#and he walked away he walked away knowing he would live without her again

[inseobts]

Hello! I'd like to please request a little scenario for multiple characters if possible; I'm especially interested in your take on this with Law, Sanji and Ace given their backstory. If you're open to writing for the ladies as well then adding Robin into the mix would be appreciated! My idea is simple; an S/O with a child, and the aftermath of discovering that fact. I don't mind if it's an established relationship and there just wasn't an opportunity to meet the kid before or something else, I just like the idea of these characters dealing with the concept of surprise family/parenthood, the angst that may arise from dealing with the role of a stepparent if they want a relationship (and its happy ending if possible!) Good luck with all the requests, I hope you have fun with them!

Found Family (Reader with a Kid)

gn!reader

characters: law, sanji, ace, nico robin

tags: under each character + secret child

a/n: I started it with a fem!reader in mind and changed it to gender neutral only later since the post didn't mention the gender, so please if I missed some changes please tell me

words count: around 0.8k - 1.7k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Law:

Tags: Established Relationship, Surprise Family, Angst to Comfort, Fluff

The wind blows soft through the port town. Law steps off the ship, coat flapping behind him, hands in his pockets. He’s quieter than usual, eyes scanning the street ahead. He’s not here on a mission. He’s here for you.

You sent a letter three weeks ago.

Just one line: “I need to talk. Come if you can.”

Law doesn’t like surprises. But he comes.

He finds you standing outside a small house with peeling paint and flower pots on the windowsill. You smile when you see him, but it’s tight, like you’re scared.

He frowns “You alright?”

You nod “Yeah… I just—can we go inside? I don’t want to do this out here.”

Law follows you in. It’s warm. Smells like soup and soap. A small jacket hangs on a hook by the door. Not yours. Too small.

His sharp eyes catch it, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You lead him to the living room and sit. He stands. Watches you.

You look down “There’s something I never told you.”

Law’s voice is low “I figured.”

You breathe in deep “I… have a kid.”

Silence.

You look up. His face is unreadable. Like ice. You hate that expression, it means he’s trying to think without feeling. To stay calm.

He speaks finally “How old?”

You blink “She’s five.”

He does the math. That means before him.

“She yours?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod “Yes. Mine. The... other parent's gone. Completely.”

He nods slowly. His voice is cold, but not cruel “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.” You twist your hands “We met during a war. We never talked about kids, or… futures. Then we got together, and things felt good. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You thought this would ruin it?”

“I thought you might walk away.”

He looks away “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, standing now too “I’ve been through things. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’re not… You don’t talk about family. You barely talk about your past.”

His jaw tenses. You hit a nerve.

You try softer “I wanted to wait for the right moment. But there never was one. Until now.”

Silence again.

Then small footsteps.

You freeze.

Law turns just as a tiny figure walks into the room, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Who’s this?”

Her eyes are big, curious. Law stares.

You kneel “Sweetheart, this is Law. He’s… He’s my friend.”

Law doesn’t speak. He just looks. She hides behind your leg.

You don’t blame her.

“She’s shy,” you say “But she’s smart. She reads pirates like storybooks.”

Law kneels too, finally, lowering himself to her level. His voice softens.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he says “I’m just… surprised.”

Your daughter peeks out “You talk funny.”

Law blinks.

You laugh nervously “He’s from the North Blue.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head “Do you have a boat?”

Law nods “A submarine.”

Her eyes widen “Cool…”

She steps forward. He doesn’t move.

Then she offers her rabbit “You wanna hold Mr. Bun?”

You almost cry.

Law takes it. Careful. Gentle. Like it’s glass.

He looks at you over her head. Still unsure. Still quiet.

But he’s here, and he’s not walking away.

The rabbit sits on the table between you.

Law hasn’t said much since dinner. He eats quietly, politely. Your daughter sits beside him, munching rice balls like they’re treasure. She’s talking to him. A lot.

“Do submarines have beds?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of fish?”

“…No.”

You nearly laugh into your cup. Law sends you a look. It says help me. You shrug. You’re doing fine.

When she finishes eating, you ask her to brush her teeth. She runs off with Mr. Bun in her arms. The house falls quiet again.

Law leans back in his chair.

“You didn’t even flinch,” you say “When she offered you the rabbit.”

He shrugs “She trusted me. I didn’t want to break that.”

You nod, chewing on your lip “That means a lot, Law.”

He looks at you. Eyes sharp but not cold “I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“I’m hurt.” His voice is honest now “You didn’t tell me. I could’ve helped. Been there. Or at least known what I was walking into.”

“I know,” you whisper “I was scared. I didn’t want to push you away.”

“I’m not made of glass, Y/N. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost everything. But I never said I didn’t want to build something new.”

You look down at your hands “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that you’ve met her… what do you want?”

He pauses.

That pause stretches long and sharp between you.

Then, softly “I don’t know.”

You nod. You expected that. You’re not mad. Just scared again.

Law stands and walks to the window “She’s a good kid. Brave. You raised her well.”

You smile a little “She’s got my temper.”

“I noticed.”

You walk over to him. You both stare outside. The moon is bright tonight.

“I’m not asking you to be her father,” you say “You don’t have to… take that role if you don’t want it.”

He turns “What if I want to?”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he continues “A father. A parent. I’m… I’m a surgeon. A pirate. I know how to fight, how to cut, how to survive. Not how to raise a child.”

You place your hand over his “She doesn’t need perfect. Just present. Just kind. Even I didn’t know how to be a good parent.”

He watches you. Something cracks in his expression.

“I want you.” he says.

“I want you too.”

“But I can’t lie to you… I’m afraid. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You squeeze his hand “We’ll learn together. She’s not looking for perfect either. She just wants someone who doesn’t leave.”

That hits hard.

He nods and then tiny footsteps again.

Your daughter peeks from the hallway “Hey... can he read me a story?”

Law blinks “Me?”

She nods “You have a cool voice.”

You laugh softly “What do you say?”

He hesitates. Then walks over.

“Alright, let’s try.” he says “But only one.”

She beams.

You stand in the hallway, listening through the door. His voice is low, slow, careful. Reading a picture book about sea creatures. She’s tucked in, eyes half-closed. The rabbit is between them on the bed.

Law finishes the page. She murmurs, “You’re not scary like someone said.”

You gasp quietly. Betrayal.

Law chuckles “Someone said that?”

“Mhm. They said you’re all sharp eyes and brooding. But you’re kinda soft.”

Law mutters, “I am never going to live that down.”

You grin and walk back to the living room.

He stays. Finishes the story. Even tucks her in.

When he comes out, he looks… changed.

“You did good.” you say.

“I didn’t even sweat.”

“Liar.”

He sighs, then smirks “Okay, maybe a little.”

You take his hand again “So…”

“So.” he echoes.

“You staying the night?”

He raises a brow “You asking?”

You smile “I have tea. And a couch. Or a bed, if you behave.”

He smirks “I’ll try my best.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Tags: Flirting Sanji, Soft Sanji, Humor, Fluff, Unexpected Bonding, Found Family

Sanji flirts with you every time he sees you.

At the market “Ah, Y/N! Did the sun rise just to see your face today?”

At the docks “Want me to carry those for you, my love? Your hands are far too lovely for heavy lifting!”

Even after the battle in your city, where the Strawhats helped “You’re even more beautiful covered in blood. Should I be worried about how much I love that?”

You never fall for it. You roll your eyes. You walk away. You don’t even blush.

It drives him insane.

“You’re difficult to get,” he says one afternoon, following you through town “but I like that.”

“I don’t fall,” you say flatly “Especially not for men with hearts in their eyes.”

“Ahhh, but my heart is sincere!”

You stop and face him “Sanji. You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

You pause. He’s annoying, yes. But not bad. He’s never pushed you too far. Never said anything mean. Just flirty. Charming. Too charming.

You sigh “Fine. You want to know me?”

He lights up “Yes! Of course!”

“Then come with me.”

You lead him through town, away from the market, away from the noise. Into a quiet part of the island. A garden path. A small house tucked in the trees.

He’s still smiling “So this is where the beautiful Y/N hides. A date, then?”

You don’t answer. You open the door. Inside, it’s neat. Warm. Lived-in. There are toys in the corner. A tiny pair of shoes by the door.

Sanji frowns “Is this… your house?”

“Wait here.” you say.

You go into the back room. A few seconds later, you return, holding a small child. Sleepy-eyed. Holding a stuffed whale. While another lady leaves the house as if her job there is finished.

You look Sanji in the eye.

“This is my daughter.”

Sanji freezes.

Dead silent.

You wait.

You expect a nervous laugh. A fast goodbye. A dramatic “I’m not ready for this!” speech.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead…

“Her hair’s like yours,” he says softly “She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter rubs her eyes, looks at him “Who’s that?”

You answer “Just... a friend.”

Sanji kneels slowly “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Sanji. Can I say hello?”

She shrugs. He waves. She waves back with the whale.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Whale.” Sanji says seriously.

You blink.

She giggles.

You didn’t expect this.

You make tea. Sanji helps. He insists, actually.

“She can’t have sugar this late.” you say.

“Then honey,” he says “Gentle on the stomach.”

You watch as he puts her cup in front of her like a butler. Bows. She bows back. You nearly choke on your tea.

“Do you cook?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” he says “Better than anyone.”

She claps “Make us dinner!”

Sanji glances at you. You nod. Why not?

He makes a simple meal. It smells amazing. Your daughter eats two full plates.

After, she sits in his lap and shows him a book of sea animals. He listens. Really listens.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

You were trying to scare him away.

Instead, he’s… perfect.

When she falls asleep, he carries her to her bed. Quiet. Gentle.

He tucks her in, fixes her whale beside her, and kisses her forehead.

You follow him back to the living room in silence.

“Well...” you say, still confused “That wasn’t what I expected.”

He smiles but smaller this time. Softer.

“I flirt because it’s fun,” he says “But I stayed because I wanted to see you.”

You stare at him “You weren’t scared?”

“I was shocked,” he admits “But not scared. You’re a single parent. That’s strong. She’s lucky to have you.”

You look away “I thought it would make you leave.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You smile at that and look at him again. This time longer.

Sanji isn’t just charm. He’s heart. He’s warmth.

And… maybe you were wrong about him.

Your daughter’s asleep.

Sanji’s sitting on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest like he belongs there. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and a soft smile on his lips.

He looks so… calm. Like this is normal. Like he wants this.

You sit across from him, legs tucked under you. You sip your tea. Your hands are shaking just a little, but you hide it well.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say “She loved it.”

“She’s adorable,” he says, smiling “And polite. You’ve done an amazing job.”

You stare into your cup “I didn’t do it alone. But… it’s been a long time since I shared her with someone.”

Sanji watches you quietly. No teasing now. Just listening.

You swallow. Here goes nothing.

“So,” you say “I’ve decided something.”

He leans forward “Oh?”

You lift your eyes to meet his “I’m saying yes.”

His brows lift “Yes to what?”

You smile “A date.”

He freezes “Wait. A—really?”

You nod.

“I mean, I’ve been asking for weeks, but I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say “I just didn’t believe you.”

“And now?”

“Now I do.”

He stares at you for a second. Then a slow, beautiful grin spreads across his face. Like he’s won a war. Like the clouds finally moved for the sun.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You—you have no idea what this means to me, Y/N.”

You chuckle “I might have some idea.”

“Do you want flowers? Candles? Music? Should I wear a suit? I’ll cook, of course—”

You laugh softly “Just come as you are.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You sip your tea again. Calm on the outside.

But inside? Your heart is thundering. So loud it feels like it echoes in your chest. And he doesn't even know your heart is actually beating faster than his own.

You’ve had to be strong for so long. For your child. For yourself. Love always felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

But Sanji… he’s something else.

Not because he’s charming.

But because when it really mattered, he stayed.

And now, you let yourself fall a little deeper.

You stand. Walk over. And press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He goes still.

You pull back and say quietly, “Can't wait for the date.”

His eyes widen, then fill with something warm surprised, happy, maybe even a little nervous.

“You… really?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod “Don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is breathless “Never.”

You smile, heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. He doesn’t need to know yet how much this means.

A few nights later for your first date Sanji goes all out, but not in a flashy way. It’s thoughtful. Intimate.

He sets up dinner on the ship’s deck. Small candles, soft music from a den den mushi radio, and a view of the sea under stars. He cooks something warm and comforting, not fancy, just full of love.

You talk for hours. About silly things, quiet things, your pasts and dreams. It’s easy. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does talk, it’s gentle.

No cheesy lines. Just Sanji. Real and warm.

After dessert, he walks you home in silence. Not awkward, just peaceful. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill space.

At your door, he looks at you with hopeful eyes but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for your choice.

So you step closer.

You kiss him.

Soft. Sure. Just once. But it’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.

When you pull away, he blinks like he’s just been hit by a wave.

You smirk “You were taking too long.”

He laughs, dizzy and full of stars.

And for the first time in a long while, so do you.

── .✦ Ace:

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Angst, Humor, Emotional Reveal, Mutual Feelings Hidden, Teasing to Serious, Marine Conflict

The sun burns above you. You’re lying on the deck of your ship, one leg over the other, a half-empty bottle between your fingers. Ace is beside you shirtless, grinning, sweat on his brow, flame flickering off his fingers like it’s breathing with him.

“You always steal my rum.” you say, kicking him lightly.

“You always keep it warm,” he shoots back “I’m doing you a favor.”

You roll your eyes “Your idea of favors sucks.”

He leans closer, his voice lazy and smug “You didn’t say that last night.”

You groan “Get a new line, fire boy.”

He grins wider. You punch his arm. He fake-winces, like it hurt. It didn’t.

That’s the two of you: teasing, biting, half-fighting, half-kissing. No promises. No labels. Just good fun and bad timing.

Pirate life is rough. You take what joy you can.

“Hey,” you say after a long silence, watching the sky “Wanna hear a secret?”

Ace smirks, eyes still closed “If it’s about that thing you did in the galley with the honey—”

“No, dumbass. A real secret.”

That makes him open his eyes. He turns to look at you “Alright. Hit me.”

You sit up. Serious now. The bottle rests on your knee.

“I have a son.”

Ace snorts “You what?”

You nod, eyes still on the horizon “Yeah. He’s five. His name’s Ren.”

He blinks. You go on before he can interrupt.

“I had him before all this, before the piracy, before you. I got caught in something messy with the Marines. To keep him safe, I left him with my parents. Changed my name. Ran.”

Ace stares.

You keep talking “I go see him when I can. Disguised. Just for a day or two. He thinks I’m some traveling doctor or something. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

You pause. Swallow.

“It’s hell, leaving every time. But I’d rather he grow up safe than have him hunted.”

Ace starts laughing.

You blink “What the hell?”

He’s full-on laughing “Holy shit, you got me! I thought you were serious. What is this, some new kink? Roleplay? Mommy pirate stuff?”

You just look at him.

Dead quiet.

No grin. No tease.

Ace’s smile dies instantly. The flame on his fingers goes out.

“…Wait,” he says “You’re not joking?”

You don’t say anything.

His expression changes fast… shocked, confused, then something close to guilt “You really…?”

