#angsty with a happy ending | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

emonaculate · 2 months ago

Text

Looking Out for You

❄ Author's Note: No way! Em has the inspiration to write something? I did not forget about "S?ABT" it is my baby and I am currently revising some of the upcoming chapters I just wanted it to be more fleshed out before posting any updates. Anyways let me know what you guys think of this I am really proud of it and I love hearing your comments!

❄ Synopsis: Yn is grappling with the humbling experience of being gifted kid burnout, burdened by family turmoil, and the weight of her inner demons. Just before her senior year of high school, she's reluctantly roped into volunteering as a counselor and teacher at a winter camp. There, she formally meets Gojo Satoru—an aggravatingly handsome hockey player with an ego to match his skill, all charm, smirks, and know-it-all energy. Y/n doesn’t realize that beneath Gojo’s confident exterior lies a storm of his own—wounds he’s hidden just as deeply as she has.

The vinyl seats of the cruiser stuck to the back of Y/n’s thighs like a second skin, the plastic creaking every time she shifted her weight. Outside, the early winter evening painted the town in a watery gray haze—frosted windows, crooked streetlights buzzing faintly with static, and snow half-melted into dirty slush along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked like it had something to prove. Just when she thought her day couldn't get any fucking worse.

Y/n sat in the back of the cop car like it was routine—elbows propped on her knees, chin resting in her hand, face unreadable. The flashing lights had long since been turned off, but the phantom red-and-blue still pulsed behind her eyelids like an annoying screensaver. Across the windshield, her mother stood stiff in her department store coat, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together just barely. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. Her voice was low, tense, but Y/n couldn’t make out the words—just saw her lips move with the careful precision of someone trying not to snap. Again.

Next to her, the officer on duty leaned against the car door, one hand on his belt like he wanted this over ten minutes ago. He barely nodded, barely blinked. The third figure was who Y/n assumed to be the unfortunate owner of what she considered her latest masterpiece. Y/n’s gaze drifted lazily to her reflection in the scratched plastic partition, eyes half-lidded with indifference. Deep plum-colored shadows clung beneath her dull, hickory eyes—like bruises left behind by too many sleepless nights. Her hair, once long, uniform, and silken black, now barely grazed her shoulders in uneven layers, dyed a moody shade of wine that clashed with who she used to be.

If someone had shown this version of her to the girl she was five years ago—bright-eyed, polished, full of promise—she would’ve laughed in disbelief. Or cried. Maybe both. Y/n was snapped out of her daze by the creak of the cruiser door swinging open. Cold air rushed in, biting at her cheeks, but she barely flinched. Standing there, silhouetted against the dim streetlights, was the same officer who’d had the unfortunate task of throwing her into the back seat to begin with.

Her gaze drifted up to his face, and a slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. There it was—a purplish bruise blooming across his cheekbone, just below his eye. Sloppy, but satisfying. She remembered the sharp jolt of her elbow making contact, the brief moment of chaos before they’d finally wrestled her into cuffs. Worth it.

“Good evening, officer,” she drawled, voice smooth with mock sweetness.

He didn’t answer, just leveled her with a look that said he was far too tired for her games. She stepped out of the car with practiced ease, shoulders relaxed, like she wasn’t the reason this entire scene had been set in motion. Y/n’s flicker of satisfaction vanished just as quickly as it had come—snuffed out by the sharp, familiar sting of her mother’s voice slicing through the cold air. Her full name. Said with that deadly, no-nonsense cadence that mothers seem to master from the moment they give birth to you. The kind of tone that meant no amount of smirking or silent rebellion was going to save her this time.

Y/n’s eyes flicked away from the officer, her smirk slipping into something colder. She shoved her hands deep into the frayed pockets of her oversized, black, ripped pants—the loose fabric hanging dangerously low on her hips. Her boots crunched softly against the snow-dusted pavement as she started toward her mother, each step weighted with the kind of practiced indifference only a teenage girl with a long list of mistakes could wear well. She didn’t walk fast. Didn’t look sorry. And she sure as hell didn’t plan on explaining herself.

