#Yayyyy second chapter! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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(4) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Raf doesn't take well to you leaving for university. Shenanigans ensue. Congratulations on giving a literal seal separation anxiety.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 7K | read on ao3

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note: i'm sorry this is late but i hope you enjoy that it's a bit longer in the word count! we will be back to the present in the next chapter with THE REVEAL! YAYYYY

It’s your last evening on the island.

Your bags are already packed. Two suitcases, a duffel, and now a fourth carry-on — one Mom insisted on adding last minute. It's half-insulated, stuffed with three Tupperwares of home-cooked rice and frozen stew andthree packs of marinated something-or-other wrapped with ice packs and to be put into the dorm fridge ASAP, jars and jars full of pickled vegetables, frozen dumplings layered in foil, a suspiciously heavy thermos labeled 'for emergencies only,' and god knows how many packs of your favorite snacks. There’s even a loaf of bread wedged on top like an afterthought. It’s less of a bag and more of a portable pantry. She’d kept slipping things into it all morning, muttering about how the dorm won’t have "any real food and you have to cook your own" and you’ll thank her when you’re freezing and tired and want something warm.

The other bags are crammed tight, zippers barely holding, the fabric stiff from years of use. One of the suitcases is missing a wheel. It screeches whenever you drag it across the floor, like it knows this is the last time it’ll scrape across this house.

Your ferry ticket is tucked into your wallet, itinerary triple-checked, outfit for the next morning already laid out on the back of a chair. Tomorrow, you’ll board the ferry not to work it, not to haul crates or wrangle tourists, not with your shirt tucked into old cargo shorts and your name on a patch, but to leave. For good, or for long enough that it might as well be.

University waits on the mainland. City air. Dorms. Cafeteria food. The smell of dry-erase markers and hand sanitizer and too many strangers crammed into a lecture hall. Your name printed on a laminated student ID that looks nothing like you.

Your parents had gotten a bit emotional, naturally. Mom kept touching your face like it might disappear, brushing your hair off your forehead with a smile that twitched at the corners. Dad had retreated to the garage, insisting he needed to reorganize the fishing tackle, though nothing had changed in that cabinet since you were ten. You’d caught him wiping his eyes with an oily rag.

Your friends had made plans for one last group call the night you arrived. Someone had promised to mail you festival candy every year. Someone else swore they'd visit, though you all knew they wouldn’t. Everyone was being kind. Everyone was pretending not to notice the knot in your throat.

Except — you hadn’t seen him.

Not really. Not in days.

You’d caught glimpses of him at a distance, once from the second-story window of your school during lunch, his sleek shape out past the reef where the sea meets the cliffs, another time while biking past the overlook near the old radio tower, just a head bobbing in the shallows.

But not at the cove. Not where you always found him.

Not since the day you skidded onto the sand beside him and babbled about your university housing being confirmed, about the dorm you'd picked and how it had real hardwood floors and a communal kitchen. You’d talked too much, too fast, nervous energy bleeding into every word, and he just sat there. Still, as if his body had forgotten movement. His eyes had gone wide, not cartoonish or expressive, just strange. The way some animals look when lightning cracks the sky — more instinct than comprehension.

He’d made a faint sound, something between a chirp and a cough, and then rolled away to show you his back with this stiff, resigned shuffle. Like air leaving a balloon.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You thought maybe he was bored. Maybe full. Maybe the tide was too low and he didn’t want to move again.

He had just stared out at the horizon.

And then hadn’t shown up the next day.

Or the one after that.

You’d started going by the cove each evening just in case, each time finding nothing but waves and rockweed and the ghost of where he used to be.

So now, with your heart thick and your sandals in hand, you leave the house to seek him out for one last time. The sky has gone soft and lilac with the last light of day, bruising gently at the edges like an old plum. The wind brushes against your cheek like breath, carrying the distant scent of salt and something faintly metallic, seaweed sun-warmed and half dried. The sand is still warm under your feet, tender from the afternoon sun, and each step feels both too slow and too fast.

Your dress is plain this time, something old, soft and familiar, already wrinkled, smelling faintly of lavender detergent and ferry salt. There's a safety pin holding the hem where you never got around to mending it properly. The pattern’s nothing special, just a scatter of flame lilies across soft white cotton, but Raf’s always been weirdly drawn to it. You’d caught him staring at it more than once, eyes fixed not on you, but the bright, strange flowers trailing down the side of the skirt. Maybe it was the shape, the color, the unfamiliar way it moved in the wind like flickering candle fires. You’d decided, in a half-laughing sort of way, that it made sense. He was a seal. He’d probably never seen a flower before.

And it's a cheap way of trying to hold his attention now.

You wind your way around the tidepools, stepping over seaweed-slick rocks, squinting into the breeze as gulls wheel overhead, screeching their approval of the approaching twilight. The cove is quiet. The way it always is this time of day — tide low, sky deepening, water turning to silver glass, like someone poured a breathless hush over the entire shoreline.

And here he is, completing the painting.

Raf.

He’s lying at the edge of the rocks, lumped in a pile of his own sulk, flippers tucked close and head turned toward the horizon where the sun is beginning to dip. He looks like a statue someone forgot to carve the face onto—still, slow-breathing, stubbornly present.

You stop a few feet away and raise your brows. "Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you call, in the same rhythm you've always used—the sing-song greeting that once had him springing upright, barking like he'd been summoned by royalty.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look startled. Like he knew you’d come. Like he’s been lying there for hours, maybe all day, waiting for you and doing a terrible job pretending he hasn’t.

"Raaaaf," you whine. "Don’t do this."

You inch closer, navigating the rocks with practiced hopping, one foot bracing while the other leaps forward, the soles of your feet stinging from the uneven stone. He shifts slightly as you approach, but only enough to angle away from you, offering you nothing but the slope of his back and the faint twitch of one earless head.

You sigh, easing yourself down beside him, careful to keep a respectful distance. You wrap your arms around your knees and let the silence stretch, like a long breath held between waves.

"Seriously? You’re gonna be like this?" you mutter. "I’m not dying, you know. I’ll be back."

He flicks his tail once, like punctuation. Noncommittal. Moody.

"You know," you go on, voice softening, "most seals would’ve at least looked sad. Maybe whimpered a little. Instead, I get full passive aggression. Complete stonewall."

Still nothing.

You rest your chin on your knees. The wind plays with your hair, threading it across your face. It smells like dried kelp and brine, and the faint sweetness of crushed beach plum.

He’s still watching the horizon. Pretending you’re not there.

You remember not being able to sit still on the beach without Raf nosing at your backpack, tugging it half into the water just to get your attention. Once, he dragged your towel three meters down the shore while you were diving, then looked genuinely offended when you got angry.

He brought gifts, too — bits of sea glass, shells worn smooth, a shiny bottle cap once that you’d still kept in your drawer. Once, he rolled up with a perfectly intact Gucci sandal that definitely wasn’t yours and dropped it in your lap like an offering. Always a treasure. Always for you. You always joked that he had a hoarding problem, but deep down you wondered if he just liked seeing you surprised.

You also dove together. Or rather, you dove while he spiraled around you like a corkscrewed comet, all fins and glee, sometimes vanishing below you only to burst up like a shadow chasing light. He liked playing chicken with your bubbles, popping up right in front of your goggles with a bark that echoed through your mask and made you choke from laughing.

But lately, none of that.

"You’re the only one I didn’t get to say goodbye to," you murmur. "And I thought — well. I don’t know. I thought you might at least come see me off."

He doesn’t respond. But his curled whiskers twitch. Barely. Maybe it's just the wind. Maybe not.

You don’t blame him. Animals know. Cats sit in suitcases. Dogs vanish when the leash comes out. You just didn’t think a seal could tell. But then again, Raf was never just a seal.

"I’ll be back during holidays," you promise. "And I’ll bring snacks. The good kind. They have so much variety in the mainland. None of the soggy fish fries. I’ll get those crunchy things you liked. You remember those?"

He lets out a soft, resigned noise. Less a huff, more a breath held too long. For all the ignoring and sulking, the usual dramatics of his is missing, and it’s making your heart clench.

You smile, a little. "Okay, okay. I’ll try harder. You’re so high maintenance."

Still, he doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t nudge your hand or toss something shiny at you. He just lies there, quiet and distant and solid as stone.

You stay until the sun slips behind the sea, until the sky turns to bruised blue and the stars begin to appear. One by one, the cove starts to change, growing cool and strange under moonlight. Your legs ache. Your eyes sting. You’ve said goodbye in your head a dozen times now, but it still hasn’t landed.

Eventually, you rise. Sand clings to your toes. Your dress rustles in the wind.

But you pause before you go. Just once. Just long enough to glance back.

He’s watching you.

You smile, small and wobbly. "I'm going to miss you the most, you know."

The morning of your departure is mostly quiet. The island is smaller than it has ever felt before. Or maybe you’ve just grown too big for it.

Mom wakes you with gentle hands and a bowl of warm congee, topped with a perfectly jammy egg, and as you’re washing up, the sight of your bags lined up neatly by the door of your family home feels unreal, like it belongs to someone else’s life. The ferry you’ve spent your whole life working on will be taking you away this time, but not just across the water to another island. This time, it’s the mainland. This time, you won’t be coming back in a few hours.

Dad loads the last of your stuff into the trunk as you’re having breakfast while muttering about ferry times like it's not him who gets the final say about them. You’re wearing the outfit you picked three days ago: practical, still slightly wrinkled, but something that makes you look like someone who has a plan.

Your dress from yesterday hangs near the door, flame lilies fluttering in the breeze each time someone opens it.

There are only a few things left to pack into your backpack, your charger, your toothbrush. Mom tucks a flat envelope into your duffel when she thinks you’re not looking. You let her.

“Are you sure you have everything?” she asks, and you know she’s not really talking about the bags.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting the strap of your carry-on over your shoulder. “I triple-checked.”

There’s a silence that settles between the three of you — not uncomfortable, just heavy with the weight of change.

Dad clears his throat. “You know, if you need anything—”

“I know.” You smile, trying to keep things light. “You’ll have me on the next ferry back before I even finish a sentence.”

Mom huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The joke lands, but the truth sits beneath it. Leaving feels impossible even as you stand at the threshold of it.

The ride to the dock is short, too short, the windows slightly fogged from the still-chilly morning. The conversation in the car starts with Mom nagging before the seatbelt even clicks. "You triple-checked your toothbrush? You always forget your toothbrush. And your charger—the thing with the thing—the long plug one? And a rain jacket. You didn’t pack a rain jacket, did you?"

You're already dissociating. She takes that as permission to continue.

"And don’t wait too long to buy your textbooks, because the good copies go fast. And when you run out of what we packed, don’t just live on instant noodles. You need real food. You need greens. Do you even know where to buy produce? Ask someone. And don’t sleep with your hair wet. You’ll get headaches. You will."

Dad doesn’t say a word. He drives like he’s praying for tunnels.

"And don’t put your laptop on your bed," she adds. "It overheats. You do that. You do that all the time."

You sigh. "I’ll be fine."

"You won’t be fine if you fry your hard drive again. I don’t want a crying phone call from the mainland at two a.m., asking if we backed up your files. We didn’t. Don’t do that to me again."

You nod. Because if you speak again, you’ll laugh or cry or scream, and none of those are safe. You nod, promise, nod again.

Everything’s been arranged: they’ll drop you on the mainland and spend the day in town, just to stretch the goodbye a little longer. Mom has already named three restaurants she wants to try. Dad has said “we’ll see” to all of them.

The dock is alive with movement — vendors dragging ice chests into place, deckhands coiling ropes, early commuters standing in quiet lines. The ferry waits at the end, squat and familiar, ropes taut and mist clinging to its sides. Somebody’s playing music through a phone speaker too loud, and it echoes between the beams of the terminal.

You stand with your parents near the loading ramp. Dad double-checks your ID for the fourth time. Mom tugs your sleeve down over your wrist, then back up again. She smooths the back of your collar like it’s a goodbye ritual—like maybe if the fold is just right, you’ll be protected from everything.

Then—

“Wait,” Mom says, sharp and alert. “Where’s the red suitcase?”

You blink. Scan the stack beside you. Duffel. Suitcase. Food carry-on.

Three.

There were supposed to be four.

“The red one,” she says again, louder now. “The one with your bedding. The toiletries. The extension cord! And your skin care—do you know how expensive that serum is?”

You turn slowly.

And then you see it.

Out in the harbor. A bright, bobbing flash of red. Moving steadily away from the dock.

Being dragged.

By something large, round, and unmistakably gray.

“RAAAAFFF!”

There’s a pause on the dock, like the hush that comes over a herd upon a loud noise. Then someone nearby laughs like it’s a sitcom.

He’s paddling like he has all the time in the world, flippers slicing through the water with purpose. The red suitcase is clamped in his jaws, handle caught like a leash.

“Oh my god,” Mom gasps, slapping Dad’s arm. “He’s stealing the luggage! He’s actually — he’s taking it!”

“Relax,” Dad says, shielding his eyes with one hand. “It’s fine. They’re waterproof.”

“Not animal-proof!” she hisses. “What if he unzips it with his teeth? What if the sunscreen pops open? It’ll be like an oil spill in there!”

You stagger forward. “Raf! What the hell! Get back here!”

The dock crowd thickens — fishermen with crates half-unloaded, tourists with raised cameras. Two kids shriek with laughter. A woman in a floral bucket hat whispers, "Is that trained? Like one of those therapy dolphins?"

Your entire head is on fire.

“Raf!” you shout again.

He swims like a parade float, silent and committed, red suitcase bobbing behind him like an accusatory balloon.

“I swear to god, Raf, this is not a bit! This is NOT CUTE!”

He pauses. Just long enough to make eye contact.

Then gives the suitcase a little tug and keeps going.

“Do something!” Mom cries, pacing in tight frantic circles.

“I am,” you snap, yanking off your shoes.

“WHAT? No, you’re not—don’t get in the—!”

Too late. You’ve dropped your backpack along with your jacket and mentally said goodbye to your cute outfit, and are halfway down the dock ladder.

The water bites immediately. Icy and dense, winding its way into your clothes with zero mercy. You grunt, teeth clacking. "Raf," you sputter, dog-paddling furiously, "if you don’t drop that suitcase right now, I will bite you back."

Your arms ache. Your dress — your going-away outfit chosen specifically to make an impression on your dorm mates — is plastered to your skin, heavy as a sack. You slip once, crash forward, get a mouthful of salt and indignity.

“Come here, you kleptomaniac!”

His fin splashes. Not too far away, but not within grabbing distance either. He makes it look effortless — long body cutting through the waters without a hitch, flippers paddling leisurely, his precious stolen luggage swinging to and fro in tow like the tail end of a comet.

He barks at you once, quick and clear above the slap of waves. Taunting you, almost. Calling you back. Come catch me. If you think you can.

"Yooooouuuu," you growl, dragging your freezing, seawater-logged self forward, arms stiff and dress dragging like annoyingly behind you. "You absolute menace. After days of ghosting me like a moody little shit, this is your grand finale? This? This is what you pull the morning I’m leaving?"

It happens quickly — the cold has slowed your reaction times and made you clumsy. An uneven wave buffets you from below and sends you lurching sideways. There's a confused second before your head sinks under the surface and icy black closes around you. You kick automatically, heart pounding, lungs burning with sudden terror. But it's only seconds before you bob up again, gasping and spitting out seawater.

And he’s right there.

Raf floats beside you, nose hovering near your shoulder, eyes wide and black as obsidian. His nose nudges at you, first one side, then the other, gentle, inquisitive pushes against your shoulders like he's testing the give of you. It should be funny, a seal checking in on you like this.

You blink at him, dazed. His expression — if a seal can even have one — is alarmingly innocent. No trace of mischief. Just concern. That wide-eyed, alien kind of worry that somehow reads so clearly across a face that isn't built to show it.

A laugh escapes you, helpless and watery. It’s all too much: the cold, the shouting, the absurdity of nearly drowning because your emotionally unwell sea-friend decided to hijack your journey.

From the dock, someone’s yelling your name. You can hear Mom now, shrill with worry. The sound of boots clattering. The unmistakable click of a camera shutter.

"Aw!" someone coos. "He’s helping her swim!"

"Silly boy," you chide fondly, reaching out carefully with one stiff hand. "Trying to play savior after kidnapping my belongings."

But Raf remains where he is, letting your fingers brush briefly across the top of his slick head, his whiskers tickling at your inner forearm in soft bristles. The intent he has in looking at your face with those deep, unfathomable twin dark mirrors that reflect your own image back to you tells you he means something by it. Something significant. He whines quietly in the back of his throat, low and rasping. You hear something in him in that moment, something mournful. The sound seems to travel directly through water to nest itself inside your ribs.

"I'm very angry at you," you murmur, patting him gently one final time on the nose before pulling away. "Give it back."

He noses at your shoulder. As if asking for another stroke. As if he hasn’t done anything wrong. As if this is just another normal day in paradise and there isn't chaos unfolding overhead, nor witnesses observing the weirdest act of petty theft ever witnessed in these parts.

You wrestle the handle free from his surprisingly tight grasp and glare at him reproachfully, pushing the suitcase back towards shore like a surfer sending her board off on its own mission. You hear cheers from the direction of the ferry. More than likely, they assume you got whatever had attracted the seal's interest away safely and are celebrating accordingly. But Raf's cries behind you sound plaintive rather than victorious at having succesfully delayed your departure, almost apologetic. You ignore them stubbornly, instead focusing on getting yourself and the suitcase back ashore in one piece.

He's the better swimmer of course, so it doesn't take long for him to catch up with ease. His giant bulk bumps you repeatedly in the side like he's trying to help keep your head above water in case the weight of the luggage drags you down. He makes an obvious attempt at stealing it from you mid-stroke every so often, but he seems more interested in keeping you company rather than any real attempt at further sabotage, content enough to simply be nearby rather than running off again with his ill-gotten prize.

You reach the dock ladder exhausted and out of breath, Dad lifting you up bodily by your armpits onto the dock as though you weigh nothing while Raf circles below in clear agitation at not being allowed up onto dry land himself. Mom's clearly been fretting this whole time judging from her frazzled appearance when you finally make it to the surface again, wrapping a thick blanket around your shoulders with the urgency of someone trying to contain a small explosion and clucking over you like an anxious hen as Dad attempts to lure the wayward suitcase closer in order to fish it back in.

“You spoiled him,” she snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at the gray head still bobbing below. “He thinks he’s family. This is what happens when you let wild animals eat from your hands and sleep next to you. I told you this would happen. I told you.”

You know she's upset and concerned, but still it irks you to have someone else talk about Raf that way. Even if the trouble's been caused due to his bad temperament for the day. "I know he's not a pet," you snap. "He's just playing, Mom."

Dad looks up from his attempts at retrieval. "Have you noticed him becoming aggressive recently?"

You shake your head immediately, remembering the tenderness of Raf's worried attentions moments prior when you both had been alone together. The same worries which Mom is currently expressing aloud. "Not at all, no, and even if he were, we'd know because we've seen the signs long before it became a problem, Dad. Don't treat him like he's sick or rabid. That's just cruel. He's doing great."

Dad lifts both hands in defeat, giving up on making any sense of the situation.

"C'mon, let's get you changed," Mom decides finally, guiding you away towards the family ferry with one of your carry-ons trailing behind her.

You twist around to look for Raf — who hasn't seemed to realize yet that the two of you have abandoned their efforts — only to feel your chest clench painfully when you find him gone completely from sight, as though he never existed in the first place.

It begins the moment the dock recedes, the ropes unwinding from their cleats like threads unraveling from the hem of a shirt you can’t stop wearing, even when it no longer fits. The ferry groans forward. Beneath the swell and churn of propellers, your mother is still murmuring into the lid of her thermos, rehearsing the list of things she’s convinced you’ll forget the moment you step foot into the dorms, though she’s already said it twice, maybe three times.

You don’t register the splash. Not over the drone of the engine, the high, desolate cries of gulls circling overhead like winged punctuation marks. But others do. There’s a shift in the air — an intake, a thrum, a ripple of attention moving across the deck.

“Is that the same seal?” someone says, the words caught halfway between delight and disbelief.

You know before you turn.

There’s a charge in your chest, a tightening beneath your ribs, the inexplicable weight of knowing you’re being seen.

Raf.

Not basking on the rocks. Not lurking near the moorings. He’s in the open now, out in the deep, and he’s keeping pace.

A streak of mottled gray slicing through the wake. Each curve of his body surfaces, glistens, then vanishes again. Unerring. Tireless. As if the ocean were built to part for him.

It’s not a game. It’s not curiosity. He’s following.

“Like a dolphin,” someone breathes.

You fold your hands into your coat pockets as if you could anchor yourself there, contain the vertigo rising in your chest. He’s never followed the ferry, never even crossed the cove’s border over to the populated areas. He was fine in the open sea. He liked the quiet vastness of it, the way the water stretched wide and unpeopled. What rattled him was the presence of others. People. Crowds. The tight concentration of noise and motion. Places where voices bounced off concrete and metal, where strangers reached and pointed and lingered too long with their eyes. He'd always skirted the edges of such spaces, drawn but wary, inching closer only to vanish when attention turned sharp.

He'd avoid the fishing boats, the ports, the children with their bright towels and sticky hands. You’d seen it — how the jerk in his posture came quick and absolute, how he slipped into the water like a breath held underwater the moment someone raised a voice. His world had rules, unspoken but absolute: stay hidden, stay safe, stay away.

And now — he is here. In the thick of it. Among the diesel-smudged air and the spectacle of faces. Moving with intention, not accident.

The meaning of that hits you hard, sharp beneath the ribs.

This isn’t a lapse. It’s a decision.

And now, here he is. Out where it’s loud, unpredictable and unkind.

The significance lands with a weight that makes your knees ache. This isn’t just a fluke. It’s not momentary courage or curiosity. It’s will. It’s devotion dressed in salt.

You’d never thought him capable of that kind of leap, of forsaking instinct for longing.

And maybe that’s what stings most. That he would go where even people haven’t. That he would follow when others chose not to. That he would brave something that once made his whole body flinch.

