#time to open ao3 and pretend everything is fine!

[sanzundertale]

babygirl i will invent stages of grief you have never seen before

[byexbyez]

hair wash day

⟡— an injured arm leaves you unable to wash your hair. luckily, your boyfriend is more than happy to help, sylus x mc/reader, domestic fluff, lots of kisses, pet names, self-indulgent, wc: 2.2K

⟡— a/n: this is a little something inspired by this post where i thought sylus would think that he could brush your curly hair dry. so this is for my peeps with curly hair routines! i know some of you have routines that take up 3 hours because of different curl patterns, porosity levels and whatnot but let’s just pretend that this is a condensed version. and if you have straight hair, be grateful that you don’t have to deal with this and keep on reading /j.

p.s. if i got the steps wrong just know that i only apply mousse and call it a day, so don’t come for me.

⟡— read on ao3.

“Come here so I can brush your hair. It’s messy.” 

You’d whack him on the head if you could. Anything and everything sets you off lately, especially with how itchy your scalp feels. You can literally feel every single hair follicle on your head—painfully. 

Before your arm had to rest in a cast, you used to wash your hair once every week, dedicating half a day to maintain your curls. It’s been well over a week and more, and your boyfriend who has set foot in your place for the first time today, now scrolling on his phone on the couch, thinks he can brush your curls dry. Completely clueless about how much time it actually takes to make your hair look remotely presentable. 

“You absolutely cannot brush my hair, Sylus.” 

Turning off his phone and chucking it between you two, he leans in, his competitive side bearing its head. “Why, you think I can’t do it?” 

“Not that. If my hair was straight, I’d let you brush it any day. You can’t brush curly hair. I mean you can, but it would look terrible and the brush would literally get stuck in there. I need to wash it first.” 

“And how are you going to do that with that arm, sweetie?” 

“I’ve been putting it off,” you admit with a  sigh, letting your head fall back against the couch.. “I don’t know, I’ll manage. I need to do it like yesterday. My head hurts and I feel disgusting. Maybe I’ll go to a hair salon tomorrow.” 

“Let me do it.” 

Your head snaps up. “You can? I mean, it takes a lot of time. You’ll be here for a while. And you’ll get tired.” 

“That just means more time with you.” His thumb gently smooths the crease between your brows, releasing the tension there. “I doubt I’ll get tired from washing your hair.” 

Oh, how wrong he was.

Sylus somehow manages to fit a chair in your cramped shower stall for you to sit. He has you tilt your head back to make washing easier, then positions himself outside the shower doors. Crouching slightly, he reaches in to turn on the water.

“You need to make sure all of my hair is wet,” you note. “it may look like it’s wet enough from the outside but the very middle part declared its independence and doesn’t want to soak up the water.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

And he does. His large hand forms a shield around your hairline, making sure water doesn’t get in your ears or eyes. You try to keep your eyes open as much as possible to see your boyfriend’s focused face, though the whole thing feels like you’re getting your hair washed in a salon, so you keep closing your eyes once in a while. Especially when Sylus lifts the shower head higher and unintentionally gets water on your forehead, despite his best efforts. 

Once he’s sure that your whole hair is thoroughly soaked, he shuts off the water. “How’s your neck?” 

“Fine.” It isn’t, the weight had started to pull on your neck towards the end, but you don’t mention it. You’re used to it. 

Sensing the white lie, he cradles the back of your neck, lifting it just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. His fingers gently squeeze the muscles beginning to tense.

He’s so considerate. 

“Now which one’s the shampoo?” 

His big hands are a gift sent from heaven, you think. Firm yet gentle, working through the stubborn itches on your scalp, even scratching behind your ears with his knuckles. If he keeps this up, you’re going to fall asleep right here.

“Sweetie, you with me?” 

“Mhm.” You melt into the chair but manage to open your heavy eyelids. “How are you so good at this? Did you do this before?” 

He meets your eyes then, an indulgent smile playing on his lips. “No, you’re the first. I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

The sound of soapy friction fills the bathroom again. You can’t take your eyes off Sylus, your gentle giant of a lover. Reaching out to cup his cheek with your free hand, you stop his fingers in your hair, distracting him from his task.

“What is it? Want to take a break?” 

“No, please continue. I just wanted to touch you,” you murmur, stroking your thumb across his cheek. “let you know I appreciate you.” 

When your thumb presses down on the corner of his mouth, he bends down, and your lips are already puckered, eager to welcome the tender kiss. 

“Is this how you usually treat your hairstylist?” he chuckles against your lips. “Does seduction get you a discount?” 

Playing along, you smirk and hook your index finger to the collar of his shirt. “I only seduce the ones who are stupidly good-looking. You’re the first.” 

He grabs your hand from his collar, raises it to kiss it, forgetting the shampoo coating his fingers. “Using my lines against me, huh?”

The second round of shampoo is even more touchy. You nearly poke his nostril. Nearly. He keeps your finger away by pretending to bite it. “Behave.” 

“But I love your nose,” you whine. 

After the shampoo is rinsed off, you can feel the hanging weight of a big clump. Of course, your hair was a tangled mess, with how long you’ve put off washing it. You tell Sylus to reach for the detangling brush and he spends a good minute trying to choose the correct brush from the rack. 

His first mistake is starting from the roots of your hair. He was too quick for you to catch on. 

“Ow! No, that’s not—start from the ends, please. And work your way up until you can smoothly brush it down.” 

A kiss to your forehead again. “Sorry, sweetie. That was stupid of me.” 

“It’s okay, you didn’t know.” 

This part takes forever because Sylus diligently plucks the dead hair from the brush after each stroke, making sure nothing is preventing him from smoothing your hair down, asking every now and then if he’s hurting you. 

“Look at how much hair you shed. You’d think I brushed a cat.” He straightens his back. Even if he feels a strain, he doesn’t let it show on his face. “The next step is conditioner, right?” 

“Yup,” you hum. “right next to the shampoo.” 

Cupping the back of your neck with both hands, he lifts it carefully, alleviating your own strain. “Let’s take a break first.” 

“Tired this soon?” you tease. 

“I don’t need a break, sweetie. But you do.” You think he’s about to kiss you again when he leans in, warm breath brushing your lips, his eyes low and intent. “You haven’t had water for a while.” 

And he leaves you there waiting with a pout while he gets a glass of water. 

After that, Sylus thinks you’re finally ready to sit upright. The conditioner only needs to be applied to the ends, after all. But trying to explain that you still need to bend your neck? That’s a sport in itself. 

Bottle in hand, he tilts his head. “I don’t understand. What’s the catch?”

“I usually do this step with my head upside down. Since I can’t do that now, I still need to throw my hair back, so you can do it for me.” 

“Upside down?” His confusion is adorable. However, thinking about the bajillion steps that still remain after the shower, you take a deep breath. 

“Yes, with my hair in front of my face. For volume. Otherwise my roots stay flat. Now lightly squeeze the water out. Not all of it. We still need moisture—no, not like a towel!” 

You teach him the praying hands method, he’s appalled by the amount of conditioner in his palms. “Sweetie, are you sure you need this much product? This is almost half of the bottle.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now you know where all my money goes.” 

He looks at the brand name on the bottle, making a mental note to stock it up for you. 

“Okay, thank you.” You bat your eyelashes at him, luring him in for a smooch. He obliges immediately, a big wet smack sound echoes in the bathroom. 

The following step is scrunching the hair up to the roots with the excess product left on his hands. Yet again, he’s confused about why you need to do this. For the curls to form, of course. 

“And when you scrunch all the way up, keep squeezing but not too hard.” 

“Not too hard…” He murmurs to himself. 

You skip the hair mask, because you’ve already been in the shower long enough, and tell Sylus to find a soft cotton T-shirt instead of a towel for drying, after he rinses about seventy percent of the conditioner out. Gotta keep the moisture, after all.

You’re sitting on the floor, pillows propping you up against the couch. Laid out in front of you on the coffee table are a spray bottle, leave-in curl cream, mousse, gel, oil, a curl brush, claw clips, and a dryer with the diffuser attachment. A handheld mirror rests in your hand. 

Once he’s finished taking pictures of each product—including the different brushes and the diffuser attachment, “since you’ll need them back at the base”—Sylus settles behind you on the couch, legs bracketing you as he gets comfortable.   

You guide him through the next steps: clip your hair into sections, begin with the bottom strands, mist them with water, and smooth in the curl cream. Later, he’d be applying mousse. The gel cast step is skipped. You’re not in the mood for that kind of commitment today.

He picks up the brush with the odd indents, combs through the section, then shakes the strands gently between his thumb and index finger.

Voilà. The curl forms on its own.

“If you tried this on straight hair, it wouldn’t hold,” you explain while he’s still figuring out how to flip the brush properly. “But this way, the curls last about a week.” You tilt the mirror higher, amused as his elegant long fingers wrestle with the brush. 

His lips brush your temple as he asks, “You really do this every week?”

“If I have to be perceived by people—which is always—then yes.”

Sure, it takes him twice as long as it would take you, but the quiet “Poor thing,” he mutters, followed by another kiss to your temple while you watch through the mirror, makes it more than worth it.

Eventually, the styling phase is over. Time to diffuse. Your least favorite. Yay. 

“This thing looks like a space weapon,” he says, inspecting the diffuser attachment like he would a gun. 

“It sure does drain my life,” you groan, using his knee as leverage to stand.

Here you are again, head thrown back in the chair, while Sylus butchers the tune with a grin:

“Rapunzel, let down your haaaair.”

You squint your eyes at him. “I’ll see you with your sore arm when you’re done, mister.” 

With the dryer on the lowest setting (two words from you: “heat damage”), your hair nearly takes one hour to fully dry. Sylus does not complain one bit, keeps humming a tune. Relaxed but focused. 

The final step is softening the curls with a bit of oil by scrunching again. 

“We are done?” 

You laugh. “Why do you sound disappointed?” 

“With the way you were exaggerating, I thought it would take longer.” 

“Well, we skipped a couple of steps.” 

His hand comes to rest over his heart as he gasps mockingly. “When I asked you to teach me everything? You wound me.” 

“Next time,” you promise. “You know I’m stuck in this cast for a while.” 

“Plenty of time to perfect the routine.” He nods. Coming to stand in front of you, he examines his work, seemingly satisfied with the result. 

“Do you prefer cash or credit, sir?” 

Gripping the back of your chair, his mouth is on yours again. A content sigh escapes his lips when he pulls back. “My preferred form of payment is cuddles, miss. No discount.” 

Your fingers dive into the hair at his nape, scratching affectionately as they drift toward his ears. You roll and pinch his earlobe. Just because. 

(It’s so soft.) 

With the perfect amount of pressure, he begins to massage your neck. 

“I’m so down,” you whisper against his lips. “How about we cuddle, order food, watch a movie, cuddle some more… and then you stay the night?” 

“I was waiting for you to ask.” 

Later, curled up on his chest and halfway across his lap, you drift off to the sounds coming from the movie. His nose rests in the crown of your head as he murmurs, “You smell divine, sweetie.”

“Thanks to you.” 

“Don’t hesitate to ask me for help,” he says gently. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

His voice, quiet and warm, draws you back from the edge of sleep. You giggle. “Okay, I’ll call you next week for a hair wash. You asked for it, don’t regret it later.” 

“I never would.” 

“Big words,” you sneer. 

He nuzzles deeper into your freshly washed hair and presses a kiss into it, almost without thinking. “You know what I learned today?”

“Hm?” 

“That I need to think twice before ruffling your hair again.” 

“It’s okay. You get a free pass.” You turn your head toward him and meet his ruby eyes. A beat, maybe two, passes in silence before your smile takes over. “Thank you Sylus, I needed this.”

[stylesispunk]

"Whatever you'd like us to be" - part 4

harry castillo (materialists) x fem!sunshine!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the one where you fall and get your confessions of love.

w.c: 7,5k

warnings: age gap (harry is 45 and reader 29-30), angst, fluff. no proofreading because you know me.

A/N: I'm not sure if this chapter will meet your expectations, but it's pretty much what I wanted to do with it. I'm convinced this series is a lot about how you can transform into something complicated when someone who makes you feel at ease comes into your life. But whatever. This was the winner update of the day, but I'm updating all the series this week. Happy reading, and please let me know what you think about it.

Remember, I now have an AO3 account, where I'm also posting the chapters.

When next day came, the vibrant excitement you had been feeling lately was gone. The sky seemed gray, soft raining was falling over New York and you stayed in bed the whole day, barely sleeping, tossing and turning, replaying every word, every look from the night before like a film reel you couldn’t switch off.

You waited for a call, a message, a knock at your door. Everything that could remind you that you were valuable to Harry as more as a simple piece of his game.

But when Monday rolled around, still no sign of Harry, you dragged yourself out of bed, threw on a sweater that still faintly smelled like coffee, and opened your café with a weight in your chest you couldn’t erase.

A foreign kind of feeling, a foreign kind of pain, that was numbing your heart. Because within the jealousy, hurt, and humiliation, there was love growing its roots in the cracks of your heart.

The place was alive as always, the soft clinking of mugs, the gentle chatting of costumer conversations, even Mia’s laughter carrying from behind the counter. But you felt like a ghost in your own space because Harry had made a home inside your house and now it felt hollow without the certainty of that presence. After all, he had carved his place into your heart in such a short time.

Every time the bell over the door chimed, your head would lift, your pulse skipping in your throat. A couple of old regulars. A mother with a stroller. A pair of college students ordering iced lattes. But not him.

“Boss,” Evan murmured, sidling up to you while you wiped down a spotless table for the third time in an hour. “Are you good?”

You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But even Evan didn’t buy it. He gave you a knowing look and said nothing else, as if he knew better.

By lunchtime, you were officially annoyed at yourself. The knot in your stomach wouldn’t loosen, and you hated that you kept checking the clock like some lovesick idiot waiting for his prince to come and get her from her solitude. That you half-expected to look up and see him leaning against the doorway with that infuriating grin, like nothing had happened.

But still, that would have shown he cared. That you were more than just a simple piece on his game.

By mid-afternoon, the steady hum of the café had lulled into a calm, that late-in-the-day quiet when regulars trickled in for their second wind and students claimed tables with textbooks and cold drinks in order to study. You were behind the counter, pretending to busy yourself with organizing the pastry case, though in truth, you were miles away inside your head.

And then the bell over the door chimed, you looked up out of habit, and your stomach dropped at the sight of Lucy at the door.

She stepped in with her perfect hair waving, soft smile playing on her lips. Her eyes swept the café before landing on you. And for a split second, both of you just stared each other. Recognition flashed in her expression, a glimmer of surprise widening her gaze, but then something else took its place. Not malice, not smugness like your overworked brain had feared, just kindness inside those blue orbits.

“Hi,” she said, approaching the counter.

You swallowed thickly, forcing your face into something resembling neutral. “Hi! Welcome in.”

She glanced at the chalkboard menu, though it felt more like a polite formality. “Could I get two vanilla lattes to go, please?”

Your heart did this traitorous little lurch in your chest at the sound of two.

Two vanilla lattes.

And immediately, the spiral started.

Was the other one for Harry? Had he gone back to her?

You hated how easily the thought slid into place, how sharp it cut. How it affected your heart in a way jealousy was everything you could feel now.

You punched the order into the register, managing a tight smile. “Coming right up.”

She took out some dollar out her wallet, glancing at you again, a small curve to her lips. “I’m sorry if this is weird, are you…? Harry’s…” she hesitated like searching for the right word, “friend?”

You gripped the edge of the counter. “I think so.”

“You think?”

“What do you want me to say?” you sounded almost exasperated, “Yes, I’m his girlfriend.”

“You are also Claire’s best friend.” She said, still smiling “I also remember you because of that.”

You nodded, “You did a pretty good job introducing her to Chris.”

Lucy’s expression faltered for a moment just a flicker, so quick most people wouldn’t have caught it. But you did. That brief tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers tapped twice against the counter before she tucked them into the sleeves of her blazer.

“I did, didn’t I?” she murmured, her smile turning bittersweet. “I think that had been my best job yet.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You thought her job was a kind of scam, as in the digital form of love. Offering you a hollow and shallow momentum instead of the real experience. Forcing to people to meet each other with the list of qualities set on the table.

Lucy inhaled softly, then straightened, smoothing her expression. “Well,” she said with a little shrug, “I do really think you and Harry make a good couple.”

You raised a brow at that but bit your tongue, glancing down as the machine beeped, signaling the order was ready.

You slid the two vanilla lattes onto the counter. “Here you go.”

Lucy took them, wrapping her hands around the cups. “I’m sorry if I made this weird,” she added quietly. “Honestly, I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You forced a small, polite smile. “Well, I own this place, so you would run into me anyway.”

Her eyes widened, “Oh, that’s—that’s amazing, really. Best coffee in this city.”

Best coffee in this city

That last line made your throat tighten. Best coffee in this city. The exact words Harry had murmured more than once, usually with that surprised grin after he had found of you owned this place, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. Hearing them from Lucy’s lips was kind of disarming and made your heart clench.

You gave a small, almost bashful laugh, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Lucy hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression, then offered a sincere smile. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Really.”

You nodded. “You too.”

She gave a little wave with the two cups in hand and slipped out the door, the bell chiming softly in her wake.

You stood there for a moment longer, the scent of coffee and vanilla hanging in the air, heart pounding in a way you couldn’t quite explain. The whole interaction had been surprisingly kind. She wasn’t the woman you had pictured it to be. There was no tension, no accusations. Just two women on different ends of a story neither of them fully understood. Being pictured very differently by the very same man.

She gave you one last look, something almost like a sorry, and then she was out the door.

You stood there for a moment, the ghost of old conversations and half-formed assumptions rattling in your head, before Evan sidled up next to you with a smirk.

“Damn, boss,” he muttered under his breath, bumping your shoulder. “You, okay? You look very grumpy today.”

You groaned, leaning forward against the counter. “I need a drink.”

“Or to see your boyfriend, huh?”

You shot him a glare, but your traitorous heart still fluttered at the sound of his name. You hated how much you missed him and how much you wanted to see him.

An hour later, you were at your office working on some inventory stuff when knock at your door took off your guard, you lifted your gaze.

"Come in" you said.

You blinked, your stomach twisting, heart leaping in your chest before your brain could even catch up. The door eased open, behind it, a huge bouquet of vibrantly red roses, then a hand, and finally the face you had been craving to see for the last 48 hours.

His face was hard to read, those stormy brown eyes you knew too well now, a little softer, a little more hesitant than you’d seen since you had met him. He stepped in without a word, closing the door behind him with his foot.

You swallowed thickly, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed like you needed the armor to protect your heart from it. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

He set the flowers carefully on your desk, as if they might break under his touch. “I owed you a hundred apologies. And maybe a small bribe,” he added with a weak grin, motioning to the roses.

You didn’t return it.  You still feel the humiliation creeping up your cheeks.

“I told you to stay out,” you said quietly. A lied, a big lie, because everything you wanted was him to come to you and to hold your face with his hands.

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “And I meant to. I tried to. But you have no idea how fucking loud my life feels when you’re not in it.”

The room went still. You stared at him, no uttering a word.

Harry sighted, “I missed you, even if it was just a day.”

Your throat felt tight, your heart lurching at the rawness in his voice and at his words. You wanted to stay mad, but his words still had found it way to soften you a bit.

You dropped your gaze, studying the edge of your desk like it would provide the answers to the questions you were asking to. “You can’t keep doing this, Harry,” you murmured, the fight in your voice wavering. “Showing up with flowers and pretend I’m going to say yes to every demand you have,” You lifted you gaze to meet his, “You always came here when you need something from me. You confuse me. You say you want to be my friend, then you kiss me and say your ex-girlfriend’s name, who is fact is really kind.”

Your arms stayed crossed, but your posture softer. “Why did you mention her that night, Harry?”

His expression cracked a little, like you’d pressed your thumb against an old bruise. He stepped closer, leaning his palms against your desk. “Because I’m an idiot,” he said, voice low. “And because a part of me was scared it wasn’t just a kiss.”

You felt your throat tighten, your fingers curling against the edge of the desk. “So, you said her name to what? Ruin it? Push me away before I could hurt you?”

“I didn’t plan it,” he confessed, shaking his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “I don’t even know why it came out. I haven’t thought about Lucy that way since we went our separate ways, you know that. But you—" he let out a broken breath, “you terrify me.”

“All of this started because you wanted to get back at her” you replied, “And you also lied to me about that at the beginning.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, guilt flickering over his face like a shadow. “Yeah, that and also my parents want me to marry someone for good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I am pissed off. I was hurt. I used you at first, telling myself you’d never mean anything because it wasn’t supposed to be about you.”

You flinched, the words hitting like a blow even though you’d known them deep down. He saw it, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“But then it was you,” he went on, eyes glinting with something raw and unguarded. “It became you, so fast—“

“You’re a child” you interrupted, annoyed and hurt.

Harry blinked, the words striking sharper than anything you’d said before. His mouth opened like he might protest, but nothing came out. You saw the fight drain from his posture, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he had poured out.

“Yeah,” he exhaled, running a hand down his face, defeated. “Maybe I am.”

You shook your head, leaning back against your chair like you needed to distance yourself enough from him to properly breath again, “You don’t get to drag people into your tantrums because you’re pissed off at your parents or your past, Harry. I’m not a placeholder for your act of rebellion. I’m a person. And I deserve better than being some convenient way for you to feel in control for five minutes.”

He looked like you’d slapped him. And maybe, in a way, you had. You had broken his ego, but this time it wasn’t like anything before because now, there was love growing withing the cracks of his heart.

“I know,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I know you did. I keep… I keep breaking the things I care about before I realize how much they matter.”

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “And what? Now that you realize it, you think you can just what? Patch it up with these expensive flowers?”

“No,” he admitted, his gaze steady for the first time since he walked in. “I just—” he swallowed hard; jaw tight. “I needed you to hear it. That you matter to me.”

You sat there for a long moment, the silence between you loaded, heavy with the miscommunication that comes with playing a game like this.

“I hope you figure yourself out, Harry,” you said softly, your voice steady even though your chest ached.

His eyes glistened, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. He knew his place now.

He just gave a small nod, turned, and left the flowers on your desk as he walked out the door.

You sat there long after the door had closed, the thud of the door felt like a final point to a story yet to be written and that made it hurt the most. The roses sat on your desk, too many and too red, a vibrancy you felt it left with harry through that door. The kind of gesture Harry always leaned on when words failed him.

Your throat burned. You hated how beautiful they were. How part of you, some pathetic, stubborn part, still wanted to believe it meant something. That maybe under all the mess and mistakes, there was a version of him that he had come to love you.

You reached out, fingertips brushing over one of the petals. It was soft. Perfect. And it felt like a lie.

The sting behind your eyes sharpened, and before you could stop yourself, you swiped the flowers off the desk. The vase hit the floor with a dull thud, water sloshing over the tile, roses scattering like discarded confessions.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to swallow the ache in your throat, the tears prickling your lashes.

God, you were so tired. So tired of the way he made you feel like you were standing in a room with no walls, nowhere to lean, nowhere to run. Always hoping this time would be different. That someone would have choose you for the right reasons this time. That you would be the first choice in someone’s life.

But he didn’t. Not really.

And you couldn’t keep letting your heart be collateral damage.

You wiped at your eyes, took a steadying breath, and grabbed a rag from the counter. You’d clean up the mess. Because that’s what you did. Because life moved on, and so would you.

Another flame, another fire to ease.

A few days passed in a heavy, muted blur. You fell into a quiet rhythm, opening the café, managing orders, pretending you didn’t glance at the door every time it chimed. But it wasn’t Harry stepping through anymore.

It was his assistant.

You recognized her more now, always polite, always rushed, always ordering Harry’s usual without meeting your eyes for too long as if she knew, like he’d been sent in as a quiet, calculated replacement for the man who couldn’t come to face you.

Your heart felt heavier every time. The absence of Harry’s careless grin, his infuriating comments, the way he’d come into your life like the world only existed where you stood, it all left an ache you couldn’t name.

You told yourself this was how peace was supposed to feel, but the thing about this type of quiet was that it left too much room for your thoughts.

It was late afternoon when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out with a sigh, expecting a supplier, but Claire’s name flashed across the screen.

You hadn’t heard from her in a few days, and you hesitated before answering.

“Hey, you” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt.

“Hey, you.” Claire’s voice was soft as always, unaware of the conflict you were walking through right now “I was wondering… are you free tonight?”

You glanced around the café, where Evan was wiping down tables and the soft hum of the espresso machine filled the air. “Yeah. Why?”

“I want you to come over for dinner,” Claire said, then hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Your stomach dropped. You’d known her too long not to catch the note in her voice. There was some kind of excitement and nervous on her voice.

“Claire,” you said slowly, your pulse picking up. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course, it is. Can you come by eight?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then forced a steady breath. “Okay,” you murmured. “I’ll be there.”

“I love you, bye” she said.

“I love you too.”

At the same time somewhere, a few streets away. Harry’s assistant, was pushing open the office door with one hand while balancing a takeaway tray in the other.

“Here’s your coffee, boss,” she said, setting the cup down on his desk.

Harry glanced up from the pile of papers he hadn’t actually been reading, his fingers running through his hair. A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” he murmured, reaching for the cup. He hesitated before asking, the question burning behind his teeth, though he knew he shouldn’t. “How is she?”

Kate blinked, then sighed softly, sitting on the edge of a nearby chair like she’d been expecting it.

“She looks okay.” She replied carefully.

That made something in Harry’s chest tighten, a dull, familiar ache. He looked away, his gaze falling to the corner of his desk, where a small photo frame sat half-hidden behind a stack of folders.

A picture of you from Claire’s and Chris wedding.

You were sitting on the grass, a glass of champagne in hand, laughing at something someone off-camera had said. Light caught in your hair; your face flushed.

Chris had given it to him as a joke after the wedding when you had made it “official”

“For your desk, you sap,” he had teased.

Harry had played it off, acted like it was just one of those silly things people kept around. But it stayed. Day after day. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, staring at that photo like it might speak to him.

You’d probably think I was a creep for keeping this, he thought bitterly.

But the truth was, he’d never been capable of loving someone, never let anyone carve their way inside his heart the way you had.

And he wasn’t sure what terrified him more: that he’d already lost you, or that part of him still believed you were it for him.

Some people only get one person. And he had the sinking, gut-deep feeling you were his.

…………

The taxi pulled up in front of Claire and Chris’s townhouse, the familiar white shutters and climbing ivy on the brick walls making something in your chest ache. This place had always felt like a second home ever since they moved in together. You’d laughed in this kitchen, cried on that couch, drank too much wine on the back patio under string lights.

And now, your stomach was twisted up like you were walking into something you couldn’t name.

You raised a hand and knocked.

The door swung open almost instantly, and there was Claire, in a pair of mismatched socks, hair in loose waves, wearing a simple loosen linen dress and that bright, unmistakable grin she always saved just for you.

“There you are,” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug. You sank into it, letting your cheek press against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of citrus and vanilla she always wore.

“You look stunning as always,” she said, pulling back to give you a once-over with a teasing little smile. “Seriously, what is it like to be everyone’s favorite person in the room?”

You huffed a small laugh, grateful for the easy warmth between you. “I almost didn’t come,” you admitted quietly.

“I know,” she said, brushing a hand down your arm. Then, she glanced past you, out toward the street, as if expecting someone to be lingering behind. “I thought you were coming with Harry.”

Your stomach dipped and your brows furrowed. “Harry’s coming too?” you asked, voice careful, guarded.

Claire’s expression faltered for half a second, like she was realizing too late that she’d said something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Yeah… um… Chris invited him,” she said, quickly smoothing it over. “Did something happen between you two?

You forced a tight, brittle smile and shook your head, though your throat burned with the effort. “No,” you lied, voice too light. “Nothing happened.”

Claire gave you a look, the kind only someone who’s known you since you were eight can give. The kind that says bullshit without having to saying the exact word.

“Come on,” she murmured, pulling you gently inside and closing the door behind you. The familiar scent of rosemary and roasted garlic drifted in from the kitchen, and it made something twist painfully in your chest because everything about this felt so normal, and you were anything but fine.

Claire set a hand on your shoulder, stopping you just before the living room. Her expression was softer now, her voice careful. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said. “But Chris said Harry has been kind of grumpy for the past few days. And you, you look like someone who is holding her shit together.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting away.

Claire sighed and gave you a half-smile. “Whatever it is, you can count of me, you know that, right?”

You let out a weak laugh at that and nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I know that.”

Chris appeared from the hallway, grinning when he spotted you. “Hey, there she is!” he said warmly, wrapping his arms around you. You sank into it, grateful for the steady, familiar presence. Chris had become a safe place, the brother you’d never had but somehow ended up having.

“You doing, okay?” he murmured against your hair, keeping his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You gave a small shrug. “Getting there.”

Chris squeezed your shoulder gently, then pulled back with a crooked smile. “Good. You know we’ve got your back.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then a knock at the door interrupted the conversation.

The sound made your chest seize up, your pulse stuttering like a skipped beat. You saw Claire glance at you, her face unreadable, and for a second it was just the two of you, a silent conversation passing between your eyes.

The door creaked open. And then, his voice.

“Hey, man.”

Low, rough, a little hesitant in a way you weren’t used to hearing from Harry.

You couldn’t see him from where you stood, but the sound of him hit you like a slow, searing burn you’d been trying to forget for days. That voice laced with its usual confidence now dulled by something none one could pick out in a crowded room, even if you tried not to.

Claire squeezed your hand once. “You want me to kick him out?” she whispered, only half-joking.

You gave a brittle little laugh, your throat tight. “No,” you murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

The truth was a more complicated, tangled thing, but you were done running your feelings.

Chris stepped aside to let Harry in, and you caught the edge of his tall frame, the dark sweep of his hair, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets like a man walking into a storm of his own making. His eyes landed on you almost immediately, like he couldn’t help it, and you felt the weight of them burning you.

He looked tired. The kind of tired that wasn’t from sleepless nights but a soul-deep weariness, the tiredness that came from a broken heart. And he held it together in front of the others, a practiced smirk flickering to life when Chris clapped him on the back.

But then his gaze found yours again, and the mask cracked, just for a second.

Claire glanced between you two, then cleared her throat. “Well,” she said brightly, like she was trying to cut through the unbearable tension, “who’s hungry?”

No one answered. Because now Harry was standing there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take another step. And you were standing there like your heart might break clean open if he did.

And the truth was, neither of you was really hungry for anything but the one thing you both kept pretending you didn’t still want. Each other.

Dinner was a strange, fragile thing.

The four of you sat around the table, a beautiful spread laid out like Claire always did, roasted vegetables, a bottle of wine already open, soft music playing low in the background. It should’ve felt normal. Familiar. But the air was thick with things unsaid, heavy with the weight of you and Harry sitting side by side.

You’d tried to angle for a seat across the table, but Claire, ever the meddler in the name of love, had pulled out the chair next to her, leaving only the one beside you open when Harry entered the room.

He slid into it without a word. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, his elbow brushing yours every time he reached for something. And each accidental graze felt deliberate, like a silent apology you refused to accept.

Chris was doing his best to fill the silence, launching into a story about some disaster at work Harry didn’t know that had happened, and Claire kept nudging you to eat, to drink, to smile. You managed a few polite laughs, but you could feel Harry’s eyes on you, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

At one point, when Chris went to refill the wine glasses and Claire disappeared to the kitchen for dessert, it was just you and him, the low hum of the music and the faint clink of silverware the only sounds.

Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You didn’t look at him. “Same.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer “You look beautiful.”

The words landed like a punch and a balm all at once.

You finally turned your head to meet his gaze. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in days. No smug grin, no cocky spark. Just the man you’d somehow let yourself fall for. Bare stripped open or you.