"Yes, mother dearest?" Y/n’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a sickly sweet lilt curling off her tongue as she came to a lazy stop in front of her mother and the elderly shop owner. Her smile was insincere, daring.

Evangeline forced one of her own in return, but the twitch in her eye betrayed her composure. She was clearly clenching her jaw, holding back the thousand thoughts that must have been running through her head—none of them kind. Y/n knew the look well. She'd seen it every time she'd managed to sabotage yet another one of her mother’s carefully cultivated professional relationships. It was starting to become a pattern.

"I believe you owe Mr. Soraoka an apology," Evangeline said evenly, though her voice was tight. "For breaking into his store and destroying his property. You are very, very lucky he’s chosen not to press charges."

Y/n rolled her eyes, slow and deliberate, then turned to the elderly man beside her. He looked as soft as he sounded—kindness etched into the wrinkles of his face, his hands folded gently in front of him.

"Nonsense," Mr. Soraoka said with a chuckle, waving dismissively at Evangeline as if she'd just suggested something absurd. "After all you did for me when my wife passed, helping me manage the will and keep the shop… It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Kashiwagi."

Evangeline froze—her lips parted slightly, like she might correct him. But before she could speak, it was too late. Y/n's eyes glittered with something venomous as her smirk sharpened.

"Oh, you haven’t heard, sir?" she said lightly, though the bitterness was unmistakable. "She got remarried. I’m the only Kashiwagi now. Especially since he’s gone. Guess it’s up to me to carry on the family legacy—"

She didn’t finish. The words caught in her throat, burning like acid as the emotion snuck up on her—uninvited, unwelcome. Her voice faltered, and she blinked fast, hoping it would stop the tears before they had the audacity to fall. Not here. Not in front of her mother.

Especially not in front of her.

"M’going to the car," Y/n mumbled, voice raw and small as she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, ignoring the sound of her mother calling her back.

Evangeline stood still, her shoulders stiff as her daughter disappeared toward the car. Her lips pressed into a hard line, then softened with a sigh—quiet and resigned. She turned back to Mr. Soraoka, offering a hollow laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Teenagers…" she muttered. "One minute they’re crawling all over you, and the next they wish you didn’t exist."

Mr. Soraoka didn’t laugh. He watched her carefully, taking in the exhaustion beneath her polished exterior. Her beauty was undeniable—graceful, poised, but weathered by years of silent struggle. It was obvious to anyone who looked close enough: the past four years had worn her thin. The sudden loss of her husband. A daughter spiraling in grief and rebellion. Balancing her career as a foreigner running her own law firm in Tokyo—none of it had been easy.

"Thank you again," she said after a pause, her voice gentler now, bowing slightly in respect. "For not pressing charges. She’s… she’s a good girl. She’s just been through a lot."

Mr. Soraoka nodded slowly, his expression shifting from solemn to certain.

"Actually," he said, tone suddenly firmer, "I do have one request."

Evangeline blinked, caught off guard. There was something knowing in his eyes now—something resolute. He’d seen this before: a teenager so full of anger they couldn’t feel anything else. A family worn thin. A mother doing her best to hold everything together. And he remembered how a place, a purpose, had once helped another broken-hearted Kashiwagi find peace.

"I know exactly what she needs," Mr. Soraoka said, quietly but with conviction.

"It worked for her father. Why not her?"

Y/n lay sprawled on her bed, eyes fixed on the faded constellation stickers scattered across her ceiling—little glimmers of soft green glowing faintly in the dark. They were uneven, a little crooked, their edges peeling with age, but to her, they were perfect. Each one a frozen moment, a quiet echo from a simpler time. She remembered exactly how they got there. It was a memory etched into her mind with sharp clarity—one she often revisited when everything else felt like it was slipping out of focus.