You nod once “I’m not playing around.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly tense “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry “That’s usually the first response.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again “Why are you telling me this now?”

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a real connection in years. Or maybe I just got tired of lying all the time.”

He stares at you.

You look away “I didn’t expect you to laugh. That sucked.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No,” he says quickly “I’m serious. That was a shitty reaction. I just… I didn’t think you were the kind of person to hide something that big.”

You exhale “Turns out, I’m full of surprises.”

The silence between you is heavy now. Not like before.

Then Ace says quietly, “What’s he like?”

You blink “Huh?”

“Your kid. Ren. What’s he like?”

You smile a little “Stubborn. Smart. Messy. Loves drawing fishes. Hates carrots. Thinks I have the coolest boots in the world.”

Ace nods, quiet. He looks down, then up at you again.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs “I’m sorry for laughing. And I’m… kinda honored you told me.”

You raise a brow “Didn’t peg you for the emotional type.”

He shrugs, eyes soft “Didn’t peg you for someone with a child.”

Touché.

Ace doesn’t talk much for the next few days.

No flirting. No teasing. Just quiet looks when he thinks you’re not watching.

You try to act normal with some old jokes, same smug grin as always, but you feel it too. Everything changed with that one secret. The space between you now holds more than just fun.

It holds truth. Real, heavy, warm truth.

You’re standing at the helm when he walks up beside you.

“I want to come.” he says.

You glance at him “Come where?”

“When you go see your son.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel “Ace—”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I swear. I just… want to see him. I want to understand what you gave up. What you’re protecting.”

You study him for a moment. His eyes don’t waver. There’s no joke. No smirk.

Just Ace. Real. Honest.

You nod.

Months later — The island is quiet. A small village with stone houses, chickens in the streets, a little bakery that still smells like your childhood.

You pull your hood low. Ace wears a cap, sunglasses... he looks ridiculous, but no one’s looking at him. Just another traveler.

Your parents’ house is at the end of the road. Garden full of wildflowers. Paint peeling on the fence.

Your son is playing outside.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s chasing butterflies. Laughing. Barefoot.

Ace stops walking.

“That’s him?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod “Ren.”

Ace just stares. His hands slowly curl into fists.

You call out softly, “Ren?”

The boy turns. His face lights up.

He runs to you screaming. You drop to your knees and catch him in your arms. He’s warm. Real. Solid.

Ace looks away.

Inside, your parents keep things short. They know who Ace is. You warned them. They’re not happy, but they trust you.

You all sit outside. Ren sits on Ace’s lap by accident. You try to grab him, but Ace just holds him steady.

“It’s okay,” he says “He’s light.”

Ren shows him a toy ship made of sticks “I made this!”

Ace chuckles “Really? That’s better than some ships I’ve sailed on.”

You stare.

Ren grins proudly “My parent used to tell me stories. About pirates and fire powers. Did you know there’s a pirate who can set his fists on fire?”

Ace raises a brow “Sounds dangerous.”

Ren gasps “But so cool!”

You laugh softly. Ace sends you a small look. It’s gentle. A little sad.

Later, when Ren naps, you and Ace sit on the back porch.

“He’s amazing.” Ace says.

“I know.”

“You’re amazing,” he adds “You left this. For his safety.”

You stare at the grass “I think about quitting all the time. Just staying here. Being at his side full time. But… the world’s not kind. And if they find me—”

“I get it,” he cuts in “You’re doing what you have to.”

You glance at him “I didn’t expect you to care so much.”

He shrugs “Neither did I.”

Then he adds, “But now I can’t stop.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He’s got your eyes.” Ace says softly.

“Don’t get attached.” you warn “This life… it’s dangerous.”

“So is mine,” he says “But that didn’t stop you from letting me in.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I didn’t plan for this...” you whisper.

“Neither did I.”

But here you both are.

And suddenly, fun doesn’t feel like the right word anymore.

The sound of quiet laughter wakes you.

You blink against the morning light, still groggy, still warm under the blanket. It takes a second to remember where you are... your parents’ house, back in your old bed.

And then you hear it again.

Ren’s voice.

And Ace’s.

You sit up, heart skipping.

You slip out of bed, still barefoot, and pad toward the living room. And there they are.

Ren sits cross-legged on the floor, his little wooden ship in one hand, while Ace sits across from him, mimicking an enemy pirate voice.

“Noooo! You got me again, Captain Ren! My ship is sinking!”

Ren giggles and throws a pillow at him “That’s what you get, bad guy!”

Ace dramatically falls back, hands in the air “Ughhh… defeated by the mightiest pirate on the seas…”

Your heart squeezes.

Ace looks so natural. Hair messy. Eyes full of warmth. Like he belongs here.

But then your parents come in.

They freeze when they see the scene.

Ace doesn’t notice at first, he’s laughing with Ren, his smile unguarded.

“Ren.” your mother says, sharply.

Your son turns.

“Come away from him,” your father says quickly, stepping forward “Now.”

Ace blinks, confused “I—”

“Ren,” your mother repeats “Come here.”

Ren looks at you, unsure.

You step in “What’s going on?”

Your father’s jaw tightens “We don’t want him near the child.”

You stare “Excuse me?”

“He’s a pirate,” your mother hisses “A famous one. Fire Fist. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s also sitting on the floor playing ships...” you snap.

Your parents say nothing.

“You trusted me enough to come here with him,” you continue, voice rising “Now you’re trying to pull Ren away like he’s some kind of monster?”

“We’re protecting our grandson.” your father says coldly.

“From what? A man who’s been nothing but kind to him?”

“You don’t know what kind of life he brings.”

“I do,” you shout “I live it too. If you forgot. And yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s hard. But Ace has done nothing but respect my family, protect me, and treat Ren with more care than anyone ever has!”

They go silent.

You’re shaking now, fists clenched.

“And for your information, I love him.”

The words fall like a hammer in the room.

Ren blinks.

Your parents’ eyes widen.

Ace just stares at you.

You don’t move.

You didn’t mean to say it... not like this, not loud, not angry... but it’s out.

And real.

You look at Ace, heart thundering “I love you.”

A beat.

Then Ace stands slowly, eyes locked on yours. He walks to you, quiet. The room holds its breath.

He stops in front of you.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say it first,” he says, voice low “Didn’t want to scare you off. But you beat me to it.”

You blink.

“I love you too.” he says.

He reaches out, gentle, and takes your hand.

Your parents stay silent. Ren looks between the two of you, then claps once like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I have pancakes now?” he asks.

You and Ace laugh at the same time, breathless.

And just like that, the tension cracks.

── .✦ Nico Robin:

Tags: Established Relationship, Soft Confession, Emotional Intimacy, Bittersweet Past

It’s late.

Most of the crew has gone to bed, except you and Robin. You're both in the library room. She’s reading. You’re not. You're just holding the edge of a piece of paper... frayed, uneven, and pulsing with life.

A vivre card.

You don’t have to look at it to know it’s still there. Still pointing somewhere far away, where you can’t be.

Robin closes her book softly “Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

You glance over.

Of course she noticed.

You nod “Yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly “Can I ask who it’s for?”

You hesitate.

You’ve never told her. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because it always felt like a story that belonged to a different version of you. The you from before the sea. Before the Straw Hats. Before her.

But she’s already part of everything now.

So you answer.

“My son.”

Robin says nothing but her gaze sharpens. Attentive. Careful.

“He’s with his other parent now,” you continue, voice quiet “I raised him alone before I joined the crew. He’s the one who said it was okay. Actually, we were always together, in another small crew. Then he wanted a different kind of life. One with… peace. So we contacted his other parent.”

Robin nods, slow “He sounds mature.”

“He was always like that. Smarter than me, I think.”

There’s a short silence.

You look at the vivre card “I haven’t seen him since I joined. We talk through letters, sometimes den den mushi. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again.”

Robin’s eyes soften “Do the others know?”

You shake your head “No. Just you.”

She reaches out. Her fingers brush yours, just enough to touch the vivre card “Thank you for trusting me.”

You smile, small but real “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Robin hums “I already see you. Clearly.”

You blink.

She looks at you steady and kind “You carry something heavy. And still laugh with the crew. Still help cook. Still stand beside me in battle. That’s not weakness.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

She pauses, then adds, “If one day… you want to try and see him again, I’d go with you.”

Your voice catches “Really?”

She nods “Of course. I’d like to meet him. He sounds like someone I’d admire.”

You look down at the vivre card.

Still warm. Still burning.

Maybe not as far away as it feels.

It’s just past dinner.

You’re with Robin as she asked you to stay close. A soft excuse about helping her with some documents. You're both sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a soft lamp between you.

You have the vivre card on the table. You don't always keep it out, but tonight you felt the need to hold it.

You glance at the Den Den Mushi nearby.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up and dial a number you’ve had memorized since your hands first held his.

The snail blinks sleepily… then perks up.

“Hello?”

Your chest tightens at the voice.

You smile “Hey, kiddo.”

A pause, then, “IT’S YOU!!”

You laugh, caught off guard by the pure excitement.

“Oh my god—FINALLY! You didn’t forget me, right? You didn’t sail into a storm and disappear forever, right?”

Robin lifts an amused brow, watching you with quiet interest.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say softly “You know that.”

“Just making sure. I’ve been drawing so many sea monsters lately you would not believe. I made a kraken with three hats.”

You laugh again, voice cracking slightly “Three hats? He must be important.”

“Very.” He pauses, then adds, “...I missed you.”

You shut your eyes “I missed you too.”

Robin looks away respectfully, but stays close.

Then, from the snail: “Hey, wait—who’s near you? Are you with someone?”

You glance at Robin, who blinks, caught.

“She’s... a friend.” you say carefully.

Robin speaks, her voice soft “I hope I’m more than just a friend.”

The Den Den Mushi mimics a shocked face.

“...OH MY GOD. IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND??”

You bury your face in your hand.

Robin chuckles lightly, graceful even when embarrassed “Hello. I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a long pause.

“...You sound really cool.”

Robin smiles “Thank you. So do you.”

“Wait—how much do you know about them? Like... do you know about the time they tried to cook without instructions and set the wall on fire?”

You groan “Don’t tell her that.”

“It was a microwave! The noodles caught on fire!”

Robin’s shoulders shake with laughter.

You shoot her a glare that holds no heat “I regret this entire call.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

Not even a little.

Later, when the call ends, you sit in silence.

Robin’s hand reaches for yours “He’s amazing.”

You nod, voice soft “Yeah. He really is.”

She squeezes your hand gently “He has your spark. And your chaos.”

You smile through the ache in your chest “He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

Robin rests her head against your shoulder.

“You’ll see him again. When the time is right. And I'll be with you... if you want me.”

"Of course I do."

And somehow, with her beside you, that feels like a promise you can believe in.

[dollfacefantasy]

love quinn x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fingering, exhibitionism (almost), infidelity (against joe :P) a/n: idc if this gets like two notes it's my blog and i wanna write about my wife ✊😔

her fingers smell like cherries as they slide over your lips to muffle the sounds begging to spill over. you can feel her breath hot on your neck, coming out in puffs. her body presses against your back. it keeps you pinned against the countertop.

your hand still fruitlessly attempts the task before you. despite your shaky grip, you try your best to whisk the batter like she’d shown you over the course of the last few weeks.

“that’s it. just like that. good girl,” she coos.

you buck back against her and squeeze your eyes shut. it takes everything you have to stay somewhat composed. but you have to. joe is only a few yards away.

he comes into view as your eyes reopen. over in the living room, he sits on the couch reading a book, oblivious as ever. all he would have to do is turn his head. just one glance forty five degrees to the left, and you’d be truly fucked.

but he doesn’t. his eyes stay locked on the page before him while his wife pumps her fingers in and out of you.

“you’re doing so well. you might just be made for this,” she praises, kissing the tender skin just below your ear.

your knees practically buckle. you let go of the whisk in favor of just gripping the edge of the counter. your breaths are starting to get deeper just as everything begins to feel more intense.

you know she can feel it too. she can tell you’re right there. she always can.

she works her fingers harder, snakes her other arm around you a little tighter. her tongue slips out to trace a little swirl onto your neck.

“come on, baby. cum for me. i’ve got you,” she whispers, quiet enough that it’s just for the two of you.

and of course you obey. it’s not like you could ever deny love. you release with a shuddery breath and bone shattering hold on the marble in front of you. over the course of these little escapades, you’d learned to hit the high without a sound.

she works you through it like always, thrusting her fingers to a steady rhythm until she knows your ready to go without again. only then does she ease them out of you and pull them out from under from the skirt you have on.

you catch your breath while weakly returning to rotating the whisk in the bowl, only hoping the blissed out state of your mind doesn’t show on your face.

she pops her fingers in her mouths and sucks them clean just as joe rises to his feet in the other room. you hear his footsteps approaching. as he enters the kitchen, the sound is just loud enough to compete with your thundering pulse.

he gives you a cordial wave like always, and you return it with the same level of friendliness.

“i’m gonna head out for a bit, got a call that they need me over at the library for an hour or so,” he says to love.

she looks up at him with the affection of a faithful wife. “alright, see you when you get home,” she says.

“you two have fun,” he says, a little louder to let you know he’s speaking to the both of you.

before either of you have the chance to respond, he ducks in for a kiss. his lips press against hers, the ones that had just suckled your arousal off her digits. he hums into the exchange, and a small part of you wonders if he can sense the difference, if he can register your essence on her.

but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. he gives her one last smile before leaving. you feel the tension melt out of your shoulders now that he’s really gone.

she walks over to you and gives you a tight hug from behind. her fingers dig into your waist as her lips coast over your neck again. her eyes bounce from the bowl of cake batter to your face.

“let’s get that in the oven, and then i’ll give you another reward for following directions so well,” she says softly. “i wanna hear alllll those pretty noises you tried so hard to hide.”

[paperstorm]

thanks for the tags @henrygrass @pimento-playing-hopscotch and @annoyingcloudearthquake!

“Baby, what are you doing?” TK’s voice asks, soft and concerned.

Carlos shakes his head. He can’t explain it, but he’s also not sure he can get up from the floor. He tries, but the signals from his brain misfire and his limbs stay motionless and heavy. Without looking up, he asks, “Just give me a minute, okay?”

He prays TK will listen. Ideally, TK would just nod and agree and walk away, go have a quick shower or unpack his work bag or something and leave Carlos to wallow in misery unwitnessed for a few minutes so that by the time he comes back Carlos will have managed to pack all this back up and they can just pretend it never happened.

It’s a silly thing to hope for, Carlos knows that. If there’s one thing he knows – and ultimately, loves – about TK Strand, it’s that he rarely does what people want him to do.

“Carlos,” he says again, voice a little closer. “Why are you …”

He trails off, and even though Carlos is neither touching him or looking at him, he can feel the moment when TK gets it.

“Oh,” he whispers, and Carlos clenches his jaw and wants to cry.

“Just give me a minute,” he says again, this time through gritted teeth. Maybe TK will listen if he understands how much Carlos needs it.

Slowly, TK steps toward him. Out of the corner of his eye Carlos can see TK’s jeans moving as his legs bend and he lowers himself down, crossing his legs once he’s on the floor and leaning back against the kitchen cabinets with Carlos.