For you.

The ferry’s path threads the archipelago, a slow, ceremonial glide from island to island, each stop familiar and hollow. Wind-worn docks. Sun-cooked ropes. The same children pulling at their parents’ sleeves, the same vendors stacking crates of sugar fruit and bread. But everything feels warped now, longer, thinner, stretched too tight.

At the first island, you almost allow yourself relief when he doesn’t appear right away. But as the horn sounds and the ferry pushes off again, he surfaces in the wake.

At the second, he’s waiting. Still. Still as stone, except for the water whispering over his back.

By the third, a crowd has gathered. Children at the rails. Teens with phones out. Someone throws a cracker. Raf doesn’t so much as twitch. His eyes don’t leave you.

You sit pressed against the window, arms crossed so tightly across your stomach it aches. And still your gaze drifts, pulled to the edge again and again.

By the fourth island, you feel it in your shoulders — the pressure, the strain. Every dock feels harder to leave.

By the fifth, you’re standing, wind tangling your hair, your eyes burning.

By the sixth—

Your hands are clenched on the railing. Your eyes overflow without warning. There’s no noise to it. Just a slow descent of tears, tracking over your cheeks, falling onto the scarf your mother insisted you bring.

Most animals understand human patterns to an extent, even intelligent mammals like dolphins have been studied for their social intellec t, but seals operate on different cognitive mechanisms altogether compared to the more popularly researched sea animals, and whether Raf could comprehend anything beyond being a nuisance at best for most folk still remained unclear.

But. He’s still there.

He shouldn’t be.

But he is. A small, relentless shape. Never flagging.

And something about that undoes you.

What kind of creature follows you this far? Not for food. Not for spectacle. Just because it cannot fathom not following.

Not even people do that. Not even the ones who promised to.

There is something about his persistence, mute, unwavering, ferocious in its simplicity, that hollows out your chest. It’s devotion in its rawest form. Without language. Without demand. And it devastates you.

He follows without knowing where you’re going. That’s what shatters you. That he has no map, no endpoint, no idea of how far or how long, or what he'll be encountering.

He doesn’t follow the route. He follows you. And even that is too simple.

He follows the grief of your absence before it’s fully formed. He follows the outline of goodbye.

And it undoes you. That kind of devotion. That kind of belief.

You press your knuckles to your eyes, heat blooming beneath your lids, something bitter and unwelcome tightening behind your sternum. The shame swells in the silence, low and heavy and undeniable. You were unkind. Too sharp. You treated him like he was something ordinary like a kid throwing a tantrum.

He's following, of course he is. Because you're all he knows. Because you taught him connection, safety, love, companionship unique to humanity. He thought you to be permanent. Stable. And trusted that no matter what happened to you, even if something took you away from him temporarily, you would return. That's how it had always been like for three years now. And instead of saying your goodbyes properly, like friends would, like friends ought to, like he deserves, you had cut things short by storming off.

He was a fucking seal for god's sake, you wouldn't be able to text him later or call to apologize, or invite him around yours once you've settled down properly at school. What does he know about distance and change, time passing, plans changing, responsibilities?

What does he know about leaving, period?

The mainland bleeds into view like a wound stitched from concrete and steel.

Steel-gray docks yawning out across the harbor, cranes like rusting skeletons, the skyline stacked with buildings and noise. The water darkens here, churned by hulls too large and too many, and everything smells like salt drowned in engine grease.

People swarm the terminal, dockhands shouting over backup alarms, tourists fumbling with overstuffed bags, someone loudly asking where the restrooms are in a dialect not meant for shouting.

You feel it before you see it, the grit in the air, the way the water thickens under the ferry’s weight, the scent shifting from brine and seaweed to engine oil and burnt plastic. The sky flattens. The noise rises. It’s too bright here, too many sharp edges. The city swells toward you with its teeth showing.

A break in the noise.

A wave of sound fractures across the dock, screams, laughter, confusion honed to a blade’s edge.

He breaches the harbor like a rupture. Like something breaking the surface that was never meant to be seen.

Back home in the archipelago, it would’ve been met with little more than a glance. A hum of acknowledgment. Maybe a laugh, if he bumped into someone’s net or made a mess of a drying line. Seals weren’t miracles, they were a fact of the shoreline. They barked at low tide, hauled out on back porches like they owned them, draped themselves across sun-warmed stones under strict observation and firm protection. The archipelago didn’t just live alongside them, it carved space for them. Regulations kept their beaches clear, nets modified, engines slowed. Raf wouldn’t have been strange there. Just another wet face in the crowd. Maybe even invisible.

But not here.

But here—

Here he is spectacle. Alien. Out of place and unallowed.

Their fascination curdles fast. Not wonder, not even confusion, but that wide-eyed, teeth-baring kind of hunger. The city doesn’t know how to love a wild thing unless it can be packaged. Catalogued. Consumed. And Raf, still panting and soaked, has become a glitch in the script they thought they were following.

Raf, soaked and singular, rising from the water as if the sea itself is offering him up is a slick blur of grey and glinting salt. He’s already on the ramp. Not floundering — no. He throws his body forward with that stubborn, undignified determination only he can wear like majesty.

Phones raise like weapons. Fingers twitch with the instinct to reach. No one touches him, but it’s not restraint. It’s restraint like a child watching flame, longing to burn their fingers just to see if it will scar.

He knows. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the too-wide stance of his flippers, the way he never once turns his back. He’s pressed taut with it, the knowledge of being watched by a crowd that doesn’t believe he should exist in their space.

He’s never looked more out of place.

Never smaller.

His flippers slap against the aluminum. He grunts. He screams. He galumphs. There aren't any docks here, no rocks for him to perch on, none of the old familiar salty scent of ocean he's so accustomed to. There are strangers. Scents and sounds that frighten him. There is nowhere else to go but onward.

People scatter in the ferry. A cup of coffee drops. A camera flashes. Somewhere, a child claps.

He disappears for a moment, past the threshold, into the ferry’s belly.

By the time you reach him, he’s tucked himself into the far corner of the lower deck, pressed against the vending machine like it’s the last safe place on earth, chest still heaving, whiskers trembling, his flippers flush to his sides like some strange version of a hug. He doesn't respond immediately despite seeing you, seeming more stunned than anything else as if trying to make sense of this new environment.

"Raf, holy shit, I am so sorry." The words spill out all at once, almost clumsy in your hurry to get them out. The floor hums under your knees as you sink to them, the metal cold through your jeans. "Look at you, oh god, I'm so sorry I left you behind—"

Your name hangs between you, threaded through with things unsaid, the gravity of a thousand shared days suddenly coiled too tight.

When he moves, it feels like something unsticking — a bone sliding back in place, a bruise blossoming, a slow surrendering of distance. It shudders up his entire body, a tremble that works its way from toes to fins until his tail slaps the ground once, hard, a final, reluctant release of control.

And then he’s on you, squirming close and eager. Lumbering with relief and excitement, almost knocking you flat as he nuzzles and paws at your shoulder insistently with those giant paddles, still somewhat damp, shaking so hard his whiskers quiver. He huffs softly against you as if still having trouble believing you're truly here now after following the ferry all the way from home.

"Oh, my cutie pie, yes hi hello," you mutter quickly, attempting pet him while simultaneously keeping both your bodies from toppling over backwards. "I'm right here. No need to panic anymore."

After several minutes of vigorous cuddling, Raf finally settles a little when you continue scratching soothingly down his side, leaning into it like he's finally allowing himself to believe you're really in front of him now.

You sigh quietly through your nose, carding gentle fingers through his furry head as his rumbling squeaks resumes again within his chest.

"Yes, you were so brave. I promise you we won't do this ever again. You're amazing for making it this far and sticking with me the whole way. Good boy."

He flops against you bonelessly as if finally feeling safe enough to let his guard down now that you're both aboard together and seemingly alone for now. With no witnesses around to react negatively or try touching him without your approval first, he relaxes more and lets his eyelids droop, his snoring soft and pleasant.

"God, you're silly. Look at this... you think I've forgotten about you stealing my stuff? Oh no, honey, not today."

Raf sighs gustily, nudging your cheek with his nose in halfhearted protest.

You stare fondly down at him and consider what the hell you're supposed to do now. He can't remain here like he would be able to back home -- his home. Wildlife restoration would undoubtedly send someone to relocate him immediately if they got wind of it, and there's also the risk of getting cornered by animal control services who would come and take him away for fear he might bite or attack people if provoked. Not to mention the dangers of either being hunted or caught in a fishing net while being too tired to swim to freedom... The thought of either happening fills you with dread.

No, Raf can't stay here, this place isn't made for him.

It's good that he's currently in the ferry. Dad can take him back on board, since he'll have to turn around anyway to go home; surely, the crew won't mind another passenger along with them back across the channel.

"I'm sorry I made you push yourself," you say, even though it's just you and him and an empty, humming hallway. "And I'm sorry for not telling you goodbye properly. That wasn't fair of me. I was just so. So..." You shake your head, throat pinching dangerously. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me that leaving wouldn't be something like just going next door and I could come out and spend time with you when I wasn't so angry anymore. How could I think I'd see you everyday still?"

He offers only silence, save for the faint whistling in and out of his nostrils. His warmth steadies you, despite everything. Like standing knee-deep in an ocean that hasn’t decided yet which way to shift.

"This has to be animal abuse, right," you blurt, scrubbing roughly at your face.

He chuffs at you impatiently, bumping your elbow with his nose. When you look down, you catch the flash of one black eye gleaming in the low light of the ferry's hallways while the other is buried in the shadow of your coat. If he understands or not, you can never quite tell. But the look he gives you is oddly patient — tender, almost, the same gentleness that draws seabirds to follow ships, the instinctual tug of home and kin.

His chest puffs like he's inhaling a great lungful of something, then sags again, sputtering. It's impossible to tell whether he means to answer or just exhale noisily to distract you, but it does draw your attention nonetheless.

“Yeah, okay, thank you, heard loud and clear,” you continue, falling silent for a while. “You gotta leave though, Raf, you can’t stay here.”

He wiggles as if refusing, and you double down. “You can’t. You saw outside, people don't—it's not like home, there are more people living on this city than on the rest of the archipelago combined. And most of them haven’t seen animals like you doing what you did today before, and certainly not so closely... If word gets out, people might try to capture you, take photos of you, stuff you away inside a glass case... And it's gonna happen no matter where you go here because they don't have any wildlife landmarks like we have at home. At least there you're in open space. Here, if anyone catches you, you'd be taken away from me one way or the other."

He goes very still. Still like water before a wave breaks. There is a hush to him. A quality to his attention you recognize now — focus, not fear. Attentiveness, not alarm.

He's so smart. Impossibly perceptive and sharp. Clever as he comes. An animal with the intelligence of a human child twice their age. He looks up at you now as if trying to convey that he understands perfectly what you mean with the threat of danger inseparable from your explanation, and isn’t pleased by this.

"That’s why you have to be a good boy and let Mom and Dad drop you off back home, okay? You just need to stay where you are and let the ferry carry you away, okay? You'll be safe and sound. And I—"

Raf lets out an agitated squeal and begins pawing frantically at you, startling you badly as his flippers smack repeatedly at your sides. He scrabbles onto your lap with his awkward gait until you give him your hands and then, using them as a grip, squeezes your forearms urgently. There are sounds you don’t understand but recognize — indignant clicks, low croaks, mournful huffs. They thrum through his body as if through a flute. The noises vibrate somewhere between anger and distress, each one higher than the last.

“I’m not leaving you forever,” you breathe. Your voice is torn silk. “I’m not.”

He digs his claws harder into your forearms like an admonishing kitten, making insistent warbling calls back at you. He's upset, afraid; his vocalizations grow frantic, almost desperate, seeking reassurance.

"You can trust me on this one," you say, petting him gently, soothingly. "I'll come back. Promise. Okay?"

He whines pitifully against you, sounding unconvinced by the notion.

"For breaks and holidays, yeah, plus visits too. Just because I won't be around as much doesn't mean I've disappeared completely or abandoned you. I'll just be a little farther away for awhile and there will be more time between the trips to see each other."

And when Raf merely grumbles louder rather than showing any sign of having understood, you pull him closer into you, tucking his head under your chin protectively and hold him tight for as long as you dare, ignoring the ache beginning to blossom in your knees from squatting here on the cold floor, letting your pulse slow and fall in time with his own steady breathing. You run your hand down his smooth pelt one final time, savoring the sensation and imprinting it deep within your memory.

"I love you, you know that right?" You mumble into his silky fur, knowing he likely couldn't actually understand or process what that particular phrase meant aside from recognizing it as something he's heard countless times before and which calms you significantly every time it passes your lips, yet perhaps he does, or maybe there's the barest hint of comprehension from whatever he takes away from the emotional subtext rather than the literal meaning of your words. "I won't go ahead and forget you that easily. Never could."

In response, Raf shifts just enough so he can meet your stare, eyes like glossy ink drops blinking up at you slowly. Then he licks your cheek very firmly in an approximation of affection, prompting you to wipe your saliva stained skin with your sleeve.

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formulakracing · 1 year ago

Text

viii. shining bright in suzuka - t.w.

pairing: female driver! x toto wolff

word count: 3.0k

warnings: this chapter is a lot milder, so my apologies. cursing, banter, teasing, references to sex, toto being flustered as fuck, discussion of hickeys, references to oral (f! receiving), yadayadayada

prev. | next.

“jet lagged, are we?”

an elbow nudges shoulder, prodding you awake, “wakey, wakeyyyyy.”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

peering from under your hood, you make out alex standing over you, a smirk painting his lips, “what time is it?”

“around 9 i think,” pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checks the time, “well, more like 9:30. what time did you fly in last night?”

“too late,” you grumble, rubbing your heavy lids, “way too late.”

“how long was your flight? because you look absolutely miserable,” although alex’s question is innocent, you hold your tongue.

while you didn’t necessarily want to lie, you almost had to.

“about twenty hours.”

“yikes,” alex shakes his head, his focus directed on his phone, “sucks to suck.”

“where did you fly out from? monaco? did lily come with you?”

“maybeeee,” his voice crescendos, his smiling growing, “but yeah, she came with. she’s sleeping right now though. or getting ready. i’m not sure. but she’ll be here shortly.”

“yayyyy!” kicking your feet, you fish your phone out of your hoodie pocket, “she’s my favorite golfer, you know that?”

“she can’t be your favorite,” he shakes his head, thumbs fiddling with the screen, “she’s my favorite golfer so that means you have to pick someone else. i’m her number one fan, actually.”

“okay fine,” you huff, “i’ll be her second number one fan.”

alex’s girlfriend, better known as muni “lily” he, was a professional golfer. she was undeniably gorgeous, with luscious, thick hair, a slim build, and beautiful, bright eyes. they reminded you of a sunlight shining through a forest, a rich,earthy hue. in addition to her stunning features, she was a kind, bubbly individual, quickly bonding with you over your shared status as professional athletes. she was hilarious as well, often getting you to crack a smile in the paddock after a rough lap or after being grilled in a press conference.

her relationship with alex began after she watched a season of drive to survive on netflix. from there, the two connected over instagram, sharing conversations over their shared interests. that aspect always made you giggle, as she was the ultimate fangirl. her support for alex was adorable, and he was so in love with her.

that was something you admired about alex. his fierce love for lily and his ability to be able to share it with the world, the two posting one another often across their social medias.

if only you could tell the world about toto.

fuck, if only you could tell your parents you had met someone.

however, your relationship status with the team principal was complicated.

extremely complicated.

the time you spent with him in brackley was pure and utter bliss. since you had time to waste, you mostly spent it in his bed, cuddling one another, relishing one another’s presence. he was able to explain some more about his divorce with susie some, relieving your lingering anxiety over the matter.

when the two of you weren’t talking, cuddling, or sleeping, you found your bodies intertwined, his name flowing from your lips. notes of purple, blue, and pink painted your shoulders, breasts, collarbone, and thighs. fuck, there was probably even on one of your ass cheeks. you were so sore, your walls stretched, inner thighs aching.

hopefully it wouldn’t affect your ability to race.

you prayed to god it wouldn’t.

there was one thing you couldn’t get over, even if it was a little ridiculous.

how was he able to maintain that pace in bed? it was honestly impressive how high his libido was. and his stamina? oh fuck. you were the one who had to tap out nearly every time. yet, he was so gentle with you afterwards, placing soft kisses on every inch of your skin, assuring you that he would massage any sore muscles, offering to make you food if you were hungry.

one night, he even sang you to sleep. it was a german tune, so you didn’t quite understand the words. but the gesture was enough to have you melting in his arms, falling asleep only minutes after he started. every morning, you’d wake up to his head between your thighs, toto utterly devouring you until he was satisfied.

you couldn’t express how grateful you were to finally have some time alone with him, where you didn’t have to worry about missing flights or meetings. where you could kiss him as many times as you wanted. where you could just lay with him, your head on his chest as he replied to emails. he didn’t answer a single work-related call in that time, all of his attention focused on you.

as you sat with alex, you couldn’t help but wonder.

what was the label you could place on your relationship with the team principal?

meanwhile, toto wolff stood in the mercedes paddock, mingling with george and lewis. a team member approaches toto, tablet in hand.

“mr. wolff, we’ve comprised a report of the necessary adjustments needed for this weekend’s race.”

“beautiful,” lewis hamilton finds himself arching a brow as he notices the grin plastered across his team principal’s face, “here, let’s go over here, and you can discuss it with me further. excuse me, you two. we’ll talk more later.”

as the team principal strolls away, lewis turns to his fellow driver. the other brit appears just as shocked, eyes wide, lips parted.

“what the fuck happened over our break?”

“he’s been so smiley today,” lewis folds his arms across his chest, “do you think he got laid?”

“toto?” george tuts, “surely not. he doesn’t have the time to get laid. he’s always complaining about this meeting, some press conference, a mercedes showcasing. his schedule is packed so tightly, you have to make an appointment to speak with him for more than five minutes.”

“come on, mate,” lewis nods over the team principal, noticing the prominent mark on his neck, just barely peeking out over his collar, “george. he has a hickey. he has a fucking hickey.”

“surely no– oh my god,” george’s arms drop to his sides as he glances over, also taking note of the mark, “holy shit. he did get laid.”

“but who?” lewis presses, “who in their right mind would fuck that man? a recent divorcee? i pray for whoever the poor girl was.”

“the man’s a billionaire,” george waves a hand, “i’m sure there are models practically throwing themselves at him in monaco. perhaps he met a girl at a club or something. i wouldn’t think too much of it. although, it would probably be best if you mentioned the hickey. the press would be all over that.”

“what the fuck am i supposed to say?” lewis hisses, “should it be something like, ‘oh mate, i think you need to take a look at your neck. you have something there.’ or what?”

“wait,” george’s brows furrow, “he was in brackley. he responded to one of my texts saying he was working from the headquarters over break–”

“he fucked someone from mercedes?” lewis’ eyes widen, a hand flying to his mouth, “oh fuck. who could it possibly be?”

“well first things first,” george clears his throat, “you need to mention the hickey. then we need to focus on the practice laps. if we do well and he’s in a good mood, we’ll casually bring it up. we’ll say something like, ‘oh we’ve noticed you’ve been wearing that cheeky grin lately. is there something behind that? are you seeing someone, perhaps?’ we’ll be real smooth with it, so that he doesn’t suspect anything. if we perform poorly, i don’t think he would want to discuss it.”

“well no shit.”

“oh god,” george straightens his posture, “he’s coming back over here. you better say something!”

as the team principal grows near, the british drivers engage in conversation, discussing their performance from the last race. toto clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“i hope i’m not interrupting anything between you two.”

“oh no,” lewis bears a quaint smile, “we were just talking about the fia’s decision regarding that williams driver.”

“the american girl?” toto inquires, maintaining his composure, “she really did a number on you, george.”

“just like someone did a number on your neck,” lewis chips in, teasing lightly, “what were you up to these past couple of days? up to no good?”

“what are you–” toto’s eyes narrow, yet the realization washes over him as he takes in the smug expressions across his drivers’ faces.

the hickey was visible. the one on the left side of his neck.

“i-i don’t know what you’re rambling about.”

“mhmmm,” lewis puckers his lips, “tell me toto, did you get laid recently?”

inhaling a sharp breath, the team principal puts up his hands, in a vain attempt to cease their speculations.

yet, he was well aware there was no stopping those two.

the teasing was going to ensue the entire weekend. and they were going to be relentless, pressing each and every little button until he gave in.

“what happens in my personal life is none of you–”

before he can finish, lewis puts up a hand, “toto we’ve gone on holiday with you. we’ve had weekends in monaco together. we spend nearly every waking minute together. whether it’s at brackley, in the paddock, or addressing the press, we’ve spent a lot of time together. now, we’re being merciful here. who is the lovely lady?”

“that is none of your–”

“fine,” george interjects, “we’ll drop it for now. but when this weekend is over, you better believe we’ll be on your ass about it. we’re going to find out who this woman is. one way or another.”

although, the british drivers did not have to look very far.

you were simply a few paddocks down, filming a tik tok with lily.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

“fuck yes!”

“great job! great fucking job! we’ll see you in the paddock!”

adrenaline courses through your veins as you lay off the gas, practically gliding towards the paddock. stopping the car, you climb out, pumping your fists as the pit crew swarms forward, patting your back, cheers ringing all around.

amidst the crowd, james makes his way through, opening his arms for an embrace.

you collapse into it, his hands rattling along your helmet, “way to redeem yourself, american girl!”

“pole position for tomorrow isn’t too bad, huh?”

“not at all!” james’ eyes are alight with joy, “that will shut everyone up, yeah?”

“i think so,” the words are breathless, “fuck, that was intense.”

“you can sleep a little easier tonight,” james remarks, patting your helmet once more, “although, i would be on guard. those redbull boys are going to be on your ass.”

sliding your helmet off, your lungs take in the fresh air. your knees buckle momentarily, the limbs feeling a little like jell-o. graciously, you accept a water bottle from james, taking a swig. hairs cling to your forehead, the other ends sticking up in every direction.

“fuck, i’m tired.”

