: “That’s my way of saying hello.” 

… Huh? 

That’s—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You… you don’t know what you were expecting, but this wasn’t it.

The man in front of you doesn’t look any different from how he usually does; the way that his… character animation (Should you call it that? It doesn’t seem right, given the circumstance, but you don’t know how best to describe anything anymore) flows is so–-so infuriatingly… normal. As if it’s just like any other day that you’ve logged in the game. 

Where did the sentience go? Why is he reciting lines he’s programmed to say? None of it adds up.

Your mouth tries to form words, but nothing comes out. With wide eyes, you helplessly gape at him. Speechless. For a moment, you feel like you’ve actually gone mad. 

A small “what’s happening?” slips past your lips. Your eyes dart across his face, trying to analyze every microexpression, any hint of sentience on him—in his eyes, in his movements. 

You find none. 

Mechanically, you exit the game.

“What the actual fuck?” You whisper-shout at nothing in particular, and maybe to the biggest cause of your current disconcertion; one who you thought… Who you were sure was—

-

-

Fuck it. It’s time to put your detective skills to work.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

off the record!

summary: a sweet journalist is picked to trail billionaire bachelor Harry Castillo for an article that could change her career…and life.

harry castillo x fem journalist!reader

content warnings for the whole story: age gap (harry is in mid fourties, reader is in her late twenties), some angst in later chapters (other than that this is going to be for my fluff girlies)

word count: 2k

mood board

masterlist | next part

Chapter One

You were running late.

Not disastrously late—but late enough that the latte you’d bought ten minutes ago had gone lukewarm, and your tote bag kept slipping off your shoulder, and you’d already gotten your scarf caught in the revolving door of the subway station. Twice.

This was not the morning of someone assigned to trail Harry Castillo. No, this was the morning of someone who was supposed to be tucked into a cubicle, fact-checking book blurbs and editing press releases, not writing a feature piece on a man who could buy the building you lived in and turn it into a wine cellar.

You checked your phone again: Meeting with Mr. Castillo’s team– 9:00 AM.

It was 8:56. You were a block away.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, clutching your coffee in one hand and your notepad in the other. “Don’t trip. Don’t stutter. Don’t call him sir. Don’t-”

And that’s when it happened.

You collided with someone—full-body, mid-stride—and your paper cup launched from your hand like it had been shot from a cannon. It hit him squarely in the chest and spilled everywhere: across the lapel of his navy overcoat, down the front of a crisp white dress shirt, and onto a pair of what were definitely very expensive shoes.

“Oh my God-” you gasped, already pulling tissues from your bag, “I am so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I-”

The man didn’t yell. He didn’t even flinch.

He just stared at you, deadpan.

And very, very familiar.

You froze.

Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes. Subtle but well-earned frown lines. He looked like he’d been carved from money. Which… he basically had.

“Oh my God,” you whispered again. “You’re-”

“Harry Castillo,” he said flatly, flicking a glance down at his coat. “And you’re the reason I now smell like oat milk and espresso”

You wanted to sink into the pavement.

“I’m so sorry,” you said again, frantically blotting at his jacket with the sleeve of your cardigan before realizing that was worse. “I was just- I didn’t see- this isn’t usually how I introduce myself, I swear.”

He studied you. Carefully.

You could feel your blush rising in real time.

“I’ll buy you another one,” you said suddenly. “Coffee. Not the coat. I definitely can’t afford the coat.”

Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But not not a smile.

“It’s fine,” he said, brushing a few droplets from his sleeve. “I own dry cleaners.”

You blinked. “Of course you do.”

He moved to step around you, but paused. “You’re not press, are you?”

You shook your head. “No- I mean, yes, technically, but not- I'm not paparazzi or anything, I swear. I'm a writer. With Kindling. Just… small features. This week. One week. Just shadowing.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you’re the one they sent to humanize me.”

“I guess so.”

“You’re off to a great start.”

Your jaw dropped. But when you looked up at him, he was smiling now, just a little.

Then he adjusted his cufflink, nodded once, and disappeared into the glass-and-marble lobby behind him, leaving you on the sidewalk clutching a crumpled napkin and your ruined dignity.

You exhaled a laugh, half in awe, half in horror.

Day one. You hadn’t even made it through the door.

You stared at the spot where he’d disappeared, still holding your half-empty coffee cup like a peace offering. Or a crime scene artifact.