“I’ll give you as long as you need,” TK murmurs, reaching out to take Carlos’s hand and thread their fingers together. “But not alone. You’re not alone.”

Carlos shudders through an exhale. As always, it’s sympathy that threatens to break him more than anything else. Suddenly it’s as if that music is playing here in their home, a lively beat and jazzy trumpets blaring. The sweet smell of cookies is in his nose, his head throbs as if the wound is still fresh and oozing. It’s only for a moment and then it’s gone, but it’s enough to make Carlos want to curl in on himself and sob until his throat is raw.

“I’m having …” he begins, but the words get caught in his throat.

TK waits, patient and sweet beside him, stroking his forearm. He’s so steady, so kind and understanding and wonderful, and it puts a pit in Carlos’s stomach. He doesn’t want to need so much understanding.

He swallows, trying again despite everything inside him screaming at him to shove it all down and lock it all away and never admit it even to himself.

In a miserably shaky voice, Carlos closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m having trouble not seeing the inside of that kitchen. When I close my eyes.”

“Baby,” TK whispers back, fingers curling into Carlos’s long-sleeved shirt.

“I thought …” Carlos sniffs and chokes again, for a moment, on words he wishes he never has to say, “I thought maybe if I just sat here for a bit, against the cupboards like where she had me tied up, it might force me to face it, and then it might go away.”

TK exhales slowly. “And?”

Carlos shakes his head, screwing his eyes up and fighting back tears. “I can still smell her perfume.”

TK shuffles in closer, gripping Carlos’s hand tight enough to bruise and resting his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

“It’ll stop, I know it will,” Carlos says, assuring himself as much as TK. “I just need to keep trying.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Except let me sit here with you.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I told you. We’re getting married. That means you never have to be alone.”

Carlos sniffs and lets his head lilt to the side, temple resting against TK’s soft hair.

“You haven’t been cooking,” TK says softly.

Gritting his teeth, Carlos feels his whole body tense. He hates that it’s true. He hates that TK noticed. “I thought maybe I was playing it off.”

“You love cooking for me. Of course I picked up on it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to – ”

“Baby,” TK interrupts gently. “I’m not asking you to start. Not if it’s bringing back bad memories. I just don’t want you to hide from me.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@afiendishthingynisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[magicaldice]

Synopsis: Y/n goes to a party with her bestfriend without telling her toxic boyfriend. She unexpectedly meets Chris sturniolo & things start to unravel overtime.

⚠︎ : read at your own leisure.

any feedback, likes, comments or shares, are appreciated!

pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5 pt 6 pt 7 pt 8 part 9

pt 10

It's been a week since the whole incident happened. I hadn't talked to Chris or Katie since. And honestly it's kind of concerning especially since I live in the same house as Katie.

But I had finally gathered enough courage in me to try to talk to Katie. I prayed she wouldn't slam her door in my face as I walk towards her room.

"Katie" I said, knocking on her half open bedroom door. I open the door fully, seeing Katie at her vanity. "Hey" she said. "Can we talk?" I asked. She nodded her head.

"Look im sorry for the way I acted at the party, you didn't deserve to be accused of anything. I was so careless and I'm sorry" I said. Katie looked at me nodding her head.

"It's okay girl, you just kind of hurt my feelings. But all is forgiven as long as you figure out what's going on between you and Chris" she said. "Nothing's going on between me and him" I lied.

Katie gave me a "are you serious right now?" kind of look. I shrugged my shoulders, my face couldn't possibly scream more "guilty" than right now.

"I don't know why you think you need to lie to me, but it's not working" she said. I sighed, she's right. "Ill figure it out" I said.

I had tried texting Chris, but I was left on read every single time.

I feel like every time I think of Chris my heart crushes into shambles. I should of never agreed to go to that party with Jackson. I wanted to reach out to Chris. But I didn't know how, what was I even supposed to say?

I saw the way he looked at me. He looked like he had been betrayed, backstabbed, broken. And it was my fault. "You said he wouldn't get to touch you like that" were the last words he said to me. And they haunted me.

What have I done? How could I be so careless. Chris had opened up to me, he had trusted me and I ruined it.

That night at the party I had drank a little too much. More than I intended. But it wasn't an excuse. I had promised Chris that I wouldn't let Jackson touch me like that. And that promise shouldn't have been broken no matter if I was sober or not.

I needed to apologize to Chris. I needed to show him I cared, to show him how sorry I truly was. I just needed time to figure out my shit. I knew I needed to break up with Jackson. I knew that.

But it was hard, Jackson and I have been together for over a year now. I had cared about him so much at one point. I was struggling to decipher how I should go about this.

I was scared of change, I was scared of taking risk. I was scared of what the outcome to any of this would be. I felt like my heart was deteriorating from my thoughts.

What if I just let things unfold by themselves? But then again I hated not knowing if I could repair my relationship with Chris. There was no way to escape this.

So I decided to take a chance. I grab my car keys and put my shoes on. I'll show up in person, he'll have no choice but to face me.

Once I arrived to his house I took a deep breath. So many thoughts ran through my mind at once. But I continued to walk up to the front door.

I knocked, my heart and thoughts racing. And in a couple seconds Madi had opened the door. "Y/n" she said, looking surprised at my unannounced arrival.

"Hey is Chris here?" I asked. "Yeah come in" she offered, letting me into the house. "He's been kind of distant with me and Matt. But he should be in his room" she said.

I walked to his room, feeling so anxious I could throw up. I knock on his door, despite wanting to run away. No answer. I knock again. No answer. I turned the door knob, opening the door slighlty.

"Chris" I call out and then open his door fully. His small lamp on the desk is the only lighting in his room. I walk over to his bed, seeing him sleeping.

I didn't know If I should wake him up or not. I decided to take off my shoes and sit on his bed. I debated on just waiting for him to wake up. But instead I crawled underneath his bed sheets and held onto him.

I felt him move, and then watched as he fully awakened. He rubbed his eyes and then realized I was in his bed. He didn't say anything at first, just looking at me with confusion. And then he pulls me into him.

I feel relief as he holds onto me. "Chris" I said. "Hmm" he hummed his response. "I'm sorry" I said quietly. I hear him let out a deep breath.

"I'm gonna break up with Jackson" I whispered. Chris didn't respond right away. He pulled me into him closer. "I don't know if I can believe you" he whispered.

His words hit me harder than anything. "I know. I need you to trust me" I respond. "I'm going to break up with him, because-" and as I was letting my emotions flow out of me the words had almost came out my mouth.

The words that I dreaded the most, simply because I was scared Chris didn't feel the same way. I was scared that what was going on between us was just "casual" for him. I was scared that he didn't love me. I was scared the feeling wasn't mutual.

"-because I care about you. so so much Chris. More than I've ever cared about anyone else and it scares me so much" I continued.

Chris stayed silent, seemingly in deep thought. "I'm sorry Chris" I said.

Chris had shifted his position. He sat up, back against his bed headboard. "Come here" he said in a strained tired tone. I crawl onto his lap, straddled on top of him now.

"He doesn't see what I see. He doesn't care like I care" Chris said quietly as his hands hold onto my hips. "I know" I admit truthfully.

Chris moved positions again. He removed me off of him and let my back lay against his bed.

As he towered over me my heart beat picked up pace. He layed his body in between my legs, his head had moved closer to mine. His face inches apart from mine. And then he leaned in to kiss my lips.

As our lips moved against each other, my body started to heat up. And within seconds our bodies were moving with desire. With need. With passion.

He kissed on my neck, then started to suck lightly. "Chris! Don't leave any marks" I warned. He rolled his eyes, wanting to mark me up but obeying to my words.

He had taken my shirt off, revealing the simplistic bra I was wearing. He moved some of the fabric just enough to leave a dark purple hickey on my breast. And even though I had told him to not leave marks, I let him leave a mark on my breast anyways.

I loved his lips, they were my favorite body part of his, but his blue eyes came first.

Chris's hands were running all over my body, every inch. He stopped in the middle of his movements, analyzing my face. "Can I take these off" he asked softly, pulling on my jeans. I nod my head.

And I lifted up my hips, making it easier for my jeans to come off. His body laid against mine after my jeans were completely off. Our bodies grinded against each other.

His hand lowered to my clothed entrance. The only thing separating his hand from touching bare skin was my panties.

Truthfully, I was scared. Not because I didn't like what was going on. But because nobody had ever touched me besides Jackson. I had never done anything sexual with anyone besides Jackson.

I started overthinking, my body subconsciously tensing under Chris's touch.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked noticing my energy shift. I didn't want to tell him, I felt self-conscious. Chris removed his hand from my body.

"Did I do something?" he asks. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. Its just- I don't know. I haven't done anything with anyone besides Jackson. Just nervous" I confessed.

"We don't have to-" he starts but I quickly interrupt. "No I want you to touch me" I stated. "Just nervous" I said. Chris leaned in to kiss me. "Don't be nervous pretty girl, I got you, okay?" he reassured. I nod my head.

His hand wandered back down to my entrance as we continued to kiss eachother with need. "Can I take these off?" he asked, his fingers running across my panties. "Mhm" I hum my response.

And my hips were lifting off the bed again, this time to take off my panties. Once they were fully off Chris had went back to kissing me. Our tongues intertwined, while his hand lowered.

"If you want me to stop at any point just tell me okay?" He said. "Okay" I said, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin before dipping his hand lower.

His finger rubbed over my middle, feeling the wetness between my thighs. My body immediately reacted, becoming more eager. I grabbed onto Chris's bicep.

"So beautiful" Chris praised against my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut as he dips his finger inside me. "Chris" I whispered, trying to steady my breath.

His finger started to penetrate my hole. I tried my best to hold in my moans, considering Matt and Madi were in the same house as us. My back arched, needy for more.

Chris's eyes kept switching. He couldn't decide on whether to watch his finger penetrate me, loving the way my body moved against his finger. Or watch my face, loving how my pleasure showed very clearly in my expressions.

He added a finger, he drooled over the entire scene happening in front of him. My breath became shaky, Chris smiling against me as I gripped onto his bicep harder.

"You okay pretty girl?" he asked, more than amused. I whimpered as the pace of his fingers fastened. "Let me hear you baby" he coaxed. And the simple nickname "baby" alone had me falling into pieces.

He watched me struggle to keep quiet, to keep myself intact. He admired the way I fell apart. He loved seeing me in such a vulnerable state, he wanted to see me in pieces, in the most intimate way.

Chris loved when you rocked your hips, fucking yourself with his fingers. He loved seeing you so needy for him, he knew this moment would replay in his head over and over after it was done.

"Come on pretty girl, you got it" he whispered. Quiet whimpers fell from my lips, feeling so much at once. "Fuck" I cried out feeling the knot in my stomach begin to form.

"Your doing so good" he praised repeatedly hitting my g spot with his fingers. I leaned my head closer to his, needing his lips on mine. Our lips quickly found one another, his fingers keeping a steady pace.

I couldn't keep it together anymore, everything felt so good - too good. I was in such a state of euphoria, moans escaping my mouth. And within seconds my legs were shaking from the breath-taking orgasm I was experiencing.

Chris continued to penetrate his fingers just a little longer before pulling them out, sucking on them and then giving an innocent smile. I saw through the "innocent" facade he was trying to pull.

He watched me try to steady my breath, enjoying every moment of this he could. "So beautiful" he said, staring straight into my soul. As I started to find my breath I put the blanket over my body, feeling extremely exposed.

I rolled over onto my side, extremely tired. Chris spooned me, rubbing his hand on my stomach and his other hand running his fingers through my hair.

"You good?" he asked. I nod my head "tired" I spoke. Chris chuckled. "Let's take a nap yeah?" Chris said. I flipped my position, making him lay on his back so I could rest my head on his chest.

And before falling asleep, I raised my head to kiss Chris. "Do you want me to do something for you? Like give you head or anything?" I asked. Chris looked at me like I was crazy.

"I don't need anything in return, I just wanted to make you feel good" he said. "You sure?' I questioned. "Go to sleep pretty girl" he said. And within minutes I was falling asleep on his chest.

2 hours later

I wake up to Chris playing with strands of my hair. What a beautiful feeling this is.

"Well hello sleepy head" Chris said smiling. "Hey" I responded matching his smile. He played with my hair a little longer before reaching for my clothes.

I had slept without them on. And I was okay with it, I was okay as long as Chris was next to me. I put my clothes back on, feeling an indescribable emotion.

My phone started to ring, Jackson on the caller ID. I looked up at Chris who had looked extremely displeased.

I answered the phone call. "Hey" I said. "Hey where are you. I just went by your place and you weren't there" Jackson said. My heart dropped. Shit.

"I'm at my friend's house, didn't know you wanted to hangout today" I said, trying my best to not sound suspicious.

"What friend?" He asked. "Madi's" I said, looking at Chris who was in front of me. "Okay well can I come hangout with yall or something?" he asked.

"Um" I said, struggling to come up with a quick response. "I was just about to leave, I can come over to your place though" I said. Chris looked annoyed at my words.

"Okay see you soon" Jackson said before hanging up the phone. I put my phone on the bed. "Im sorry" I said, knowing Chris was upset that I had to leave.

"It's fine" he lied. "Gonna miss you" he said, pulling me in for a kiss. I kissed him back.

And shortly after I had left Chris's house.

Jackson and I had gone out to eat at a local diner. I tried so hard to not reminisce on Chris's touch that I had felt just a couple hours prior.

After dinner we went to his place, where unfortunately he was being extra touchy.

I should of known what was about to happen. Even with me dodging his kisses, he always had a way to get me underneath him.

I was breaking Chris's promise. I felt bad, knowing I was risking it all. But I felt as if I needed to make Jackson feel good one last time before breaking up with him.

I felt like I owed Jackson.

I knew this wasn't a good idea. But it didn't stop me from following through with it.

He had taken off my jeans, and then my panties. And everything was going as usual.

Until he took my shirt off.

His face looked confused, very unreadable as he stared at me. "What? Why did you stop?" I asked. Jackson got up off the bed and started dressing himself.

"What? What is it?" I asked watching him put his sweatpants back on. "I knew this was going to happen" he said under his breath.

I was genuinely confused, we were about to have sex. But now he wants to stop all the sudden. Very abnormal behavior for Jackson.

Then my heart dropped. The hickey. The hickey Chris left a couple hours ago, above my right breast. Jackson had saw it.

I took a deep breath. Fuck.

taglist:

@overlygoin @riggysworld @mattstromboli

@nessaisabelartemas333 @xoxbunni @sturniolobananas1

@sturn45olo

[armyy-of-twoo]

cal sat, awkwardly perched on the edge of the couch in the living room. the smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, and tension that filled the space. his heart thudded in his chest, his palms clammy with fear and guilt. he stared at the floor, the patterned carpet swirling into a dark abyss beneath his feet.

"look at me, calvin," his mother's voice was firm, yet tinged with concern. she sat opposite him, her eyes filled with a mix of love and disappointment that cal couldn't bear to face.

calvin's gaze remained glued to the floor, his cheeks burning with a blend of embarrassment and anger. "mom," he mumbled, "it's not a big deal."