But before you could answer, Claire swept back in carrying a tray of chocolate cake, her voice loud and cheerful as she set it down, singing a tune you recognize.

“Okay,” she grinned, slicing into it, “I have an announcement.”

You blinked, forcing your eyes away from Harry, grateful for the distraction.

Chris’s face lit up. “Are you telling them now?”

Claire beamed and nodded. “We’re having a baby.”

The room burst into congratulatory shouts and laughter from you and Harry. Chris leaning over to kiss her, you getting up to hug her tight, pretending the burn behind your eyes was just happiness for them.

Claire clung to you for a moment longer than usual, like she sensed the ache beneath your smile but chose not to name it. When you finally pulled back, you wiped at your cheek with a laugh, blaming it on the wine and the news.

“That’s amazing, Claire,” you said, your voice thick but steady. “You’re going to be the best mother a baby could ask for.”

Claire’s grin softened into something gentler. “And you’ll be around, right? I mean… I’ll need you.”

“Always,” you promised, meaning it.

You settled back into your seat; your heart still heavy but warmed at the edges by her happiness. Harry’s eyes met yours across the table, something unreadable in them, and for a brief second, it felt like the room disappeared, like it was just the two of you again, in that frustrating, electric limbo you couldn’t quite seem to leave behind.

He smiled, small and almost sad, and you hated how your heart skipped for it.

“Congratulations, Claire,” Harry said, raising his glass, and his voice was softer than you expected. “You and Chris. You’re going to be incredible parents.”

Chris grinned, sliding an arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Thanks, man. Means a lot. I hope a raise now, Boss.”

The table broke into light laughter, Claire playfully swatting Chris’s arm.

“Oh my God, Chris,” she groaned, though she was smiling.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he lifted his glass again. “You’ll have to fight the board for that one, but maybe I’ll put in a good word.”

Chris grinned like a kid who’d gotten away with something, and Claire leaned in to kiss his cheek.

The conversation moved on after that, baby names, nursery colors, Claire’s bizarre cravings already setting in, and you let yourself drift through it, contributing where you could, laughing when it was expected, but mostly trying to ignore the constant nuance of Harry’s presence beside you.

You became silent after that. You pushed your chair back quietly, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor a little louder than you intended.

Three pairs of eyes turned to you, but you kept your expression easy, giving them a soft smile.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” you said, your voice gentle, threading through the cozy warmth of the room. “I’m kind of wiped… it’s been a long week. I think I’m gonna head out now.”

Claire’s face immediately pinched in concern. “You sure? You can stay, crash in the guest room if you want—”

You shook your head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “No, it’s okay. I just… need a quiet night.”

Chris stood up to hug you. “Thanks for coming, really. Means a lot to us.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” you murmured, squeezing him back.

Claire wrapped you in a tight, lingering hug. “Text me when you get home, okay?” she whispered against your hair.

You nodded, your throat burning again. “I will.”

And then, you knew it would happen, and you tried not to look, but your gaze snagged on Harry as you stepped toward the door. He was already on his feet, watching you with that same quiet, wrecked expression he’d had all night.

You hesitated, then gave a polite, distant nod. “Good night, Harry.”

His jaw flexed. “Good night.”

You pushed your chair back quietly, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor a little louder than you intended.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the room felt heavier for a moment, like the air itself shifted. Claire stared after you, her smile gone, replaced with sharp, narrowed eyes. She turned toward Harry; her voice low but fierce, aching.

“What the hell did you do to her?”

Chris glanced between them, frowning. “Claire—”

“No,” she cut him off, not taking her eyes off Harry. “She came in here holding herself together with string, Harry. She barely spoke, barely smiled, and she left like she was running from something. And now I know it’s you.”

Harry’s expression didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked like someone already carrying the punishment she was trying to give. He set his glass down with a soft clink, the echo filling the space between them.

“I hurt her,” he said quietly.

“Then what are you doing here still?” she demanded, her voice gentler now, but no less cutting.

Harry looked at her, eyes rimmed with something real and so raw.

Claire softened just a fraction, giving a small, tired smile. “If I’m not wrong, she hasn’t left. She’s sitting on the stairs. I bet on that.”

Harry’s head jerked slightly at that, something sparking behind his eyes.

“Please, Harry,” Claire said, quieter this time. “Fix it.”

For a long moment, he just stood there, fingers flexing at his sides, battling whatever storm was churning in his gut. And then he moved, wordlessly, pushing back his chair and heading for the door.

Claire exhaled, leaning into Chris’s side as he watched Harry go.

“I swear to God,” she murmured, “I will make him go broke if he doesn’t fix this.”

Harry stepped out into the cool evening air, his pulse hammering in his ears. He moved toward the front steps, and sure enough, there you were.

Sitting there, arms wrapped around your knees, your head tilted back against the railing like you’d been holding back tears and now you were too tired to bother.

His chest cracked open at the sight.

“Hey,” he said, his voice breaking slightly around the word.

You didn’t look at him right away, just kept your eyes on the dark sky above, the cool air kissing your skin. The ache in your throat was sharp and stubborn, but you spoke anyway.

“You don’t have anyone else to bother?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be, but steady enough.

Harry let out a rough breath, shoving his hands into his pockets like a man who had no idea what the hell to do with them. He took a cautious step closer.

“No,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I don’t.”

You finally turned your head, meeting his gaze. And God, the way he was looking at you.

Harry gave a small, rueful smile, stepping closer. “Can I sit next to you?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He eased down onto the steps beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence but not so close that it made your heart race out of control.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched between you, comfortable and heavy all at once, but this was the normal.

The air was cold, and your bare arms tingled from the chill. Without a word, Harry slipped off his jacket and draped it gently over your shoulders. The fabric was warm, smelling like him and the unexpected gesture sent a small shiver down your spine. You glanced at him, surprised, but all he did was offer a quiet, timid, smile before turning his gaze back ahead.

“I feel so happy for Claire. I really do,” you murmured, your voice thin and uneven, eyes fixed on some distant point ahead, as if the darkness could offer answers, you hadn’t found yet. “She’s getting everything she ever wanted. The baby, the family, the life, and someone who loves her like that.”

Harry stayed quiet, not interrupting, just listening. It made it easier, somehow, like the words had been caged in your chest for too long and now, and now they could finally come out.

“And I’ll be there,” you went on, a humorless, soft laugh catching in your throat. “I’ll watch it happen. Watch them build a life, a family. And I’ll be happy for them because I am. God, I am. But it’ll still feel like losing her. Like, like I’m standing still, and everyone else keeps moving forward.”

You swallowed, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever have that,” you admitted, voice cracking around the words. “The baby. The house. The person who loves you like it’s a fact of the universe. Someone who chooses you every single day. I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I can’t get there. That I let people in, and they leave. And maybe it’s just… maybe it’s me.”

The ache in your throat burned and you pressed your hands together tightly in your lap to keep them from shaking. You could feel his gaze on you now, heavy, like it was stitching you together and unraveling you at the same time.

You turned your head to look at him, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of you “And the moment I thought I met the perfect man…it turned out he wanted me to make his ex-girlfriend jealous.”

Harry flinched it, you saw it. The way his jaw tensed, the flicker of something sharp in his eyes, like your words had struck somewhere he wasn’t ready for.

He didn’t look away though. He stayed right there, his gaze locked on yours, the weight of it a little heavier now.

“I deserved that,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than before. “Every word of it.”

You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat. You hadn’t meant to spill it out like that, but once it started, you couldn’t stop.

“I kept telling myself I was fine with it,” you admitted, the words trembling out of you. “That it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t real after all. That I wasn’t… falling. But I was, Harry, I am, because you…you’re …because you’re the one I want,” you whispered, the words breaking at the edges like glass under pressure. “And I hate myself for it. For letting it happen. For hoping for something that was never mine to have.”

Harry’s eyes closed for a second, like the weight of your confession physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were shining with something raw, unguarded, and it stole the air right out of your lungs because he looked so vulnerable under your broken stare.

His shoulders sagged a little, like hearing that eased something in him. “I never came here just to get something from you. Yeah, I made a mess of it. I crossed lines. I confused you. But I kept coming because this place, you. You’re the only part of my life that feels like mine. Not my family’s, not some move, not something someone else expects from me. Just mine.”

The words settled between you like a secret too sacred for everyone else to hear. Your chest ached, your heart thrumming so loud you were sure he could hear it. You looked at him, really looked, the stubble on his jaw, the way his mouth trembled around the truth he was finally speaking.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he went on, his voice rough, cracking in places. “At… loving someone the right way. I don’t know how to love someone.”

You closed your eyes at that, standing up before he could break your heart.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, gentle but firm, halting you in place. The warmth of his touch seared through your skin like a brand, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Please don’t go,” Harry murmured, his voice so soft it was barely a sound. You didn’t dare turn around; afraid your resolve would crack the moment you saw his face.

“I can’t do this, Harry,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “I can’t be the almost once again.”

Harry’s grip tightened just a little, not to keep you there, but like he needed to hold onto something real. His breath hitched, and for a moment he didn’t speak, like the words were too heavy in his chest, too tangled up in everything he’d never had the courage to say.

Then, finally, in a voice raw and aching, he said, “You’ve never been temporary to me. Not for a second. You’re the only thing that’s ever felt real, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise.”

Your heart clenched, and you felt your defenses crack, a splinter running right through you.

He stood up “The moment I laid my eyes on you at the wedding I could feel my heart stopping for a second because I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen,” Harry went on, standing there in front of you like a man unraveling at the seams. His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion, and his eyes never left yours. “And then you smiled and it was over for me” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, laughing softly, like he couldn’t believe he was finally saying it.

Harry took a breath like it hurt to hold it in any longer, his eyes shining in the dim light. “You came into my life so easily,” he said, his voice rough and low, as though the words had been waiting, buried in his chest for far too long. “Like you already belonged there. Like you’d always been meant to find me, even when I didn’t know I was lost.”

He shook his head, a fragile, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips. “You tugged on this string inside me, one I didn’t even know existed. Nobody’s ever found it before, no one’s ever known how. And it terrified me because I’ve spent so long building walls, convincing myself I didn’t need anyone. That love was nothing but a contract you could buy with money.”

His hand came up, hovering near your cheek, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch you yet, but God, he wanted to. “I don’t know how to love someone,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I’ve never been shown the kind that stays. The kind that’s safe. But with you, it doesn’t feel like something I need to run from. It feels like something I get to learn. Something worth learning.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, searching your face. “You make me want to be better. Not for anyone else, just for you. Because every time you laugh, every time you look at me like I matter, it makes me think maybe I’m not as lost as I thought I was.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Harry’s thumb brushed it away with the softest touch, his fingers trembling against your skin.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words carrying the weight of every unspoken feeling he’d buried for too long. “I love you in a way I didn’t think I was capable of. And I don’t want to spend another second pretending it’s anything less.”

A soft rain began to fall, delicate, almost hesitant drops that speckled the stone steps around you and clung to the edges of his hair. The air smelled clean, like earth and something new beginning, and for a moment neither of you moved, standing there in the quiet hush of it.

It felt like the perfect beginning of a story of love.

You felt your lips curve into a small, fragile smile. Not because the tiny pain wasn’t there anymore, it was, but Harry also was there and you couldn’t ignore that.

Your gaze met his, and the storm behind his eyes softened the moment you smiled. He let out a breath, one he’d clearly been holding for far too long.

“You have a terrible sense of time,” you murmured, a gentle tease in your voice, though your heart ached with how much you meant it.

Harry laughed, a soft, broken sound, his shoulders shaking. He loved that sound, “It honestly feels like the right moment.”

The rain came a little steadier now, but neither of you moved to leave. Instead, you stepped closer, closing the final inches between you. His jacket slipped from your shoulders, but before the chill could find you, his hands were there, one at your waist, the other brushing damp hair from your cheek.

“I want us to try something real. To get to know each other.” His thumb brushed your cheek, a tender, reverent touch, and you felt yourself lean into it before you even realized.

“I want to kiss you every single time I feel like it,” he went on, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed serious. “Not just when it’s convenient for us, not when no one’s looking, but whenever it hits me how lucky, I am you even exist and that you chose me.”

You felt your breath catch, your heart stammer against your ribs.

“I want to spoil you rotten,” he added softly. “Take you out, bring you flowers for no reason, hold your hand at the movies, listen to you rant about work, kiss you stupid when you’re in a bad mood. I want to be the one you call when you’re excited, when you’re scared, when you just need someone. I want to be yours; you still want me.”

The rain drummed gently around you, the world shrinking to the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands and the aching swell of your heart out of the happiness you were feeling.

You smiled, a real one this time, wide and aching and a little disbelieving, and let your hand slide to the back of his neck, pulling him down just enough to close the last space between you.

“Then kiss me, Harry,” you whispered, your lips brushing his. “And don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

tags:

@jasminedragoon @stcrrjoon @sptbear @picketniffler @greenwitchfromthewoods @fallout-girl219 @suzysface @aomi-recs @capuccinodoll @fvispunk @orcasoul @joeldarling @mystickittytaco @onlythehobi @darkheartgatita @isabella-rose-trastamara @spencercmlover @brittmb115 @correapunk @aomi-nabi @annulmaelae @32-flavors @berriesarepunk @joelmillerpascal

@lotusbxtch @dean-and-baby343 @pedrofan @hisuccubus @daryltwdixon @sourrollercoaster @holholliday @loveisacowboyyy

@hhallefuckinglujahh @primadonnasdream @chewie-bars @starstriker027 @glitterspark @casualbananapatrol @06nasyrah13

@unicornsandpugs @orcasoul @grayandthyme @sincerelywithheartt @starstriker027 @poor-unfortunate-soul9927

@ro-nahime-things @kimi01985 @pastelpinkflowerlife @isabella-rose-trastamara @majuia

[inseobts]

Stupid Cupid

nami x fem!reader

you’ve been hopelessly in love with nami, convinced cupid hates you and she’d never return your feelings.

a/n: sorry but it was about damn time I wrote something for my girl (>/////<) ♡

words count: 1.7k

tags: slow burn, internalized angst but actually fluff, emotional tension, lgbt+, pining, humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You are in love with Nami.

Painfully, hopelessly, pathetically in love.

And it sucks.

She’s smart, brave, a little scary in the best way. She could kill a man with her stare, but she’s also soft when she wants to be. Like when she’s looking at maps under the lantern light. Or laughing with Robin. Or teasing Luffy when he steals her tangerines.

You’d die for her. Not even in a dramatic way. Just like, “Hey, Nami needs something? Cool. I’ll jump into the sea with bricks tied to my ankles.”

The worst part?

She’s so comfortable around you. So casual. So open. She links arms with you when you walk through towns. She tucks your hair behind your ear when it gets in your face. She calls you cute when you wear new clothes.

You almost explode every time.

But she doesn’t mean it like that. How could she?

In times like this you envy Sanji so much. He gets to flirt. Not seriously, but still. He’s allowed to. He’s a guy.

You’re not.

You don’t even know if she likes girls. That’s not something the strawhats usually talk about.

And even if she does... she’s Nami.

And you’re just… you.

You’re the girl who can barely meet her eyes some days. The one who pretends she’s cool and chill and not constantly thinking about what Nami’s lips would feel like. (They look soft. Too soft. It’s torture.)

You lie awake some nights thinking about it. About telling her. About being honest. And then you imagine the look on her face if you did.

The confusion. The awkward silence. Maybe the pity.

And then you imagine what comes next: things being weird. Nami keeping her distance. You ruining everything.

So no. You don’t say a word.

You’re sitting on the deck one evening, watching the sunset. Trying not to think about her. Failing, obviously.

“Hey,” Nami says, coming up behind you “You okay?”

You stiffen “Yep. Totally. Great.”

She raises an eyebrow and sits next to you, close enough that your knees touch “You sure? You’ve been kinda weird lately.”

“I’m always weird.”

She laughs “True, but this is a new kind of weird. Sad weird.”

You force a smile “I’m fine, really.”

She nudges you with her elbow “Tell me what’s going on. I know something’s up.”

You look at her and immediately regret it. Her face is too pretty in this light. Her eyes are too kind.

You panic.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, standing up “Just tired. Gonna head in.”

“Wait—” she starts, but you’re already walking away.

You don’t see the way her smile fades.

You spend the next two days avoiding Nami like she’s a sea king with a personal grudge.

It’s not subtle. Not even a little. You switch seats at lunch. You fake naps when she walks into the room. You literally jumped into the ocean yesterday to avoid her asking if you wanted to join a card game.

(Chopper was very concerned. Luffy thought it was a training exercise.)

And through it all, Nami just watches you with this look. Not angry. Not confused, even. Just… thoughtful.

You hate it.

You’re halfway through hanging laundry up on the line when you feel someone watching you. You turn.

Zoro’s leaning against the rail, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“What?” you ask.

He doesn’t move “You got a problem with Nami?”

Your heart leaps into your throat “What? No. Why?”

“You’ve been acting like she’s contagious.”

“I—I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. Doesn’t mean you jump off the damn ship.”

You glare at him “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says “You’re just annoying when you’re mopey.”

“Wow. Thanks for the concern.”

He sighs like he’s being deeply inconvenienced “Look. If you like her, just tell her.”

You freeze.

He raises an eyebrow “You do, don’t you?”

You want to scream “How do you know that?!”

“I have one eye but I still can see,” he says, like it’s obvious “Also, you blush every time she breathes in your direction.”

You bury your face in your hands “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not Sanji,” he says, rolling his eyes “I’m not gonna go crying into a wine bottle about it.”

“…Thanks?”

He shrugs “Anyway, just say something. Or stop acting like she ran over your dog.”

You stare at him “Do you even know if she likes girls?”

“No idea.”

“Then why would I say something?!”

He shrugs again “You’re miserable now. Worst case, you’re still miserable but at least you stop acting like a ghost. Best case, you get the girl. Whatever.”

You blink at him “…That’s your idea of advice?”

“Pretty good, right?” he says, and walks away like he just solved world hunger.

You groan into the towel in your hands.

He’s not wrong, but also, he is the worst.

You glance toward the deck below, where Nami is talking with Robin, laughing again. The sound makes your stomach flip.

You want to tell her. But you also want to crawl into the laundry basket and live there forever.

Thanks a lot, Zoro.

You’re not eavesdropping.

You’re just walking by with perfect timing. While carrying plates to the kitchen.

And if you just happen to pause by the door when you hear Nami’s voice? That’s not your fault. The door is not fully closed.

“…is sweet,” she’s saying “A little awkward, but in a cute way.”

You stop breathing.

Robin hums “I noticed. You’re always smiling.”

Your grip tightens on the plates.

“Don’t start,” Nami says, but she’s laughing “I’m not used to someone being so… open, I guess. It’s kind of nice.”

Robin’s voice is warm “Sounds like you like it.”

“Maybe I do like... him” Nami says, and your heart snaps clean in two.

You turn and walk away, fast. You’re not crying. You’re not.

You don’t even know who she’s talking about. Could be Sanji. Could be some random guy from the last island. But it doesn’t matter.

It’s not you.

It was never going to be you.

You’re so stupid.

Stupid for hoping. Stupid for dreaming. Stupid for letting Zoro put ideas in your head.

That night, you stay in your bunk. You fake sleep when Nami passes by. You hear her pause. Then her footsteps leave again.

You feel sick.

The next day you avoid her again. You’re not even subtle anymore. You’re tired of even think about some excuses. You change directions when she comes near. You leave rooms she walks into. You pretend not to hear when she calls your name.

Eventually, she’s had enough.

“Hey,” she says, cornering you by the tangerine trees “What is going on with you?”

You stare at her like a deer caught in sunlight “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re avoiding me like I’ve grown fangs.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Really?” she snaps “So the last days were just a coincidence?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again “I just figured you’d rather not hang out with me.”

“Why would you think that?”

You glance away “I heard you talking to Robin.”

She pauses “…Okay?”

“You said you liked someone.”

Nami frowns “And?”

You force a laugh “I just wanted to leave you and Sanji alone.”

She stares at you for a long second “You... You really thought I meant Sanji?”

You blink “You didn’t?”

She shakes her head, almost amused “No. I meant you, dumbass.”

Silence.

The birds go quiet. The waves stop. The world pauses.

“…What?”

She folds her arms, tilts her head “You’re awkward. You never say what you’re thinking but your actions are really obvious. You jump off boats to avoid me. It’s kind of charming.”

You’re frozen “But… you said he.”

She smirks “In that moment I noticed you were there. I kinda panicked and so I said 'he' to mess with you.”

Your jaw drops “You what?!”

“You made it so obvious,” she says, laughing now “You blush every time I talk. You flinch when I touch your arm. It’s either fear or a crush, and you’re not scared of me.”

You are definitely crying now.

“I thought—” your voice breaks “I thought you’d never like me. I didn’t even know if you liked girls.”

“I like you,” she says, softer now “Is that clear enough now?”

You nod, because words aren’t working.

Then, just to really kill you, she leans in and kisses you.

Right on the mouth.

And yeah, her lips are exactly as soft as you imagined.

When she pulls back, your heart’s beating in your throat.

“Still think Cupid sucks?” she asks.

“…Maybe just a little less.”

Dinner that night is louder than usual.

Luffy’s talking with his mouth full, Sanji’s spinning plates like a circus act, and Franky’s trying to convince Chopper to drink something that is definitely glowing.

But none of that matters. Because you’re sitting beside Nami. Not across from her. Not diagonally. Right beside her. And your hands are linked under the table.

The crew already knows.

It’s not like you made an announcement or anything, but Zoro raised an eyebrow when you sat down, and Robin gave you a look. Then Luffy screamed, “YOU KISSED Y/N?!” and that was that.

You half expected Sanji to faint. Instead, he just sighed deeply and said, “Figures. Nami-swan has taste.”

Which was… weirdly supportive of him?

Anyway, the chaos has died down now. Kind of.

Until Usopp stands up dramatically, clears his throat, and starts pacing.

“Oh no” you mutter. Nami grins beside you.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Usopp says, voice rising with flair, “let me tell you the tragic tale… of Stupid Cupid!”

Everyone groans. Luffy is already laughing. You go pale.

Usopp cups his hands around his heart and wails, “Oh Nami, she’s so perfect, she’s so soft, I’ll never be good enough, Cupid you SUCK—”

Luffy laughs so hard he chokes. Chopper pats his back while wheezing.

Even Zoro smirks.

You cover your face with your hands “I hate all of you.”

“She’s looking at me! Abort mission!” Usopp yells, fake-diving under the table “Ocean, take me now!”

“Taxes!” Chopper calls out kicking his feet.

“I LOVE HER BUT I’LL DIE FIRST BEFORE I SAY IT—” Usopp continues dramatically.

You’re about to crawl under the table for real when something stops you. A hand sliding into yours.

You turn your head and Nami is smiling at you.

Not laughing. Not teasing. Just smiling, soft and sure and warm. Like you’re hers and you are.

So you take a deep breath, squeeze her hand back, and laugh.

Because yeah. Maybe Cupid has terrible aim. Maybe you were a wreck. Maybe everyone did know.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’re with her now and you’re okay. You're happy.

[peachycheekz]

Kisses and Coconuts

a/n: July 5th /Beach Day/ Work is stressing me out so bad I barely have the energy to think of anything else than numbers and deadlines. Wish I was on a beach rn 🥺 (preferably also kissing Law)

read on ao3

WC: 2.7k

Waves rolled into the shoreline leisurely and a gentle breeze made the unrelenting heat bearable. The Thousand Sunny was rocking smoothly back and forth on the water in the distance. The sun was still high up in the sky, not a single cloud in sight and if he closed his eyes Law could almost pretend everything was fine.

Under different circumstances he would have thought of the scenery as peaceful. But the circumstances were not different and, unfortunately, there was only so much peace and quiet one could have with the Straw Hats. Which was none, to be precise.

Kikoku leaned against the trunk of a palm tree beside him, his arms were crossed over his bare chest. It was so intolerably hot, he even left his hat on board the ship. A mistake, as he realised the moment you spotted his mess of a hair and he could read you well enough by now to know you were itching to rake your hands through it. So he'd booked it and searched a shady place as far away from you as possible.

Not only because you were an insufferably touchy person, but also because he tended to feel the oddest of ways in your presence. You were deeply unnerving. Even more so than the skeleton. Or Luffy himself, but that one was a whole other disaster Law couldn't wait to get away from.

Without his permission, his eyes trailed the shoreline, catching on your body by the water. You were splayed out on a towel, Nami and Robin beside you as well. How you managed to nap with all the bickering and elated screaming around you was beyond him. He'd never manage to shut an eye with everything that was going on with these absolute degenerates of a crew.

They were a mess in his eyes. An arguably very well working mess, but a catastrophe in the making none the less. But despite everything, Law was glad to be on their good side. Even if it meant being subject to countless tries of their captain wanting to recruit him, or the green-haired swordsman constantly trying to get his hands on Kikoku.

The Straw Hats were an odd bunch. But one he'd grown irritatingly fond of, not that he would ever admit that.

You stirred, long legs stretching into the sand. Sanji was by your side in an instant, offering you God knows what but you declined and Law despised the swell of satisfaction welling up in his chest. He hated this, that you made him feel things. Things he'd long thought so deeply buried they were impossible to unearth again. But you had done it with an ease that was scary.

Had dug up pieces of his soul armed with the kind of smile that made his chest feel tight instead of a shovel and soft whispers of touches instead of blunt force to crack open the surface. With every accidental brush of a hand, every crinkle in the corners of your eyes you had put cracks in his carefully crafted walls and if he wasn't careful enough Law thought the next time you laughed in his direction the sound alone would tear them down like a wrecking ball.

He couldn't even say how it got this far. One moment he was so put off by your whole personality he heavily considered throwing himself off the railing, the next he caught himself hoping to sit next to you at dinner again because that one time you'd leaned into him a little too much and he hated it a lot less than he should have.

You sat with him when he would rather be alone until he wished you'd never leave his side again. Listened to his silence when he sat on deck at night because sleep evaded him again and filled it with terrible jokes and small anecdotes about your own life.

And then there were the times you would touch him. So casually, so naturally as if you had been close friends for years. As if he wasn't the captain of a rival crew and you weren't teamed up with the most obnoxiously selfless person he'd ever met.

Law didn't like anyone else's hands on his body, most times not even his own. A bad habit he kept from his childhood. The first time you hugged him he nearly had a panic attack. The second time he saw it coming but still went as rigid as a tree. By the third he finally had the nerve to tell you to stop, even if he didn't fully mean it anymore.

When he caught his lips threatening to tip up at the corners to the thought of you he knew he was well and truly fucked.

For a man like him, used to pitiless cold, there simply was no place in the unwavering warmth of a person like you.

"Stop brooding and relax for once, Law." Startled, he looked up from where his feet had absentmindedly dug holes into the soft the sand in front of him. There was only one person whose voice wrapped around his name like silk. You stood with your hands on your hips, eyes like the sea at calm. The type of smile that he was sure would haunt him once your paths inevitably diverged again decorated your plush lips.

Law needed a moment to remember words.

"I am relaxing," he lied. He didn't know how to do that anymore. Had left that ability behind somewhere in Flevance. There were always things to stress about, even after taking care of Doflamingo. Like scheming to take on an emperor. Finding a new purpose in life.

Bepo.

How to make his heart stop racing away from his chest when you looked at him like that.

"You're as far from relaxed as Zoro is from having a sense of direction." You called him out without missing a beat and the sharpness of your eyes made heat creep up his neck. "Come on, join us. Company will do you good." It probably wouldn't but everyday it got a little harder to say no to you.

You held out a hand he didn't take but the defeated sigh rolling from his mouth was enough to seal your victory.

One thing Law had quickly learned from travelling with Luffy and his natural calamity of a crew was that no one was left out of anything. He was going to be integrated, if he wanted to or not. And you were pretty persistent in making sure he couldn't weasel his way out of group activities. Even if it was just sharing a cup of sake before going back to stewing in his thoughts.

"Look who I brought." You presented him to the group, who'd gathered in a circle by the water like he was the most valuable treasure you had ever gotten your hands on. Grin so bright it rivalled a pile of diamonds. Law attempted to look unbothered when you pushed him down onto your towel by the shoulders and it almost worked until you settled next to him, bare skin brushing his in too may places to allow his brain to function.

It was quiet for the most uncomfortable fraction of a second. Then a bottle of liquor was pushed into his hands, Sanji and Zoro continued bickering, Usopp was betting Luffy on how many crab cakes he could cram into his mouth at once. Brook was strumming a chord on his guitar. It was chaotic. Overwhelming. Homely.

You nudged Law in the side with your elbow, encouraging him to talk to Robin with a subtle nod. He had wanted to strike up a conversation with the historian for a while now but never seemed to find the right moment. Or the nerve.

Before he knew it, he was tipsy and knee deep in a discussion about the diversity of literature in the Northblue. Hours passed exchanging medical knowledge with Chopper, he found himself promising to show him his operation room on the Polar Tang sometime and even granted Zoro a quick glance at his sword. Supervised. No touching.

He didn't notice you get up to stroll along the beach with Nami until he placed his sword in the place you had occupied before.

Within the span of singular heartbeat all the tension was back in his muscles. His head swivelled left to right almost frantically and he only realised he was holding his breath when he spotted you in the distance, skin glowing golden in the setting sun. You threw your head back at something the other woman said, the sound ringing all the way back to where he sat.

Law exhaled sharply. It was pathetic, really. He was ridiculous. Hopeless.

Next to him he thought he heard Robin stifle a laugh. "For all it's worth," she said, " just know she likes you too."

"Excuse me?"

"You may not see it, but to us it's obvious." Robin cocked her head to the side, raven hair fluttering in a mild gust of wind. Her smile took on a threatening edge. "If you hurt her I will personally carve out the marrow from your bones and feed your flesh to the sea monsters."

Law gulped audibly. Around them, the merry atmosphere didn't dim one bit.

You came back a few minutes later, sat down closer than before. He didn't feel like talking anymore, didn't feel like company. Especially not yours. But Sanji had started up a fire and was roasting meet that had even his mouth water and somehow there was always a new, full vessel of booze in his hands, even if he'd wanted to stop drinking three bottles ago. And you were leaning into his side, seeking his warmth as the sunlight waned, cheeks rosy from the liquor.

He'd long stopped paying attention to anything or anyone else around him, mesmerised by the way you radiated comfort. You were an anchor. An anchor with incredibly soft skin he unexplainably was itching to let his hands skim over and lips he longed to know the taste of. He was fully aware of the fact that he was staring at you like a creep but he couldn't seem to stop. And the more he got lost in you, the more he began to understand that it would rip him apart if, no, when, the time came to say goodbye.

Abruptly Law stood, taking his drink with him instead of his sword. Choosing the cold instead of warmth.

He barely made it more than a few steps from the fireplace when he felt your presence at his back, heard his name fall from your mouth laced with a bit too much emotion for his current state. You caught up.

He pulled away from your touch as if burned. As if he couldn't bare having to remember this when you were miles away and he couldn't rely on you to fix him.

"What's wrong?" He could see the effort it was taking you to not reach out for him again in your big, round eyes. Worry swirling in them like a vortex strong enough to pull him under. After a day in the sun your freckles stood out more prominently, he noticed up close. "Are you alright?"

If he stopped committing every single detail about you to memory now he might stand a chance.

"Yes," he was going for nonchalant. Gruff. Instead his voice came out unsteady. Unstable like the rest of him.

You arched a brow, clocking all the bullshit excuses he came up with before he had a chance of voicing them. With a single nod you signalled him to follow you along the beach. Helpless to deny you, Law complied.

It was useless to get him to talk when he didn't want to, so you allowed him a bit of quiet contemplation and hoped he wouldn't run as soon as you opened your mouth. "Something's bothering you." Law sighed next to you. Not annoyed, not sad. Just a bit…burdened. "I'm always bothered."