Harry Castillo.

Of course that’s how the week would start. Not with a confident handshake or a witty opener, but with an oat milk assault on a billionaire’s overcoat. You considered just turning around and going home, resigning by email, maybe switching careers entirely. Dog walking? Librarian? Something with less risk of public humiliation.

But instead, you smoothed your sweater, tugged your tote higher onto your shoulder, and walked through the same glass doors he had just vanished behind.

The lobby of Castillo Capital was like walking into a luxury watch ad: sleek, intimidating, all cool marble and warm lighting. A receptionist glanced up as you approached, her eyes flicking over your cardigan, your scuffed boots, and your slightly coffee-stained notebook like a barcode scanner.

“I’m here for the media profile?” you said, voice pitching upward like a question. “Um, with Mr. Castillo’s team.”

She didn’t blink. “Name?”

You gave it.

A beat. Then she nodded, tapped something into her computer, and gestured toward the gold-trimmed elevators. “Thirty-eighth floor. They’re expecting you.”

You swallowed, muttered a thank-you, and stepped into the elevator. It smelled like leather and ambition. The kind of place where you definitely weren’t supposed to press all the buttons at once just to see what happens.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

The thirty-eighth floor was…quieter than you expected. Sleek and minimal, sure, but not cold. There was art on the walls. Someone was playing faint jazz from a speaker. The waiting area had soft chairs and bottled water that probably cost more than your rent.

You perched on the edge of a leather armchair, rereading your notes for the hundredth time.

This wasn’t just your first real assignment, it was your chance. You were supposed to be a fly on the wall, following him for a week, writing something “approachable but aspirational,” in your editor’s words. “Make him seem human, but not boring. Thoughtful, but still powerful. Like if Gatsby had a climate initiative.”

Right.

You were just rereading your pitch line when a sleek glass door swung open and...

It was him.

Again.

Harry Castillo stood there, somehow looking cleaner than he had ten minutes ago, like the coffee had been a hallucination. He’d changed jackets, this one was charcoal, even sharper than the last, and his hair was still perfectly in place. His eyes landed on you immediately.

You jumped to your feet.

“Hi. Again,” you said, heart climbing into your throat.

He looked at you for a long moment, then unexpectedly, he tilted his head.

“You know,” he said, voice calm as ever, “most people wait until the second meeting to spill something on me.”

You made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s part of my process. Very avant-garde.”

He cracked the smallest smile.

“This way,” he said, holding the door open.

You followed him into a conference room that looked like it had never seen a crumb of food in its life. A long, dark table. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a skyline view. A few folders neatly stacked at one end.

“Do you normally start your mornings by colliding with strangers?” he asked, without turning around.

“No,” you said. “Usually I limit it to embarrassing myself in emails. This was just bonus content.”

He actually laughed at that—quiet, low, but real.

That surprised you more than anything else.

He gestured to a chair. “You can sit.”

You did. Immediately. Like your knees were tired from pretending you had dignity.

He sat across from you, folding his hands. “So. You’re going to be following me around all week.”

You nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“You’ll ask questions.”

“Hopefully the right ones.”

“You’ll write about me.”

“Technically, yes.”

He leaned back slightly, assessing you. “That doesn’t bother you?”

You blinked. “Should it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the window. The silence stretched.

You took a breath and said, “I’ll be honest. I don’t know what I’m doing yet. Not entirely. But I do know I want to get this right.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He turned back to you, eyes narrowing just a little.

You met his gaze, even if it made your palms sweat.

Something about the moment felt suspended, like a decision was being made. Or maybe a bet.

Finally, Harry Castillo said, “Then let’s see if you can keep up.”

He didn’t offer to shake your hand. He didn’t offer you coffee. He didn’t even sit across from you in the little lounge space like a normal human being would. No, he just turned on his heel and began to walk.

“You can walk with me.”

You scrambled to gather your things.

He moved fast.

The hallway you followed him down was quiet and sleek. He didn’t explain where you were going, didn’t look back to see if you were keeping up. You were basically jogging to stay beside him.

“So,” you tried, breathlessly, “what’s the schedule for today?”

“Meetings. A working lunch. A site visit. You’ll keep up.”

It wasn’t a question. More like a quiet challenge.