“well, i don’t have anything for you,” james’ tone is laced with sympathy, “you’ve had a long few days. when you leave, just keep your head down, hood up. this is one of the only times i’ll let you avoid the press. if they antagonize you, just make some bullshit up. i can handle the rest.”

“are you sure you want me to do that? that may just create more headlines,” unzipping your suit halfway, you slip your arms out, grateful for the coolness of the spring suzuka climate.

“i’m sure,” james rests a hand on your shoulder, “you deserve some rest. alex informed me you had a long flight. the jet lag can persist if you’re not used to it. you look exhausted.”

“i still haven’t adjusted to all of the traveling that comes with this sport,” you exhale, bringing your helmet under your arm, “thank you, james. you’re the best.”

“of course. it’s my job to be the best, you know,” he shoots you a wink, “now go! our little star needs her beauty rest!”

“little star. that’s a new one,” you roll your eyes playfully, “okay, okay. i’ll go.”

spinning on your heel, you turn to leave, strolling out of the paddock. making your way through the team headquarters, you wave to all of the members, grinning as they congratulate you, shouting a variety of inaudible or incoherent words of praise. within minutes, you’re able to locate your belongings, closing the door to the room.

wincing, you tug the legs of the suit off. fuck, were more sore than usual. underneath the fabric, your muscles tingled, buzzing from the adrenaline. if you were hurting this bad now, god only knew how much more intense it was going to be in a few hours.

slipping into a hoodie and some leggings, you pull the hood up, throwing your book bad on your shoulder.

now, it would only be a short walk to your motorhome, where you could shower and sleep.

thank fucking god.

glancing at your phone, you briefly picked through your notifications. there was really nothing too serious. a few texts from your parents, congratulating you on the pole position.

however, there was one message awaiting your response.

congratulations, my golden girl. can i swing by your place in a few? i just have to wrap up with my team and then i’ll be on my way. you should have time to shower, so do not rush.

also, lewis and george will not stop pestering me about the hickey on my neck. they’ve been up my ass all fucking day. i’m only seconds away from reporting them to the fia and have them disqualified. LOL or however the fuck you say it.

p.s. you’re going to get the biggest smooch. ever.

at his poor use of lol, you let out a laugh, your thumbs gliding across the screen, typing a response.

when you’re on your way, let me know so i can leave the door unlocked for you. maybe i can give you some concealer so you can cover it up tomorrow lmfaooo. my bad, my bad. see you soon, hottie. <3

p.s. i can’t wait to get the biggest smooch ever.

before you know it, you’re at the front door of your motorhome, sliding the key into the lock. turning it, you swing the door open, trudging inside.

throwing your belongings on the counter, you groan as the pain seeps into every crevice of your body, desperate for some relief. hopefully a hot shower and toto’s hands would ease some of the ache.

on the other side of the track, a team principal paces, oh so impatient.

“are we all done here?”

“yes sir,” a team member responds coolly, “we’re finished.”

“okay good,” he nods. waving his hands, he dismisses his team and crew, “all right! see you all tomorrow. bright and early!”

as the members disperse, toto bites his lip, tapping his foot lightly against the carpet.

why was everything taking so fucking long?

“why are you in such a rush?” lewis’ voice pulls him from his thoughts. thoughts about you, nonetheless, “have somewhere to be?”

“lewis,” toto’s voice is dangerously low, “quit it. stop that shit right now.”

“i’m just saying,” lewis shrugs, “it’s sort of odd you’re usually the last to leave, but now you’re chomping at the bit, ready to get out of here. is there someone waiting on you?”

actually, there was.

the girl he was beginning to fall head over heels for was waiting for him. perched in her bed, more than likely. more than ready to be swathed in his loving arms.

she had him wrapped around her little finger, there was no denying that.

especially when she had him pulling shit like this.

peering around, the team principal ensures that there were no cameras or mics lingering about. netflix was in their early stages of shooting the 2024 season of drive to survive, so there were cameramen and production crew milling about the paddocks throughout the day.

thank god they didn’t catch the entire hickey debacle on camera.

that alone would have ended his career.

“perhaps i am seeing someone,” toto hisses pointing a finger at the british driver, “but that is none of your concern. i will see you tomorrow, lewis.”

“can you at least tell me who she is?” his bottom lip juts out, forming a pout, “come on, toto. you’ve been so open with me all of these years and this is where you draw the line?”

“all you need to know is that she’s a professional athlete,” that was half the truth, at least. hopefully enough to keep lewis at bay for the time being.

“an athlete?” lewis’ brows raise, “what sport?

“horseback riding.”

close enough.

“hmmph,” lewis purses his lips, “well, if you want to tell me more, i’ll be all ears. i’ll see you tomorrow, toto. hopefully we have a hell of a race.”

“hopefully,” the only thing on toto’s mind was getting to you, before the cleanup crew started their rounds, “i will see you in the morning, lewis.”

the driver bids another farewell before catching up with george, exiting the paddock. however, he glances over his shoulder one more time, mouthing something to george before the two continue, disappearing from his line of sight.

fuck, that was unbearable.

borderline miserable.

lights glitter all around as the team principal makes his way to your motorhome, concealed by the hood of his jacket, thankful for the brisk evening air. if he didn’t have a jacket, he would have been fucked.

however, it was sort of difficult for the team principal to blend in. especially with his stature and size.

as he strolls up to the door of your motorhome, he takes once last cautious look, ensuring that there was no one watching.

yet, what the team principal forgot to account for was the production crew of drive to survive.

and they managed to record the entire encounter as you opened the door, greeting the team principal with open arms.

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

taglist: @toldyouitwasamelodrama @kravitzwhore @persona1lies @pucksandpower @k3ira13 @prettiest-at-the-party @martwll @annewithaneofthegreengable @zoeyjadetice2010 @sinners-98-world @danielricciardotr @laura-naruto-fan1998 @whoisss @nebarious @joalslibrary

if you would like to be added to my taglist, please let me know! thank you for all of the support thus far! <3

#toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #formula 1 #f1 #formula one #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #max verstappen #toto wolff x you #toto wolff x y/n #female driver au #george russell #lewis hamilton #f1 racing #formula one fanfiction

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gorbo-longstocking · 3 months ago

Text

Do Not Blame the Sea - Chapter 10

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Before Senator Dorso’s party, you have apologies to make and a checkup with Geta to complete. Once that is done, all you need to do is make your way to his domus, and not make an ass of yourself. Too bad it turns out you can’t hold your wine.

Tags: MDNI, slight dacryphillia, biting and marking, slight masochism, slight dom/sub, some blood, dry humping, spit kink and spit drinking, jealous Geta, mentions of period-typical slavery, drunkenness (Reader and Caracalla), minor discussions of modern American politics it’s kind of vague though, drunken fondling from Caracalla, jealous Caracalla, second hand embarrassment, soft Geta. That’s it, yayyyy!!!

Word Count: 14.2k words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

Caracalla was giving you the cold shoulder. Someway, somehow, while still sticking to you like he was made of velcro, he managed to pull it off. Spectacularly, you might add. If you hadn’t already felt guilty before, you did now, even if it was tinged with a hint of exasperated frustration. Every night, he would sleep in your bed, though he made a point to turn his body away from yours. During the day, he followed you around more than before, close enough that every so often, he would step on the backs of your shoes. He never apologized for it, going so far as to glare at you as if you had made him do it on purpose. The only time you were free of him was if he had a particular imperial duty he couldn’t shirk.

Despite being by your side all hours of the day, he didn’t speak to you. He barely acknowledged you. Whenever you tried to bridge the gap, all you would get as a response were the corners of his lips turning downwards, or a glower that signified if you didn’t shut up soon, he would make you. You were in the doghouse now, and that was where you would remain until Caracalla decided you had enough. Hopefully, he would decide sooner rather than later, because, unfortunately, this punishment of his was more effective than you thought it’d be.

To say you felt awful would be an understatement. At first, you were content to let him have his tantrum. Caracalla was fickle, and he had forgiven you that night in Geta’s bedroom. Surely, this wouldn’t last long. Until the minutes became hours, and the hours became days, and the days became a week — a whole week! — of Caracalla’s vehement insistence on giving you the silent treatment. Even Geta wasn’t this bad. He, at least, nodded a short greeting to you the few times you crossed his path, despite obviously avoiding you. On the average day, you’d see Geta around the palace about a dozen times. Now, though, you were lucky to run across him once or twice. The twins’ insistence on… whatever this was may result in you crying into your pillow. Which, you were unable to do in peace, considering the nest that Caracalla made on his side of your bed.

Despite being angry with you, he had dragged a majority of his blankets and pillows from his own bedroom to yours. As of right now, you weren’t allowed to touch any — trying to do so had gotten your hand smacked away. You really hoped he wouldn’t start having sex in your bed, that would be too gross for you to handle. Sleeping in other people’s fluids was not high on your bucket list. Thankfully, he kept his trysts to his own room, though he made absolutely sure you knew what he was doing with a mean smile on his face. When all you gave as a response was a blank stare, Caracalla stomped out of the room, angrier than before.

You wished you understood people more, maybe then you would understand how to fix this. Caracalla wouldn’t give you anything, and you were starting to realize exactly how angry he was with you. He was more stubborn than you ever anticipated. Before now, you wouldn’t have thought he was capable of treating you this way considering how he hung on to your every word. Without his constant chatter, or the feeling of his warmth against your side, you were starting to get lonely. More than once, you considered going down to the barracks to spend time with Aelius and Marianus, only to, very quickly, realize what a bad idea that was.

If you wanted to make the situation worse, you could spend time with your friends. Outside of your thrice daily checkups on Marianus — he was recovering nicely, if not grumpily — you knew better to engage with them. Knowing Caracalla, and his fervent desire to follow you, he would be livid if he found you in the presence of either man. That would only set you back to the beginning of his fury. You wanted him to forgive you, not be angrier than he already was.

You hadn’t realized how much you appreciated his company until it was gone. The air felt empty without his complaining to fill it, and you felt cold without him against you. It was almost worse that he insisted on sharing the room with you while he ignored you. If you were alone, you could bury yourself in your notes — that were now kept in a locked drawer of your desk — or your studies without sparing either emperor a thought. Unfortunately, with Caracalla’s presence constantly looming behind you, it was hard to forget that you were the cause of all of this. Sure, the silent treatment was ultimately immature, but that didn’t change the fact that you hurt him enough to resort to it. That was why he was so fixated on punishing you. He was hurt, so now, in his mind, it was his right to hurt you.

You felt yourself sigh. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you stared across the room to where Caracalla was seated on a lectus. While reclined, he pawed through a few wax tablets, barely giving them a glance. He popped a honeyed date between his lips. It must have been good because he let out a small hum of surprise, shoveling two more into his mouth. By now, his hands were sticky, and he cleaned them by wiping them on one of the pillows. He was supposed to be helping Geta manage Rome’s troops. Instead, he found himself far more interested in indulging his sweet tooth.

“You’ll gain weight if you eat too many of those,” You commented, your arms crossed over your lap. He was already a little pudgy, not that the extra weight didn’t suit him. If you were being honest, the softness of his body was another thing you liked about him, and another thing you missed. In an attempt to rebuild the bridge he was currently dumping gasoline on, you made your tone teasing. “Don’t you have work to do?”

At least Caracalla looked at you this time before he turned his nose up in the air. Without a word, he focused back on his dates. You felt your shoulders drop.

For a week, you thought that maybe you could wait this out. Perhaps that was you being immature as well. Awkward, your thumbs brushed against the skin of your forearms, the repetitive motion meant to soothe your aching heart and racing nerves. You guessed that if anyone was to make the first step, it should be you.

“Caracalla, I’m sorry. I really, really am, and I don’t know how to help you see how horrible I feel for hurting you.” It wasn’t the first time you had apologized, but given the time that had passed, and the heaviness in your tone, you hoped it would get through to him better.

For a moment, it seemed like it did. Caracalla opened his mouth for the first time in days, and you felt a bit of hope lighten your chest.

Only for it to die. “I am your Caesar. You have lost the right to call me by name, medicus.”

Your heart sank in your chest and your eyes burned. Before Caracalla could notice, you scrubbed your face with your knuckles. It was hard to keep your voice even under the weight of your desperation. “Please tell me how to make this better. What do I need to do, Caesar? I’ve tried to give you your space, but now I am certain that isn’t what you need. Please, tell me what I need to do for you to forgive me.”

As you spoke, he kept his back to you, focusing his energy on his dates. It was only when you finished did he sit up, back straight and eyes hard. His feet were planted firmly on the ground and his legs were spread. You felt a gleam of anticipation burn inside of you, and when you felt your expression shift, Caracalla’s gaze flickered to your face. There was a pleased quirk to his lips.

“Come here,” He said, patting his thighs. You began to stand, only for him to click his tongue. “No. On your hands and knees, medicus. Crawl to your Caesar, and maybe then he will consider forgiveness.”

You froze in a crouched position and stared at Caracalla. A second passed in silence as you waited to see if this was really what he wanted, if the active murder of your pride was what it would take for him to forgive you. Irritated by your hesitation, his eyebrows furrowed and he snapped his fingers between his legs as one would call a dog. “Unless you don’t want my forgiveness, medicus.”

There was a lot you would give to hear him call you Alga again, and it seemed that your humiliation would be one of them. With a beleaguered sigh, you lowered yourself to the ground and began to crawl towards Caracalla.

Pleased with this turn of events, the muscles in his face loosened into a smirk. “Good, medicus. Very good. Your obedience has made your Caesar very happy.”

It damn well better, you thought through the embarrassment that darkened your cheeks. Once you were about a foot away from him, you stopped and brought yourself into a kneel. Caracalla motioned you closer, spreading his thighs further apart for you to slot yourself between them. His hands were behind him, holding him up as he leaned back.

You didn’t have to voice your reservations before he began, his tone chiding despite his small smile. He knew he had won. “You want me to forgive you, don’t you, Alga? You would do anything for it, I can tell.”

After a week of only being called medicus, hearing your nickname sent a shiver up your spine. Unable to give in without a little resistance, not with your pride intact, you gave him a frustrated look, its effectiveness lessened by how flustered you were.

“Is this really necessary,” You mumbled as you continued forward.

Caracalla regarded you with a tilt of his head, his expression unreadable as he examined you. “Do you want to be my Alga again?”

You did. It was the only reason you were doing something so ridiculous. If it was to be his again, you would do anything. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you settled yourself between his spread legs.

“Caesar?”

Caracalla shushed you, bringing his hand forward to rest upon your crown. He traced a finger down the middle of your skull as following the color of your natural hair that had begun to show. “Quiet, Alga, let me admire you.”

You remained like that for a about a minute, unable to look at him as he carressed your face. His thumb moved along your cheekbone, his fingers against your jaw, and his palm cradling your scalp, touch gentle, if not a little sticky from the dates. All this tenderness in spite of the harshness that he’d been treating you with the past week. Seconds ticked on and time seemed to slow, the longer you remained at his feet, the hotter your face became. Caracalla was breathing hard. When you managed to meet his eyes, his pupils were blown. His face was flushed and his lips were parted, a visible bulge in his tunic from how it draped over his body. It was only now, when you felt impossibly small under him, did you realize how badly you missed this. Your vision blurred.

“I missed you,” You managed to croak.

Caracalla paused his ministrations when you let out a sniffle. A fat tear rolled off your chin to plop onto your hand, though he began to dry your face with rough sweeps of his thumb the more they came. His lust gave way to exasperation, bordering on frustration.

He let out a groan, rolling his head along with his eyes. “Why are you crying now, Alga?”

“Because I missed you,” You hiccupped as you dragged your palm across your face. The last thing you wanted was to burst into tears, but it seemed they wouldn’t stop. “And because I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Caesar. Please don’t hate me forever.”

“Gods, I don’t hate you,” He snapped, leaning forward to dry your face on his sleeve.

“You— You said I couldn’t call you by your name anymore, and you wouldn’t talk to me— and—”

“I was punishing you, stupid medicus. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have bothered.” With his palms against each side of your face, he forced you to meet his eyes. Caracalla took in your tears with a strange mix of hunger and concern that left you reeling. “How can one both love and hate your tears as intensely as this?”

“You won’t be angry with me forever?” You managed to say, deciding to ignore his weird observations. Whatever he meant was none of your business.

Caracalla let out another annoyed noise, though his eyes softened. “Not forever. I could never be without you forever.”

He forced your chin to the side, causing your head to tilt. You barely had time to blink before he kissed one of your tear tracks. His tongue, hot and wet, darted out to taste your skin. When he pulled away, his gaze was half-lidded. “I missed you too, melimelum. You taste sweet.”

“That’s concerning,” You sniffled. “Tears should be salty.”

Caracalla pulled back with a huff before he kicked you away from him, the sole of his sandal flat and gentle against your chest. “It’s a flirtation, Alga. You are dense.”

With a watery inhale, you felt a tentative smile pull at your lips. “You’re going to flirt with me again?”

“Melimelum,” He breathed as he pushed you onto your back. Standing from the lectus, he lowered himself to his knees so that he was straddling your stomach. Caracalla began to run his hands up your chest to graze over the red slash-mark on your neck. It was healed over now, though it would surely scar. He braced himself on his forearms at either side of your head to bring his face close to yours. “When I saw that barbarian hold his blade to your neck, I thought that I would die with you. Do you truly believe I can hold myself back from you for much longer?” Taking in a deep inhale, he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his lips tracing your scar. “You drive me insane.”

“Caesar…” You shivered when he ran one hand down your ribcage, the other latching onto your hair to roughly pull your head to the side, further exposing your neck.

“Caracalla. Say my name as I do this, as loud as you can, melimelum.” Against your skin, you felt his mouth morph into a smirk. “I want all of Rome to hear you screaming for me.”

That was all the warning you got before he bit down, harder than you thought was possible. Right next to the scar, into the meat of your collarbone, his teeth buried into your sensitive skin. Pain exploded from your nerves, traveling down to your core where it became pleasure. Your back arched, mouth open in a near silent scream.

“Caracalla—” Fingers buried into his fiery locks, you didn’t know if you wanted to pull him away or pull him closer. When you made your decision, bringing him closer, a low growl rumbled in his throat.

After what felt like an eternity, you felt his incisors dislodge. He licked the wound, his breath coming in heavy pants, his hips twitching against your stomach. You could feel his arousal pressed between your bodies, hard and unyielding. You rubbed your thighs together to relieve the ache between your legs. With every lick, more sparks of pleasure-pain lanced through you and straight to your clit.

“Caracalla, it hurts.”

He laughed, his rasp deeper and more prominent. “It feels good too, doesn’t it, melimelum. You were made for me, my perfect lover. Tell me it hurts again.”

“It hurts,” You whined, and in response, he let out a heady moan. He was practically grinding against your stomach now, slow strokes of his clothed cock dragging along your torso. Reaching down, you wrapped your arm around his lower back, holding him tighter against you.

“I knew you wanted this too,” Caracalla said, an obvious strain to his voice. He tried to move himself between your thighs, but you wouldn’t let him. When he pulled back, your blood painted his lips and chin red, brows furrowed and eyes foggy with lust. Examining your face, he let out a small sigh, grinding down on you again. “Stubborn, stubborn, medicus.”

“Can you finish like this?” Surprise flickered across his features before he reached down to reposition his cock so that his ministrations were more pleasurable.

A small sigh left him, his eyebrows pulling upward as he began to move his hips. Dropping back to his forearms, he kissed the bite mark he left, still sensitive enough to hurt, his motions rougher and less coordinated than before. “Your voice alone could bring me to ecstasy. I could make you feel so good, and yet you continue to deny me.”

“Not ready yet,” You murmured. The fear of rejection kept you from giving in to the throbbing in your core. “You’ll have to punish me when I finally let you have your way with me, Caracalla.”

Your words, along with the use of his name, made his hips stutter, a low sound rumbling in his throat. He pawed at your hair with one hand, the other moving to fist himself through his tunic. “I’ll fuck you until it’s all you can think about, Alga. I’ll ruin you on my cock— gods!”

Pulling back, he pushed his thumb between your lips to press down on your tongue. You let him pull open your jaw, staring up at him as he pursed his lips and began to drool into your mouth. It tasted sweet, like the honey from his dates, and you felt your clit twitch. A few drops missed your mouth, and he smeared it across your face with his palm.

“Filthy medicus,” And though it was meant to degrade you, the affection writhing between his teeth made your eyelids flutter. “You’re going to kill me.”

A high-pitched whine, keening and desperate left him as his movements faltered. You could feel his cock pulse, even between the layers of fabric, his hips shuddering every few seconds to grind harder against you. As he came, he whimpered, riding out his orgasm as he gripped himself with one hand, the other tangled in your hair tight enough to rip out a few strands. His eyes were squeezed shut, lips parted and teeth clenched before his features slackened with the rest of his body. Gently, you pulled him down to rest against you.

“Feel better?” You began to stroke along his spine.

Still sensitive, Caracalla shuddered. “Melimelum, I didn’t even bare my cock and yet you brought me more pleasure than any whore who has ever tried.”

A bit of triumphant pride made you feel warm, and despite the ache between your legs, you felt satisfied with that knowledge. It was good to know that with all the sex Caracalla had, dry humping you on the floor like a couple of teenagers blew it all out of the water. With a small smile, you held him close, tracing your fondness for him against his tunic. “Are you going to go to sleep? Can we at least move to the bed if you do? The floor is not comfortable.”

Caracalla groaned and forced himself into a sitting position. There was a wet stain on his crotch that had transferred to your own clothing, and you couldn’t help but let out a huff. There went another tunic. Swinging his leg over you, he brought himself to stand on shaking legs. His face was still flushed, lips damp with his own spit and your blood. You watched his tongue dart out to taste the mixture, his pupils darting to take in your own features, wet with his saliva. Disappointment flashed in his blue eyes when you wiped your face with your forearm.

“No, we must get ready or Geta will have a fit,” Caracalla grumbled. He pulled at his tunic to keep it from sticking to his skin with a grimace. “Next time, I will cum on you. Perhaps your face, I think my medicus would look pretty painted white.”