"not a big deal?" she echoed, her voice rising in disbelief. she leaned forward, her hand reaching out to touch his arm, but he flinched away. "calvin, sweetheart, what you're doing to yourself isn't- normal. it's not normal, and it's definitely not okay. you need help."

god, andre was going to kill him over this. this would totally fuck everything up- his mom would most definitely start cracking down, as andre had predicted. she'd probably start asking questions, poking her nose into his business. and that meant it'd be harder to sneak out the weapons they've been collecting, harder to finalize the plan without her getting suspicious.

his mother's hand hovered in the air for a moment before she sighed and leaned back into the couch, crossing her arms. "calvin," she said, her tone softer now, "please tell me what's going on. i know it's hard, but you can trust me."

"nothings 'going on', mom," calvin replied, his voice laced with a forced casualness. he glanced up, meeting her gaze briefly before looking away again. the tv in the corner flickered with the muted images of a reality show, the laugh track mocking the silence between them. "it's just… stuff. can i go up to my room?"

her expression didn't waver. "no, you can't. and i'd like to see your legs, calvin," she said, her voice calm but insistent. "please roll up your pant legs."

cal laughed, indignantly. "i don't need to show you my legs, mom. thats weird. and you've seen them already, remember? "

his mother's expression was unwavering. "i've seen your legs, yes," she said, "but i need to see them now, calvin. please. for me."

calvin sat, keeping silent. he weighed his options. really, she couldn't stop him from getting up and walking away- if she tried, considering he had about twenty pounds on the small woman, she'd fail miserably. but the look in her eyes- that look of sadness, like she was failing him as a mother. he didn't want to deal with that look.

finally, with a heavy sigh, he complied. he rolled up the left leg of his jeans. just enough to show some of the already-healed cuts. not enough to show the fresh, angry ones on his hip.

his mom's eyes widened when she saw them. "calvin…" she breathed, reaching out again, her hand shaking as it hovered over his leg. "what happened here?"

"what do you think happened, mom?" he spat, jerking his leg away from her. "do you think andres fucking cat attacked me?" he pulled the pant leg back down, hiding his legs away from her view.

surprisingly, she didn't get mad at him for cursing. she just seemed sad. calvin sort of wished she'd yell at him for speaking to her like that, because anger was something he knew how to handle. but sadness, that was a new thing, and it was a weird, heavy feeling that made his stomach churn. his mother's eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of remorse or pain, but all she found was the hardened shell he'd built around himself.

"i'm sorry, calvin," she said, her voice cracking. "i had no idea."

calvin's anger dissipated slightly, leaving only a cold emptiness in its wake. "it's not a big deal," he muttered, and to him, it wasn't. it was merely a hobby- hell, it was practically sexual. he half considered telling her it was just a kink of his, before realizing that would probably end in his rather conservative mother having a heart attack.

"how old- are they?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

cal's throat tightened. "what?"

"the scratches, calvin," she said, her voice gentle. "how long have they been there?"

scratches. wow, mom. way to make it sound embarrassing. he didn't cut down to fat, like, three whole freaking times, for them to be named scratches. maybe next time he should go deeper- show her some real fuckin scratches.

"oh - they're months old. i swear. it's been a really long time," calvin itched at his neck, glad he'd moved up to his hips. its not like she could make him take his boxers off, too.

her sadness was thick in the air, almost palpable. it was suffocating him, making his chest feel tight. he'd never seen her look at him like that before - like he was a puzzle she couldn't solve, a son she didn't recognize. "calvin," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "i think you need professional help. i know i can't fix this on my own."

calvin almost laughed. like professional help would fix anything. it's way too easy to lie to a psychiatrist, to convince them that everything was okay and that you're totally not planning to shoot up your fuckin school. if all it took was professional help, he thought, then school shootings wouldn't even be a thing.

"calvin?" she said softly, reaching out tentatively to touch his shoulder.

"huh- what? yeah- sorry. yeah, mom, ill get help. don't worry." he stood up, avoiding her touch as he rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

once in his room, calvin slammed the door shut and collapsed onto his bed, the springs groaning in protest. he buried his face in his pillow, the scent of his own sweat and despair filling his nostrils. he guessed it was probably time to call andre. hopefully he wouldn't be too mad.

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

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Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Tag List: (comment if you would like to be added!) @foolishseven

Word Count: 5,831

Read on AO3 (Up to Chapter 15!)

Chapter Two: Ghosts in the Room

Jack hadn’t expected much out of the last hour of his shift. Maybe a kid with a Lego up his nose. A couple of college freshmen who couldn’t hold their liquor, or a bouncer’s right hook. A sprained ankle, maybe a code blue to keep him humble on his way out the door. If he was lucky, a combative drunk or a transport delay would pad the clock and justify the overtime. Routine. Predictable. The kind of night that bled into the last and the next without much distinction.

He certainly wasn’t expecting Elizabeth fucking Baker.

Neither of them moved. She stood in front of him like some cruel trick of memory, and for a second, God help him, he thought maybe he was dreaming like every other time he’d seen her face. That he’d blink, and she’d vanish like all the other things he’d lost. 

But she didn’t.

She was real.

The sounds of the world—voices, a ringing phone, the beeping of monitors—fell away into nothing. He forgot the X-rays gripped in his hands. Forgot the aching in his shoulder, the sting of antiseptic on his skin, the low-grade headache from too much caffeine and not enough food. Forgot the thirty years he’d spent convincing himself that leaving her had been the right thing.

Instead, it was just her. Just him. Locked in a stalemate he didn't know how to break. They stayed that way for what felt like hours, the rush of his blood in his ears louder than anything that existed outside of that room. Fuck, the IED blast had been less disorienting. At least with that, there’d been warning. A gut-deep prickle, a second of awareness before shit went sideways. This, her, hit with no warning at all. Time didn’t just freeze; it detonated. Memory roared in his ears louder than any explosion ever had. His vision tunneled, ears ringing, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

She stared at him like a ghost had walked through the door, and Jack felt like one. Hollowed out, drifting, as if something ancient had cracked open inside him. Something he’d carefully kept sealed away for decades. In an instant, thirty years slipped away like fog on glass. All he could see was her, exactly as she was the last time he saw her, and yet, not at all.

In a single breath, he was eighteen again. Barely a man, stupid and terrified, standing on her parents’ porch trying to memorize her face before he left it all behind. Already hating himself for what he was going to do when the sun rose the next morning. And she was still her. Still the girl he’d left standing in the glow of the porch light, wearing that damn jacket that always looked better on her than it ever had on him, whispering goodnight while he whispered goodbye.

A hundred thoughts fired at once. You look good. I missed you. I'm sorry. None of them made it out. 

For the last time, he was able to imagine what would happen if she ever saw his face again. There were no tears. No screams. No anger. Instead, she blinked, just once, and in that blink was everything; disbelief, fury, relief, fear. A thousand yesterdays flickered behind her eyes before she turned, just slightly, like maybe this wasn’t happening. Like maybe if she moved fast enough, she could undo it.

Beth’s lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she bit her lip, her hand hovering at her collarbone, fingers curling slightly like she didn’t know where to put them. Her hand tremored slightly before it found the thin gold chain she wore around her neck, twisting the pendant in her fingers. Her eyes never left him, too wide for him to meet, pinning him in place like her gaze might tunnel straight through.

“So,” she whispered, barely more than a breath, “that’s where you went.”

His breath caught somewhere deep in his throat, his eyes pinching shut before he forced a steadying breath. Jack opened his mouth to say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything.

But all that came out was:

“Hey.” 

He regretted it the second it left his lips. Thirty years, and that was what he led with? That was the best he could do? Just hey? Like they were bumping into each other at the goddamn grocery store? A dry, humorless laugh puffed from her lips. She folded her arms over her chest, more shield than gesture, and tilted her head like she was still trying to make sense of the fact that he was standing in front of her at all. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, lips pressed together in a hard line, and he could almost hear the whispered words that followed that look every time; you’re an idiot, Jack Abbot.

“Hi, Jack,” she said.

He tried to recover. Stumbled after the moment like he might still catch it and fix it. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

Beth nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, it has.”

Silence folded in between them again. Not comfortable, but not quite hostile. Just… tight. Because what do you say? What do people say to each other after thirty years of silence? He knew how to handle patients; screaming, silent, combative, hurting. He knew how to handle other doctors, nurses. Knew how to take and give orders. But this… He didn’t know this. Words swirled through his mind so fast he could hardly hold on to them, stringing together sentences that he couldn’t speak, and knew wouldn’t help. They were thirty years too late. Way too fucking late.

She wasn’t looking at him now; at least not directly. Her eyes drifted past his shoulder, over the curtained trauma bays and the nurses’ station behind him, like maybe if she looked long enough, she’d find the version of him she remembered instead. The one who hadn’t left.

He stepped forward without meaning to, instinct more than intention, but stopped himself before he closed the space between them. Beth looked at him again then. Really looked. And there it was; the flicker. The flicker of something just barely below the surface, but didn’t stay long enough to name before she dropped her gaze. She looked down at her sneakers, toeing the rubber against the floor before lifting those blue eyes again, unreadable now.

“You look…” she gestured towards him, but her words trailed off before she let her arms fall to her sides. The sentence withered between them.

“You too,” he said, too quickly. Then quieter, “You do.”

From the bed, Abby raised a brow, her head lolling slightly to the side. The morphine dulled the sharpness in her eyes and turned her words a little slurred around the edges, but not enough to blunt her suspicion.

“This is weird,” she murmured, looking between them like she was trying to solve a puzzle no one had given her the pieces for. “You both are being weird. Do… do you two know each other?”

Beth opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. They stuttered on the inhale, caught somewhere in her throat. Her gaze flicked back to Jack, arms still folded tightly across her chest. Jack held her gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, then looked away.

“We went to high school together,” he said finally, tone careful. 

Beth let out a breath that was more scoff than exhale. “Right,” she said, voice low and edged. “High school.” She nodded once, slow and deliberate, her face tight. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jack didn’t flinch at the ice in her voice, but it was close. Instead, it crept into him in a bitter chill that sat heavy in his gut.

Abby blinked. “So… you dated?”

“Something like that,” Beth muttered, cutting her eyes toward the curtain like she was done with the whole conversation. Like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, standing in front of the man who once promised her the world and then disappeared like it meant nothing.

Abby seemed to accept the answer, settling back against the pillow with a shrug. “Still weird,” she murmured, eyes drifting shut. “But okay.”

Beth didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept her arms crossed, her shoulders tight, her fingers still twirling the pendant at her collarbone and eyes locked on him like they were keeping him pinned to the floor. Jack wished she’d just fucking say it. All of it. Scream, cry, curse him out. Anything but this: this quiet, sharp nothing. He felt himself shift, uneasy in his own skin that had grown two sizes too small since he stepped into the room. He hadn’t felt like this in decades. Not in combat zones. Not in trauma bays. But standing in front of her, with all the years between them pressed in close and her daughter studying him like she was appraising a used car, he felt like a goddamn kid again; uncertain, apologetic. Hungry for a kindness that was no longer his.

She finally looked away, turning towards the bed and brushing a gentle hand through Abigail’s hair in an absent, comforting gesture. “Jack, this is my daughter, Abby. But I assume you already knew that.”

The two syllables hit him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. Abby. 

The name lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and unyielding. How many times had she said it through laughter? Or shouted it over the noise of the garage at the shop? Or murmured it like a secret only he got to hear? He swallowed against the weight in his throat. No. People named their kids after all sorts of shit; books, songs, dead relatives, characters from shows. Hell, he’d treated enough Chandlers and Phoebes with birth dates in the late '90s to know better than to assume anything.

Before he could stop it, before he could think better of it, the word left him, rough and quiet. “Abby?”

The color drained out of her face in an instant. Beth’s eyes widened like an animal caught in the headlines, lips parting with a sharp inhale, almost like she was ready to deny it or explain it or say anything at all. But, Abby beat her to it.

“Wait…” she said slowly, blinking at him through the haze of pain meds, her voice syrup-thick and amused, “You’re the guy from her prom picture! The one with the stupid ass mullet!”

Beth let out a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Abigail.”

Jack blinked, caught off guard, and turned to the girl—Abby, Jesus Christ—with his name, giving her an incredulous look. “It was hardly a mullet.”

Next to her, Beth made a face somewhere between a grimace and a laugh and crossed her arms again, but not before that flicker of amusement betrayed her. Jack caught it and turned back toward her, one brow raised. “What?”

Her lips pressed together, trying and failing to hold back the small smile they fought to stretch into. “It was encroaching on mullet territory.”

“Not even close,” he shot back, the indignation crumbling into a breathy chuckle.

Beth shrugged. “Mullet adjacent.”

That sly little smirk broke through at last, tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. It was subtle, almost cautious, but unmistakable. And just like that, he saw her again: bare feet on the dash, his jacket around her shoulders, laughing at something stupid he said. Thirty years slipped right off her face and he saw the girl he remembered.

Abby tilted her head, studying Jack like he was some mildly disappointing exhibit at the end of a long museum tour. “Huh. I thought you’d be taller.”

“Abby.” Beth warned, voice tight.

“What? I thought. That’s not the same as saying. I didn’t say he’s short. We’re short, Mom. I mean… he kind of is, but—”

“Abigail Quinn.” Beth hissed, sharp eyes focused on her daughter. The way her head snapped to glare down at the girl made his spine straighten; he’d been on the receiving end of the Sheriff Baker stare more times than he could count, and she’d perfected it in the years since then. "That's enough."

“I’m just making an observation,” Abby mumbled, blinking slowly. “What do you want from me, woman? I’m high as giraffe balls. I’m not responsible for my actions right now.”

Beth pressed her lips together. “Stop it.”

Abby turned toward Jack with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry. You’re very tall, Dr. Mullet.”

Jack barked a laugh before he could stop it, and Beth immediately dropped her face into her hands. She groaned, dragging her hands down her face before dropping them into a resigned cross over her chest.

“Morphine?” she asked, pink crawling up her freckled chest to her neck.

“Two milligrams, IV push,” he confirmed, still chuckling.

Beth grimaced. “Wonderful,” she muttered, rubbing her cheeks. “Then we’re in for a show.”

“Oh, Doctor Mullet and his little dork almost-doctor got me on that good shit, Mom,” Abby drawled, a dreamy grin on her face as she sank deeper into the bed.

“Watch your mouth, child,” Beth said automatically. 

Jack stifled a laugh, exchanging a look with Beth, who mouthed an apology while he checked Abby’s IV. “She should be pain-free for a while,” he told her. “We’ll up ‘em if we need to, but from the sounds of it, she’s doing just fine.”

“Hell yeah,” Abby sighed like it was the best news she’d ever heard. “Compliments to the fuckin’ chef, dude. I’m rollin’. ”

“Abigail…” Beth warned, but the sigh that followed made it clear that she wasn’t fighting too hard anymore.

“What?” Abby looked positively affronted. “I didn’t curse. I just said fuck. Wait… Fuck. I said fuck. Fuck! I said it again. Fuck! Ah!” Her eyes widened in slow, horrified amusement while she laughed. “Mom, help me. I can’t stop saying it. This is crazy. I feel crazy.”

