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vibelladonna · 2 months ago

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✑ 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒻 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men have never met anyone like you—the calmest person they’ve ever encountered. No big deal. Your RBF makes it impossible to get a reaction, and they’re all baffled.

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

It’s honestly kind of impressive how you can make them work for every ounce of emotion. But they’ll admit—it’s also kind of refreshing. Your calm presence is like a buffer from the madness they’re used to, and they kind of love it… even if they’d never admit it out loud.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The Savior Who Can’t Save You from Chill

You don’t flinch. Ever.

That’s the first thing Crowe noticed. Not when the fire alarm went off. Not when Brittany tripped and spilled her entire iced mocha down your shirt. Not even when Geo elbowed you in the face while pushing Deryl back from eating his lunch.

Crowe made Deryl and Geo to at least sorry. You just blinked—slow, tired—and mumbled something like, “It’s fine.” And it bothers him.

Not because you’re rude. You’re not. You’re polite enough. Just… chill. Like emotionally bulletproof. And Crowe? Crowe’s used to people being a little shaky around him—he’s Crowe.

The prince is used to people reacting to him.

A smile, a blush, a flustered stammer when he offers to carry a book or holds the door. It’s not about ego—at least, he tells himself it’s not. It’s just the natural rhythm of things. Crowe moves with practiced ease, a calm kind of charisma that draws people in without ever asking for it. He doesn’t push, doesn’t brag. He just is—that rare mix of reliable and graceful, a warm presence in a chaotic world.

So when you walk through the door he’s holding open—without so much as a glance, much less a thank-you—he freezes. Literally stands there, hand still on the metal handle, blinking at the spot where you just were like someone paused his internal monologue. You don’t even slow your pace.

You just keep walking, headphones in, expression unreadable.

Like he’s the background and not the highlight.

He tries to brush it off. Maybe you didn’t notice him. Maybe you were late for class. Maybe—No. He watches people. He reads people. And you?

You’re a blank page.

The next morning is crisp—fall air slipping into campus with the kind of bite that turns breath to fog. Crowe finds you sitting on the edge of the outdoor fountain, legs crossed, absorbed in whatever cryptic thing is on your phone. Your sleeves are short, your fingers look cold, and the sunlight’s making your hair glow like it was painted there.

He walks up casually, jacket folded over one arm, pretending he hadn’t planned this down to the exact minute. “Cold?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, tone easy, eyes warm.

You glance at him, then at your own arms. One blink. Then two. “Nope.”

He stands there for a second, stunned by the sheer finality of the answer. No one has ever said no to him—to his kindness, beauty. No awkward fidgeting. No grateful smile. Just… denial and calm. “Right. Yeah. Just, uh…” He shifts on his heels, scratches the back of his neck. “Thought I’d ask.”

You nod and return to your phone, not unkind—just done with the interaction.

He walks away with the jacket still in hand and the gnawing suspicion that you’ve just bested him in a game he didn’t know he was playing.

A few days later, he sees you in the student café. Alone, as usual, tucked into the corner by the window, notebook open, pen tapping a steady rhythm that somehow keeps people away. He buys an extra muffin. Your favorite—your choice, the fancy one with the crumb topping. He knows you like it because he saw you buy it once.

‘Okay, maybe he noticed what time you usually get it, too. Shut up.’

“Hey,” he says, setting it gently on your table. “Messed up my order. Want it?”

You glance at the muffin. Then at him. Your stare is so flat it makes him briefly forget every word he’s ever known.

“You messed up your order?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “…No. I—yes. Yes, I did.”

You take it. Say, “Thanks.” No sarcasm, no side-eye. Just… neutral. You don’t smile. You don’t even blink like you’re amused. You just go back to your notes.

He walks away smiling anyway—because you took it. That’s progress, right?

He also dramatically dies inside. Just a little.

Few days afterwards, funny enough, you trip down the library stairs.

Crowe sees it happen across the atrium—he’s halfway to the reference desk when you misstep, the heel of your boot catching on the edge of the marble step. Time slows. Your notebook spirals out of your hands. Your bag swings wildly. A rogue water bottle rolls away like it’s been cast out of the narrative entirely.

You hit the ground in a quiet oof, knees first.

He’s already moving. Books left behind, he jogs to you, panic in his eyes and his brain screaming ‘Finally! Something happened!’

“You okay?!” he asks, crouching beside you, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid touching you might vaporize him.

You sit up calmly. Smooth down your clothes. Reach for the water bottle without flinching. “Yeah,” you say.

He blinks. “You sure? You kind of went airborne.”

You shrug. “Yup.”

He stares at you, speechless. There’s a faint red mark on your knee and you’re brushing it off like a leaf fell on you. “…Okay,” he finally mutters, watching you stand like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just face-planted in front of a fully stocked vending machine and half the second-year students.

You walk off with the same quiet grace you always have.

Crowe stands there a little longer than he should, holding your notebook because you forgot it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you wanted him to follow.

He hands it back to you in the hallway twenty minutes later.

You thank him with a slow blink. Nothing more.

That night, he’s flat on his back in bed, one arm over his forehead, staring up at the ceiling like it has the answers he needs.

“What are you?” he whispers, completely serious.

There’s no follow-up. No resolution. Just silence, and the distant sound of a campus raccoon raiding the trash cans below his window.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much. But he does.

You’re unreadable. Unshakeable. Like a test with no key. A poem with no ending. Everyone else clings to him like a lighthouse, but you? You are the storm. Controlled. Contained. A force all your own.

And the worst part?

He kind of wants to stand in the rain a little longer.

The next day, you're on the quad. Legs crossed in the grass. Back to a tree. Book in hand. One headphone in, the universal signal for do not engage unless you're bleeding out or on fire.

Naturally, Crowe takes this as a personal invitation.

You hear his steps before you see him—those calculated, almost-too-casual footfalls of someone pretending they’re not rehearsing what to say. He halts a few feet away, and for a second, just... looms.

You don’t look up. Yet.

He shoves his hands in pants pockets, scuffs his dress shoes against the grass like a boy with a crush, and clears his throat. “You’re really hard to read, you know that?”

You glance up from the page, face blank. Not annoyed, not curious. Just blank like always. “Thanks.”

His brows knit. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

You nod once, slow and deliberate. “Still sounds like one.”

Crowe’s mouth opens—closes—then opens again like his brain’s buffering. Poor thing. Still booting up. Finally, with all the drama of a Shakespearean side character, he exhales and drops beside you in the grass without being invited. Arms crossed. Shoulders tight. Like sitting near you is some kind of emotional workout. Such dramaticness. You can practically hear the mental soundtrack playing behind those eyes.

“So here’s the thing,” he begins, clearly rehearsed. “I’m usually pretty good with people. Not in, like, a manipulative way—well, okay, sometimes, but only with people who deserve it. Our frined group, mostly. But I get people. I can tell when they’re lying, or stressed, or hiding something.”

You don’t look up from your book, but one eyebrow rises like a drawbridge.

Encouraged, he keeps going. “But you? You’re just... I don’t know. Blank. Stoic. Like a final boss I don’t have the right weapon for. I’ve tried friendliness, food, mild acts of chivalry—”

“Your jacket smelled like blueberry cologne,” you say, suddenly and flatly.

Crowe freezes. “...What?”

You finally look up. Deadpan. “That’s what you offered. When you asked if I was cold. It smelled like you.”

“Oh.” His voice cracks. “You... noticed that?”

You blink. “You’re not exactly subtle. You hovered like a fruit-scented ghost.”

He looks like you shot him through the heart with a Nerf gun laced with pheromones. “I—I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Mhm.” You close your book slowly, deliberately. “It’s sweet. Really.”

Then, almost too casual, you add, “Though I wasn’t sure if smelling like you all day was part of the offer.”

Crowe chokes on absolutely nothing. His ears go pink. “W-what?! I mean—only if you want to smell like me. Not that—I mean—if that’s a bad thing, you don’t have to, obviously, I just—”

You reach over and tap his cheek. Not a slap. Not even a pat. Just... tap. Enough to fluster. Enough to win. He goes still like prey spotting a predator with killer eyeliner and a book collection.

“You’re cute when you malfunction,” you say simply, standing. “Anyway. Class.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, step over his legs like he’s just part of the scenery now, and pause only once, glancing down with the faintest glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

“Oh. And Crowe?”

He blinks up at you, dazed.

“If I ever want your jacket again…” You let the silence draw long. Too long. Then: “...I’ll let you spritz it first.”

And with that, you walk off like you didn’t just fry every circuit in his brain.

Behind you, Crowe is still sitting in the grass, blinking at the space you left behind, probably questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

And for now? That’s enough.

I genuinely had no idea where I was going with Crowe’s part—but it accidentally became hilarious. He was supposed to have you wrapped around his finger, and somehow he ended up being the one simping. Iconic reversal, really.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The Poor Emo didn’t know what to do with you.

Sol remembers the first time he saw you in art class like it was a dream that never ended. You were already there when he walked in—seated in the back corner, half-hidden by your sketchpad and an expression so unbothered it might’ve been carved from marble.

It was as if you’d always existed in that exact spot, like some cryptid of academia, and he had just stumbled into your domain. His brushes clattered to the floor the second he saw you.

"Cool, cool," he muttered under his breath, "starting strong."

You didn’t even glance up.

He didn’t flinch when he knelt to retrieve his things, and he promptly slammed his forehead into the underside of the table with a loud thunk.

Didn’t blink when he whispered a pained “Ow. I meant to do that.”

And when he finally slid into the empty seat beside you, limbs too long and heart already sprinting, you barely tilted your head.

“...Hey,” he tried, voice cracking. “I’m Sol. Short for Soulmate, probably.”

You gave him a slow blink, as if rebooting.

He laughed nervously. “Kidding. It’s just Sol. Though, I mean—who knows what the future holds, right?”

You said nothing. Instead, you turned a page in your sketchbook with surgical precision and kept drawing. Like he was background noise. Like he was the weird one for assuming the laws of social interaction applied here.

Sol, naturally, took that as encouragement.

He tried to charm you the only way he knew how—through relentless talking and spiraling oversharing. Romantic poets, brushstroke theory, historical anecdotes, the emotional symbolism of color palettes—anything and everything to fill the void.

“So, uh—fun fact—did you know Lord Byron kept a pet bear in college because dogs weren’t allowed?”

You looked up for half a second. “That’s illegal.”

“I know, right? It’s also... kinda iconic.”

You returned to your sketch like nothing happened. He kept going.

“Anyway, I was thinking... blue tones are, like, emotionally repressive, but not in a bad way? Like melancholy chic. Y’know? No? Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. Normal people definitely rehearse conversations in their heads and still crash them in real time.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t scoff. You just nodded once—slowly, deliberately—as if approving a particularly decent worm trying its best to be a butterfly.

Sol nearly combusted.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t play along, didn’t mirror his awkward charm, didn’t even glance at him unless it was absolutely necessary.

But then he noticed. You didn’t leave.

You let him sit there, let him talk, let him trip over every thought and still never pushed him away. It wasn't indifference—it was something else. Something slower. He caught you looking once. Just once. Your gaze flicked over him like a scalpel, sharp and calculating.

You weren’t ignoring him. You were... assessing him.

And that terrified him. And thrilled him.

Because for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, stitched together with caffeine and nerves—you were gravity. You were the calm his chaos gravitated toward. A steady, unmovable center that refused to be shaken.

Which made you dangerous.

And Sol? Sol loved dangerous.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t laugh at his jokes, didn’t meet his red-orange eyes, didn’t play along with his awkward charm. But you also didn’t leave. And that confused him more than anything.

Because eventually he noticed: your calm wasn't cold. It was steady. You were steady. Unbothered. A lighthouse in the middle of whatever storm he happened to be caught in. And for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, soft-hearted and always bleeding ink—that steadiness became addictive.

It wasn't long before the little things started to gnaw at him, quietly, persistently. The way you never seemed to notice how he always positioned himself near you, how his eyes would linger just a little too long on the curve of your jaw or the delicate way your fingers worked the charcoal. The way you would retreat into your own world, perfectly content in your silence, while his thoughts spun in circles around you.

The worst part? He wanted you to notice him.

To acknowledge him. To demand more of him than the fragmented attention he gave everyone else. But you never did. And it made him want you more.

He didn’t want to spook you. No, he couldn’t. You were... perfect in your distance. But the more he watched, the more he needed to know what made you tick. What would break that serene surface. The more you ignored him, the more desperate he became to make you see him. To make you need him, even if it was only for a second.

At first, he just followed you.

Secretly, of course. It wasn’t stalking—he told himself. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t lurking in shadows with binoculars and a notebook (not yet anyway). It was more like… research. Observation. Field study. Like watching a rare animal in the wild—beautiful, elusive, unknowable.

Sol liked the idea that you existed beyond the confines of art class. That you had habits. Routines. Favorite vending machines and preferred park benches. He liked that you always ordered the same thing from the café but never stayed long. That you read with your headphones in but never played music loud enough for anyone to hear. He liked that you existed without explanation.

And when he saw you outside of class, his heart stuttered like a broken metronome. It wasn’t on purpose, not really. You just happened to be there. The bookstore near the station. The flower shop on 9th. The rooftop of the humanities building that was technically off-limits—technically.

If he ended up at the same places too often? Coincidence. If he lingered longer after you left, just to breathe the same air a few more seconds? Sentimentalism. If he started learning your routes by memory and adjusting his own schedule accordingly? Efficiency. Obviously.

It wasn’t stalking if the universe kept putting you in his path, right?

Funny enough, you never confronted him. Never called him out. You just... let it happen. Like the background hum of a streetlight—acknowledged but ignored. He’d sit a few seats behind you on the train. Enter the café ten minutes after you. Browse the same shelves, always three paces behind. Watching you exist in your natural, quiet way, all controlled expressions and slow blinks.

You didn’t hide yourself, but you didn’t invite him either.

You just… let him orbit. And for a while, that was enough.

Until one day, when you sat at your usual café table, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon, sipping your overpriced tea and flipping pages like time didn’t exist—you spoke.

Without looking up. Without pausing your reading.

Just a casual, flat, clinical: “Are you following me?”

Sol’s soul left his body.

He short-circuited so hard he nearly dropped the biscotti he had dramatically not ordered because you didn’t order food either. Panic. Internal screaming. A brief debate about faking his own death and moving to another continent.

But then—then—you looked at him. Really looked at him.

And it was worse than if you’d glared. Because you weren’t angry. Or surprised. Or even remotely scared. You were just… curious. Calm. Like someone noticing the weather had shifted. Your eyes, unreadable as always, flicked over him like you were mentally cataloging a strange insect that had landed on your table.

Not threatening. Not interesting. Just there.

He swallowed. Hard.

And Sol smiled. That awkward, nervous sort of grin people wear when they’ve already been caught but want to pretend they haven’t.

“Wh—what? Me? Following? No. Nooo. I mean… maybe. In a very casual, non-criminal way. Like a—like a background character! Like a pigeon! Not a creepy pigeon. A chill pigeon. You know?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned the page of your book with a slow, deliberate grace and sipped your tea like he was nothing more than background noise.

“Well,” you said without looking at him, voice as flat and unaffected as ever, “as long as you don’t kidnap me, I don’t care.”

Sol blinked. The world stilled.

You never looked back at him again.

And that—that—was the moment he truly lost it. Fell for you in a way that was all-consuming. Rabid.

You knew. You always knew.

And you let him follow anyway.

The first time you invited Sol over, it wasn’t a declaration—it wasn’t even an event. It was casual. Offhand. “I’ve got some books you might like. Come by. Bring tea.” You didn’t ask. You instructed. And of course, he came. Eager. Polished. Carrying your favorite tea—of course he knew what it was. He knew everything.

You greeted him like he was just another parcel at your door. Unwrapping nothing. Revealing nothing. Your apartment was neat, quiet. Like you. Sparse color. Dim lighting. Shadows where light should be. He liked it. Too much.

He sat on the floor beside your low table, sketchbook on his knee, eyes flicking to you over the edge of his pencil. You read, as always—expression unreadable, fingers trailing over pages as though the words whispered only for you.

He wanted to interrupt it.

He wanted to destroy the calm you wore like armor. Wanted to know if you'd tremble. If you'd crack. If you'd shatter the way he had. But you didn’t.

You stayed composed. Mute. Unbothered by his fidgeting, his glances, the way his leg bounced and his pupils tracked your every move.

You were halfway through unpacking the books when the buzzer went off.

“Food’s here,” you said, glancing at the intercom, voice devoid of urgency.

Sol looked up from his spot on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knee. “Want me to get it?”

You shook your head, already moving toward the door. “Nah. Just make the tea, will you? The kettle’s already hot.”

He nodded a little too quickly. “Of course.”

And you were gone.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted. He stood slowly, eyes scanning the room before drifting toward the kitchen.

Your favorite blend sat prepped beside the stove—chamomile and lavender, faintly sweet, soothing.

The kind of flavor you described once as "a bedtime story in a cup."

He liked that. He remembered everything.

As steam curled from the pot, Sol reached into his coat pocket.

A small pill. Clear. Colorless. Nearly tasteless, from what he’d read. Not dangerous in small doses—just enough to make you drowsy. Vulnerable. Pliable.

He didn’t think you’d notice.

You never really seemed to notice anything when it came to him. And that was the problem. So maybe… maybe that’s when he decided. When the tea had steeped enough, he poured it into two identical tea cups. No patterns, no labels—just plain white porcelain. Clean. Deceptive. He added the drops carefully. Stirred it into your cup. The one he set on the right side of the tray.

A gentle burn of guilt flickered in his chest. But it was drowned out by something stronger. Desperation. Longing. The unbearable weight of wanting to be seen by you.

Really seen.

By the time you returned, balancing a brown takeout bag and two sets of chopsticks, he was already setting the cups down on the coffee table with practiced ease.

“Perfect timing,” he said, too brightly.