You huffed a quiet laugh and veered off the path to sit on the curve of a palm's trunk. Law sat beside you after a couple moments in which he looked suspiciously like he was going to make a run for it.

The air had cooled quite a bit but the sand was still warm underneath his toes. On the horizon the vast ocean mirrored the mix of light pink and deep purple the setting sun painted the skyline with.

Law closed his eyes, dragged air into his lungs, straightened his shoulders. Then pushed all his nervousness and the doubt and the tension out with one deep exhale. There were words on the tip of his tongue that threatened to spill without permission. Thoughts that threatened to weave into sentences. Unfiltered. Possibly dangerous for his dignity.

When he opened his eyes again, you were closer than he remembered. Breath caught in his chest, along with every possible way to paraphrase the words 'I am deeply, unhealthily, madly in love with you'. You leaned in so close he could almost taste you and his heart lodged in his throat like a boulder.

Your lips brushed his in the barest ghost of a touch.

He froze.

The moment didn't last longer than a second, but for Law it dragged out like ten eternities. Your eyes fluttered shut, his stayed wide open. Panicked almost. The alcohol had made him too slow to react and when he finally realised that this was what he had been longing for, dreaming of, dreaded with every fibre of his being you had already pulled back, hands covering your face in shame.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," you repeated the phrase like a mantra, cheeks as red as the sunset, "I-I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me…I shouldn't hav-"

Law pried your hands away from your face like the gesture personally offended him and clumsily slanted his lips over yours. Like he wasn't quite sure if he was still allowed. If the window was still open.

For an agonising moment you were stone still and he almost feared he'd gravely misjudged something but then your mouth moved against his and it was the best feeling Law had ever experienced. Every inch of skin where your body met his tingled with little fireworks going off in his veins. It was bliss. He was free-falling, drowning, burning up all at the same time.

He released your wrists to pull you into his lap, desperate now to feel as much of you as possible. Desperate to touch. He never knew he needed something as much as this and now that he finally had it, he never wanted to stop.

Your hands found a way into his hair, pulling until he made sounds you wanted to frame and hang up on a wall in your bedroom.

You only broke apart when your lungs ached for oxygen more than you yearned for his mouth on yours. Foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, Law held onto you as if afraid he might wake up and find he all but imagined having you like this.

"You have really nice hair." You broke the silence and for the first time a real laugh spilled over his kiss swollen lips and right into your soul. When he opened his eyes, he looked happy. Genuinely so.

"Is there any chance of you coming with me?" His voice was hopefully hoarse, lips skimming the edge of your jaw. "I don't want to have to leave you. I can't do it."

"I gotta make Luffy pirate king first."

Law groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel him grin against your skin anyway.

"He better hurry up then," he muttered, peppering kisses up and down the column of your throat.

You only headed back once it was dark enough no one immediately spotted the way his hair was all messed up in a way that wasn't from not combing it in the morning or the light marks dotting the side of your neck. His hand was in yours, big and warm and trusting.

"I think Robin threatened to dismember me." Law blurted into the comfortable quiet.

"Good," you mused, "that means she likes you."

[randomshyperson]

Butchered Tongue - Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: The Halloween Disturbances separate Wanda from her wife, who, intrigued, begins to take a closer look at the anomalous activities in Westview. Or the one where you discover Westview isn't what it seems, Agatha loses her temper, and Death makes an appearance. 

Warnings: (+18), there’s smut at the beginning (sub!wanda, hints of power dynamics, enchanted strap, creampie, dirty talk), mentions of magical manipulation, Westview canon compliance, agathario being agathario, dark and traditional magic, mentions of attempted magical resurrection, a lot of canon angst ‘cause why not, nothing bad ever happen to kids denial is a river | Words: 7.060k

A/N-> “Why this has an open ending, mary?” Well for start, this is a test. I’m writing a long fic that rewrites and inserts reader into westview drama and I wanted to see how further I could dive into this subject and also bring agathario angst. I liked it very very much but this work here I actually had a lot of fun writing it and i wanted to share it with everyone. I hope people tell me what they thought of it, if you all would rather have a story for the beginning with all the scenes of them together or just a story that moves forward (i haven't thought of a plot after this yet). Honestly, this is just for fun people, I hope you liked this and I hope that I someday write more about this little variation of new characters and dynamics I wrote in this one. The new series will have hybrid!reader ‘cause i’m a TVD fan and i miss that shit daily (and witches and vampires/werewolves are a match). Ps. I suck at summaries and now I just copy-paste the show's official summaries haha

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | *Series Masterlist

*you can read the two first "chapters" for context but it's not really necessary, to understand the story. This is pretty canon-compliant

-&-

Pietro's presence just worsens the tension between you and Wanda.

Not that he's behaving inappropriately or anything like that - his flawed personality is probably his charm. 

The problem is that you had no idea Wanda had a bother in the first place. You were certain she didn’t, just two seconds before she opened that door, but by the same second she told you who that was, your mind went blank and a click of new memories was input into your brain. You could relax and pretend they were always there, and trust your wife but she must have been feeling strange about the whole thing as well, somehow sharing her hesitation through the magic that surrounded every corner and mind of that town.

That's why when Wanda came back to bed that night, she found you already asleep - or pretending to. Every instinct in your mind was telling you to run screaming, the image of your work colleague and his despairing eyes, begging for help, piercing all the new family memories you were getting now.

Children growing up years during one single evening, neighbors terrified subconsciousness, mystery brother. Things seemed to be getting out of control for Wanda as well, but she just kept saying everything was fine and you could trust her.

She didn't try to press you into a conversation, but you heard her tense sighing around the room while she changed into her nightgown.

In no time, there's a soft weight on the bed and a pull on the mattress. You feel her warmth behind you but don't move an inch.

Wanda shifts and you stop breathing when her fingers reach out for your back. Tentatively calling for your attention.

Sighting deeply, you slowly turn to face her. You don't know what you were expecting, maybe red irises that would take your doubts away. You weren't expecting to find teary eyes instead. The effect was nearly the same though - seeing Wanda crying knock down all your defenses all at once.

“Hey.” You start softly, one of your hands moving to her cheek. She leans into the touch immediately, a sad smile on her lips. “Why are you crying, darling?”

She shakes her head, and it looks like she won't explain further when suddenly, she sobs. “I can't believe he's really here.” 

Wanda looks so vulnerable but you're so confused. You don't stop your caress on her cheek but you stare at her in doubt. “Oh darling, tell me what's wrong? Didn't you two get along?”

Wanda chuckles sadly. Your words are not meant to be anything but curious and reassuring of her feelings but they pierce her heart nonetheless. The fact that this version of you has no idea of how much she lost, and didn't even know who Pietro was until tonight makes her feel so wrong about everything.

“We did. He, hm…” She dries her own tears when evading your touch. To lie to your face, she needs physical distance not just emotional. “We grew apart, that's all. It's really nice to have my brother around again.” She turns away, to gaze at the ceiling but you frown at the sudden change of behavior. Wondering what you might have said to upset her, you swallow as Wanda yaws. “Today was just a lot. Let’s just sleep, okay?”

Wanda turns her back to you without another word but less than a minute later, you hear her trying to shuffle her crying.

You don't ask her any questions as you adjust to hold her, feeling her body tensing before relaxing completely.

There will be time for questions tomorrow. Right now, you just hold your wife while she cries herself to sleep, hoping she knows in her heart you'll be there for her.

-&-

Pietro Maximoff could be a bit inconvenient. But so could be Agnes, the nosy neighbor who seemed to share a special affection for Wanda's twin. 

You couldn't really decide which one of them was the most cheeky.

With the daily routine falling into place again, you wanted to believe things were getting better but in fact, they weren't. That whole “foggy mind” sensation never left you, and you had the strong impression that the whole two weeks of Pietro sleeping on the couch and every other routine memory with the boys, Wanda and occasionally Agnes around the round was somehow implemented into your head during your sleep. It just didin’t feel like weeks had passed, but somehow everybody was acting like it did.

Without any proof to that, however, you found yourself staring at a colorful outfit in your shared closet.

Wanda got up early - She has been quite evasive about your agony. And her lack of interest just makes you more anxious.

But by the time you were ready to face another day, she was already dressed up in her red costume, looking way too pretty for someone you were supposed to be mad with.

“Hey darling good morning. Your outfit is right there, I'm gonna check if the boys are ready.” She spoke very quickly, hands busy with the last adjustments of her hair. But her little crown was slightly misplaced and you moved to her way before she could bypass you and leave the room. “What are you…?”

Without a word, your hands move to fix her appearance. Wanda stays put, eyes scanning your face as if searching for a hidden meaning behind your actions, and at the slight feeling of her presence in your mind, you chuckle.

“Is this what you do now?” You question and Wanda's cheeks grow red with shame. “Little peaks whenever you don't feel like talking to your wife?”

She gasps slightly at the accusation. But you're staring at her with anything but teasing behind your eyes and Wanda lifts her chin.

“I don't want us to fight.” She declares but she doesn't move away from your touch so you don't give her space either.

“Fight? You barely pay me a glance.”

“That is not true!” She defends herself immediately but you chuckle dry.

“How come is Halloween already? I could swear it was summer. Didn't we go to the local club just a couple of days ago?”

Wanda holds your wrist, moving your hand away from her red crown. 

“Could you just behave? Today, at the boy's first Halloween? Please.”

She was not only diverting the whole situation guilty towards you but also ignoring your questions. 

When Wanda decided that behaving so toxic towards you was acceptable you don't know.

What you know is that she needed to be reminded of a few important things.

“I'm afraid that your bother is having a terrible influence on me, darling.” You start, freeing your hand from her grip only to move both to her waist. She swallows hard but keeps an indifferent expression. “I'll be up to mischief all evening.”

She frowns, even if by instinct her hands find your shoulders to correspond to your touch, she looks tense.

“What… You're not sticking around for your son's first Halloween?”

You chuckle at her choice of words. Nowadays, every time you want to question something, Wanda goes for emotional appeal. 

“Is it? They are already ten. I'm certain we must have taken them to pick up candy at some point. It would be odd if we haven't.” 

Wanda narrows her eyes at you. So this is how you gonna play this game - by taunting her on everything that was weird about Westview, trying to see her crack on her indifference.

She takes a deep breath, fingers adjusting your pajama’s collar.

“You're trying to get a reaction out of me. I'm sorry, but I already said we're not fighting today. If you can't skip work, I'm taking the boys with their uncle.”

“As you wish, darling.” You retry with the same serious tone. 

Wanda stares back. And there's a pause and another. 

Then, a pull on her waist to bring her hard towards your chest. Wanda barely has time to blush or choke on her breathing when your lips meet her in an intense kiss.

She moans against her will into your tongue, her body melting as your hands squeeze her waist, that doesn't help her regain her posture one bit.

She feels her back hit the shelf when you push forward to press her against it, but that only makes her kiss you harder, the affected sighs during the kiss only making you crazier.

Your hands start to wander, and the bedroom door locks by itself, a spell of noise filling the wood as well. As your kisses go down her jaw, her trembling fingers try to undo the knot of your pajama pants. She ends up failing in the activity when you start biting a sensitive spot behind her ear, your teeth scraping the way down, and Wanda wonders if she should cause more fights to have such a mind-blowing turn-on like this; she feels like if you don't fuck her now she might combust.

She only realizes she's started begging because you give a sadistic giggle, which makes her cheeks burn.

"I might not let you leave the room, Wands." You tease, and she has trouble even understanding what you're saying because you've lowered your fingers to where she's already started leaking beyond her costume. "Making those delicious sounds, and dressed like that. I don't want to let you go." 

She forces her mouth to work, even though she's first letting out a little squeal when she feels your palm press against her covered pussy. "I'll be quick." She replies hoarsely, and you raise an eyebrow at the double meaning. She chuckles weakly, sighing. "You won't even have time to miss me." 

You hum absently, looking down. One of your hands caresses her ass and then her thigh, smoothing her pantyhose. Your fingers tease her intimacy, bringing the moisture she can't contain, and making her knees buckle. When Wanda shudders, in that sexy way she always does every time her orgasm is building properly, you sigh. 

"Sorry, honey, I really need to touch you." It's your only warning, and Wanda wants to pretend she doesn't like it when you rip her costume at the bottom, but she ends up rewarding you with a new wave of wetness running down her thighs.

You kiss her again as your fingers find her entrance, but Wanda has trouble even standing, let alone kissing you back when you’re touching her like this. Your fingers tease her hot entrance before you push two digits inside without ceremony, grunting at the warmth and the way she squeezes you. Wanda sighs contentedly and resists the instinct to close her eyes to meet your gaze. She holds on as you rest one hand behind her on the shelf, and adjust the angle of the other, going deeper inside her. It’s almost a challenge as your thrusts start to get more determined and harder and she has to grip your shoulders to stay upright, biting her lip to muffle the sounds that tear from her throat.

The climax builds so quickly, she might be embarrassed if you weren’t her wife, and you know her body so well. Just adjust the angle, press her clitoris with your thumb, and Wanda arches and comes hard, keeping herself standing only by holding on to your shoulders, while all the lights in the room flicker and the place shakes as much as your body.

You have a satisfied little smile on your face as she tries to stop shaking, and she can't hold back her moan when you remove your fingers from inside her only to suck them clean one by one.

You kiss her again as soon as you finish, and Wanda finds it so dirty and sexy that she starts scratching your belly, ready for another. You break off with a giggle.

"Weren't you the one in a hurry?" You tease, your pants loosening as Wanda starts to feel around you, pulling the item down with some urgency.

"Weren't you the one who wouldn't let me get out of bed?" She responds aroused, managing to make you giggle before pressing your hips together, her firm hands squeezing your ass.

When she kisses you next, sucking on your tongue, you grunt. "Fuck, you drive me crazy, Wands." You break the kiss, manhandling her back to the bed, and standing behind her. "You're gonna get on all fours and watch yourself get fucked like the slutty housewife you love to be. Come on, Wanda." A slap to her ass has her whimpering on shaking limbs until she finally exposes herself to you. The mirror in the corner of the room is ignored, but you force her face up, and she stares at the sight that leaves her dripping.

It doesn't surprise her to feel the hardness against her entrance, but it makes her break into a deep moan. The toy conjured in your pants that are still hanging at your knees slides in easily, and you both grunt at the sensation of the enchanted cock filling her up. Your first thrust is the only gentle one. Your hands grip her hips and then her hair, and Wanda is transformed into a pathetic mess of begging and moaning as you begin to fuck into her hard, the bed rocking with your movements.

You grunt between thrusts how much you love her. How much you love filling her, how much you love the way she sounds and feels. How much you want to fuck another baby into her.

Wanda comes without warning, her hands gripping the sheets in desperation, her body giving in to the climax as she cries loudly into the bed. You don't stop your movements, the creamy slickness making a dirty sound that makes you curse softly and Wanda blush deeply. She grunts at the overstimulation, but her hips move in time with yours.

You tell her that you're going to come, your thrusts becoming more frantic and uncoordinated, and she keeps her gaze on your reflection, watching with adoration the way your body moves against hers, your face contorted with pleasure as she barely manages to stay on her own limbs. When you come inside, the sensation is too delirious to begin with, so Wanda follows your climax, moaning as your body falls on top of hers, holding her to the bed as you pour yourself inside her.

But as your breathing calms and the arousal has subsided to deep intimacy, you sigh and pull out of her, throwing yourself next to her on the bed. Wanda frowns at the change in your energy and looks at you curiously.

"We can't end all fights like this," you murmur, and she raises an eyebrow.

"Can't we?"

But despite your dry chuckle, there's no joy in your eyes. It makes Wanda feel like the worst person in the world, even after what was probably the best sex she's had in a long time.

"I'm gonna go change. I promise I won't ruin anything for you today." You say, and she wants to pull you back and tell you that you never ruin anything, that this is all for, but none of that comes out.

She just stands there in silence, until she remembers everything she had planned for today with the noise downstairs.

She's already fixed her costume and tidied the room when you come back with a towel slung over your shoulders.

“I…” But the boys running and fighting with their uncle downstairs make Wanda sigh. She offers you a lingering glance once she touches the doorknob. “I love you, Y/N. Never forget, alright?” 

You give her a lopsided smile. “Don't start or I'm gonna kiss you again.”

She smiles and leaves without saying anything else. You don't know how her heart ached at the fact you didn't say it back.

-&-

The further you went, the less habited Westview became.

The realization gives you chills, and as the city turns into this creepy empty scenario, you start to consider giving up your little investigation and just go back to your lovely wife and children.

It's the neighbor's parked car at Ellis Avenue that makes you sigh determined.

You're surprised to find Agnes having a drink inside. The small bottle has an insight that looks strangely familiar to you but you can't put your heart on that. And you're busy speaking:

“Goodnight, Agnes, is everything alright?” You greet but upon your sudden arrival, she chuckles ironically.

Not even bothering to hide away the bottle that has something so strong that you can smell the alcohol from afar, she leans into the window to get a better look at you.

“And what are you doing here, sugar?”

Her attitude chocks you. Not only that but something about the ascent also makes you frown. But you decide to play along because things are weird enough those days.

“Hm, I was just going for a walk.”

Agnes lifts an eyebrow at you. “Oh, does she know you're out?”

You know immediately she's talking about Wanda but you have no clue what that means. So you swallow drily and stare at the older woman.

“Yeah, I… I tell my wife everything.”

Agnes giggles wickedly. “Is that what you believe? Truly? How lovely.”

“Agnes, I don't understand -”

“Stop this act for once!” She cuts off angrily, opens the door, and almost hits you in the process. You step back so she can get out of the vehicle, and she hits the door a second time. “I'm Agatha! We know each other! Stop this foolish act for once!”

You frown and shake your head confusedly. “Of course we know each other, you're my neighbor-”

She groans impatiently, giving your shoulders a hard push. “Do you know how worried I was when you disappeared? Do you even care?”

“Agnes, I don't-”

“When you said you wanted to do the right thing, I let you. I gave you the space you wanted. When you said you would play superhero with those lunatics, I said okay, do one crazy thing this century, we all have our phases.” She continues to vent, without caring about your confusion. “But then you were gone! They brought everybody back except you. There was a whole fucking memorial you know? And I thought, fuck that stupid asshole finally got what she was looking for. And yeah I took your body from those shitty agents like you made me swear I would do if you were ever treated like a lab rat, but then I came here for a job and here you are! Playing housewife with that witch as if nothing bad happened ever happened!”

You interrupt her: “What bad thing happened?”

“You died, your idiot!” She screams back, stealing the air from your lungs. But she sighs to keep her composure and then chuckles humorlessly. “Or at least that's what the news said, right?” She retorts, her eyes shining lit. You don't know if it's the tears or the challenge behind her iris. “What is this anyways, Y/N? Where even are you right now? Do you know? Does she?”

You step back, your heart racing in your chest. “None of this makes any sense. You're clearly disoriented, and I'm sorry but I can't deal with this right now.” You practically run away from her, but Agnes - or Agatha at this point you're not sure of anything anymore - stops following you. She shakes her head in disbelief and takes the small bottle from her pocket again. With a long gulp, it looks like she drinks all of it before turning back to her car.

You just keep moving. 

The Avenue limit is in front of you, and you don't have to make much of an effort to realize there's so short of energy there. Like a wall right in front of you.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your hand to the border moving forward with your fingers.

The second you're out, Westview disappears.

-&-

Before.

When Agatha Harkness decided her apprentice was ready for a real mission, she expected the witch she chose to spare instead of sacrifice once, to go for something simple, like killing a dragon or exploring a different realm.

She was not expecting an infinity stone.

“It's stupidly dangerous.” She said when you suggested but you didn't lose your posture.

“And when are we doing things that aren't dangerous?” Your argument started there just before you listed how inconvenient it would be if Hydra learned how to manipulate the stones for the actual magical community. Teasing Agatha by saying you might ask the Kamar Taj Mages for the same mission was the main reason she agreed with this.

In no time, you're heading off to a little place called Sokovia. Alone for your first mission, you didn't call for help when you got captured because that would be too humiliating. It was your first mission without Agatha, you could handle Hydra and their weird science.

You could handle their experiments and torture in search of truth. You could handle an infinity stone being carved into your skin as they tried to study the magic from your veins. If there was something that Agatha taught was that you should never fear power, no matter what, you should take it. And so you did.

Agatha was supposed to be proud - You did not only succeed in your mission when you interrupted the experiments by stealing the stone from Hydra to give it to the Avengers (who were not supposed to do the same with it to be clear), but you were also much more powerful than any witches your age and beyond due to the experiments. But instead of being proud, Agatha got jealous. She was worried too, but mostly jealous. It's just who she was after all - the most ambitious person you ever met. And having her apprentice overcome her power in one mission didn't make her feel very good about herself.

After the fight that escalated with this jealousy, you two departed for years. You became an Avenger, and Agatha kept doing what she did best. The stone craved at Vision’s head kept whispering fears into his mind until finally, the mad Titan came to Earth to retract what he believed belonged to him and kill anyone who stayed in his way.

You were given a proper and public funeral organized by Natasha Romanoff, so Agatha knew you were gone. She saw the news, then she visited the grave. 

The Avengers didn't know the old ways of witchcraft, so she felt she was in her right to steal your body without giving any explanation. Leaving an empty and destroyed grave behind. It was not the witch community problem that a new tension surfaces with that, whispers of government organizations or criminals wishing to have your body for their own experiments. The talk of men was of little importance for a 300-year-old witch anyway.

Five years came and a flick of fingers brought everybody back from the dead. All but you.

Agatha had your body magically preserved - untouched by the lady of death as one last favor from Rio - she made sure you were buried in her family land as well. 

You must rest with your kind she would say.

But everything changed one afternoon. She felt a powerful magic emission from afar and left her property. Unaware that you heard the same calling.

The connection you held with the witch calling whatever was deeper than the dark roots of that cursed magical ground your body was buried in. 

The stone that was used to amplify Wanda's and your powers created a magical bond between you two that not even death could break. That, and well, you loved each other very deeply. The second her heart screamed your name during the Creation of Westview, you moved to her. 

Your poor stitched body couldn't do the travel - the fight with the Titan weakened your flesh to its limit. You crawled into the Harkness Residence while its owner flayed to answer the magical calling before you could.

The only way you were able to reach for Wanda was with your mind. The preserved connection of the stone to yours and her power brought your conscience all the way to Westview but weakened by the distance and your wife's grief, all memories were gone. 

You were there, but not really.

And while Agatha's employees woke up and freaked out about a body in the living room, your Hex version and her were locked inside Westview, following up fantasies for what felt like a lifetime but in reality barely a week had passed.

That until of course, you stepped outside.

The first person you see is Darcy Lewis. But she's nothing like you remember her.

Just like everybody around, she had circus outfits and even some handcuffs and chains around her that made you frown.

Getting up from the ground you didn't even realize you fell into, you take a moment to clean up the amount of dirt from your clothes.

“Darcy, is that really you?”

The brunette let out a nervous laugh. “I'm sorry, am I the only one who saw this woman appearing out of nowhere? Hello, guys? Okay, I'm out of here.” She moves away nervously but you stumble behind her. 

“Wait, Darcy, is me-”

“Get away from me, stranger!” Darcy shouts back, almost running but you focus on using your abilities. It's painful, as if your mind and body - and the Westview version of yourself are -  getting used to magic again, so when you teleport to her way, your knees give up and Darcy is kind enough not to let you fall to the ground. “What the hell was that?”

You balance yourself with her help. “Darcy is me. How can you not remember me?”

“Sorry, I'm not good with names.”

You chuckle weakly. “Not even Jane Foster? Or Thor?” She blinks, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. When she hesitates, you reach for her head. The magical subjugation is forced away by your magic and Darcy gasps in chock. 

“Oh my god, is really you is it, Y/N?” She finally recognized you, her memories coming back to her at high speed.  You sigh in relief, moving closer to free her from her chains. You hug her back as her arms lock around you tightly. “I knew they were wrong when they said you were gone.”

You break the embrace to give her a small smile. “Well, about that…”

You had to tell the story very quickly; your goal was to get back to the city, to your wife. Who needs to explain to you how the hell you were here and not buried in New York. If Wanda wouldn't talk, Agatha would have to do it.

Darcy, fortunately, managed to get a car.

"[...] do you really think she resurrected me?"

Darcy shrugs, she's driving and even though she's not a witch, she seems to take the whole story very seriously.

"Look, it's like I told you, SWORD called all kinds of experts to this place. No one really knows what the Hex is made of, much less how you're here. But what we do know is that your body was stolen about three weeks ago, and no one has been able to locate you anymore."

You imagine how Wanda would have done it, and the image of her digging your grave and dragging your body through the city gives you chills. But it also has nothing to do with Wanda, and makes you sigh wearily.

"I don't know, Darcy. It doesn't sound like anything she would do."

The woman with the glasses forces a sad smile at you. "Grief is a strange feeling, my friend. We often do surprising things."

There's a pause, but when Darcy speaks again after a whistle, her tone is much lighter than before.

"Now, talking about your body, are you sure you don't feel... you know, physical?"

You laugh, scratching the back of your head awkwardly. "It's hard to explain. I don't think I would notice if I weren't a witch, and well the spell is strong and capable of fooling everyone here. But I can feel that I'm not complete." You try to explain. "I only noticed when I left the Hex. It was like a tug, behind my head, as if my mind is the only physician thing here somehow. I don't know how Wanda brought me back, but I have a few guesses. A lot of them involve necromancy, but I don't know where she would have learned that. Although, the presence of a friend here in the Hex gave me some pointers."

Darcy frowns. "Friend? Who?"

She has to brake suddenly, because there's a sheep crossing in the way. It's your turn to grimace.

"What the hell...?" The herd lingers and then gives way to children crossing the street and an old lady with walking sticks.

Wanda is keeping you away. But why?

"She's doing this, Darcy." You mutter irritably, looking out the window at the next distraction on the road - roadworks - before unbuckling your seatbelt. "This is ridiculous. I am dead, and my wife would rather arrest me on the road than talk about it. We'll meet downtown, Darcy. And thank you for coming here to help Wanda." You get out of the car before your friend can protest, and fly away without waiting for anything else.

It's time to have a grown-up talk about things.

-&-

Your sudden departure, although short, was enough for your physical body to gain the little vigor it needed.

Just enough to call the only person who could help you in this state.

Agatha had few trusted employees, but they all liked you. Worried and attentive to every movement, to every weak breath of yours, while they stitched and healed your body, they heard you whisper the name that had not been pronounced under this roof for hundreds of years.

“Rio Vidal.”

Harkness Mansion grew cold at once, and the employees shrank in fear but also lowered their gazes in respect for the personification of death that had just appeared at the entrance.

Rio walked unhurriedly to the stone bench where your body rested. She touched your face and hoped you had some strength to open your eyes.

Completely white irises stared back at her. An empty, soulless cocoon.

"Poor child." The woman whispered, tracing your cheek carefully. "Agatha never learns."

She made to move away, but you managed to move your hand to hers. "Help me." The mansion's servants left the two of you alone, but Rio didn't care if she had an audience or not. She sighed sadly, her free hand resting above your ribcage. 

"Agatha asked me not to take your body, but this is inhumane. You're suffering, Y/N." You shake your head, tears escaping the corners of your eyes. Rio looks at you in confusion and insists: "Of course you are, child, look at you. You're empty. You're not even here anymore." Your fingers intertwine with hers in desperation. "We..West...view."

You struggle to get the words out, until finally, Rio understands.

"Westview is a town in New Jersey. That's where Agatha anchored the preservation spell, isn't it? Tell me where. I'll set you free."

You shake your head and your words change. "Wanda."

The woman frowns. "Wanda? Your wife? What does she have to do with...-"

One of the servants comes back into the room, a newspaper in hand. He seems too scared to interfere, but he still manages to hand the item to Rio.

When she reads the headline about Westview and a mysterious Hex that has quarantined the town, she laughs in disbelief.

She comes back to you only to pull you up in a sitting position, ignoring your grunts of pain.

"Our wives are insane, honey. Get up, let's clean up their mess."

It's a quick trip with Rio's skills, of course.

And you arrive for a very ugly fight, which your body certainly couldn't handle. That's why Rio keeps you both hidden, watching from a distance.

Agatha - as always - takes impulsive actions and this time, she can't win.

In any other situation, Rio would have intervened on her wife's behalf. This time, having to help your body stand up, prevented from decaying by spells because Agatha refused to let you die, she doesn't do it. She just watches Wanda take her power.

After so many centuries of watching Agatha do the same to other witches, it's definitely an interesting scene.

The limit is drawing in imprisoning her. That Rio can't allow.

"May I interrupt, ladies?"

Rio's sudden appearance makes Wanda go on alert and prepare for a fight. But her entire posture collapses when she locks eyes with you.

With a sob, Wanda calls your name and then runs to meet you.

You have trouble staying upright with the hug but you don't dare complain.

Billy and Tommy look at the scene with confused faces, and it is Billy who whispers his version of Hex:

"Why is mom hugging that zombie?"

You laugh softly, ruffling your two children's hair. Wanda is crying, unable to let go of your body, and you sigh tiredly. You feel the tug coming from there, but you have no idea how to regain a physical form. The connection seems impossible.

Agatha starts to cause a commotion with her ex-wife.

"You're so irresponsible, I told you a million times that breaking the natural order of things is impossible, and it's temporary. You don't listen, and you don't learn!" Rio accuses, trying to reach Agatha who is running away from her until she reaches your Hex version.

"Here’s the proof that it's not impossible!" Agatha retorts in despair, ignoring the looks in her direction. "Look at her! She lives! It's her soul! Wanda brought her back. She could-"

"Agatha." Rio cuts her off, tears in her eyes for the first time. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. And when she speaks again, her voice is much softer than before. "Not him, okay?"

And the witch who is holding your shoulders tightly, sniffs softly, trying to hide her own emotions. "Why? Why can't you give me the only thing I want?"

Rio swallows hard. "He found peace, Agatha. There is no return for his soul. Y/N is still here because you imprisoned her. And Wanda was able to call her back. And now." She gestures to your two versions and your wife. "It's time for goodbyes."

Wanda didn't want to let go of you, but you gave her a reassuring smile.

Your physical body couldn't speak, and she noticed it immediately. She touched your cheeks and stared into your completely white, lifeless eyes.

"I'm sorry for doing this to you." She whispers, sniffing softly. "I'm going to let you go."

The boys don't listen, having been taken away from the confusion by Monica as soon as Agatha and Rio start arguing. And Wanda needs to leave your body with Lady Death, even if it breaks her heart into a thousand pieces.

"Will you take care of her?" She asks, swallowing the urge to cry again. She looks at Agatha, sulking in a corner as if she would also start crying at any moment, and sighs. "Of the two of them?"

Rio nods and looks at Wanda curiously. "We'll meet again, Wanda Maximoff. I'm at the end of all journeys."

The younger witch can't smile back, she just looks at Rio with such deep sadness that it makes the entity regret having been present in so many moments of Wanda's life.

With one last look at your body, the Scarlet Witch joins her family from the Hex, and leaves towards their house, while the magic fades in the sky and around everyone.

-&-

You turned on the lamp just as Wanda had turned off the opposite one, and she smiled as she looked at you.

The boys were sleeping upstairs, and from the window, you could see the Hex closing.

"Sorry, I remembered..." You start awkwardly, out of breath. "That it's bad luck to say goodnight in the dark."

Wanda smiles, approaching in small steps. "Is that so?"

You nod, your hands in your pockets because you don't know what to do with them. You didn't know what to do with anything.

"It's the name of a song, isn't it? One of the many you used to listen to in the Avengers Tower."

Your wife sighs, giving you a sad, almost guilty smile. She's finally close enough to touch.