You scribbled it all down in your notebook anyway, adding a small try not to fall down the stairs next to it for good measure.

The first meeting was a round-table conference with four other men in suits, none of whom so much as glanced your way except to arch a curious brow. Harry introduced you once and then didn't mention you again.

You sat quietly at the edge of the sleek table, sipping still water from a crystal glass and trying not to look impressed every time someone used a word you didn’t recognize.

Harry, meanwhile, was silent for most of the meeting, until one of the older men made a joke about “bleeding hearts and idealists.”

Harry leaned back, eyes cool.

“Idealists are useful. They haven’t given up yet.”

You weren’t sure if it was a dig or…not. But you scribbled it down anyway.

The working lunch was held in a private dining room. Three staff members. Zero menu. You had never felt less equipped for a salad in your life.

Harry noticed you trying to subtly Google one of the courses under the table.

“It’s fennel,” he said without looking up from his phone. “...Right. I was going to say that.”

He smirked. Just a little.

You poked at the dish and leaned toward him. “Be honest. Do rich people actually like this stuff, or is it just a performance?”

He glanced at you, eyes shining in a way that felt dangerously close to amused, then he quickly looked away.

The first site visit was a high-rise renovation project he was personally investing in. You rode in the back of a black town car together, him with one AirPod in, you trying not to spill crumbs from the granola bar you'd secretly unwrapped.

When the driver opened the door for you at the site, you climbed out awkwardly—then turned to see Harry had already been standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

“You're not very good at being trailed,” you said lightly. “You’re not very good at tailing.”

You grinned. “Is that a rich person riddle?”

The rooftop was huge, still raw—steel beams and open air. You took a photo for your notes, wind tugging at your cardigan. Harry walked ahead, his coat billowing behind him like he’d stepped off a magazine cover.

At one point, he turned and caught you staring.

You blurted: “You look like a villain in a Bond movie up here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

You tucked your notebook under your arm, cheeks warm. “Just saying. Very dramatic cape energy.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond.

Then, a deadpan, “I’ve always preferred brooding antihero.”

And then he looked away, but not before you saw it. That tiny smile again.

By the time you both got back to the office, it was nearing eight. Your feet ached, your head buzzed with facts, and your notebook was nearly full.

Harry paused in front of his office door. “You kept up.”

You smiled, biting back a yawn. “I’m tenacious.”

He tilted his head. “Or stubborn.”

“Semantics,” you said brightly. “Same result.”

He opened the door but didn’t step through. “Tomorrow’s early. We leave at eight.”

“I’ll be ready,” you said, trying not to sound like you’d immediately pass out on your couch the second you got home.

He hesitated, then...

“Don’t bring coffee.”

You blinked then smiled and nodded. “Noted.”

And for the second time that day, he smiled as he shut the door.

You left the building with sore feet, a stupid grin, and the very real realization that you might be in way over your head.

Not because of the money. Not because of the pressure.

Because Harry Castillo was not what you expected.

And that might’ve been the most dangerous part of all.

A/N: ahh i hope u all enjoyed <33 i love pedro pascal and im so happy that i finally decided to start writing for his characters!! i think im gonna start a tag list for this fic so lmk if you’d like to be added in the comments <3

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.

And yet—

Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.

A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.

Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.

But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.

I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?

I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.

“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.

The birthdays.

The school plays.

The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.

The “I got picked for science fair!”

The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”

The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.

I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.

I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.

I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.

I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.

Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.

I hope the city treats you kindly.

I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.

She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”

Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.

About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.

He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.

His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.

A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.

The chess box.

The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.

His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.

Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.

Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.

“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.

He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.

All of it—

For them.

“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”

“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”

That never happened.

“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”

Even ones for Bruce:

“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”

“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”

The drawings were aged.

Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.

Most were never opened.

Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.

No one spoke.

Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.

“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”

Tim stared into the box.

Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.

A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.

“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.

Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.

And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.

And Dick—

Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”

“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”

“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.

“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.

But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

She was theirs���their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER

[runawrites-blog]

Shipping (Charles Xavier x Reader)

Summary: You're a teacher at Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters and you're quite close to Charles -- so close that a few of the students have started speculating whether or not you two are actually a couple. (Female Reader) Word Count: 3,646 Warnings: Very Minor Suggestive Themes. Light Angst. No Y/N. Reader has a last name that goes with her powers but it's only mentioned once or twice. A/N: As mentioned, the reader has a last name that correlates with her powers/mutation. Her name is Brandt (inspired by the German word Brand for fire) since she has pyrokinetic powers. But it's only mentioned once or twice by the students.