She’d been a wide-eyed little girl, full of wonder and stubborn ideas. And she had begged her father to put the stars up—despite his initial protests about how tacky they would look compared to his carefully curated, traditional Japanese decor. Shoji screens, minimalist calligraphy, warm cedarwood tones… and glow-in-the-dark plastic stars? Absolutely not.

But her father, Harukemi, caved, as he always did when it came to his baby girl. His only baby girl. She remembered sitting on his broad, heavily tattooed shoulders as they worked together to scatter the stickers across the ceiling. Her tiny fingers peeled each one carefully while he guided her from below, one large hand pointing to where each star should go, the other steadying her.

"Why do constellations even exist?" she had asked in that childlike wonder voice that always made him flash his dimple-filled smile.

He hummed thoughtfully before answering, as if plucking the story from the stars themselves.

"They’re people who chose not to be reincarnated," Harukemi said, voice baritone and tender. "Because they wanted to stay close to the one they were fated to love in this life."

Y/n had gone quiet, thinking hard. Then—

"But what if someone chooses to be reincarnated… and their soulmate doesn’t?"

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in her small frame. Nothing got past his little girl; her big brain definitely came from Eve.

"Then they become brand new galaxies," he answered, after a short moment of thought. "Endless and vast—so they can keep searching, lifetime after lifetime, until they find each other again."

She placed the final sticker—an uneven little crescent moon—before he gently lifted her from his shoulders and cradled her close to his chest. Warm. Safe. Home. The creak of her bedroom door pulled Y/n abruptly from the safety of her thoughts. She scowled instinctively, already prepared to snap at whoever had dared to interrupt her rare moment of peace. Her expression fell flat the second she saw who it was.

Kiara. Of course. Her fifteen-year-old stepsister stood awkwardly in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact, as if she already knew she was unwelcome.

"Dad cooked, if you're hungry." Kiyara muttered, voice low and uncertain.

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her tone flat and dismissive. "Heard. Now leave."

Kiara hesitated for a moment, her jaw twitching with something unsaid. Then she turned on her heel with a muttered comment under her breath—inaudible but definitely laced with attitude—before slamming the door behind her. Y/n didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through her gallery, her thumb pausing on every photo of her father. There were dozens—maybe hundreds. Him beaming behind her as she skated on wobbly legs at the ice rink. The two of them in front of a massive lion enclosure at the zoo. A blurry shot of them eating cotton candy on a roller coaster platform. Them being at the dance studio he taught regularly at. Her sitting on the back of his dangerous motorcycle, holding a box of groceries like it was some grand mission.

They weren’t just photos. They were proof. Little frozen frames of a world where she felt understood. Where someone looked at her and saw her—not a problem to be fixed or a responsibility to pass off. Sometimes she wondered if he was the only person in the whole world who ever truly got her... and now he was gone.

After a while of more bed-rotting, Y/n forced herself up and threw on a random oversized graphic t-shirt and left her room to find something to eat. Like hell she'd eat anything made by that sorry attempt at replacing her father. Instead, she slipped down the hall toward the kitchen, her socks silent against the hardwood floor. The house was too quiet—eerily so. Like it was holding its breath.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a crisp Fuji apple, and set it on the counter. The dull slice of the kitchen knife against the cutting board was rhythmic, familiar. She reached for a slice, but stopped mid-motion. Her eyes caught on something. Or rather—the absence of something. The key. The old brass key that always hung on the tiny hook in the dining room alcove, just beside the display shelf with her dad’s tea set. The key to his study. His sanctuary. It was gone. Y/n’s heart skipped. No. No one touched that room. No one was supposed to.

Her limbs moved before her thoughts could catch up, leaving the apple slices forgotten on the cutting board as she stormed down the hallway, anxiety building in her throat like bile. Her breathing quickened. The world narrowed. The door to his study—a door that had remained sealed since the day of the funeral—was cracked open. Y/n froze for just a moment. Her stomach dropped. Then she pushed it open. Empty. The room was empty.