You used your elbows to push you into a sitting position. “Ready for what?”

Caracalla paused scrubbing at his face to stare at you with condescending amusement. “Silly Alga, Senator Dorso’s party is today. Don’t tell me you forgot. There will be wine and games, it will be quite the show.”

There was a pause while your brain caught up with what he was saying. A part of you was still on the floor, watching in reverent wonder as Caracalla came undone above you. Arousal pooled in your gut at the memory, his expression of ecstasy seared into your mind’s eye. There wasn’t time to focus on that now, though you’d be sure to remember the encounter when you found some time alone. Flushing, you cleared your throat.

“I did forget. There were other topics more worth pondering at the time than a senator’s party.”

Caracalla stopped fidgeting with his tunic to glance at you. “Like what, Alga?”

“You. How to make good on my mistakes,” You admitted as you heaved yourself to your feet. The stain on your tunic was damp and awkwardly clung to your skin. There was an embarrassing urge to lean down and sniff it, which was not something you would give into. That would be gross and more than a little perverted. “Please don’t treat me like that again.”

“I will if I must, melimelum. It was not easy for me, but you needed to be punished or you would never learn to be better for me.” His eyes darted to his seed on your tunic, an awed breath leaving him. Caracalla closed the gap between you in a few quick steps. His fingers found your jaw, then pressed against the tender bite he left on your skin. A whimper escaped you and he nuzzled his nose against your cheek. “You’ve learned, I sense it. You’ll be good for me now, you’ll never betray me again.”

“Caracalla.” You placed a fleeting kiss to his earlobe, earning a purr-like hum in return. “I care about you, deeper than I can begin to say—”

“Then say it.”

You shook your head. “Back home, if I… If I told you the depth of my affection before our first romantic outing, I would be seen as mad.”

“You aren’t there, melimelum. Rome is your home now, let me hear you.” There was a desperation to him that made his voice raspy.

“I don’t want to lose that part of myself.” Tucking a strand of hair away from his face, you prayed he would understand. “A piece of my home will always be inside of me. No one’s ever lo— What I mean is… to care for me, Caracalla, is to accept this. Let me go slow. I need to go slow.”

Despite relenting, Caracalla let out a frustrated huff. “You have me spill inside my tunic and drink my spit, yet you won’t kiss me. You insist on the most maddening pace conceivable.”

“Will you allow it, Caesar?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

Caracalla patted your cheek, fond albeit rough. “Do not get too comfortable with my indulgence, Alga. One day, your sweet faces won’t be enough to satisfy me.”

“I… I don’t want you to…” Swallowing hard, you tried again. Memories of what Geta said echoed in your mind, louder than ever before. While you had thought about the fact that you were doomed to the life of a lover rather than a husband during the past week, you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you fixated on Caracalla’s anger rather than your own disappointed misery. The very idea of his rejection made you nauseous, you wouldn’t be able to bear it, you were sure. “I worry that there are, uh, aspects of my body that you will not find enjoyable. Perhaps you will be disgusted by me once you find out.”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. “Has your cock been mutilated?”

A strange noise warbled in the back of your throat as you nodded your head side to side. “It is… complicated.”

“Then let me see.” Without waiting for a response, Caracalla bent at the waist and grabbed the hem of your tunic.

You scrambled back a few paced, leaving a glaring Caracalla behind. “No! Not yet.”

He straightened, his eyes narrowed as he thought. Realization caused him to frown. “Have you been rejected before because of your cock?”

“In a way, yes.” Awkwardly, you shifted from foot to foot. “I do not want that from you.”

There was hesitation on his face as his gaze darted to your crotch then back to you. “So, my medicus is malformed. That is… fine. If it disgusts me, then I will look at other places.”

Without a rag to wipe your face clean, Caracalla’s spit had begun to crust, and the bite he left behind had begun to throb. You felt more than a little gross, being covered in so many bodily fluids. The last thing you wanted to do was continue this painfully uncomfortable conversation about your junk. Judging by Caracalla’s posture and his repeated attempts at keeping his tunic from sticking to him, he felt similarly.

“Can we continue this another time when we are both less filthy, Caesar?”

Caracalla nodded, too lost in thought to give you any more of an acknowledgment. Your heart sank when his gaze darted below your tunic once more.

Only for the fluttering in your chest to return as he brushed his lips to your cheek in farewell. “I have decided you have regained the right to use my name, Alga.”

“Caracalla,” You whispered with a relieved smile. “Do you forgive me?”

He let out a vague hum. “Your punishment is over, melimelum.”

With that, he opened the door to your chambers and made for his own. You scrubbed your face with the heel of your palm, sticky with Caracalla’s spit, then made your way over to close the door behind him. Senator Dorso’s party loomed over you like a shadow. For the first time since you heard about it, your mind was clear enough from distractions to begin worrying. Whatever a Roman party entailed, especially one hosted by a senator, you couldn’t begin to fathom the level of hedonism you were sure to be confronted with. Geta and Caracalla were bad enough, though you managed to avoid their more debauched enjoyments. You heard enough about the blood sport they hosted in the palace from passing slaves and guards, especially now that you had opened your clinic to everyone.

Not many had taken you up on your offer, but a few times, a praetorian or a slave with an injury they couldn’t treat on their own found their way to your door. You had a feeling Caracalla’s insistence to be by your side at all times scared away most clients. The ones who did show up, you did your best to make them feel as comfortable as possible while you worked. Unfortunately, it was during these moments that Caracalla took it upon himself to hover over your shoulder and glare at whatever poor soul was on your examination table. It certainly made doing your job harder.

You used a damp rag to clean your face, then attempted to wipe the cum from your tunic. It was an effort in futility. By now, it was already half dried, and for the first time since it happened, you realized how much fluid Caracalla had released to begin with. His own robes must be frustratingly sticky. Carefully, you cleaned the bite Caracalla left behind so it didn’t get infected — was he aware how much bacteria was in the human mouth? — then wrapped some linen around your neck in an effort to hide it. Now you knew what it was like to hide a hickey from the public, though you sure what Caracalla did would be considered the hickey from hell. There was a deep purple bruise surrounding the, now scabbed over, indents from his teeth.

Before you were able to change into a new outfit, as plain as the one you started with, Justina arrived with your outfit for the party. If it was any earlier during your stay at Palatine Hill, you would have tried to refuse the opulent toga for a more simple one. Now, you realized that, no matter how out of character it was for you to wear something so gaudy, it was a necessity. While you had earned one emperor’s favor, you still had the rest of Roman high society to deal with tonight, and, as a foreigner, you already had the odds stacked against you. Not only were you not a citizen — though you hoped you would be named one soon with how your relationships with the emperors were evolving — but you were a stranger amongst people who would be vying for your attention, or your failure. You had to look the part, no matter how badly it made your skin itch.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to figure out how to wrap the toga around yourself properly, and even then, you weren’t quite sure you had it right. You nearly tripped on your way to your clinic, wrapping the fabric tighter around your arm so you could keep it from dragging on the floor. Before the emperors, and you, left for Senator Dorso’s villa, you had a quick appointment with Geta to deal with. You had made the appointment before you were reminded of the party, and for some reason, Geta had agreed. In the end, it didn’t matter, so long as he cooperated.

When you arrived at your clinic, Geta was already there, standing next to your examination table. For once, he didn’t pay much mind to your notes, choosing, instead, to focus on whatever thoughts ran through his head. You cleared your throat so as not to startle him.

“Caesar, I apologize for the timing, I’ll make this quick.”

Geta opened his mouth to reply, though no noise left him when he faced you. His gaze lingered on the jewels that adorned your neck, then on the toga that was folded around your body, a deep forest green that matched your hair. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You received my gift. I was worried you wouldn’t wear it and would insist upon your rags.”

“I should have known you picked it when I saw the color,” You grumbled.

“It suits you.” Geta paused to truly take you in. His eyes traveled from the top of your head, lingering on where your roots were showing, to your anachronistic shoes. A long suffering sigh left him as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Must you insist upon those shoes? You will stick out, Algacula. I had perfectly good ones picked out for you.” Removing his hand from his face, he gestured to you with a sweep of his arm. “And look at you, no one in Rome wears a toga in that fashion. If I wasn’t already convinced of your low-class background, I am now. Come.”

He called you over with a quick curl of his index and middle finger. At least this time you didn’t have to crawl.

You rolled your eyes as he fussed over you, maneuvering your body as one would a doll. While you’d never say it outloud for fear of insulting Geta’s delicate constitution, he would make for a good example of a maternal stereotype. Shrewd, condescending, and borderline overbearing.

“This is supposed to fold over your shoulder, and this needs to be draped here,” Geta instructed. You gave him a dull nod, not particularly listening. No matter what you did, he would find a problem with it. Better to try your best and have him fix it later.

He took a few steps back to inspect you, his hands curled behind his back. You took the opportunity to examine his own toga, a pretty white with green accents that, if you looked closely, it almost resembled your own. Before you could fixate on that little detail, Geta’s fingers in your hair caught your attention. He pulled forward a few strands so that they framed your face better.

“Some makeup wouldn’t hurt,” He muttered.

After taking in his own, pale foundation with dark kohl shadowing his eyes, neither blended particularly well, you took a step back. “No makeup.”

Geta’s fingers found the fabric you wrapped around your neck, fidgeting with the fabric. His eyebrows were raised and his lips were pursed, his displeasure obvious. “This was not a part of the ensemble I gifted you.”

A noise of protest left you as he began to unwrap it, his features hardening when he saw Caracalla’s work. Quietly, he redid the fabric, then secured it with a brooch that he took from his own toga. You didn’t know why you felt guilty over him seeing it, but you did.

“Caesar, I—”

“My brother’s doing, I assume,” He said, tone clipped. Contrary to how he was only moments ago, Geta was no longer gentle. The fastener of his brooch missed the fabric and pricked your skin. “Do not let anyone see it, and if they do, lie. We do not need rumors circulating anymore than they already are, Alga.”

“Rumors are circulating?” Once Geta stepped away, you rubbed at the skin the fastener pinched — by accident, you decided, even if you suspected otherwise.

His mouth pulled taut, dark eyes flinty. “About a the foreign physician who has received the affections of Emperor Caracalla? My brother is not subtle, Alga, you and I both know this. I expect you to be in his stead.”

You licked your lips and fought the urge to shuffle in place. “Is it really so bad if people talk?”

“You want citizenship, don’t you?” Geta snapped. He sat down on your examination table, tilting his chin upwards to stare at you with regal disdain. “If this keeps up, you won’t be seen as a physician of any skill, all you will be thought of is the emperor’s puer.”

Your confusion must have shown on your face because Geta let out an annoyed huff.

“A cinaedus,” He continued, urging you to understand. When all you did was raise an eyebrow, he ran his hand down his face. “You won’t be seen as a real man.”

“But I am a real man,” You argued, more defensive than you meant to be. After a lifetime of having your gender questioned, one of the benefits of living in Rome was that, for once, you were taken at face value as a man. Not as a confused woman or someone lesser than someone assigned male at birth, but as a true, honest man. It was nice, for a change, and you didn’t want it to be taken away.

Geta’s lips twitched, pleased to get a reaction from you. “Keep up your relationship with my brother and that will be called into question. Real men do not get fucked by emperors, at least not in Rome. I don’t know how backwards your barbaric homeland has it.”

“I’m not an idiot, Caesar. I know Emperor Caracalla well enough to know that, unless he ends our relationship himself, there is no escaping him.” Not that you wanted to, you were quite happy now that your ridiculous ‘punishment’ was over. “I will simply have to be good enough at my profession so that my skills overshadow my perceived status.”

“You say that as if it will be easy,” Geta countered.

Standing a bit taller, you squared your shoulders and set your jaw, your suspicion evident. “Are you trying to put a wedge between me and Emperor Caracalla? That is cruel, even for you, Caesar. Can you truly not stand seeing your brother happy?”

“Of course, I want to see him happy!” Geta snapped, jerking forward, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “My brother’s happiness is all I have lived for since we were spat from our mother’s womb. How dare you question that, Alga.”

“Then what are you trying to do? Why are you trying to give me a reason to push him away?”

“Because—” Geta sputtered, a hint of a splotchy flush visible beneath his caked-on foundation. “I do not have to explain myself to the likes of a barbaric, green-haired, nosy little physician!”

“Fine! Be that way!” In a childish display, you stomped your foot, your face hot under the force of your anger. Gritting your teeth, you grabbed your sphygmomanometer and made your way back to the examination table. “Roll up your sleeve, Caesar!”

“If I must!” He flipped a piece of fabric that was draped over his front to fall behind his shoulder. His anger made his motions far less fluid than they normally were. You felt a spark of satisfaction knowing the frustration you felt was mutual.

Without a word, you began to take his blood pressure. The earpieces of your stethoscope were somewhat uncomfortable, and you tried not to readjust too much. Geta’s emotional state would likely skew his results, so you scribbled down his results on a wax tablet and waited in silence for his breathing to even before going again.

As you tightened the cuff for the second time, you muttered a quick apology, “Sorry for snapping at you, Caesar.”

“You should be,” Geta responded, calmer than before. You waited a few beats for an apology of his own, though, to no one’s surprise, none came. Of course, that was too much to expect from one of Rome’s emperors.

While you wanted to question him on his motives, you would rather not piss him off again. For a man seemingly so invested in his brother’s happiness, he sure had a vindictive streak. Twice now, he had attempted to push you away from Caracalla, and if you didn’t know any better, you would have assumed that he wanted you for himself. That, however, would take Geta liking you for it to make sense. Considering how your relationship with him was now — confusing and tumultuous, layered with moments of near connection interspersed with far more frequent arguments — you doubted that was true. From what you could pick up, Geta tolerated you for his brother’s sake. It was a shame, you thought. You rather liked Geta when he wasn't being a prick, you would have enjoyed becoming closer with him.

When he wasn’t looking, you took in his features, his nose wrinkled as the cuff slowly loosened. In the back of your mind, a traitorous little voice whispered that he was rather pretty. You flushed and turned your attention back to the wax tablet, writing down the second set of results as you left that observation to die.

“These readings are better than before, Caesar. It is good that you took my words to heart and began relaxing,” You praised. After another quick look, you locked the tablet back in your desk drawer. By now, you had it memorized, you didn’t need it anymore.

Geta puffed up at the praise. He reminded you a bit of a bird, prideful and squawking. “I do take your words into account on the occasion, medicus. For all your faults, you are good at your job.”

“What do you do during the hour a day I prescribed you?” The question was asked with a clinical detachment, even if Geta’s words of affirmation were enough to get your heart to swell.

He turned to you, studying your expression intensely. One side of his mouth pulled into a smirk, a bit of a mean edge to it. “I fuck, medicus.”

“That’s good. Sex is an effective stress reliever,” You commented with a slight shrug as you made a note not to bother Geta during that particular hour of the day. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be blunt, so the frankness didn’t bother you. After many hours in both emperors’ presence, you were growing used to it.

Disappointment flickered across Geta’s face. He narrowed his eyes and leaned a bit closer. “Is that all?”

Your eyebrows knit as you slowly pulled away from his intense gaze. “Yes, Caesar. That is all.”

“I see,” He muttered, his features pinched in a strange mix of emotions that you couldn’t begin to decipher. Most of all, he seemed upset that you didn’t have a problem with the fact he had sex. It was weird, and most of all, it was confusing.

“Caesar… Do you want me to take offense that you have a healthy sex life?” Pursing your lips, you began to put away your tools.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alga.” He hopped down from the examination table. On his way to the exit, he flicked you on the back of your head. “Do not be long, we will make for Senator Dorso’s villa within the hour.”

“Shall I accompany you down?”

Geta looked over his shoulder, lips pulled into a frown.

“No. I do not desire your company.” Then, spoken so quietly, you barely heard it under the creaking of your clinic’s door, Geta grumbled, “Stupid medicus.”

Your eyebrow twitched.

“Stupid imperator,” You muttered in turn, once you were sure he wouldn’t hear.

For a moment, you stood there and waited for Geta to storm back in. His hearing was exceptional, and it wouldn’t be the first time an argument had started — or restarted — because he had to get the last word. When he never returned, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was too early in the afternoon to have a spitting match with that particular ginger.

Unfortunately, that also meant that you were left with nothing to do. You could study a bit more while the palanquins were prepared, but there was a high likelihood that you would lose track of time. Getting accused of purposefully avoiding Senator Dorso’s party by either emperor was not an event you wanted to deal with. You knew both men well enough that, no matter how hard you tried to explain it was accidental, they wouldn’t believe you. Obviously, you did it to spite them. As irritating as it was that either man saw you as a particularly mean-spirited person, you tried to reassure yourself with the reminder that that sort of behavior was what they were used to. Most people they knew would try to spite them, and you had yet to prove you were different. Besides, if you were going to be trapped at a party with no one you knew, save for them, you’d rather Geta and Caracalla not be mad with you.

A yawn poured from your mouth, and with boredom as your guide, you decided to wait with the rest of Geta and Caracalla’s entourage. They were awaiting the emperors’ arrival at the palace entrance. As the imperial physician, you supposed that you may as well join them. At the very least, you could enjoy the sunshine.

Which, as it turned out, was a bad idea. With the extra fabric of your toga over your tunic, though the linen was breathable, being in direct sunlight was borderline unbearable. For thirty minutes, you sat in the shade, your back pressed against a column as you cooled yourself with your collar. A few times, a slave you didn’t recognize approached with a large fan, but you awkwardly, and politely, waved them away. An antiperspirant would be nice right about now. While there was little you could do about the amount of sweat you were producing, at the very least, you had a small bottle of scented oil you kept in the folds of your tunic to dab onto your skin. That should combat the smell. Hopefully.

Around you, slaves and soldiers alike swarmed the emperors’ palanquins to prepare for their arrival. If you had to guess, everyone was waiting on Caracalla. Geta looked ready to go in your clinic. Last time you had seen Caracalla, his tunic was covered in cum and his hair was a mess. That wasn’t considering the fact that he was impatient and squirmy, barely able to sit still during senate meetings, let alone for an activity as minor as his makeup. A fond smile inched onto your face as you imagined Caracalla, huffy as ever, whining as Geta issued demands for him to sit still.

There was a cry, signifying the emperors’ arrival. Praetorians fell into order as slaves lined up on either end of the palanquins in preparation to lift. As much as you wished Caracalla and Geta would use their feet to walk, rather than force these men to carry them in this oppressive heat, you also knew to pick your battles. This was how Rome was. You wouldn’t get complacent, nor would you take advantage, you simply knew better than to question it and draw attention to your foreignness. It was a matter of self preservation, you supposed, especially walking into the den of wolves that waited for you at Senator Dorso’s villa. Later, perhaps you could do something more.

The first thing you noticed when you looked towards the emperors was the glare. Both men wore enough gold to reflect the sun, making them look more like walking beams of light rather than mere mortals. Gods amongst men, you supposed. There was a hint of awe in the air, though all you could feel was irritation. Was that much jewelry really necessary? The necklace hanging around Caracalla’s neck looked to be a large, circular emblem ending below his sternum. On his forearms were golden bands, encrusted with jewels, and hanging from a single ear was a dangling gemstone. His toga was black with purple accents, and you fought a grimace at the gross display of wealth. Tyrian purple was certainly a choice. While Geta didn’t wear as much finery as Caracalla, his toga was larger than his brother’s, blowing behind him like a cape as he walked.

“Ridiculous,” You muttered in English, nearly choking on your own affection. “Utterly ridiculous.”

“Ree-dik-yoo-lis?” Geta mocked. His accent made him roll the ‘r’ and the consonants sound harsh. “That had better be a compliment, Alga.”

“Oh, of the highest regard, Caesar.”

Caracalla took in your appearance, his gaze appreciative as it raked over your form. When his eyes landed on the fabric around your neck, he frowned. He reached for you, only for Geta to pointedly clear his throat and, with an annoyed groan, he pulled away.

“Are you ashamed of me, melimelum?” Caracalla asked, though his tone was teasing. He brushed his finger under your chin, earning a furious glare from his brother.

“Hands to yourself,” Geta warned.

You let out a laugh, and Geta turned away. “How could I be ashamed of my Caesar? I have a pretty bruise and a pretty brooch hiding it.”

“You would be much more handsome with the mark I gave you on display,” Caracalla said with a dreamy expression. His eyes were fixated on your neck, a flicker of recognition when he saw the brooch. “That is my brother’s clasp.”

“Yes, he gave it to me so that the fabric does not come undone.”

Caracalla’s eyebrows furrowed as he patted down his body at a furious pace. “I will replace it with one of my own.”

Beside him, Geta’s back was to you, though as Caracalla spoke, his hands balled into tight fists. The words left you before you could stop them.

“It is fine. Your brother did me a kindness, and I appreciate it.” Then, you spoke to Geta, watching as his fingers loosened. “I appreciate it. I will give the brooch back after the party, Caesar.” Idly, you ran your fingers over the golden clasp. “Besides, it will make me feel better to have it, as if you are both with me, even when you are not.”

Caracalla stopped his search and stared at you, his expression unreadable, while Geta’s hands were loose at his sides once more.

“Both with you,” Caracalla repeated, sounding entirely neutral to the idea. He seemed to chew on the thought as his blue eyes bored into you. After a moment, the corners of his lips twitched upwards. “Yes, both of us. You will be safer that way, melimelum.”

He reached over to fondly pat your cheek. His rings made the action sting a little, but all you did was giggle, causing Caracalla to join you, sharp and high-pitched.

“Walk alongside me, dulcissimus.” Caracalla began to walk towards his palanquin and motioned for you to follow.

Geta interrupted by clearing his throat. “Alga will walk alongside me, brother. You cannot be trusted to keep your hands to yourself in public. Do you remember what we discussed?”

Caracalla threw his head back with a groan. “I despise you, brother.”

With that, he stomped over to his palanquin and threw himself onto the mattress, drawing the curtains shut once he was settled. That left you and Geta alone. Again. You fought the urge to roll your eyes, especially once the butterflies in your gut began their fluttering. Damnable things.