You set the food down without comment and moved to sit across from him again. He handed you the right cup. Your fingers brushed the ceramic. Held it, warm and fragrant in your hands.

Then your gaze lifted—sharp, steady—and settled on him.

“Can you grab the sugar?” you asked. Calm. Flat. Polite.

His heart skipped. “Yeah. Sure,” he said, standing immediately. Maybe too quickly. Anything for you. Always. He turned his back.

And that was all it took.

With a quiet grace, you reached out. Switched the cups. Left no trace.

By the time Sol returned, humming to himself with the sugar container in hand, your expression hadn’t changed.

You waited until he’d settled in again. Until he reached for his cup. Then, almost imperceptibly, you smiled. Just a fraction. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The kind that made people nervous, but never sure why.

Sol didn’t notice. Not yet.

He raised the cup to his lips with a soft, content sigh.

And you watched him drink. Watched the trap close. Quiet. Patient. Pleased.

When Sol stirred, the world was soft edges and slow motion. His body refused to move properly—his muscles limp, joints heavy, vision slightly blurred. The warmth beneath him was too much, like he was wrapped in a blanket of heat and confusion. A strange fog clung to his thoughts.

Then he noticed it. The weight. The presence.

You were on top of him.

Straddled across his lap, your posture impeccable, knees pressed firmly into the rug on either side of his hips. Hands folded loosely in your lap like you were meditating. Poised. Balanced. At peace.

You weren’t holding him down. You weren’t holding anything.

You didn’t need to.

He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his mind, but you were already watching him. Quiet. Unmoving. Eyes sharp, yet unreadable.

“You tried to drug me,” you said, like someone pointing out a slight crack in the ceiling. No judgment. No emotion. Just fact.

Sol's lips parted. His tongue was thick, uncooperative. “I—I didn’t mean— That is, I just thought—” His words stumbled over each other, messy and frantic, so at odds with the stillness in your gaze.

You tilted your head, studying him. Like a curious observer watching a small, clumsy animal. “Shh,” you said. Calm. Not unkind. “Don’t ruin it with excuses.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat catching like a rock.

You leaned forward just slightly—close enough that your perfume ghosted over his skin. Layered over something far more sinister. “Poor thing,” you murmured, voice so low it barely touched the air. “Didn’t think I’d notice?”

Sol tried again, slower this time. “I just wanted… I didn’t think it would hurt you. I swear—”

“I know,” you said simply. Your fingers brushed over his collar, then his cheek. So gentle it almost felt affectionate. Almost.

“But you still made a choice,” you continued. “So now I’m making mine.”

Your smile came slowly. Soft. Serene. The kind that made his blood turn to static. “I’m just getting my lick back, Sol.”

His breath hitched as your fingertips traced the curve of his jaw, as if testing the edges of what he feared... or maybe craved.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you asked, voice almost dreamy. “To be close. To be vulnerable. To be mine.”

And he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only watch as you leaned in again, the world shrinking until it was just you and him and the unbearable calm in your voice.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you whispered, brushing your lips—not against his—but to the shell of his ear. “Otherwise I’d be far less polite about all this.”

You pulled back, still smiling.

Sol didn’t know whether to beg for forgiveness or thank you.

But you just sat there. Composed. In control. Right where you wanted to be. Right where he had wanted you. And he finally understood the difference between possession and surrender.

You weren’t his. But he was already yours.

I’m sorry, I just love bullying Sol like the tragic man he is. Can’t help it~

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Oh my, the archer respected you right away. That alone was rare.

Understand, Geo was used to attention. Unwanted, exhausting, meaningless attention. People asked him out the way someone might bid on a luxury item they didn’t understand—coveting the surface, clueless about the weight beneath it.

Women giggled in hallways, brushing too close. Men winked with performative bravado. Some were subtle, some were bold, but they all had the same shallow hunger in their eyes. Then eveyone else is mixed between.

They liked his face. His body. His money. His aim.

Not one of them knew him.

He despised it. The fakeness of it. The repetition. It was all noise—loud, grating, and hollow. So when Crowe called him over one day between training sessions, saying, “Geo, come meet someone,” he braced for it. Another admirer. Another forced smile. Another waste of time.

You stood beside Crowe, arms loose at your sides, expression unreadable. Calm. Still.

Geo sized you up immediately. Pretty, sure—but too composed. Too… unaffected. You didn’t look impressed. Or nervous. You didn’t even blink when his gaze met yours. Crowe said your name. You didn’t offer a hand. You just looked at him. Right at him. And held the stare. Then few seconds passed. Then another.

Geo’s jaw flexed, something twitching behind his eye. He tried to decipher your expression, but there was nothing to grab onto. Not curiosity. Not admiration. Not even intimidation. Just silence. And it unnerved him.

No one ever looked at him like that—not without wanting something.

He scoffed, soft and sharp, looking away as if dismissing you. But his neck was warm. His ears burned. He hadn’t meant to look away first.

Something about the way your eyes tracked him made his skin feel too tight. He didn’t like it. He did. And later—much later—he would admit to himself that was the moment everything shifted.

Because you didn’t want him.

You didn’t fear him. You didn’t need him. You saw him.

And for someone like Geo—guarded, solitary, used to being worshipped or avoided—being seen was far more dangerous. And far more addictive.

It started small.

Inconspicuous, even. Geo didn’t linger. Geo never lingered.

He was the type to enter a room with intention, finish his task, and leave before anyone could start a conversation. Precision wasn’t just part of his archery; it was baked into how he lived. Efficient. Unbothered. Remote. Until you.

It wasn’t conscious, not at first. Just… a coincidence. You were always sitting in that same spot in the library—top floor, back left corner, beneath the wide window that filtered in light shine across your notes. Head down, earbuds in, eyes glazed.

Studying, probably. Or maybe somewhere far away inside your mind.

He didn’t mean to stop. Didn’t mean to sit at the table across from you. Or choose the one chair that let him steal glances between pages of his book. But something about the stillness around you... it was magnetic. Anchoring.

So he stayed.

And then he did it again the next day. And the next.

Eventually, it became a habit. Geo would finish training, towel off the sweat, toss his bag over his shoulder—and without fail, his feet would carry him to you. Even if just for ten minutes. Even if he only got to watch you scribble something he’d never ask about.

He told himself he liked the silence. That it helped him focus.

But the truth? He liked you in the silence. The way you didn’t flinch when he sat down. The way your body didn’t shift away like most did. You didn’t shrink, didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fill the void between you. You just let it be.

That was dangerous. Addictive. Peaceful.

And infuriating.

Because then he started noticing things. Stupid things.

Like how you always twisted the end of your hair when you were stuck. Or how you would space out so intensely that you once walked directly into a vending machine and apologized to it under your breath.

You bumped into desks. Into door frames. Into people.

It drove Geo insane.

You moved through life like your body was a vessel and your mind existed somewhere else entirely. It was careless. Vulnerable. A target. He hated that. Hated the way it made his pulse spike. So, naturally, he started walking near you more often. Not that you noticed—your earbuds were usually in, your gaze faraway—but his presence was always there.

One step behind.

He caught your elbow once when you tripped on a stair.

“Careful,” he muttered, more irritated than concerned. “There’s gravity here.”

You just blinked up at him, calm as ever. “Is there?” What.

He didn’t let go immediately. Crowe noticed it long before Geo even began to suspect anything was wrong. At first, he found it hilarious. Geo? Following someone around like a stray cat? That was new. The same Geo who scoffed at relationships, rolled his eyes at gossip, and couldn’t care less about anyone unless they were useful in a fight or debate?

That Geo was now orbiting someone like a moon pulled out of alignment.

It was cute. Weirdly so.

But the humor faded fast. Because the more Crowe watched, the more it stopped looking like a crush and started looking like a problem. Geo’s eyes didn’t just glance your way anymore. They locked. Tracked. Focused with a strange intensity that made Crowe’s instincts bristle. Not necessarily dangerous—just… alert. Hyper-aware.

Like Geo was cataloging every movement, every interaction, every person who dared get too close.

And then there was the way his jaw tightened when your name came up in conversation. Or how his hand twitched—barely, but noticeably—when someone else laughed a little too loud in your direction. Like he was waiting for a reason to react. For someone to slip up.

That was when Crowe decided to poke the wolf.

“You know you’re acting weird, right?” he said casually one day after class, swinging his bag over one shoulder. “Like. Weird weird. Not your usual 'grumpy hermit' thing. This is new.”

Geo didn’t even glance at him. He was crouched on the bench, methodically tying the laces on his shoes.“No, I’m not.”

Crowe snorted. “Uhh, you nearly bit Deryl’s head off for being near them.”

Geo rose slowly, controlled, like a storm carefully leashing itself. “He nearly knocked them over.”

“He was trying to say hi,” Crowe said, squinting at him. “And he didn’t even touch them. Like, at all.”

Geo didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence said plenty.

Crowe’s grin spread slowly, wicked and knowing. “So. You like them.”

Geo froze, just for a second. His neck snap over to Crowe and voice was flat, expression unreadable. “I don’t like anyone.”

“That’s what makes this even better,” Crowe said, unable to contain his amusement. “They’ve got you spiraling and you don’t even know what to do with it.”

Geo turned his back, brushing past him with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for people who wasted his time.

But Crowe wasn’t fooled. Not even a little.

Because just before he walked away, he caught it—the faint flush blooming at the tips of Geo’s ears, stark and obvious against his pale skin.

The worst part for Geo wasn’t the pull. He was used to craving things he couldn’t have—control, stillness, clarity. No, the worst part was the ambiguity.

You were an enigma wrapped in casual disinterest.

You didn’t flirt. Didn’t fawn. You didn’t even acknowledge him half the time beyond the most basic courtesy. Your resting face didn’t help, either—expression calm, eyes detached, a soft fog of disinterest hanging around you like armor. Mysterious. Unreadable. Infuriating.

Geo hated not knowing where he stood.

Were you amused? Bored? Annoyed?Did you even see him, or was he just background noise in your day? He found himself replaying your replies, your glances—every small, forgettable exchange, searching for meaning where there might be none.

Did you like what he said about black cats? Did you roll your eyes when he walked away, or did you watch him leave? Did you think about him when he wasn’t there?

He hated how much he wanted to know.

Because Geo didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do longing. But with you?

He was starting to feel like he might drown in it.

Like, funny thing was—Geo wasn’t much of a talker. Not when it didn’t serve a purpose. Silence was usually his shield, his comfort.

But lately? He’d started talking more—like the dumbest shit to juat to see what you was gonna say about it. Nothing strategy or academics or anything remotely useful. Just... pointless things. Nervous things. Words spilled out not because they mattered, but because you did. And he was trying—fumbling, really—to get past the fortress you kept around your thoughts.

“You ever notice how people walk faster in the rain, even if it’s barely drizzling?”

You didn’t look up from your notebook. “Probably evolutionary instinct.”

He blinked. “...Right. I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t.

But he’d take it. Another time: “Do you think red ink makes teachers angrier?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. It bleeds more.”

He nodded slowly, even though the comment made his brain short-circuit a little. What the fuckk is he asking you? Bleeds more? He didn’t ask. He kind of didn’t want to know. And his personal favorite, said too quickly, too quietly: “Was I annoying just now?”

This time you looked at him. Neutral. Calm. Unblinking. “No. You’re fine.”

That did something to him. Something he didn’t want to name.

You never gave him more than you had to. No fluff. No fake smiles. But never less, either. Just enough. Just barelyenough to keep him coming back like a moth to a flame that might not want him.

“Keep talking, please.”

Three words. He spiraled over them for a week.

See, Geo didn’t do spiraling. He did logic. Discipline. Controlled environments. A life outlined in clean margins. He liked structure. He liked precision. He liked potted plants—orderly things in orderly containers. They lined his dorm windowsill like little green sentinels, trimmed and watered to perfection.

He liked the haunting calm of Japanese opera humming low through his headphones as he read over tactical reports or fine-tuned his form. He liked watching old shadow puppet performances on mute, the flickering silhouettes clean and exact, silent and sharp like the arrows in his quiver.

He liked peace.

But you?

You were none of those things. You unsettled him.

He didn’t know how to contain you in a sentence, a system, a pot.

And ever since that day—those three words—you began to echo in the quiet parts of his mind, uninvited and unrelenting.

He’d hear your voice while practicing archery, in the stillness before the release. Soft. Measured. Your tone settled behind his ribs like a smooth stone—cool, balanced, a weight that grounded and unsettled him all at once. He became addicted to that calm you carried like a second skin.

To the subtle way you dissected the world without urgency, like nothing could touch you. The way you never reached for him, yet never pushed him away either.

And when you did break that quiet mask?

When your lips curled into a faint smirk that felt like a secret being let slip— When you laughed, once, just once, at something ridiculous he’d said about vending machines or Crowe’s lack of subtlety or Sol’s refusal to sleep indoors like a normal person—

It ruined him.

He replayed it in his head like a crime scene. Where had it come from? What variable had changed? Was it the way he tilted his head? The exact phrasing? The timing? Could he reconstruct it? Could he make it happen again?

He didn’t tell anyone.

Not Daryl, who would tease. Not even Crowe, who might see too much too quickly and laugh like it was some thrilling scandal. Because the truth was ugly. Brutal. Simple. Geo didn’t just want your silence anymore.

He wanted your secrets. Your thoughts. Your time.

He wanted to sit so close the silence became yours together. He wanted to take up your focus and hold it hostage. He wanted to know how your mind worked the same way he studied arrow velocity and wind resistance—perfectly.

Geo wanted you.

Not in the loud, possessive way others chased things. No. He wanted you quietly—in that same private, reverent way you gave yourself to the world. Careful. Restrained. Deliberate. Like a rare artifact locked behind glass.

So when he invited you out one night, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t broadcast. Not even Crowe knew—not that Geo would’ve tolerated his commentary anyway. It was a simple text. Blunt, brief.

Geo: Come with me tonight. Dress nice.

That was it.

No time. No place. No explanation. Just enough to be intriguing. Just enough to make you pause. He didn’t call it a date. Of course he didn’t.

But he also wore a tailored jacket. Charcoal black, sharp-cut, the collar slightly popped like he didn’t mean for it to be perfect—but it was. He’d tied his hair back, neat and minimal, not a strand out of place. His usual scowl had softened into something unreadable.

You’d stared for a second longer than you meant to. He didn’t comment.

And still—you couldn’t tell if it was a date.

He’d met you at the corner of campus, where the streetlights flickered like tired fireflies and the buildings loomed like sleeping giants. He didn’t offer an arm. He didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t try to impress you with flashy words or flattery.

Instead, he walked beside you, kept you inner part of the sidewalk, not in front or behind, just with you. Matching your pace. Occasionally watching your expression when you weren’t looking.

He took you to an fancy japanese rooftop restauranrt, tucked above a quiet alley, hidden between a used bookstore and a forgotten tailor’s shop. No signs. No crowd. Just a view of the city at night, stretched out like ink and gold under the stars.

Soft lanterns swayed above the terrace. Warm tea was already waiting—he’d ordered your favorite without asking. A delicate dish of fruit and sweets sat between you, untouched for the first ten minutes because neither of you moved to break the stillness.

He didn’t say much at first. Just sat there.

Watching the skyline. Listening to the quiet.

You looked at him. He was watching the reflection of candlelight flicker in your eyes like he was studying the shape of a constellation.

He finally spoke. "You like places like this, right?"

You didn’t respond right away. You were still trying to name whatever this was—whatever this night had become. The silence hung between you, but not like a weight. With Geo, it never was. It was just... present.

Like fog rolling through the brain. Your mind, meanwhile, was lost.

‘Was this a date? Or just an oddly elegant detour?’

Still staring out over the rooftop railing, you let the city lights flicker against your skin a moment longer before murmuring, “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t look at you, but you saw it—the tiniest shift in his posture. The corner of his mouth curled upward, barely. Not a smile, not exactly. More like a fleeting trace of relief that never made it all the way to his eyes.

Soon afterwards, through the winding streets, the silence followed like an old companion. Not awkward. Just... comfortable. Familiar. Geo mentioed of driving you back to your place, so you and him were walking back to his car, it was short walk however it felt long.

You walked beside him in step. Always in step.

Geo moved like he choreographed his whole life. Every step nice. Hands in his pockets, posture too perfect, like even his slouch was planned. His coat flared slightly behind him, catching wind every now and then, a reminder of how damn dramatic he looked against the streetlights.

You glanced sideways, smirking. “You always this extra when going outside? Rooftop café, city view, candlelight? The only thing missing was a violinist….”

He kept his eyes forward, but his brow twitched—barely.

You’d caught him.

“It wasn’t a date.”

You tilted your head, playful. “Didn’t say it was.”

There it was. The silence again.

Tighter this time, stretched like elastic between you.

Without breaking stride, you leaned in and bumped your elbow into his ribs. Just enough to annoy. “But if it was, that jacket makes sense now. You looked like you were gonna propose. Or sword fight a man at dawn for my honor.”

“I liked the jacket,” he replied, flat and unimpressed, like he was reading from a cue card.

You whistled low. “I liked it too. Didn’t know you owned fancy clothes.”

That earned you a sideways glare—sharper than the last, but still not a full reaction. You pressed in anyway. “I mean, no offense, Geo, but you dress like a confused colorful grunge most days. You wore a purple hoodie last week. With fishnet tights. Under skinny jeans. With dress shoes. Like what the hell is your aesthetic? Sexy haunted thrift store?”

He actually scoffed this time. His mouth twitched again, fighting something. Probably the urge to shove you into traffic. Probably also trying not to laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice dry as winter air.

“Only a little,” you said, grinning now, riding the high of his mild irritation.

You walked backward for a few steps, facing him with your hands tucked behind your back, head tilted like you were studying a painting in a gallery. “Be honest—were you gonna kiss me if I leaned in tonight?”