"I'm sorry about your memories." She asks softly, her hands moving to your wrists. So that you take your hands out of your pockets, and place them where they belong. Around her. "I would have told you the truth from the beginning, but I didn't know-"

She trails off when instead of wrapping your arms around her waist, one of your hands reaches for her cheek, caressing it with a tenderness that makes her melt and gasp.

Wanda can't do this. She can't. She doesn't want to say goodbye, and she can't say goodbye to you again.

"I'm so sorry for making you cry." That's what you say, which just makes her break down into a sob. You give her a tearful smile, your other hand also reaching for her face, to hold her tenderly. "You, Wanda Maximoff, are by far the best thing that has happened to me in 345 years on this earth. The fact that I get to die knowing that I was loved not just by anyone, by  you, is the epitome of a fulfilled life.” You say, caressing her skin with your thumb. You take a deep sigh, as your wife tries to hold your hands in her face. “I love you, Wanda.”

“Please.” She cries, falling into your embrace when you move your hands away. She holds you as tight as she can, but she can feel the fading of the spell. “Please come back to me.”

With all your heart, you wished to fulfill her request. And with the end of Hex, the last sensation you felt was Wanda's embrace, and her tears wetting your shirt.

It made all the sense that you woke up with a jump, calling her name.

The place you were in looked nothing like Westview or any place you had been in years.

But it wasn't completely unfamiliar. It looked a lot like a forested area you hadn't been in since the last century.

And the little boy picking flowers near the river where you emerged from took all the air from your lungs.

Little Nicholas Schatch looked back as if he had guessed you were awake.

"Hi, Aunt Y/N."

You gasped with excitement, sitting up. He came closer and didn't complain when you pulled him into a tight hug. Even though you came from the water, your clothes were not wet.

"Hi, Nicky." You cried, holding him until he laughed at the tightness and tried to escape the grip. "Look at you, boy. You look so handsome, so grown up."

It had been so long since you had seen him since you had helped Agatha bury him. He didn't seem to have aged a day, but he had looked so small when he passed, that you had the impression he had grown. "It's so good to see you again, dear." Nick smiled, sitting down next to you on the dry grass. 

"You didn't bring Mama with you." You give him a sad smile, shaking your head. 

"I'm sorry, little prince, your mama isn't ready yet." He nods in understanding, upset but not insisting. You look around, recognizing that scene, the cabin in the background, the river. You sigh before looking at Nicholas again. "Where's your other mother?" He shrugs, gathering the flowers in his lap. You realize he bound them together with magic, not with knots. You frown, touching his hands. "Can you do magic now, little prince?" He nods, smiling. 

"My mother taught me." You stare at him in surprise and then look around again. 

"Where are we, Nicky? Do you know?" He gives a confused laugh. 

"Home, Aunt Y/N, of course."

You accept the flower necklace he made for you but don’t get up when he walks away back to the lake.

“Nicky.” You call after a moment of thought. He hums, signaling that he’s listening. “Did anyone else come with me? Two other little boys?”

He doesn’t look up from the new necklace he’s making. “No, Aunt Y/N. My mother said Billy and Tommy ran away.”

Your stomach drops. You choke. “W-what… Ran away? Where?”

He shrugs and finally looks at you again.

"She doesn’t know, Auntie. But my mother keeps me here safe, away from the disease. She said she could keep you and Billy and Tommy too. But she needs to find them first."

You freeze and try to hide your reaction from your step-nephew. He gives you a smile before going back to playing, and you force your body to work and stand up.

You take one last look at him before heading towards the cabin, and as soon as you arrive, you realize that it is exactly as you remembered, how you visited Agatha and Rio for decades before Nicky was born - when their life was calm, happy, and peaceful.

Everything that time has erased, photos, paintings, and furniture are fully preserved here. You lean against the walls until you sit in one of the empty chairs at the table.

You notice the pots of food and frown.

Since when do the dead need to eat?

Raising your hand in the air, your first attempt is a simple conjuration. Anything, even a spark. And you end up having to suppress the grunt of pain as you try. Nothing.

Maybe the passage took away all your magic, or maybe it was the river’s doing. Either way, you're dry.

You look through the half-open door at the child playing in the river and bite the inside of your cheek. Your fingers find the flower necklace in your pocket, and even faintly, you feel the magic in them.

Well, a few dozen more, and you'd have enough to get you home.

Hopefully it would be a trip for two.

[bookworrm1999]

How Far Away? Part 1

Caleb x Mc Fanfiction

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she’s pregnant.

She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

AO3

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Epilogue

Caleb and you usually get along quite well. Ribbing each other, demanding little favors, holding things hostage until the other breaks down in laughter as you keep them in suspense.

This was not one of those days though. He was set to leave tomorrow but all of your emotions about him leaving for 4 months, leaving you behind again with no communication.

It was too much.

You should be better than this, you should be able to just tell him like an adult. But something about Caleb always brought out the dependency in you.

He was the one who danced around the conversation about finalizing what your relationship was.

He was worse than you in this.

So instead of following him to the living room to help him make breakfast one last time before he leaves. You stayed in bed, you didn’t make a peep when he pulled away from cuddling you to go out.

“Baby?” Caleb brushed your hair back but you didn’t answer. Pretending to still be dead asleep.

He sighed affectionately and kissed the corner of your mouth before leaving the room.

Opening your eyes to stare out the window, you let a small tear slide out. But you hastily wiped it away, he was being stubborn. He was the one who refused to communicate and talk out exactly where you wanted to go in life together.

That was your justification to yourself, why you felt like you had to pull away a bit.

A small voice still whined inside to go hug him like a koala and beg him not to leave you. The voice got thoroughly smushed by your inner realist.

It was his job but you still hoped he’d say something, anything.

You sat up and stretched but that brought about a new problem. The world tilted as you instantly felt nauseous.

A bit of bile slid up before you quickly swallowed it. Coughing now, you reached for the water on the side table to soothe your stomach.

“You okay?” Caleb called out to you from the other room.

“I’m fine!” You call back, yeah you’re just peachy.

Sighing once more, you let the melancholy hold you for just a second more before you head out the door too.

“Good morning!” He turns to look at you with a bright smile before turning back to his task of making breakfast.

The smell turns your stomach, your nose wrinkles as you heave a bit into your hand.

He turns at the sound so you quickly assume a neutral face.

You were upset with him still so you didn’t need Caleb to turn on his safety above all else mode.

Knowing him, he’d probably try to keep you in the Fleet’s medical ward and monitor you through channels. Even while he was away.

Stupidly overprotective man who can’t even tell you that he wants you to be his girlfriend.

“Your food is served milady!” He makes an over dramatic bow and places down dishes onto the table.

You sit down thinking that this is where you usually respond with something along the lines of- oh good sir, you flatter me!

Caleb and you usually love to ham it up together, it’s what makes life together so fun.

Staying at his house for stretches of time before going back to your own place for work.

He won’t be here for a while though and everything that reminded you of what you’ll be missing, just made you depressed. So you just sit down at the table silently, picking up a small bowl of rice with your chopsticks. Caleb stares at you for a moment before asking quietly

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you think Caleb?”

He sighs deeply as he takes his seat across from you. The food looks delicious but the smell and the turmoil of it all sent your stomach twisting. You swallowed back a gag but he noticed your discomfort.

“What do you want me to do? I wish I could stay home but-“

“I get it. I’m just tired of you not talking to me. That’s all.”

“Not talking to you? What do you call this?” He flicks his finger between the two of us with a half grin, but his eyes are a little panicked.

“Talking out of your ass is what it is…” you mutter barely audible even to yourself.

“What was that pipsqueak?”

“Nothing!….panty sniffer.” You give him an over the top toothy grin while saying the last part just loud enough for him to hear.

“Hey! That was once!”

“You mean the only time I caught you?!”

“I-I well don’t call me that!”

You sniffed derisively, “Don’t call me pipsqueak then.”

He glares at you a bit for bringing it up in the first place before reaching over and yanking your hair a bit.

“Childish much?” You scoff at him, just nibbling at your rice, not really touching much else.

“Says the one who won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“So the pot calls the kettle black! I did tell you what’s wrong.” He narrows his eyes at you

“There’s more to it.”

“Yeah, you keep avoiding me when I want to talk about our relationship.”

Caleb waves his hand dismissively

“What’s there to talk about? I love you and you love me right?”

“There’s more to this than that Caleb! You’re just scared of something. Are you really that scared of committing to me?!”

“Of course not!”

“Then what’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me about it?”

He wilts like a flower in the hot sun

“I just can’t.”

“Because of the fleet? Because of the chip? Because of the professor?”

Caleb stiffens with each word you spit at him.

“Do you really think that I don’t know? I’m not stupid!”

“I never said you were.”

“Well you sure treat me like I am. Keeping me in the dark for my own safety. I’m sick of it!”

“Sick of me, you mean?” He’s angry at this, standing up from the table and leaning over it, muscles taut. You can tell he’s not trying to intimidate you because he’s looking at his hands, quivering a bit.

“I never said that.”

“It sure sounded like it to me.” He spits this but not towards you, more to himself. The thought of you leaving has always terrified him.

You didn’t mean to make him feel like that, but it won’t get him out of the conversation you needed to have.

“I’m sorry if that’s how it came across. However, I just want to talk about this. Properly. Please….” You beg him a bit, standing up and laying a hand over his trembling one.

You sit in silence for a minute, just looking at his faraway eyes. He can’t look at you in the face as he says quietly

“I just can’t right now.”

You pull away from him, distraught now. He’s leaving for 4 months and this is how he acts? Fine.

“I can’t do this.”

You walk away, not giving him a chance to reply as you latched the door behind you. Your ears caught the end of a choked sob come through the wood of the door.

Hearing him cry makes you want to cry. You really just want to go out there and hug him, cry it out together. But you know that he would still find someway to weasel out of discussing it again.

Using your sympathy to keep you to himself for the day. Not acknowledging the problem.

So for the rest of the day, you ignored him. Staying in the room. His bag was already packed and in the living room so you never even bothered opening the door.

It hurt your insides but you wanted to be firm about this. But you knew that he’d be leaving early tomorrow. You might not have a chance to say goodby if you don’t go out now.

Your pride keeps you in the room though. Caleb’s presence lingers by the door a few times. Feeling like you could see him through the wood, raising his hand to knock but stopping just before.

The quiet and the sadness stretching long between you, permeating the air of the house.

You don’t break.

Night falls, you can hear him opening and closing another door in the house. Presumably to sleep in another room.

You go to bed that night, heart, head, and stomach empty. Tears soaking into your pillow.

You don’t sleep well, so you can hear the startup of Caleb getting ready to leave. The engines thrumming outside the house.

Wait! You bolt up and skid out the door. Flinging the front door open, you start waving your arms frantically but it’s too late.

He’s already in the air.

He starts to fly away. You don’t know if he glances back to look but you wave your arm as you yell

“I love you!”

He fades into the distance, leaving you alone with a hole in your stomach.

Going back into the house after a minute, you notice a small piece of paper left on the coffee table. Picking it up, you notice his handwriting immediately.

‘I’m sorry’

You fall to your knees, sobs wracking your body. Heaving a bit as the nausea in your stomach hits you with a vengeance.

Please come back safe Caleb.

Let me know what you thought! I’m going to make this a series, it’s also on AO3. Thank you for reading🤗

Tags: @moonberry69 @supermyeon22

[kiwriteswords]

possible whump request 🫣 reader getting hurt during a case and having to be hospitalized and hotch feeling off the charts guilty because he feels like it’s his fault so he distances himself? ty ily

The Guilt He Holds [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Hii! Thank you for the request. I think Hotch owns the emotion of guilt more than any character I have ever read/watched before, lol. But I hope you enjoy this!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon typical violence, canon typical themes, blood, waterboarding, trauma, torture, guilty!hotch, established relationship, potential tbc? (this is becoming my norm because I never know when to stop), Protective and reckless Hotch, BAU Reader

Summary: After a heated argument drives you to seek some air, you are kidnapped by an unsub. This incident forces Hotch to confront his guilt and the torment of nearly losing someone he loves all over again.

As Hotch navigated the cramped corridors of the local precinct, the turmoil in his mind was as narrow as the hallways themselves.

The urgency of the ongoing manhunt clashed violently with his personal conflicts, rendering each step a testament to his barely contained frustration.

"Why are we even discussing this here, at a time like this?" he snapped, pivoting sharply to confront you, his intense gaze burning with a fervor seldom seen beyond the field.

You stood resolute, your voice tinged with frustration. "Because you keep dodging this conversation, Aaron! We need to address it if there's any hope of making this work."

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of his dual roles as a leader and a partner pressing down on him. "Look, I care about you, you know that. But we have a killer on the loose, and you want to talk about us? This is exactly why I was against this."

The precinct hummed with activity around them--the constant clatter of keyboards, the sharp ring of phones, the urgent shouts of officers updating one another. Yet, in that moment, their world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, isolated in their bubble of tension.

"I'm not trying to make things difficult," you countered, your voice a blend of pleading and defiance. "But pretending everything is fine isn't working. I need to know where we stand, especially with how closely we work together."

Hotch studied you, his expression set in stone. The risk of jeopardizing both his career and the unexpected relationship weighed heavily on him. "I'm in love with you," he confessed, the words freeing yet fraught with implications. "But I have to be realistic. What if this compromises our work? What if it affects the team?"

You crossed your arms, the hurt evident in your eyes. "And what if it doesn’t? What if we're better together in all aspects? We won’t know unless we try, Aaron."

As the tension escalated, Hotch's frustration crystallized into a biting retort. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this was a mistake--not just us, but assuming you could balance this job and a relationship without one affecting the other.” The words were harsher than intended, and he regretted them instantly.

You recoiled, shock and hurt washing over your face. Silently, you turned and stormed out of the precinct, leaving behind a stunned silence. Hotch remained frozen, haunted by the harshness of his words. He rubbed his face, torn between chasing after you and maintaining his command.

Before he could decide, the precinct door burst open. JJ rushed in, her face pale, her breath short. “Hotch!” she gasped your name, her voice laced with panic. “There’s--there’s blood outside, and her badge…” She held up your badge, smeared with blood, discovered next to a large puddle on the pavement just outside.

Hotch felt the room spin as the gravity of the situation struck him. The argument, his cruel words, and now this horror. Guilt and fear knotted in his stomach. “Show me,” he whispered hoarsely as he followed JJ outside.

Outside, the scene was grim. Fresh blood trailed off around the corner of the building. Hotch's trained eyes quickly scanned the area, piecing together the likely scenario--the unsub might have been waiting, perhaps having followed you from the precinct.

“Get a team out here now! Set up a perimeter, and get Garcia on the line. Check every camera in this area,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the turmoil inside him as he slipped back into his role as unit chief.

His mind raced with the worst possibilities. He had always feared how a relationship could complicate their work, but never like this. His last words to you, so cutting and final, echoed in his mind, haunting him with their potential finality.

“JJ, stay here with the team and coordinate the search. I’m going to check the surrounding area. He can’t have gotten far,” Hotch stated, his voice firm despite the panic gnawing at him. He couldn’t afford to freeze--not when your life hung in the balance.

Following the blood trail that marked your sudden, violent departure, Hotch’s heart pounded against his ribs, driven by fear and adrenaline. He had to find you, had to fix this monumental error. Nothing else mattered now.

As hours passed, the team noted their normally composed leader coming undone. The reality of your absence was crushing. Overwhelmed by guilt and responsibility, Hotch moved mechanically, his usual precision replaced by a haunted, distracted demeanor.

His mind replayed the harsh words he had hurled at you, growing louder with each hour that passed without news of your safety. The precinct felt heavier with his palpable guilt, casting a shadow over everyone present. They exchanged concerned glances, deeply aware of his turmoil but uncertain how to help.

Blaming himself for the argument that put you in harm's way and his failure to protect you, his torment grew. Now, potentially facing the gravest consequence, the thought that he might never rectify his mistake tormented him endlessly.

Then, Garcia's voice cracked through the tension, a beacon of urgent hope. "Hotch, you need to see this," she called out, dread coloring her tone. At her workstation, the sight that met Hotch’s eyes was a live stream of you, tied to a chair, visibly beaten, the intermittent waterboarding a grotesque display of your torment.

Hotch's reaction was immediate and fierce. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to furious slits, hands balled into fists, he embodied pure, unbridled rage. The team, taken aback by his intense emotion, rallied to his side, spurred into action.

"Trace it! Now!" he commanded, voice booming through the room. Garcia's fingers flew over the keyboard, tracing the digital breadcrumbs back to their source. Hotch's mind was ablaze with thoughts of rescue and retribution, focused solely on saving you, ending your suffering, and ensuring the unsub would pay dearly.

The torture worsened, and your condition visibly deteriorated on the live feed. Blood streaked across your face, each breath a struggle. Hotch gripped a chair, his knuckles white, tension radiating from him like a storm cloud.

Derek stepped up, voice calm but firm. "Hotch, man, we’re going to get her. Stay focused. You’re no good to her like this," he attempted to ground his friend in reality.

But before Derek could continue, Garcia interrupted with a vital update. "I got it! I got an address!" Her words shook with the weight of the situation.

Hotch’s expression shifted from despair to determined resolve in an instant. "Gear up; we move now!" he ordered, leading a swift charge towards the exit. The team followed, each member fueled by a blend of professional duty and a deep personal stake in your rescue.

As they loaded into the SUVs, the tension was palpable. Hotch’s mind sharpened, focused entirely on the operation. Every second was agonizing, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity as he planned each move, driven by a silent vow to bring you back safely.

As the SUV screeched to a halt outside the decrepit slaughterhouse, Hotch was already out the door, his FBI vest barely secured. The building loomed ominously, its walls echoing the horrors of its past and now, the terror of the present. Hotch didn't wait for backup or even the tactical count of three; driven by the raw urgency of your screams piercing through the silence, he charged in recklessly.

He was certain he heard Derek--maybe even Emily’s voice call after him, but he didn’t wait. He just went.

The interior was a labyrinth of dark, narrow corridors, the air thick with the stench of decay and old blood that mingled with a faint, metallic scent of fresh blood--yours. Each cry, each plea that he heard fueled him, tearing at his heart and propelling him forward with increased desperation. The sound of your distress was a siren call he couldn’t ignore, and it guided him through the twisted pathways of the building.

Turning a corner sharply, Hotch came face-to-face with the unsub. The man they had been hunting for what felt like weeks, but it only was days. He stood so much bigger--taller…larger than you. The thought and images of this man taking advantage of you…Hotch couldn’t bare to think of it anymore.

He knew what the other victims went through. He was there were some people out there who would have rathered been dead after being at the hands of this unsub. But you, you fought back as long as you could. 

The man lunged, wild-eyed and frenzied, but Hotch was fueled by a deep, seething rage that had been building since the moment he saw the live feed of your torture. He dodged the initial clumsy swing and grabbed the unsub by the collar, throwing him against the wall.

Hotch’s training was precise, but his emotions were raw and unfiltered. As the unsub struggled, striking out to fend off the attack, Hotch’s response was brutal. He unleashed a flurry of punches, each blow landing with the full weight of his fury and fear for your safety. The unsub tried to shield himself, but Hotch was relentless, driven by the vivid images of your pain that played over in his mind.

With each punch, Hotch felt a mix of satisfaction and horror at his own loss of control. The man beneath him was the source of his worst fears made manifest, and in that moment, Hotch was not just an agent of the law but an avenger, a protector whose love had been weaponized by his terror.

His fists were numb at this point--his entire body, honestly. If he had to think back on the only time he felt rage like this, it was when…it was when he found Haley. But he was too late. 

He couldn’t be too late for you. 

He couldn’t. 

The sounds of the altercation echoed through the empty spaces of the slaughterhouse, a stark and grim symphony that underscored the violence of the confrontation. Hotch’s breaths were heavy, his face splattered with the blood of the man he was punishing. It wasn’t until he heard the shouts of his team, echoing down the hall and approaching fast, that he realized how far he’d gone.

“Hotch! Hotch, stand down!” It was Derek’s voice, firm yet filled with concern, cutting through the haze of Hotch’s red-tinted vision.

He paused, his fists still raised, hovering over the now barely conscious unsub. His chest heaved, and his hands trembled with the adrenaline and aftermath of his onslaught. As his team restrained the unsub and called for medical help, Hotch stepped back, his gaze shifting around, searching for you, needing to see that you were safe, to reassure himself that there was still something left to save.

Rossi's voice barely registered as he tried to intervene, his hands reaching out to grasp Hotch's bloodied fists, an attempt to bring him back from the edge. "Hotch, wait!" he shouted, but it was too late. Hotch was already barreling through the next set of doors, his focus singular and unbreakable.

Inside the grim room, the sight that greeted him was one of stark horror and desperation. You were slumped over in a chair, your body limp with exhaustion and pain. JJ and Emily were by your side, quickly working to untie the wires that dug cruelly into your wrists, their edges slick with your blood. Each movement they made was gentle yet urgent, trying to minimize any further harm.

Hotch froze at the threshold, his heart hammering in his chest as the scene unfolded before him. The room was cold, the only sounds were your soft groans and the quiet reassurances from JJ and Emily as they freed you from your bindings. The air was thick, tinged with the iron scent of blood and the stale mustiness of abandonment.

As Hotch stepped closer, the full extent of your injuries became painfully clear. Bruises in various shades of purple and black marred your face and arms, and blood had stained your clothing. Seeing your once vibrant presence reduced to such a state unleashed a wave of guilt so intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He had seen countless victims, had steeled himself against the worst of humanity, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of you, so broken and vulnerable.

The bile rose in his throat as he approached, his steps faltering. The guilt of knowing his last words to you before this ordeal were steeped in anger and frustration made him feel responsible for every mark on your body. He felt as if he had failed you in the most fundamental way.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," JJ was saying softly as she carefully cut the last of the wire. Emily supported your weight, helping you to lean forward as the final restraint was removed.

Hotch's breath caught in his throat as you looked up, your eyes meeting his. Even through the pain and exhaustion, the relief in your gaze at seeing him was palpable. It was a look that pierced through the chaos, through the guilt and the rage, grounding him in the moment, in the necessity of being there for you now.

"I'm so sorry," he managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper as he knelt beside you, his hand hesitating before gently touching your arm, afraid of causing more pain. "I'm here now. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."

The room seemed to contract around him, the walls echoing back his whispered apologies. As JJ and Emily continued to tend to you, Hotch remained by your side, his presence a silent vow to protect and make amends, no matter what it took.

As the medics flooded into the dim, grimy room, their presence was clearly a blur to you, their movements too sudden and intrusive in the vulnerable state you were in. Even as they reached out to drape a safety blanket over your shoulders, your instincts kicked in--raw and frightened like a cornered animal. 

"Don't touch me!" you managed to rasp out, your voice hoarse and strained from the ordeal.

The medics paused, taken aback by the intensity of your refusal but insistent on their duty. "You need medical attention now," one of them pressed, his tone both firm and clinical.

JJ, always the nurturing presence, tried to soothe you, her voice soft and motherly. "Sweetie, they're here to help you. We need to let them do their job." Her intentions were good, but the words felt like another layer of constraint, another set of hands trying to control you.

"No! Just--just give me a minute, please," you snapped back, the room spinning slightly as you struggled to maintain some semblance of control over what was happening to you.

Caught between his role as a leader and his personal feelings, Hotch watched helplessly for a moment, torn by your evident distress. Seeing another medic reach out to touch you again, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Give her a minute!" Hotch's voice boomed through the room, authoritative and commanding, halting the medic's movements instantly.

He turned to JJ and Emily, his eyes pleading for understanding. "Can you give us the room, please?" he asked quietly, the gravity of his tone conveying the seriousness of his request.

JJ and Emily exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of concern and reluctance, but they nodded, trusting Hotch's judgment. They slowly exited the room, their steps retreating into the echo of the hollow, abandoned building.

Now alone with you, Hotch approached cautiously, his movements deliberate and gentle. He crouched down to your level, keeping a respectful distance to not overwhelm you further. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the commanding tone he used with the others.

"Hey," he started, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might need from him. "I'm here, okay? No one's going to force you to do anything you're not ready for. We can take this as slow as you need." His gaze was steady, offering reassurance without the burden of expectation.

Your bottom lip trembled, the fear and relief mingling into a raw, vulnerable expression as your eyes locked with Hotch's. The familiarity of his presence, a stark contrast to the chaos and pain of the last hours, cracked the last of your composure. 

"Aaron," you whimpered, your voice breaking with the weight of everything you had endured. The sound of his name--the voice he feared he may never hear again--it almost completely broke whatever was left of him. 

"I know, I know," Hotch murmured gently, his voice low and soothing. Carefully, he reached for the safety blanket discarded by the medics. His movements were slow and deliberate, ensuring you felt no threat, only the promise of comfort. He unfolded the blanket with a tenderness that seemed to fill the cold, harsh space of the slaughterhouse.

With the blanket open wide, he leaned in slightly, giving you space to decide. Sensing your readiness, he gently wrapped the soft fabric around your shoulders, enveloping you in a warm embrace that felt like a shield against the harsh world. The blanket was a simple piece of fabric, but under Hotch's careful handling, it became a cocoon, offering the first touch of safety you'd felt in what seemed like forever.

As the blanket settled around you, your defenses crumbled, and you leaned into Hotch, your body instinctively seeking the reassurance of his physical presence. It was a silent plea for comfort, for a sign that it was truly over. Hotch responded without hesitation, his arms opening to receive you. You fell into him, your body heavy with exhaustion and emotional overload.

Hotch held you close, his arms strong yet gentle around you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. He didn't speak; no words were needed. His presence, the steady beat of his heart against yours, spoke volumes. 

As the ambulance doors slammed shut, Hotch took a seat beside you, his presence a silent vow of protection and support. His team had given him a nod of encouragement, understanding the personal stakes involved, and affirming his decision to accompany you. The ride to the hospital was a blur, with the sirens cutting through the bustling city noise, yet inside the ambulance, there was a bubble of strained silence.

Hotch watched every move the paramedics made, each one meticulous and aimed at stabilizing your condition. His guilt was a tangible presence in the cramped space, each bandage they wrapped, each wince you couldn't suppress, felt like a direct indictment of his failure to protect you sooner. He kept his gaze fixed on you, his eyes tracing the lines of pain etched across your face, the consequences of his decisions written on your bruised skin.

Upon arriving at the hospital, the flurry of activity intensified as medical staff quickly took over. They moved you to a triage area where the stark fluorescent lights seemed to highlight the severity of your condition. Hotch remained by your side, a silent observer to the flurry of activity. As doctors and nurses cleaned your wounds, their gentle swipes at the blood and grime felt to him like strokes of accusation, each one whispering of what had happened under his watch.

You sat through it all, the shock still enveloping you like a thick fog, your voice lost somewhere on the floor of the slaughterhouse. You were responsive only to the touch of the medical staff, a nod here, a slight move there, as they stitched up your wounds and ran a series of tests to assess the damage not immediately visible.

Hotch found himself floundering under the weight of helplessness as he watched. The hospital's antiseptic smell, the constant beeping of machines monitoring vital signs, and the soft murmurs of the medical staff discussing your condition, all seemed to echo in the hollow space of guilt inside him. Each stitch they placed was a reminder of every moment you had spent waiting for rescue, every moment he had failed to prevent your ordeal.

Amid the clinical detachment of reports and assessments, Hotch felt an overwhelming need to do something, say something that could bridge the gulf of trauma and guilt between you. But the words were lodged in his throat, stifled by the realization that no apology could undo the pain you endured, no words could erase the scars that would mark this day. 

So, he stayed, his hand finding yours, a silent communicator of his commitment and remorse, hoping that his presence could offer a sliver of comfort in the sterile, cold environment of the hospital.

The doctor motioned for Hotch to step into the hallway, a request he followed with a sense of dread tightening in his chest. The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor cast a stark glow, making the seriousness of the conversation even more palpable.

"Your partner will need extensive care, both physically and emotionally," the doctor began, his tone professional yet empathetic. "The trauma she's experienced is significant. It's clear she's been deeply affected by what happened."

Hotch nodded, his expression grave. He knew the road to recovery would be long and fraught with challenges, but hearing it so plainly stated by the doctor hammered home the reality of the situation.

"We'd normally recommend a 24-hour psychiatric evaluation under these circumstances to better understand her needs and ensure her safety," the doctor continued. "However, given your relationship and her response to your presence, it seems she might benefit more immediately from familiar support."

Hotch felt a mixture of relief and immense responsibility at the doctor's words. The idea that his presence could offer you some measure of comfort, that he could play a direct role in your recovery, gave him a focused purpose amid the swirling guilt.

"If you’re willing, your support could be crucial right now," the doctor added. "She’s clearly traumatized, and having someone she trusts by her side can make a significant difference in how she copes with these initial hours."

"I'll be here. Whatever she needs," Hotch affirmed without hesitation. The decision was simple in his mind; there was nowhere else he would be, no other role he would rather fill than to be there for you, to try and mend the sense of safety that had been so violently torn away.

The doctor nodded, seeming satisfied with his commitment. "I’ll arrange for a comfortable environment where you can stay with her. We’ll still need to monitor her closely and start working on a treatment plan that addresses both her physical injuries and psychological trauma."

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate everything you’re doing," Hotch said, his tone sincere. The gratitude he felt for the medical team's efforts was profound, though shadowed by the ongoing concern for your well-being.

With the Unsub in custody and your discharge papers signed, the BAU could take you back home from the case.

As the jet sliced through the skies on the way back home, the interior was filled with a subdued silence. The rest of the team made quiet, gentle attempts to comfort you, but you remained mostly silent, your eyes closed, seemingly retreating into a cocoon of solitude. 

Despite the hum of the engines and the occasional murmurs from the team, the atmosphere was heavy, laden with concern for you and the unspoken tensions of the recent ordeal.

Hotch sat stiffly in his seat, his gaze intermittently shifting from the reports in his hands to where you rested across the jet.

He wasn't in his clear mind to be doing bureaucratic paperwork, but here he was, acting like a coward, afraid to face your reaction to the events he felt he caused.

Each glance was a mixture of concern and self-reproach. The harsh words he had hurled at you before your abduction haunted him, echoing in his mind with relentless persistence.

He was wracked with guilt, convinced that his actions had somehow contributed to the horror you endured, fearing that you would see him now as part of the nightmare rather than a source of safety.

Emily, observant and intuitive, noticed Hotch's troubled demeanor and the distance he maintained. She approached him quietly, her expression serious. "You need to knock it off and go sit with her," she urged, nodding subtly towards you.

Hotch looked up, his frown deepening, a mix of defensiveness and confusion in his eyes. Emily didn’t flinch; she held his gaze steadily. "Right now, I don’t care that you’re the boss, Hotch. She needs you, and you need to make things right."

He opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to say that his presence might not be what you needed, but Emily continued, her voice firm yet filled with compassion. "Look at her, Hotch. She looks broken and shouldn’t be alone. Whatever happened before, whatever was said--it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you’re there for her when she wakes up."

Her words cut through his hesitation like a knife. Hotch knew Emily was right; his role as a leader was not just to command but to care, to mend the fissures that trauma had wrought in the team, especially in you.

Taking a deep breath, Hotch stood up, his resolve firming. He moved across the cabin, taking a seat beside you. As he sat down, the proximity to you, the sound of your quiet breathing, brought an aching mix of relief and renewed guilt. He watched you, your features relaxed in sleep but still reflecting the shadows of recent pain.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he reached out to take your hand, his touch tentative as if testing whether his presence was welcome. His other hand brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, a gesture tender and protective.

When you finally opened your eyes, the weight of the entire ordeal reflected in your gaze, Hotch braced himself for any reaction--hurt, anger, or worse, disgust. However, what he saw instead was relief, a softening around your eyes that eased some of the heavy guilt anchoring his heart.