---

“You two are being ridiculous.”

“We’re not being ridiculous!” Jubilee defended herself, leaning over the back of the couch to throw Jean a joking glare. “Look at how cute they’re being!”

Jean gave Jubilee one more annoyed look before turning to where the other girl was pointing, her eyes falling on you and Charles at the other side of the large sitting room. She took the two of you in for a second; how Charles was looking back at you periodically with a bright smile on his face and how you were leaning over the back of his chair, a hand firmly planted on his shoulder as you looked at the files he was currently going over. She turned turned back to Jubilee and Ororo.

“See?” Ororo grinned a little and leaned back in the armchair. “Miss Brandt and the Professor are totally banging.”

“Ororo!” Jubilee exclaimed in disgust. “I wanted to prove to Jean that Miss Brandt and Professor Xavier are in love, not that they are sleeping with each other. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to hear anything about that!”

That’s when Scott piped up, raising an eyebrow at Jubilee. “To be fair, if they were dating, don’t you think they’d be sleeping with each other?”

“You two don’t have to make this gross.”

Jean quickly nodded at that. “I agree with Jubilee.”

“Really?”

“Not about the dating, but about Scott and Ororo being gross.” Jean leaned back on the couch, closing her book in her lap. “Just because they’re friendly doesn’t mean they’re dating, Jubilee. They’re probably just good friends.”

That’s when Kurt spoke up, a smile on his lips. “I think the idea of them being a couple is sweet. They seem like they would make a nice couple.”

“You too, Kurt?”

“I’m not entirely sure, though!” He quickly defended himself. “I just said it would be cute if they were together.”

Scott nodded. “I agree with that. They’d be a good couple but I agree with Jean on this one, I think. Just because they’re nice to each other, doesn’t mean they’re a couple.”

Jean nodded quickly and picked her book back up. “Now can you let me do my reading for Miss Brandt’s class? I don’t want to mess up on the test.”

“What test?”

“The test we’re taking next week about the Napoleonic Wars.” Jean explained off-handedly. “I’m currently reading the chapter in my History book and I would love for all of you to let me study.”

Kurt nodded at that. “I read the chapter yesterday and trust me, you should all start soon, as well. It’s a pretty long chapter. I could help you study if you want me to.”

“Thanks. I can’t really start now because lunch break is almost over, but I’ll take you up on that offer another time.” Scott said to Kurt before rising to his feet. “What class do we have now? Literature or Physics?”

“Literature.” Jubilee commented and grabbed her bag from the couch. “With none other than Miss Brandt, so maybe we can get some clues on her relationship with the Professor now!”

“You just want to find it out to prove you’re right, don’t you?”

“Exactly!”

All of them stopped when the clock struck two and everyone started to slowly leave the sitting room to get to class. Jubilee grinned a little as she watched Charles turn to you with a soft smile before placing his hand on top of yours for a few seconds. He gave it a short squeeze before he wheeled himself out from behind the desk and toward the door. Most days, the desks were used by students but Hank had asked Charles to review a file he had typed up and the telepath had asked you to look over it with him during lunch break.

You gave him one last smile before slinging your bag over your shoulder and grabbing the two boxes of books you were going to use for your class. Jean watched from the doors, waiting for her friends to get her belongings, as you struggled to carry both of the boxes. But before she could offer her help Charles called out your name, making you look up from the boxes to face him. He was looking back at you with his arms outstretched, smiling softly.

“Let me help you, Darling.”

“Thank you.” You smiled and handed one of the boxes to him, watching as he placed it on his lap before he made his way to the door. “We’re starting with a new book today.”

“I can see that.” Charles laughed and leaned his head back to look at you. “Didn’t you once mention that you loved Mary Shelley’s writing? What a lovely concidence that one of her books is on the curriculum, isn’t it?”

A smile appeared on your face as you stopped in your tracks. “Did you put it on there? You get to decide between three books for each new chapter of the curriculum, don’t you? I think you’ve mentioned that once.”

“I might have.”

“You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

“For you, always.”