Geo didn’t miss a secoud in his stride, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him—they tensed, just enough for you to notice. “No.”

Your grin stretched, slow and wide. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said again, but this time the word dragged out like it didn’t want to exist. Strained. Delayed. Like his mouth and brain were syncing on dial-up.

That did it—you burst out laughing. Not a small laugh. Not one you tried to hide. A full, loud, unapologetic laugh that echoed down the quiet street like a spark caught in wind.

Geo muttered something under his breath, barely audible.

“What was that?” you asked, gleefully stepping back into stride beside him.

“I said—” he exhaled like it physically pained him to say it aloud, “—you must know, deep in that ridiculous brain of yours, I don’t do that.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes before looking back at him. “Geo, love, I do know that. But it’s so much fun watching you glitch.”

“I don’t glitch.”

“Oh, you glitched. So hard. When I mentioned kissing you, I saw the lag. It was glorious.”

He rolled his eyes, and you could practically hear the disdain layered in it. “It’s not the idea of kissing. It’s you making it a joke.”

You sidled closer, still wearing that faux-pout.

“Aw, so you have thought about it?”

His gaze flicked away like a reflex. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you secretly love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he muttered.

You bumped your shoulder against his, light and warm. “That’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.

Instead, your hands brushed again, like they had been doing on and off all night. This time, instead of letting it pass, you turned your palm and slipped your fingers through his—casual, but not careless. The contact was feather-light at first, like you were giving him the choice to pull away.

He didn’t.

His hand stayed in yours, fingers tense at first, then slowly easing. The contact was simple. Small. But it shifted something in the air between you—gentler now. Still charged, still chaotic, but quieter. Softer. More certain.

You walked the rest of the path like that—side by side, your fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world. The teasing faded, but the quiet wasn’t empty. It was warm, like the last bit of sunlight before dusk slips away. It hummed with everything you didn’t say aloud, but both of you felt anyway.

Geo’s hand was steady in yours, but there was a slight tremble you didn’t miss. And when you glanced sideways, you caught it—just the faintest hint of color blooming across his cheeks, high and soft and so very real. Not from embarrassment. Not from discomfort.

But from you.

He wasn’t flustered because of the idea of love or attraction in the usual way. That wasn’t how he operated, and you knew that—respected it like sacred ground. He wasn’t the type to fall headfirst. He was cautious, calculated. Guarded.

But somehow, you’d still gotten in.

Not by breaking down his walls, but by curling up inside the quiet spaces he never thought to defend. You didn’t just sneak past his boundaries—you rewrote the map. You made your way into his world, not like an invader, but like a constant. A presence he hadn’t realized he’d always needed.

Maybe he wouldn’t ever whisper flowery confessions or write you sonnets on rainy nights. Maybe he’d never be the one to make grand romantic gestures or say the words the way others did.

But he showed it—every time he didn’t pull away. Every time he stood a little closer. Every time he let you tease him and didn’t push back too hard.

He wanted you.

Wholly. Constantly. Quietly.

The drive back to your place was quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just quiet in that strange, comforting way that happens when two people understand each other without needing to speak.

Geo slowed the car to a stop in front of their place, the low hum of the engine giving way to a silence that settled gently between them. He turned the keys in the ignition and sat there for a beat, staring out through the windshield like he could stall the inevitable.

But routine still mattered to him. Predictability. He slipped out of the driver’s seat and circled around, already reaching for the passenger side door before he could think too much about it.

Of course he was going to open the door for them. He always did.

But this time, as he opened it and extended a hand to help you up, as he took your hand in his—soft fingers curling around his—and let him pull them to their feet. No hesitation. No witty remark. Just that quiet confidence they always wore like armor.

But instead of stepping away or offering a breezy goodbye, you leaned forward and wrapped their arms around him. A real hug. No half-hearted pat on the back, no joking squeeze to keep things light. This one was full-bodied, firm, and warm in a way that caught him entirely off guard.

Your head rested briefly against him, and he could feel your breath—slow, steady, purposeful—like you were grounding themselves in him. Or maybe grounding him in them. He didn’t know anymore.

Geo froze.

His hands hovered in the air for a moment, unsure—almost trembling with hesitation—before he gave in and returned the embrace. Not because he understood it. Not because he was used to this kind of closeness. But because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to hold them like that, like something in him recognized this moment long before it arrived.

You held him a second longer than necessary, then slowly stepped back, just enough to meet his gaze. No teasing glint in their eye, no smirk tugging at their lips. Just softness. Calm. Like this, too, was inevitable.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” You said, voice low and certain. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a promise. It was a fact. And then, before he could respond, you turned and made their way up the steps toward their door, disappearing into the quiet night with that same effortless grace they always carried—like they hadn’t just slipped something heavy and permanent into his chest.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

Because Geo was still standing there with the door open, arms slack at his sides, heart thudding like he’d just been thrown into a storm he didn’t see coming.

The night was quiet again.

But now, it pressed in around him—heavy, echoing.

Because what made it worse wasn’t the hug.

It was how real it was. How unguarded. How much it meant even though they hadn’t said a single word about it. You didn’t need to wreck him with sharp words or chaotic antics. Not anymore.

You could destroy him just by caring, calm. Just by being you.

And you had.

He’d never say it out loud—not even to himself. But standing there alone in the hush they left behind, he knew, clear as day:

You wrecked him. Every. Damn. Time.

I love writing about my man. Maybe it sounds a little too good to be true sometimes—but that’s the beauty of it. He lives the way I imagine him.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ohhh wow. Baby boy absolutely lost on your calmness.

Hyugo was a creature of energy—buzzing, bouncing, chaotic in a way that could light up an entire hallway. It was his language. His method. The very way he connected to the world: by making people react. Laughter, blushing, a rolled eye, even a scoff—he craved it all. So when he first crossed paths with you, arms crossed, expression unreadable, voice like calm rain on a tin roof? He short-circuited.

You weren’t shy. Just neutral. Calculated. Like you were perpetually observing, choosing your responses on a need-to-use basis. When he grinned and asked, “Hey, what’s your favorite snack?” and you said, “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” in that flat, knowing tone? He blinked. Then paused. Then whispered under his breath, “Okay… wait, what?” It was like trying to flirt with a locked vault that somehow slid him his own reflection back in response.

He should’ve been discouraged. Should’ve moved on. But instead, Hyugo got invested. You became his favorite puzzle. He started sending you cursed memes at 2 AM, just to see if you’d crack.

You didn’t.

You just left him on read—sometimes with the read receipt turned on, like a passive-aggressive mic drop. He’d find you sitting on the campus quad, peaceful and still like a perfectly trimmed bonsai, and he’d throw himself dramatically across the grass beside you with a whisper of, “Miss me?”

You never even turned your head. Just dropped his forgotten homework back into his open bag and said, “It’s due in two hours.” Somehow, you always treated him like he was your responsibility—like someone had to keep track of the hurricane that was Hyugo, and you had simply accepted the task with quiet resignation. Not because you were emotionally attached (though you were), but because he couldn’t be trusted to function like a human being without guidance.

What made it worse—what really got to him—was that you kept up with him. Effortlessly. While he was skipping class to “help the janitor with roof maintenance” (translation: napping on the forbidden rooftop), you were the one sending text reminders like clockwork.

“Assignment due by midnight. I shared the answers. You’re welcome.”

“You left your bookbag at my place. Again.”

“Drink water. I know you didn’t.”

It was enough to make him melt. But in classic Hyugo fashion, he didn’t let up. He kept trying—because your rare, deadpan one-liners? The way you occasionally tapped his arm or looked up just long enough to meet his eyes? It fueled him for weeks.

Of course, Sol couldn’t help but comment on it. One afternoon, as Hyugo dramatically flailed behind you in the walking on camups—arms full of chaotic gestures and failed attempts at catching your attention—Sol leaned against a locker with a smirk. “You know,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded with judgment, “you look real desperate right now.”

Hyugo didn’t even break stride.

“Says the guy who’s been rearranging his bangs for twenty minutes because his crush might walk past the art room.”

Sol blinked.

Hyugo continued, casually tossing a wink over his shoulder, “At least I know mine. And they actually talks to me.” Then he turned back around and whispered, “Even if it’s just to tell me I missed another deadline.” He sighed to himself.

It was late afternoon when Hyugo found you again—alone on the third-floor balcony of the library, tucked where the sunlight couldn’t quite reach. You were reading, as always. One leg crossed over the other, expression unreadable, as if the world outside the page didn’t exist.

He leaned against the railing next to you, unusually quiet.

No dramatic entrance. No exaggerated greeting. Just silence.

You noticed, of course. But you didn’t look up, not yet. You knew his patterns, the rhythm of his noise. This quiet? It was... off.

“I’m going to get that new ‘Devil Storm Re:Slash’ game tomorrow,” he said finally, fingers drumming the metal rail. “The deluxe one. The one with the exclusive artbook and the collector’s pins and—whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, the sound neutral. Polite. Expectant.

He hesitated, then turned to face you more fully. “I, uh... I wanna be first in line. Like, I’m talking ‘wait-outside-the-store-all-night’ first.”

Your eyes lifted from the page, slow and deliberate. “And?”

Hyugo shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck. “And... I want you to come with me.”

A pause. Not because you were thinking.

Just because you knew he wanted a pause. He wanted something from you. Something more than the usual routine.

Finally, you said, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I said okay.”

“You mean like… okay okay? As in—you’ll actually come with me? No emotional hostage situation? No guilt-tripping me into finishing homework first?”

You closed your book. “You want me to come. I’ll come.”

The simplicity of your agreement hit him harder than he expected. No sarcasm. No negotiation. No teasing deflection. Just yes.

Hyugo stared at you, his smile faltering for the first time that day. And it was then he admitted—mostly to himself—that he wasn’t just chasing your reactions because they were rare. He was chasing them because he needed them. Because they made him feel real. Grounded. Seen. And he had spent so long being loud, obnoxious, energetic—hoping someone would respond, even just a little.

“…Why’d you say yes so fast?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, like it wasn’t a real question.

You looked at him, calm and steady. “Because you asked like you meant it.”

That silenced him.

No quip. No dramatic hand wave. Just Hyugo, heart stuttering in a chest full of noise, wondering how you always knew exactly when to be quiet—and when to say the exact thing he wasn’t ready to hear.

“…Cool,” he muttered after a beat. “Cool cool cool. I mean. You’ll regret it. I’m bringing snacks. And my anime playlist. You’re gonna suffer.”

You stood and grabbed your bag. “I’ll survive. You should finish your Art project tonight.”

“Ugh. You suck.”

You shrugged. “You’d miss the deadline otherwise.”

He watched you walk away with your usual grace, untouchable as always—but somehow, that one word, okay, kept echoing in his chest louder than all the times you ignored his memes combined.

And Hyugo, for once, didn’t feel like a joke. He felt chosen.

The next morning, 3:47 AM sharp, you and Hyugo stood outside the grimy, fluorescent-lit game store at the edge of town.

Hyugo looked like he belonged in a disaster documentary—blanket around his shoulders like a cape, hood up over messy hair, clutching a thermos of coffee with the intensity of a man on the brink. His breath fogged in the air as he bounced on his heels, eyes sparkling with sleep-deprived determination.

“We are making history right now,” he declared, voice a little too loud for the ghost-town hour.

You glanced at him, hands in your coat pockets, utterly unbothered. “There’s literally one guy ahead of us. History is generous.”

“That’s Greg. Greg doesn’t count. He lives here.”

Sure enough, Greg—early 40s, heavy parka, portable chair, expression like a man who had seen things—gave a solemn nod from his post at the door. He did look like a part of the building.

Hyugo leaned closer to you, whispering like it was a covert op. “He told me once he camped out for ‘Call of Duty: Geriatric Ops.’ Said it was worth the frostbite.”

You raised a brow. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Time passed in strange, slow intervals. Hyugo talked enough for both of you. Animated. Rambling. Telling you the entireplot of the last three Devil Storm games, complete with sound effects and voice impressions.

“And then this demon prince guy, right—he sacrifices his arm for a cursed scythe, but plot twist, the arm was already cursed so now he’s double cursed, and his childhood best friend—who's secretly the reincarnation of the goddess of violence—is like, ‘Noooo, you idiot!’ and then boom! Emotional trauma and boss fight.”

You blinked. “How many hours did you play this?”

“More than I studied last semester.” Not shocking.

He offered you some snacks from his backpack—Takis, sour candy, a suspiciously melted granola bar. You declined all of it. And yet… somewhere between his fourth dramatic retelling and his brief existential crisis about Greg being closer to the door than him, you reached into your own coat and pulled out a thermos of hot chocolate.

You handed it to him wordlessly.

He stared at it like you'd just given him a family heirloom. “For me?”

“No, for Greg.”

He held it to his chest like it was sacred. “I’m going to marry you.”

Your smirk was enough to make him choke on air.

By the time the doors finally opened—at exactly 8:00 AM sharp—Hyugo was vibrating with so much energy he nearly knocked over a cardboard standee of the game’s main character. Greg gave you both a solemn salute as you entered.

Hyugo was the first to grab the deluxe box. You were second. He held it up like a trophy, grinning at you like a kid who won a goldfish at a fair.

“You know,” he said, eyes bright, “most people would’ve told me to shut up five hours ago. But you? You just stood there. Kept me warm by sheer vibe.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

And he laughed. Loud, unfiltered, the kind that echoed through the store. As the adrenaline of the game release wore off and morning light finally began to bleed across the sky in soft, grey-blue streaks, Hyugo turned to you, game case tucked under his arm like sacred treasure.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic yawn. “Now we celebrate. And by celebrate, I mean greasy food and a dangerous amount of syrup.”

You gave him a nod of approval. “You’ve earned it. Somehow.”

“Somehow? I braved hypothermia, public embarrassment, and Greg’s war flashbacks. That deserves at least three waffles.”

The two of you started walking, the quiet of the early hour wrapping around you like a blanket. It would’ve been peaceful—until the clouds that had been gently looming all morning decided to unleash a sudden downpour. No warning, no sprinkle, just a full-on sky tantrum.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Hyugo yelped as the rain hit, both of you instinctively bolting toward the nearest shelter—a lonely, flickering bus stop with a crooked bench and questionable graffiti.

You ducked under the cover, brushing water off your sleeves. Hyugo, on the other hand, looked like a wet cat. His hair clung to his forehead, hoodie soaked, shoes squeaking as he flopped dramatically onto the bench.

“This is what I get for tempting fate,” he muttered. “She’s a cruel mistress. Just like my ex.”

“What,” you said.

“Exactly. And yet, she still haunts me.”

That got a small, involuntary snort from you. Barely audible.

He heard it.

His eyes snapped toward you. “Was that… was that a laugh? Did I just unlock something?”

You exhaled slowly, amused despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, I need to write this down. Note to self: rain plus fake ex equals minor chuckle.”

You shook your head, a real smile pulling at the corners of your mouth now. He was ridiculous. Loud, chaotic, over-the-top—and yet, never annoying. Never too much. Always just enough.

Then he hit you with another one. Eyes wide, faux-serious: “What if we die here? What if the bus stop is haunted? What if Greg follows us and demands tribute?”

And that was it.

You laughed. A soft, quiet thing at first—but then it grew, warm and unexpected, spilling from your chest like something you hadn’t meant to let out. Not the sarcastic chuckles he was used to, not the exasperated sighs.

A real laugh.

Hyugo’s own breath caught. His mouth parted slightly, eyes fixed on you like he was seeing something rare and holy. “…Whoa,” he whispered. “That’s what you sound like?”

You tilted your head, a little teasing. “Disappointed?”

He shook his head slowly, as if afraid he’d miss a moment of it. “No! That’s going in my top five core memories. Alongside the time I saw a seagull steal a slice of pizza.”

You stepped toward him, still smiling, and reached out—cupping his damp cheeks gently in your hands. His skin was cold from the rain, but his eyes were warm, brighter than ever.

“Thank you,” you said, quiet but sincere. “I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

Hyugo didn’t speak at first. He was too busy blinking like an idiot, the faintest shade of pink dusting his cheeks. Then he smirked, just barely.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured. “But now you’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know how to win.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed where they were. And he leaned in ever so slightly, like even if the rain kept falling, this—this moment under a sad, flickering bus stop—was already the best part of his day.

Yeah. You didn’t always give him what he wanted.

But when you did? It was everything.

That calm authority? It wasn’t cold. It was dangerously caring. And when you did finally touch his arm, gently reminding him to study? He short-circuited so hard he nearly walked into a vending machine.

You weren’t just his crush. You were his grounding wire.

And he didn’t stand a chance.

Ngl this was cute as hell to write, love Hyugo

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yandere-wishes · 6 months ago

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✮⋆˙Red Hood and The Big Bad Wolf ˙⋆✮

⭒⌒★ Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓕𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 𝓣𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓐𝓤 ♡ ｡゜

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

*ੈ✩‧₊ Thinking about how similar Red Hood is to Little Red Riding Hood, not just in name but also in practice. At their core, they are both things, red things, that survive. Reborn from the lugubre maws of death, forced to live another day, carrying baskets weaved of anguish and instability.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason keeps the old picture book tucked in his jacket pocket. He can't quite remember where he found the fickle thing. Can't remember why he chose such an evanescent tale to cling to.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Or maybe he does, maybe he knows exactly why he runs his fingers over his inside pocket after every fight, just to make sure the eccentric fable is still in place. Maybe it's because he understands Red Riding Hood. Knows what she's been through, what it feels like to have your innocence stripped like skin being torn from bones. To be killed and revived all in the same breath. Maybe it's because he wants to know what happens next. What happens when Little Red learns to breathe again? He wants to ask her, beg her to tell him. To be the solution to all his problems.

*ੈ✩‧₊ "How do you swallow the trauma? What do you do with the phantom pain of your heart's reanimation? How do you make the darkness go away? Did you come back the same?

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is only one thing that makes them differ. One fundamental little thing...