Sensing your need for comfort, Hotch tentatively opened his arms, an unspoken invitation for closeness. With a small, almost imperceptible nod, you moved closer and cuddled into his side on the jet's couch. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you gently against him, providing a warmth and security that only his presence could offer.

As you settled against him, a quiet sigh escaped you, one that spoke of burdens shared and the beginning of healing. Hotch's heart responded with a surge of protectiveness and affection, his own relief mirroring yours.

In that moment, with the quiet drone of the jet’s engines in the background and the softness of your presence beside him, Hotch felt a profound clarity.

The rest of the team, ever observant, watched this quiet exchange with a mixture of contentment and happiness.

It was more than just seeing one of their own safe; it was witnessing a bond reaffirmed under the harshest of tests. Their expressions held smiles of gentle approval, knowing too well the challenges both of you faced, both personally and as part of the team.

Hotch, holding you close, felt a deep-seated realization settle within him.

Despite the complications and potential risks of intertwining work and personal lives, being together and supporting each other was infinitely better than being apart.

The love that he had tried to compartmentalize away from his professional duties was not a vulnerability but a strength, a cornerstone for both of you to lean on in times of crisis.

Conversations would come later, but for now? This would do.

[avis-writeshq]

summary: "drop everything now, meet me in the pouring rain."/"kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain." The first time you meet Spencer Reid, you swore that you could feel the sparks fly. You figured that it would be unreasonable to ever consider him to be anything more than a friend, and in a moment of selflessness you tell yourself that you are perfectly fine in that position. As time goes on, the line between romantic and platonic love begins to blur indefinitely. But it would be ridiculous to think that the resident genius would feel anything for you... right?

pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, mutual pining, happy ending warnings: rated 16+ for canonical criminal minds trauma, drugs/relapsing, torture, therapy, panic attacks/night terrors, guns, death, ‼️always read each fic's individual warnings for triggers‼️ taglist [CLOSED]: here playlist: here status: complete

main masterlist || ao3

bonus! 00 — l.d.s.k

in other words, the first time spencer calls you 'angel'. // wc: 2.2k

part of my 2023-2024 milestone event! you can find it here!

01 — better than revenge

“she’s not a saint, no, she’s not what you think. she’s an actress.” 

you thought you were past the immature arguments now that you're an adult. you thought you left those in high school, or even college. maybe you thought you did. apparently, spencer thought otherwise. // wc: 10.4k

02 — haunted

“something’s gone terribly wrong, you’re all i wanted.”/“you’re not gone, you can’t be gone.”

it wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be a normal open-shut case. but people are unpredictable and you're left picking up the pieces as you work yourself to the grave. // wc: 10.1k

03 — labyrinth

“uh oh, i’m falling in love”/“thought the plane was going down, how’d you turn it right around?”

everything hurts. it's understandable, after everything he's went through. spencer wishes that he could erase every one of his scars. he wishes he could stop chasing the highs and embrace the lows. but at least he has you. // wc: 3.8k

04 — you are in love

“you can hear it in the silence.”/”you can hear it on the way home.”/”you can see it with the lights out.”

spencer didn't think that something like this could happen. no, rather, he wanted to deny the fact that something like this could happen. but all he can think about is you. in other words; the four times spencer wants to kiss you, and the one time he wishes he did. // wc: 3.4k

05 — enchanted

“please don’t be in love with someone else”/“please don’t have somebody waiting on you.”

the line drawn in the sand that was once supposed to be an invisible boundary to never cross is washed away by the sand. these are the kind of lines where you could never go back to should you cross them; and yet here you are, so scared to see the ending as the two of you pretend that this is nothing. // wc: 4.9k

06 — untouchable

“come on, come on, say that we’ll be together”/“i’m caught up in you.”

so close and yet so far. maybe in some twisted way, you are each other's romeo and juliet, doomed from the beginning. or maybe you are each other's hamlet and ophelia, the tragedy of a love that never really was. // wc: 4.3k

07 — wildest dreams

“he’s so tall, and handsome as hell”/”his hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room.”

never in your wildest dreams did you think that you would be privileged enough to experience something so good. spencer reminds you that these things are reality. // wc: 3.3k

reblogs are always appreciated!

taglist [CLOSED]: here

[gloomwitchwrites]

i’ve only recently found ur acc and i’ve fallen in love! ur def becoming one of my inspo’s in writing my own fics!:D

now, what about t141 with an alt s/o who’s always dying their hair or piercing themselves? maybe it’s the first time they find reader doing said shenanigans, what would their reactions be? 🤔 i think soap would have the best one lol, but i’d love to hear what your thoughts about it! <3

Well, hello! Welcome! Now, I had multiple people request this very thing. I am answering one of those asks and the others will simply fall under this one (since they are all very similar). I did go with some variety here since being "alt" can mean a lot different things. I do have one with hair dying, one about showing off their taxidermy/skull collection, a metal concert, and forcing (Gaz) to have a makeover. I had lots of fun. Enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings: established relationship, humor, fluff, swearing, hair dying, taxidermy, concerts, makeovers

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Jesus bloody Christ. What happened?” John stands in the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes wide as he surveys the scene. “Did you murder someone?”

You stand hunched over like a gremlin in the shower, holding the handheld showerhead. The dye in your hair is circling the drain, but that’s not the only place is stains. The shower is going to need a good scrub as is the bathroom sink.

“I’m changing my hair?”

John blinks. “You told me you were going to a salon.”

“This is cheaper.”

His mouth opens and then promptly closes. You see the gears turning. John is reigning in the panic.

“It’ll come out,” you insist.

“Everything is red,” murmurs John.

“Only temporarily,” you insist.

“Are you talking about your hair or our bathroom countertops?”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” he says firmly, hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to shut the door and pretend that our bathroom doesn’t look like a crime scene.”

“I love you!” you call out as he starts shutting the door.

“I love you, too,” he sighs heavily. The door is nearly shut before it suddenly opens again. “Do I need to grab bleach from the store?”

“That would be great.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Stop moving,” you mutter.

“You’re gonna poke me in the fucking eye, love.”

“It’s just eyeliner. Calm down.”

“You’ve poked me already.” Kyle points at his eye. The white is slightly red with irritation.

Kyle’s gaze narrows, but you only tut, grasping the bottom half of his face with your hand. Squeezing his cheeks a bit, you tilt his face from side-to-side, observing your work. About half of his face is done. You’ve even added face piercings to his lips and nose.

The clothes were the easy part. Kyle was more than willing to put on what you picked out for him. It’s completely different from his tracksuits and jeans. He looks like he walked right out of the punk scene.

“You promised I could do your makeup.” You put a little whine in it, pouting your lip.

Kyle lightly grasps your wrist and tugs, removing your hand from his face. “I did,” he agrees. “But all this? Really?”

You’ve set out nearly every product you have, nearly covering the entirety of the bathroom counter.

“We have to match,” you insist.

Kyle’s mouth twitches slightly but he settles. “Fine. But you better make me the best-looking bloke in the joint.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“This is June.” You present the racoon skull to Johnny.

His eyes widen slightly. “Hello, June,” he greets.

You wait for the eventual frown, for the brief flicker of disgust, but it doesn’t come. Johnny isn’t drawing back or judging you at all. His attention is rapt—focused.

You gently return the racoon skull back to the shelf and point to a collection of preserved butterflies. “These were a gift from a friend.”

“They’re beautiful,” murmurs Johnny. “Do they have names?” He leans in, observing the display of colorful wings.

“No, but they do!” You enthusiastically gesture toward the rest of your collection. There are skulls and bones from all sorts of animals, preserved beetles, tentacles in jars, and even petrified fish bones.

Men say they want quirky, but when they get quirky, they run. Johnny though is entirely fascinated.

“Can I touch this?” he asks with an excitement that surprises you, pointing toward a beaver skull.

“Yes. It’s delicate though. I’m always fixing the jaw.”

Johnny lightly lifts the skull and brings it close to his face, slowly rotating it.

No. Johnny isn’t disgusted. He isn’t shaming you for your special interest. If anything, he’s fascinated.

You’re keeping him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The shredding of the guitar reverberates in your chest. It stirs your blood, sending waves of adrenaline through your limbs until even your fingers and toes twitch with anticipation.

The breakdown is coming, and with it will come a sea of bodies. They’ll crash against each other like a massive wave before descending into chaos, nothing but flailing limbs and gnashing teeth.

Already, the energy is pulsing, becoming a frenzy that will eventually burst.

You’ve never been in the middle of the pit before. You usually stay off to the sides or well out of the way, not wanting to receive an injury.

But now you have protection. Now, you have a bodyguard.

Simon stands right behind as your support and your shadow. This isn’t his scene, not that he doesn’t enjoy a metal show, but he could care less about throwing himself around in a pit. When you expressed the desire to do so, Simon agreed, but only if he joined you.

Sure, it might scare some people off, or deter others from getting too close, but Simon is supportive anyway.

He’s just a bit vicious. A bit protective.

The shredding rises. It’s time.

A pause.

Then everything crashes.

[steddieas-shegoes]

three things

for @switcheddieweek prompt 'spit' (a little) and 'non-verbal negotiation' (mostly this one tbh)

rated e | 5395 words | also on ao3 | cw: under-negotiated kink | tags: switch eddie, switch steve, friends with benefits, bisexual steve, bondage, banter, frottage, spit kink, anal fingering, anal sex, dirty talk, choking, not actually unrequited feelings, open ending but we can play clue together

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

Steve’s jittery and it’s making Eddie fucking jumpy. From the second he walked in the door, Steve’s been bustling around, moving things he doesn’t need to, taking sips of Eddie’s drink, knocking into things. Eddie’s ready to tie him to a chair and—

Well, that’s an idea.

Just as he considers acting on it, Steve groans.

“Do you think I’m too high strung?” He asks as he paces the floor anxiously.

“In this moment or in general?” Eddie has to tread carefully here. Whatever’s got Steve on edge like this needs to be taken seriously. One wrong word and Steve will shut down and it’ll be a long fucking night of trying to pull him back in.

“Like, always? Or most of the time.” Steve stops pacing, sets his gaze on Eddie where he’s sitting comfortably at the kitchen table. “Do you think I think too much about little things?”

Eddie’s brow furrows. Where the hell is this even coming from? Steve’s not usually high strung. He gets anxious sometimes, like when he knows they have to do their annual check in with the government doctors, but that’s not unreasonable. If he knows one of the kids is flying, he gets a bit nervous, but Eddie just keeps him distracted as best he can and it passes.

“Suzie mentioned that sometimes I get stuck on small problems and they ruin my day,” he continues. “Do you think that’s true?”

Suzie is going to school to be a therapist and likes to psychoanalyze her friends. It’s equal parts fascinating and annoying, especially when she talks to Steve. He takes everything she says seriously, even though she isn’t licensed yet and probably shouldn’t be giving her professional opinion to him anyway.

“I think that you do what every normal human does sometimes and catastrophize a little when you worry. It’s probably the trauma,” Eddie shrugs and stands, moving close to him, but leaving him space to get away if he needs to. He’s acting a bit like a cornered animal right now. The last thing Eddie needs to do is actually corner him. “If you think it’s harming you, maybe you could talk to a licensed therapist.”

“Suzie’s as good as licensed.” Steve folds his arms across his chest. “And she said I rely too much on you.”

“Did she?” Eddie scoffs. Steve doesn’t. Steve doesn’t rely on fucking anyone. He’d be better off if he did rely on someone more. “What made her come to that conclusion?”

“Apparently I talk about you too much. She thinks you’re my only friend.” Steve sighs. “Now that I say it out loud it does sound wrong. I have friends.”

“No shit.” Eddie grins, leans in until he can smell the cologne Steve always wears to work. “I’m just your best friend.”

“Other than Robin.”

“Other than Robin,” Eddie agrees. He straightens his back and nods his head back towards the chair he was sitting in before. “You wanna sit while I heat up leftovers?”

“Oh, not sure I can stay.” Steve suddenly won’t meet his eyes. “I uh, I have a date.”

Eddie ignores the way his heart clenches in his chest, painfully tightening. Steve’s still antsy, he can tell. He’s gonna go to his apartment and pace and worry until he has to pretend to be fine for his date. And the date won’t realize he’s faking it, that he’s pretending to be fine when he’s not. Eddie can’t let that happen.

“You should cancel.”

Steve gives him a look, one that says he knows what Eddie’s doing and he isn’t gonna fall for it. He has before, though. He probably will this time.

“She’s nice. I’m not gonna cancel just for us to fuck around. What about that guy you saw last month?” Steve snaps his fingers while he tries to remember the quite frankly unremarkable guy Eddie sucked off at a club. “Jeremy? Joey? James?”

“Isaac.”

“I was close!” Steve claps.

“Alphabetically, sure,” Eddie groans. “He was boring. Didn’t even fuck my face when I told him to. He’d probably run screaming if I showed him my plug.”

“I almost ran screaming when you showed me that thing,” Steve laughs. “I’m gonna head out. You find someone more interesting than Isaac.”

Eddie could beg. He’s done it before.

He could go along with it and wait for Steve to inevitably show back up at his place later when he didn’t get what he wanted from whoever this woman is. He’s done that before, too.

He could turn on the waterworks and guilt him into staying. That’s not something he’s tried before. Bound to work, though.

Before he can muster up the fake tears, Steve is walking around him and staring at the chair.

He looks back at Eddie and squints, then back at the chair.

Eddie waits because that’s all he can do. Steve’s either gonna leave and go on his date or he’s gonna stay and they’ll fall into their comforting pattern of being the only people who understand what the other needs.

Steve walks to the phone on the wall, grabs a piece of paper from his wallet, and angrily dials.

“Julie! Hey!” Eddie rolls his eyes, mouths Julie and makes kissy lips while Steve’s back is to him. “Sorry this is so last minute, but they need me to close tonight. Maybe next week?”

Eddie watches as Steve’s shoulders slowly relax. Julie’s probably letting him off the hook, thinking he’s such a hard worker for staying when asked. Maybe she thinks he’ll be up for a promotion, making the big bucks soon.

Eddie knows that Steve’s gonna fuck him up tonight.

He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, only focusing back in when the phone drops back on the hook and Steve laughs.

“You should get the ropes.”

It’s not a suggestion as much as a demand, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to do it. Steve doesn’t like getting tied up, not even if Eddie’s the one doing it, but he loves tying intricate knots around Eddie’s wrists and ankles, sometimes his chest and neck if they have time. It helps ground him, keeps his mind from wandering into anxious territory.

It’s perfect for tonight.

Eddie keeps his ropes in his closet, hung up so they don’t get tangled together. He grabs all of them, in too much of a rush to make a decision about which ones to use.

Steve’s pulled the chair to the center of the room and he’s wringing his hands together like he needs something in them. Robin mentioned getting him a keychain that doubled as a silent clicker so it would keep his hands busy when he needed it, but Steve turned it down. Maybe Eddie can convince him later.

After.

Eddie sits, holds the ropes in his lap, and waits.

Steve circles him like a predator circles their prey before they attack. He’s hot and his heart is racing, and he hopes that he can be forgiven for being selfish enough to get Steve to stay.

He kneels in front of Eddie, grabs his face in his hands, and grins.

“You wanted this.”

It’s true. But he never said it explicitly. Steve just knows. It’s why they work so well.

“I wanted you.”

It’s a bit too honest for them, but Steve doesn’t stop to take Eddie’s words in. He’s up and grabbing the rope from his hands, shoving his shoulder back until he’s almost worried it’ll bruise. Eddie’s pale and Steve’s rough and as much as he likes the reminders of what they do, he’s going to visit Wayne this weekend and doesn’t wanna risk him seeing it.

“Hey. Easy,” Eddie says with just enough bite to make Steve pause. “No bruises.”

Steve nods, apologizes, but continues his work. Eddie lets him.

He closes his eyes and breathes.

There’s something peaceful about letting Steve tie him up, making him helpless in the middle of his own apartment. He knows he’s safe, they’re both safe. He doesn’t have to feel the emptiness inside that he feels when Steve’s not with him.

He feels full, even without the plug.

“Eddie. Look at me.”

Eddie does. His eyes feel heavy for a moment and then he sees how dark Steve’s eyes are, how blown his pupils have gotten. How long has Steve been working on him? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

“Too tight?” Steve asks, for what must not be the first time. Eddie shakes his head. “Okay. I’m gonna grab the plug.”

Eddie’s not sure why, but he knows it’ll come to him eventually. He nods and waits. Steve’s only gone for a moment, familiar enough with where Eddie keeps everything to be quick.

He sets the lube and plug on the table, then turns to Eddie.

Eddie’s a bit in love with him, he has to admit. It’s pretty terrible to be in love with your best friend, especially when it’s a guy who has made it pretty clear he’s never gonna be ready for a relationship with any man, let alone Eddie.

But he drops everything to do this with him, and he comes here right after work even when he’s exhausted, even if it’s just for a few minutes, even though it’s two miles out of his way. He sleeps in Eddie’s bed when they get too high for him to get back to his place, curled up into his side or around his back. He uses Eddie’s soap in the shower and wears Eddie’s shirt when he forgets to bring the clothes he keeps here home to wash them. He leaves notes around the apartment for him to take his meds and to call Dustin and take out the trash. He does everything with love and it’s hard for Eddie to separate it sometimes.

Steve straddles his lap and waits.

It’s Eddie’s turn now. Focus.

“Gonna be good and listen to me?” Eddie asks him, voice rough.

Steve shivers in his lap. “Yeah. Tell me.”

Eddie uses all his strength to sit up a bit straighter, appear bigger. Steve loves when he’s tied up and bossing him around. He loves being told what to do while Eddie’s like this.

“You gonna stay dressed?” Eddie asks, not caring much either way. Might be hard to get the plug in, but they don’t have to do anything with it if Steve changed his mind.

“For now.”

“Then touch yourself.”

Eddie watches as Steve runs his hands down his chest, skims the edge of his shirt, slides them underneath. He wants him to strip it off, wants to see the way his nipples harden under his own touch, the way his chest hair darkens as sweat beads on his skin the more worked up he gets. He doesn’t make any noise when he pinches his own nipple, just lets out the breath he must’ve been holding for a while.

“Now the other one.”

Steve listens, stays quiet and obedient, just the way Eddie likes him.

“Feel good?” Eddie asks, but he already knows it does. Steve’s nipples are sensitive. He loves having Eddie’s teeth on them, tugging and sucking them into his mouth.

“Yeah, but I want more.”

“Greedy, but fine.” Eddie glances behind him, sees the bottle of lube. “You planning on using that or no?”

Steve follows his gaze, hands never leaving his chest. “The lube or the plug?”

“Either. Both.”

Steve shivers. “Maybe. Rather you do it later.”

Eddie’s not opposed. He likes watching Steve, but if he gets to have his hands on him later, have his plug in him, then he can wait.

“You gonna get yourself off like this then?” Eddie thinks he might be able to if they play their cards right. He’s never come just from playing with his nipples, but it doesn’t seem impossible. He’s riled up right now. On edge in every way. It might be time to try it out.

“Don’t think I can,” Steve admits, pouting his bottom lip out. It should look ridiculous, but it makes heat coil in Eddie’s stomach. He wants to bite it, suck it into his mouth and taste the spit pooling on his tongue. He wants to make him bleed so he can taste that too, find out if it’s as sweet as the rest of him. “Not without a hand on me.”

“I think you can.” Eddie laughs when Steve groans at him. “C’mon. I’ve seen you do harder things. Find a way.”

“Don’t have to be mean. I canceled a date for you,” Steve bites out, pinching his nipples again and scooting forward in Eddie’s lap. His dick is hard in his jeans, but he’s not gonna find what he needs with the way Eddie’s chest and stomach are pulled back with the ropes. Not unless he gets real close. “I’m not doing it all by myself.”

“You tied me up,” Eddie snorts. “I assumed that meant you were gonna do it yourself.”

Eddie’s own dick is straining in his jeans. It’s getting a bit uncomfortable, but he knows Steve will be pissed if he asks him to unbutton his pants. He’s supposed to sit here and take it, and Steve will sit there and do what he says. That’s how this works.

“Sit still then.” Eddie hasn’t moved, but he wants to now that Steve’s made the demand. He scoots even further up, so his dick is rubbing against Eddie’s stomach. It’d feel better if he took his pants off, but he’s stubborn. “I’m gonna get off like this.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Eddie.

“I’ll wait.” Eddie smirks when Steve narrows his eyes at him. “Go ahead. I’ve got all night.”

His legs are a little numb from being tied and having Steve’s weight on them like this. The dining room chair isn’t exactly comfortable to begin with. He’s a little shocked it’s holding both their weight like this.

Steve ruts forward once, twice, groans before he drops his head to Eddie’s shoulder. He isn’t gonna get as much friction as he wants like this, but he can get the job done.

“That’s it. You just need something to rub your dick on, huh? Anything would work,” Eddie teases, voice low. “So desperate.”

He tries to sound annoyed or uninterested, but he knows he sounds a bit awed. Steve’s hips move faster as he talks, the room gets hotter, and the air gets thicker. Eddie gets impossibly harder in his jeans. If it’s possible to break a zipper, he may do it any minute.

Steve whimpers as he bites down on Eddie’s shoulder. He’s a bit sweaty from the day, and he knows his shirt can’t smell or taste good. Steve doesn’t seem bothered.

“Can’t believe you tied me up just to hump me like a dog,” Eddie grins around the words. “You know there’s better ways to do this.”

Steve pauses in his movements, but doesn’t sit up or move his face away from Eddie’s neck. It’s all Eddie needs to know that he can keep going like this.

“So stubborn. I should make you use the wall next time.” Steve whimpers and ruts forward. “You’d love it. I could sit here and watch. Probably hurt after a while, huh?”

Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything. Eddie smiles to himself.

“You like when it hurts though. That’s why you can’t stop what you’re doing now.”

“Mhm. Like it when you hurt me, though.”

Eddie bites his lip. God, he does love hurting Steve. He’s so good at being hurt. Takes it so good and then gives it right back to Eddie as if he isn’t covered in bruises and scars left by Eddie’s teeth and fingers.

“I like it too,” Eddie allows himself to say. It’s important to keep the boundaries there, but sometimes he can be vulnerable. If Steve starts it, he can follow. “You gonna let me touch you?”

“Maybe in a minute.”

“You’re only hurting yourself, baby.” Eddie rolls his shoulders, breath hitching at the way it tugs the ropes tighter around his wrists for a moment. Baby is allowed. Steve said it first months ago, one of the first times they did this, and it stuck. It’s fine, especially when it’s slightly mocking like this. “I could make it feel so good. You know I take care of you.”

Steve tenses, almost like he’s going to come, then groans and pulls his head back, looking at Eddie with wide eyes.

Eddie looks back at him, calculating, trying to get a read on what’s going on in his head.

He’s still unsure what truly caused his panic earlier, other than Suzie’s words. Something had to, though. He’s still sifting through it, not quite over the tension.

And then it hits him.

His date.

Steve hasn’t had a real date in months. He’s definitely done questionable things in bar bathrooms, but he hasn’t taken a girl out since…

Since they started this.

Eddie rushes to think back to what Suzie told him, thinks about things Steve probably left out of his explanation. How quick he was to cancel the date once he knew what was on offer.

Steve struggles with being the one to call the shots. Not just in bed, but always. He always asks others to choose what they do, and usually tries to leave another adult in charge as often as he can.

Other than life or death situations, Steve Harrington likes to follow someone else’s lead.

This thing they have, whatever it may be, it works. Eddie calls the shots a lot, but there’s still times when Steve’s in charge. Like now, when Eddie’s tied up, completely at his mercy. He may be encouraging Steve to do things, but he’s not the one making the decisions, not really.

It’s Steve’s safe place to call the shots. Eddie’s his safe space. Not this girl he was going to take to dinner or a movie or back to his place.

“Hey.” Eddie wants his hands free, but it’s selfish. His mind is reeling as he thinks of a way to do this without making Steve lose the control he has. “You’re gonna do something for me.”

It’s another demand, but he knows Steve will listen.

“What?” Steve asks, flushed and struggling not to find any more friction.

“Tell me three things you want me to do.”

Steve’s shaking and Eddie doesn’t know if it’s from being so close to the edge or from nerves or from being overwhelmed with all of it at once. He’s never looked so unsure when they’re doing this, not even the first time when they hadn’t figured out how to communicate yet.

“Like…now?”

“I want you to answer now, but it can be stuff you want me to do later.”

Everything shifts again; A whine marks the moment that Steve gives in.

“Can you-”

“No.” Eddie leans in, gets close enough that he can feel Steve’s breath against his own lips. “Don’t ask me. Tell me.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and relaxes his shoulders. Eddie watches, waits patiently. His legs are starting to get tingly, almost painfully so. The feeling comes and goes as Steve shifts in his lap, moving weight from one leg to the other and then settling on both.

“Open me up.” Steve says so quietly Eddie almost asks him to repeat it. “I want four fingers.”

“Four? You sure?” Eddie’s never given him four. Steve’s never given himself four as far as he knows.

“Yeah. I can take it.”

“Okay. That’s one,” Eddie wants to kiss him, but he won’t. He can’t. Even if he weren’t tied up, he wouldn’t. “Another one.”

“I want you to fuck me.” Steve pauses like he’s going to say more. Eddie waits again, less patiently now that he knows what the next hour might entail. “In your bed.”

The silence that follows his request is louder than their breaths, louder than the thud, thud, thud of their hearts beating in their chests.

They don’t do that. They do a lot of shit, but they don’t do that. They fuck on the couch, the chair, against the wall, the shower, the floor. Never the bed. Not Eddie’s, not Steve’s.

It’s like kissing, in a way: silently forbidden.

Steve tenses when Eddie doesn’t respond. He starts to scoot back to get up, but Eddie lets out a noise close to a whine. He wants to move his hands, grip Steve’s hips so hard that there’s no way he doesn’t have bruises in the shape of his fingertips in the morning.

“What’s the third thing?” Eddie asks, making sure he knows he needs to stay right where he is.

Steve doesn’t say it. He’s pushing Eddie, seeing how far Eddie will push back. He could get up right now, go to Eddie’s bed, and they’ll forget all about the third thing. Eddie will let it be left in this room, never to be mentioned again.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He should insist on it now, but he won’t. Steve’s taking the reins now.

“Untie me.”

Mostly.

Steve works quickly, letting the ropes fall to the floor as Eddie slowly moves his limbs to get feeling back. He shivers when Steve’s fingers brush against his wrist, pulse speeding up under his careful touch.

“Anything hurt?” Steve asks, checking in the way Eddie showed him to the first time. Eddie taught him a lot of things. “Need anything?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” Eddie smiles, a real one, a soft one. Something almost too gentle for what they’re doing. “Let’s get in bed.”

He almost forgets to grab the lube and plug on the table behind him, but remembers when he watches Steve adjust himself in his pants and awkwardly half-waddle out of the room. He wants to use them when they’re done, after Eddie’s fucked him until he can’t talk.

Steve’s finally undressing, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. It feels like they belong there, like they could find a home in Eddie’s laundry basket, and then in his closet. Like pieces of Steve could stay.

Steve looks good in his bed, on his back, parting his legs. His hand cups his balls, lifts them as if he’s showing off exactly where he wants Eddie to go. Eddie’s dick leaks at the thought of being inside him.

He could probably lick him open and shove inside him with no argument, even though it would be uncomfortable and probably a little too painful even for Steve’s taste. He likes feeling the pinch of too much, the drag of skin that should be wetter. Maybe next time.

Eddie’s not gonna be mean like that, but he is gonna be quick. He’s not patient enough to take his time the way Steve may have thought he would.

He spits on Steve’s dick as he settles between his legs.

“Keep touching yourself. Don’t come,” he orders, pouring lube onto his fingers. “If you come, we stop.”

Steve whimpers and nods, accepts the challenge for what it is. His hand moves slow, languid in finding the perfect level of pleasure to keep him on the edge but not sending him over.

Eddie starts with two fingers, a happy medium between the pain Steve likes and the pain Eddie wants to try someday. It’s still enough to have Steve tighten around him, letting out a noise he’s never made before.

Eddie pauses and raises a brow up at him. Steve relaxes. Eddie continues.

He’s not gentle, but he could be a lot rougher. He has one purpose: open Steve up. He doesn’t even try to find his prostate until he’s ready to add the fourth finger that Steve wanted so bad.

Steve’s barely moving his hand anymore, just squeezing the base of his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him on earth. He’s burning up inside and out, sweat building on his thighs, darkening the hairs just enough to be noticeable.

As soon as Eddie pushes the fourth finger into him, Steve goes still and silent. Any sign of the anxious mess of a person who was pacing his kitchen floor earlier is long gone.

Eddie only gives him a second before he moves, pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in. It’s tight, really tight.

“Gotta relax or I can’t fuck you like you wanted,” Eddie reminds him. He looks down at where he’s stretching Steve, watches his hole flutter around his fingers as he desperately tries to relax. “Bet I could get my whole hand in if I used more lube.”

Eddie’s actually not sure he could with how tight Steve is now with just four, but Steve pants, nods like he agrees. Maybe they can try that, too.

Now that the bed is an option, Eddie could try a lot of things. So could Steve. Eddie thinks feeling his entire hand inside him might be enough to send him over the edge, dick untouched.

Steve finally relaxes enough around him so he can move and there has to be a direct connection between his fingertips and his own dick with how it jumps when he stretches his fingers. He’s sweating now, too, using his free hand to brush the hair off his shoulder for a moment.

“Your hand’s so big,” Steve whines, lifting his legs back further with what little strength he has left. ”So much.”

Eddie agrees. He’s watching how much he’s stretching him out and thinks it should be impossible.

He feels lost right now, shocked into watching what he’s doing rather than doing what the logical next step is: getting his dick inside Steve. It’s mesmerizing.

“Eddie?” Steve’s voice is unsure. “Look at me.”

Eddie’s eyes snap up to his face, unblinking.

“You need me to tell you what I want?” Steve asks, letting his legs fall to the bed. The new angle shifts his fingers so they brush against Steve’s prostate. He bites back a moan, but so does Eddie. “Let me.”

Eddie nods. He can’t fucking think for himself right now. Some switch flipped when he saw the way Steve took him, and he’s not sure he can switch it back by himself.

“Touch yourself. Get yourself wet.”

He does it. How can he not when Steve is taking deep breaths to keep himself calm? How can he not when he’d do anything that Steve asks of him?

He misses Steve around his fingers, misses the heat of it, the warmth that ran from his hand to his chest. The direct link is gone, even if just for a moment.

Eddie spits on his hand, makes the glide of his hand easier. He knows not to come, but he knows he could. Steve’s eyes are on him, watching and assessing, figuring out what he’ll do next.

Steve isn’t the type to drag this on. He doesn’t like delaying his own pleasure. He’ll make Eddie come inside him the way they both want, he knows that.

But he still worries this will be the time he can’t hold back, that Steve will watch him until he comes and then the night will be done.

“Just the tip.” Steve’s words make Eddie whine. It’s not enough, but it might be too much. “Take it slow.”

Eddie leans down, lines himself up. The moment he’s inside Steve, he groans and his brain resets, focuses.

He waits for Steve to say he can give him more. He wants to give him more, he needs-

“More.” Steve is barely holding it together at this point, Eddie can tell from the way his voice shakes and his hand grips Eddie’s shoulder like his life depends on it. “Slow.”

Eddie goes slow. One inch further, one degree warmer.

Another inch and Steve’s grip is harder, bringing him back to earth.

He shares a look with Steve, sending the message that he’s good, he wants to take things from here. Steve will let him.

“You’re so good,” Eddie groans against his mouth as he kisses him, pushes in until he feels tight heat surrounding him completely. “Always so good for me.”