Geta clicked his tongue, a signal for you to follow him. For as annoying as his insistence on treating you like a dog was, you obeyed all the same. Again, you picked your battles, and you didn’t particularly mind being his dog.

You froze in place. Remove that thought, take it, and flush it down the brain toilet. Bury it so that it never saw the light of day again. Only once you were certain you’d never think that again, did you continue forward.

By the time you made it to Geta’s side, he was already lounging. He kept the curtains parted so that he could speak to you, glaring now, irritated by how long it took you to take your place.

“What is the matter with you, medicus? You look as though you have seen a demon.”

You refused to meet his gaze, keeping your eyes focused ahead. It was only once the entourage began to move did you peek at Geta, who was staring at you, seemingly unimpressed.

“I was lost in thought, that is all, Caesar,” You said.

Geta scoffed and rested his chin on his fist. “What sort of horrible thoughts do you have to warrant such a reaction?”

A flush warmed your cheeks. The sweat that dampened your brow was no longer solely because of the sun. Vaguely, you responded, “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a dog?”

“No, never, Alga. Forget that I asked.” With a whoosh, he pulled the curtain shut and you were alone with your treacherous mind.

Instead of allowing your brain to subject you to more perverse horrors, you focused your attention on your surroundings. The streets of Rome were bustling. Vendors hawked their wares, and the overwhelming stench of filth, masked by incense, was enough to make your head spin. People stopped and stared as the emperors’ palanquins passed by, though they were hard to see over the beggars and street urchins reaching out and crying for aid. The praetorians kept them at bay as you averted your gaze, empathy squirming in your chest. How either emperor could ignore the desperate wails of their people was beyond your understanding. You had no obligation to these people, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel that you should be doing more. Were you becoming complacent? Your hands curled together inside of your toga, clasping at your chest.

Deeper in the crowd, a dog barked. You didn’t want to think anymore.

“… How are you enjoying the weather, Caesar?”

Geta pulled back the curtain faster than you expected. “Why are you attempting to make small talk with an emperor, Alga? It is hot and miserable. Are you happy with that response?”

You were not. With a slow blink, you tried to think of another topic before he could go back to… whatever it was he did. “What should I expect at a Roman party?”

“Extravagance, medicus. Senator Dorso will attempt to impress his guests, me and my brother included. There will be food, wine, music, more than I am sure you have ever seen in your life.” Geta’s cheek twitched as a smirk caused his lips to curl. “I am sure there will be shows of combat. I hope you have a strong stomach, Algacula.”

At the mention of bloodsport, you couldn’t hide your grimace, earning a chuffed laugh from Geta. “What sort of food will there be, Caesar?”

“I heard he is serving elephant meat.”

A scandalized gasp escaped you before you turned your wide eyes on Geta. “No, not an elephant!”

“It is an animal, Alga, it is meant to be eaten.”

“They are highly intelligent creatures that form emotional bonds with one another!” You moved your arms as you talked, highly incensed, while Geta offered you a blank stare. “They also have amazing memories and are capable of remembering cruelty done to them by specific humans. An elephant never forgets, Caesar.”

“And an elephant cannot remember if it is dead,” He intoned.

You made an unconvinced noise in the back of your throat, but clamped your jaw shut. Remember, you had to pick your battles, and this was not one you could win.

Geta took in your expression with no small hint of exasperation. Letting out a huff, he said, “If it bothers you so much, then do not eat the meat. There will be more than enough food for you to pick and choose.”

“Thank you, Caesar,” You said, sounding more defeated than anything else.

Geta gripped the curtain, ready to pull it closed once more. “Will that be all?”

Unwilling to spend the rest of the walk without company, you shook your head. “No.”

Geta’s features pinched together. “What now, medicus?”

“Uh…” You fought for a new topic of conversation, your mind racing a mile a minute. “Uh, uh—”

“‘Uh,’” Geta mocked.

You felt your eyebrow twitch. This was a stupid question, and you were sure it would only serve to give him more ammo to make fun of you with. It was a price you were willing to pay, if only to keep your attention off the pulsating crowd around you. “How do… How do Roman names work, Caesar?”

That caught him off guard. His eyebrows raised, disappearing into his hairline before he snorted. “How do names work in your homeland, Alga? Surely it is not so different.”

“Ah, well… there is your given name. It comes first, and that is how everyone refers to you—”

Geta cut you off with a laugh. “Already your people are idiots. The praenomen is only for close friends and family.”

You nodded, his ridicule answering a question you had for weeks now. At least you knew why calling Aelius ‘Sextus’ when you first met him was so strange. “Then, after your given name, is your middle name. It’s mostly… decorative, I suppose.”

“Decorative,” Geta repeated.

You nodded. “Yes, decorative. Then, the surname is your family name.”

“The nomen.”

“Yes, I think that is the Roman equivalent. I do not think we had an equivalent for the name at the end… the— the, uh…” As you tried to remember, you snapped your fingers by your side.

“Cognomen,” He supplied.

“Yes! That one! What is it?”

Geta let out a long sigh, as if you had given him an insurmountable task. “It is a hereditary name that is given by your father.”

“And Geta is your cognomen?”

“Yes, medicus.” He heaved out another breath, his eyelids fluttering in boredom. “Geta is my cognomen.”

“And Caracalla is your brother’s?”

This time, Geta laughed. “No, ‘Caracalla’ is not officially a part of his name. It is a nickname he received as a child.” Before you could ask, he predicted your question. “My name is Publius Septimius Geta and Caracalla’s name is Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.”

“Publius,” You muttered, trying very hard not to laugh.

Geta flicked you on the side of your head. “Careful, medicus.”

“Where did the nickname Caracalla come from?”

“When he was a child, he had a cloak he refused to take off.” Though he feigned irritation, his affection for his brother was evident with how his face softened. “He still owns it, though it is nothing more than a few shreds of string in his wardrobe.”

“That’s cute.” It was incredibly cute, and instinctively, you cast a glance over your shoulder toward Caracalla’s palanquin.

Geta chuckled. “It was disgusting. He wouldn’t allow it to be washed and the stench was oppressive.”

A call came from ahead, signifying your arrival at Senator Dorso’s villa. You took a few steps away from Geta’s palanquin to crane your neck in order to catch a glimpse of the banquet ahead. Behind you, Geta’s hand brushed against the empty air where you once stood before returning to his side. Both the action and the shame that crossed Geta’s face went unnoticed by you, far too curious for what laid up ahead.

“Enter after me and my brother with the rest of our entourage, Alga,” Geta said. His tone was sour, more so than before, and you cocked your head in confusion. He was acting as if you had done him wrong. For the life of you, you couldn’t figure out what you did.

The two emperors stepped from their palanquins to enter the villa. There was uproarious applause from inside, and you assumed that the celebrations had already begun. It was very in character for Geta to insist on being fashionably late. A fond smile pulled at your lips while you waited for your turn to enter.

Before he disappeared into the crowd, Caracalla cast a glance at you over his shoulder. Your eyes met, and swimming in his depths, there was this strange desire. His gaze trailed down to the linen on your neck, then to the space between him and Geta with a sense of longing. The interaction barely lasted a second before his attention was pulled away from you, a glimpse of irritation on his features, before he was lost in the din of the banquet.

You waited five minutes before entering the villa. Within seconds, you were overwhelmed. While the slaves and the praetorians who accompanied the emperors knew exactly where to go and what to do with themselves, you didn’t have a clue.

The atrium was full of life. Romans adorned in fancy clothes and bright colors surrounded a small pool of rainwater, their voices boisterous with laughter. Chatter and conversation filled the air, melding together into an indistinguishable choir of noise, and the smell of cooking meat filled the air. Uncomfortable, you weaved through the crowd as you muttered apologies to find a corner to stand in. That was where you spent most gatherings, alone and awkward, as far away from people as you could manage. This party would be no different.

People watching was not a hobby you sought out, but it was one you found yourself engaging in more often than not. On the outskirts of the crowd, you stood with your back against the wall as you took in your surroundings. Slaves scurried to and fro, carrying trays of drinks and finger food. When one passed you by, you waved him down for a glass of water, only to discover all that was being offered was wine. That explained how loud it was. You sniffed the beverage, quick to discover your host didn’t bother to have it watered down. Taking a small sip, you decided to be careful with how much you drank, you weren’t known for holding your alcohol particularly well. Maybe if you drank more often, you would have a better tolerance.

Women fluttered together in groups, their long stolas brushing the ground below their ankles. Like the men, they were adorned in a variety of colors. Though, unlike the men, if they weren’t accompanied by one of their family members or husbands, they stuck alongside other women. They spoke in whispers, once again contrary to their husbands and brothers. Patricians and senators gossiped worse than their wives, and far louder. That was a fact you gathered by eavesdropping on a few conversations. Apparently, one senator had a predilection towards gladiatrices, while another was rumored to be taking bribes. You wouldn’t be surprised if every senator gathered here took bribes, so you didn’t bother to keep track of names.

While you couldn’t see either emperor, every so often you would hear Caracalla’s signature cackle in the distance. It brought you comfort to hear, even if you wanted to hide behind him like a child. You managed to remain mostly invisible in your corner, nervously sipping your wine, though your green hair garnered more than a few curious glances. None approached, so far.

You should have known your luck wouldn’t last.

“There’s the infamous foreign medicus,” An effeminate voice cried. You felt your heart sink, your grip on your cup tightening.

Approaching you was a tall, balding man adorned in makeup gaudy enough to rival Geta’s. You tried to give him a friendly smile, but it was tighter than necessary. “Yes, that is me. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“Senator Thraex,” He introduced with a small nod. With an outstretched arm, he offered you his hand, and you took it with ease. That seemed to please him, the anxious air that surrounded him settling a bit. “It has been some time since an imperial physician joined the emperor’s entourage. It is said that no matter how much the emperors’ physician insisted, neither would let him accompany.”

Great, Thraex was here to gossip. Your smile became a bit more forced, which he, thankfully, didn’t notice. “How interesting.”

“Very, medicus.” Presenting his glass for you to clink your own against, his smile became a bit secretive. “I wonder what makes you so special.”

Unsure of what else to do, you narrowed your eyes and tapped your cup against his. “What are you insinuating, senator?”

Thraex gave you a knowing look, his eyebrows raised. “Nothing which hasn’t already been said, my friend.”

“I would appreciate bluntness,” You deadpanned as you took a sip of your wine. In your frustration, you took a swig, downing the rest of the contents.

Thraex called over a slave to refill your glass, though your gaze was too focused on him to pay the woman any mind. “One shouldn’t be surprised that a novelty such as yourself earned Emperor Caracalla’s… attentions. Especially with such a colorful hairstyle, and that accent of yours, medicus, it is smooth, like water flowing over stones. Anyone would be ensnared.”

“I am unaware of any such attention from Emperor Caracalla,” You said.

Thraex examined your toga, his smile light despite his words. “Then, perhaps it is Emperor Geta you have enchanted. Your toga does match his, after all.”

“It does?” Unable to stop yourself, you looked down at your robes. A quick flicker of distress crossed your features when you realized what you’d done. “I apologize, I do not know what you refer to, senator.”

“Well, I suppose it calls into question where your talents lie.” In spite of his barbed words, Thraex’s tone was as light and friendly as ever. “The clinic or the bedroom. A medicus or a scultimidonus.”

While you didn’t recognize the word, you knew it was an insult. “I will have you know I graduated at the top of my class. My skills exceed that of any physician in the empire, that I can guarantee.”

“Can you?” Thraex’s posture changed in his anticipation. He leaned forward ever so slightly.

You nodded vigorously, and when you went for another sip of your wine, you found it full again. Surely, it was only half-empty last you checked. Your head felt a bit foggy. “I performed a successful surgery on a soldier only a week before to fix a tear in his lung. He survived the operation and is making a full recovery. Before that, I saved a drowned man by pumping his heart for him. Name another physician who can do that!”

Thraex took a step back and pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, I was unaware of your talents, medicus. Tell me, my friend, how have you served the emperors during your employment? They are healthy, correct? Of sound mind?”

“They are—” You caught yourself by biting your tongue. “That is confidential information, senator! Good day to you!”

A little too tipsy to notice the disappointment visible on Thraex’s face, you stormed away to find something to snack on. Food would do you good right now. It would soak up the alcohol in your stomach and clear the haze in your brain. You stumbled a bit on your way to the banquet table, a few people lounging around its edges and picking from what was offered. When you caught sight of a severed elephant trunk, disgust made your nose scrunch. Poor creature, killed to be food for these overindulgent fools.

You received a few curious looks as you used the folds of your toga to hold your food. Snatching a few cubes of cheese, some figs, and a bushel of grapes, you took your hoard — and another glass of wine — elsewhere. Preferably alone, even if that was a near impossible task. A gaggle of women caught your attention. They had situated themself in the gardens on the periphery of the party, and you decided to try your luck. Unlike Senator Thraex, certainly, they would leave you be.

Thankfully, you were correct, even if you did earn a loud scoff from one woman when you plopped yourself on the ground and dug into your makeshift meal. You didn’t know how long you had been at the party already. The journey here had taken some time, and you were observing for a while before Thraex interrupted you. By now, the sun was setting, a few stars dotting the sky. You let out a small sigh and took in the sight. It would never get old, you decided.

“Excuse me.” You blinked when a blonde woman stepped into your line of sight. She was beautiful, her hair hanging in loose curls around her shoulders, with eyes far more kind than Thraex. “You are the emperors’ physician, are you not?”

“Yes’m,” You replied in English. When her eyebrows furrowed, you heaved yourself to your feet, sending your feast tumbling into the dirt, and corrected yourself. “Apologies. Yes, domina.”

Her gaze fell on the food that had fallen from your tunic, then back to you. Your cheeks felt warm, and you were sure you were inebriated enough for there to be a slight flush to your face. “Were you going to eat that?”

“I was.” As you moved your head, the world around you seemed to blur. Either Roman wine was stronger than you thought, or your tolerance was embarrassingly low. You stared down at the cheese and fruit in the grass, a bit of miserable regret in your chest. “Not anymore.”

“Eheu, what a waste.” She clicked her tongue before presenting her hand, a bit of kind amusement in her eyes. You stared at the appendage. Given its positioning, you weren’t sure if you should go in to kiss her knuckles or for a shake.

You ended up going for a fistbump. “Boom!”

Taken aback, she pulled her arm away. For a horrible second, you thought you had offended her, only to be proven otherwise when a confused laugh tumbled from her lips. “What is your name, medicus.”

After you told her your name, you took another sip of your wine. Again, you found it empty, and you felt yourself frown. It tasted rather good. To be quite honest, you found yourself wanting more. “What is your name, domina?”

“Enough with the formalities, call me Lucilla.” She sat back, seemingly prepared for recognition. When none crossed your face, she almost appeared to be relieved. “I apologize, but I was under the impression your name was Alga. I am relieved that is not the case. What a cruel name to give a child.”

You held out your glass and it was filled within seconds. Lucilla regarded your cup with a hint of wariness, though she held back whatever she wanted to say. “Why? What does Alga mean?”

“Well, it directly translates to seaweed, but…” She trailed off.

Insistent, you took a step forward. “But?”

“It can also mean ‘something of little worth.’”

Shrill and louder than you intended, you shouted, “Those jerks! Is that seriously what they’ve been calling me this entire time? What they’ve been telling people my name is?”

Lucilla hushed you and gently removed your cup from your hand. “I believe you have had enough of this for the night. Why don’t you stay by my side for the rest of the party, medicus? I have been told I am quite the conversationalist.”

“I cannot believe them,” You grumbled, though you quietly agreed to Lucilla’s invitation. She was both pretty and nice, much better company than that other guy, whatever his name was. “After all I have done for them, they continue to insult me.”

“Have the emperors been treating you well?” Lucilla asked, her tone slightly probing.

You paid it little mind. “They’re not horrible, really. The emperors they— they remind me of little kitties sometimes.”

There was a sharp noise beside you, and you looked over to see that Lucilla had choked on her drink. Her fingers curled into a fist to cover her mouth as she coughed. “Cats? Well, that is certainly a first. I have heard of wolves or lions but… calling the emperors cats is new.”

“I don’t think I should have said that, domina.”

“Lucilla,” She corrected as she shook her head. “And no, medicus, you likely should not have. Perhaps we should change the subject. Tell me about your homeland.”

You didn’t know how long you had trapped Lucilla in conversation, but by the time you were done, the moon was visible. How you managed to get on the topic of politics, specifically the corruption that your country was rife with, you weren’t entirely sure. All you knew was that you were rambling about how your current president was a felon and a snake. Halfway through your explanation of the hypocritical intricacies of American democracy, you managed to get more wine. Distantly, you recognized she was trying to sober you up, though you only managed to become drunker than before. Your political opinions seemed to have caught her attention so thoroughly, she had forgotten about keeping you away from any more alcohol.

“He got elected because he has money,” You slurred. Even standing in place, you were swaying, and it was hard to keep your eyes open. “That is the secret to power, Lucilla, money. People will do anything to have it, anything to keep it, and commit atrocities to make more. It’s— it’s all lies!”

“Medicus, as much as I agree, it would do you well to keep your voice down,” Lucilla gently advised.

Hiccuping, you tried to scrub the exhaustion from your burning eyes. “Why? S’not like the— the CIA, or whatever, is here in Rome. I can say whatever I want!”

It was only when confusion caused her lips to purse did you realize you had spoken English. “Medicus, I—”

“My lady!” A man called, approaching the two of you with his arms outstretched.

For only a moment, she turned her back to you, and in that second, you realized how badly you had to use the bathroom. Before you knew it, you were making your way through the crowd, the sound of a woman’s voice calling your name behind you. Laughter bubbled from between your lips, though you weren’t entirely sure what was so funny. All you were aware of was a giddy sensation welling in your chest. Your insides tickled, and it made you snort.

It didn’t take long for you to find the bathroom. On your way out, you might have knocked over a vase, but you very quickly absconded before you could be caught. There were so many people at Senator Dorso’s domus, surely, the incident wouldn’t be tracked back to you. Besides, even if Dorso demanded reimbursement, Geta or Caracalla would pay it for you. They’d be a little huffy about it, sure. It didn’t change the fact that they would do it all the same.

“They like me,” You sang with a giggle.

When a few people gave you a side-eye, you realized you had spoken aloud, causing laughter to bubble in your throat. You wanted to find Caracalla. Or, Geta. Whichever one was available, you didn’t care, you missed them. Your pretty, pretty boys whose soft hair smelled so, so good. It would be nice to bury your nose against their scalp and breathe, to remind yourself that they were there. Caracalla would certainly share your bed tonight, but that was so far away. You wanted to feel him against you now! A whine built in the back of your throat as you stumbled aimlessly through Senator Dorso’s villa.

Music caught your attention. The beautiful chords of a lyre being strummed, mingled with the beat of a drum, as a high-voiced man sang along in Latin. You were a bit too drunk to translate the words in your head, but sober enough to recognize that nobody was dancing. A few people shuffled in place, that was it. Unbidden, a broad smile bloomed across your face. Maybe what everyone needed was for someone to get loose first, then, everyone else would follow.

You managed to get thirty seconds into your unholy combination of the Macarena and the Charlie Brown before a ring clad finger clasped your shoulder. Long fingers dug into your flesh like talons, and when you turned, you caught sight of Geta’s furious visage. He took in your glassy eyed and flushed cheeks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. Around you, people averted their gaze, though you could still feel the attention of the room hot against the back of your neck.

“What in the gods’ name do you think you’re doing, Alga? Making a fool of yourself? Making a fool of me?” Geta hissed, his voice low as he steered you away from your makeshift dance floor.

You grinned up at him, your heart fluttering. There was only one thing on your mind, “I missed you.”

He paused, and your foot slipped a little on the marble floor. There was blood under the sole of your shoe, fresh by the feel of it. Your attention was quickly brought back to Geta. “Alga. Exhale. Now.”

You obeyed and his nose twitched as he sniffed.

“You’re drunk,” Geta realized. His face pulled into a scowl as he began to drag you deeper into the villa. “Clearly, I gave your intelligence too much weight. I cannot believe you’re drunk off of a little wine. Now I have two imbeciles to babysit. Of course. Nothing can ever go smoothly.”

He wasn’t talking to you, every word he said was grumbled under his breath. Distantly, you recognized that you should feel guilty for upsetting him. Underneath it all, though, Geta seemed worried, if not exasperated. Instead of shame, you were filled with fondness, leaning into his touch with a small hum.

“You’re so funny,” You said. With Geta guiding your movements, you trusted him to take you somewhere safe, so you allowed your eyes to slide shut.

Geta scoffed, frustration evident in his tone and the way his nails dug into your skin. “What about this is funny, Alga?”

It was only once you were seated did you open your eyes. Caracalla stared at you, his stare foggy and a drunken flush, matching your own, coloring his cheeks. Once he recognized you, he grinned, boyish and charming, his gold tooth glinting in the torchlight. Around him were a handful of Senator Dorso’s concubines, of either gender, though they were quickly dismissed once Caracalla saw you.

He stretched his arms out wide, inviting you into his embrace. “My medicus, look at you, drunk and pliant. Come to your Caesar.”

With a dopey grin, you moved to join him, only for Geta to push you back down onto the lectus he had settled you on. “If you move from this spot, Alga, I will make you wish you never set foot in Rome.”

“I’d never regret that, Caesar.” The threat went entirely over your head. You laughed instead, your reaction throwing Geta through a loop. “How could I ever regret meeting you?”

Geta froze and blinked at you, his pupils darting about your face. Far more gentle now, he applied pressure to your shoulder, his voice stern. “Stay put.”

“You found him, Caesar?” Lucilla’s voice caught your attention and you gave her an exuberant wave. She returned it, far more daintily.

Geta nodded, keeping his voice low. “Yes, thank you for letting me know of his condition, Lucilla. You never know how snakes will take advantage of such weakness.”

“Of course, Caesar.” Lucilla got the attention of a slave, and you realized most of the people were giving the emperors a wide berth. You didn’t know why, all you wanted to do was get rid of this affection bubbling inside you, threatening to overflow. “Some water for the physician.”

“I like your hair,” You told Geta.