Beth placed a hand over her daughter’s mouth with a heavy exhale. “Close your eyes,” she ordered flatly.

“I’m gonna close my eyes,” Abby said dutifully, blinking hard like it required real effort.

“And your mouth.”

Abby gave her a loose thumbs-up, added finger guns for good measure, and clicked her tongue with a grin before melting back into the pillow. Beth turned back to him with a tired sort of smile, lifting her brows in apology as Abby mumbled something unintelligible and blissful behind her.

“I’d apologize, but I’m sure she gave you hell before the meds, too. She’s always been a rather spirited child.”

Jack shook his head, mouth tugging up at the corners. “Hey, beats the criers.”

Beth let out a quiet snort. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s coming. You should’ve seen her when she got her wisdom teeth out. She sobbed like it was a national tragedy. Thought I was abandoning her to a life of soft foods.”

He chuckled, and for a second it was easy. They were just two people with life stretched between them, swapping stories that didn’t leave scars. But the laughter faded too quickly, and in its place came silence. It hung between them, heavy and hesitant. He cleared his throat. She fiddled with the cuff of her jacket— his jacket. 

Jack’s eyes wandered over her, caught on the details he hadn’t had the chance to take in until now. The bright green scrubs. The hospital badge on the glittery reel clipped neatly to her waistband.

UPMC Mercy: Emergency Medicine.

He took it in with a quiet nod, a flicker of something like pride stirring low in his chest. She’d done exactly what he always figured she would. Not like he ever had a doubt; she’d always had the brains and the backbone. There had never been another option for her; just stubborn, willful Beth with a twenty year plan and practiced script signatures written in glitter gel pen.

But his eyes snagged on the badge a second time. Dr. Elizabeth Baker.

What had the kid’s chart said? Morgan? Abigail Morgan. But the name next to the ID photo wasn’t Morgan. Just Baker. Still Beth.

He gestured toward the badge. “You been at Mercy long?”

She blinked like she’d forgotten it was there, brushing her fingers over it absently. “Oh. Yeah. About eight years now. Not for much longer, though. Started there when we moved back from Boston.” Her hand dropped. “I was in the middle of a code stroke when the school called, or I would’ve been here sooner.”

“Boston, huh?” he asked casually, crossing his arms, still gripping the iPad like a vice.

“And Denver for my residency before that,” she nodded, gently swatting Abby’s hand away when the girl reached over to pet the fabric of her scrubs. 

Jack gave a quiet nod, a smirk playing at his lips. “What happened to never moving to Pittsburgh?”

“Well,” she huffed a breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching, but the smile never quite made it. “Guess sometimes life just doesn’t go according to plan. Right, Jack?”

The words hit him harder than he cared to admit. She hadn’t thrown them, hadn’t spit them like venom, but they burned through him the very same. No, he thought. It certainly doesn’t. 

Beth reached out to flick the edge of his badge with a dry little smile. “You copied me.”

He gave a soft laugh, glancing down at it. “I wouldn’t say I copied you. I prefer… ‘was loosely inspired by.’”

“Oh, whatever.” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. “Doctor Abbot always did have a nice ring to it.”

His smile faded into something gentler. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it did.”

“Mom.”

Both Jack and Beth turned toward the bed. Abby laid on her back, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes like she was trying to scrub away the fog in her brain. She stayed like that for a long beat, unmoving. Christ, the kid was right. She was higher than giraffe balls.

Beth tilted her head, waiting. “Yeah?”

Abby didn’t look up. “This is weird.”

“What’s weird, baby?”

“That you know him.”

Beth glanced at Jack, who looked just as caught off guard. “Yeah, it is a little strange, isn’t it?”

Another pause.

“He gave me drugs.”

Beth sighed. “That’s quite literally his job, boo.”

Abby dropped her hands and blinked at them. “That’s actually insane.”

Beth let out a snort she didn’t bother to hide. “Go back to sleep, weirdo.” Abby nodded and shut her eyes again, a gentle grin tugging at her lips like she hadn’t nearly made Whitaker cry an hour ago. Beth rolled her eyes and turned to Jack, clearing her throat before gesturing to the iPad. “The nurse said she had imaging done before I got here. CT?”

Jack’s gaze shifted, as if the reason for his presence in the room had just slipped his mind. He gave a small cough, then pulled up the images. “Nah, just the usual.” He handed her the tablet, and she took it without hesitation, quickly swiping through the images with a clinical focus.

“Comminuted spiral fracture of the distal tibia and fibula,” Jack stated, slipping into a rhythm as the words came easily. “It’s displaced, probably from the way she came down on it, with some soft tissue damage around the break. Mild paresthesia in the toes, but I’m not discounting nerve involvement yet. Cap refill’s sluggish, pedal and tibial pulses are both at 1+, so—”

“Tibial’s up to 2+ since intake,” Beth interrupted, her voice matter-of-fact, her gaze still glued to the screen. “Cap refill’s still over two seconds, though. She’s got some sensation back in her toes, but still not reacting to stimuli.” She squinted at the fracture, zooming in for a better look, unaware of Jack’s raised brow. Smartass didn't fall far from the tree, he thought. Finally, she glanced up and noticed his curious expression. Beth shrugged, offering him a wry smile. “I did my own neuro check when I got here. Sorry. Mom thing.”

“I don’t remember asking for a consult,” he scoffed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You didn’t, but you’re getting it anyway,” Beth didn’t even look up from the iPad as she continued to squint at the images. “And poking a kid with a pen is hardly a consult, especially when you gave birth to the patient,” she shot back, her tone dry. “Probably going to need a few pins, so we’re looking at surgery. Sixteen weeks with subsequent PT if she’s lucky.”

He stood opposite her, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same,” Jack muttered, still scanning the images.

Beth’s eyes flicked over the X-ray one more time, then paused. She squinted, leaning in closer before she let out an exasperated sigh and shoved the tablet back towards him. “Hold this,” she muttered, turning behind her to fish through her purse for a pair of black rimmed glasses, grumbling, “Swear I went fuckin’ blind the minute I turned forty.” 

She turned back to him with a huff, slipping the glasses on and holding out her hand for the tablet like this was just another consult. Like he wasn’t standing there being quietly fucking leveled by the sight of her. She tapped her nail against the screen, gesturing above the main break. “There’s a fracture above the main break as well. Jesus, what did those girls do? Throw her?”

He frowned down at the screen. “Where?”

“Look,” she sighed.

She stepped beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his. The warmth of her body sent a fleeting jolt through him. He stiffened, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but the heat lingered. His focus wavered, and just for a moment, he let it. While she watched the screen, he watched her, tracing over the lines of her face that hadn’t changed while everything else had; the same gentle slope of her lips, the freckles that clustered bold along the bridge of her nose and faded across her cheeks, the chew of her lip when she was deep in thought.

He still had to look down at her. Her shoulder still pressed lightly to his bicep. And then, forcing himself, he looked back at the screen.

Beth leaned in even closer, explaining with a calm precision as she gestured. “See this little line here? That could mean more soft tissue involvement. Might be worth a CT to get the full extent of it.”

Jack nodded, his voice a little tight. “Yeah, I’ll get that ordered.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the unexpected awareness of her presence. 

“So is ortho coming down, or is this going to take another thirty years too?” She asked. She stepped away, and he felt himself deflate. 

Ouch. He shrugged slightly with a tight nod. “Depends on who is on call tonight. But if we’re lucky? Oh… I’d say sometime within the next century.”

That earned a laugh. Brief, but dizzying; a bright, snorted sound that lived only in memories of chemistry labs and that old paper mill. She smiled gently, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped her tight twist behind her ear, and his fingers twitched at his side. He tucked his hand into his pocket, clicking the display off and tucking the tablet under his arm. Blue eyes turned to him again from behind dark frames, assessing him with that same sterile, clinical stare that was far too detached to be her own. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. Her eyebrows lifted over her glasses in a silent challenge to go on. He sighed; always too goddamn stubborn for her own good.

He opened his mouth again. Here goes fucking nothing, he guessed. Only been avoiding this for three goddamn decades. He glanced over at her daughter, now finally adrift in a drug-induced haze, before tipping his head toward the other side of the curtain.

“Hey, could we—?”

He didn’t get the chance to finish before her head snapped towards the bed at the sound of quiet weeping. Part of him, the one that had never wanted this conversation in the first place, was relieved. Aching shoulders sank slightly when she turned away from him to step quickly to the side of the bed and pulled the rail down with quick, practiced fingers. The kid’s eyes were open, cheeks stained with tears, lips trembling. Her shoulders shook with each quiet sob.

And here come the tears.

“Hey, baby. I’m right here.” Beth cupped her daughter’s face in both hands, her voice low and gentle. Abby continued to cry, the morphine giving her just enough slack to let the dam break. She took a gasping breath that Jack felt in his own chest, but Beth only offered her a soft smile and brushed her thumbs across Abby’s cheeks. “Hey. Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Beth inhaled slow and deep, nodding gently when Abby hiccuped. Her daughter took a shaky breath in time with her, exhaling on another hiccup while Beth murmured soft encouragements between breaths. Tears slipped down Abby’s cheeks as she blinked up at her mother, lips trembling.

“I broke my leg,” she choked out in a hoarse whisper. “I heard it. It cracked like a glow stick.”

Beth nodded, brushing her fingers through Abby’s hair with a sympathetic smile. “I know, sweetheart.”

Her lip quivered. “I can’t cheer anymore.”

Beth glanced at Jack, a silent apology in her eyes, then turned back to her daughter. He stayed rooted at the foot of the bed, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was medical persistence; a habit. Reflex. Maybe it was something else. His own morbid curiosity about what she had become without him.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t walk away from this bed as easily as he did all the others.

“It’s gonna heal,” Beth said gently. “You’ll be okay, Abs.”

“It was my last season,” Abby whimpered. “It’s over. It’s all over, and it didn’t even start yet.”

“Oh, honey…” Beth sighed.

Jack watched her lower herself onto the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, her back to him like a closing door. Without hesitation, Abby folded into her, clinging like she was the only solid thing in the room. She buried her face in Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, rubbing slow, soothing circles across her back. And Jack saw not the sharp-tongued teen, but a little girl. A child wrecked by pain and disappointment, reaching for her mother the only way she knew how. For a fleeting moment, she looked like the face that had clawed its way out of his memory when he’d first walked in with Whitaker, before he’d really seen Abby at all.

Fuck, she looked just like Beth.

“I’ll have to wear a cast at Homecoming,” Abby hiccuped, burrowing deeper into Beth’s arms. “It’s going to be in all the pictures. Mia told me that Emma told her that she heard from Zeke that Luke said Gavin was going to ask me, and now he won’t because I look like some tragic teenage cryptid.”

Beth rested her chin on Abby’s head, nodding along to the spiraling logic. “If Gavin doesn’t ask you because you broke your leg, then Gavin isn’t a boy worth your time.”

“I don’t even want to go anymore. I’m going to look so ugly.”

“Oh, you stop,” Beth murmured, easing back just enough to meet her daughter’s wet eyes. “You’ll look beautiful. We’ll find a dress that hides it.”

“Oh my god, Mom,” Abby groaned, looking up at her like she’d suggested smearing dog shit on it. “It’s Homecoming. No one wears long dresses to Homecoming. That’s prom.”

“I wore a long dress to my senior Homecoming,” Beth replied calmly, ignoring the wobble in her daughter’s voice. Jack nodded slightly, though he wasn’t sure to who. She had. It was green.

“Yeah, like a million years ago!”

“Okay, okay. No long dresses, got it,” Beth relented with a sigh, pulling Abby to her again before pivoting. “We’ve got a few months to figure it out, and your mom can do wicked things with a hot glue gun and some rhinestones. Remember your Eras Tour outfit? A cast is nothing. I’ve got this.”

Abby let out a wet laugh. “That’s so tacky.”

“It’s Homecoming, baby. It’s all tacky.”

“Someone’s gonna draw a dick on it.”

“Then we’ll turn it into an elephant.” Beth laughed, tucking the blanket gently around her and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe lean into it. Start the school year with a Sharpie and a warning.”

Abby nodded, and for a moment, Jack thought the melodrama had been soothed away. The sight of her like that… He’d always known Beth would be a good mom. He just never thought he’d get to see it for himself.

But then Abby wiped her nose on Beth’s shoulder with a shuddering breath.

“And now I’ll miss winter conditioning. Which means I’ll suck at volleyball too. Which means I won’t get captain. Which means Kayla probably will.” She groaned like the words physically hurt. “And I hate Kayla! She’s a dumb bitch and she can’t even serve.”

Jack had done his best to stay quiet at the end of the bed, pretending to look busy, though he wasn’t sure why he was still in the room at all, but that made him huff out something dangerously close to a laugh. Abby caught it and squinted at him like she’d been personally wronged.

“Don’t laugh, Doctor Mullet. This is, like, my entire life, and it’s over.”

“Don’t look at him, look at me.” Beth’s voice stayed calm, redirecting her daughter’s glare back where it belonged. “You’re right. It’s absolutely devastating, and I am so, so sorry, baby. But it will heal, and you still have summer ball. We’ll listen to what ortho says, and we’ll go from there. Us Baker girls are tough, remember?”

She smoothed her hand over Abby’s hair. “We’ll get you fixed up, grab whatever you want to eat on the way home, and spend the weekend watching whatever you want until I start work on Monday. How’s that sound?”

“Can we watch Gladiator?” she mumbled, voice thick.

Beth smiled softly. “Until we’re no longer entertained.”

Abby hiccuped a laugh and nodded. “Can we key Kayla’s car?”

Beth stifled a snort and lifted her face to rest her chin on top of her daughter’s head, fighting a smile. “No, we can’t.”

“But I hate her.”

“I’m aware.”

Abby sniffled again and let out a long, exhausted breath, her body starting to go limp against Beth’s. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” she groaned.

Beth nodded sympathetically, patting her back. “Morphine’ll do that.” She glanced up at Jack, her tone shifting like they were discussing a shared case on rounds. “Can we get her some Zofran? Four milligrams?”

Jack gave a slight nod, his gaze still on Abby. “I’ll have someone bring it.”

“Like right now,” Abby gagged, her whole body tensing with the warning.

Beth moved fast. In one motion, she slid her hand into her daughter’s hair and swept it back, the other arm guiding Abby forward. “Okay, baby. Over the side. There you go.” She murmured, not even blinking as Abby retched.

Jack stirred from the edge of the bed, instinct pulling him forward. “Let’s get you a bag,” he said, already reaching for one behind him. He held it out for Beth to catch it with a grateful glance. She shook it open and held it under Abby just in time for another rather productive heave. Beth didn’t flinch, didn’t grimace. She just kept whispering soft nothings, rubbing Abby’s back, solid and steady and sure. The girl vomited again before she gave a dramatic groan and slumped into her mother’s side. “I want to go home.” 

“I know, baby.”

“Doctor Mullet gave me drugs,” Abby mumbled, still a little green and catching her breath. “He did this to me. He ruined me.”

“Yeah,” Beth sighed, voice small. “He does that.”