Not wanting to intrude, Jean quickly followed her friends out the sitting room and to her class, though now she was actually contemplating on how much truth there was to Jubilee’s suspiciouns about your relationship with Charles.

---

As the days passed, Jean started to believe in Jubilee’s suspicions more and more as she watched how you and Charles interacted. She had never really paid much attention to it but now she was questioning how she’d never before noticed your gentle smiles, sweet nicknames, casual touches and quiet conversations. But what really got Jean hooked on the idea of finding out about whether or not the rumours were true, was what happened one rainy Friday evening.

It was late and some of the younger students were already asleep while Jean was studying with Jubilee and Ororo. There was a slight drizzle going outside as they hunched over their History books and notes from class. They were pretty engulfed in their studying when the earthquake started, making everything in the room rattle and shake. Jubilee nearly fell off the bed but Jean caught her and Ororo clung to the headboard.

But fortunately, the earthquake quickly stopped and the three of them got off the bed to venture to the hallway to see what had happened -- though Jean was pretty sure it was the new student with geokenesis that must have accidentally started the erathquake. Just as they stepped into the hallway, along with a few others students, you and Charles did the same. And the three girls froze when they realised that both of you had come from his room.

Jubilee turned to give Jean a grin but she wasn’t even looking at her, too caught up in watching you hurry after Charles, smoothing out your hair while you made your way to the young boy’s room. Before you could even knock he opened the door and upon seeing Charles, grabbed onto the armrests of his chair, beginning to apologise profusely. Charles reacted in his usual gentle and comforting manner, calming the boy down and checking whether or not he was injured.

It took a few minutes to calm him down but eventually Charles had convinced him that everyone was fine and there was no need for him to feel guilty. And after a few checkups on the other students, Charles proclaimed that they should all get back to their rooms. Jean ushered Ororo and Jubilee back into her room. But once inside Ororo stopped her from closing the door, pointing at you and Charles in the hallway. Jubilee and Jean looked at each other for a second before leaning over to see what their friend was talking about.

“Are you alright?” Charles asked once the last door had closed, giving you a worried once over and reaching out to take your hand into his. “I saw you hit your head on the nigthstand when you fell off my bed. Are you hurt, Darling?”

“I’m fine.” You gave him a reassuring smile before gently cradling his hand in both of yours. “Shall we get back to your room?”

Charles shook his head, bringing his other hand up to cup yours. “May I check? I promise you I will only check if you’re alright. I wouldn’t want to overlook a possible concussion. You did hit the nightstand pretty hard.”

With a relenting smile you nodded and gave his hand a small squeeze. “If it makes you feel better you can.”

While Charles placed his fingers on his temple and you held his hand tightly, Jubilee gave Jean one more triumpanth smirk. Ororo was still staring at you and Charles, completely amazed by the fact that her and Jubilee had apparently been right. And Jean crossed her arms over her chest, still not fully convinced.

“I mean, I worry about my friends, too.” The rehead reasoned softly. “That time you got hurt during dodgeball, I checked you for a concussion, too.”

“They’re literally holding hands.”

Ororo turned and placed a finger over her lips as you and Charles began to move down the hallway back to his room, now that he had confirmed you were uninjured. The three girls watched as you two arrived at Charles’ door and you glanced down the hallway once more, checking if everyone was in their rooms. Then Charles used the controls of his wheelchair to back into his room while grabbing your hand and pulling you along. You gave a surprised laugh at that and Charles smirked charmingly. And then the two of you were gone and the door to his room once more closed.

“How is that not obviously them going to do something nasty now? He literally pulled her into his room.”

“You really overuse that word.”

“What word?”

“’Literally’.” Jean answered. “Maybe they’re going over something from class.”

“You just don’t want to be in the wrong.” Ororo laughed quietly as she looked up at Jean. “They both came from the Professor’s room, looking disheveled and in their nightwear. Just now he said she’d been on his bed with him when the quake started. And she went back to his room.”

“You’re right. That kind of proves you two right.”

“Kind of?”

---

Now that Jean agreed with Ororo and Jubilee, the girls had made it their mission to find out whether or not they were right. Scott was still not convinced and Kurt kept telling them that while you and Charles would make a sweet couple it was invasive to talk about their teachers like that. His complaints did not stop his friends.