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason doesn't mind the wolf. Pretty pup prowling about. He blames it on his upbringing. He'd been taught to fall in love with such wicked things. From as early as he can remember he's watched bats chase cats across gargoyle-littered rooftops. Watched pretty girls throw themselves at bleached killers. That's why he's quick to be enarmed with the new villain terrorizing the Gotham streets. The girl in a wolf mask, planting bombs in jewelry stores and biting off her victim's ears.

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is nothing scary about the big bad wolf, Red Hood thinks, as he re-reads the page where the wolf and girl meet. Why fear pain when you've been to the end of the road? Why fear something when you're acquainted with its ending?

*ੈ✩‧₊ "Shouldn't wolves only come out when there's a full moon?" He swings in from the skyline, ironclad military boots lodging into your stomach pushing you back into a glass display case. "That's werewolves you idiot" you mumble out of breath, glass shards pocking at your spine. The ticking of your newest explosive rings melodically through the air. He's quick to cut the wires, to defuse your toy without a second thought. Professional you think bitterly as you pounce on his back looking for an opening of flesh to sink your teeth into.

*ੈ✩‧₊ The thing they don't tell you about dying is that you always come back wrong. Primordially, spiritually, the person who closes their eyes, is never the same one who opens them again.

But Red Riding Hood was lucky, her story ended before she realized that dreadful thing. Jason has to deal with it every day, the reverberating scars, the colorless world that fractures and breaks should he let his mind wander astray. The fact that his heart only ever truly beats when he sees the fluffy ears of your cowl and that damn bloodthirsty smirk.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason Todd who's only brave enough to call it love after you stake a knife through his heart. The bulletproof vest and armor keep the damage away, but he can see the murderous intent shimmering in your eyes. It's only then that he pulls you down by the back of your neck. Lips to lips, a messy clash of anathema and apprehension. Your teeth gnaw at his lips while his tongue composes ballads on the roof of your mouth.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He wonders if Little Red ever went back for the wolf. If she ever dares kiss him with all the pain and anguish she has left in her body. Nicking her tongue on his razor-sharp teeth. Guiding his claws to ghost over her frail body. He wonders if the wolf can even hurt her. There's so little left that can hurt you when you've already felt the end.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He knows you stalk him, follow him even during the day. Sometimes he pulls you into the back alleyway. Knife at your throat as he soaks up your ethereal face. Mask on, mask off. In the end, you'd have found out anyway. His hands squeeze at your hips, needing the flesh, leaving his essence over your body. His lips danced over the back of your neck, biting tenderly at the apex of your shoulder.

*ੈ✩‧₊ You seem to like it when his knife cuts deep. When his punches crack bone. When his boots crush you into the pavement. You throw your head back and laugh, witty little threats spilling from your mouth. So this is love he thinks as your claws rake over his biceps ripping the muscle like ribbons, rummaging through the blood and tissue in search of bone. "Poor little puppy" he mocks "looking for a bone to chew on". "Shut up you tomato-looking freak" you scream as his teeth sink into your jaw, crunching of bone.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He thinks you look gorgeous when you're irritated, he thinks you're beautiful when your bloodthirst seeps through the anger. He bites back a moan as your knee nests into his gut.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Did Little Red ever talk to her mother again? Or did she hold a grudge, haunted by her betrayal of sending her into the woods unarmed, heartbroken that she never came looking for her? Jason's thoughts pound inside his head, picture-book illustrations flash before him of Little Red pushing her mother away, of tears streaming down her face, screaming, screaming, screaming. He hisses as his lacerations burn. Hand suspended, pushing down the urge to knock on his father's door. Bruce would know what to do...he always knows what to do. It's such a childish notion, he clings to. Even now, even after he was killed and left un-avenged Jason still wholeheartedly believes in the notion that Daddy will fix everything...He's halfway to the entrance gate when Bruce alls after him, cadence thick with grief and ache. Jason doesn't turn back, he runs and runs and runs.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who crashes through your apartment window. Pushes you back onto the bed and lies next to you as you squirm and scream. He wraps his arms protectively around your waist and nuzzles into the crux of your neck. Mumbling Little Red Riding Hood's tale until you fall asleep. "How did You know I love the story?" you ask, the next morning to the empty half of your bed. Last night's tremulous dread still laying heavy on your corpse.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who lays on his window seal, watching as the sun pokes through Granny Red's face. It's funny isn't it, in such a twisted way didn't he also die in his grandfather's house? Only to be reborn while he watched? Didn't the same thing happen to Little Red?

*ੈ✩‧₊ That night Jason dream he's was walking through the grass, headed for the forest behind Wayne manner. He's trapped inside his jejune body, the body of a boy wonder. Clutching a basket with a crowbar inside as dread dances in his stomach. His old red cape taut around his neck, suffocating, skin-tight. He's forgotten how to breathe, puerile fear of those ghoulish old trees clawing at his body. Through the dimness, through lose rays that escape the moon's greed he's able to spot you. Weaving through the bushes and trees, stalking closer and closer. He doesn't know whether to meet you halfway or retreat. Frozen like a robin being pounced on by a sickly smiling cat. His eyes meet yours, right before you attack.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who misses you, when he doesn't catch you on patrol, of course, he misses you, it's hard not to miss a broken bone. Hard to feel the sting of your wounds and forget who put them there.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason finally realizes that he just can't bear to be away from you. This love, this mania, it's all for you. He needs you. He's got you corned, the end of a chase. You smile, all teeth and games, "You're pretty when sulk" you whisper, tracing claws up his chest, digging into the space between each ridge. "Oh really? How can you tell when I got this helmet on?" You laugh, coy and flirtish "I just do" you shrug. Pulling his helmet up, lips ghosting over his in a mockery of a kiss. Jason pushes forward, entraping your lips against his. Lost in intimacy he's quick to grab you, to drag you back to his apartment, to lock the doors and throw away the key. To keep the big bad wolf where she belongs, right next to Little Red Riding Hood.

🎀I feel like every Batson deserves a villainess to fall in love with. Let's call this one WolfWoman. TBH I feel like I want to write more for her in the future.

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sowerpatch · 6 days ago

Text

terms of play [chapter 2 - game interrupted]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Azzi juggles her brother's corporate fallout and the secret launch of a WNBA team. With the draft looming and pressure mounting, she's confronted by a moment she wasn't ready for. One that makes her feel alive for the first time in months.

Warning: Mentions of substance or drug usage

Word count: 4,309

Chicago Midway International Airport, Chicago. July 2024.

The Chicago air clung to her skin like sweat under a lie. Heavy. Sweet with jet fuel, salt, and something metallic underneath—old money gone stale. It wrapped itself around her the moment she stepped off the tarmac, heels striking the concrete with a sound too crisp for this heat.

Azzi didn’t blink.

The Gulfstream’s door folded back behind her with a pneumatic sigh. She walked like time owed her something. Measured. Controlled. Every step sharpening the blade of her silhouette. Her white blazer was tailored within a quarter inch of menace, sleeves creased so clean they looked like they’d never known compromise.

A man in a Fudd Corp lanyard jogged toward her, already out of breath. His dress shirt bleeding through with sweat. Tie askew, mouth moving before his feet even stopped.

“Ms. Fudd. Sorry for the short notice. Mr. Fudd said you’d be briefed on the flight, but, uh,” he stammered, fumbling with a leather binder. “We compiled a new packet. The numbers shifted again this morning. Sunrise Energy demands to withdraw. It’s bad.”

He pushed the folder toward her with both hands, fingers trembling just enough to notice.

She took the binder, flipping it open one-handed. The pages rustled like leaves before a storm. Her thumb found Clause 7 in seconds, gaze flicking over the language with the kind of detachment people usually reserved for post-mortems.

“Has Legal redlined the new language in Clause 7?” she asked, still reading.

The man paused. “I… don’t think so. Not yet.”

She looked up for the first time. Not at him. Through him.

“Have it marked and in my suite before eight,” she said. “The escrow language misfire gets corrected before the call. If that ambiguity's still in the term sheet, we lose this deal.”

Her voice was quiet. Flat. The kind of quiet that ended conversations.

She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She never did.

The SUV door opened as she reached it, the driver stepping out without meeting her eyes. Smart. He held the door just long enough for her to glide in. Once inside, she pulled the binder onto her lap and leaned back into cool leather, shutting out the sun behind a sheet of bulletproof glass.

The AC hummed low, the smell of citrus and gun oil in the vents.

Azzi closed her eyes briefly, not to rest, but to replay the folder’s language in her mind. Numbers. Names. The bones of power.

Presidential Suite at the Waldorf Astoria Chicago, Chicago. July 2024.

The suite smelled like stale espresso and lemon-scented furniture polish. Papers were stacked across the dining table in uneven piles, some marked with neon tabs, others curling at the edges. Azzi stood at the window, phone pressed to her ear, gaze locked on the blur of highway outside.

“Have you heard from him?” her father asked, voice low but clear.

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “No. Last update I got, he left the client dinner early. Canceled his flight. Radio silent since Monday.”

There was a pause.

“He’s using again.”

Azzi didn’t speak.

“His apartment’s trashed. There’s a lock on the office suite. I had the building manager send me photos.” Her father exhaled heavily.

She leaned into the wall, resting her forehead against the cool glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this isn’t your responsibility.”

“It never is until it is.”

“Azzi—”

“I’ve cleaned up after him before. I’ll do it again.” Her voice stayed even, if detached. “I pushed the Folsom audit forward. I’m rewriting the German solar contract myself, and I looped in a Florida consultant for the zoning mess he left behind. His entire division is running through my office now.”

“I know.”

“Dad,” she said, finally turning away from the window, “this isn’t sustainable.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

“I know you have your own company. Your own world. And the basketball thing... you don’t talk about it much, but I know what it means to you.”

“I’m not walking away from the Valkyries.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said gently. “I’m just saying thank you. I see what you’re doing. Even if Trey doesn’t.”

Azzi sat down, her eyes landing on a copy of the Valkyries initial branding deck still half-wrapped in printer rubber bands. “The league’s been calling,” she said after a beat. “Nika keeps covering for me, but they want a face. A name. They're demanding ownership needs to go public by next quarter.”

“I'll handle your brother. Do you think you’ll be done with everything before next year’s draft?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It's doable.”

He didn’t argue. Just said, “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Azzi hung up.

The silence that followed stretched, thick and familiar.

Then, her phone buzzed again.

Incoming Call: Nika Muhl

Azzi answered. “Hey.”

“You alive?” Nika asked, sharp.

“Define alive.”

“I swear to God, if you give me another non-answer—”

“I’m breathing, I’m reading contracts, and I’m doing damage control. That good enough?”

“You’re a ghost.”

Azzi let out a breath and leaned back. “I talked to my dad. Trey relapsed.”

There was a pause on the other end.

Nika’s tone softened just slightly. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“I’m cleaning up his contracts, smoothing over his investors, rewriting his deals on four hours of sleep. The Valkyries haven’t stalled, but I can’t exactly front a startup when I’m too busy bailing out my brother’s name.”

“Well, while you’re playing cleanup, the league’s getting nervous,” Nika said. “They’ve called three times this week, and I’ve run out of excuses.”

“I told you, I’ll handle it.”

“And I told them you would,” Nika shot back. “But media’s circling now. There’s already a Reddit thread with guesses. One of them thinks it’s Beyoncé. Another says it’s a hedge fund.”

Azzi winced. “That’s absurd.”

“So is hiding your name this close to the draft.”

She rubbed her temple. “I’m not ready to be the headline.”

“It’s not about headlines anymore. The team exists, Azzi. It has a schedule. It has salary caps. It has interns. You can’t be invisible and in charge.”

There was a beat.

“I’m not dropping this. You know what you built. But the league wants a sit-down before the mock draft next quarter. PR has patched together a stall, but it’s unraveling.”

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“I already had Ines book the slot. Thursday, 10 a.m.”

Azzi blinked. “You didn’t clear that with me?”

“I stopped clearing things when you started ghosting me.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

“Take a shower. Drink something with electrolytes,” Nika said. “You’re starting to sound like Trey.”

The line went dead.

Azzi sat there, staring at the mockups of Valkyries merch strewn under legal contracts and court filings. The black and purple jerseys peeked out from beneath a stack of tax compliance reports. Silver trim catching soft hotel light.

Storrs, Connecticut. September 2024.

The gym was winding down, but the heat still lingered in the air. Practice was over, jerseys clinging to skin, hair tied up and out of the way. UConn didn’t do chill. Even cool-downs felt competitive.

KK sprawled out near the sideline, legs splayed, breathing steady. Ice Brady sat up against the bleachers, sipping on a water bottle she’d barely touched. Paige Bueckers was flat on her back at half court, arms folded behind her head, smirking up at the ceiling like it told jokes.

KK stretched, groaned, then turned to the others. “Yo, I was deep in the Reddit trenches last night. Valkyries thread been going stupid.”

Ice looked over. “That the new team?”

“Yeah. People wild guessing who owns it. First theory was Beyoncé. This month is Elon Musk.”

Paige made a face. “Man, if Musk touches women’s hoops, I’m transferring to Europe.”

KK laughed. “You think I’m playin’? Someone said the jerseys gon’ charge Teslas.”

Ice shook her head. “I think it’s somebody boring. Rich, quiet, doesn’t post. One of them art collector types with three last names.”

“Nah,” Paige cut in, still on the floor. “Gotta be someone with cash and chaos. Like, ‘I bought a WNBA team because Daddy says I can’t buy Mars’ type energy.”

“You volunteering?”

“Bet.” Paige grinned. “Let me win this natty first, then I’ll buy the whole league.”

KK shot her a look.

Paige sat up and wiped sweat from her neck. “I swear, if I get drafted by some old creepy hedge fund dude named Chris, I’m demandin’ a trade before I land.”

Ice leaned in, amused. “Focus on the threepeat, Superstar. Let the billionaires sort themselves out.”

“I am focused. I’m locked in.” Paige smirked. “Just sayin’, I ain't tryna hoop for some old man who thinks WNBA stands for Where’s My Bartender At.”

That got Ice laughing.

“Speaking of rich people,” KK said, getting serious again, “did y’all hear the latest on Azzi Fudd?”

Both heads turned. That name still hit a certain way.

“She been runnin’ her family's company while her brother’s MIA. Rumors say he checked into rehab again. But instead of lettin’ it fold, she picked up the slack. Closed some wild client deals.”

“Wait, doesn't she have her own company too?” Ice asked. “Fudd Holdings or something.”

“Yeah. And she’s still helping run that foundation for girls in STEM. On top of all that, she’s been cleaning up Fudd Corp since her brother dipped. Press barely touches it, but people online know.”

Paige let out a low whistle. “Shorty out here runnin’ corporations and savin’ the youth. Wild.”

KK nodded. “Reddit thread sayin’ she’s a damn role model. Never makes it about her, either. Just handles it.”

“Real CEO energy,” Ice said. “I like that.”

“Same,” Paige muttered. “Can’t lie—she's hot.”

KK raised an eyebrow. “Since when you into corporate chicks?”

Paige smirked. “Y’all seen that press photo from last week’s gala? All sharp jaw and mean eyes. She looks like she’ll ruin your life and invoice you after.”

Ice laughed. “You tryna get humbled.”

“I’m tryna get claimed,” Paige said, licking her lips like she meant it. “She tells me to sit, I’m askin’ how low.”

KK groaned, covering her face. “You need Jesus.”

Paige leaned back on her elbows, that smug grin still stretched across her face. “Nah, I need her LinkedIn. And a prenup. I’ll sign whatever. NDA, PTA, whatever she needs.”

“She would wreck you,” Ice said.

“And I’d say thank you,” Paige fired back without hesitation.

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. October 2024.

The conference room smelled like fresh carpet and untouched ambition. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the midday sun hitting the purple and gold banners hung along the far wall. Early designs of the Valkyries branding gleamed like promise.

Azzi stepped in quietly. Her tailored black suit cut a sharp line against the clean symmetry of the room. Every head turned. Conversations dropped into silence.

“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “I know I’m overdue.”

A few chuckles followed. Nervous, but warm.

Azzi looked around the table. Operations, legal, media, logistics, scouting. All women. All hers.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” she continued. “You’ve been moving this thing forward without me these past few months. I’ve read every update. Every memo. You’ve been building something real. And I see it. I appreciate it.”

She took a breath.

“I know I haven’t been here. That changes today. I’m back. We’ve got a draft in six months. Let’s lock it in.”

Ines gave her a quiet nod, then tapped the tablet. The screen behind her came to life with the Valkyries staff directory, now updated to include the final coaching hire.

“We’ve confirmed our head coach,” Kaitlyn said. “Final interviews wrapped last week. They signed yesterday. Coaching staff is officially complete.”

Applause scattered across the table. Azzi gave a small smile. Brief, but real.

“That just leaves one thing,” Kaitlyn added. “Players.”

Azzi turned toward her. “Which brings me to you.”

Kaitlyn Chen stepped forward, the Valkyries’ newly appointed scouting manager, sharp-eyed and unshakably calm even in a room full of department heads.

“I want a finalized short list by next month,” Azzi said. “Free agents. Trades. Off-contract talent. Priority targets only.”

“Already in motion,” Kaitlyn replied. “And there’s one more thing.”

Kaitlyn nodded to Ines to switch to the next screen. A clean slide appeared. 2025 Mock Draft. ESPN and HerHoopStats.

Paige Bueckers' face centered at the top of the board. The headline read: Still No. 1.

“She’s still the projected top pick,” Nika spoke from the opposite end of the table, flipping to a breakdown slide. “No shifts since March.”

Azzi studied the screen. The photo was recent. Paige in navy and white, chin lifted, a UConn sweatband crooked across her wrist. Confident. Unbothered. Dangerous.

“And if Paige goes first?” Azzi asked. “Who’s next?”