Jack took a breath and stepped back. He shouldn’t be there, he knew that. There was no clinical reason for him to remain in that room. He felt like a voyeur, standing in the middle of something private and tender; staring in at a moment that didn’t belong to him, but felt like punishment. Like atonement. Like the universe had taken him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to watch what he had forfeited. Abby curled tighter into Beth’s arms and started to cry again, her face buried against her mother’s jacket, sobbing in great, shuddering waves. And Jack couldn’t look away. She looked so much like her. Not just in the shape of her face, or the stubborn tilt of her brow, but in the fire. The fight. The cracked-open heart. All of that spirit packed into a frame too small to hold it, trying to breathe between the sobs. 

And for a moment, Jack saw it. The collateral. The wreckage. A glimpse of everything he must have left in his wake that August so many years ago that he tried to avoid, playing out in front of him like penance. The ache twisted in his chest like something sharp and half-forgotten. He shifted back another step, the another before he finally turned and pulled himself from it.

“I’ll grab that Zofran,” Jack said, his voice tight. “Ortho should be down to grab her soon.”

Beth nodded, still rocking Abby gently. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He returned the nod, already moving toward the door like it was an escape route. His hand curled around the curtain, holding it just enough to slip out, but he paused. Behind him, he could still hear Abby’s sniffles, the rhythm of Beth’s voice soothing her like an old song. Something in his chest buckled under the weight of it. With a resigned breath, he turned back.

“Hey Beth?”

She looked up, tired but composed, like she’d been bracing herself for him.

Jack’s jaw twitched. His tongue was sandpaper in his mouth, but he forced the words through. “It was good to see you. Really.”

Beth nodded slowly, the smile that stretched across her face just a little too tight to be easy. “Well,” she exhaled, brushing Abby’s hair back from her damp forehead, “better get used to it. I start here on Monday.”

His brain caught on the words like a misfired round, jamming before it could make sense of them.

Oh. You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.

“You—wait. You’re the new doc?” The words came out dumb and breathless, like his mouth was scrambling to catch up to the rest of him.

Beth didn’t get a chance to answer.

Abby gave one last lurch and vomited straight into Beth’s lap.

Beth froze. Her hands hovered midair, her spine locking with slow disbelief. Then she let out a long, slow breath, and turned to Jack with a look so flat it might as well have been bulletproof.

Her smile was tight. Icy. Impeccably restrained.

“Surprise.”

[taeaura]

working on asks rn and thinking about how Thomas' family really affected his ability to perceive love. Whether familial, emotional, physical, sexual, platonic, or even self-love, Thomas hasn't had a consistent healthy role-model in that department. Luda Mae shows him maternal love, sure, but it's met with so many conditions. She'd stitch him up when he got hurt but she'd lecture him with such victim-blaming vocabulary. She was worried, that's all. But it never seemed that way. Even when she'd stand up for Thomas, momma was bleak. Still, he lived by her beck and call.

Hoyt is his paternal figure, therefore giving him a mix of paternal and general familial love; But again, Hoyt's love is harsh and conditional. He's blunt and manipulative. Honestly, Hoyt is Thomas' only real source of praise - but the 'praise' only comes if Hoyt's in the mood. Otherwise it's harsh and insulting. Some of his comments can be brusque and careless, especially in relation to Thomas' social life.

"It's gonna take a real special somebody to love that boy."

Monty's all the same. Brusque, bleak, and uninterested. He likes to tease, that's what momma tells him (Thomas). He spends his days rotting on that old reclining chair, indulging in the smooth sounds of folk and talk show hosts clearing the static. Monty got colder after his amputation. He was tired, constantly irked and downright unenjoyable to be around - He took all his annoyance out on everyone but Hoyt and minimally on momma, meaning Thomas was on the main end of it.

"Tommy! Get me a fucking beer, would you?" - "Took you long enough.."

He feels bad later in the day, when all is quiet except his thoughts. But those thoughts quickly go away when another inconvenience rolls around.

All Thomas has ever seen is conditional love. The family didn't fear him, therefore, they thought they could walk all over him. He views himself as a tool more than a family member. He knows the family would be nowhere without him, but that never helped his esteem. In fact, it made him feel worse. He could never take a day off, never ask for a break, and never skip a day at the slaughterhouse. No matter what, he needed to bring something home. Money, meat, beer, cigars; Something to prove he was useful to the family. He'd do the same for his partner, but never for himself. He's as selfless as it gets: Conditional with himself but unconditional for his family.

---

Just a little blurb lol

[queen-lucy-the-valiant]

The Chessman

There’s a golden chess piece in Susan’s hand. Its ruby eye winks at him in the dappled light and Edmund suddenly knows. They’re standing in ruins, catapulted stones lie all around them in the ruins of a once great castle, and it can’t be his, it can’t be. But Susan’s holding a golden chess piece with a ruby eye and Edmund knows it even though it’s been a year, even though, logically, he knows there could be a thousand chessmen that look like that. Edmund knows it’s his, knows that he left it on the board in their private sitting room, standing on E5, one move away from checking Lucy’s king on H2, knows he never made that move because Mr. Tumnus had burst in with news of the White Stag and they had rushed away, never to return.

He knows because it is–it had been–his favorite set. A present from Father Christmas during their first proper Christmas in Narnia. The golden knights had been modeled after Orius, one broadsword gripped in one hand, shield clasped in the other, with a sword strapped to his back, sheaths on both flanks. They’re hidden by Susan’s palm now, but Edmund can just see their outline, just like he can just see the lion crest imprinted on his shield. If he could only find them, the rooks would be perfect copies of the Cair’s spires, the bishops of their advisors, the pawns of the trees he saw out his window every morning. If he could only find them, the gold queen would be a perfect miniature of Susan, and the gold king of Peter. Edmund himself and Lucy had been the silver king and queen. It had been his favorite chess set, and Edmund knows it better than he knows their father’s set in Finchley. 

So he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that the golden knight Susan holds is from that set. 

So he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that they stand within the ruins of their home, centuries away from their friends and the time they belong. 

He almost drops it. It almost burns, to hold a reminder of their last days in Narnia, to hold a reminder of all the things they have lost. But he doesn’t. For some reason that he really couldn’t explain, Edmund slips it into his trouser pockets. And then he slips it into his bag before they leave the treasury. And then he keeps it with him, worrying over the ruby with his thumb as they hike through the changed forests, as they enter the How, as they plan and fail and plan again. It’s in his pocket as he watches Peter duel with Miraz and as Peter places the crown on Caspian’s brow. 

When they change back into their old uniforms, he slips it back into his pocket. And when they walk through that outline of a door, he holds onto it, expecting it to dematerialize at any moment, to vanish from his grip. 

But it doesn’t. 

It stays in his pocket as he walks from one world to another. And then it stays in his pocket as he settles down to living this life. As he goes to school, to classes. As his parents send him off to Uncle Harold’s and Aunt Alberta’s. There Eustace almost finds it, thieving snoop that he is. But even he cannot pick Edmund’s pockets, and so it remains with him. Day after day, week after week, year after year. The face becomes smooth, the shield crest on the shield is worn away, and some days Edmund cannot look at it without crying, can’t touch it without a phantom burn, but even so, it stays in his pocket.

It stays in his pocket, but he is only human and one day he forgets it. In his haste to change into the workman disguise Peter brought, he leaves it on his desk and only realizes when he slips the rings into his pocket. But it doesn’t matter, not any more. Soon he’ll be back in Narnia, soon he’ll be back home, and what need of mementos will he have then?

There’s a golden chess piece in Susan’s hand. Its ruby eye winks at her in the lamplight, and Susan knows she cannot lie any more, not even to herself.

[lainalei-evans]

hi!! would you be up for writing a list of twilight headcanons? 👀

i saw you write for the fandom and i’d LOVE to read something from you, especially about CARLISLE finding out his mate is HUMAN.

like… WOULD HE TRY TO STAY AWAY TO PROTECT HER?? WOULD HE LET HIMSELF FEEL IT?? HOW WOULD HE EVEN DEAL WITH THAT KIND OF BOND?? I NEED ANSWERS

there’s barely any content about him and he deserves SO MUCH MORE LOVE

i’d seriously appreciate it SO MUCH if you wrote something about this 🫶🥺

Headcanons: Carlisle Cullen realizes you are his soulmate… and you’re human 🩺

Hey, anon! Hope you're doing great.

Here’s the list of headcanons I put together with lots of love. I made both a SFW and a NSFW. 

1. He knows it instantly. It’s not a vague feeling or a flicker of doubt—he feels it deep in his bones, in the parts of him that still remember what it means to be alive. Like something ancient clicking into place for the first time since his transformation. Silent, but absolute.

2. His first reaction is calm panic. He doesn’t show it, but inside, a storm brews: Why now? Why are you human? What if I hurt you?

3. He doesn’t tell anyone. Not even Esme. Not because he’s hiding it, but because he wants to understand it first. He wants to protect the weight of what this means. Like speaking it too soon might break the magic of it.

4. He watches you with a mix of awe and guilt. The way you blink, the sound of your heartbeat when you get close, how utterly human you are… and how painfully far from that he feels.

5. He goes back and forth between staying close and walking away. He tells himself the noble thing would be to leave, to let you live your life. But he also knows he can’t will this bond out of existence. Not when it’s you.

6. He writes you letters he never sends. Some are long, others only say “I’m sorry” or “I wish things were different.” He keeps them all—just in case one day he finds the courage… or one day decides he truly has no right.

7. He offers medical help as an excuse to stay close. But it’s not really an excuse—it’s the purest way he knows how to care for you. Without overstepping. Without asking for anything in return.

8. He’s painfully careful with every word, every gesture. He’s terrified of influencing your choices, of bending your will. If you ever choose him, he wants it to be yours. Not the bond. Not fate. Just you.

9. He thinks about his father. About God. About the soul. Old questions rise again: Do I have the right to love like this? To pull you into my world? To take you from yours?

10. And if you show interest… he doesn’t run. He doesn’t rush to kiss you or confess centuries of longing. But he stays.

Not as a vampire. Not as a doctor.

But as a man who has waited far too long for a soul to look at him without fear.

---

NSFW Headcanons 🩺

1. At first, he holds back like he’s afraid. Not of you, but of himself. Every time he touches you, it’s with precise, deliberate care. The first time you’re naked in front of him, he moves slowly—like you’re made of glass… even if he’s dying to lose control.

2. He looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real. His cold skin against your warmth drives him wild. He takes his time watching you, touching you gently, like every inch of your body deserves a quiet kind of reverence.

3. His low voice travels over your skin more than his hands do. He whispers things in your ear that make you shiver—never vulgar, but heavy with want:

“You’re beautiful.” “You have no idea how much you make me want to forget the world.” “I could spend the whole night just feeling you like this.”

4. He’s never in a hurry. He kneels for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and lets his mouth explore every part of you. There’s no rush, only the quiet satisfaction of pulling soft moans from your lips.

5. He brings you to the edge more than once. His hands, his mouth, his entire body move with one clear purpose: to make you tremble, to hear you say his name like a prayer, to see your back arch before he finally gives you all of him.

6. He knows exactly where and how to touch you. Your breath, your sounds, your movements—he reads them all like scripture. Every reaction guides him, and he follows with quiet, focused devotion.

7. When he finally gives in completely, he holds nothing back. His rhythm is deep, slow, perfectly controlled… but full of intensity. He doesn’t move like it’s just physical—each thrust feels like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that’s ever truly felt real.

8. Sometimes, his fangs graze your skin. Not to hurt you—just the ghost of a fantasy he barely allows himself to indulge. He mouths at your neck, your shoulder, your thigh… only with his lips. But you can feel the tension he holds back.

9. Afterwards, it’s nothing but tenderness. He doesn’t let go. He wraps himself around you, traces your back with quiet hands, speaks softly against your skin. He doesn’t need many words—his touch says it all. “Thank you for letting me love you like this,” he whispers once.

10. To him, making love to you is sacred. It’s not just desire—it’s faith, it’s belonging, it’s the only way he ever truly feels human again… when he’s inside you, when he hears your heartbeat racing under his hands, when you look at him without fear.

Every moment with you is more than physical. It’s how he prays—with his body. It’s how he holds on to the one thing that still ties him to the world.

To you.

[burnbrightdoll]

ALSO 1979!HALIT MAKES ME FEEL SO MANY THINGS.

[saetiate]

okay i ran out of space in the tags when i was almost finished sorry for the additional short comments here :') please read the tags first and then this comment ahaha i have been commenting as i go through!!! tldr this is a beautiful fic i have been so excited to read it and your writing is brilliant!!!

OHMYGOD THE WAY THAT MYDEI WAS CAPTURED??? omg this plot twist... waugasf;jds i cannot believe this i am jaw dropped fr

WAHH IM SO EXCITED TO READ THE NEXT PART!!! i love that at the end he allows reader to feed him :') I WANNA KNOWW what the conditions are and how he gets out and i wanna see him and reader's relationship progress!!! im so excited ahaha this has been so fun!!! thank you for sharing your writing w the world!!!

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

[nerdie-faerie]

Just had a conversation with a cat

[laufeysvalentine]

i want you.

remus lupin x fem!reader | masterlist

summary ༄ remus x best friend!reader -- or in which you're in love with your best friend, but he's not exactly in love with you back... angst

word count ༄ 3.2k

nora’s notes ༄ eeek my first writing post!! i'm so excited. this is kind of bad but IDC part two will be coming and i swear will be better written okay enjoy!! mwah 💘

“moony!” you sing-song as you twirl into his dorm, lips spread into a wide grin. “we’re leaving for hogsmeade, hurry up.” 

he’s on his bed, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he glances up from his book, suppressing a smile when he sees you. “hi, y/n.” 

he embodies the word comfort, you think. he’s wearing one of his trademark warm wool sweaters, an empty mug of tea by his knee, gray blanket draped across his lap, and that smile. it would be the death of you, you were sure of it. 

“hi,” you respond, clasping his book and setting it onto his bedside table. “c’mon, everyone’s waiting for us downstairs.” 

he sighs so deeply you think he might crack a lung, and loops his pointer finger through one of the belt loops of your jeans to pull you onto his bed. “do we have to?” 

as much as you’d like to stay here with him, you also want to buy more chocolate frogs, so you spring back up, tugging at his hand. “yes, please. i’m low on my candy stock.” 

he groans, letting you pull him off of his bed and out of the dorm. “your sweet tooth is killing me.” 

you shrug. “that’s what you signed up for when you said yes to being friends in first year. now you’re just living with it.” 

he just hums in agreement, letting you wrap your arm around his. remus lupin, your best friend. he’s the kindest man you’ve ever met, let alone known. it would be a lie to say you weren’t completely and utterly in love with him, and even more of a lie to say you hadn’t been since before you were a teenager, even if you didn’t understand it then. but, alas, as soon as you’d admitted it to yourself, you also resolved to never, ever tell him. you were sure he didn’t feel the same about you, and why would you carelessly toss away the best friendship and most understanding person ever just for some feelings? 

and so, you waited and hoped, prayed that it would go away. you would move on and keep your friendship. 

and, of course, you didn’t. 