Steve tightens around him, legs wrapping around Eddie’s back and tugging him closer. It feels too much like something he can hold onto, something way more than what it’s supposed to be. He doesn’t comment on it. He can’t.

Steve tilts his head back, lids heavy as he begs Eddie for something only Eddie can give him.

He wraps a hand around Steve’s throat, squeezes once, and fucks into him hard.

Steve’s hand moves to Eddie’s wrist, his silent permission to keep going, understanding of what he has to do for this to keep going.

They’ve never properly talked about this. It’s stupid and Eddie knows he needs to be careful.

He is. He’s always careful with Steve.

He only does it twice more, but it’s enough to have Steve pushing back against him, asking for more. Eddie removes his hand, grazes it down his chest, grips at his chest hair and tugs.

Steve yelps and Eddie smirks. “Thought you liked when I was mean,” he says to be extra mean. “You beg me to be rough all the time.”

“Be rough. But slow.”

Eddie is too close to go slow, but he thinks Steve’s in the same boat. He can probably get away with a few minutes of being rough before he comes.

“Wanna taste you,” Steve says, and it sounds like it might be the third thing he wanted. Eddie’s not sure what he means, though. They don’t kiss so it can’t be that. “Please, let me taste you.”

Eddie holds his chin, considers his next move as he fucks into him once, twice, grinds into him until they’re both breathless. He digs his fingers in, keeps Steve’s jaw open.

He leans in close enough to feel Steve’s breath in his own mouth.

“You wanna taste me?” He whispers.

“Yes.”

Eddie licks Steve’s bottom lip, so quick he could almost convince himself it didn’t actually happen.

Then he spits. Right in Steve’s mouth, watches it pool on his tongue.

Steve swallows it without being told to, closes his eyes and groans. He looks blissed out, cheeks red and forehead shining with sweat. He’s never been more beautiful, never made Eddie want to devour him quite like this.

It’s hard to keep things slow after that, but god, he tries. He would do anything for Steve, but he’s only human. He can’t be this close for much longer.

Steve’s eyes open and he doesn’t have to say anything for Eddie to know he’s too close to keep going.

They come seconds apart, so close Eddie’s not even sure who got there first.

Eddie fucks into him until he physically can’t anymore, wincing when it’s too much for his softening dick. He always pushes too much.

Steve lets out a laugh as Eddie falls to the side, grunting when his cheek smacks against Steve’s arm. He sighs and rests his lips against the skin there, scared to bring attention to it, but not wanting to put space between them yet.

It’s quiet for a while, their breathing evening out slowly as they come down. He still doesn’t move, but his brain’s starting to catch up and he’s left wondering something. He probably shouldn’t ask.

“What’s the third thing you want me to do?” Eddie asks anyway.

Steve is still, and Eddie thinks he hears his breath hitch.

His other hand comes up, resting gently on Eddie’s head. It’s a heavy weight on him, making him hotter when he’s already overheated. A comfort when he’s been giving and taking so much.

“Love me.”

Eddie should be more surprised to hear it maybe. He doesn’t even have a reaction at first, just soaks in the words.

Loving Steve Harrington has been easy so far, even though it’s been in silence. Understanding who he is, what he likes, what makes him tick, all of it has been a gift.

Even when he overthinks things, even when he’s high strung.

But loving Steve Harrington loudly, in the way he needs, the way he craves, might be even easier.

So he lets his lips pucker, kisses Steve’s arm.

“Is that all?” He asks, looking up at Steve with a smile.

[dustmusings]

brightest in the dark

Crosshair x F!Reader

word count: 9.2k

description: when you get caught up in an inescapable cave-in, crosshair finds that some things are easier to confess when it feels like the end of the road

warnings/tags: angst for sure but not all the way through, crosshair is an angsty boy in a lot of ways, forced proximity, frenemies (?) to lovers — reader and cross have a strained relationship because of the aforementioned angstiness of the boy, perceived unrequited love, injury detail, blood & needles, jealous (and a bit insecure) crosshair, implied there might be something between hunter & reader (spoiler: there isn't), grumpy/sunshine kinda, reader is a medic (how original), reader is described as being a similar size to crosshair, some suggestive dialogue but nothing nsfw

a/n: I will make every clone yearn if it’s the last thing I do. sue me. also If anyone knows where I took the title from we can be best friends forever btw. and shoutout to @lonewolflupe for the ‘sky rodeo’ <3

masterlist | join my taglist | read on ao3

“Have you got your water bottle?”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, kicking off the side of the Marauder as you descended the ship’s stairs with an irritating pep in your step.

“Mm” he confirmed, taking a toothpick from his belt, already pre-empting a grinding jaw.

“Medkit?” you asked, stopping just next to him to secure the top of your knapsack.

Crosshair didn’t reply, he just gave you a sidelong glance of irritation, toothpick clenched between his teeth. You looked over to him, most likely upon realising he wasn’t going to answer, and deflated slightly at his expression.

“Crosshair, have you got your medkit?” you asked more pointedly, an edge of exasperation that made the edges of his lips quirk up marginally.

“Yes, I have” he mumbled out, turning away from you and catching Hunter’s glare as he walked in his direction.

Crosshair had to fight the urge to roll his eyes again, he already knew what he was going to say.

“She’s only trying to help” Hunter scolded him, “if I hear that you've given her a hard time—”

“Alright, I get it” Crosshair snapped, his gaze as sharp as his tongue.

Hunter gave him an unimpressed look, eyebrows raised and a sigh escaping his lips, “alright, try not to take too long, report back as soon as you've got a visual”

Crosshair didn't try to suppress his eye roll this time, “this isn’t my first sky rodeo, Hunter”

“I know, but—”

“You ready, Cross?”

Crosshair's head twinged to the side slightly as his eyes fluttered closed, his jaw grinding and teeth clamped together at the nickname. He'd pretend it was because he hated it, as he always did.

He didn't reply, instead stalking away from the two of you and off in the direction of your mission objective. He could hear the way your feet scurried to catch up with his long strides and huffed, gripping his helmet tightly at his side. He felt your eyes on him, running them over his armour, and it took everything within him to keep from meeting your gaze.

“How did you sleep last night?” you asked, making his jaw tick noticeably.

He knew you had recognised his poor sleeping habits of late, but he wasn't really in the mood to speak about it, especially as it had something to do with the fact that you'd started sleeping in Hunter's bunk. He wasn't sure why, but that was somehow even more torturous than knowing.

“Fine” he replied coldly, keeping his eyes ahead as the two of you followed the trail that lead down into the valley below.

You sighed, “Cross…”

“Don't call me that” he grumbled, no real bite behind the demand, “and I said fine, so drop it”

He saw your shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye and shook his head, disappointed in himself once again.

Truth be told, Crosshair was painfully enamoured by you. Smitten was a more appropriate description really. He certainly felt as if he had been smited by some cruel deity who deemed that his life was worth being made difficult. He bore it like an open wound that he tried to ignore, a mess that wasn't given the proper amount of care and attention, and bled into the way he treated you.

You’d always been too kind to Crosshair, far kinder than he deserved. As much as it was your job as a medic, you always took care of him in the same way as the others, even though they always treated you with a level of respect that he didn't. He wished everyday that he could take it all back, go back to the beginning and start over, let you know how much he appreciated you and your efforts, how his feelings had grown for you to the point where his chest ached every time your smile was directed at someone who wasn't him.

It made little sense, he knew that. He acted as if he didn't care whether you lived or died, but it was the fact that you didn't seem to care that made him continue to act that way. So he couldn't take it back after all, and maybe he wouldn't want to anyway, because how else could he get close to you? He knew that made little sense too, but very few things were clear to him when it came to you.

In any case, he'd go on suffering in silence, a suffering of his own making that he cursed himself everyday for.

You did have a friendship, of sorts. He wouldn't call it that, and would certainly never admit it, but you were insistent in trying to get him talking. The way it would play out often went along the lines of him teasing you, making fun of you, to see how far he could push you as a juvenile way of coping with the magnitude of his affections. It was the closest thing to affection he would allow himself. You often rebutted his teasing remarks with ones of your own, and as much as he appreciated you matching his attitude, he mostly wished that you wouldn't allow him to get away with it, that you would give him a reason to show how he truly felt about you.

Safe to say the opportunity hadn't arisen, and he wasn't crossing his fingers either.

This mission's objective was simple; go and scout ahead, and comm the others when it was safe for them to move out. Since your joining the group eight months ago, Crosshair had often been lumbered with you in situations such as this. As the sniper, he wasn't made for nor enjoyed close combat fighting, and as the medic with little combat training, it suited you to hang back until you were needed.

Thankfully, the terrain that you were traversing this time was straightforward, a narrow valley that brought you right up to a ridge that overlooked a separatist outpost. Although the area was simple to cut across, it only made the silence that stretched between you even more tense, with no buffer to distract either of you.

You kicked up dust into the air with the way you were dragging your feet, and Crosshair was half of the mind to replace his backpack with you just so he wouldn't have to hear the grating noise. Holding a datapad in hand, you tapped the screen, tracking the direction that the two of you were heading in.

“Two more klicks” you mumbled, cutting through the tension with all the effectiveness of a butter knife.

Crosshair grunted in reply, casting his eyes across the top of the valley as the two of you descended to the very bottom. His hand shot out, slamming against your abdomen and stopping you in your place.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice low as you saw the way his gaze skimmed the top of the valley.

Crosshair slowly reached back and took his firepuncher from his backpack, “we're being watched”

The moment the first blaster bolt flew, Crosshair grabbed your waist and pushed you behind him, bringing his blaster into position and picking off the sniper droids he could see. Each bolt found its mark, piercing the droids between their eyes.

“Find us some cover” he ordered as he shoved his helmet over his head, looking for incoming droids. He turned back the way you had come, blaster raised as he walked backwards. It was silent for a moment, the only thing he could hear being the gentle padding of your feet against the ground behind him.

“Crosshair, in here” he heard you call from not far away, and he gave one last look around the edge of the valley before turning and making his way towards your voice.

There was a small cavern at the base of the cliff, a hideaway cut from the rock, and it looked to have been used for shelter before. A small pile of logs indicated a fire, with stones outlining a pit of ashes, only just visible with the way the afternoon light shone in through the opening of the cave.

Crosshair squared himself with the wall of the cave to look outside, his back pressed against it as he followed the line of the cliff through his scope. He felt your presence next to him, your chin knocking against his spaulder as you peered over his shoulder. Your breath wafted over the sliver of skin between the top of his blacks and his helmet, and his breath hitched as the heat of it made his skin prickle.

“Stay” he muttered, stepping forwards to put some distance between you, and to make sure that it was safe to move again. He stepped out into the valley once more, his rifle raised and ready should he meet more adversaries.

It was eerily quiet, the whistling of the wind the most audible sound, carrying no others on it. Crosshair stalked around the base of the valley, making sure that no other droids were in the vicinity, and called for you to join him when he was sure.

“One moment” you muttered, “I think there's a stone in my boot”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, lifting his weapon to look through the scope and make extra sure that it was safe. He wandered around as he waited, his own boots softly crumbling the dirt beneath them, then came to a stop next to you after a few moments, watching as you buckled up your boot again.

You looked up at him and a small smile crossed your lips, but almost instantly dropped, as if you'd done something wrong, “let's go”

Crosshair felt his heart fall from his chest at the subtle action. The fact that you wouldn't even allow yourself to smile at him left a gaping hole through the middle of him, and he felt completely and utterly ashamed. He knew it was his own fault, he'd blame himself even if it wasn't, but he wasn't prepared for how the simple motion would bring his mettle to its knees.

As he was caught up in staring at you with an inscrutible expression, one that didn't give away even one ounce of the anguish he felt, a blast flew straight past him, and narrowly missed your arm. He pushed you back inside the cave on instinct, and whipped around to deal with the incoming attack, but upon seeing the increased amount of firepower now gunning for the two of you, he quickly followed you inside, picking off the droids towards the front of the formation as he walked backwards.

As the droids continued firing down at you, a blast lodged itself in the ledge above the opening to the cave. When the rocks there crumbled away, they seemed to focus all their fire above you. Crosshair didn't think about the immediate implications of it, he just kept knocking down what droids he could, but when you called out his name and grabbed his arm to pull him backwards, he understood.

The rocks came down almost in slow motion, but quick enough that the pair of you couldn't have made it out in time. Crosshair fell backwards as you tugged on his arm, stumbling and trying to find his footing before he was taken to the ground. In the scramble to get away, a rock snagged his shoulder, just between his cuirass and spaulder, and he released a deep grunt as it brought him to his knees with the impact.

For a moment it was quiet again, only the heavy sound of breathing being heard in the darkness of the cave. Crosshair kept his head down, trying to keep his breath even and cut out the pain from his wound, though it was quickly becoming apparent to him that his shoulder was not in any sort of good condition. He could feel blood tricking down his side, soaking through his blacks, and he felt himself becoming feint, his mind fuzzy and unfocused.

A light flicked on, shining directly at him, and he groaned again, the hand of his uninjured arm lifting to cover his eyes.

“Crosshair” your voice was a hoarse whisper, as if it had got caught in your throat, and it wasn't hard to guess why.

He slumped forwards slightly, his back hunching as he dug his knees further into the ground to distract from the pain.

“I know” he said quietly, not even having looked at the damage yet. He was far too concentrated on trying to ignore it.

The light flicked off with the click of a button, and he heard you shuffling around, your knapsack hitting the ground with a thud that told him you were moving quickly, your actions rushed. Soon after, a warmer light started growing, and Crosshair realised you had taken out a lamp, and were now dragging it over to him with a medkit in hand.

He looked up, the softer light not invading his vision in such a piercing way, and he could now see the worry in your eyes. His gut twisted, the uncomfortable feeling of guilt spreading through his body and only making his wound ache more. You knelt in front of him, ripping off his helmet before your hand gripped his spaulder and pulled it aside to get a proper look at the injury. The both of you sucked a breath through your teeth, Crosshair in pain and you no doubt because of how bad the damage was.

You got to work quickly, silently, and unclipped the top half of his armour to get better access. Crosshair was glad that you weren't talking, he was already embarassed enough, feeling infantile, crumpled to his knees and completely weak in front of you. He was powerless to do anything else, his head pounding and vision hazy as blood gushed from his wound.

“Hold this here” you said firmly, pushing a cloth into the wound and bringing him back to the present harshly, another pained noise leaving him.

He followed your instruction without much thought, and when he took the fabric from you to hold in place, he felt the way your hand was shaking. His eyes snapped up to yours, and the distress he saw written into your expression was enough to shock him back into full consciousness.

Crosshair watched your movements carefully, his keen eyes noticing every twitch and shiver as you fumbled with the syringe. He wanted to comfort you in any way he could, but truthfully, he didn't know how. It wasn't something he'd ever sought to do, and now faced with the challenge, he didn't know what would be the right thing to say.

“It's just a scratch” he mumbled, a small chuckle passing his lips in an attempt to at least alleviate some of the tension.

“A scratch?” you huffed, your voice disbelieving as you shot him a unimpressed look, “this isn't funny, Crosshair”

“Hey—”

“If I hadn't pulled you away you'd still be there. You'd be de—”

Crosshair called your name sternly, and you stopped your fiddling with the syringe to look up at him, “it's going to be fine, do you hear me?”

His voice was grave, and while he knew it wasn't necessarily a comforting tone, it was the best thing he could muster up with the panic steadily growing within him. Your eyes flicked between his, your shoulders relaxing slightly after a few seconds.

“Okay” you breathed out deeply, pressing your hand over his to hold the cloth tighter to the wound, “look to your right”

Crosshair could feel his pulse throbbing all over his body, the blood rushing through him and towards his wound, towards the hand that covered his and brought about such a reaction. Your skin was warm through the fabric of his glove, and he'd been so distracted by the touch that he barely registered when you had administered the pain relief injection into his neck.

You took your hand from his as you placed down the syringe, and then found the hem of his blacks, your fingers skimming along the edge, “I need to take this off, is that okay?”

“It's fine” Crosshair replied, taking the cloth away from his wound to allow you to continue.

You nodded once, and ran your palms across the skin of his abdomen as you peeled the body glove from him. Crosshair couldn't help the way his body shivered, the way his jaw clenched at the feel of your hands on his skin. His eyes locked with yours as you pulled the top up, warm knuckles brushing over him, and he let out a shuddering breath, trying to relax his mind. He groaned in pain, eyes screwing shut when he lifted his arm to help you take the shirt from his injured shoulder.

“I know, I know” you spoke soothingly, your voice measured and calm as you discarded the shirt, “I’m sorry”

“Don’t apologise” Crosshair hissed out, the pressure to his wound returning as you grabbed his hand once more and brought the cloth to his shoulder.

“Alright, here's what's going to happen now” you started, your hand still covering his as you held his attention, “I'm going to take this away and clean the wound first. It's going to hurt a lot, but it'll be over before you know it. Then I'm going to need to stitch it up”

“It's that bad huh?” Crosshair huffed a laugh, still not keen to look down at the wound, but he heard how strained his voice sounded in saying it.

“It's going to be fine” you assured him, and your fingers closed around his, gripping his hand tightly, “it'll only take a few minutes, and then it's just a matter of putting a bacta patch over it”

He breathed out deeply, his skin alight where yours was touching it, trying to remain as calm as possible.

“Alright, do it” he spoke, forcing his eyes away.

You gave his hand one last squeeze as you brought it away, and despite how it made his heart flutter, it wasn't enough to fight the stinging pain of the antiseptic spray.

As you cleaned out the gash, wiping away drying blood and dirt, you responded to Crosshairs groans and whimpers of pain with comforting words, telling him that it was almost over, and as much as he appreciated it, he only felt more embarrassed. In the lull between cleaning and stitches, he tried to take steadying breaths, but the antiseptic was still stinging at the open wound.

“Are you ready?” you asked quietly, and his eyes found yours again at the softness of your voice.

You held the curved needle in your hand, ready for whenever he said the word, and between his deep breaths and pounding head, he couldn't help but just sit and admire you for a moment too long.

“Do you want something to hold on to?”

“What?” he frowned.

“To grip, for the pain? or… something to bite down on?” you suggested.

“No, no” he dismissed, shaking his head.

“Okay, I'm going to start now” you informed him, and he nodded quickly.

As soon as the needle pierced his skin, Crosshair's hands shot out and gripped the fabric of your shirt, bunching it at your waist with the way his fingers tightened, his bones almost creaking beneath the pressure.

“Fuck” he breathed out, trying hard to keep himself in check, to distract himself by focusing on the rhythm of your breath.

“I know” you said gently, “you're doing well, just a couple more”

His head fell forwards, resting his forehead against your temple as you worked, and he instead found that he was losing himself in your presence. He could feel your breath against his cheek, steady and warm, where his was harsh and shallow. You continued to send comforting words his way, your sharp actions a direct contrast to your tone and sentiments. He focused on the sound on your voice, the scent of your hair, the soft fabric of your tunic between his fingers, and soon they began to loosen.

“There, all done” you pulled away from him as you put down the needle and peeled off the back of a bacta patch, and Crosshair had to catch himself from falling forward.

You placed the patch over the affected area, lightly running your fingers over the edges to press it into his skin, and he immediately felt the solution beginning to cool the flaming agony that stemmed from the gash. A breath left him, and he sat back on his heels more as his head tipped back in relief.

“Better?” you asked.

“Better” he replied, then looked down at you to see your worried expression taken over by something more unreadable.

You chuckled slightly as you tidied up the medkit, “don't worry, I'm not expecting a th—”

“Thank you" he spoke before you could finish, voice firm enough that your eyes snapped back up to his.

You cocked your head a little as you looked over his features, “well… you're welcome then”

Placing the medkit back in your knapsack, you produced a dark piece of fabric, handing it over to him. He looked at the black material clasped in your hand and realised you were offering him your spare blacks.

“That wont fit me” he nodded his head to the item of clothing, an unimpressed furrow in his brow.

He watched on as you frowned in return, then trailed your eyes down his chest and abdomen, no doubt sizing him up.

“We look about the same size”

Crosshair scoffed, “are you calling me skinny?”

“Are you calling me skinny?” you replied amusedly, one of your eyebrows raising in tandem with your lips.

He rolled his eyes, “whatever, hand them over”

He held out his hand, looking away from your irritatingly enraptured gaze, and you dropped the top into his hand. He threaded his arms through the top and the sleeves, going to pull it over his head until his shoulder cried out in protest, and another pained grunt escaped him. He tried again, but was met by the same results.

“Here, let me help y—”

“Don't touch me” he replied on instinct, his tone venomous in a way that made his insides coil tightly together with guilt. He could see the hurt in your eyes, a flicker of sadness that only made that nasty feeling inside of him pull taut.

Truthfully, he couldn't stand to have you touch him. If he hadn't been so woozy previously, he may have shrugged off your help with his wound as he usually did, telling you he could sort it himself. Now that he was in his right mind, there was no way he would let you anywhere near him. He didn't trust himself around you. He didn't think he could have you touch him and not do everything in his power to keep it that way.

Though, observing the hurt in your eyes, in the slight downturn of your lips, he felt he couldn't deny you anything in that moment. After a long silence, he sighed. “I'm sorry”

Without so much as a single word, your hands found the fabric of the top, and you gently pulled it over his head. Crosshair knew he didn't have to say anything, because as much as he wished you didn't, you knew him well, and could read him far more than he was comfortable with.

He kept his eyes trained on yours. So much of your emotions were given away by your eyes, and he felt that you didn't try very hard to hide them, not like he did. He admired you for that. You were so openly giving and sought connection with everyone, even him. Your eyes caught his as you pulled the top down over his chest.

A small smirk wound it's way onto your face, “don't worry, I won't tell the others you needed help dressing like a little boy”

Crosshair huffed, trying to disguise what was really a laugh as an unimpressed scoff.

“I'm going to try and contact them” you muttered, moving away from him to pull out your comm. “Hunter? Are you there?” you were met by static, nothing coming through the line.

You tried again a few more times, calling for Hunter to reply, and every time you said his name it was like a punch to the gut. The last time was so desperate, so soft and bordering on loving that Crosshair almost clamped his hands over his ears. He couldn't stand it.

He didn't want to feel resentful towards Hunter, he only had himself to blame for leaving the space for something to blossom between the two of you, and it didn't surprise him in the least. You were both generous in a similar way, looking out for others before yourself, and it made sense that you had gravitated towards each other.

He tried to push it from his mind, vaguely aware that you were sending a recorded message about what had happened. He was more focused on the intense need he had to escape this situation. He couldn't be trapped in here with you, it would be the end of him, he was sure.

You began trying to shift some rocks from the base of the mound they had fallen into, but it only caused a slide from the ones on top of it. You yelped as you sprang back, and a thin crack appeared, running along the ceiling of the cave. Crosshair just huffed and pushed himself off of the ground, going to continue on in your stead.

“I'm not sure that's—”

The same thing happened, the crack deepening and small rocks falling from the ceiling. Crosshair paid it no mind, but you insisted that he stopped, pleading with him when it only got worse, more rocks shifting unsteadily and falling down around you. Really, it was hurting him a lot, his shoulder calling out for him to stop much like you, but the prospect of being stuck in here struck him as far more painful.

You had always given back what Crosshair gave out for the most part, but with the tone of your voice, he could tell your patience was wearing thin. You were quickly losing your sense of humour, and you finally snapped.

“You know what Crosshair, I'm kriffing sick of you! If you want to go and get yourself killed, be my guest, I won't stop you”

Crosshair stopped what he was doing, turning to face you, “you don't mean that”

His tone was partly joking, partly serious, as he didn't know which end of the scale you were on at that point.

“I mean every word” you spat at him, far more angry than you'd ever been, and you grabbed the lamp, dragging it behind you as you walked away.

He watched you slide down the far wall of the cave, your arms wrapping around your knees as you brought them into your chest in a huff. For a moment Crosshair didn't know what to do, but he figured he wasn't going anywhere if you weren't onside, so he trudged over you slowly, not approaching quickly for how he didn't know what kind of reaction to expect.

“Go away” you muttered, your eyes staring ahead of you, hardened with a resolve to not engage with him.

“No” he replied petulantly.

“I'm not dealing with your shitty attitude right now” you gritted through your teeth, still not looking at him.

It seemed that his mistreatment of you had finally caught up to him, and made you snap, and Crosshair was almost scared of the uncharted territory that you were now in.

“Just get up and help me shift these rocks” he knocked his foot on yours, urging you to abide, but you didn’t move.

You were silent, and realised then that it looked as if you were shaking subtly, but it was hard to tell in the low light. He was worried about you, but he knew there wasn't anything he could say or do that would help. He crouched next to you with a small sigh.

“What's the matter with you?”

“The matter? Crosshair we're stuck in here!” you finally looked up at him, a scrunch in your nose that he couldn't help but find adorable, and he found himself wishing you would have snapped at him before.

“What? Are you scared?” he asked, his usual teasing tone making an appearance.

“Yes! I'm scared, alright?” you hissed, and he could see a flicker of fear in your stormy eyes, “I don't know why you aren't”

“I don't get scared” he replied quickly, a knee-jerk response.

You laughed humourlessly, rolling your eyes, “right, of course. I should've thought of that”

Crosshair could see he wasn't getting anywhere, so he took a seat next to you, his back to the wall, one knee bent to rest his forearm on.

“I can't believe I'm going to die trapped in here with you” you grumbled out.

A pang of hurt cut deep in Crosshair's chest, but he forced a dry chuckle past his lips, an instinctual reaction to deflect the pain. You didn't seem so amused.

“Hey” he said softly, and you turned your head to look over to him, “we're not going to die”

His voice was as soothing as he'd allow himself, and he hoped that it could bring you even a little reassurance. You seemed almost taken aback, your mouth hanging open a little as your eyebrows raised. You blinked at him, and then settled back into a frown.

“I'm not stupid Cross, there's no way to know whether we're going to get out of this or not” you spoke softly.

The nickname made his chest seize up, but he sighed, leaning his head back against the wall of the cave, “you're right”

He wasn't going to lie to you, you didn't need that, and it wouldn't fix anything about the predicament you found yourselves in.

For a little while, you sat in silence, save for a steady drip of water on the opposite side of the cave that Crosshair had failed to notice previously. Now, it was all he could focus on. It was a particularly grating noise, something irritatingly steadfast and unyielding about it, just existing in the same space as you, but doing a much better job at consistency than him. It felt like it was taunting him, mocking him, calling him a coward. Maybe he was already going crazy, but either way, he felt compelled to speak up, if only to try and drown it out.

“I'm sorry” he said quietly, almost a whisper.

You sighed deeply, deflating, “it's not your fault”

Crosshair shook his head though you didn't see it, “I mean, that you're stuck here with me. I know that you'd prefer if it was Hunter instead”

You looked over at him with a curious expression, one that he only saw for a split second before he had to turn away. He couldn't bring himself to look at you for whatever you were about to say.

“That's not exactly true” you said in a measured tone.

His gazed snapped up to you, and you were giving him one of those looks where you were trying to figure him out. He hated when you did that, you were so good at it after all. He sometimes felt that you could see right through him and into his very soul, but he sincerely hoped that wasn't the case, he couldn't think of anything more horrifying.

“I didn't mean what I said before” you murmured, turning your body towards him with a small smile, “you're a great end of the universe buddy really”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, “so you don't actually want me to die?”

“Of course I don't” your face softened with your tone, and he couldn’t believe that such a tender look could be directed at him, he could only think that he didn’t deserve it, “you just drive me up the wall sometimes”

His lips quirked into a small smirk on instinct, and then it was your turn to roll your eyes.

“No one enjoys winding me up as much as you” you muttered, drawing your knees back to your chest as a shudder wracked your body.

Crosshair cast his eyes over you at the action, realising that your medics robes were not as warm as the blacks you had packed for situations exactly like this. He thought that maybe if he was a better man he'd give the top back to you. That's what Hunter would do. Instead, he looked across the cave, to where the previous dwellers had made a makeshift fire. There wasn't much wood, but it would be better than nothing.

“You have a lighter in there?” he asked, motioning his hand towards your knapsack.

“Uh… yeah” you replied.

Crosshair pushed himself from the ground, only a small grunt leaving his lips as the bacta had already began healing his wound. He grabbed the bag and crouched down by the pile of wood, rifling through it to find the lighter which was rattling around at the bottom.

As he arranged the remaining pieces of wood into his preferred shape, you stood and walked over to retake your seat in front of the soon-to-be fire. He got it going quickly enough, lighting one of the smaller pieces and placing it into the structure he had built, but it was weak at best. It wasn't going to keep for more than a few hours with the resources available, and Crosshair was already worrying about what would happen then.

He looked over to where the opening of the cave had been. In the dim light he could see the crack that had appeared in the ceiling, and he felt his stomach twist into a tight knot upon observing how much worse it was already. He blew a long breath out, making the fire ahead of him flicker slightly more, before it settled into its previous dance. Crosshair couldn't hear the dripping anymore, not above the crackle of the fire, and it was a strange relief. Thank the maker for small mercies, he thought, inwardly scoffing at the sarcastic thought.

“Why haven't you been sleeping?”

The question caught him off guard, so buried deep in his own thoughts that he had almost jumped when you spoke up.

“I don't want to talk about it” he mumbled in reply.

You nodded, seemingly satisfied with the assertion, but he could tell something lingered in your mind at the way you watched the flames before you both.

“You've been in my dreams the past few nights” you said absentmindedly, eyes almost glazed over as you stared into the fire, little regard for how it made Crosshair’s heart skip several beats. Your eyes flicked up and met his, and he lifted an eyebrow, not sure how else to react. You chuckled slightly before you continued, “they weren't great dreams, really. Nightmares, maybe”

Crosshair could feel his insides constrict at the idea of him featuring in your nightmares, his heart beating faster as he willed himself not to react in any way.

“Go on”

He watched your throat bob as you swallowed, “well, it always starts with me being chased by a fire-breathing lizard… creature”

Crosshair couldn’t help the way the edges of his lips lifted a little, and he brought his hand up to scratch at his stubble to try and hide it.

“I can see you laughing at me” you scoffed, “it was scary at the time”

“I'm sure” Crosshair replied, still fighting a smirk.

“Whatever” you rolled your eyes, uncrossing you legs to stretch them out ahead of you so you faced the far wall of the cave.

Crosshair’s curiosity quickly got the better of him, “what was I doing there?”

You looked back over to him before turning your face back down to your feet where you gently kicked your heel into the ground, “it's… silly, really. Far fetched”

He frowned, “I'm listening”

You huffed, and he could see your cheeks darken as you deliberated over your next words, “you were protecting me. You had a durasteel sword and you were trying to slay the creature”

Crosshair’s eyebrows raised, but quickly shot back down at your earlier insinuation, “why's that so far fetched?”

You tilted your head to look at him, your own frown creasing your brow, “I don't know, it's not something you'd do in real life”

A pang of hurt sent a sharp pain through his chest. He could feel it, like a real, physical thing, a knife piercing through his heart. You truly believed that he didn't care for you in any way shape or form, and as much as he knew he had no right to feel slighted by it, it cut deep within him.

“Nice to know you think so little of me” he grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest and tucking his chin behind them as he stared into the fire.

He could see your eyes go wide even as he refused to look at you, “I don't think little of you! I— I think you're… great, just—”

“Just what?” he snapped, eyes darting back up to yours.

“I don't know, I don't see you doing that for me”

Crosshair's frown only got deeper, and he forced himself to look away and into the fire again. All of the hurt and jealousy within him, every negative emotion he had brought upon himself by not being honest with you bubbled up to the surface, and he failed to keep it to himself.

“I feel like I've upset you” you said softly, but he just grunted in reply, “what is it?”

“You really think I wouldn't protect you?”