As the next few days days went on, they kept looking for clues. Jubilee kept going on about how much you and Charles were casually touching while Ororo’s main focus was the fact that he kept calling you petnames to which Scott shut her down by telling her that their professor called everyone petnames – they had to agree with him on that one.

Then Thanksgiving break rolled along and most of the students left to visit home. That year Jean, Jubilee, Ororo, Kurt and Scott had all decided to stay behind at the mansion along with a handful of other students. And due to this decreased amount of students at the school, most teachers were leaving over the holidays, as well – safe for Hank, Charles and you. It was really the perfect time for the friends to find out if they were right with their suspicions.

It was on a cold autumn day that Ororo had decided they needed to keep an eye on you and Charles, mostly because she had noticed that you were most definitely wearing one of his favourite cardigans to ward off the chill. That gave them enough incentive to use the rest of the day to try to decide which of them was right once and for all. Eventually, evening rolled along and you and Charles hadn’t acted any different around each other than usual, so the friends gave up and headed back to their rooms. That was until a storm rolled in only an hour later, bringing with it cold winds and chilly rain, prompting the friends to go to the sitting room and warm up by the fire.

“I can’t believe you still don’t believe us.” Jean commented as she walked down the hallway toward the stairs so they could go down to the sitting area. “And would you hurry up so we can warm up by the fire? It’s so cold today.”

Scott shrugged at that. “I can’t believe they managed to convince you.”

“You didn’t see the way they interacted after the earthquake.” Ororo scoffed as she hurried after them. “She was literally coming out of his room, looking dishevelled and he talked about how she’d been in his bed. And then he kept calling her ‘darling’ and fussing over her before literally pulling her back into his room.”

“You use the word ‘literally’ too much.”

Jean chuckled at Scott’s comment. “I told her that, too.”

Jubilee shrugged a little. “That doesn’t mean she’s not right. She’s been wearing his cardian all day.”

“It’s cold.”

Kurt perked up at that. “Actually, I’m pretty sure Miss Brandt has been wearing the Professor’s cardigans for the whole week now.”

“You too, Kurt?”

“As I said, I think they might make a sweet couple.” Kurt commented before frowning a little. “But should we really be this invasive?”

“We should if it proves us right.” Ororo smirked.

“I just worry that this much snooping around will make them angry at us.” Kurt mumbled before looking at his telekenetic friend. “Also, Jean, why are we going to the sitting room? I’m pretty sure the fire went out hours ago.”

“I can fire it back up.”

Scott was the first to start and decent the stairs. But as soon as he got halfay down – and with that in eyesight of the sitting room – he stopped dead in his tracks, making Ororo collide with his back. She reared up to confront him about stopping but Scott put a finger to his lips and pointed at the open doors. Kurt leaned past Scott and quieted down immediately while Jubilee smacked her hand in front of her mouth to keep from making any sounds. Jean leaned forward and her mouth fell open.

At the end of the sitting room, by the fireplace sat none other than you and Charles, cuddled up on the sofa under a blanket. And the two of you were kissing. He was cupping your face, his fingers gently and lovingly stroking your face while yours were buried in his hair, tenderly raking over his scalp. Ororo turned to Scott and pointed a victorious finger at him but he was too busy watching as you leaned back against the arm of the sofa and Charles followed quickly to deepen the kiss, not wanting to part from it just yet.

Eventually, the two of you parted and Charles leaned his forehead against yours, earning himself a small smile and a chaste peck on his lips as you looked back at him. Your hands wandered down to the side of his face where you began to stroke his skin, making a smile appear on his face. He leaned into your touch, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

“Feeling a bit warmer now, my love?” Charles said softly, a bright smile appearing on his lips as you nodded in agreement. “I did promise to warm you up.”

“And you did a wonderful job at that, sweetheart.” You said in amusement, hand sliding down his neck to rest on his shoulder. “I feel very warm and very loved thanks to you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Charles whispered, his smile faltering a little. “I do hate to see you cold and anxious about your memories, my darling. I know you’ve told me about your past many times but the thought of you being left out in the snow in an attempt to cure your pyrokinesis still upsets me terribly and makes me angry.”

“Don’t be, please.” You replied, leaning your forhead against his. “I’m here now and I’m safe. You make me feel safe, Sweetheart. Safe and warm.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re not cold either, are you?” You inquired in concern. “I know that you get cold easily and I also want to help you stay warm, especially since I pretty much stole all your cardigans.”