He paused, his brows knit together. “What are you on about, Alga?”

“Your hair,” You repeated. “It’s pretty. Like a sunset.”

Geta pulled at a strand before tucking it back under his laurels. “You don’t know what you’re saying, medicus.” He turned his attention back to Lucilla. “Gods, where is that water? Dorso’s slaves are slower than anyone else’s.”

While Lucilla merely hummed in response, Caracalla let out a loud whine. “Melimelum, do you like my hair? Does it not remind you of a sunset, too?”

“Orange like a carrot,” You laughed.

“Carrots are not orange, melimelum,” He said blankly. Then, he dissolved into a fit of laughter, nudging Geta with his elbow. “Brother, he is so drunk that he has forgotten what color a carrot is.”

Geta’s cheek twitched, betraying his amusement. “I think he is far more aware than you think. After all, I am a sunset, while you are a carrot.”

Caracalla sobered and fixed Geta with a glare. “Shut up, brother. I’ll show you who my medicus likes more.”

Rather than pay the arguing brothers any attention, you fixated your gaze on Lucilla. She looked like she would rather be anywhere else. When you smiled at her, she returned it with one of her own, albeit strained. Before you could ask her what was wrong, a pair of arms wrapped around you. Warmth spread across your back as you were pulled into Caracalla’s soft chest.

“Dulcissimus, answer your Caesar truthfully, and you will be rewarded.” His breath puffed against your neck, the stench of wine emanating from him. You could feel a few stares from the crowd burning into your skin, though you paid them no mind. Caracalla’s teeth found your earlobe. “Who do you like better? Me, or my brother?”

“Cruelty, Caesar!” You cried, and Geta furiously shushed you, his hand on your knee. Whatever expression he shot to onlookers caused the hair on the back of your neck to lay flat. Thankfully, they turned their curious stares elsewhere. Certainly, not for long, of course. Nosy, nosy, Romans. Caracalla began to gently rock you, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder. “An impossible question. Damned, no matter what I say. Punish me instead.”

A laugh escaped you as Caracalla’s hand trailed down your chest to your stomach. “Here, melimelum? In front of the entire senate? What a naughty creature you are, but if you insist.”

“Hands off,” Geta snarled as he grabbed Caracalla’s wrist and pried his hands away from you. A whine of protest escaped pulled from your throat.

“Listen to him,” Caracalla argued, his voice thick with arousal. “Hear how desperate he is? Would you really leave him wanting, brother?”

“Yes.” With a yank, Geta ripped you away from his brother and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, nestling you against his side. Instinctively, you rested your temple against him. The scent of roses was overwhelming. “Look where we are, Caracalla. Think what these people will say about Alga if you have your drunken way with him.”

Caracalla pulled back his lips to bare his teeth. “Let them watch. Let them know that only I can bring my medicus pleasure. Let all of Rome know who he belongs to.”

“Then he will be your puer and not your physician.” A wheeze left you when Geta tightened his grip on you.

“I don’t care, so long as he’s mine!”

“You are not the only one who gets him!”

Caracalla sat back, his eyes hard and jaw set. “You would take this from me too?”

Regret colored Geta’s tone and you saw him glance at you. “Caracalla—”

“We shared a womb, and you took my air! We share an empire, and you take my recognition!” By now, he was screaming, spit flying from between his lips. “Now you take my medicus? I can have nothing! I have nothing! You take everything from me!”

Geta stood, causing you to fall over on your side, your vision blurring on the edges. You saw him grab Caracalla’s arm, prepared to march him away like he did you earlier. With a growl, he ripped himself away from Geta’s hold.

“I will take off your hand if you touch me again, brother!” Then, he addressed the crowd. “And I will gouge out the eyes of all who watch! I will cut out the tongues of all who laugh!”

With that, Caracalla stormed toward the exit of the villa, the crowd parting to let him through. The world tilted on an axis and righted itself when Geta pulled you into a sitting position. Not long after, you were standing, your feet moving of their own accord to match his steps. A man you didn’t recognize — Senator Dorso, you would later learn — spoke nonsense to Geta. There was far too much cotton in your ears to hear what was said, though whatever your emperor said in turn was enough to make him pale.

Once you were outside, you saw Caracalla’s palanquin already a fair distance away, heading back to the palace.

“I hope he’ll be okay,” You muttered.

Geta hooked the backs of your knees under his arm and your stomach flipped when he picked you up. Not with ease judging by his grunt and the hurried way he threw you onto his palanquin. A bit out of breath, he replied, “Caracalla will get over it, eventually. He will see reason.”

While you laid curled on your side, Geta was propped on one elbow. You pressed your forehead against his thigh. “I don’t want him to be upset. Ever.”

“That is one thing we can agree on. It is unfortunate he is so… prone to outbursts.” He hummed, pondering whatever thoughts swam in that thick skull of his. “Do you think you’ll remember tonight?”

You shook your head and your surroundings spun. “No. I’m so drunk, Caesar.”

As soon as you spoke, his fingers tangled in your hair. Geta’s touch was gentle, tugging at strands before exploring the contours of your face. “Good.”

Lifting your head enough to look him in the eyes, you felt that fondness return, along with your smile. You reached up to drag your thumb above his cheekbone, smearing kohl down his face. Instead of anger, he stared down at you with warmth.

“You have the beautiful brown eyes of a baby cow.”

Geta hummed and his cheek twitched. “Hair like the sunset and the eyes of a cow. Surely, you must have always dreamed of a man like me.”

“I think you’re pretty.” Your head flopped down against the mattress of the litter.

“Do you now?” He questioned, his tone light. When you nodded, the motion short and jerky, you could hear him take a breath. “Here’s a secret, medicus. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

The butterflies returned, tickling your sternum and causing you to laugh. You buried your face deeper into his leg to hide your grin. Now that you were closer, and despite the low light, you caught a glimpse of Geta’s toga. Thraex was right, you were matching him.

“We match.”

Geta was quiet, his gentle ministrations lulling you to sleep. “I know.”

The next morning, you were sure to have the worst hangover of your life and distant feelings of humiliation to contend with. For now, you allowed your arms to wrap around Geta’s thigh, hugging him against you like a teddy bear. His reverent fingers brushed against your lips.

Those were problems for future you, or however the saying went.

Okay, so, I genuinely thought the actual party would be longer, but it turned out to not be. I hope it didn’t seem rushed, but everything I wanted to happen, happened, and everything I wanted to say was said. That’s about all a scene really needs. And, just to clarify!! This is not the same party as in the movie, we are not at the movie yet. That’s arc two and we are still on arc one.

Long author’s note for a long chapter, let’s explain some things!!!

Firstly, why is Caracalla so insistent on following Alga arounf despite being pissed off with them. Normally, he would go the Geta route and make himself scarce to really make them miss him — which, incidentally, would have been less effective. After Alga’s near kidnapping, Caracalla, and also Geta, don’t trust other members of palace staff with them. Yes, he’s mad at them and punishing them, but he doesn’t want to let him out of his sight because the thought of losing them drives him insane. Caracalla’s constant presence makes Geta feel comfortable enough to be avoidant. Yearning ass bitch.

Funny story!! There actually wasn’t supposed to be a dry humping scene this chapter, it just sort of… happened. Caracalla got horny, Alga got horny, and I was like, fuck it. Get freaky you crazy kids. I also just genuinely think dry humping is kind of uhhhh the best thing since sliced bread lowkey. Too personal, anyway.

Jealous Geta!!! He’s so fucking weird and a walking contradiction. He wants Caracalla to be happy, yet he tries to drive a wedge between him and Alga out of sheer envy. He avoids Alga to stifle his emotions, yet subtly shows his ownership over them via the brooch and having the accents of his toga match the main color of theirs. King is INSANE!!!! And we love him for it <33 I will say, he is very protective of those he cares about, and his warnings about Alga’s reputation do have merit and come from a genuine place of affection. While he knows if he gets what he wants, it will only ruin Alga’s reputation further, and the fact neither he nor Caracalla will let them go, he does want them to know how the empire will see them. He sort of like… wants them to know this and accept him anyways. And also be their protector. He’s insane. Contradictory king.

Speaking of reputation, time to explain some words. Puer is a role, along with an age group, meaning ‘boy.’ Regardless of age, a man’s sexual partner could be referred to as his puer (boy) or puella (girl). To accuse a man of being someone’s ‘boy’ was hiiiiighly insulting, particularly in a political sense. A ‘cinaedus’ was a derogatory word and slur derected at a male who was gender deviant, and is the most common word used for a man who was penetrated anally. Finally, the word scultimidonus that Thraex calls Alga was rare slang and means ‘asshole-bestower.’

And Thraex. Yes, random Thraex appearance. For those who don’t remember him, he’s a canon character! He was the guy whose house Macrinus took and who wound up giving Macrinus the information regarding Lucilla and Acacius’ betrayal. Wonder what he could want. He definitely wasn’t getting Alga drunk to pry information regarding the emperors’ health from them, and so soon after their notes were almost stolen. I wonder if that’s connected. Anywho, I did debate having Macrinus appear, but I’ve decided he is not currently in the city right now. He’s chilling in that place he bought Lucius from. IDK, this may change.

I do hope Lucilla wasn’t out of character, I love her so much and I hope I did her justice. She literally hates those twins soooo fucking bad — although, I do think she may pity them. Alga endeared themself to her, and she supposed she can handle the two terrors long enough to help them not be a drunk and vulnerable foreigner with no filter at a Roman party.

Quick shooting of information because I think I’m gonna run out of the character limit but: tyrian purple was the most expensive and hard to make dye of the time period. It was made of sea snails and wearing it in large amounts was an absolutely disgustung display of wealth. Back then, carrots weren’t orange! They were white, purple, black, and yellow! And finally, Geta tried to lift Alga bridal style but he has the muscles of a sapling, so he coukd barely lift them. Though, he certainly tried. He was just very happy they were too drunk to notice how bad he struggled.

Okay!! That’s it!!! Thank you so much for reading, and this time around, I genuinely implore y’all to comment! Some scenes and lines in this one are my ABSOLUTE favorite that I’ve written, and I dare you to tell me your favorite in the comments. It would seriously make my day. Thank you so much!!! Yay, ILY!!!!

tag list: @snazzynacho , @t6gse370 , @cherrysweets-world , @justlibra , @001mon

#emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x you #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x you #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fanfiction #joseph quinn

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amirawrah · 2 months ago

Text

✩once in a lifetime... part one🐻🤎🎨

staring: William 'wilo' Saliba x Ameerah Tamilore Adeyemi

summary: After attending an Arsenal match with her friends, she never expected to leave the stadium with a lingering sense of unfinished business. William Saliba saw her walk away that night, and he didn’t stop her—something he instantly regretted. When fate brings them back together at a party, their unspoken connection is impossible to ignore. As the night unfolds, stolen glances turn into quiet confessions, and what started as hesitation becomes something undeniable. But with emotions running high and unspoken feelings in the air, the real question remains—will they finally say what was left unsaid, or will history repeat itself?

amirah: yayyyy i finally made a fic series, i don't know how many chapters but well see where this is going eventually. Like, repost and share and don't be afraid to fall in love with wilo too.

next chapter

William Saliba had always been composed. On the pitch, he was unreadable—calm under pressure, focused, unshaken. Off the pitch, he was the same. He was used to attention, to people admiring him, but he never let it get to him. He never let anyone get to him.

Until you.

The first time he saw you, he knew he was in trouble.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful—though mon dieu, you were. It was something else. The way you carried yourself, effortless yet captivating, like you weren’t even trying to steal his breath but still did. And then, you smiled.

That was it. That was his downfall.

Because your smile wasn’t just pretty, it was dangerous. The kind of smile that made a man forget how to think straight. The kind that made him feel something deep in his chest, something he couldn’t shake. It was warm, it was bright, and it made him feel like he was done for.

He was supposed to be the composed one. The one who kept his emotions in check. But at that moment, watching you laugh at something your friend said—he didn’t even know what, he just knew he wanted to be the reason for it—he felt something unfamiliar.

He was nervous.

William Saliba, nervous? He would have laughed if it weren’t true. His stomach tightened, his heartbeat picked up just a little, and for the first time in a long time, he felt out of his depth.

You glanced at him then, your eyes meeting his, and that smile widened. Like you knew. Like you could see right through him.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

And the worst part? He liked it but before he could do something he saw you turn your back and leave with your friends.

He should have stopped you.

William knew it the second he saw you walking away, slipping out of the stadium with that same effortless grace that had first drawn him in. He had just finished a match—a good one, a solid performance—but the usual rush of victory felt dull the moment he caught sight of you leaving.

You hadn’t even looked back.

He stood there, still in his kit, still catching his breath, watching as you disappeared into the crowd. His feet felt planted to the ground, his body frozen in place, even as something in his chest told him to move. To go after you.

But he didn’t.

And now, regret sat heavy in his stomach.

He ran his hand down his face, his mind racing. Why hadn’t he said something? Why had he just let you go? Maybe it was because he still didn’t know how to handle what you did to him. How you, with one look, one smile, made him feel like he was completely out of his element.

William Saliba didn’t hesitate on the pitch. He made quick decisions, precise movements, always in control. But with you? It was different. He hesitated. And now, he was paying for it.

“Tu es stupide,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away from where you had just been. But the uneasy feeling stayed, the kind that gnawed at him, making him restless.

The match was over. But the real battle? The one between his pride and the pull you had on him?

That had just begun.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came to the stadium that day. You didn’t think you’d get caught up in the energy of the match or feel so drawn to one player. But there he was—William Saliba. You couldn’t help but notice him, not just for his skill on the pitch, but for something about the way he carried himself. He was different. And when your eyes met for the first time, something clicked.

But as you made your way to leave, the feeling of his eyes on you stayed with you. You could feel him watching, maybe hoping you’d turn around. Maybe hoping you'd say something, anything. But you couldn’t.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want to.

You wanted to stay, to walk up to him, to see if the tension you felt was mutual. But no. It wasn’t that simple. He had his own life, his own world—one that you weren't sure you could just step into.

So, you turned your back and walked away.

You tried to keep your head high, trying not to let the weight of the moment get to you. But inside, there was a storm. You couldn't shake the feeling that something could have happened if you’d just stayed a little longer, said a little more.

But then again, he hadn’t done anything either. He didn’t chase after you, didn’t stop you from leaving. Maybe that was his way of saying he wasn’t interested.

It’s fine. You tried to convince yourself. You came here for the match, not a man!.

But as you stepped further away from the stadium, the thought lingered. Maybe next time, you’d try to make that connection. But for now, you’d let it go.

You hadn’t said much since you walked out of the stadium. Justine and Halle kept glancing at each other, exchanging puzzled looks, but neither of them spoke up until you all reached the car.

"Alright, what’s going on?" Justine finally asked, raising an eyebrow. She slid into the front seat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror, waiting for you to respond.

You were staring out the window, lost in your thoughts, replaying the way he looked at you, the way you left without a word. It wasn’t like you to let something affect you this much, but there you were—still caught up in the moment with William Saliba.

Halle, sitting next to you, nudged your shoulder lightly. "Hey, you’ve been quiet. What’s up?"

You blinked, coming back to the present, but both of them were already looking at you with knowing expressions.

“Nothing,” you muttered, though even to you, it sounded unconvincing.

“Oh, please.” Justine chuckled, turning around in her seat. “You’ve been daydreaming this whole time. About him, right?”

Your heart skipped. "Who?" you tried to play it off, but Halle caught the slight shift in your expression.

“Don’t play dumb,” Halle said with a smirk. “We saw how you were looking at him during the game. And now, you’re clearly thinking about him again. Spill.”

You sighed, not even bothering to pretend anymore. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I missed something back there. I don’t even know why I walked away without saying anything.”

Justine leaned back with a knowing smile. "Ah, so you’re into him."

You groaned, sinking into the back seat. “I don’t know if it’s that. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. "There was this feeling. Like, something could have happened, but I just let it slip away."

Halle laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, if you want advice, don’t just stand there thinking about it. Go back next time and do something about it."

Justine nodded. “Yeah, no one’s ever going to know if you don’t make the first move, right?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. "I guess you’re right."

Your friends exchanged a look, both of them clearly pleased with themselves for getting you to open up. They could already see it—the connection was there, and you were only just starting to realise it.

“Well, just so you know,” Justine added with a smirk, “if he’s half as interested as you are, you’re in for a wild ride.”

You groaned again, but this time, it was with a little more excitement.

ameerahsnarrative

liked by tolamibenson,heisrema, justineee, sheishalle and 500k others

ameerahsnarative: here at the emirates stadium with my girls @tolamibenson @sheishalle @justineee, had such a good time, so happy we won!.

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@tolamibenson so happy you girls came🥰

♥️by ameerahsnarrative

username1: wow you are pretty

username55: did you meet any of the players?

@justineee wow today isn't just your day huh @ameerahsnarrative fuck off

username88: Forget the match, I’m tryna be YOUR starting XI

username77: girl when are you posting on youtube

@ameerahsnarrative i'll be back soon dw username77: woooo!!

William stepped into the locker room, the sound of his boots echoing on the tile floor as the adrenaline from the match slowly started to fade. His mind should’ve been focused on the game, the win, the fans. But instead, his thoughts were filled with the image of you—your smile, the way you carried yourself so effortlessly.

He tried to shake it off as he headed for the showers. Focus, he told himself. You’ve got a job to do.

But even under the hot stream of water, as he scrubbed away the sweat of the game, all he could think about was you. The way you walked out of the stadium, your back to him, leaving him standing there frozen. He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t moved. Why? He should’ve followed you, stopped you, at least said something.

But now you were gone.

After a quick shower, he changed into a clean set of clothes, slipping on his usual laid-back style—black hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers. He ran a hand through his damp hair, still distracted. You’ve got to stop thinking about her, he told himself, but his thoughts drifted right back to you. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, seeing the frustration in his own eyes.

He needed a distraction.

Just as he was about to grab his keys and head for the door, a few of his teammates wandered into the locker room, their voices loud and playful, breaking through his haze.

"Oi, Saliba!" Bukayo clapped him on the back, causing William to snap out of his thoughts. "You coming with us to Noah’s party?"

William blinked, trying to push thoughts of you aside. "Noah's, huh?" he muttered, trying to focus on the conversation.

"Yeah, big party tonight," Gabriel joined in. "It’s going to be a good one. You in?"

A few other teammates joined in, all eager for a night out after the win. William nodded absentmindedly, trying not to let his gaze wander back to the door where you’d disappeared.

"I guess I could use a distraction," he finally said, giving them a half-hearted grin.

They all seemed excited, chatting about the party details—who else was coming, what they’d be doing, and who was bringing what to drink. It was all standard stuff, but William barely heard it. His mind was elsewhere. His eyes kept flicking to the door. To you.

“Hey, come on, Saliba,” Bukayo said with a grin, “you’ve been quiet. You sure you’re in the mood to party?”

William forced himself to smile, trying to shake the thoughts away. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there."

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just the party he was thinking about. It was you. The way you’d walked away, the way you hadn’t even looked back. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he had messed up, and no matter how many parties or distractions he tried to throw at himself, that feeling wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

Next time, he thought. Next time, I won’t just stand there.

For now, though, he was headed to Noah’s party, but his mind—his thoughts—were already on the next time he saw you.

Music played softly in the background as you, Justine, Halle, and Tolami got ready for Noah’s party. The room buzzed with excitement, everyone shuffling between mirrors, makeup bags, and outfit options. Tonight was meant to be fun—a chance to let loose after the match and just enjoy the night.

Tolami, being Bukayo’s girlfriend, had been the one to invite you to the Arsenal match in the first place. She had insisted you’d have a good time, and she wasn’t wrong. The energy, the crowd, the thrill of seeing the team up close—it had all been incredible. But what stuck with you the most wasn’t just the game itself. It was him.

William Saliba.

You hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Tolami. Not about how your eyes kept finding him on the pitch, or how your heart had felt a little too heavy when you walked away after the match. You weren’t even sure how to put it into words, so instead, you kept quiet, focusing on getting ready like nothing was on your mind.

“Ugh, I swear, picking an outfit should not be this hard,” Justine groaned, holding up two dresses against her body. “Which one?”

“The black one,” you and Halle answered at the same time.

Tolami smirked. “That was quick.”

“I mean, she can never go wrong in black,” you shrugged, brushing a little shimmer onto your cheekbones.

Tolami adjusted her earrings before glancing at you through the mirror. “I’m excited for this party. Noah’s always knows how to throw a good one.”

“Yeah, should be fun,” you replied absentmindedly, fixing your lipstick.

Justine, however, wasn’t letting you off that easy. She turned to you with a pointed look. “You don’t sound excited.”

“I am excited,” you defended. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Halle, ever the observer, narrowed her eyes at you. “Would this ‘lot on your mind’ have anything to do with a certain footballer?”

Tolami, who had been adjusting her bracelet, froze slightly before looking between you and Halle. “Wait, what?” she asked, intrigued. “What footballer?”

Justine and Halle immediately grinned at each other, and you groaned internally. Great.

“William Saliba,” Halle said, dragging out his name like she was unveiling the biggest gossip of the night.

Tolami’s eyes widened slightly before she turned to you with interest. “Wilo?”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Lies,” Justine said, folding her arms. “She’s been all in her head ever since the match.”

Tolami looked at you expectantly. “Okay, I need details. What happened?”

You hesitated before finally giving in. “It’s not even that serious,” you admitted. “I just… I don’t know. There was something there. I saw him after the match, and it felt like I should’ve said something. Or maybe he should’ve. But I just walked away, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Tolami’s lips curled into a smirk. “So that’s why you’ve been all quiet.”

Justine nudged your arm. “You should see him tonight and figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Halle added. “No more overthinking. If you feel something, go with it.”

Tolami laughed, shaking her head. “Damn, I had no idea this was going on. But honestly? They’re right. If there’s even a little chance of something there, you might as well see where it leads.”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small smile. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Justine grinned, “but we’re right.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the excitement creeping in. Maybe tonight wasn’t just about the party. Maybe it was about seeing William again—and maybe this time, neither of you would walk away so easily.

ameerahsnarrative posted on her story

[caption: party ready💋]

The second you stepped into Noah’s house, the atmosphere hit you like a wave—loud music, flashing lights, and a crowd of people already deep into their drinks and conversations. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floors, laughter and shouts mixing into an overwhelming hum of energy. It was exactly the kind of party that most people thrived in.