He knew that this was a path he didn't want to go down, one he wouldn't dare tread if both your lives didn't hang in the balance, but they did. He felt vulnerable, more vulnerable than he ever had or wanted to, and severely misjudged. Something about it made indignance rise up his throat and mingle with his words.

You paused, but spoke you mind after a moment, “not at the expense of yourself, no”

He grunted again, “well you're wrong”

“Why?”

“why?” he scoffed, shuffling his feet ucomfortably, “I'm not heartless, you know”

“I didn't say you were” you rebutted, and he finally looked up at you when you paused. You watched him carefully, “you would… put yourself in harm's way, for me?”

“Of course”

The shock was evident on your face, your mouth hanging open a little as you stared back at him, eyes wide and unblinking, and he knew instantly that he'd said too much, and that you didn't feel the same way for him. The worst part was, he understood. He knew that he'd given no reason for you to care for him in any real way past doing your duties as a medic, and any kindness you had offered him had been purely from the goodness of your heart, with no ulterior motives in consideration. All the same, it was frustrating. He was frustrated at himself.

His gaze dropped to the fire once more, and it felt as if it were stinging his eyes, but he soon realised that the sensation was actually brought forth by the tears that had collected in his waterline. He blinked them away, knowing that he couldn't, shouldn't cry, even if he had just come to the realisation that you would never see him the way he saw you, never admire him like that, never adore him like he wanted you to. It made him feel like a cadet again, surrounded by people who were supposed to be his brothers, but only feeling like something was wrong with him, that he was unwanted and unlovable for a reason that would forever elude him.

It was his fault. All his fault. He knew it, he’d always known it, and he'd have to live with it for as long as he knew you. It didn't make it any better to know it, it only made it worse. He wished he could blame it on you, make it easier for himself, displace all the blame and take this crushing weight from his shoulders, but he wouldn't wish this weight upon anyone else, much less you.

He didnt dare look up at you again, especially as you hadn't said anything. If the ground opened up and swallowed him whole in that moment he wouldn't have cared, or probably noticed.

“Do you think the others will be looking for us by now?” you asked softly after a little while.

“Doesn't matter, they won't find us” he grumbled back.

You huffed, “that's not very reassuring”

“Reassurance does nothing”

“Maybe not to you”

“No, not to me”

“Right” he could tell you had rolled your eyes, “you don't get scared, how could I forget”

“I am scared, just not for myself” He snapped, his tone sharp as he glared at you. He was feeling annoyed now, and not in the mood for joking in the slightest.

“What do you mean?”

He scoffed, his tone not matching his sentiment, “I'm scared for you. I don't want anything to happen to you”

You watched him from across the fire, tilting your head, and he had to look away.

“Why aren't you scared for yourself?” you asked.

Crosshair was reluctant to say, but you had no teasing in your tone, and admitting to the truth felt easier knowing that he might not make it out of this cave. He decided that he'd find a way to say what he wanted in as few words as possible.

“Because… if I die, I don't have to live without you”

Your eyes widened slowly, and he watched your mind work around the meaning of the words, the gears turning behind your eyes. He could feel the embarrassment clawing at his throat, begging him to stop speaking forever more. He didn't know why he would have said that, beyond it being true. You didn't need to know, it wouldn't help you, and it certainly didn't help him.

Then, you did something that he didn't expect at all. You rose from your place on the opposite side of the fire slowly, as if not to scare him, not that it worked. His eyes followed you as you made your way around, and retook your seat in the spot right next to him, so close that if he shifted his arm he’d be touching you. Then you put your head on his shoulder, looking into the fire.

“I'm scared for you too” You said quietly.

Crosshair didn’t know what was going on. His heart was beating out of his chest, only just managing to keep a hold of the rhythm of his breath as he watched you from so close. You had never been affectionate with him like this, and he was too plagued by confused thoughts spilling into his brain that he couldn’t fully enjoy it — enjoy the fact that you were in this proximity to him willingly.

“You're too careless with your life, you treat it like it doesn't matter. I don't like it” you spoke up again.

He didn’t know what to say.

“How should I treat it?” he asked quietly, his voice low.

“Like it's precious”

Crosshair took soft breath in automatically, taken aback by the simple admission, by how easily you had said it. He could only find it within himself to deflect the comment,

“It isn't precious, clones are expendable”

You raised your head from his shoulder to give him a stern look, “I know you don't believe that”

He shrugged. He could feel his cheeks scorching and he hated it more than anything. He hoped that the low light would save him from you noticing how your touch made him act. Peering into your eyes as you did to him, searching, your frown softened.

“Your life means a lot to me" you confessed in a whisper. Crosshair’s heart was trying to escape him now, and even more so when your face returned to being serious, “and I wouldn’t want you to risk it for me”

Crosshair matched your frown, drawing his brows together as the dots, the pieces of what you’d said, starting connecting.

“Do you think that's why I would protect you? Because I don't value my own life?” he asked, an irritate edge that made you draw back from him marginally.

“Yeah? I mean, why else…?”

He could have laughed, but instead he shook his head, “that’s not it”

He knew what he wanted to say really, but his mind fought to come up with something else, struggling to find the words to express every unsaid thing in a way that didn’t make him want to curl up in a ball and never speak again.

“It’s— I…” he trailed off, uncertain, “I value your life… more than anyone else’s”

Your eyes widened, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the corners of your lips lifted almost imperceptibly, “what do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes and looked away, “must I explain?”

“I'd like you to” you sounded small, and he looked back over to see that your eyes were wide, shining with hope. It filled him with such an uncommonly warm feeling that he couldn't possibly deny you an answer now.

“I…” he's flicked his eyes across your features, landing on your lips before finding your eyes again and sending you a somewhat pained look, “I can't— I don't know how to—”

You took his hand, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles and leaving goosebumps in your wake, “take your time”

Crosshair sighed, suddenly struck by how poor of an idea this was. He couldn’t help but dwell on the simple fact that you were far too good for him. He didn’t deserve someone like you, and he knew it. You were took kind, too patient, too far superior in emotional maturity and every other thing besides shooting a blaster for that matter. He didn’t believe that perfect people existed, but if there was anyone who reached the closest to those heights, it would be you.

“I… the way I treat you, it's not… right. and it's not a reflection of how I truly feel” he admitted.

You hummed, nodding as you focused your gaze on his palm, drawing shapes with your first finger, “and how do you feel?”

Crosshair was thankful that you weren’t looking at him, and knowing you, it was probably intentional. You knew what he was like, who he really was, and it was as startling as it was comforting. “I feel… a lot. You make me feel a lot”

You smiled, your thumbs tracing over his, “a lot of what?”

An exasperation began creeping on his mind. He knew you understood, you were smart, but you just wanted him to be the one to admit it. He could respect that, however hard he was finding it; you were finally not accepting his half-arsed attempt at affection.

“Happiness” he said finally, “you make me… happy”

Your eyes finally raised to his, giving him a curious look, he felt the need to continue.

“I know that I don't act like it, and I know that I certainly don't make you feel that way, and that you're interested in Hunter, so I'm under no impression that—”

“What?” your head tilted to the side, your expression portraying all of your confusion, “I'm not interested in Hunter”

“Oh” Crosshair sat completely still, just staring at you. He was sure he looked as confused as you did in that moment, but his heart still leapt in his chest all the same, “but… you were sleeping with him…?”

“He was just… I don't know” you sighed, wrapping his hand with yours, “when I had nightmares as a kid it used to help if I slept beside someone else. He noticed I wasn't sleeping well and offered some… comfort, I suppose”

Crosshair nodded, looking away and into the fire anyway, because he knew that Hunter would always be your first choice, and not him, even if it wasn’t in the way he had originally thought.

“But it didn't really help anyway” you said, “I suppose maybe I was sleeping next to the… wrong person?”

When he glanced back to you, there was something more reserved about your demeanour. You were never usually shy, sometimes quiet, but this was something that he hadn’t seen from you before.

“You're right, by the way” you noted, and he raised an eyebrow, “you haven't always made me feel very happy”

He offered a pitiful look, “I'm sorry”

“I know you are, and I don't forgive you for all of it, but I know you, and I know that you don't really mean it. And— well, the reality is…” you rambled out, finally pausing for a breath, or to muster your courage, “you also make me feel alive”

Crosshair’s brows shot up.

The entire atmosphere around the two of you changed, the air between you charged with unspoken words, energy waiting, begging to dissipate. Your free hand reached for his face, and you ran your thumb along the lines of his tattoo that followed his cheekbone. His eyes closed momentarily, a shaky breath leaving his slightly parted lips, and he gave into the moment, focusing on the feel of your fingers caressing his face.

Allowing himself to revel in your touch, appreciate it rather than trying to avoid it, he was ready to crumble into nothing. He could have, and he would have died a happy man, his last moment being in the embrace of your calming presence. Your hand found its place on his jaw, and he opened his eyes once more. He copied you, his hand reaching for your face and taking it tentatively within his grasp. Your skin was soft, ever so soft, and his thumb slid across your cheek with ease.

He felt so vulnerable in that moment, but he just didn’t care anymore. He felt safe with you, and for once he didn’t want to act like a wounded child about his feelings for you. He wanted to show you how strongly he truly felt, the beginnings of making up for the way he had treated you in the past.

Without another second to spare, he tugged on the hand that still clutched his, pulling you towards him, and his lips met yours with an ardency that surprised even him. His arms wrapped around you as he kissed you deeply, holding your body tightly to his, unwilling to let you slip away from him. He was stealing the very air from your lungs, giving you everything he had to offer, and you were taking everything in kind. You were trying your best to keep up, mostly succeeding, but eventually you had to break the kiss, almost gasping for air.

Your breath was heavy against his lips as he kept you in close proximity, and when your eyes met his, a small chuckle left you, bordering on a giggle. He pulled you flush against him, so you rested in his lap, and your face lit up even more. Crosshair felt like he was walking on air, and when you kissed him again, leaning all of your weight into it, he couldn’t help but smile against your lips. The kiss grew more heated gradually, and before he knew it, you were tugging at the blacks you had given him.

He shook his head, pulling away before you could get the wrong impression, “not here”

“Why not?” you frowned playfully, your hands slipping beneath the top and brushing against his skin.

Crosshair growled quietly as you attached your lips to his neck, making his next sentence hard to get out, “because I have more respect for you than to take you on the dirty floor of a cave”

You chuckled against his skin, pulling back to give him a genuine smile, but then it faltered, and he watched a thousand emotions flick across your face in the space of a second. He gripped you tighter, about to ask what was wrong, but you beat him to it with your answer.

“What if this is the only time we have?”

Crosshair knew you meant more than something as fleeting as a shared intimacy, and with the look on your face, he immediacy began to understand why people lied to others in the name of sparing their feelings.

He pushed his forehead into yours gently, “the others will find us”

Your lips turned down in a dubious expression, “but how are they going to get us out?”

For that, he didn’t have an answer. He brought a hand to your face, taking your jaw and hoping his actions brought some comfort, “I don’t know, but I’m not letting you die in here”

“Even you don’t have that power” you huffed.

Even you. The words hung in Crosshair’s mind, front and centre, meaning a lot more to him than you probably realised. It seemed that you were saying, even him, someone who could do almost anything, couldn’t do this. He realised then that you must think a lot more of him than he ever knew, and his heart almost seized up in his chest.

He let a small grin wind it’s way onto his face, “sure I do”

You gave him a lopsided grin, rolling your eyes as you buried your face in his neck, “yeah, yeah. Whatever you say”

As it promised to be, getting out was difficult. The others eventually came for you and Crosshair, by which point he had almost accepted that this was it, that he’d shared his final moments with you. That wasn’t enough anymore, it wasn’t a sufficient amount of time spent with you, and when he heard Hunter call for him, his need to get out was stoked. Tech had found that the rock on the other side of the cavern held a cave system, Wrecker had set a number of charges with a limited blast radius, and they pulled the two of you out from the other side.

But all of it was inconsequential, unimportant in the face of what had happened while you were still trapped. Even more so now that Crosshair held your body tightly to his, his arm wrapped around your waist as the fresh scent of your soap invaded his senses and no doubt began clinging to his bedsheets. He hadn’t let the others ask why he was suddenly being so clingy to you, but something about their smirks and knowing looks told him that he had only been fooling himself in not telling you how he felt.

You laid on his chest, careful not to rest against his wound, which you had treated properly upon returning to the ship. You had insisted it was the first thing you did, before anything else, and he wasn’t going to argue with you then, not when you frowned at him in a way that made his chest tighten. The trade off was that he got to join you in the shower afterwards. It hadn’t taken too much convincing.

Now with you in his arms, your light breath fanning his bare chest, he knew he wasn’t ever going to let you go. He’d spent too long trying to push you away, but now that he had you, you weren’t going anywhere, he’d make sure of it.

taglist: @darthnihila @cdblake1565 @heidnspeak @burningnerdchild @orangez3st @clones-cyare

[jubshead]

𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐚

Paring: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: The only person who could ruin a vacation in Italy was your stepmother, but what if she made it unexpectedly better?

A/N: Okay, so this was inspired by the second season of White Lotus and the title is in italian because I thought the english word was too crude.

I hope this isn’t too OOC, let me know!

This isn’t beta read and english isn’t my mother language, so bear with me.

Warnings: Face slapping, Non-consensual spanking, Dubious consent, Unwanted arousal, Degradation kink, Face sitting

Word count: 3.1k

Date: Nov 05, 2024

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!

Masterlist | Taglist | Read on ao3

Tag list: @jmkjournalblog @thecavalrywife @yourbasicqueerie @polaris-likethestar @riosslut @maevaofendora @yippie-kai-gay @w1theredroz3

─────── ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓��∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ───────

The sun shines through the blowing white curtains and into the bedroom. The last few days in Sicily were cloudy and, as pleasant as they had been, you’ve been longing for a day at the beach. The weather today was perfect for spending time in a bikini and staying at the hotel, not visiting any tourist spots or museums.

Italy is breathtaking. College was wearing you out, spending a few weeks away from the student mentality is doing you good, and it also helps that your father is paying for everything, even if it doesn’t erase the complicated relationship you two have.

Waking up early is mandatory in every vacation and today was especially easy. As soon as you had taken a peek at the open window of your room, you got out of bed. The constant tiredness you felt from your routine had vanished a few days into the city, and you were excited to make the most of it.

Skin glistening with sunscreen, you head downstairs for breakfast. The buffet was set up on a covered balcony with the chairs outside, where you could enjoy the view of the italian architecture as you ate. Grabbing a few fruits and a spoonful of eggs, you head out to find an empty table, only to catch sight of your father’s raised arm moving left and right to get your attention.

This vacation would be perfect if it weren’t for them. 

“Good morning.” You say, settling on one of the chairs.

Your greeting goes unanswered. Your father is back on his phone and your stepmother gives you a mouth pressed smile, doesn’t bother pretending she likes you. Every time you were in their presence, you felt like throwing up. Besides the fact that your father is 30 years older than her, you still hated both of them for the affair they had while your parents were together. 

You’ve always known your father was an asshole, but adultery was the final straw. The only reason you kept in contact with him was because of your mother. The saint she was, begged you to not distance yourself from him, scared you would be alone when she was gone. How could you not grant a dying woman’s wish?

Rio was a cunt. You couldn't deny that she was attractive, however. Your father wanting to stay with her wasn't a huge surprise. It was pretty clear, though, that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. She was obviously with him for the money, you were pretty sure she was cheating on him. Karma is a bitch, after all, and your dad’s time finally arrived. 

Eating your meal slowly, you enjoy the light breeze blowing your hair back. Cargo navy blue shorts and an open white button shirt hide away your black bikini. When you stretch your arms up, you feel eyes on you. Turning towards your stepmother, you’re greeted by sunglasses covered eyes and a similar blouse to yours, her brown hair is down. 

“I have to get some work done, so I won’t be able to spend the day with you.” Your father tells you, finally looking up from the phone.

“That’s fine.” You reply, shoving a spoonful of papaya into you mouth 

Oh, thank goodness you wouldn't have to stay with them today. 

“Rio will go to the beach with you, though.” 

Your eye twitch at that. Glancing in her direction, you see her tongue poking into her cheek and a side smile, clearly enjoying your suffering. 

“I’m sure she would like to do something else. “ You try. 

“No, no. I want you to spend time together, get to know each other.” Your father and his need to make you two close, this whole trip was about that and yet you still avoid her like you have done all these years. You have never wanted any kind of relationship with her and that wasn’t about to change. 

“Whatever.” You breathe out. 

“Come up to our room. Rio needs to change and I can give you girls some cash to go out and buy a few clothes.” Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. Spending as much time away from her as possible was one of your goals in this vacation.

He leaves his uneaten breakfast on the table and stands up. 

“Fine.” You concede. 

In the hallway, they walk ahead of you and you take a moment to watch them. Your father moves with the confidence of a rich white man with a plastic filled face. He’s in his 70's and doesn’t have the worst body, but if Rio was putting up with him because of money, it must be torture. She was clearly above his level, with black hair, slim body and defined arms. Anyone could see that. She had a powerful aura and walked with a sway to her hips. 

You look up when you realize you’re staring at her ass. 

The white door opens up with your dad's key card. Their bedroom is huge. The entrance leads to a living room with two couches and a coffee table. At the parallel wall to the entry, a large door opens to a balcony with a beautiful view of the mountains, the water constantly crashing against the rocks. Their bed is on the left side and is separated by a bow shaped wall, the other side of the room is the bathroom. It has a big counter with multiple beauty products. 

“I’m off. There’s a computer room downstairs, if anyone needs me, I’ll be there.” He hands you three hundred dollars and goes to kiss Rio. 

He holds her waist firmly and she turns her head before his lips contact with hers. She pushes him slightly back and pat his shoulders, you hold in your laugh. 

“Okay then.” He mutters embarrassed, ruffling your hair on his way out.

It doesn’t take 10 seconds after he leaves for you to turn to her and say. “Look, we don’t have to do this. I don’t want to spend time with you and I’m sure the sentiment is mutual.” 

She fake gasps at you, eyebrows raised and smirks. “Reluctant, already?” 

Rolling your eyes, you head to the bathroom to wash your hands, they feel sticky from the juice of the fruits from breakfast. You hear some movement in the bedroom and assume Rio is grabbing her bikini. The wardrobe door closes shut and you glance up in the mirror to watch your stepmother's figure walking behind you. You’re one step away from moving out of the restroom when she slips her blouse and shorts off. 

Time seems to stop as you watch her with her back to you, her ass is completely bare and you stare as she first ties the top knots of the two-piece. She bends to pull up the bottoms and you look down to your hands, your breath comes out shallowly, the image buried into your mind.

“Boo.” A voice says, her breath ghosts your ear and you try to hide your startlement. 

Looking up, you purse your lips. She’s standing a foot behind you and smiles smugly in your direction. When you turn around, her face is closer than you expected.

“What do you want?” You ask sharply.

“What do I want?” She repeats slowly, her fingers running through your hair ends. “You tell me.” She stares into your eyes and you squint, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her back.

“Fuck off.” You let out an incredulous laugh. “I always knew you were a slut, but this is beyond anything I’d have expected.” 

“Why? Are you still mad at me because of mommy?” She teases with a fake pout. 

Your entire face closes off and you take a step towards her. 

“Don’t talk about my mother. You could never be half of the woman she was.” 

“Oh, yeah? Your father would disagree.” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Your palm stings from the contact and you gape at her, surprised at your own slap. 

With your hand frozen in midair, you observe as her head turns back in your direction, her cheek is stained by red fingers and she lets out a breathy laugh, running her digits through it. 

“You are gonna regret that.” 

The apology that was about to come out of your mouth is cut off by the yank on your scalp, your body is forcefully rotated towards the sink and you hold the impact with your palms. The tug in your hair makes your back bend in an uncomfortable way and your neck aches as it’s pulled back. Rio presses firmly against your arched ass, resting her chin on your shoulder and looking at your startled face through the reflection. Her nails sink in your flesh.

“What are you doing?” You breathe out, partially scared and slightly aroused. 

“Has anyones ever told you that you’re a brat?” She avoids your question with one with her own, you feel fingers running down your waist. 

“Has anyone ever told you?” You return. 

She scoffs as her mouth breaks into a grin, softly shaking her head left to right. The digits you felt moving through your covered skin grip you with full force and move to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning it. Panic flashes in your eyes as she pushes it down. You struggle against her hold and she pulls your hair harder. 

“Don’t fight it, sweetheart.” 

Breath catches in your throat when her fingers grab a handful of your bare ass. 

“Do you know how I tame a brat?” She whispers in your ear and answers her own question. “I teach her a lesson.” 

The sound of her palm colliding with your backside echoes off the white walls and your surprised yelp follows it. The slap doesn’t hurt, you could bet Rio didn’t put all her strength into it, the worst part, for sure, is that it felt good. The sting brings a delicious burn to your skin and you prevent yourself from asking for more.

The second time it happens, you grab harder into the counter. Words seem to fail you and you stand still, this whole thing feels like a fever dream. You look up at the mirror and see Rio’s eyes completely fixated on your ass, she smoothes her hands through it and you shudder. 

The one that follows is firmer and you groan, unable to contain yourself. Goosebumps mark your skin and your body reacts to the pain, shifting uncomfortably against your bikini.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” She asks, raising her brows and giving you a maniac grin.

“Fuck you.” 

She tusks behind you and hums, slapping you three times in a row. The reaction is instantaneous and you hate yourself for pushing your ass back against her. 

“Who’s the slut now?” She asks in your ear and laughs. 

The taunting worsens your condition. Slick gathers in your underwear and you bite your lips, stressed by the way your body is reacting to your step mother. She doesn’t give you any type of relief and smacks you two more times. This torture seems to be going on forever, but you’ve only counted seven slaps. You had no idea how long it would last.

You’re about to speak when she strikes you one more time, with an open mouth, you aren’t able to contain the moan that escapes you and your face lights up like a christmas tree.

“You are so cute when you blush, sweetheart.” She tells you and licks your ear, her palm massages your sore butt and she adds. “Everytime we meet, I just want to have you all to myself.” She pulls back and looks at your pitiful position. Arched back, red ass and shorts bunched up mid-thigh, she runs tongue over her teeth. “When I saw the opportunity today, I just knew I had to take it. It’s so easy to rile you up and the fact that you hate me only makes it all the more delicious.” You shudder at her words. 

She is fucking mental. 

She surprises you for a second time with a spank. Tears well up in your eyes, the sting is worse than before and your arousal is burning you up from inside. The whole situation is making you dizzy, you feel like you’d fall down if Rio wasn’t holding you so tightly. Your neck hurts and you almost beg her to stop, but you couldn’t handle the humiliation, so you face it like a big girl. 

She delivers two more and you screw your eyes shut. One tear runs down your face and you feel Rio releasing the grip on your hair, turning you around to face her. 

“Ten slaps, that’s all. No need to cry.” She runs her thumb over your wet cheek. 

The sink presses against your backside and the cold of it helps with the burn, with your eyes still closed, you take a deep breath. You’re still in shock. 

“Did you learn your lesson?” She asks, her palms holding your wrist against your breasts. 

You stare at her for a second. Laughing at her smirk, you spit right in her face. She closes her eyes, whipping the dripping saliva with her fingers. Her entire face closes off, her patience seems to have run thin. 

She doesn’t say anything else, turns around and pulls you by the forearm. You struggle against her hold, but she’s stronger than you expected. Losing your balance when she throws you on the mattress, you don’t have time to get up before she’s upon you, holding your wrist above your head and kissing you roughly.

You hate yourself for it, but it doesn’t take more than 5 seconds for you to kiss her back. She’s in full control of the kiss and you writhe beneath her, failing to release your arms. Her tongue runs against yours and you can barely breathe from the intensity, your head spinning. 

One of her hands runs down your side to the bikini bottom. 

You suck in a breath when she separates. 

“I could eat you alive in this, couldn’t take my eyes off you at breakfast.” She tells you, licking your cheek. 

Her hand brushes the black fabric before pushing it aside, you are embarrassed by your state. Her fingers run through your wet folds, circling your entrance as you whine, desperate to be fucked.

“You are pathetic.” She says close to your face. 

Fuck your body for reacting the way it shouldn’t. The degradation turns you on even more and you feel your resolve crumbling. Rio chuckles at the intern battle she sees in your eyes. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to use that pretty little head of yours for long.” 

She rolls off of you. The opportunity to escape presents itself and you don’t move an inch, with your wetness sticking to your thighs, you just want Rio to have her way with you. She smirks at you and crawls up your body until she’s stradling your ribs. 

She doesn't put her full weight on you as she squeezes your cheeks and says. “Let’s see if this mouth is good for anything else besides being disrespectful.”

You barely have time to understand the implication before her cunt completely shadows your vision. Her bikini is set aside and she pushes her hips down, making you grip her thighs in an attempt to control her pace. Giving up on your moral high ground, you lick a stripe up her lower lips. She hums on top of you and grinds down, her juices smear on your chin and you’ve only just begun. 

Apparently you weren’t the only one affected by the spanking.

Focusing your attention elsewhere, you leave a hard bite on her inner thigh, taking your hatred on her skin. She moans and sits completely on your face, making it impossible to breathe. 

“You better get to work, sweetheart.” She mocks you and amends. “Before you pass out.”

You fully believe she’d let that happen so, with renewed energy, you grab into her butt and grind her center against your face. Your tongue circles her entrance before going in. Hearing her hand grab the headboard, you begin to move in and out. Your pace is rapid and she seems to enjoy it as she starts to ride your face. Sucking her lower lips makes her groan on top of you, so you repeat the motion and squeeze a handful of her ass, making her moan. 

With little breath, you stick your tongue out and let her chase her own orgasm. She slowly moves in circular motion and spreads her juices around your face. Her movement picks up speed and within seconds she’s bouncing against your mouth. You grip her ass tightly and feel your nose bumping against her clit. 

She becomes a moaning mess on top of you. 

For someone who can’t breathe, however, eternity seems to pass as you struggle to keep up with her. She is clearly on the edge and trying to reach her peak, so, in a last attempt to get her off of you, you run your tongue all the way up before sucking her clit as hard as you can. 

Her movement comes to a halt and you feel her body tensing up, her thighs tighten around your head and your ears ring from the pressure. Her orgasm finally hits and she shudders on top of you, breathing heavily and letting out unrestrained moans. 

She collapses beside you and you take the biggest gulp of air you can manage. Your breathing is as ragged as hers and you curse yourself for having a weakness for older women, this shouldn't have happened. 

Silence befalls you for about a minute as Rio gathers herself and you contemplate your life choices. As soon as her breathing is slower, she gets up on her knees in the bed. All your previous worries leave your mind as soon as she’s back upon you, straddling your waist and biting her lips.

She kisses you and grasps the wrists that hold her face, you press your center against hers and let out a whine when she pulls back and gets out of the bed. With a puzzled face, you sit up and ask.

“Where are you going?” 

“To the beach.” She simply says, grabbing a sun hat and putting it on. 

“What?” You rapidly blink.

“You heard me.” Her face breaks into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen in her sulking face. 

“Rio.” You whine like a petulant child. 

She comes towards you and gives you a long peck. Your mouth follows hers as she pulls away.

“Brats don’t get rewards.” She states and heads for the door, exiting the room with a witchy cackle as you throw yourself back onto the bed. 

[siratonin]

A Dream I Can Call My Own

BuckTommy Ι WC: 3,145 Ι Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful ending

[Read below or on ao3]

They sat on the couch, wrapped up in the kind of warmth that felt like home.

Tommy could feel Buck against him—warm, steady, safe. His body relaxed in a way it hadn’t in months, like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding was finally being let out. For the first time in too long, nothing felt uncertain, things felt right. Easy. Like maybe this—they—could still be something.

He let out a slow, content sigh, shifting slightly so he could press his cheek against Buck’s hair. “You’re warm,” he murmured, voice thick with drowsy affection.

Buck let out a quiet breath, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against Tommy’s arm. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice quieter, softer. “You always feel safe.”

Tommy stilled for a second, something unspoken curling around his ribs, and he closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing Buck in. Safe. That word meant more than it should. More than he wanted to admit.

He nudged his nose against Buck’s temple, pressing a lazy kiss there. “I missed this.”

“Yeah?”

Tommy hummed, one of his hands reaching up to absently trace along Buck’s forearm. His fingers brushed over the tattoo there, then trailed down to tangle gently with Buck’s. He gave a light squeeze, as if grounding himself. “I miss touching you,” Tommy admitted. “I miss—” He hesitated, as if saying it aloud would make it too real. But it was already real. It had been real since the moment he left. “I miss just being with you.”

Buck didn’t pull away. He didn’t say anything either, but Tommy could feel the tension in his body shift, could feel the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly where they rested against Tommy’s arm.

Tommy shifted closer. Then, without thinking, he lifted Buck’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against his knuckles. The weight of everything between them sat heavy in the air, but for this moment, it didn’t matter.

“It’s funny,” Tommy murmured, lips brushing against Buck’s skin. “I keep thinking I’d be fine on my own, but when I’m here with you… it’s like my body remembers this is where I’m supposed to be.”

He expected Buck to say something. To reassure him, to tell him me too, to do anything but let the words hang between them like a fragile thread. But instead—

“You have to go,” Buck murmured, barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s breath caught.

His fingers twitched against Buck’s before his hold instinctively tightened. “I don’t.”

“Tommy…”

“I don’t.” Tommy sat up slightly, his eyes dark with frustration. “Why do you keep saying that? You don’t want me here?”

Buck exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s… not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” Tommy snapped, his voice suddenly sharp. “Because I don’t have anywhere else to be, Evan. I don’t have—” He stopped himself, pressing his lips together. He shook his head, as if to ward off something heavier than just the conversation.

Buck’s voice was quiet, careful. “You still have your life, Tommy.”

“To what would I even go back?!” and for a moment, he hated himself for it. Hated the way it exposed the truth—the raw, ugly, aching truth.

Buck opened his mouth, but Tommy didn’t let him speak.

“To an empty house?” Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “To nights where the only thing keeping me company is the sound of my own damn breathing? To pretending I’m fine when I’m not? When I haven’t been since—” He stopped himself abruptly, pressing his lips together like the words hurt too much to say aloud.

His hands clenched into fists, and he felt small.

The weight of Buck’s stare was suffocating, but Tommy refused to look at him. He didn’t want to see pity. Didn’t want to see regret.

“I don’t—” His breath hitched, and then his expression shut down entirely. “Forget it.”

Everything went silent.

And then—

Beep, Beep, Beep

The rhythmic sound of a heart monitor cut through the darkness, steady and unwavering. The artificial glow of the monitors cast a dull light over the sterile white sheets, the walls too bare, too empty. The air smelled of antiseptic, too clean, too lifeless.

Tommy lay motionless in the hospital bed. His skin looked too pale against the stark contrast of bruises blooming along his cheek, his temple, the faint cuts and scrapes on his arms. A thin oxygen tube rested beneath his nose, a silent tether keeping him tied to this world.

He wasn’t awake.

He wasn’t anywhere.

*

Tommy stood alone, the world around him a hazy, endless void. It wasn’t darkness exactly, just… nothingness. And for some reason that felt familiar, safe, somewhat warm.

And then—Buck was there again. Standing a few feet away, watching him with something unreadable in his gaze.

Tommy’s breath was steady as he took a hesitant step forward. Because here, in this space where everything had been stripped away, he still had one thing.

Evan.

And that was enough.

He reached out, his voice soft but sure. “Here...” Tommy murmured, his fingers barely brushing against Buck’s.

The moment their skin touched, the world shifted.

Suddenly, they were curled up together in bed.

The sheets were soft, warm, smelling faintly of Evan—of home. Tommy could feel the steady rise and fall of Buck’s breathing against his back, his arms wrapped snugly around Tommy’s waist. The weight of him was real, solid, grounding.