“y/n!” james calls once he sees the two of you walking down the stairs to where the rest of the marauders are waiting. “finally.” 

“we sent you up like ten minutes ago,” peter complains, frowning. 

you shrug. “oops.” 

remus shifts his arm to settle around your waist, nudging you in front of him. “well, we’re here now, so get a move on.” 

you thread the hand he placed on your stomach with your own, thumb rubbing circles onto his. he smiles down on you, and that smile, oh, lord. you could see it a million times and never have enough. you’d jump over bridges to have him watch you like that all the time. you’d sell your soul to be his, really and truly. and the worst part is, you have no shame about it. merlin, you’re in love. 

—

jelly beans or chocolate frogs, that is the question. you glance at one, then the other, then the other again. your shoulders slump. it’s too hard of a decision. you’re about to cave and get both when you feel warm arms wrap around your waist, a chin settling onto your shoulder. without looking, you press a kiss to remus’ cheek. “hi.” 

“hi,” he replies, inhaling your scent, nose tucked between your ear and your hair. 

“chocolate frogs or jelly beans?” you ask anxiously, holding up the two in front of you. “or both?” 

“both,” he agrees with you, and you can feel the tension slowly leaving him as he stands behind you, entwined with you. 

you nod, happy with his judgment, about to speak when someone beats you to it. 

“remus?” a voice yells from behind, excitement coloring her tone. 

you know who this is without looking too, but you wish you didn’t. remus slowly stands back to his whole height, and the sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver. you turn just as he does, even if you don’t want to see the girl beaming at him. 

you know her, of course you do. doesn’t everyone know celeste huxley, the most beautiful hufflepuff to grace hogwarts’ campus? angels sing when she walks past, men and women fall to her feet in her wake. she’s worshiped, adored. okay, you’re being dramatic, but still. 

you hate her. 

you hate her silky hair, her evergreen smile, her cesspool of kindness. 

and you hate yourself more for hating her. she’s never been mean to you a day in her life, she couldn’t be mean to anyone even if she tried. but still. she’s who you’ve tried to be your whole life. she is the blueprint, the model with cherry-red high heels you wobble and blister your feet in. she has all Os on her OWLs, victoria’s secret hair, people who love on her like a celebrity. and she’s fucking obsessed with your best friend, of course. she could have anyone in the world, and she picked him. why couldn’t she love sirius or james, like half the girls at the school? why did she have to want remus? 

and the worst part is, she deserves him. he deserves someone as perfect as he is, even if that’s celeste. 

as you swallow down your hatred, you realize she’s started to pull remus away from you, pulling on his sleeve towards the jelly slugs, and you almost lob your stupid chocolate frog at her head. tears sting your eyes and you try your best to blink them back as you watch remus watch you, only half-listening to her blabber. he knows you hate her, and the most sheepish, guilty look comes over his face. you ignore him, putting your candy back, too upset to think about eating it. luckily, you spot sirius in the corner and quickly try to make your way over him when you’re pulled back. 

remus has got ahold of your belt loops again, and you watch him whisper something to celeste before gently removing her hand from his sweater and pulling away. he chose you now, but for how long? the thought chills you, goosebumps prickling your skin, your heart. 

“dove,” he says quietly by your ear. “what happened to your candy?” 

“didn’t want it,” you mumble, walking towards sirius. 

“why not?” he’s dancing around the topic, and both of you know it. 

“not hungry.” 

“i’m sorry.” 

“s’not your fault,” you say. you’re not mad at him, you could never really be mad at him, but you’re upset nonetheless. you push away towards the black-haired boy perusing the shelves. “siri, you done?” 

you link arms with your other friend, leading him out of honeyduke’s, leaving remus trailing behind. 

—

“hi dove.” a voice, and its accompanying owner, peeks out from the doorway into your dorm. “may i come in?” 

“hi rem,” you say in response, beckoning him in, putting your book to the side to let him crawl onto you. “can’t you always?” 

his shoulders sag slightly, slumping into your bed as soon as he reaches it. his head is in your lap, and he closes his eyes once you begin to massage his scalp with your fingers, pressing a kiss to your exposed hipbone next to him. 

you don’t say anything, you just let the silence dance between the two of you. 

he’s so pretty. you brush some of his sandy strands out of his face to let yourself just admire him. the towering giant and all his gentleness. your fingers trace the outlines of his face, the scars that decorate it, all the way down to his right pinky, where he has the cutest tattoo. 

i love you is all you want to say. the words pulse at your throat, begging you to let them free. but you can’t. you can’t lose him. anyone else, sure, you would do it. but not him. not remus, your remus. 

when he wakes, groggy but grounded, you have a hot cup of tea ready by your bed, ready for his consumption. you hand it to him as soon as he’s fully awake, pulling himself off of you to accept the mug. “i don’t deserve you, dovie.” 

“don’t say stuff like that, rem. if anything, you deserve better.” you press a kiss to his cheek, smiling. 

“there’s nobody and nothing better than you,” he promises, hand landing on your lower thigh to massage it gently. you smile, letting the quiet linger between the two of you a little longer before speaking up. 

“you wanna talk about it?” you ask, watching him sip his tea. 

he gives you the most adoring smile, and you want to put it in a box and lock it up and keep it forever. “just tired.” 

“okay,” you say, searching his face to verify what he’s saying. “you can always talk to me, you know.” 

“thank you.” remus is always sincere, it’s one of the things you love about him, but he seems especially sincere now. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, y/n.” 

“and you are to me,” you whisper, eyes dipping to his plush pink lips. you want to kiss him so badly right now, but you know he just means it like a friend, as much as you wish it wouldn’t. 

swallowing, you wipe those ideas away, choosing to rest your head against his fleece sweater-covered shoulder. he drops a kiss onto the top of your head, and you sigh in contentment. this is why you refuse to tell him you love him. you couldn’t live without these moments. 

“there’s a party tonight at nine-ish,” he says softly. his thumb is rubbing circles on your knee. “sirius is dragging me along. will you come?” 

you contemplate it only briefly. “i’m tired, rem. you should go, though.” 

“i’ll stay back with you,” he decides with resolution. your heart melts, it’s sweet of him to want to stay with you, but you want him to have fun. plus, you can feel in how his body coiled with excitement when he talked about it–he wants to go. 

“no, go.” you glare playfully at him. “i won’t forgive you if you don’t.” 

“i’ll stay with you,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “it’s just a party. i’d stay with you forever, you know? you’re my favorite person.” 

“i’ll be mad at you if you don’t go, i swear to merlin,” you egg him on, heart melting. 

“no.” he’s too stubborn for his good. 

“i want to be alone,” you lie. you know he wants to go and you refuse to hold him back. “i might come later on, just not at nine. i’ll be there at ten, maybe.” 

“and i’ll wait for you,” he promises. 

“please, remus.” you put on your saddest tone, gaze up at him pleadingly. “i just need some alone time.” 

“you want to be alone?” he asks cautiously, searching for any hint you may be lying. 

“yes.” you cross your toes, tucked under your quads. 

he’s hesitating, and as if in perfect timing, a knock sounds at your door before a familiar head of black hair peeks through. 

“moony, let’s go. leave poor y/n alone.” sirius clicks his tongue. 

you push remus’ shoulder lightly, gesturing for him to go. he casts one long look at your face, as if memorizing every ridge. 

“she’s not going to change while we’re gone, get a move on,” sirius groans from the door. you nod at the statement, and remus concedes. 

“i’ll be here the whole time,” you promise. 

“call me if you get lonely.” he makes you swear before reluctantly getting up. you kiss his hand to send him off. 

you were lying when you said you would join him at nine. five minutes after he’s out the door, you’re fast asleep under the covers, the ghost of his touch comforting you. 

—

as soon as your eyes open, you let out a sound of disappointment. you can tell you haven’t slept through the night, as none of your roommates are in their beds, and they always sleep in. the clock reads that it’s only a bit before eight forty five, and you roll over in your bed. you know you won’t be able to fall back asleep, but you try anyway, until the door slams and your eyes fly open. 

it’s lily, face flushed with the cold and excitement. the second she sees you kissed by sleep, she covers her mouth. “sorry, y/n! were you sleeping?” 

you wave her off. “no, i was already awake. what’s up?” 

“james is going to be at the party tonight. will you come? please, please, please? i don’t want to go alone with him,” she begs. “please.” 

you weigh your options: if you stay here, you’ll just lay in bed, not sleeping. you might as well go with her, you’ll see remus there too. 

“okay,” you agree, and she practically drags you out of bed, she’s so happy. 

—

even though lily’s the one who dragged you here to keep her away from james, she’s off with him in a corner within ten minutes of you getting there, leaving you in a sea of other people, alone. of course, you know most of your housemates that are stuffed into this crowded common room, but you don’t know any particular one of them enough to properly go up to and chat. you sit awkwardly on a couch for a few minutes, next to couples making out, before finally just giving up and getting ready to leave. 

you saw sirius going into a bedroom with someone, so he’s out of the picture, peter’s smoking in the corner with some ravenclaws you have no interest in speaking with, james is alone with lily, and he’d kill you if you interrupted them, and you have absolutely no clue where remus is. 

whatever. you walk towards the door to the girls’ dormitories, stumbling over students on the way, when you just barely catch a glimpse of sandy hair outside on a balcony. you’d know it anywhere–that’s remus. you scramble towards him, eager to see a friendly face, hand cracking the door open, when just as quickly as it came, the excitement dies in your throat. 

because just behind remus is a girl you hate to see. celeste, hair floating behind her. if you blink hard enough, you see a breeze wafting through her hair as her fingers knot around remus’–your remus–neck. his hands are on the small curve of her waist, and he’s pushing her against the railing and, oh god–they’re kissing. 

you let out a thick gasp and your hand slaps over your mouth. you turn and flee. they probably heard you, but they can’t maneuver through the crowd like you can. within seconds, you’re sure you’ve lost any trace of them, darting through people as you sprint outside to the outside of the castle. sure it’s past curfew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

no one will see you now. 

he’s supposed to be yours. he was yours, he was yours in more than just a best friend. those nights when he fell asleep in your bed, having you wrap your arms around him for warmth, he was yours. when you always visited him post-full moon in the apothecary, and as much as he wishes to push you away, you never let him, he was yours then. when he lets you in, truly and fully, and lets himself cry against you, letting you take care of him for once. you’re the only person he’s ever let himself cry in front of.

and even though you’d deny it a million times, and you did, to sirius, to james, you’ve always hoped that he liked you back. deep down, in the parts of your soul you only ever showed to him. he didn’t have to love you, even. just like, that would be enough. anything would. 

but that was too much for him, clearly. 

you’re crying. tears, fat and hot, soaking the skin on your cheeks. head in your hands, letting your open palms pool the salty water. you feel nothing but yourself and the wind against the cold of the stone steps, whipping your hair around. 

“dove.” 

you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’re hallucinating, praying the voice you just heard wasn’t real. you couldn’t see him right now. that would be humiliating. 

“y/n?” 

you crack your eye open when you hear the same voice, trying to swallow your sobs back and failing as they manifest into ugly hiccups. you’re not hallucinating. merlin damn it. 

in front of you, peering up at your blotchy face, is remus lupin, your best friend. the man who’s not yours. 

he’s on the step below you,  but one hand snakes its way onto your knee, soothing your skin with his slender thumb, the other finding your hand to intertwine your fingers. fuck, his touch both makes you lean into him and want to throw up at the same time. his eyes are chock-full of compassion, and god, you hate it. “what’s wrong?” 

his words send you blubbering into tears again, rubbing at your eyes as something splits open in your chest. “n-nothing.” 

“something’s wrong, love. let me help you. let me in,” he pleads in the softest tone, and you have to fight to not give in, to wrap your arms around him and never let go. remember celeste, remember that terrible sight of his lips on hers. 

“remus, leave me alone.” you’re shaking, but somewhere inside you, you find your resolve. you stand, pulling away from him, and make to run back inside the castle, but his long legs catch up to you easily, arm shooting around your waist when your knees buckle and you collapse onto the floor in sobs. 

“y/n, you’re scaring me,” he says, panic accumulating in his voice. “please tell me what’s wrong and i’ll fix it, i promise. please, baby. it’s killing me hear you cry.” 

you’re so close to the doors, you can see them. you stand again. “you don’t get to say that.” 

“what?” his arm’s still around your shoulder and you shove it off. 

“stop it! you’re so mean, remus. you don’t get to call me dove and call me baby and say stupid things like how there’s nobody better than me and i’m your favorite person and then go off and kiss other girls,” you spit out on the verge of hyperventilating. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. it’s just coming out, spewing out of your mouth like the vomit that’s sure to follow. but even as each word shocks you, you know they ring true. “i hate you for it. i hate you for leading me on for years when i’ve loved you since we were kids! you’re terrible, remus. i hate you.” 

he’s absolutely stunned trying to process your words, and you use the momentary distraction to race back into the school, gunning for your dorm and locking it once you’re inside. the image of celeste and remus plays through your mind all night, so much that you can barely even think about how you confessed your love to him.

masterlist | next part

tags @lydiasfalling @dancingwithourhandsuntied

[bi-writes]

how would arguments go between simon and MOB? i imagine he would never dare raise his voice at her.

simon does not argue with his wife. if you are in danger or something is wrong, i could see him using a little bit of his lieutenant's voice just to get you to listen to him. to "get behind me" or "i'll take care of this, you go." otherwise, there's no resistance. none at all.

"you know, simon, i..." you stop at the door, swallowing. you rub a hand over your forehead, shaking your head. "i...i-i really don't want to go."

he shuffles in his boots, staring at you carefully. you're all dressed up; you've got a new dress on (that he bought you, eagerly), and you've done your makeup. you clutch your purse with clammy hands, and he narrows his eyes when he sees the tremble in your bottom lip. he clears his throat, taking his jacket off. he removes his boots quietly, scratching the back of his neck as he comes close to you to take your bag and hang it up by the door again.

"okay," simon murmurs. "then we won't go."

he doesn't tell you about the cancellation fee.

"'ello?"

"simon!"

he startles awake this time, holding the phone closer to his ear. the sheer anxiety in your voice cuts his gut sharp.

"wot? wot is it? wot happened?"

"i--i totally...i screwed up, simon--oh, god, i'm so sorry--"

"oi!" simon says firmly. "wot happened?"

"i...i'm at the shop, someone was going to back into me, so i swerved, and--"

"fuck," simon breathes. "are ya olright?"

"the car, it's--"

"not wot i asked," simon interrupts you. "are ya hurt?"

"w-what? i..." you sniffle. "no. i'm okay. just a little sore, i guess..."

simon lets out a deep breath, shaking his head.

"i'm coming," simon says lowly. "you stay there, baby. don't move."

"but, simon, the walk is--"

"i'll see ya in twenty."

"oh, no, no, no, no!" you gasp. the orange tabby's head perks up at the sound of your voice at the door. she's got one of simon's masks in her mouth, and even from this distance and without the lights turned on, you can tell the fabric is shredded to bits. it's all over the floor, scattered across the couch, flecks of lint in her fur.