But not you.

Parties were never really your thing. Sure, you had no problem going out with your friends, dressing up, and playing along with the excitement. But once you were actually in the chaos of it all, you always found yourself withdrawing. Big crowds, forced small talk, music so loud you had to scream to be heard—it just wasn’t your scene.

As soon as you and the girls stepped inside, Tolami, Justine, and Halle were immediately caught up in the energy. Justine was already pulling Halle toward the dance floor after repeatedly asking you if you wanted to join, and Tolami was scanning the room, probably looking for Bukayo. Meanwhile, you took a deep breath and did what you always did at parties—you found a quiet spot to blend into.

You made your way toward a less crowded corner of the room, claiming a spot near the large window where a soft breeze filtered in from outside. You weren’t necessarily hiding, but you weren’t throwing yourself into the center of attention either. With a drink in your hand, you observed everything—the people laughing too loudly, the way some were already a little too tipsy, the DJ hyping up the crowd. It was all so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.

A couple of people came up to make conversation, and you smiled, nodding politely, but you never let the interactions last too long. You weren’t in the mood to force excitement or pretend to be someone you weren’t. Instead, you leaned against the wall, slowly sipping your drink, letting the party exist around you without feeling the need to completely join in.

Your eyes absentmindedly wandered through the room, taking in the different faces, the way people moved so effortlessly in spaces like this. That’s when they landed on him.

William Saliba.

Dressed effortlessly in a fitted black shirt and jeans, he stood with a few of his teammates near the bar, casually engaged in conversation. But something about his demeanor was different—like he wasn’t fully present. His gaze was scanning the room, as if searching for something. Or maybe… someone.

Your fingers tightened around your glass as a familiar feeling settled into your chest. It was the same feeling you had when you walked out of the stadium, the same one that told you that whatever this thing was between you and William, it wasn’t over.

And from the way his eyes landed on you—lingering, assessing, almost relieved—you had a feeling he knew it too.

The moment William’s eyes found yours, the noise of the party seemed to fade into the background. The flashing lights, the music, the people—it all blurred into something distant, something irrelevant. For a second, neither of you moved. You just stared, caught in the unspoken tension that had been there since the match.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do. Your instinct was to look away, to pretend you weren’t affected, but something in his gaze held you in place. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was something deeper. Like he was still thinking about the way you walked away, just like you had been thinking about how he didn’t stop you.

He shifted slightly, like he was debating whether to come over.

Your heartbeat picked up.

But before he could make a move, one of his teammates clapped him on the back, pulling his attention away for a moment. That was enough for you to break eye contact, inhaling sharply as you turned toward the window, pretending to take in the view outside.

Get it together.

You weren’t even sure what you wanted. Did you want him to come over? Did you want to talk about what happened—or didn’t happen—after the match? Or were you just caught up in something that wasn’t even real?

“Hey,” Tolami’s voice suddenly pulled you out of your thoughts. She had appeared beside you with Bukayo on her side, her drink in hand, her eyes flicking between you and the direction where William stood. “You good?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just needed some air.”

Tolami studied you for a second before following your line of sight. “Wait a minute…” A slow smirk spread across her face as she put the pieces together. “That’s who you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small, defeated smile. “I hate that you’re so observant.”

Tolami laughed, leaning in slightly. “Girl, he’s been looking at you like you stole something from him.”

You glanced back, only to see William’s gaze had returned to you. This time, there was no hesitation in his stance. He said something quickly to his friends before pushing off the bar and making his way through the crowd—toward you.

Tolami nudged your arm playfully. “Oh yeah, you’re in big trouble.” she said with Bukayo saying "ouhhhh" by her side.

Your heart was in your throat as you watched William close the distance. No more walking away. No more overthinking. This time, there was nowhere to hide.

Making his way through the crowd, he approached them, his confidence steady on the outside, but something about her made him feel uncharacteristically unsure. Tolami noticed him first.

“William,” she greeted with an easy smile.

He returned the gesture with a polite nod. “Tolami.” His voice was smooth, deep, but he was already shifting his gaze toward the real reason he was here.

And then, finally, he was looking at her.

Up close, she was even more breathtaking. Her dark brown eyes held something familiar—shyness, curiosity, and maybe just a little bit of the same hesitation he felt. The same eyes he hadn’t been able to forget.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The energy between them was thick, charged with something unspoken. It was only when Tolami cleared her throat that William realized he was still staring.

He exhaled lightly, gathering himself before speaking.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” he said, his accent laced with warmth. “I’m William.” His deep, rich French accent wrapped around the words, smooth and slow.

Her brain took a full three seconds to process what he said because she was too busy reeling from how stupidly attractive his voice was. Her lips parted slightly, almost like she wasn’t sure what to say at first. Then, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a small, shy smile. “I know,” she admitted softly. “I mean—yeah. I know who you are.”

His own smile ghosted at the corners of his lips, amused by her nervousness—mostly because he felt the exact same way.

“And you are…?” he prompted gently.

She hesitated, then finally answered, her voice carrying a soft, melodic tone. She told him her name, and just like that, it was engraved into his memory.

Tolami and Bukayo watched the exchange with an unreadable expression, but there was something knowing in Tolami's gaze. “Well,” she said after a beat, taking a step back and dragging her boyfriend with her. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

William barely registered her leaving because his attention was solely on the girl in front of him. He shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

“I—uh,” he started, then let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at himself. “Sorry, I don’t usually get nervous like this.”

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “So I make you nervous?”

He let out a breath, meeting her gaze again. “I think you do.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something lighter. The party buzzed around them, but in that moment, it felt like they were in their own little world.

You felt your pulse quicken at his words. The way he admitted it so easily—that you made him nervous—sent a small rush of warmth through you. William Saliba, confident, composed, and undeniably magnetic, was standing in front of you, slightly unsure of himself.

And it was because of you.

You let out a soft laugh, shifting your weight slightly. “That’s funny,” you said, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Because I was just about to say the same thing.”

William’s lips curled into a subtle, amused smile. “So we’re both nervous?”

“Seems like it.”

For a moment, you both stood there, letting the words settle between you. The tension wasn’t awkward—it was just… there. Charged.

William glanced around briefly before looking back at you. “You don’t seem like you like parties much.”

You raised a brow. “And what gave that away?”

“The fact that you’ve been standing in this exact spot for the past ten minutes,” he said, smirking slightly. “Just watching.”

You sighed, shaking your head playfully. “I do like parties… I just don’t like being in the middle of everything. It’s too much sometimes.”

William nodded as if he understood. “I get that.” He leaned slightly against the wall next to you, his presence comfortable, familiar in a way you weren’t expecting. “I don’t always like them either. At least not the way my teammates do.”

You smiled. “So why are you here then?”

He let out a small chuckle. “Good question.” Then, after a slight pause, he added, “I almost didn’t come, actually.”

That made you tilt your head, curiosity piqued. “Really?”

William held your gaze, his deep brown eyes steady. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter this time. “But now… I’m glad I did.”

You felt your breath hitch slightly at the way he was looking at you, as if he meant every single word.

Before you could overthink it, you smiled, glancing down briefly before looking back up at him. “Me too.”

William’s smile grew just a little, as if he was pleased by your answer.

For the first time that night, you weren’t lost in your thoughts. You weren’t stuck overanalyzing things or trying to blend into the background. You were here, in the moment, with him.

The party carried on around you—music pulsing, people dancing, laughter spilling over in waves—but none of it seemed to matter anymore. The world had shrunk down to just you and William, standing in the corner, locked in this quiet, unexpected moment.

He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering down at you, almost like he was still processing the fact that you were really here, that you were actually talking after everything that had happened at the match.

“I meant to say something earlier,” he admitted after a pause.

You blinked, tilting your head. “Earlier?”

“At the stadium,” he clarified, his voice carrying something that sounded like regret. “When I saw you leaving.”

Oh.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass, the memory flashing in your mind—the way you walked away, the way he stood there, watching but not moving.

Your lips parted, but you weren’t sure what to say.

William sighed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I didn’t,” he admitted. “I just… froze, I guess.”

You studied him for a moment. “Why?”

His jaw flexed, like he was debating how honest he should be. Then, finally, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Because I knew I was in trouble the first time I saw you.”

Your breath caught slightly at his words.

William let out a soft chuckle, his eyes locked onto yours. “I don’t usually get caught off guard, but with you… I did.”

You felt your cheeks warm, a mix of nerves and something else—something much softer—settling in your chest.

“Well,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “maybe you should’ve stopped me.”

His expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He took a step closer—not too much, just enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and subtly intoxicating.

“Would you have stayed?” he asked, voice lower now.

You swallowed, holding his gaze. “I don’t know.”

William let out a breath, then nodded slowly. “Then maybe I should’ve tried anyway.”

The weight of those words lingered between you, thick with something unsaid, something unfinished.

And in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t just some fleeting conversation at a party. This wasn’t something either of you would forget by tomorrow morning.

This was something different. Something new.

And neither of you were walking away this time.

#once in a lifetime series🐻🤎🎨#mirahsworks🦫#meerah&wilo #william saliba #arsenal #equipe de france #william saliba x reader #footballer x black reader #footballer x reader #football x reader #william saliba x black reader #william saliba fic

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solsticehymns · 3 months ago

Text

TOO GOOD TO BE FAKE: CHAPTER 5

JAMES POTTER X F!READER

a/n: YAYYYY CHAPTER 5 OUT EARLY!!! i've been so so appreciative of all the love for this series 🥹 i figured it was the least i could do to get my ass up and edit the rest of it. hehehehe enjoyyyyy!!! ☀️🌻

series page for prev chapters

wc: 2197

5: Too Good to Be Fake

— 1 —

The next few days pass in a blur, and my real life and my fake life begin to meld all the same.

It’s subtle at first—little things, easy things. James slinging an arm over my shoulder in the corridor, without thinking about it, his hand drifting naturally to my waist when we squeeze through crowds. Me leaning into his touch on instinct, him whispering a joke just for me in class, both of us laughing too effortlessly.

The stares haven’t stopped. The whispers haven’t faded.

But somehow, I don’t care as much anymore.

Or maybe—I don’t care why they’re watching.

It’s not just the school anymore, though. It’s our friends. Alice and Jade don’t even try to hide their amusement anymore. Sirius has started giving James looks. Remus has started watching me.

Lily Evans has started paying more attention, too.

It’s another Saturday when I realize how far I’ve let this go: Quidditch practice.

I would never normally go to these. I’ve never had a reason to sit in the stands, watching a group of sweaty Gryffindors hurl themselves through the sky while screaming at each other.

But today, I’m here.

I keep telling myself it’s for appearances. People have to see me invested, have to see me acting like a real girlfriend. I bring a book, find a spot on the stands, fold my legs beneath me, and pretend I’m not watching James too closely.

I tell myself it’s just part of the plan. Making it look believable.

And then Lily arrives.

She doesn’t sit. She stands at the base of the stands, arms folded across her chest, gaze fixed on the pitch. I know who she’s watching, everyone does.

James cuts through the sky like he was born to be there, all fluid motion and instinct, his windswept hair a perfect mess, his body moving with a confidence that’s utterly effortless. The sun glints off his grin, bright and reckless, like he’s drunk on the thrill of it, and I feel that familiar lurch within me again—something warm, something unsteady, curling deep in my stomach before I can shove it away.

Lily tilts her head slightly.

Then, she glances back at me; and suddenly, it’s not just a game anymore. She’s watching me watch him. A challenge, a test.

Suddenly, I realize—this isn’t about her anymore. It’s not about making her jealous, and it’s not about Simon either. Because the thing unnerving me the most isn’t that Lily Evans is watching me.

It’s that James Potter hasn’t looked at her once.

— 2 —

The courtyard is quiet in the early evening, the last flickers of sunlight stretching long across the stone pathways. The air is crisp, cool enough to wake me up a little, but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. I tell myself that’s why I’m lingering here instead of heading back to the dorms.

Not because I’m waiting for him, and not because I know he’ll find me. But then he does.

James’ footsteps are easy to recognize—a little too confident, a little too deliberate, like he’s always walking into a room expecting something fun to happen. But here, now, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just falls into steps beside me, hands tucked into his pockets, like this is normal. Like it’s always been normal.

I glance at him. “What are you doing?”

James shrugs. “Dunno. Seemed like you wanted company.”

I huff, turning my gaze back to the darkening sky. “Oh, right. I always exude warmth and openness.”

James chuckles, nudging my arm. “You say that, but you haven’t told me to leave yet.”

I don’t respond. Because… he’s right.

The pause stretches, the courtyard filled only with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. For a second, while it’s just the two of us, walking in relative silence, it’s nice. Easy. Comfortable in a way I don’t have time to question.

Then James exhales, a little deeper than necessary, and leans against the railing beside me.

“You know,” he says, “you’re kind of terrible at taking a compliment.” His tone is too light, too airy for the kind of comment he’d just made.

I frown, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze flickers to mine, and something in his expression softens—just slightly, but enough that it throws me off balance. “I mean, when I do something nice, you just… get awkward and run away.”

I blink at him. “That is— so not true.”

James lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? So last week when I said you looked nice, and you immediately knocked over your drink and changed the subject, what was that?”

I open my mouth— close it.

He smirks. “Exactly.”

I turn my face and look down the path we’re following, blinking, genuinely considering. “You just catch me off guard, that’s all.”

“Right,” he says sarcastically, “because the idea of me being nice to you is so shocking.”

“Yes, actually,” I quip, but the words come out lighter than I mean them to.

And that’s when James does something dangerous.

He shifts closer—just a little, just enough. His shoulder brushes mine, his voice lower now, softer. “You know, I like being nice to you.”

My stomach twists—thrilled, unsteady, completely betraying me. I let out a laugh, too quick, too high-pitched, a little too obviously forced.

James watches me, expression unreadable, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, something patient, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something he’s already figured out.

“Alright,” I say, pushing away from the railing, not letting this get any more real than it already is, not letting myself think too hard about it. “This has been fun, but I’m going to—”

“Walk away before you have to acknowledge that you actually like me?” James finishes for me, eyes glinting with amusement.

I huff, already turning on my heel. “Exactly.”

I don’t get very far. James is right behind me, catching up too easily, too effortlessly, like he always does. “Merlin, if you wanted me to chase you, you could’ve just asked. Would’ve saved us both some time.”

I throw him a glance over my shoulder, my lips curving just enough to make his eyes flicker. "Where’s the fun in that? I like to keep you on your toes, Potter."

James huffs, but the way he watches me—like he's already planning his next move—sends something dangerously close to excitement skittering through me.

We’re walking towards one of the large entrances to the castle from the courtyard— there are some more students around now to witness our little interaction. He’s still beside me, still too close, still too smug.

“So what I’m hearing,” he muses, tilting his head, “is that you like me exactly where I am.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t speed up. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

James only grins, falling into step beside me like he belongs there. “Too late.”

— 3 —

The castle is cooler in the evening, the last remnants of daylight casting long shadows through the stone archways. The halls are quieter now, but not empty—the low murmur of conversation lingers, footsteps echo in different directions, and clusters of students drift toward their common rooms, pausing now and then to whisper as James and I pass. My footsteps sync with his, the weight of his presence beside me something I’ve stopped questioning. It’s been like this all week—effortless, natural, dangerously easy. And maybe that’s why I don’t notice her at first. Maybe that’s why I don’t realize we have an audience until it’s too late.

Lily Evans is waiting just inside the entrance hall.

She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed, but there’s something unreadable in her expression. She isn’t blocking our path, isn’t doing anything at all, really—just watching. Watching us. Her gaze flickers between me and James, taking in the casual way we’re walking together, how close we are, the way his fingers brush against my wrist when he gestures absentmindedly.

She sees it all.

James notices her just a second after I do, and though his steps falter, it’s barely noticeable. I feel the shift in his presence, the way something in him tightens, like he’s bracing for impact. But when Lily finally speaks, her voice is light, almost gossiping, like she’s indulging a passing curiosity rather than confirming something she already suspects.

"You know," she says, tilting her head slightly, "you two make sense together. I see it."

And James—James preens.

I see it happen in real time. The way his shoulders straighten, the way his lips curve just slightly at the edges. It’s instinctive, automatic, like some deeply ingrained part of him just got the validation he never even thought to ask for. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t check my reaction. He just moves.

I can’t even react— his fingers tighten around my wrist, spinning me expertly into him. Somehow it feels like we’ve done this a hundred times before, like we’ve been moving toward this exact moment without even knowing it. His free hand settles at my waist, warm and steady, pulling me close in a way that leaves no space, no room for doubt.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not for show. Not a performance. His lips press against mine, sure and unhurried, like he’s settling into something that’s already his. Heat flares at the base of my spine, climbing fast, white-hot flames licking up through my chest. His fingers flex slightly at my waist, like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s making sure I don’t pull away before he’s had his fill of this moment—of me.

The warmth of him crashes through me, a spark to dry tinder, setting every nerve alight. His lips move against mine, confident but measured, and for a second—just a second—I let myself fall into it. I feel the way he’s leaning in, the way he’s holding me there, the way his breath mingles with mine, like we exist in a pocket of air separate from the world.

But we don’t.

The corridor isn’t empty. The world doesn’t disappear. Students slow their steps, voices hush, a ripple of whispers spreading like wildfire. I hear someone inhale sharply, catch the flicker of movement in my periphery as people pause outright, wide-eyed, watching like they’ve just witnessed something they shouldn’t have.

And they have. Because this isn’t a show. This isn’t a play. It’s real, it’s burning through me, and it’s happening in front of everyone.

I break first.

I pull away too fast, too obviously flustered. I’ve probably ruined everything. I should’ve just played along— like he said to me before, enjoy the experience. I could’ve done that. Now I lost my chance.

James doesn’t move right away. He stays close, his breath still warm against my skin, eyes searching mine for something I can’t name. The silence stretches between us, heavy, lingering, filled with something I am not ready to understand.

Lily clears her throat, but she’s smiling now, something small and knowing. She looks between us, her eyes glinting with something close to amusement.

"Yeah," she says, tilting her head slightly. "I knew it. You two are really cute together."

She doesn’t linger. She just gives James one last look—something approving, something almost pleased—before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving us standing there in the weight of what just happened.

I scramble for something to say, but my mind is blank, wiped clean by whatever the hell just happened. My skin is burning, my pulse erratic, my body betraying me in ways I can’t even begin to process.

I force a laugh, light and dismissive, as if my heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest. "Merlin, James," I say, shaking my head, playing it off, forcing the act back into place even as my hands tremble. "You could at least warn me before you go proving a point like that."

James watches me carefully. Too carefully.

And then, just like that, the mask slips back into place.

The easy grin. The effortless charm. The one thing he’s always been good at.

"Where’s the fun in that?" he teases, voice smooth, casual, like he’s not still standing closer than he should be.

The tension in the air is suffocating.

I step back. I need distance, space, air.

"Right," I mutter, my voice too light, too forced. "Well, this has been fun, but I should go—"

James doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, like he’s waiting for something I can’t give him. The silence between us stretches, thick, heavy, a question neither of us is ready to ask.

And then, because I can’t take it, because my heart is still slamming against my ribs, because the ground beneath me suddenly feels unsteady—I run.

I barely register the students still watching, barely hear the whispers that are sure to follow me. All I know is that I need to get away, to breathe, to pretend for just a little while longer that none of this means anything.

Run run run.

But no matter how fast I move, I already know—there’s no outrunning this.

Next in series: 6: Liar

☀️🌻

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vibratingskull · 8 months ago

Note

I saw that your requests are open and thought I'd pop in :3

Seeing as it's mermay, perhaps a Mermaid!Reader/Thrawn sunbathing together?

Yayyyy ! Mermaids ❤️ The first draft was all over the place, going into deep lore stuff and I had to erase it and put on my big girl pants to make a short, sweet, and contained chapter!!! But I did it ☺️

fanarts by @germie2037 <3

Mermaid!Thrawn x F!Mermaid!reader

Tag: Nothing but fluff

You yawn a big time, stretching your spine and tensing all your muscles.

Your body relaxes as you lazily bask under the sun’s rays in this tiny alcove between cliffs. Your tail floats in the salted water as you deeply inhale the surface’s air feeling at peace. You stretch your arms like a starfish, your hand inadvertently brushing Thrawn’s arm. You look at him and cannot help the smile creeping onto your face as you admire his relaxed, peaceful expression, his long hair draping his shoulders and running on the hard rock you both are laying on to bask in the warm sun.

He is just so handsome...

Sometimes you fail to understand how such a man can exist and how you managed to get him, but here he is... Preferring to lay silently with you instead of chasing power in your clan and family. As a Warrior Squads Leader he should be striving to gain more favors and political influence in the underwater capital, but in his own words: ”Those political dances and traps make me feel weary.”

You chuckle slightly at that memory as your hand comes caressing his warm blue cheek tenderly. He immediately seizes it to press your palm against his cheek, snuggling against it until he decides he wants more than that!

Holding your hand he rolls to the side to get closer to you and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his second arm sneaking around your shoulder to hug you tight against his massive body, almost choking you under the weight of his musculature.

But you would not want it any other way.

Your other hand comes to caress his hair tenderly with a light grin. You can feel his heart beating through his skin sending your own in a little frenzy. He starts kissing your neck and shoulder gently, leaving the softest pecks you ever received in your whole life, he rises up to your jaw and kisses his way to your chin, looming over your lying form.

He hovers over you, his long black-blue hair framing his delicate features as the shadow projected on his face makes his red eyes shine even brighter. You both remain silent, devouring each other in the eyes.

You gulp before such an imposing presence while his long and strong tail wraps itself around yours in a constrictive and intimate embrace, swimming together in the tepid water. He slowly lowers himself to capture your lips lovingly, robbing you of all your air. His hand comes cupping your cheek soothingly, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb as he casually ravages your mouth, his tongue dancing and hugging yours.