Tommy exhaled slowly, sinking into it, letting his fingers trail along the arm draped over him.

“Here…” Tommy whispered. “I have you.”

Buck hummed sleepily against his shoulder, his grip tightening just slightly. “Mhm,” he mumbled, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of Tommy’s neck.

Tommy smiled.

The world shifted again.

Buck was standing at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes with an ease that made Tommy roll his eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day you willingly made me something this sugary first thing in the morning.”

Buck huffed, nudging Tommy with his hip as he plated one. “Maybe I just needed the right influence.”

“Oh yeah?” Tommy smirked, leaning against the counter. “What’s that?”

Buck grinned, reaching out to tap a finger under Tommy’s chin before turning back to the stove. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Tommy chuckled, stealing a piece of pancake straight off the plate.

“This,” he murmured, watching Buck with something warm in his eyes. “Here, we can be together.”

Another shift.

Now, they were in a crowded bar, the air buzzing with laughter, music, and the occasional groan from a table that had just missed a trivia question. Neon lights glowed dimly overhead, casting everything in a warm, golden haze.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips as Buck scribbled something down on the answer sheet in front of them. He eyed Buck’s writing, already suspicious. “Are you sure about that?”

Buck scoffed, not looking up. “Tommy, I know random facts. Trust me.”

Tommy arched a brow. “Right. Because The Godfather was directed by Steven Spielberg.”

There was a pause. Then, Buck’s body stiffened. His eyes flicked back down to the answer sheet.

Tommy grinned before Buck even said a word.

“Shit—no, wait—”

The host’s voice rang out over the microphone. “And the correct answer is… Francis Ford Coppola!”

Tommy clinked his beer bottle against Buck’s glass as their score dropped. “It’s okay, babe. Can’t be a genius all the time.”

Buck muttered something under his breath, shifting slightly in his seat, but before Tommy could needle him more, the speakers crackled, and the host’s voice took over the room.

“Alright, trivia nerds! We’re taking a quick break before the final round, which means—it’s karaoke time!”

Tommy wasn’t thinking when he stood up. It didn’t feel like a choice. His feet carried him forward, past the tables, past the stage lights, past the static buzz of the microphone as he wrapped his fingers around it.

The song started.

And it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic.

Tommy’s lips parted, and the first words fell from him, soft and certain.

At last… my love has come along…

He didn’t belt it out. Didn’t make a joke of it. Instead, he let himself feel it.

Somewhere in the crowd, he could feel Buck’s gaze on him. Tommy didn’t search for him. Couldn’t. Because this wasn’t a performance.

This was something else.

And when he reached a specific line—the one that pulled at something deep inside him—his fingers curled tighter around the mic.

I found a dream, that I could speak to…

The words felt heavier now, pressing against his ribs.

…a dream that I can call my own.

His voice didn’t waver, but something in his chest did.

He let the last note fade, his breath slow, steady.

And then—silence.

Slowly, he turned his head. His gaze locked onto Buck’s across the room.

Buck wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t cheering.

Just watching.

Tommy swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the mic stand before he forced himself to look away. He stepped off the stage, his legs carrying him back toward the table, back toward Evan, who hadn’t moved.

Tommy sat down, cleared his throat, forced a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See? We can have fun.”

“Yeah,” Buck murmured. “We can.”

The host’s voice rang out again, calling for the final round of trivia, but Tommy barely heard it.

His own words still echoed in his head.

I found a dream that I could speak to.

He flexed his fingers under the table, curling them into his palm like he could hold onto the warmth still lingering there.

And then—

They were in Chimney’s backyard.

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing everything in gold. The scent of grilling food filled the warm evening air, mixing with laughter and the faint sound of Jee giggling somewhere nearby.

Tommy sat at the patio table, watching.

Chimney was at the grill, flipping burgers with one hand while sipping a beer with the other. “I swear, I should be getting paid for this level of skill,” he said, waving the spatula like a microphone.

Maddie rolled her eyes from where she sat beside Tommy. “You say that every time, and yet, somehow, we all survive your cooking.”

Buck chuckled from across the table, beer in hand, looking easy and content. “Barely.”

Tommy exhaled softly, letting his fingers tap absently against the table.

“I have people,” he said suddenly, more to himself than anyone else. He turned his gaze to Buck, searching for something. “Chimney—he’s a friend. A family.”

Buck hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Sure.”

Tommy frowned.

The air felt different. He couldn’t place it at first. But then…

The grill wasn’t smoking.

His stomach tensed.

He looked around. Jee’s laughter rang out again, high and bright—exactly the same as before. The same rhythm. The same pitch.

Like a recording on a loop.

His fingers curled against the table.

Buck laughed at something Maddie said, but when Tommy turned to look at him, his smile was too perfect. His beer hadn’t moved in his hand. His plate was untouched. Chimney flipped another burger, even though none of them had been taken off the grill.

Tommy’s pulse thrummed in his ears.

The air pressed against him, thick, heavy.

He tried to breathe.

Buck’s voice was quiet, gentle, final. “Nothing will change, Tommy.”  

Tommy’s world dissolved. And he was back in the endless void, Buck standing just a few feet away.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“I don’t have you there,” Tommy said, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands trembled, tightening at his sides. “I don’t have anything.”

Buck tilted his head slightly, the same way he always did when he was trying to figure something out. But there was no softness there, no reassurance, no comfort.

Only distance.

“And whose fault is that?”

Tommy’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could say anything—before he could reach out... Buck disappeared.

And Tommy was alone again.

*

There was a chair pulled close beside the bed, filled with someone who hadn’t moved for hours.

His body was curled forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles were white. His face was unreadable, eyes locked on Tommy like he was willing him to wake up, willing him to stay.

He hadn’t said anything for a long time.

Hadn’t touched him, hadn’t moved.

But now, slowly, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile, Buck reached out. His fingertips hovered over the back of Tommy’s hand, hesitant, before finally settling down against his skin.

Tommy didn’t react.

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse.

“You have to wake up.”

*

“Are you sure about that?”

Buck’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and steady. “Look closely, Tommy.”

Tommy blinked. And suddenly—he wasn’t in the void anymore.

Now, he was standing in a hospital room.

The air was cold. The lights too bright, too harsh. The steady beep, beep, beep filled the silence. A strange weight settled in Tommy’s chest, heavy and suffocating.

Because he wasn’t just in the hospital room.

He was looking at himself.

His own body lay still on the hospital bed, pale, motionless. His chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical breaths.

And beside him—

Evan.

He was hunched forward in a chair, unmoving, gripping his own hands so tightly his knuckles were white. His face was unreadable, his gaze locked on Tommy like he could will him to wake up.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t left.

Tommy’s throat closed up. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I—” His voice wavered. Then, barely above a whisper, “Of course you’d show up.”

A sharp breath, a flicker of something in Evan’s face.

"You have to wake up."

Tommy flinched. His breath hitched, and suddenly, he was spiraling back into the dream.

“I—I can’t!” The words tore out of him, desperate, panicked.

Buck hummed beside him, tilting his head. “Why?”

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m tired of the pain. If I wake up…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, then shook his head. “I can’t handle it anymore. I can’t handle more heartbreak. I don’t want to.”

The silence stretched.

Then—Buck smiled. Soft. Amused. Almost… pitying.

“Oh.”

Tommy exhaled shakily, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

And then Buck said, “So you’re being a coward.”

Tommy’s chest clenched. He jerked back like he’d been slapped. “I—no. No, I’m not—”

“Here…” Tommy’s breath shuddered as he gestured around him, desperate now. “H-here, I have you. I have what I want. Everything is… safe.”

His voice wavered.

Buck watched him for a long moment. Then he hummed.

"Well, you're right."

Tommy’s breath stalled. For the first time, Buck was actually agreeing with him?

He nodded, as if considering it. “You do have me.”

Relief crashed through Tommy too fast, too sharp. He opened his mouth—

“But you don’t have him.”

Everything stopped.

Tommy’s breath stalled in his chest, his blood running cold. The world tilted, cracked at the edges. And he looked at Buck.

And oh... Oh, he saw it.

This wasn’t Evan.

It never was.

His hands trembled. His legs felt weak. The world was falling apart.

He had to wake up.

But his body didn’t move.

The air around him thickened, pressing against him like something alive, like the dream itself was trying to hold him in place. His lungs ached, heavy, his thoughts sluggish.

Not yet.

Somewhere, distant but real, something changed.

A sound—muffled, low. A voice calling to him, strained.

His fingers twitched.

The world around him cracked further, pieces breaking away, fading into white noise.

Another sound. Closer this time.

His body felt wrong, heavy, like he was sinking, like waking up was pulling him through something thick and unrelenting.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Then—

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven.

Cold air.

The scent of antiseptic. The distant, rhythmic beeping.

And a hand. Warm. Solid. Real.

Tommy’s fingers curled weakly.

The dream slipped away.

The next time he blinked, his eyes stayed open.

The world around him was too bright, the hum of machines too loud, the weight of his own body too heavy.

Before he could process anything, movement.

A nurse was at his side in seconds, calling for the doctor. Hands moved efficiently over him—checking his vitals, shining a light in his eyes, adjusting the IV. The doctor asked him questions, his voice distant, but Tommy barely registered them.

His body felt sluggish, slow to respond. But he was responding.

They said something about progress, about how he’d been unconscious for four days. About how they needed to monitor him a little longer.

Tommy barely nodded.

Because as soon as they finished their checks and stepped away, his gaze landed on him.

Evan.

There was something off about him, something different—but Tommy couldn’t quite place it. Not at first.

Then he did.

His shirt. A different one. Not the one he had been wearing—whenever that had been. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, just enough to be noticeable. And his eyes—red-rimmed, darkened with exhaustion.

Tommy’s voice came out weak, hoarse. “Y-you look different.”

Buck frowned, brows pinching slightly.

Tommy swallowed again, trying to find his words. “I… I saw you. You looked different.”

For a second, Buck’s expression was unreadable. Then, it softened. A flicker of understanding passed across his face.

“Oh.” His voice was quiet, gentle. “Well… you’ve been sleeping for four days, Tommy.”

Four days.

Tommy blinked, the weight of it settling over him.

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

A thought pushed through the fog, making his voice come out softer, smaller, almost hesitant. “Y-You stayed here for four days?”

Buck didn’t even hesitate. “Where else would I go?” His expression was steady, certain. “I needed to make sure you woke up, Tommy.”

Tommy swallowed, something pressing against his ribs, something warm and too much all at once.

Silence stretched between them, not heavy, just there. Something settled in the space between them, something unspoken but real.

Tommy licked his lips, then hesitated before speaking again.

“W-when we get back together…” His voice cracked, like it was something certain, something already decided.

He barely caught himself. “I-I mean—”

Buck cut him off, shaking his head. “Just get better, Tommy.” His lips curled into a soft smile. “Then we’ll talk.”

Tommy’s chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

But he nodded, sinking back against the pillow.

After a moment, he exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “But when we do… you have to make me pancakes for breakfast.”

Buck huffed a small laugh. “Sugar Tommy? at breakfast? I—you know what... of course.”

[imsogonesposts]

My Hero

|| ao3 || Finnick Odair masterlist || an: this kinda hurt to write ngl 😭 || requests are open !! ||

summary: Finnick Odair was known for playing hero. That’s why he was always saving you, both metaphorically, and physically. (5 times Finnick saves you, and one time you can’t save him) (wc: 4080)

warning: nightmares, canon typical violence, mention of blood, no happy ending, i think thats all

1.

You tried to calm your rapidly beating heart and your too-loud breaths as you woke up. You had had a nightmare, reliving the events of your Hunger Games from years ago. Except, somehow the memories were worse. Distorted to make what truly happened on those never-ending days into something more violent, more gory. 

You tried to ease yourself, not wanting to wake up the boy next to you, but the thing about Finnick Odair, was that he always seemed to know when something was wrong with you- even when he was asleep, it seemed. 

He turned in bed as you covered your mouth, attempting to stifle your heavy breathing. He wrapped an arm around your waist, lightly rubbing your side as he quietly, asked “you okay?” 

You stayed silent, trying to pretend you were asleep, but even half asleep, Finnick could tell that something was wrong. 

He softly whispered your name before repeating his earlier question, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you quietly replied as he sat up, using his arm to support his weight as he looked over you. 

He softly repeated your name again as you turned over to look at him. You imagined your eyes were stained red from crying, your hair was probably a mess too, but Finnick didn’t seem to mind. 

“Hey, what happened?” He asked a finger lightly tracing your arm. It was a comforting gesture, and right now, it was one of the only things helping to ground you. 

You’re not back in the arena, you’re home, in bed, with Finnick. The dream wasn’t real, this is.

“Bad dream,” you whisper as he frowns. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks as you shrug. 

“I was back in the arena,” you quietly reply. “But everything seemed worse. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Finnick instantly shakes his head no. “Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind. You know that,” he whispers, moving his hand from your arm to lightly cup your face, thumb lightly rubbing your cheek. “I never mind, I just like taking care of you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asks as you shrug. 

“Hold me?” You quietly ask as he nods. 

Finnick lowered himself to the bed as he pulled you atop him, your head on his chest, right over his beating heart. It was a calming sound, it always was, and his hand tracing up and down your back only added to the comfort he was trying to bring you. 

“I’d hold you forever if you wanted me to,” Finnick whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he continues to trace your spine with one hand, the other moving to play with your hair. 

2.

The TV was playing in the living room, but neither you nor Finnick were paying any attention to it. You were reading as Finnick laid in your lap, asleep, as Caesar Flickerman showed the citizens of the Capitol Katniss Everdeen’s wedding dress options. You prayed that when you and Finnick eventually got married, your wedding wouldn’t be nearly as publicized as the “star-crossed lovers of District 12’s” were. It would be nice to have something for yourselves for once. 

“That’s right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games and that means it’s time for our third Quarter Quell,” Caesar suddenly announced, pulling your attention away from your book, and onto the screen. Neither you nor Finnick were old enough to have witnessed a Quarter Quell before, but you had heard stories. Namely, what notto do- the stories of Haymitch Abernathy’s games and the consequences of his win had been told frequently as a cautionary tale, warning to not do anything too extreme to win your games, so long as you wanted your loved ones to live to see another day.

You watched as President Snow made his way across the stage, a boy dressed in white closely following behind him.

You knew that a Quarter Quell most likely meant more work for you and Finnick as victors, you knew that you wouldn’thave liked whatever cruel Quarter Quell idea the original game makers had come up with seventy-five years ago, but nothing could have prepared you for the words that left the president’s mouth. 

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”

You felt your blood turn cold as you looked at the sleeping figure atop you. Chances were, you and Finnick would be going into the arena again. Chances were, you would be going in together. And chances were, they wouldn’t let two tributes out of the arena again. 

“Finnick,” you whisper, lightly shaking his shoulder to wake him up. He smiled as he opened his eyes to be met with your face. You hated how quickly his smile dropped when he saw the look of concern etched across your own face. 

“Hey, hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” He asks, sitting up as he turns his body to face yours, his hands almost automatically reaching for yours. 

“They announced what would be happening for the next Quarter Quell,” you whispered, avoiding his gaze as you focused on the chipping paint on the wall beside the couch. Finnick had kept putting off repainting it, and now, who knew if you would ever get to see it fixed. 

He squeezed your hands as he noticed your refusal to meet his gaze. “That bad?” He jokes, panic instantly filling his body as he watched your eyes begin to water. “Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he whispered, gently taking your face in between in hands as he began wiping the tears of your face with his thumbs. “We’ll get through whatever it is, I promise.”

He was so sweet you could cry even more. You really didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but you had to tell him at some point. 

“Finnick,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“For the Quarter Quell,” you sniffle, “they’re gonna put two past victors back into the game.” You pause as you watch him think over your words. “They could send us back in,” you whisper, watching as his eyes narrow and shoulders gotense.

“What?” He questions as you nod. 

“I don’t want to go back,” you whisper. “I don’t want you to go back.”

He didn’t want that either. He didn’t want either of you to ever have to step through that arena again, he wouldn’t wish such a cruel fate to his worst enemy.

“I’ll figure something out,” Finnick whispers, pulling you into a hug as you cry into his shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he whispers, rubbing your back and pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’ll be okay.”

He wasn’t sure how true his words were, but as of right now, his main priority was calming you down and holding you, letting you cry it all out into his embrace. 

3.

The first thing you hear after sleeping in the arms of the man you love, is Katniss’s voice yelling “Run!” You could feel Finnick instantly tensing up, sitting up as if ready to fight an enemy, only to be met with a wall of fog. 

While it was obvious that neither you nor Finnick knew why you had to run from something as harmless as fog, Finnick still began pulling you up, pushing you ahead of him as the two of you ran away from the fog with Katniss and Peeta in tow. 

“What is it?” You heard Peeta ask. 

“Some kind of fog. Poisonous gas,” Katniss replied as you all continued running. 

You could feel the fog slowly catching up to you all as you began to feel a burning sensation in your body. It was on your arms, your legs, too many places for comfort. All the while, Finnick was yelling at the three of you to “keep moving.”

You had wanted to listen to him, you truly did, but slowly it began to feel as if the burning was doing much worse than causing some pain. It was targeting your nerves, making it close to impossible to run without stumbling and twitching.You had wanted to stop for a break, but Finnick had pushed you forward as he ran back towards Katniss and Peeta to help them, as Peeta could barely move due to his earlier injuries. 

You could barely feel anything but pain and worry as you fell down a hill, a few feet away from a body of water. Pain from the fog, and worry that Finnick might not have made it out of the fog, that he might have fallen there, and that you may have lost him forever. 

You wanted to thank every star in the night sky when you, weakly, lifted your head up to see Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta roll down the hill. All injured, but all alive. 

“Sweetheart?” Finnick, weakly, called out, lifting his head as much as he could to look for you. 

“I’m okay,” you replied. 

He let out a slight nod before laying his head down again, mumbling out a small “good.” 

You kept your gaze on him, watching as Katniss and Peeta carried him to the water. You would have been worried by the sounds of anguish coming from him if it weren’t obvious that the water helped with the poisonous gas, otherwise Katniss and Peeta wouldn’t be able to move as much as they were. 

“Hi, baby,” you hear after a few minutes, looking up to be met with Finnick’s warm smile. “I’m gonna take you to water and help fix you up, alright?” 

You weakly nod as he picks you up, carrying you to the water as he gently placed you in the water, waiting as you returned to your normal look. 

“Better?” He asked as you nodded. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, eyes going over his body looking for any signs of injury. “You definitely got the worst of it.”

Finnick shrugged with a smile as he tilted your chin to look up at him. “I’m okay because you’re okay,” he whispered before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

4.

You had been talking with Johanna when you had noticed Katniss running through the forest like a woman gone mad yelling one word, one name, over and over again. “Prim.” 

You ran after her, finally catching up to her as you watched her shoot a bird down, her shoulders still slightly tense. 

“Katniss?” You whisper, so as to not startle the girl. “Are you alright?” 

She nods at you, taking the arrow out of the bird as she wipes it clean. “I’m okay,” she replied. “I thought I heard my sister, but-“ 

A loud scream cuts her off. A scream that sounds like a voice you know all too well. 

“Finnick?” You yell, running into the forest, Katniss quickly following behind you. Finnick had been talking with Wirus, Beetee, and Peeta when you left. Had he gone chasing after you and ended up in danger? Did another past victor find him? One that wasn’t in the alliance?  Was he okay?

The screaming seemed to grow louder as you kept yelling out for him, and yet you couldn’t find him. It wasn’t until a bird fell on your feet that the screaming stopped. 

Oh, it wasn’t really him. And thank god for that. 

“It’s a jabber jay,” Katniss explains, “Finnick’s probably still okay, the Capitol’s just playing a trick on us. It’s not real.”

You pick up the bird with a shaky hand as you nod. Her reasoning made sense, it all made sense, you just had to calm yourself. 

Finnick was okay. He was okay, and you would both escape the arena together. Safe and sound. 

You nodded once more as another scream filled the forest. A deeper voice calling out for Katniss’s help. 

“Katniss, we have to go,” you tell her, pulling on her arm as you try to drag her away from the screaming jabber jays that began following the two of you. And with that, Finnick screaming for your help again. 

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. 

As you half drag, Katniss away from the birds, you finally catch sight of Johanna, Finnick, and Peeta waving at the two of you. Thank god he was okay. Finnick was shaking his head “no,” making an X symbol with his hands, Peeta and Johanna yelling at the two of you, though no words leaving their mouths. Strange, yes, but right now you just wanted to be held in Finnick’s arms as he assured you he was okay.

Katniss and you ran closer to them until you both suddenly ran into a wall, so transparent you couldn’t even see it. You both landed on the floor, looking up to see Finnick’s hand placed on the clear wall, mouthing the question “Are you okay?” You nodded “yes” even though your body ached from the impact of the wall. Johanna began hitting the wall with her ax, but it was obvious her attempts did little to damage it. You were stuck. At least until the hour was up. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, suddenly remembering the girl you were supposed to protect. Katniss nodded as she sat up, moving to closer face Peeta. 

You give Finnick a knowing smile, silently telling him, “see? I told you they were real.”

He only rolled his eyes in response, the hint of a smile tugging on his face before he winked at you. You swore you could get lost in his eyes.

That was, until, the jabber jays found Katniss and you. Slowly, one by one, they began sitting on nearby branches and rocks, before opening their mouths, screams pilling out. Some yelling for Katniss, some for you. You heard the voices of all that you loved: Finnick, your parents, your friends back home. 

You watch Katniss attempt to shoot the birds down, but you knew it was pointless. The game makers probably had anendless amount of jabber jays at their disposal. You wished you could help, but every second the voices seemed to onlygrow louder and louder. You covered your ears, closing your eyes, in hopes of blocking them out, yet that barely did anything. 

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

Finally, the hour passed, and Finnick kneeled beside you, rubbing your back to let you know he was there. 

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispers as you uncover your ears, finally opening your eyes to be met with his comforting green ones. 

“You’re okay?” You quietly ask. 

He nods. “I’m okay,” he tells you, hand still rubbing your back. “Are you okay?” He knows you’re probably not okay, he can see it in the way breathing, in the fear in your eyes, in the slight shaking of your body, but he wants to take things slow, he wants to help calm you down. 

You shrug at his question. “There were jabber jays,” you told him. “They sounded like you screaming, I thought something happened to you.”

He can feel part of his heartbreak at that as he slowly pulls you into a hug. “Oh, baby,” he whispers, kissing the top ofyour head. “I’m okay, I’m right here,” he begins rubbing your back again as you move your face into the crook of his neck. 

“I heard my parent too, Finnick,” you mumble against his neck. “And my friends back home…it was horrible.”

Finnick wished nothing more than the ability to take the pain away from you. To have been in your place instead so you wouldn’t have to go through such a thing. Or better yet, kill President Snow for ever helping with these games and foreverything he has ever put the two of you through. 

“They’re safe back home, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing the side of your head. “They always interview the family, I promise you your family is safe at home right now, okay?” 

You nod against him, letting his warm embrace calm you. 

5.

“Good morning,” you say, lightly shaking Finnick away from his nap. 

He only groans in response, mumbling something that sounded like “let me sleep.” 

You brush hair off his forehead with a laugh before whispering, “I’m sorry, but I need your help with something.” 

This time, he peeks an eye open, finally meeting your gaze. “Is everything alright?” He asks through a yawn, one of his hands moving to rub up and down your arm. 

You nod in response before replying, “there’s a spider in the corner of our room, can you get it out?”

Finnick can’t help but laugh, sitting up and taking in the small room you and Finnick have grown to call your own in District 13. It wasn’t much, you only had a nightstand, a bed barely big enough to fit the both of you, and a small shaky desk, but it was enough. You were safe with him, you were both out of the arena, away from President Snow, you were both married now, and that was more than enough for him. 

“You mean to tell me you won your Hunger Games, and you can’t manage to kill a spider?” Finnick asks with a laugh, wrapping an arm around your shoulder before pulling you in to press a kiss to the side of your head. 

“It’s not funny,” you grumble, leaning into his touch as he laughs again. 

“You’re right,” he mumbles, pressing another kiss to the side of your head before getting off the bed, “it’s hilarious.”

“It’s near the desk,” you inform him as he nods, ripping a blank page out of the notebook that sat on the desk, picking up a discarded cup, placing the cup over the spider, and sliding the paper under the cup. 

“Can you get the door, sweetheart?” He requests as you get up with a nod. 

He kisses your cheek as you hold the door open for him. “It feels like you’re always saving me,” you joke as he laughs with a nod. 

“I happen to like saving you,” he easily replies. “I can be your knight in shining armor,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and walking out of the room to discard of the spider. “And it makes me feel useful,” he calls out before you close the door with a laugh.

+1

It was a strange thing. One moment, you were holding hands with Finnick, him making jokes to ease your ever-growing nerves, you laughing along as if his attempts were working. Finnick wasn’t stupid, though, he knew his attempts to calm you weren’t working, but no matter how much he tried to convince you, you insisted that you had a strange feeling in your stomach. A bad feeling that something wasn’t going to work out right today.  

One moment, he was swinging your joint hands back and forth, the next the two of you and the rebels were running from the mutts chasing you all. The mutts who stood tall like humans, chasing you with their almost reptilian-like tails, their hollow dark eyes, and their razor-sharp teeth. You could still feel Finnick’s hand in yours as you ran to the main sewer.

If you were a more selfish person, a smarter person, you would have found a way to stay back at District 13, and with that, find a way to convince Finnick to stay with you. Say something like you wanted to have as close to a honeymoon with him as you could back in District 13. Back in your almost too-small-to-move room, back in your slightly worn-out bed. Back home, safe. Without having to see so many people who were part of the rebel group die such a cruel death. Nothing about this was fair. Not one bit. 

You would close your eyes, will all of this away to be just another bad dream as you wake up safe in Finnick’s warm arms again, but every time you close your eyes, you were reminded of those who lost their lives due to the rebellion. The rebellion that you wished more than anything would just end already. Boggs, Jackson, Leeg One.

You feel something, someone, push you towards a ladder as the smell of blood, and roses, and death fills your nostrils. 

“Climb,” you hear Finnick instruct as you nod your head. 

“Finnick-“

“Climb,” he repeated, his tone more stern. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise,” he says, pressing a quick, haste kiss to your lips as he pushes you towards the ladder again. “I’ll be there soon, baby,” he tells you, turning around to fight off more of the mutts with the trident Beetee had recently crafted for him. You barely register your hands pulling you up the ladder, nor the bottom of your shoes pressing against the ladder as you make your way up. 

One second, Finnick’s lips are on yours, the next, you're atop a platform, watching the rest of the rebels climb their way up, save for one. 

“Where’s Finnick?” You ask before you hear the sound of screaming. The sound of his screaming.

It was like you were in the area again, back with the jabber jays taunting you and Katniss with the screams of those that you loved. Only this time, it wasn’t a distorted audio. This time it was real.

“Finnick!” You yell, making your way back to the ladder. You had to help him, you had to save him. He’s done the same for you countless times. You had to help him, you had to-.

A pair of strong arms pull you back, holding you tight so you wouldn't be able to escape. You thrashed against the person, Finnick’s screams of pain only further motivating your escape as the person, Gale, tells you, “No, he’s not coming back up.”

You didn’t want to believe him. Right now, your heart was overpowering any rational thought as you tried to escape from Gale’s hold. You had to try, you couldn’t let Finnick die. Not like this. Not with so much pain. Not in the water. It may not be the ocean water that he loved so much, but it was water nonetheless. He can’t die, he couldn’t, but especially not in the place he had always considered to be like a second home to him. In the place that would help calm all his racing thoughts, the water which he had practically grown up in. It wasn’t fair, nothing about any of this was. It wasn’t fair that either of you had to enter the Hunger Games at such a young age, that either of you had to go through those horrid games again years later. It wasn’t fair what the Capitol put Finnick through, it wasn’t fair that now he was so far out of reach.

You watch Katniss take out the Holo from her belt, whispering the word “nightlock” three times before releasing it to the sewer. To the mutts. To Finnick. 

“Katniss no,” you choke out through a sob, but the explosion had already happened before you could finish your plea. That’s when Gale finally releases you, letting you sink to your knees, as your sobs overtake you. 

“We can’t stay here,” Katniss suddenly says. You feel Cressida come to your side, rubbing a hand up and down your back to soothe you. The same way Finnick used to. 

That’s when it hits you: you’d never get to feel his touch again. Never wake up in his arms, hear his voice, have him next to you as you both drift off to sleep, you'd never get to tell him you loved him again. You didn’t even get to say it againbefore climbing up the ladder. 

You barely register Katniss and Peeta’s argument as Cressida helps you up, leading you to god knows where. You were only half there mentally, though you doubted anyone could truly blame you. 

Finnick was gone. The weird feeling you had in your stomach was right, and in the most cruelest way possible too. 

“I didn’t even get to say bye,” you croak out through a sob as Cressida continues rubbing her hand up and down your back. Though, it would never bring the same comfort that Finnick’s actions used to. 

[salty-autistic-writer]

Bucktommy - in relief

Buck sits on a chair in a hospital hallway, bent forward, his hands clasped together and one knee bouncing restlessly, as he waits. His thoughts are racing, and he can’t make them stop. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go back to the moment everything was fine. Buck doesn’t want to think about what they might tell him.

He can’t do this. Not again.

“Hey,” Maddie comes back from her trip to the cafeteria, handing him a sandwich. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Buck mutters.

“I will save it for you then,” Maddie says, putting the sandwich into her bag. She sighs and sits beside Buck. “Any news?”

“Not yet.” Buck looks at her, and the worry in her eyes breaks his wall of pretended composure. “I can’t, Maddie. I can’t lose him. Not him. Not now. I can’t lose anyone else. I don’t know what to do. I …” He stops, shaking his head. Desperation is an abyss without a bottom, and he falls right into it.

“I know,” Maddie says, her eyes filling with tears. “Come here.”

She opens her arms for him, and Buck leans over, sinking into the embrace, closing his eyes.

He’s losing time. But eventually, steps approach them. Quick and determined. Buck sits up straight and tenses, feeling Maddie’s hand slipping into his. Please. Please …

Words. They make it through the fog of fear gradually. Words about complex surgery. About luck. About recovery.

Tommy isn’t dead. He is battered and bruised. But not dead.

A weight falls off Buck’s heart.

He finds himself standing beside Tommy’s bed, feeling a combination of relief thanks to the steady rise and fall of Tommy’s chest and horror at the state of Tommy’s body. Of course, he thinks, a helicopter crash can’t look pretty. Still. It’s hard to look at the almost black bruises, the bandages, and the casts.

Buck sits on the chair beside the bed and carefully takes Tommy’s hand. The one that’s not broken and forced straight with a splint.

One of Tommy’s eyes flutters open, revealing clouded blue.  “Ev …”

Relief rushes through Buck like a tidal wave. “I’m here,” he says, tears blurring his vision. He kisses Tommy’s lips and his cheek and his forehead and his hand, not able to stop himself, needing to feel that Tommy is alive, that this is real, that they are both still here.

“Ev,” Tommy breathes. “I had the strangest dream. Think. You were a bird.” He frowns. “I didn’t like it. Ouch. My toe hurts. What’s happening?”

Buck snorts, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, a disbelieving chuckle escaping his throat. “What happened is that you crashed your helicopter and landed in the hospital, high on painkillers. I’m going to call for a nurse now. And this better be a one-time event, because I can’t do this again, Tommy. I can’t … I was so worried. I thought I lost you.”

He kisses Tommy again, putting all his relief into it. Tommy hums and whispers, “Love. Cold lips. Get the honey.”

Yeah. He’s so out of it … Buck sighs and gets up to search for a nurse.

(AO3 Link)