Charles laughed softly, obviously touched by your concern before pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “I’m fine, my love. It’s very warm in here and besides, I have you next to me to warm me up.”

“We could go upstairs and I could properly warm you up.”

“Later.” Charles promised before sitting back and stretching out his arm in invitation. “Stay by the fire with me a little longer, would you?”

“I’d love nothing more than that.”

With that, you leaned up to capture his lips in a kiss again but this time Charles didn’t reciprocate, instead pulling back and furrowing his brows. That got you to look up at him in concern, the hand you had placed on his shoulder tightening as you frowned.

“What’s wrong, Charles? Did I do something wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, love.” Charles said softly before his voice took on an amused tone. “But we’re not alone anymore.”

With that, he turned toward the door and subsequently the staircase, making you follow his gaze. The students froze where they were standing. While Kurt worried about you two being angry, Jean flushed at being spotted and Ororo gave a small wave. Scott looked away awkwardly and a wide grin spread across Jubilee’s face. But regardless of their reactions, all of them slowly made their way into the sitting room. By the time they were close by, you and Charles were sitting up straight again, turned so you could properly face the students. Charles looked pretty amused and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing at the situation.

“Now, my dears, how long have you been watching us?”

“We haven’t been watching you!” Kurt defended himself but quickly faltered as he realised that that wasn’t entirely true. “I mean, we sort of did but only for a few minutes.”

“We wanted to come into the sitting room to warm up and you two were sort of smooching on the sofa.” Ororo explained, waving at you and Charles on the couch.

“Smooching.” Scott snorted before shaking his head. “But they’re right. We’ve only been standing there for a minute or two.”

You shook your head in amusement, unable to keep a small laugh from escaping you as she watched their concerned faces. “Don’t worry now. You’re not in any trouble if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s a relief.” Jean said with a small smile. “We worried about that.”

“You two are such a sweet couple, Miss Brandt!” Jubilee suddenly exclaimed, smiling brightly at you and Charles. “And you look really happy together. It’s so good you’re finally together.”

“We are happy.” Charles confirmed, reaching out to take your hand into his. “But we have been in a relationship for a long time. Honestly, I was under the impression that it was fairly obvious.”

“At least we haven’t been keeping it a secret.” You threw in before shrugging. “But then again, we aren’t overly affectionate in the presence of our students. That would hardly be professional.”

“So you’ve been dating for a while now?”

“Yes, we’ve kept it professional but we haven’t been trying to keep it a secret.” Charles explained before nodding toward the fire. “Now, if you still want to warm up, you can find yourself a place to sit. The fire is shrinking now but I’m sure my lovely darling can stoke the flames a bit.”

At his words, you stood from the couch before walking over to the huge fireplace and using your powers to stoke the flames. Then you returned to your place next to Charles and leaned back against his side.

“So tell me, what have you kids been up to all day? I barely saw any students out and about today.” You mused as you looked around. “Where you in town or in your rooms?”

“We were in our rooms.” Scott explained, pulling his legs up onto the armchair. “We thought of going into town but--”

“But we got distracted arguing about whether or not you two were dating.” Jubilee joked, looking up at you from her spot on the carpet. “We were about to start a betting pool at this point.”

“A betting pool?” Charles laughed and shook his head. “Were you really that interested in whether or not we were a couple?”

“A lot of the other students were speculating, too.” Jean defended herself but relaxed when she saw you and Charles laughing at the situation. “The pool was Jubilee’s idea.”

Jubilee nodded in agreement before her eyes widened and she laughed. “You’re like the school’s parents now. X-Mom and X-Dad.”

“Interesting superhero names, for sure.” You chuckled and looked at Charles. “You can bet I will call you X-Dad from now on whenever you act parental.”

“Thank you for that, Jubilee.” Charles said in amusement, his arm pulling you closer as he looked back at you. “But while I don’t think you were being too invasive, I’d like to ask you all to respect our privacy. We want to keep everything professional.”

“Of course.” Jean nodded. “I’m sorry that we were so nosy and invasive.”

“There is no harm done, Jean. Everything’s alright.”

“I can’t believe you were right.” Scott joked. “I guess I was just oblivious.”

Ororo nodded and looked at Jean. “And you called us ridiculous.”

“I guess I got proven wrong.”