"oh, god, how could you?!" you panic a little. she must have gotten into some kind of drawer or basket or the laundry, because as you start towards her, she darts away, leading you across the house where you can see shreds of more masks and simon's socks strewn about the house. "oh, no!"

the front door closes heavy. when you come into the living room, simon is there, dropping his gear onto the floor. he looks tired--his shoulders sag, and you can see his eyes half-lidded and barely opening.

"simon, i'm...i'm s-sorry, she--"

you're holding his tattered clothes, but before you can say anything more, he grabs you by the shoulders and hugs you so tight. you nearly lose your breath from how he crushes you to his chest, and you let out a quiet whimper when his knees buckle and he falls to the floor with you, cradling your head to his chest and kissing your forehead through the mask over and over.

you're here. you're real. you're alive.

you drop the shredded fabric and hug him back, closing your eyes as you breathe him in. he tips your head back finally, ripping his mask off and kissing you hard.

he doesn't care when he sees the orange cat take a bite of his thrown mask and run away with it.

he can buy a million masks. but his girls--he pulls back from your kiss to stare down at you, intense. he hasn't slept in days, and he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, camping on different rooftops just to track a shipment, and when that bullet whizzed past his head, all he could think about was you. the cat-bitten plants. the warm food. the cherry dress. some things cannot be replaced.

some brides cannot be ordered again. they don't make them like you.

you are one of a kind.

[kismetlotts]

cw: abusive relationship (not physically), breaking up with Simon, reader is not a pussy, Simons ego is big, Johnny comes to the rescue, taking best friends ex-girlfriend trope?, if you cant treat her right I will, mentions of sexual content, hickeys, angry Simon, mentions of cheating, I wrote this while being half asleep

You were absolutely fucking seething in fury. Red, raw anger pulsing through every envious blood cell of your body because he promised you things were over with her. Swore on lives of everyone he's ever loved, spoke words of rotten lies that fed to the image of him he had made in your mind. A loving boyfriend-truly a fucking manipulative abuser and this time, Simon wasn't getting away.

No more hook-ups, no more late night selfies in another woman's bed just because the two of you fell out- he knew your insecurity and played it like a game of chess and yet somehow; no matter what moves you took, he always knew how to win. Not this time, you'd throw the board before the game is even finished.

Slamming open the dark, wooden doors as the soles of your loved-in trainers slapped each tile of marble. A fancy restaurant that Simon and his friends knew well- full of prestige and pretention. A place where snobby losers and rich cocksuckers can converse without regular, hard-working people being in the way. Perfect for your boyfriend- and soon to be ex.

His gaze flicked to the door, slowly as if he owned time and could use it how he pleased. Reaction not changing in the slightest when he finally saw you almost like he already knew you were the one entering his private dining room. John and Kyle looked over in confusion, John's fingers tracing the stubble on his freshly shaven chin as Kyle leant back in his chair. The both of them oblivious to the drama that was about to unfold and to the way Johnny's eyes struggled to leave yours. Catching his full attention with just an entrance.

"What the fuck 'you want now?" Simon grumbled, lips parted and looking anywhere but your face and you assumed he was embarrassed- not because of his actions, no, of course not. But because you were now seen associated with him. All the men in the room were in their best wear, harsh black suits of charcoal and a contrasting white shirt, the same shirt you ironed, folded and put away for him like a little maid.

And among it all you were stood at the front of the room, dressed in whatever crap you reached for in your wardrobe. Too full of emotion to care, overflowing with feelings to the point you didn't know what to do with yourself but Simon would never understand that. Emotions were a waste of his sweet sweet time.

"I want to let you know, I'm leaving." You spat out, head held high because why on earth would you ever be scared to stand up against him. How could you shy away after he had abused your love and took you for granted? Clenching your jaw tight while wetting your lips, balling your fists up to stop and hide the small tremble the adrenaline left.

The dirt of his pupils holding on yours a little longer than necessary, like he wanted you to say it again and crawl inside yourself- you would've, usually. You would've nodded along to his degradation before walking out silently, making sure to hold your breath until you're in a safe place to cry it out.

Repeating his harsh words when he would call you nothing then ask what you were, trying stop the quiver in your lips when he shouted for you to stop crying but now you weren't his bitch to tamper with. If you wanted to cry and scream you will- without his permission. You'd gauge his eyes out if the two of you were alone and you'd fucking enjoy it.

"Alright then, off you go?" The tone mocking and without even looking down at his chapped lips you could hear the fuckers silent smirk.

"I mean I'm leaving you. Dumping your ass? Breaking up with you because you're so self entitled you have to go fuck other women to hurt me and then fix me up to your standards? I'm done with you, Simon Riley. Officially over." Your shaky hands reached behind your neck as you unhooked the delicate necklace he had brought for you before throwing it with all your force. Hearing the metal clink and sink into his plate of food before turning and heading for the door.

God, it felt good to be free.

The doors shutting behind you with a thud and the same thud sounded in Simons heart. No woman- no fucking whore like you breaks up with a guy like him.

A huff of a laugh left his lips as he reached for the small packet of cigarettes on the table, digging a hand into his suit trousers for a lighter and feeling a soft sheet of sweat coat his back as he moved.

He wasn't scared, or embarrassed- you were on one of your pathetic tantrums again and by the time he gets home you'll have the bed made, food ready and your gaping mouth open and gagging for his big cock. You loved him- sure he tolerated you a little more than the other girls, but you really had a thing for him and it made him feel great. Made him feel powerful that someone needed- relied and only wanted him.

Popping one end of the cigarette in his mouth as Johnny's chair squeaked against the floor. Excusing himself as he cleared his throat and straightened his tie. Simon huffed out a laugh.

"Don't bother, she's fine- used to it." But for some reason, Johnny didn't stop walking.

In fact, his gentle stroll to the exit you had previously left from had a developed a little skip in it. Like a little happy child, knowing something good was about to come to him- come for him.

"Oh, I know." The Scotsman voice flooded with an edge of determination. A hint of challenge- humour, whatever it fucking was Simon's gut churned at the sound.

Johnny wouldn't try anything with you- he wouldn't go up against Simon because he knows his worth. Simon is just so much fucking better, he wouldn't fucking dare. Even if he tried, you wouldn't allow it anyway, you always came crying back to him. There was nothing for him to be worried about.

"Then where are you going?" His thumb traced the ridges indented in the lighter before pulling it down and harshly burning the end of his smoke.

Johnny's hands hit one side of the door as he pushed it open, looking over his shoulder with raised eyebrows because- mate, wasn't it obvious?

"To show her how a real man fucks, what other reason could it be, Simon?" The door banged shut behind him. Simon looked over at John who let out a laugh before looking over at Kyle who breathed in heavily before looking at Simon. The three of them were all lost but only one of them was delusional enough to not take it seriously.

Only Simon.

Opening the door to your apartment once the three of the finished up and paid. Seeing the pretty lamp on beside your couch and your figure sat there snuggled up. Nose deep into your book as you breathed softly, reading in the warm lighting. He barley looked at you when he first let himself in because he knew you would be like this.

All forgiving and back to being his precious baby again. Neglectfully dumping his blazer and tie on the countertop, barley folding them up as he ran a hand through his head, noting the silence. A groan left his lips- you were still pissed at him but a little sweet talk from him would do the job.

"Baby, I'm sorry- it was a one-time thing.." He mumbled softly, the lying in his voice so sickeningly obvious even Simon could wince. His large frame approaching you as he leant down closer to your innocent face.

Hair wet and freshly washed from your shower, all comfortable in your favourite pyjamas. His ears perked up at the soft sound of music coming from you and he figured you had your earbuds in. Fingers reaching out to move the hair behind your ear but his eyes locked onto the purple bite marks scattering your neck and trailing down further. His heart fucking dropped. No, you were his.

You turned your head to face him, brows furrowed as you swallowed down the angry words at the tip of your tongue you so desperately wanted to shout out and you bit the inside of your cheek to muffle the hysterical laughter that threatened to surface. His face dumbfounded, shocked and vulnerable. A side of Simon you had never seen before and a side he clearly hadn't either.

His eyes blinking rapidly like he couldn't believe what was right in front of him- like he had lost control of the one thing he had in his grasp. Damaging the artists brushes, breaking the record player not the vinyl- it hurt him because it made him feel weak, you took back what he operated on and you fucked his best friend. His throat ran dry and he opened his mouth to speak when a hand gripped his shoulder firmly with warning. Warning for him to watch his fucking mouth.

And when he turned and looked, there was Johnny MacTavish. Stood equally as wet as you with nothing but a flimsy towel on his waist and a face of pure, smug victory.

"Don't worry, I've got this one from now on, LT."

[r3ynah]

Barbiefied

dcxdp oneshot

Do you know how Barbie herself is such an icon that she works multiple jobs impossible for regular people?

Well, Danny's like that, but less of an icon and more of an eldritch cryptid—no one's that iconic than Barbie herself—he says.

Nevertheless, Danny after living in Amity Park for most of his life, grew bored and Jazz decided that it would do him good to move out for the sake of his mental health. But the only problem is Danny possesses a serious case of a hero complex.

I guess being a vigilante at the age of 14 has finally caught up to him—oh, well

He couldn't risk leaving Amity Park behind fearing that something would happen if he weren't there to act as the city's unloved vigilante later on, the next day Dani had visited him back from one of her journeys, and then an idea hit him.

So here he is now, with at least 100 clones around the world working interesting jobs or just exploring as he stays at Amity Park, his mind working at maximum speed as he devours every single memory made by his clones, Danny's honestly having a great time. He even gained friends from exploring and Regulars from his different Jobs!

Hal Jordan was baffled, it was the fourth time he had seen this boy Danny this week and it was only Tuesday, he was grabbing lunch at Chipotle and he came face to face with the same guy he ordered pizza from yesterday, his gaze never leaving the boy as he paid quietly and directly leaving the establishment, He must've been tired he thought to himself.

'You're just overreacting it's normal for people to have more than two jobs Hal, great that boy must think I'm a creep ' Hal said as he turned to a corner only to bump into someone.

" I'm so sorry, i wasn't looking-" he cut himself off as he faced the person he crashed into, there again was Danny— the same Danny he just saw not even a minute ago.

"It's alright" Danny said sheepishly. "Don't worry about it, I was also paying attention to where i was walking" and then he was out of sight dashed away from a stunned Hal.

"Danny? what are you doing here" Tim asked flabbergasted as he eyed the black haired boy in front of him.

"Oh- Hey Tim, I work here" Danny greeted casually as he pressed the buttons of the cash register in preparation "the usual?" he asked

"Why?" Tim asked confused,

Danny looked at him with a questioning look "Why what?"

"I mean— why are you working here?"

"For money?" Danny said unsure "I don't have enough to pay my bills and college tuition"

"You intern for me! I pay you." Tim stated clearly offended, he had the right to be, he gave money to interns generously, and alongside that Danny had a scholarship that provides allowances so he's pretty sure the boy in front of him is doing fine.

"Hey, inflation's a bitch" Danny shrugged "So the usual?" he asked again

Tim just sighed and nodded, This is just a problem he'll take care of later.

Little did he know, it was also everyone else's problem.

Constantine was rubbing his palms together nervously as he watched Zatanna chant the few words of the spell.

Just the other day Superman used his x-ray vision trying catch an assailant from a robbery who hid from him hiding amongst the jungle of cement buildings that is Metroplis, then he saw it a giant Lazarus pit that was below the Earth's surface hidden from the world that seemed to have a mind of it's own eating everything in its way including the Earth's core just to reach the surface to create havoc, without the core and its mass the planet will become unstable, and with it approaching the surface it'll endanger the people and environment leading to unimaginable catastrophes, so with no time to lose he immediately sought out Batman who then called an emergency meeting where they talked amongst themselves on how to solve this crisis.

And here he was currently surrounded by heroes that just look as nervous as he was.

Why were they nervous? oh it's nothing their just summoning THE HIGH KING PHANTOM OF THE INFINITY REALMS,

That he only just learned about this guys existence from Deadman and secret out of all people when they were asked why they didn't say anything earlier they said they couldn't talk about the realms without the permission of their king, so with enough pressure from their peers, they looked at each other with a hint of fear and uncertainty in their eyes and took the initiative in going to the infinity realms to request from the king himself, when they arrived before the king he only gave them a scroll that once used either successfully or unsuccessfully it will disintegrate leaving nothing behind to ever contact the ruler again, bidding both of the dead heroes goodbye and to send the message on his behalf.

When they returned back from the realm of the dead Deadman's aura was brighter than when they came in, relaying information and the scroll to Batman which he then passed to Zatanna— Constantine had a feeling Batman didn't trust him to lead with this summoning, but to be fair he didn't trust himself either, so yeah, Zatanna it is.

While they prepared the materials, he noticed Nightwing had made his way towards Secret to ask—interrogate— about Phantom, and Secret who also returned from the realms with a little bit of tension out of her shoulders only looked at the Vigilante and uttered the word "merciful" and then she was gone made herself intangible, along with Deadman.

Turning his attention away from the disappointed bird and onto the Summoning circle, he just hoped that this wouldn't backfire on them after all they only had a single chance.

So here they are back at the present, just in time for Zatanna to back away from the summoning circle as it glowed ominously green the same kind of shade that the pits emitted, suspense and nervousness flooded the room as blinding light came out of the circle temporarily making them look away, when the light finally diminished they faced the king.

There stood a very familiar face, standing between the summoning circle, even with the uncanny inverted colors his appearance was alike.

"Danny?!" Flash jumped, making everyone turn to him.

''Hi" Danny waved casually, in his full royal attire that somewhat looked like a very fancy jester's outfit with the hat getting replaced by a crown that floated ominously a few inches above from his head, a cape that seemed to be a piece torn and sewed carefully from space itself tiny meteoroids that moved inside of it, and a ring that stole everyone's attention with how much power it radiated.

"You know Danny?" Superman asked surprised.

"He's my tailor" Flash replied

"You are?" Green Lantern looked at Danny

"I am" Danny confirmed, with a nod

"How do you know him?" Flash questioned Superman back.

"He's my wife's intern, a little strange but he does his job well" Superman exclaimed

"I'm like right here."

"You're his wife's intern??" Robin said accusingly with a tone annoyance laced in his tone

"I am" Phantom replied smugly like working for Lois Lane was the best thing that ever happened to him, which was absolutely correct.

"Don't you work at Batburger?"

"Yep, but I quit, tried retailing instead"

"How about The Aquarium?"

"There too"

"Even the Zoo"

"Uh huh, I did that."

"And I'll assume that you're also the High King Phantom?" Batman interjected, making everyone fall silent and immediately realize once again who was the person standing in front of them,

This kid in front of them was the King of the infinity realms, the most powerful being that ever existed, the one that struck even the Gods with fear so unbearable to carry.

"Damn, did the crown, ring and inverted colors give it out?" Danny grinned cheekily, and for the first time they ever interacted with him, his aloof and unbothered behavior vanished, what replaced it was something more frightening "Shall we begin?" he asked.

Constantine now understood why Secret and Deadman vanished, with the way his presence screamed capability, authority, and power.

This was Phantom, not Danny. And being away from Phantom was mercy itself.