“We’re ranking backups. Strong forwards. Wings. A few post players in case trades shake up our board.” Kaitlyn motioned for Ines to continue to the next couple of slides.

“Good,” Azzi said. “Book your trip to the Finals. Scout both teams and anyone in attendance. Bench rotations, rookie minutes, late-game sets. Do your network there and get me a full report.”

“On it.” Kaitlyn lingered a second longer, then added, “You should come too. Just to watch. No scouting clipboard required.”

Azzi glanced up.

Kaitlyn offered a light smile. “Could be good for you to see it all up close.”

The air shifted slightly. A pause moved through the room, subtle but expectant.

Azzi folded her arms. “I haven’t made my position public yet. I show up now, it becomes a thing.”

“We frame it as philanthropy,” Nika said from the end of the table. “You’ve already donated to multiple women’s sports programs. No one’s connecting dots.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched slightly.

“You wouldn’t even be with me,” Kaitlyn added. “We’d set you up in one of the private skyboxes. No cameras. No press.”

“It’s a soft entry,” Nika said. “Get used to the arenas now. You’ll be in them a lot once the season starts.”

The room stayed still, waiting.

Azzi looked down at the table. Her reflection met her in the polished wood. Tired eyes, unreadable mouth. A crown she hadn’t asked for waiting just behind her shoulders.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Kaitlyn gave a quiet nod. “Of course.”

Azzi straightened, and the air in the room seemed to move again.

Storrs, Connecticut. October 2024.

Paige leaned back against her headboard, phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she scrolled through her notes app on her iPad with one hand and tossed a mini basketball up toward the ceiling with the other.

Her dorm room was its usual mess of sneakers, hoodies, and unopened protein bars. The walls lined with championship posters and a single Polaroid stuck to the corner of her mirror—her and KK, grinning after a buzzer beater.

“You’re free Saturday,” her agent said through the speaker. “No game. No appearances. I confirmed with Geno’s office.”

“Bet,” Paige said, catching the ball one-handed. “What’s up? You trying to take me out or something?”

“I’m trying to make sure you get drafted higher than God,” her agent deadpanned. “The WNBA Finals. Liberty versus Lynx. Opening night. Barclays. You should be there.”

Paige arched an eyebrow. “You tryna fly me out for vibes?”

“For optics,” her agent corrected. “You’re already in the conversation. You showing up in public, at the biggest game of the year? That’s a headline. Especially with the draft coming.”

Paige sat up and dropped the ball to the floor. “That’s what this is about. Exposure.”

“It’s about staying visible. Staying wanted. You sit courtside, people remember why your name’s been in every mock draft since sophomore year.”

Paige smirked. “I gotta wear heels?”

“Wear whatever doesn’t look like you slept in it. And bring KK and Ice if you want. You’ll look grounded, loyal. Human.”

Paige laughed. “Aight, that’s a big assumption.”

“Oh, and I heard Valkyries’ scouting staff might be there.”

Paige paused mid-stretch. “For real?”

“Very real. Eyes will be on that arena from every angle. It’s a good time to be seen.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll go. Send me the details.”

“You got it.”

She ended the call and rolled off the bed, tossing on a hoodie before slipping into her slides. The dorm was quiet except for the low rumble of explosions and trash talk echoing from the living area.

She followed the noise, stepping into the living room to find KK and Ice parked in front of the TV, locked in a heated Fortnite match. KK sat cross-legged with a headset on, shouting into her mic. Ice leaned forward on the edge of the couch, controller clutched tight, eyes narrowed.

“You two good?” Paige asked, grinning as she flopped into the couch beside them.

“Top five right now,” KK muttered without looking. “Do not jinx me.”

Ice tilted her head. “You need something or you just here to steal our snacks again?”

“Y’all busy Saturday?” Paige leaned back, ignoring their comments.

KK groaned. “Don’t tell me we got film.”

“Nah. Finals game. Barclays Center. Liberty versus Lynx.”

Ice glanced over. “WNBA Finals?”

“Mmhmm,” Paige nodded. “My agent says it’s good for my image. Big lights. VIP seats. Scouting eyes.”

KK tore off her headset. “We goin’?”

Paige smirked. “If y’all can dress like actual adults and not middle schoolers in gym class, yeah.”

KK pointed at the screen. “If I win this round, I’m wearin’ Crocs courtside.”

“You do that,” Paige said, standing up with a laugh. “And I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

The game exploded in gunfire. KK screamed.

“YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME—ICE, YOU LET HIM FLANK ME?”

“I was reloading!”

Paige walked off chuckling, already texting her agent back with two extra names for the guest list.

Barclays Center, Brooklyn. October 2024.

The arena buzzed with anticipation, a low hum rising steadily with each passing minute. Seats filled in waves, fans donning team colors, foam fingers, and freshly printed playoff merch. Spotlights flickered overhead while the court below gleamed under perfect polish.

Azzi stood stiffly behind the glass panel of the private suite, arms folded loosely across her chest. The suite itself was sleek, designed for discretion. A polished buffet stretched along one side, silver trays steaming with lobster rolls, sliders, and truffle mac and cheese. A suited waiter stood silently near the entrance, ready to refresh her drink at the flick of a hand.

Nika leaned against the velvet couch behind her, sipping ginger ale with a lemon wedge.

“You’re wound up,” she said lightly. “It’s just basketball.”

Azzi didn’t look back. “It’s not the basketball I’m worried about.”

“It’s fine. Media’s got zero confirmation you’re here. PR team’s ready to spin it as a charitable visit to support the league, if it comes to that.” Nika came up beside her.

Azzi’s jaw flexed, but she nodded once.

Behind them, Ines lingered near the dessert cart, quietly surveying the options like a scout assessing value picks. Two cookies already claimed, she sipped her second espresso with the casual detachment of someone used to pressure in other people's lives.

Then the sound hit.

It wasn’t gradual. It cracked through the air like a thunderclap. The crowd erupted all at once, a tidal wave of noise that made Azzi’s head lift sharply, heart knocking once against her ribs. For a second, she thought the teams were being introduced early.

But when the spotlight drifted across the tunnel, it wasn’t the players emerging.

Paige Bueckers strode into the arena like she owned the air around her.

She strolled into view, decked in a sleeveless denim vest and matching long shorts that brushed against her knees. Beneath it, a cropped red tank hugged her frame, casual but bold. Her hair was pulled back in a slick bun, gold hoops catching the light. White Jordan 3s laced to perfection capped off the look, the red and cement-gray accents matching the pop of her top.

People around her lost it. Phones out, flashes sparking. Someone screamed her name. Paige grinned, lifted two fingers in a lazy wave, then sank into a courtside seat like it was second nature.

Azzi’s breath stilled.

She didn’t move—couldn’t. Her gaze latched onto Paige’s profile, cataloging everything like muscle memory. The curve of her smirk. The way she leaned forward to dap up a young fan. The casual cockiness of someone who knew exactly who she was, and didn’t have to prove it to anybody.

Nika tilted her head.

“Oh,” she said, a slow grin curving across her lips. “Is this why you’ve been acting like someone stuck a branding iron between your shoulder blades?”

Azzi blinked.

“What?”

“You’re staring like she walked out of your favorite playlist.”

Azzi didn’t respond.

Nika turned slightly, watching the girl courtside. “Did you know she’s going to be here too?”

“No.” Azzi said, a little defensive.

Nika raised a brow.

Azzi ignored her, she was still staring to where Paige was sitting.

Then the crowd buzzed louder as the players entered the arena.

But Azzi's eyes still remained at Paige.

KK leaned in close, whispering behind the rim of her soda cup. “Yo, you got any intel on the Valkyrie scout? You know who it is?”

Paige didn’t look away from the court. “Nah,” she muttered, chin resting on her knuckles. “Could be anybody. They’ve been ghostin’ the media.”

Ice chuckled. “Bet it’s just some old white guy in khakis.”

“Or a washed assistant GM from a team that folded,” KK added.

Paige just smirked, eyes still tracking the ball. “Watch it be someone wild like—Oprah.”

Her phone buzzed on the armrest just as when the buzzer sounded for half time and the lights shifted into showtime mode.

She glanced at the screen, then blinked.

Message from her agent:

Suite 12C. Upstairs, one of the private rooms. Couple Nike execs wanna say hi. They're here for Sabrina but asked about you. Play nice.

She sighed. “Gimme a sec. Gotta shake some hands with Nike.”

“Tell ‘em you wear J’s in your sleep,” Ice teased.

Paige just made a face and stood.

She slipped past fans filing to concessions, then climbed a side stairwell marked for restricted access. Her Jordans tapped quietly on the concrete steps, the noise fading as she reached the suite level.

The hallway above was still. Dimly lit, hushed like the air held its breath. Private suites lined either side. Paige slowed her walk, checking door numbers. 8C… 9C… 10C.

Then—

A voice.

Low, smooth, edged with a kind of unshakable grace. The voice carried through the quiet corridor with calm certainty, the sort that made people instinctively slow down and listen. Paige hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the sound of it slipped beneath her skin, unmistakable and electric.

She moved around the corner, steps light against the carpeted floor. The hallway was long and dimly lit, hushed with that kind of upscale stillness.

Up ahead, Azzi was pacing just outside her private suite, her steps slow and controlled as she spoke into her phone. There was a quiet tension in her movements, like she was carefully measuring each stride. Her expression stayed composed, though her eyes flicked downward now and then in thought. One hand held the phone close, the other swinging loosely at her side.

Then Azzi turned.

Still mid-sentence, her phone still to her ear, the sentence falling off as her eyes met Paige’s across the threshold.

Silence crashed into them both.

Paige stopped breathing.

Azzi stood frozen, lips parted, dark eyes wide. Her voice caught somewhere in her throat, that sharp precision dulled by sheer disbelief.

Paige could feel it instantly—heat curling low in her belly, blood pounding in her ears. The hallway didn’t exist anymore. The crowd noise downstairs became a distant hum. All she could see was Azzi.

Light blue sleeveless button-up top paired with high-waisted cream pants. Hair styled in natural curls pulled back with some curls framing her face. She looked untouched by the chaos of the world.

And she was staring back at Paige like she’d conjured her out of thin air.

Neither of them moved.

Azzi ended the call without much of a Goodbye and lowered her phone slowly, lips curling just enough to speak but not yet.

Paige swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Damn,” she murmured, almost to herself. “You real?”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. Her gaze dragged across Paige’s frame in that outfit, the flash of skin at her abdomen, her sneakers bold white against the carpet. That soft little breath she took said everything.

Longing settled in the silence between them. Like time had rewound just to let them feel it.

Finally, Azzi’s voice, softer than before. “What are you doing up here?”

Paige's grin crept in slow, crooked and flirty. “Guess I took the right turn.”

Azzi tilted her head, but she hadn’t smiled yet. There was something else in her eyes—calculation. Recognition. Maybe even regret.

But Paige wasn’t moving.

Neither was she.

The stillness between them stretched tight, brittle, like glass that hadn't shattered yet.

Then the silence broke.

“Sorry I’m late, baby. Traffic was a mess.”

A man’s voice echoed down the hall, light and careless. Paige blinked as he came into view—broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of polished that looked practiced. He wore confidence like a pressed suit.

He walked straight up to Azzi and without hesitation, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in for a quick hug. Paige didn’t have time to register much before his lips brushed Azzi’s cheek, then landed on her mouth in a brief, familiar kiss.

Azzi didn’t pull away. She didn’t look toward Paige either.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

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goofygubegubler · 3 months ago

Text

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

You’re trapped with the one person who always gets under your skin. And this time, there’s no escape—just options.

wc: 4.8k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: enemies-to-lovers, mutual pining, locked-room tension, flirty office chaos, bratty reader x repressed Spencer, slow-burn heat, heavy innuendo, power play lite, Gen Z banter, Hotch is so done.

A/n: This is a pick-your-ending fic — at a certain point, you’ll choose between smut or fluff, each in its own post with separate warnings and word counts. If you’re into this format, let me know! It just fits certain stories, y’know? Love and chaos—MWAH 💋

The BAU was supposed to be a serious, elite unit. You had envisioned it as a whirlwind of case files, high-stakes chases, and brooding men in bulletproof vests. What you hadn’t expected was for it to be filled with this many attractive people—or for the most infuriating one to be Spencer freaking Reid.

He was unbearable. All logic and statistics and that smug little way he corrected people, like a walking, talking Wikipedia page you wanted to shove into a filing cabinet. And, of course, he always had to insert himself at the worst possible moments.

Like now.

You were halfway up the stairs to Hotch’s office, arms full of paperwork, when Spencer materialized beside you, keeping pace effortlessly.

"You look focused," he mused, sipping from his stupid World’s Best Genius mug. The Caltech logo gleamed mockingly under the fluorescent lights.

You ignored him.

"Or frustrated," he added, tilting his head like he was observing something under a microscope. "Maybe both."

Your grip on the files tightened. "Do you ever shut up?"

"I do. Statistically speaking, though, you tend to provoke responses, so the probability of silence is low."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turned to glare at him, and exhaled sharply. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?"

Spencer blinked. "Yes. That’s how hearing works."

Your nails dug into the folder. "I hate you."

"That seems like a misdirected use of emotional energy," he replied smoothly.

You inhaled sharply, clenching your jaw so tightly it could crack. Ah, yes, self-control. A beautiful, fleeting thing. Before you could hurl something at him—your files, your shoe, your entire existence—you flipped your hair with deliberate defiance and kept walking, your heels clicking a little louder than necessary against the steps.

Truth be told, you weren’t just frustrated—you were livid. Not just because of the mountain of paperwork threatening to bury you alive, though that was bad enough. Deadlines loomed, your patience was nonexistent, and apparently, the BAU believed in torturing interns via bureaucracy. But no, the universe wasn’t content with that level of suffering. No, you had to be ovulating, too.

And your body? Oh, your body had decided to make that fact impossible to ignore. Every brush of fabric, every deep inhale around a particularly nice-smelling coworker—hell, even the way Derek Morgan smiled at people was suddenly a personal attack. And then, as if the gods of humiliation weren’t done with you, there was Spencer Reid.

Unbearably smug. Infuriatingly brilliant. And, much to your horror, the hottest of them all. It was an objective fact, but one you would sooner choke on a case file than admit.

You stomped into Hotch’s office like a woman on a mission, dropping the stack of paperwork onto his desk with a satisfying thud.

Hotch barely glanced up. "Not so easy."

You groaned. "Hotch, please."

"All intern paperwork has to be proofread and signed by a superior agent," he said, sliding the files right back toward you without even looking.

You narrowed your eyes. "You didn't even check."

Hotch finally glanced up, unimpressed. "You think I don't know when something’s unfinished? The weight is off. The stack isn’t dense enough. And if that weren’t enough, you wouldn’t have dropped it like it burned you."

You inhaled sharply, then exhaled through your nose like a bull about to charge. "I know, but every time I try, they’re too busy, and besides, Hotch, you know me—"

"Reid’s not busy," Hotch cut in. "He does paperwork the fastest. Morgan even pays him to do his, not that I officially acknowledge that particular rule-breaking."

Your soul left your body. "You cannot be serious."

"It wasn’t a question." His expression remained unreadable, but you swore there was amusement in his eyes. "Reid is your assigned agent from now on."

Your hands are clenched at your sides. "Hotch, you don’t understand. That’s cruel. That’s a human rights violation. That’s—"

"Efficient," he interrupted smoothly. "And unavoidable. Unless, of course, you’d rather I reassign you to Rossi. He loves a good mentoring opportunity, and I hear he enjoys dictation."

Your mouth snapped shut. That was how he won. Every. Single. Time. He had a way of shutting you up with a perfectly placed, completely infuriating threat that left you with no choice but to storm out with whatever dignity you had left. You inhaled, exhaled, and bit back the thousand things you wanted to say.

But, of course, Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned back slightly, fixing you with that assessing stare that made your spine straighten. "And," he added, "we talked about the skirts."

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your inner party girl out for just a second. "Yeah, yeah, you’re required to say that, but let’s be real—HR only cares if it’s disruptive, and last I checked, no one’s tripped and fallen into a scandal because of my legs."

Hotch’s lips pressed into a flat line, his patience visibly thinning. "I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that."

You grinned, victorious. "Good choice, bossman."

His stare didn’t waver. "Leave."

And because you valued your job (and, fine, maybe because getting the last word on Aaron Hotchner was a dangerous game), you spun on your heel and strutted out, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

God, if you didn’t have a massive, wildly inappropriate crush on Spencer, you’d bounce on Hotch in a heartbeat. Even if he was divorced. Even if he had a kid. Even if he was old enough to be your father. Domineering, dangerously competent men were simply your type, and unfortunately, you were surrounded by them.

As you made your way back to your desk, you let yourself fantasize—just a little. Maybe, in another life, you could have both. A little Eiffel Tower moment, if you will—

"Hey, you in?"

Penelope’s voice pulled you from your wildly inappropriate thoughts. You blinked, turning to her just as she plopped down in the chair beside you. "In?"

"For going out tonight. Drinks, dancing, chaos—our usual."

You hesitated, your attention snagged by movement across the bullpen. Hotch stood by Spencer’s desk, speaking in that low, measured tone of his. Spencer, ever the picture of unbothered intellect, nodded along, his fingers idly drumming against a case file. Hotch’s brow furrowed, and something about the intensity of his gaze made your stomach twist.

"Okay, now I know you’re distracted." Penelope snapped her fingers in front of your face, making you jolt. "What’s got you zoning out like a lovesick teenager?"

You tore your gaze away and cleared your throat. "Hotch just told me I have to start running my paperwork through Spencer."

Penelope’s eyes widened. "Oof. Condolences. What did you do to deserve that?"

"Apparently, Hotch thinks I’m not cutting the ropes as a newbie," you deadpanned. "But he likes me otherwise, y’know."

Penelope snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. That is the most delusional thing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve been in a fandom war."