Between your gasped moans and the sound of waves, you can hear his purring start, pleased to have you in his arms, all to himself, and to be able to kiss you like he craved to do. You feel your gills opening wide to gather as much air as possible while he makes your head spin so easily.

When he finally lifts his head back up a tiny string of drool links your two sinful mouths and you take a big breath. He chuckles lightly and brushes your noses together with his eyes shining so much his pupils disappear in a sea of red.

“Ch’acah...” He murmurs almost to himself.

“Yes?” You smile fondly at him with eyes pouring love.

“Nothing... I simply wanted to call you my love.” He responds soflty.

He lowers himself to rest his head on your chest, listening to your fast-beating heart as he hugs your waist tight in his arms.

“We will soon need to go back, Ch’acah.” You remind him as you caress his wide back.

He presses his face down harder and nuzzles his cheek on your bosom, decided to not move in the immediate future.

“Five more minutes... They can take care of the Ascendancy without our help for once.”

@bluechiss @thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @elise2174 @debonaire-princess @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin@ineedazeezee @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @obbicrystaleo @germie2037 @leo4242564 @davesrightshoe @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn x you #thrawn x reader #thrawn x f!reader #mermaid au #fanfic #vibratingskull

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bearr02 · 2 years ago

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Safe and Sound |Chapter Six|

Pairing: Hybrid!ot7 x F!Reader

Chapter warnings: Not proofread

Summary: You have worked at a hybrid rehab and adoption center for years, enjoying being able to help people others only see as their animal side. You thought you might end up taking in one or two, what you didn’t expect however, was to take in 7.

Genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut, non-idol au, hybrid au, strangers to friends to lovers au,

Word count: 4.3k (damn I’m proud)

Member’s hybrid types: Namjoon: Bear, Yoongi: Bobcat, Hoseok: Ferret, Jin: Wolf, Jimin: Red panda, Jungkook: Bunny, Taehyung: Marble fox

A/n: I’m sorry for any weird parts or typos, I just wanted to get this chapter out. I’ll proofread it soon, I promise. New memberssssss 🤫 yayyyy

Last - Next - Masterlist

When you wake up the next morning, the cat is still nestled close to you, his head tucked under your chin as one of his paws rests on top of your arm. You smile, scratching his head with your free hand.

The sound the cat makes borders between a meow and a purr (Y’know how cats do that? Or is it just mine?) as he stretches the leg that was previously resting on your arm. “I need a name for you, buddy.” You mumble, running your hand from his hand down his back. The cat picks up his head and looks at you through tired, lidded eyes before laying his head back down, this time on your arm.

You smile, scratching behind his ears before reaching for your phone. The cat huffs at the loss of your hand, rubbing his head along your arm. You giggle, scratching his head making him purr. You pat his head softly before slowly removing your arm from him and taking the blanket off of you, standing up.

The cat huffs again, turning to look at you with a glare. “Sorry, buddy. I’m hungry.” You say with a pout. The cat huffs again before curling into a circle. You give him one last pat before making your way out of your room and downstairs to the kitchen.

—

As you sit on the kitchen counter, scrolling your phone and eating your cereal you see something out of the corner of your eye.

You lift your head from your phone to see the cat waltzing into the kitchen and jumping on the counter beside you, rubbing his head on your arm. You smile, setting your phone down next to him, your other hand holding your bowl of cereal. “Are you hungry?” You ask the cat. He looks up at you before blinking slowly and you take that as your yes.

You hop off the counter, setting your now empty bowl on the counter before getting a plate out of the cabinet. You walk to the fridge and get some chicken out, putting it on the plate before putting it in the microwave.

You take the chicken out when the microwave goes off, double checking to make sure it isn’t too hot before you put the plate in front of the cat. He looks at you and blinks before eating the chicken. You frown as you watch him eat.

‘What should you name him?’ You think.

The cat seems to feel your eyes on him as he looks up at you, licking his chops as he stares at you. The cat cocks his head ever so slightly to the side as he stares at you. You give him a smile, “Just thinking of a name for you, buddy.” You say, as if he could tell you’re upset.

The cat stares at you for another second before he goes back to eating. You reach out and give his head a pat before grabbing your bowl and putting it into the sink then making your way to the living room.

You’re in the living room for hardly a minute when the cat comes prancing in, looking around a few times before he spots you and hops up onto the couch beside you. He crawls into your lap immediately, laying his head on your thigh as his chest starts rumbling with purrs. You smile, reaching down to stroke his fur.

“I need to get you a bath, sweet thing.” The cat's head shoots up at your words, watching you with wide eyes making you laugh. “I don’t know how to take that.” You say with a smile. The cat huffs as his ears pull back before he lays his head back on your thigh, his purrs no longer rumbling in his chest.

You giggle, scratching behind his ears, “I take it you don’t like baths?” You say with a small smile, continuing to stroke his fur. The cat does something eerily akin to a head shake, along with his signature huff. You frown as you scratch behind his ears, earning purrs from the cat in return.

‘What if he’s a hybrid?’

You scoff lightly at the thought. It could be a possibility though, plus his actions are weirdly akin to human actions. You frown slightly as you mull over every action the cat has done in the past few hours since you’d found him.

The cat butts against your arm, and it’s then you realize you’d stopped petting him. You give the cat a small, apologetic smile before you continue to stroke his fur. As you watch some random show that was playing on the tv, you can’t help but wonder if the cat is really a hybrid. It wouldn’t bother you if he was, really, it'd be like having a roommate.

You brush it off for now, relaxing further into the couch as you focus on the tv.

—

You’re unsure how much time has passed, but you know it’s been enough time since you’ve last eaten for you to gather up an appetite again. You look down at the cat in your lap to see him dead asleep, asleep to the point of twitching bringing a smile to your face.

You ease your hands under his body slowly, gently lifting him up and setting him on the couch beside you. You groan as you stretch out your limbs, enjoying the satisfyingly small pops that echo in the room. You get up, making your way to your kitchen.

You open the pantry, scanning its contents and finding nothing to sooth your craving making you move onto the fridge. You pout when nothing catches your eye, closing the fridge and leaning against the counter, mentally listing what food items you may be craving.

You decide on going out and getting Chipotle, heading back to the living room for your keys and shoes. You peek back at the cat to see him still passed out, smiling softly at the sight before opening the door and walking out of your house.

—

When you’re on your way back home, you stop at the pet store you had seen on your way over, figuring you might as well get a few things for your new furry friend. When you walk into the store, you make your way to the cat section.

You look closely at the food brands, making sure you won’t be putting anything bad into the cats system.

You eventually decide on just getting a few cans of tuna and chicken, setting them into the basket hanging off of your arm. You wander further down the aisle, doing one last scan over everything to make sure there’s nothing else you’d need before making your way to the next one over.

The first thing you see are cat toys and catnip, looking over the wide variety of the different toys on display. You grab a bottle of catnip, a small one for now, and a few small toys that will hopefully entertain the cat. The rest of the aisle is mostly cat beds, a few cat towers on the end, none of them very eye-catching, however.

The next aisle holds the rest of the cat towers, and you look over them to see if any would be fun enough for the kitty at home. One catches your eye, it seems decently tall, with a few boxes that the cat would be able to hide in, two perches and a scratching post built into one of the two ramps. You pull the box off the shelf, huffing at the weight.

“Would you like help with that, Miss?” You look up at the voice, seeing a man looking at you with a small smile. You smile gratefully at him, “Yes, please.” The man nods before advancing, lifting up the box like it’s nothing.

“If you’re ready to check out, I can help you out with that, if not I can set this at the front for now.” You nod, “I’m ready to go, yea.” The man nods before leading you to where the checkouts are.

—

You sigh in relief when you set the cat tree down by the door, locking it behind you before pushing the cat tree further into the living room. You look up when you hear claws practically rushing your way, seeing the cat tearing down the stairs and straight toward you.

“Well hi, Kitty.” You say with a smile, bending over to pet him when he got close enough. The cat looks up at you before standing up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on your thighs as loud purrs begin to rumble through his body.

Your smile widens before you sit on the floor fully, scratching behind the cat's ears as he crawls into your lap. “I got you some things.” You say, gesturing to the bag and the cat tower. The cat looks at both items before back up at you, his paws kneading into your legs.

You give him one last pet before gently patting his middle, “I’m hungry, buddy, let’s go eat.” The cat huffs before rubbing against your arm, slumping against you more. “We can cuddle after we eat, buddy, I promise.” The cat huffs again, lifting his head up and staring at you for a moment before getting off of you.

You groan as you stand up, grabbing your bag of food and the bag of things you got from the pet store before making your way to the kitchen. You put the bags on the counter, rifling through the pet store bag and pulling out two cans. You look down at the cat rubbing against your shins before back up at the cans, deciding to go with the hopefully better option, tuna.

You open the can, grabbing a plate and emptying the cans contents on the plate. You grab the plate, looking down as you step back, making sure you don’t either accidentally step on him, or kick him. The cat looks up at you when you step away, following after you as you move to the living room.

You set the plate on the floor beside the couch, heading back to the kitchen to grab your food, taking it back to the living room with you. The cat isn’t anywhere in the living room, confusing you.

You set down your food on the coffee table, turning around, about to go looking for the cat when a meow by your feet stops you. You look down, seeing the cat looking up at you before rubbing against your legs when he grabs your attention.

“Eat buddy, you haven’t eaten for a few hours.” You say, sitting down on the couch before reaching over and gently scratching his head. The cat looks from you to the tuna before back at you, jumping onto the couch and trying to sit on your lap.

You gently push him away, bending over to grab the tuna, setting it on the couch with you. “If you eat we can cuddle, okay?” You mentally laugh at yourself for talking to a cat. The cat huffs before turning to the tuna, as do you turn to your food, taking it out of the bag and opening it.

You’re only about halfway through your food, your attention stuck on a show playing on the tv when you feel something soft against your arm. You turn your head to see the cat staring at you expectantly, bring a small smile to your face as you lift your arm up, giving him access to your lap.

The cat immediately climbs into your lap, laying down and getting comfortable before loud purrs are spilling out of his chest freely. Your smile widens, reaching down to gently stroke his fur with one hand while the other sets your food on the coffee table. The cat turns onto his side, then to his back, stretching out his limbs, staying in the stretching position.

You giggle, gently scratching his stomach, earning, if possible, louder purrs from the cat. You turn your attention back to the tv, relaxing into the couch with a content sigh. You groan when you hear your phone ringing, looking down at your phone beside you. You bite back another groan at the caller ID. Your boss.

You pick up your phone, answering the call before bringing your phone to your ear, “Hello?” You mumble into the phone. Your eyes widen as you start moving the cat off of you, “Yes, yes I’ll be there soon.” The cat huffs as he’s set onto the couch beside you, watching you intently as you stand up before practically rushing upstairs.

When you get back downstairs, this time changed from your pj’s to actual clothes, the cat is off the couch and walking toward you. “I’ll be back buddy, I promise. I just gotta go into work for a little, okay?” The cat stares at you before walking the last few steps between the two of you, rubbing against your shins making you smile.

You reach down to give the cat's head a few soft pats before making your way to your front door, grabbing your keys, then exiting the house.

—

By the time you make it to the facility, Mr. Dubose is outside, rushing to you as you get out of your car. “Thank you so much for coming in, Y/n. These two hybrids showed up a few hours ago but no one has been able to get them to calm down, one looks to be injured, and the other won’t let anyone near the two of them.” You nod at the information, following Mr. Dubose inside and to the room the hybrids are in.

“We managed to get them inside, but they wouldn’t go in without a fight.” You nod, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. The faint metallic scent of blood is the first thing you notice, the next are the two hybrids huddled in one of the corners, one covering the other with his body. The latter turns to look at you as soon as you enter, squeezing the hybrid further behind him as you fully step into the room.

You crouch down before sitting back on your heels, gently closing the door behind you, your focus solely on the hybrids. “Hi..my name’s Y/n..we just wa-” You’re interrupted by the hybrid launching himself at you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his face in your neck. You freeze, hands hovering just above the hybrid's body as he sobs into your neck. You turn to look at the hybrid that was previously covered only to see him watching you intently, his eyes glossy as he tries to crawl forward.

“W-we thought we’d n-never fi-find you again..” The hybrid plastered against you whispers, circling his arms tighter around you. “I…I’m sorry what?” You ask, your attention focused on the hybrid crawling toward you. “Don’t-dont you remember u-us?” The hybrid crawling towards you asks, finally beside your body.

“I’m sorry..I can’t say I do.” You say with a frown, trying to figure out where you might’ve seen the two hybrids before. “Y-Your dad a-adopted us wh-when we were ki-kids?” Your eyes widen as you immediately wrap an arm around Hoseok, wrapping the other around Jungkook and pulling him close. “Oh my god..I thought I’d never find you guys again oh my god.” You whisper, tears clouding your vision as you pinch your eyes shut, leaning your head onto Hoseoks.

Jungkook plasters himself against you as best as he can, sticking his head into your neck. “God I missed you both so fucking much.” You whisper, pursing your lips to hold back a sob. “We missed you t-too.” Jungkook whispers, wrapping his arms around your middle over Hoseoks.

A knock at the door startles both of the hybrids in your arms, their bodies stiffening as Hoseok subconsciously begins slowly moving the three of you to the wall opposite of the door. “Come in.” You call out softly, squeezing the hybrids tighter to you. Mr. Dubose enters, surprise evident on his features when he sees you on the floor cuddling the hybrids who had refused to even get near anyone. “I see you’ve calmed them down.” Mr. Dubose says with a small smile, only peeking his head in.

“They’re childhood friends of mine.” You say, lifting your head up to look at Mr. Dubose. He nods, eyes flitting between the three of you. “Can you look them over? Make sure they don’t have any injuries or that they at least aren’t bad?” You nod, knowing neither of them will probably want someone near them at the moment with how they were acting earlier.

Mr. Dubose gives you a short nod before his head disappears and the door closes behind him. Hoseok and Jungkook visibly relax, now practically limp in your arms. You give the two one last squeeze before trying to pull them back from your body. Hoseok fights you with a whine, pushing closer while Jungkook sits back on his heels, watching you with tear stained cheeks making you frown.

You reach a hand out, wiping the wet streaks from Jungkook’s face as Hoseok gives you one last squeeze before parting from you, his own cheeks tear stained just like yours and Jungkook’s. “Are any of you injured?” You ask, gently taking Hoseok's face in your hand as you look him over, roaming your gaze over his body, looking for any blood stains or tears in his clothing. Just as you finish your quick scan, Hoseok shakes his head, turning to look at Jungkook, “Kook is though..” He says quietly.

You immediately pull Jungkook closer to you, quickly overlooking his body, seeing small nicks and scratches littered across what you can see of his arms and legs. You start to feel over his body, freezing when he lets out a whimper as you touch his elbow. You look up at his face to see it scrunched in displeasure, cradling his arm close to his chest. You frown, gently pushing up the sleeve of his shirt, looking at his elbow.

You frown at the slightly swollen limb, the area a shade of pink. “What…what happened to you guys?” You ask, almost afraid of the answer as you shift your gaze between the two hybrids. “We uh..we ran away from our o-old home..I got caught in a rose bush..” You frown at Jungkook's words. “And your arm?” You ask, watching Jungkook’s face closely. “He uhm..I wasn’t be-behaving..” your frown deepens as you gently pull Jungkook into your side, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“I’m so sorry..” You whisper, gently rocking you and Jungkook back and forth. Jungkook shakes his head against your shoulder, “Was worth it..we found you again.” You sigh, reaching up to tangle your finger in Jungkook’s hair earning a small shudder from him as he goes lax in your hold. You reach down to your belt, picking up your walkie and radioing Mr. Dubose, asking for medical assistance.

You see Hoseok stiffen out of the corner of your eye, giving him a reassuring smile as you put your walkie back down. “Don’t worry. Everyone here is extremely nice and just want to help you guys.” You say, reaching out to gently grasp Hoseok's hand in yours, giving it a small squeeze. Hoseok nods, pulling your hand into his lap and playing with your fingers.

Jungkook whines, nuzzling against your neck making you laugh, continuing to run your fingers through his hair. “Are you gonna take us home?” Hoseok asks, slotting his fingers between your own, looking up at you with nothing but hope in his eyes. “I’m gonna make damn sure I do.” You say, earning a smile from Hoseok and a small laugh from Jungkook. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to take you with me today, though.” You say with a frown, “Dr. Martin will probably want to keep tabs on Kookie for a bit before he leaves.” Hoseok frowns, eyes flitting between you and Jungkook.

“I know you won’t want to leave him. I don’t either. I can see if I can stay a few nights here with you g—shit! I can't.” You groan, laying your head on Jungkook’s with a pout. “What if…what if we stayed at your house and he checked up on us there?” You look at Hoseok, seeing a matching pout playing on his lips as he stares at you. “Maybe…I’m sure I could figure something out.” You say, jumping slightly when the doors open.

You feel Jungkook stiffen in your arms, and see Hoseok stiffen as he drags you and Jungkook close to him. “Y/n? You said you needed medical assistance?” Dr. Martin says, gaze shifting between you and the two hybrids. “Yeah, Jungkook has something going on with his arm, I’m not sure if he broke it or not.” You say, attempting to pull said hybrid from your body. He fights you with a small whine, keeping his body smushed against yours. “I take it you’re close..?” Dr. Martin asks, unsure. You nod, giving him an apologetic smile, “Yeah, my dad adopted these two when I was young.” Dr. Martin nods, sitting down a few steps away from you.

“Can I take a look at your arm, Jungkook?” Dr. Martin asks, gaze shifting between Hoseok and Jungkook. You manage to get Jungkook’s injured arm away from your body, yet his body seems as if it’s super glued to you. “I can work with this, Y/n. Don’t worry.” Dr. Martin gives you a small smile before inching forward.

Hoseok inches back, hand still tightly grasped onto yours, taking you with him for a moment. You turn to Hoseok, giving him another reassuring smile as you squeeze his hand gently. He freezes, eyes locking with yours before he sighs, bending forward until his head rests on your thigh, his unoccupied hand coming up to wrap around your leg. You feel a small jolt from Jungkook, accompanied by a small whimper making you turn your head to Dr. Martin. “Sorry.” He apologizes, giving both you and Jungkook (the side of his head) an apologetic smile.

You jump when Jungkook lets out a small yelp, jumping in your arms. You fight the urge to send Dr. Martin a glare, instead giving him a sideways glance as he sighs. “I can’t really tell, but I think it’s broken.” You frown at his words, pressing your cheek against Jungkook’s hair, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “We’re gonna have to get him an x-ray, but, thankfully we have a machine here.” You nod, gently rocking Jungkook as Dr. Martin backs away and gets up.

“Bun? You’re gonna have to move. We gotta follow Dr. Martin to get your x-ray. We need to know if your arm is broken or not.” Jungkook whines, shaking his head against your neck. “I know, I’m sorry Kook. But I’ll be here, okay?” You look up at Dr. Martin for confirmation, receiving a nod in response. Jungkook still takes a minute, taking a few deep breaths before finally parting from you, his eyes glossy and nose red sending a pang to your heart.

You stand up before helping Jungkook and Hoseok up, offering your hand to Jungkook. He takes it immediately, pulling himself as close to your body as he can. You look up at Dr. Martin, giving him a small nod to which he reciprocates before opening the door and walking out, you, Jungkook and Hoseok following close behind.

“Y/n! You’re back!” You pause, looking behind you to see Jimin coming toward you, Taehyung behind him, a wide smile on the former’s face. “Hi, Jimin. How are you and Taehyung doing?” Jimin and Taehyung finally catch up, walking beside Jungkook. You don’t miss how Jimin gives an unsure glance at the two hybrids beside you, “Ah, we’re good. I’ve missed you.” You smile, “it’s only been a day.” Jimin shrugs.

“Alright, I’m gonna have to take Jungkook in alone.” Dr. Martin says, stopping at a door. You feel Jungkook freeze, his body clinging further to you. “Do I..do I have to go in alone?” You frown at Jungkook’s voice, letting go of Hoseok's hand to place yours on Jungkook’s cheek, gently tilting his head up from your shoulder. “You’ll be okay, yeah? We’ll be right out here.” Jungkook nods, albeit still hesitant as he slowly lets go of you, walking into the room with Dr. Martin.

You let your eyes linger on the door before turning to the three hybrids. “Jimin, Taehyung, this is Hoseok, Hobi this is Taehyung and Jimin.” Jimin looks at Hoseok, giving him a smile, Taehyung doing the same. “This is one of my two best friends I told you about.” Confusion crosses Jimin’s face for a moment before his eyes widen, Taehyung still looking confusedly between you, Jimin and Hoseok. “Ah, sorry, I never told you, my dad adopted two hybrids for me when I was young, Hoseok being one of them,” You say, gesturing to Hoseok. “They were taken by hc when I was young.” Taehyung lets out a small ‘ah’ as he nods.

“Who exactly…are Jimin and Taehyung to you?” Hoseok asks hesitantly, gaze flickering between you, Taehyung and Jimin. “They’re one of the main hybrids I care for.” You say with a smile. You jump when the door behind you swings open, whipping around to see Jungkook rushing out of the room and straight to you. “Kook wha-” You wrap your arms around him as soon as he crashes into you. You freeze when a sob escapes his lips. “I-I hated it in-in there.”

You feel another pair of arms wrap around yours and Jungkook’s body, looking up to see Hoseok looking at Jungkook worriedly. You look up to see Dr. Martin coming out of the room, a small frown playing on his lips as he sees the shaking hybrid in your arms. “He got a little spooked by the x-ray machine..” Dr. Martin says with a sigh. “His arm doesn’t look broken, it seems like it might just be a mild sprain.” You let out a relieved sigh. Maybe they’ll be able to stay at your house after all..

Last - Next - Masterlist

A/n: again very sorry about any typos or parts that don’t make sense, I’ll try and proofread soon!

#bts ot7 #hybrid #bts #namjoon #Seokjin #yoongi #Hoseok #jimin #taehyung #Jungkook #safe and sound

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