Before you could respond, movement caught your eye. Hotch and Spencer were walking toward you, Hotch balancing a precarious stack of files in his arms. You barely had time to brace yourself before he stopped beside Penelope, giving her a pointed look.

"Garcia. Back to work."

Penelope pouted dramatically. "Ugh, you are such a buzzkill, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am, still insisting," Hotch replied dryly. He barely glanced at her. "Garcia. Work."

Penelope gasped, clutching her chest like he’d personally wounded her. "Rude. And here I was, ready to offer my radiant presence for a night of fun. But nooo, crushed by the oppressive fist of bureaucracy once again." With a theatrical sigh, she stood, smoothing out her skirt. "Fine, fine, I’m going. But if my sparkle dims, Hotchner, just know it’s on your conscience."

"And yet, somehow, the world survives," Hotch replied flatly. Then, without another word, he plopped a massive stack of files onto your lap. "You and Reid need to redo this entire stack before you leave."

"Oh, fantastic," you drawled, shifting the weight of the folders in your arms. "Because nothing gets me hotter than redoing paperwork with my favorite human encyclopedia."

"That’s between you and HR," Hotch deadpanned before turning on his heel and walking away.

You scowled after him. "I hate this place."

"And yet, you continue to show up," Spencer mused, already pulling a file from the stack in your hands. "Let’s see how much damage you’ve done this time."

"Oh, bite me," you shot back, dropping the rest of the files onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. "Before you start spewing unsolicited critiques, just know that I put my heart and soul into those."

Spencer flipped through a few pages, his lips twitching. "You used gel pens again."

"So?"

"So, it smudged everywhere."

You rolled your eyes. "Forgive me for wanting my bureaucratic misery to sparkle a little."

"And your phrasing," he continued, ignoring your defense. "This is meant to be objective. What is ‘a concerning amount of eyebrow waggling’ supposed to quantify exactly?"

"It means the guy was sketchy!"

Spencer gave you a long, suffering look. "You are the worst intern in FBI history."

You smirked, tilting your head just enough to be insufferable. "Aw, Doctor, you say that like it’s a bad thing."

Spencer just exhaled through his nose and turned back to the files, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "If we ever have to testify based on your notes, the jury’s going to think we’re making it up."

"Oh, please," you scoffed, leaning back in your chair. "Eyebrow waggling is a known intimidation tactic."

"According to whom?"

"Me. Obviously."

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about the downfall of modern law enforcement before refocusing on the paperwork. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the slow exodus of the office. First, Morgan and Emily strolled out, offering half-hearted goodbyes that suggested they were thrilled not to be stuck with this nightmare. Then JJ, then Rossi—each departure leaving the bullpen quieter, the fluorescent lights humming louder.

By 6:30, even Penelope had fled, but not before dramatically sighing, "Ugh, this is so unfair! We were supposed to have a girls' night. Or at least get you drunk enough to make some questionable decisions!"

"Oh, trust me, I am questioning every decision that led me here," you deadpanned, glaring at the endless stack of papers.

Pen just pouted. "Well, hurry up and get it done so we can still salvage the night! I have snacks, face masks, and enough gossip to fill an entire season of reality TV."

"Maybe if someone would stop talking, we could actually finish this," Spencer cut in, not even looking up from his work.

The clock ticked on, relentless and unsympathetic. 7:15. Then 7:45. Then, somehow, 8:30. The bullpen had long since emptied, the low murmur of voices replaced with nothing but the scratch of pens and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

And, of course, the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears every time he shifted, every time he exhaled a little too sharply. The air between you crackled with something neither of you would dare acknowledge—something electric, infuriating, and impossible to ignore. Spencer was always irritating, but tonight, the sharp edges of his voice sent heat straight to your spine. His rolled-up sleeves, the furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tapped impatiently against the desk—it was too much. And he had no idea.

You shifted in your chair, pressing your thighs together, as another agonizing minute crawled by. The warmth pooling deep in your stomach was getting harder to ignore, bleeding into every impatient twitch of your fingers, every sharp inhale you tried to steady. It was making you reckless. Every movement he made—every flicker of irritation tightening his jaw, every absent tap of his fingers against the desk—sent another unwanted jolt through your system.

And you were nowhere near done.

You propped your chin in your palm, elbow sinking into the desk, twirling a pen between your fingers in a half-hearted attempt at distraction. But the numbers on the page swam uselessly in and out of focus, blurring into meaningless symbols. How were you supposed to concentrate when the biggest source of your frustration was sitting just feet away—close enough to feel, close enough to rile you up with nothing more than his presence?

Spencer’s voice was sharp, his presence sharper, and despite the fact that you supposedly couldn’t stand him, your body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. You were existing in a frustrating limbo—exhaustion pressing at your skull, attraction setting fire to your nerves. Your skin felt too hot, too tight, hypersensitive to every minute movement across the desk. You could feel the weight of his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at you. If you weren’t careful, this night was about to get a whole lot longer in more ways than one.

It took exactly one sharp exhale from across the desk for your tenuous grasp on focus to fully snap. Spencer, who had been nothing but an irritatingly efficient machine for the past two hours, finally looked up. And oh, he was irritated. The pen in his hand hit the desk with a clatter, and he leveled you with something caught between exasperation and begrudging patience.

“Are you even paying attention?”

You blinked slowly, head tilting. “Hmm?”

Spencer sighed, dragging a hand through his already slightly tousled hair. “Your lack of attention to detail has ensured that we need the regional case file, not this—a duplicate copy.” He gestured at the offending document like it had personally insulted him. “Which means, thanks to this mistake, we need the actual original file.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching your back slightly just for the principle of it all. His eyes flickered downward before snapping back up, his jaw tightening, but you pretended not to notice.

“And?”

“And,” Spencer said tightly, voice teetering on the edge of patience, “Garcia’s already gone for the night, so we can’t just pull it from the digital archives. That means I have to go to the file room and physically retrieve it.”

You raised an eyebrow, lazily dragging your gaze back to him. "Cool. Have fun."

His expression darkened. "The file room is in the basement."

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His jaw flexed. "The file room is on sublevel two—buried under concrete, terrible ventilation, not a single camera, and if that door shuts behind you? You're stuck until someone remembers to check."

You blinked at him, unimpressed. "So, what I’m hearing is: a perfect setting for a horror movie."

Spencer's lips pressed into a thin line. "It’s a security feature."

"It’s an oversight. The FBI, an organization that prides itself on preparedness, has a room where someone could just get stuck until an unsuspecting soul wanders down there?"

He exhaled, slow and measured. "Yes."

You grinned. "That’s insane."

Spencer, to no one’s surprise, did not grin back. "That’s protocol."

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair, stretching deliberately slow. His gaze flickered downward for the briefest second before he forcibly dragged his eyes back to your face. Oh, he noticed. And that little detail sent something devious curling inside you.

“Well, since you’re the one so concerned with protocol, go get the file."

His stare was unimpressed. "You made the mistake. You go."

You scoffed. "Oh, please. If I hadn’t made a mistake, you’d have found another reason to be insufferable. You were just waiting for an excuse."

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was holding something back. "That’s not true."

You smirked. "No? Then what was that little lecture just now? Don’t tell me you just enjoy talking down to me. That’s kind of kinky, Doctor."

His fingers flexed against the desk, a telltale sign of irritation but also something else. His voice came out quieter, a touch too taut. “The file name is ACB-714. Basement archives, second cabinet on the left."

You gave him a lazy salute. “Consider it handled."

Truthfully, you needed an excuse to step away. The way he’d spoken to you—sharp, clipped, just on the edge of losing control—had sent your brain spiraling into places you did not need to be right now. It was bad enough working alongside him when your body was already betraying you, but the fact that he sounded that good when he was frustrated was unbelievable. Unnecessary. Unfair.

And the way he looked at you? Like he was barely keeping himself in check? Like he was two seconds from saying something neither of you could take back? That was dangerous.

You pushed back from your desk, the sharp click of your heels against the tile the only indication of certainty when everything inside you was anything but. Maybe the basement’s clinical chill would help, its walls lined with forgotten case files and the ghosts of bureaucratic neglect grounding you back into something solid. Maybe the hum of the fluorescents, cold and impersonal, would smother the slow, insidious heat crawling beneath your skin—the heat fed by too many lingering glances, too many tension-laced arguments that never seemed to resolve.

The door groaned as you stepped inside, its weight swinging shut behind you with an eerie finality, unnoticed in your distraction. The file room stretched ahead, a silent graveyard of paperwork, thick with dust and the acrid bite of industrial-strength cleaner. Overhead, the fluorescents flickered erratically, their jittery glow casting restless shadows against the endless rows of filing cabinets standing like sentinels in the dim light.

Your mission was simple—retrieve one file, ACB-714, and get out. But the second you stepped into the file room, your focus was already shot to hell.

Spencer Reid was ruining your life.

Okay, maybe that was dramatic, but at the very least, he was ruining your concentration. He had rattled off instructions with that sharp, impatient cadence, his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining himself from strangling you. The worst part? It wasn't just the irritation that got to you. It was the way he watched you, the way he always seemed locked in on you, even in exasperation.

You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to let it roll off your back. But your body betrayed you, heat curling at the base of your spine in a way that was neither productive nor appropriate for a professional setting.

Your fingertips skimmed over the metal cabinet labels, your eyes skimming but not really seeing. Was he always like this? So insufferably exacting? So unwilling to let anything slide? It wasn’t just the way he corrected you—it was how he did it. Precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin and lived for it.

It was honestly impressive.

You blew out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face as you rolled your shoulders back. Focus. Find the file. Get out. But instead, you leaned lazily against a filing cabinet, barely noticing how the movement nudged the doorstop at the threshold.

The sharp click of metal shifting barely registered before it was too late.

Your stomach dropped.

The door.

Oh, you had to be kidding.

Panic didn’t hit immediately. No, it crept in slow, slinking up your spine like a cold hand tracing your vertebrae. You turned on your heel, already knowing what you’d see before you even reached for the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was fucking locked. Because why wouldn’t the government’s precious archive room operate like a goddamn haunted house? You stared at the heavy metal door, willing it to magically swing back open. It didn’t.

Your hand flew to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you exhaled. This was just perfect. You had let your brain wander off into Spencer Reid–induced nonsense, and now you were locked in an FBI basement because you couldn’t be bothered to properly secure a doorstop.

And you weren’t just trapped. You were trapped while ovulating, which meant your body was already in a state of desperate, hormone-fueled hysteria. Which meant you had spent the last fifteen minutes alternating between rolling your eyes at Spencer’s condescending attitude and staring at his hands. His long, unnecessarily pretty hands, which had absolutely no business looking that good while shuffling through case files.

Great. Now you were locked in a basement, overthinking, and horny.

You slid down against the filing cabinet with a groan, head thumping back against the metal. How long would it take for someone to notice? Would Penelope come looking for you, or would she just assume you finally gave in and quit? Maybe Spencer would realize something was off. Maybe he’d put the pieces together, retrace your steps, and...

No. No way. If anything, he’d think you were just slacking off. He’d probably roll his eyes, make some condescending remark about how you were the worst intern in FBI history, and move on with his night. Because that’s what he did—he got under your skin, poked and prodded and found every little thing that made you tick.

And the worst part? You let him.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling, determined to push him out of your head.

Then, just as you started to resign yourself to a long, embarrassing night of solitude, a noise broke through the thick silence.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Then—finally—the sound of the door handle turning.

The door swung open, and there he was, framed by the dim hallway light, looking every bit as exasperated as you knew he would. His gaze flicked over you, arms crossed, mouth already pulling into a disapproving frown.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, stepping inside with an exasperated shake of his head. "You, of all people, got yourself locked in a room that explicitly warns you not to let the door close behind you. I even told you."

You scoffed, pushing up from the floor. "Wow, Spence. So good to see you, too. Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly," he deadpanned, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on you for half a second too long. Then, with the same distracted precision he applied to everything, he grabbed the doorstop and wedged it beneath the heavy metal frame.

"There. Now, let's get—"

The sharp, metallic click of the door lock echoed through the room.

Silence.

Spencer froze.

You blinked.

Then, slowly, terribly, you turned to face each other.

"Reid," you started, voice calm in a way that meant you were absolutely about to lose it. "Did you just—"

"No," he said immediately, but his voice had gone slightly higher. "No, I didn't."

Your arms crossed, mirroring his stance. "Then what was that noise, genius?"

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for the handle, twisting it once, twice, then yanking with just enough force to confirm the worst.

Locked.

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"You," you said, pointing an accusatory finger. "Just locked us both in."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, jaw tightening. "Technically—"

"Oh, no. No, technically, Spencer. You just pulled a me."

His eyes narrowed. "Pulled a you? I think not."

"Oh, I think so!" You threw your arms up. "Because last I checked, I was the one who got us into this mess and you were supposed to be the responsible one!"

Spencer let out a long breath, adjusting his stance like he was physically restraining himself from escalating. "Okay, well, panicking isn’t going to fix anything."

"Who’s panicking? I’m not panicking." You were definitely panicking. Not because you were locked in—no, you could handle that. But because it meant you were stuck here. Alone. With Spencer. For God knows how long.

And you were already on edge.

Already warm, restless, caught in some ridiculous hormone-induced haze that had made your brain hyperfocus on things you had no business noticing. Like the way Spencer’s shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealing the lean, tense muscles of his forearms. Or how his hair was just slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. Or the way he smelled—like old books and something subtly sharp, like cedarwood and coffee grounds.

God, you needed to get out of here.

"This is your fault," you muttered, pacing a tight circle.

"Oh, so it’s my fault you got distracted and let the door close on you?" His voice had that smug edge again, laced with something else—something almost amused, like he’d warned you this would happen and was now relishing in being right. It made you whirl on him, irritation flaring hot beneath your skin.

"Yes, actually! If you hadn't been hovering over me like some insufferable know-it-all, I wouldn't have lost my train of thought."

Spencer scoffed. "Hovering? I was doing my job. You were the one lost in your own head, probably thinking about something ridiculous like—I don’t know—lip gloss flavors or whatever occupies that overly cluttered brain of yours."

You gasped, shoving at his chest. "Oh, bite me, Doctor Condescension! Not all of us have an eidetic memory to store every single useless fact known to man. Some of us have normal human brains that get distracted when we’re trying to multitask!"

Spencer barely budged from your shove, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. "Right. Multitasking. You mean twirling your pen and zoning out?"

You opened your mouth, ready to snap back, but the reality of the situation hit you again like a truck. The file room. Locked. No way out. You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

"Okay, genius, how do we get out? Since you're so brilliant and never make mistakes?"

Spencer crossed his arms, the smugness practically radiating off of him. "We wait. Someone will come looking."

You threw up your hands. "Oh, great! Because getting caught in a locked basement with you is exactly how I wanted to end my night."

He rolled his eyes. "You act like this is some unbearable torture."

"It is!" You gestured wildly. "I could be out right now, drinking with Penelope, having a girls' night, doing literally anything else but this! But no, I’m stuck in here with you, arguing over whose fault this is when we both know it’s yours."

Spencer let out a sharp breath, tilting his head. "You’re exhausting."

"You’re infuriating!"

"You’re impossible."

"You—" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "—are the bane of my existence!"

"And yet," he said, voice dropping just enough to send something shivering down your spine, "you can’t seem to stop talking to me."

You faltered for half a second before scoffing. "Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. If I had any other option, I wouldn’t waste my breath on you."

Spencer stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the small, stale room. "Funny. Because despite all your complaining, you never actually walk away."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was new. This was dangerous. The air shifted, tension curling like a live wire between you, and you hated that some deep, embarrassing part of you liked it. Too much.

You swallowed, forcing out a breathless laugh. "What, and let you think you’ve won? Not a chance."

Spencer studied you, his gaze flickering down to your lips so fast you might have imagined it. Then, just as quickly, he scoffed, a deliberate shift in his expression that screamed of warning more than dismissal. "See? Impossible. I told you."

Something inside you snapped. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of this situation. Maybe it was the fact that you were ovulating, and his stupid smug face was the only thing in your line of sight. But before you could even process the words spilling from your lips, you blurted out, "God, I hate how much I like you."

The silence that followed was deafening. You barely even registered what you’d said at first, not until Spencer’s entire expression shifted—his usual composure cracking just enough to reveal something startled, something unguarded. His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching just enough for you to catch it.

And then, like a freight train hitting you at full speed, the realization crashed down.

You panicked. "I mean—not like like, obviously. Just, you know, tolerate. Barely. In a work acquaintance kind of way. Like an annoying gnat I’ve learned to ignore, except I can’t ignore you because you never shut up, and—"

Spencer surged forward and kissed you.

The force of it backed you against the filing cabinets, steel biting into your spine as his hands found your waist, gripping just hard enough to steal whatever breath you had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was months of pent-up frustration, sharp and heated and all-consuming.

You barely had time to process it before you were kissing him back, fingers tangling in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto. Like letting go meant losing whatever the hell this was.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

PICK YOUR ENDING

➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

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ellewritesalright · 1 month ago

Text

Nine Long Years - Part 8

Nikolai Lantsov x Rietveld!reader, Kaz Brekker x sister!Rietveld!reader (platonic)

Part 7 --- Masterlist

Synopsis: After watching your brothers die, you found yourself working on the Volkvolny. In the many years since then, you somehow became the queen of Ravka while your brother somehow survived firepox and life in the Barrel, rising through its ranks. In disguise during a diplomatic trip with your husband Nikolai, you meet Kaz Brekker for what you think is the first time, only to find out that he is your long-thought-dead little brother.

Author's Note: Hi Everyone!! So excited to share this part with you all!! It took forever to write this, but there are a couple of scenes that I had written way back when I first started this series knowing that this is where it would go, and those scenes are very dear to me. Hope you all enjoy! Can't believe we're almost at our ninth year...

Warnings: mentions of death, angst and fluff, mentions of sickness, injury, panic attacks, firepox. If I'm missing something pls lmk

Word Count: 7,950

SEVENTH AND EIGHTH YEARS

Everything happened so quickly.

You barely had a week with Nikolai in the Spinning Wheel when the Darkling attacked again. You'd been making up for lost time, working together to end the war in the daytime and holding him tight and whispering soft things to each other at night. It was enough for you to be back on the same page as Nikolai. But the chapter was short.

The ambush took him from you, transforming him into a creature akin to a volcra. There was a horrible terror in your veins as you watched him reform in front of you, but worse than that was the pit in your stomach at the confused and pained expression he held on his fanged face even as he changed. Seeing him claw at himself in shame as he tried to use his leathery wings to fly away broke your heart.

A few weeks had passed since then. You had followed Alina where she led, working for her cause and pushing to free Ravka. You got back into the habit of praying you acquired underground, asking the saints and Ghezen and any other being who may listen to keep your love safe.

By the time you were fighting in the fold, surrounded by darkness, the Darkling's army, volcra, and every other enemy imaginable, you were harrowed and angry. Grisha keftas are made to be bulletproof, but you weren't stupid enough to aim at the Darkling's soldiers' keftas. Your bullets pierced through the exposed skin of their necks and heads each time you fired.

Your accuracy drew attention, though, and a heartrender turned his eyes on you. You felt your chest tighten, your gun dropping out of your slack wrist as he slowly killed you. And just as you fell to your knees in the sand of the fold, your body loosened. You glanced up to see a volcra had carried this corporalki up into the sky, tearing one of his arms off. Blood splattered on you as he was torn, and you ducked behind a wrecked skiff to take cover from the volcra.

You held your gun firm as you peered over the skiff at the volcra above. It was circling you, like it was waiting to pluck you up into the sky too. You raised your gun, ready to fire at it, when you saw it swooping towards you. You ducked again and fired, blindly hoping that you had stopped it.

You heard a scream behind you and whipped your head around to see a Darkling Tidemaker behind you being forced down so harshly into the sand by the volcra that her head was now submerged. This creature's wings flapped as it turned slightly, peering at you with familiar eyes. It gave a meek screech, sounding nearer to a squawk than the high-pitched roars of other volcra you had encountered. It ducked its head slightly, and you saw little scratches on its face, as if from its own talons.

You pictured the attack on the spinning wheel, the last images of Nikolai before he was transformed into a self-loathing creature.

"Nikolai?" You breathed.

The creature finished burying the tidemaker and flapped its wings, flying away across the dark fold. You blinked and leaned against the wrecked skiff for a moment.

Then you ran, trying to go after Nikolai. You wanted to scream for him, to try to gain his attention and draw him back, but you couldn't bring that sort of attention to yourself, not when there were real, dangerous volcra as well as the Darkling's Grisha and nichevo’ya all around.

Seconds morphed into minutes, minutes into hours. As far as you could tell, you were running and fighting for forever. Even the quick things seemed to slow down, the bullets and elements, the monsters and shadows; everything seemed small and slow as you moved through the fray, slashing or dodging every foe you faced.

You kept an eye on the sky, aching for your impossibly aggravating prince--the soon-to-be king whom you loved. As you spotted him again, tangled with a real volcra in the air, you held your breath and ducked behind the hull of a skiff-wreck. You raised your gun, trying to get a read on whether you could shoot without hurting Nikolai, but no sooner had you held your arm out were your eyes suddenly caught on a Soldat Sol across the sand as light burst from her body. Then another otkasot'ya sun soldier behind her lit up the same way. In a moment, fifty beams of light reached the top of the fold. The airborne volcra all began to screech, the nichevo'ya began to dissipate, and the fighting ceased as all Grisha--on both sides–cast their eyes to the sky to see sunlight poking out from up above.

You searched the air for Nikolai. Your mind started reeling for a second as you could not find him. Bile rose in your throat, and the doubting began. Would you find him a corpse? Would the Soldats’ sun beams turn him to ash?

But then you heard a scream, its timbre somewhere between an animal screech and a warm chesty reverberation you liked to rest your head on, and you turned around, seeing the creature's wings shrink away and a tattered king begin falling from the sky.

“Nik!” You shouted, running towards him.

When he was ten meters from the ground he stopped screaming. Something invisible had caught him, slowing his descent. Zoya stood away to the right, her arms raised.

His back landed on the ground and you kept running towards him. The sand was rugged under your knees as you landed beside him, bracing your arms around him. It didn't matter that his back was still against the ground, or that he let out a soft groan, he wrapped himself around you too.

You raised your head, looking down at him and inspecting his features. They looked human, but more than that, they looked like your Nikolai. His blond hair and hazel eyes that looked at you like you were the center of the universe, both so familiar that you felt your chest expand with a relief you hadn't known since last you held him like this. There was soot and grime on his face and a small cut on his cheek, but you could deal with that later. You sighed and hugged him again, practically lying on top of him as the Darkling's forces surrendered to the Second Army. Nikolai groaned softly, taking in a shaky gasp from the force of your hug. You eased back a bit, but your arms were still holding firmly to him.

"You're an expert now," he breathed into your hair.

"What?" You panted, leaning back slightly to look at his dirty face.

"At saving me."

He flashed a smile, informing you that he thought his joke was funny as can be. That reason alone, that he hadn't lost his sense of humour, brought you to tears. He really was your Nikolai, no matter what challenges you faced, or monsters you fought.

Seeing you cry, he sat up, wiping at your cheeks. He held your nape and gently knocked his forehead against yours. "It's alright, my dear. I'm alright now."

"I know, I just…" You sniffled.

"You just what, love?"

"I was just so afraid I would lose you."

"My darling, you'll never lose me. I promise."

"I felt so helpless and scared. I can't lose you like I lost–" your words ran short of saying your brothers’ names, but Nikolai understood regardless. He held you tighter.

"I know," he said as he pressed his lips to your forehead. "I know."

You sighed, putting your face in his collar. "You're the one that just fell out of the sky after being a sadistic man's shadow monster and yet you're comforting me."

"It's my job, you realize; just part of what a good fiance does."

In all the chaos and fuss, you nearly forgot the chain around your neck. You pulled it out from under your clothes and admired the two rings as they dangled. They couldn't be more different. One was a standard circle of gold, simple as could be, the other carried a sapphire worth more than anything you'd ever owned let alone worn as a constant on your body. Nikolai unclasped the chain and let the rings drop into his palm.

"I would get on my knees again, but I think I need a minute before I can get up. A lot of me is a little sore." He touched your cheek, brushing his thumb along the apex. "My love, will you make me the happiest man alive by marrying me?"

You chuckled softly. "I've already said yes, Nikolai."

"I know. But I want to hear it again. Picturing you in a white gown and veil was the only thing getting me through while I was a shadow monster."

You smoothed his ruffled hair back, kissing him briefly but sweetly. "Yes. I will marry you, Nikolai Lantsov."

"Thank the saints for you," he murmured before drawing you into a long, tender kiss. His forehead connected with yours once you finally broke apart again. "You'll be a wonderful queen."

"Nikolai…" You started, your eyes darting away as you felt your cheeks warm.

He cupped your face in his hands. "You will."

"You have too much confidence in me."

"I beg to differ."

You looked in his hazel eyes for a moment. "Are you good enough to stand?"

"Only with the assistance of my beautiful fiancé."

"Very well," you smiled at him.

You helped Nikolai to his feet, letting him lean some of his weight on you. The sand was uneven beneath your boots as you walked with him against your side. First and Second Army soldiers alike rejoiced as they looked at the clear sky, the division between East and West Ravka finally broken.

"It's a brand new world," you remarked.

"A world where the sea isn't on the other side of a monster-filled death trap," Nikolai grinned.

"True enough," you grinned back. "Though I think royal duties will keep us in Ravka."

"You'd be surprised just how often a royal gets to travel, moya tsaritsa."

You noticed how he squeezed closer to your side, and you smiled even brighter.

"I love you dearly, do you know that?" Nikolai asked, his eyes playful yet true.

"I think you've mentioned it once or twice."

"Then I shall mention it again; I love you dearly, my darling."

……….

A couple of days after the Fold was torn and the Darkling burned, you were still in the camp on the outskirts of the sand waste. You walked through the camp, offering assistance or whatever kindness you had to those who remained. You stopped at the stables, catching a familiar face. Mal was hitching horses to the closed carriage Nikolai procured for him and Alina to take away for their new life free of sainthood and sun summoning.

"Leaving so soon?" You asked loudly and suddenly, startling Mal.

He threw you a look that softened into a light chuckle. "I'm thieving away, just like you."

You made an exaggerated gasp. "Is that any way to speak to your future queen?"

"No," he smiled, "but it's a way to speak to an annoying friend."

You tsked and playfully smacked his arm.

"I'll miss you, Rietveld."

"I'll miss you too, Oretsev. Take care of Alina, but also take care of yourself, Mal," You said softly. "That's an order from your queen."

"You're not queen yet."

"Even so… I hope the countryside will treat you well. Nikolai and I will visit once you're all settled, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

You hugged him, patting him on the back. There was something brotherly about Mal, something that always just made you want the best for him. Maybe it was the tinge of Jordie in his persistent optimism. Or maybe you loved him for the way that he had inadvertently ensured you obtained all you wanted.

"And…" You rubbed the back of your neck as you stepped back from him again. There were the beginnings of tears in your eyes. "...Thank you for convincing me to stay. I can't begin to tell you how much I owe you."

"You can thank me by naming your firstborn after me," Mal joked, despite the way his eyes glazed over as well.

You smacked his arm again and then wiped at your eyes and nose. "Oh, shut up. I take back everything sentimental I ever said to you."

"No, you don't," he laughed.

"No, I don't."

……….

Weeks passed by in a blur. Alina and Mal were officially gone. You were back in Os Alta with Nikolai, but this time staying at the Grand Palace. There was quite a bit of damage done to both palaces, much to rebuild and repair, but you were glad for the work. You helped Nikolai with all of the repair plans, wanting to make the palace feel less stark and impersonal, and instead make it feel inviting and warm. If this was to be your home now, you wanted it to be homey.

There was also much to do in the way of learning how a palace like this was managed. You spent lots of time studying histories and politics to prepare for life as a queen, yes, but you also met with the head housekeeper, Ms Garevsky, for an hour each evening. She taught you what happens in each room of the palace, how the staff operate, the passageways of the palace, and anything else you'd need to know to be successful in matters of house and home.

Nikolai had his coronation last week. It was a large affair, apparently not as large as the coronation of the past few kings, but still rather large. There were parades in the streets and parties with diplomats and the like. Throughout it all, Nikolai balanced diplomacy, discussed his plans as king, and gushed about his engagement with you. He championed you to everyone who would listen, behaving every bit the doting fiancé he was.

The maids had gotten used to seeing Nikolai slip into your room at night or vice versa. Your rooms were a whole wing apart, yet you never slept alone. After all you'd been through, there was no reason to sleep alone ever again.

If he came into your room and saw you studying royal histories or reading construction reports, he would wrap his arms around you and ask you to read to him. It reminded you of how you two fell in love, and certainly you felt yourself falling in love again and again each day with him.

Tonight you had slipped into his room. A short scan of the space informed you he was tucked away in the bathroom. His head was tilted back against the porcelain of the bathtub, his arms resting on the sides. But when he opened his eyes and saw you in the doorway his hands dipped under the water, cutting off the black scars the Darkling left on him.

"Hey, you," he smiled. His voice was tired.

"Hey, you," you said, stepping into his bathroom.

"You're early tonight," he remarked. "I usually can't expect you until it's only stars and moon in the sky."

"Well, Ms Garevsky didn't need me for long this evening, she just wanted my thoughts on a few things for the upcoming state dinner, and I finished my readings and letters this afternoon, so here I am."

You knelt beside the tub, face to face with Nikolai. His face was warm as you put a palm to his rosy cheek.

"What's on your mind, my love?" You asked.

"That I am the most fortunate man to live because of you."

"Nikolai," you said with a soft sigh as your thumb traced his cheek. "You look tired. What is it?"

He shook his head, offering a soft smile that you could see right through. "Darling, there's nothing."

"Please, Nik… just tell me."

His eyes dropped from yours, fixating instead on a drop of water on the edge of the tub.

"I figured we were done with any secrets," you murmured. His eyes snapped back up to yours.

"It's not a–" he cut off what sounded like it would be a paltry defense. "You're right. I haven't been entirely honest." He shifted in the tub, making the water slosh slightly. "My darling… I promise I am fine, but I confess that I've been having some pain lately."

Your eyes widened slightly and you brushed back his hair. "Pain? What sort of pain?"

"My scars," he said quietly. The shame in his eyes was evident.

You didn't have to ask him to know he meant the scars on his hands. The remnants of his time as a shadow monster.

"How do they hurt?" You asked softly.

"Sometimes they get so itchy that they're practically burning. Other times, they make it so my hands feel stiff; I'll be writing a letter when my fingers suddenly seize up and I have to stretch them out before I can pick up my pen again."

"Have you spoken to anyone about it?" You asked softly.

He shook his head.

"We can tell Genya tomorrow. Surely she and David can create something to soothe your aches."

"She already tailored them as much as she could. But it's merzost. It won't go away."

"Maybe not, but they can still help you in some way, I bet." You brushed his hair back. "Give me your hands?"

Nikolai sighed and lifted his hands out of the water. You took them in yours, your fingers gently entwining with his, and you brought them up to your lips. You kissed every dark scar, treating them gently and carefully. Your thumbs smoothed over the backs of his hands, and you felt water dripping down into your sleeves.

The wet sleeves irritated you, and you opted to unbutton your shirt. You slipped it off, and the thin straps of your shift exposed the scar on your shoulder. It was veiny and pitch black, just as Nikolai's hands were. You felt his eyes on your skin, and you lightly hummed.

"At least we match," you murmured, brushing his hair back again.

He let out a soft huff of amusement and lifted his hand from the edge of the bath. He gently clasped your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of your wrist.

"That we do."

……….

The wedding preparations were taking months.

Nikolai was frustrated enough by it that he had on more than one occasion huffed into your collar, “We could always elope but still have the big wedding later.”

Each time you had consoled him with a kiss and some whispered reassurances. You reminded him nothing would change once you were married, and he reminded you that you would be queen once you wed, something he was eager for. You'd then chuckle and amend yourself.

“Nothing will change between us once we are married,” you'd say.

“Wrong. You'll be my wife. I'll be your husband.”

“And will you treat me any differently?”

He would then pout. “No…”

The preparations were endless, the lists of things to do totalling to a dizzying amount. Just when you felt you were making headway with the plans, some unexpected emergency would pop up. Something concerning the affairs of the nation would pull your attention away, or construction of the palace would hit a bump, or Nikolai would be called away to Kerch on a secret diplomatic mission.

You sat calmly as you listened to a set of Nikolai's counselors. With your fiancé and two-thirds of the triumvirate gone, it was just you and David left to attend to the Ravkan court. After hours in that room, you and David sought refuge in the Little Palace. He shared some of his new designs for various devices over a refreshing lunch, and the two of you discussed at length the remaining renovations left at the Grand Palace.

Once lunch finished, you went through the passage to the royal gardens, heading for your daily lesson with Ms Garevsky, the head housekeeper. Today she continued her coverage of the proper ways to host guests. She had a habit of talking too quickly and making you ask for her to repeat herself a dozen times over, so by the middle of the lessons you were usually exhausted by it to the point where you let her speak and had to hastily scrawl in your notebook to keep up. You were lucky she ended the lesson where she did, as your hand was beginning to cramp with your note-taking.

Then it was dinner time, and you were tempted to return to the Little Palace and dine with friendly faces, but you chose instead to take a tray in your rooms. As you finished eating, a maid arrived, handing you a letter. There was a gold eagle seal, and your heart clenched, knowing instantly who'd written you. You thanked the maid with a smile, and watched as she left, your fingers itching to rip the letter open. The envelope was abandoned as soon as you were alone again. You felt the pages in your hands, eyes scouring over Nikolai's perfect handwriting. You held a hand to your mouth as you read.

My dearest love,

I am seldom one for dramatics, as you well know, but I can assuredly say I miss you so dearly I feel every day without you may draw me to madness.

It is with a heavy heart then, that I must tell you I will be returning later than I expected. Things are more complicated here than we foresaw, and we need a bit more time to fix the creases in this particular fold.

You'll never believe the types of people I'm working with here: criminals of every kind, I tell you. Some are rather charming, others less so. These people remind me of times that feel so long ago they're almost a dream, times where we sailed under a maroon mast, where you saved me more times than I could count.

As I write this, I am transported back to our extended trip in West Ravka, that time Druskelle split us from Tolya and Tamar. Did I ever tell you that’s when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you? It was one of the mornings, the ones where I woke up with you in my arms, only on that morning you were missing from them. I'd almost panicked, but then I heard this soft humming from the bathroom, and the gentle splash of water. You came out of the bathroom, fresh-faced and dressed, and I pretended I was still asleep as I heard you approach the bed. You’d tsked and muttered to yourself, begrudging how I slept so well, before I felt you gently push a strand of hair off my forehead. It took everything in me not to smile or open my eyes to your beautiful face.

Something in the simplicity of that morning, in your humming and your gentle touch, had me in raptures. I've never stopped feeling that way around you since.

There is an ache in me when I am away from you, an ache that I seek to banish once we are married, as it is simply torturous being apart. My need for you is insurmountable, and I warn you now that once I return you may find yourself my hostage for the week--royal duties be damned.

I could carry on in salacious detail, but I'm ever aware of how the maids like to snoop, and I fear how Ms Garevsky would scold me should the maids find me writing something indecent. Instead, I'll end this letter and part with the knowledge that I will see you again, if not as soon as I wish. I love you, my darling.

The man lucky enough to call himself your fiancé,

Nikolai

You set down the papers with a soft groan. It was difficult to place the feeling in your chest. There was the missing him, the dull ache of being apart. But then there was the comfortable wash that his words put over you, the bloom of warmth beneath your skin when he mentioned he was thinking of you.

You felt a slight guilt when he recalled one of the mornings in your early days. You couldn't remember that instance, despite it meaning so much to him. Then again, much had happened on that trip, and much had happened since; it felt like another life, growing from captain and second into the loves of each other's lives. And soon, you were going to be married–the king and queen of Ravka.

If you had told your younger self–the girl who could only dream of a life outside of the farm when she heard the stories from her Ravkan neighbour–that you would not only have made Ravka your home but also soon be the queen of it, you would've scoffed. That life was so distant now. The farm was another world entirely. Even Ketterdam, regardless of how formative an experience, seemed sometimes like it existed in someone else's past. There were still the nightmares, the bodies in the harbour that whispered to you, the illness in your throat that appeared when you heard metal against stone like those hooks against the cobbles. But despite it, you were a different person now.

There was a veil between you and your past self. Its opacity varied day to day, but of late it had grown thicker. But perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing, and if it was, you didn’t know.

……….

The shine on your head was substantial, glittering in every direction you moved as you stood in a fitting for your wedding gown. The jewelers had insisted you practice wearing your crown ahead of the wedding. You mostly practiced wearing it when you were alone in your room, not wanting the embarrassment of wearing a formal crown in the halls of the palace when you were not queen yet nor did the occasion call for such a piece. But you thought it might be nice to see the look you'd be married in, so you asked them to bring it out during this fitting. You were trying not to grin too wide as you stood in Queen Mila's crown and your wedding dress, staring at your reflection.

The dressmaker, Daya, was busy around you, making her adjustments after creating the wedding dress the last couple of months. You smiled at her as she worked, putting temporary pins in the back of the garment.

“How long have you been making dresses, Daya?” You inquired.

Her eyes flitted to yours in the mirror, wide and unexpecting. “Almost twenty years, my lady.”

“It shows; your craft is impeccable,” you smiled. “What brought you to this profession?”

She still seemed surprised by your questions as she shifted behind you.

“Are you alright, Daya?” You asked lightly, wanting to clasp your hands together in front of you but being careful not to move unless she told you to.

“Perfectly well, my lady. Only… I am not used to such conversation during a fitting.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you said softly, frowning a bit. “I'll stay quiet then.”

“No, my lady. You mistake me,” she replied, her body popping out on the other side of you in the mirror as she finished with her pins at your back. “I should rather have said that I welcome the change and the conversation. Seven years I've been the royal dressmaker, and the queen mother did not wish to ask such questions even once. She barely wished for me to speak at all.”

Your lips pursed in disappointment. You met her eyes in the mirror and she ducked her head again.

“Very sorry, my lady. I should not speak in such a manner about your fiancé's mother.”

“No, no, I'm not upset with you, Daya. I'm upset with my forebearer. I'm sorry for her behaviour. You're lovely to speak with.”

She looked as though she didn't know how to accept your compliment or apology beyond giving a soft nod, so you changed the subject.

“Are you familiar with Kerch fashions, Daya?”

She nodded.

“I was hoping to have a couple of dresses made for future palace events, but every Ravkan design I wear or see on courtly ladies feels so impractical. I find the hems are too long, they drag too much, and it drives me up a wall when I wear them. Kerch dresses more often than not have a higher hem, dropping just at the ankle, so there's no dragging.”

“You wish for shorter dresses?”

“Just enough so I'm not tripping over myself, please,” you chuckled quietly. “And a less dramatic bustle would be nice too.”

“I can draw some designs for you, my lady.”

“That would be excellent, Daya. Thank you.”

You heard a slight commotion in the hallways. For a second you felt concern, but then you heard voices and your heart rate picked up, excitement coursing through you.

“Your highness, you're tracking mud through the halls,” you heard Ms Garevsky's voice, admonishing her king. She was the only person in the palace with enough rank in household and age who could speak to him that way.

“I will personally apologize to each of the maids later. For now, I have to see my love, Ms Garevsky. I've been positively downtrodden without her.”

You looked at Daya, stepping off the pedestal and hurrying behind the changing screen as you heard the footsteps come closer down the hallway. The door cracked open, and you caught a glimpse of Nikolai through the small holes in the screen. He was in travel clothing, his jacket dusty and boots caked in dried mud from riding.

“My love?” He called out, somehow not clued in to the fact that you were behind the screen.

“I'm changing out of my dress,” you replied, your back to Daya as she untied your bodice.

“It's bad luck to interrupt her in this moment, your highness,” Garevsky scolded.

“It's far worse luck that I haven't seen her in more than a month,” Nikolai breathed, hands on his hips as he waited not so patiently for you to be done.

Daya slowly slipped the dress down your body, careful of the pins in it. You stepped out of it, and grabbed your dressing robe to tie over your slip. Daya pointed to the box on the table across the room.

“I'll need to get the dress safely in the box, my lady,” Daya whispered to you.

“Nikolai,” you called to him, “I need you to close your eyes and face the east wall of the room.”

“Why?”

“Because I've asked?”

“Very well.”

Daya quickly stepped out of the screen and packed the gown in the large rectangular box she brought it into the palace in. You stepped out too, walking slowly towards your broad-shouldered fiancé.

"I'll take this for the final alterations, my lady," Daya said with a slight smirk as she glanced at Nikolai where he faced away. "I'll get out of your hair."

"Thank you again, Daya," you expressed.

"The pleasure is all mine," she replied as she slipped out of the room with the dress. Ms Garevsky looked between you and Nikolai with a slight cynicism, then retreated as well. You waited until the door was shut to stand in front of him and brush your hand along Nikolai's upper arm.

"You can open your eyes now," you said softly.

He did, instantly grinning at you. “You look gorgeous, my love."

"Oh, hush. I'm not even in the gown."

"No, you're wearing something better."

You furrowed your brows. "And what's that? My sunny disposition?"

His eyes flitted slightly above your head. "No, it's something blue."

The sapphire crown. In your rush to take off the wedding dress, you'd forgotten about the crown on your head. You reached to take it off but Nikolai stopped you.

"Hang on a moment, my love." He held your hands and kissed your forehead. "It looks just as perfect on you as I remember. And you're growing used to it, I see. It's the mark of true royalty when you don't even feel the weight of your crown anymore."

You let out a soft tsk, as though unimpressed with his flirtations. He grinned.

"There's something about you in that crown that just makes me…"

“Pull yourself together, Nik,” you chuckled, wrapping your arms around him again. You sighed into his chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. Next time I'm away for more than two days, you're coming with me. That was much too long.”

“Agreed.”

“I wish to be married to you,” he murmured into your head.

“Soon,” you breathed.

“I’d protest for an elopement again if it weren't for the fact that now I greatly want to see you in your wedding dress and crown in front of everyone we know.”

“It is less than three weeks away,” you reminded him.

He made a soft hum, wrapping his arms around your upper body.

……….

Anxious didn't begin to describe how you felt.

It must have been hours you lay there awake, though you had no way of knowing just how long exactly. The clock that usually resided on your bedside sat in the sitting room off of your bedroom, put there at the one o'clock mark because of its incessant ticking. It was a foolish notion, that the clock was responsible for your restlessness, but it had been exiled nonetheless.

You had no chance of sleeping. A weight on your chest kept you awake, the heaviness of the impending day pestering you to no end. Tomorrow you would be married, which brought no end of joy to you; you couldn't have found anyone more perfect for you than Nikolai. But tomorrow you would also become queen of Ravka. No preparations in the Grand Palace, experiences during the war, or time on the Volkvolny made you ready for such a title. Inside, you still embodied that farmer's daughter who trekked up and down the hill, milked the cows, and stitched the holes in her brothers’ socks.

Here you were, a poor orphan girl, about to be royalty. And yet you could not overcome this dread. It tasted similar to the smoke and sickness of Ketterdam, like a living rot that greeted you as an old friend whenever you were finally feeling better. Nikolai and his warm embraces and pine-scented linens always staunched the dread, but the maids had gleefully warned you of Ravkan customs of not seeing one another the day before your wedding, and you had foolishly listened. It wasn't since early yesterday morning while sneaking out of his bed that you saw him. Sleeping peacefully, an arm protective but loose around you, his head tilted towards you.

“It's a stupid wives’ tale, my love,” Nikolai complained when you first told him you wanted to respect this custom. “It'll be worse luck not to be together the day before we marry. You might fall out of love without me there to pester you.”

You gave him a soft huff then, and he cracked a smile.

“Fine. I won't seek you out the day before the wedding. But just know I won't be able to keep my eyes or hands off of you on our wedding day.”

“As if you would restrain yourself regardless,” you replied with a roll of your eyes that had him chuckling and pulling you into his chest.

An ache in you begged you to go to Nikolai's room right now, Ravkan tradition be damned. But the maids’ giggling voices gnawed at you, keeping you put. Letting out a long breath, you turned onto your back again. You stared at the floral print of the canopy above you. You had attempted counting all of the flowers before, and not even that put you to sleep. All it did was teach you that there were seventy-four flowers stitched into the fabric.

You shuffled onto your side for the umpteenth time, the bed feeling cold despite all your moving and huffing and puffing. Unable to take it anymore, you threw off your covers and stomped out of bed. You pulled on your robe and slippers, and marched towards the exit, having to go through to the sitting room first. As you pushed open the door you heard a muttered “ouch!”

You softly frowned at your fiancé, who lay in a heap of blankets outside your door. He rubbed the back of his head, undoubtedly where the door had whacked him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, kneeling beside his scrunched-up frame.

“What’s the hurry for?” He softly grumbled.

“I was coming to see you. Why are you here? Have you been sleeping at my door?”

He pursed his lips, glancing around your sitting room. “I couldn’t sleep without you. This room smells like you though, so I thought I wouldn’t be disturbing you if I rested here for the night.”

You raised a brow at him. “On the floor outside of my door? Have you forgotten that there’s not one, or even two, but three sofas in this room?”

“You bring up a great point,” he sighed. He gave you a sheepish look, rubbing at the back of his head again. “But the sofas are all loveseats. My feet dangle uncomfortably.”

“Come to bed then,” you said, softly tugging at his arm. “You fit there.”

“You want to break that little Ravkan custom then?” He smiled teasingly at you.

“I want you to have a restful night’s sleep, one that won’t be found on the floor.”

You stood, extending your hands to him. He took your assistance, lumbering into your bedroom with you. When he collapsed into your bed, he let out a positively euphoric sigh.

“I love your bed.”

“Don’t get too used to it,” you smiled softly, lying down on your side and pulling the layers of blankets up. “After tomorrow I’m unlikely to ever sleep in the queen’s room again.”

“Quite right,” he smiled back.

He rolled closer, wrapping all of his limbs around you. You breathed him in, the scent of pine enough to make your mind quiet and eyes weary.

“Did you have to open your door so harshly?” He murmured into your forehead. “I feel a bump already forming on the back of my head.”

“Sorry,” you hummed, tilting your face up to kiss his chin and then cheek. “Can I get you anything?”

He softly shook his head. “Your company is more than enough to salve.”

At the sound of your amused huff, he squeezed you tighter.

“My wife.”

“Not yet.”

He gently smirked down at you. “It’s a matter of hours now, love.”

“Even still…”

He pressed his lips to your forehead and let them remain there, nuzzling your hairline. His chest rose and fell with the steadiest rhythm. For a long moment he was still, and you thought he might have fallen asleep. But when he shifted again, wrapping his arms lower around your waist and kissing your forehead again, you knew him to be awake. To be present with you.

The new reality was sinking deeper into your chest. The thoughts you figured would dissipate once in his arms were whispering to you again.

“Everything is going to change tomorrow,” you muttered into Nikolai’s collar.

He made a curious hum.

“It’ll all change.”

His hand pressed to your nape, smoothing down the back of your nightgown. “Nothing will change, as you keep reminding me. We'll love each other all the same.”

“Everything else will be different,” you quietly grumbled.

He leaned back and tilted your head towards him, his brow serious as he addressed your concerns. “What is troubling you, my love?”

You let out a huff, hiding your face in his collar again.

“No secrets,” he reminded you with a gentle squeeze.

“I’m finding the words,” you whispered into his skin.

Though patience was not his strong suit, Nikolai waited for you, his hand steadily stroking your back again. The motion of it brought your mind to a lull, and you had trouble piecing your concerns into something concise enough to share. It must have taken a few minutes before you spoke again, but Nikolai waited calmly the entire time.

“I’m afraid that I won’t be myself after tomorrow,” you finally whispered.

His hand stilled on your back. “What are you talking about?”

“I just… I feel like this’ll change me in a way I won’t know how to come back from. Like I’ll lose something about myself.”

When you finally glanced up at his face, he was frowning. “What do you think you’ll lose?”

“I don’t know. Myself. Who I am, who I was. I don’t know.” You put your face to his collar again. “I’m becoming a Lantsov.”

His hand flexed on your back. “Is that what this is about?”

You said nothing, and he pressed on in a gentle voice.

“Marrying me, taking my name, even becoming a queen,” he said, “none of it erases who you’ve been and who you are.”

“But it’s a step away from them,” you murmured.

He sighed, rubbing your back again. He didn’t have to ask who you were referring to. He had helped you carry their weight for many years now. He lived with their ghosts as you did.

“They’ll be with you in this chapter of life just as they have been for the rest, my love.”

“I’m losing my last tie to them, Nikolai,” you whispered.

“I know.” He held you closer, lips brushing the top of your head yet again. “I know names are important. I know it feels like you’re losing this tie. But think of it this way, my dear: our family, you, me, and the future children we grow and nurture, will all be tied because of the Lantsov name.”

You sniffled. “That’s true.”

“It is.”

You wiped at your face. No tears had fallen, but they had glazed over your eyes. You took a moment to let them dissipate.

“I love you,” you said.

“I love you too,” Nikolai soothed. “More than the world.”

“That is a hefty statement,” you sighed into his neck.

“It’s the truth.” He slipped into Kerch then, “My soul knows no richer than yours.”

You cracked a small smile against his skin. “Charmer.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “I try my best.”

Nikolai shifted slightly, moving onto his back and pulling you with him. You curled up against his side, putting your head to his chest.

“I cannot wait to be your husband,” he yawned.

You caught the yawn, slowly exhaling it. “I am happy about marrying you, Nik. Truly. Even if I'm slightly nervous. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

..........

EIGHTH YEAR - KAZ

The wind was still as Kaz stood at the harbour, his tie straight now, and his eyes on Inej as she hung off of her parents, hugging them with a reckless abandon that would have made him flinch if he were watching anyone else.

How long had her parents waited for her? How long had they held out hope that she would return to them? How long would it take for such hope to turn to grief?

For Kaz, his hope of finding his sister had turned to grief within his early years alone in the underbelly of the Barrel. Spending his nights fending off roaches and other crooks, Kaz slowly knew she was not returning for him. He would wonder what she was doing, where she had gone after Ketterdam. But he was not foolish enough to think she would pull him out of this place.

All his wondering, all his sleepless nights, he still sometimes wished she were coming back. But wishing was different from hoping; he often made that distinction in his head whenever the ache in his chest began to feel too real. It was a matter of odds; wishing implied a low-stakes bet, putting one chip in for a shot at the pot, but hoping conjured up the Crow Club gamblers who would put all of their chips forward. For those at the table who hoped, their dreams were always dashed when the dealer flipped their final card and they were left without a chip to cash in.

Kaz could let himself wish his sister would return, but he would never let hope turn him into the penniless chump at the table.

The wondering made him imagine her at present, where she landed, and whether she had made a better life for herself. Maybe she worked in a rich family’s house in Fjerda. Maybe she was a Kerch translator for Ravkan merchants. Maybe she had met a Zemeni farmer and begun a family. Or maybe she was dead after all.

That was one of the thoughts that made his chest ache. And it was the only thought that could stir him to hope for a good life for her, or if not a good life, at least a safe and alive existence.

Kaz left the harbour, saying his goodbyes to Inej and her parents. He could tell that he would be alone again now. He would have Jesper and Wylan in the city with him, but there was only so much that their paths would cross now that the two of them had moved out of the Barrel. The loneliness ached like he was nine and had just been kicked out of every Stadwatch precinct after searching for his sister, his only remaining family. In the past eight and a half years, he had never felt more like the lost little boy who came out of that water than he did right now.

Returning to the Crow Club, he put his coat away in his new office, taking a seat at his desk. There was paperwork to be signed, ledgers to check. But he could not narrow his mind on the stacks of paper yet, preoccupied with his damn wondering.

Did he even remember her face? Sometimes he forgot and had to piece her features together like a puzzle. Even then, he wasn't certain of the image of her in his mind; she just looked like unreliable fragments of the sister who read him stories and cuddled him close.

Baby brother, she used to call him. There was a time he hated that name, but now? Now he'd burn all the riches in the world just to see her smile, call him baby brother, and pull him into her side. But, of course, he was grown now, and not the same boy he used to be. He didn't know if he could handle having his sister's arms around him, despite how he used to relish in them. He liked to think that if she somehow found him after all this time, he could handle the sisterly love she used to dole out to him, but he couldn't be certain that the waters wouldn’t begin to drown him, that he wouldn’t push her away.

His only certainty was that she would never see her baby brother again, because even if--by some miracle--she found Kaz, she would not find the boy she knew. There was no Kaz Rietveld, a sweet child who picked flowers for her. There was only Kaz Brekker, the bastard of the Barrel.

She would detest him if she ever found him, the man who murdered her baby brother.

..........

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment on this new part--I really appreciate the feedback! If you want to be tagged in this series or to be added to the Nikolai taglist please comment on this part or send me an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

Masterlist

Taglist: Tomorrow or later tonight I will reblog with the tags!

#nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov fanfic #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai lantsov fic #grishaverse fanfic #nine long years

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