The shelves that once held her father’s meticulously organized books, his framed photographs and tattoo designs, his incense burner and ink brushes—gone. His desk, where he spent hours scribbling in his worn leather journal, empty. The rug they used to sit on when she’d draw while he worked—rolled up. Even the scent of sandalwood and old paper had vanished, replaced with sterile emptiness.

And then came the sound. It tore out of her chest, raw and guttural—a sharp, shattering cry that cracked through the silence like glass meeting concrete. Not loud. Just devastating. She stood frozen in the center of the hollow room, fists clenched, nails digging crescents into her palms. Her grief was no longer silent. Then came the footsteps. And around the corner, as if summoned by her pain, came him...her mother's new husband, Evan. Holding a box.

Her father’s box. She saw it before she saw the rest of him. The edge of her dad’s favorite scarf hung out from the top, crushed beneath God knows what else—loose papers, a ceramic pen holder, maybe even the sketch of her he kept by the window.

Y/n felt like she was going to explode. There were not enough crude words in the entire world that would help express what exactly she was feeling in the moment.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Her voice wasn’t loud—but it was sharp, jagged. Evan (the step-father in question) froze mid-step, eyes widening for a second. He looked ridiculous standing there with a cardboard box of memories he had no right to touch.

"Y/n, your mother and I—"

"Don’t. Don’t you dare say her name right now." Her voice wavered slightly, but the fury was taking over, swallowing the ache like a firestorm.

"This was his space. This—this is all I have left of him!"

The older man’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at the box in his hands as if just realizing the weight of what he was holding. It appeared that he was mentally weighing the options of pissing off the angst teenage ticking time bomb or upset his wife. Evan had never been a strong-willed man; he was rather timid in all aspects of his life and preferred to stay out of the limelight whenever possible. How he managed to pull a woman like Evangeline was beyond him.

"Put it down. Now." Y/n stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“Put it down.”

Y/n’s voice trembled, not from fear—but from fury. Her fists were clenched, her entire body taut like a rubber band stretched too tight.

“Put. It. Down.”

Evan didn’t move. He adjusted his grip on the box instead, standing a little taller. “Y/n, this stuff doesn’t belong in a shrine anymore. It’s been four years—your mom and I agreed it was time to clear the space.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat.

“You mean erase him.” She sneered at the man.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to stay calm. “That’s not what this is.”

But she was already shaking her head.

“You don’t get to decide when I let him go. You don’t even get to touch his things.”

His jaw tightened. “Y/n—”

“You moved into his house. Slept in his bed. Fucked and married her. You don’t give a damn about what he meant to me!”

That’s when his composure slipped. Y/n had a really bad habit of getting under people's skin and making them feel as ugly as she felt most days on the inside.

“You’ve had four years to grieve, Y/n. How much more do you need?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even he looked like he hadn’t meant to say it. His face paled instantly, regret flickering across his features like a crack in glass. But the damage was already done.

Y/n’s eyes went wide—then narrowed into a sharp, unforgiving glare. Her grief ignited like gasoline hitting open flame. Without thinking, she lunged forward, her hands grabbing at the box, shoving him backwards, sending some of her father’s belongings tumbling to the ground.

“You selfish—soulless—bastard! Spineless piece of shit” she screamed, shoving him again.

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, just as Y/n kicked the box across the hall. The contents spilled—a watch, a framed photo of her as a toddler, an old Japanese poetry book. Pieces of a life that didn’t belong to him. Before she could do more, a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

“Y/N!”

Evangeline’s heels clicked furiously across the floor, phone still clutched in hand, freshly off yet another business call. Her expression was tight and tired, but her eyes were blazing.

“What is wrong with you?”

Y/n turned to face her, chest heaving, throat raw.

“Me? What’s wrong with me? Is everyone in this fucking house insane?” Y/n hissed in frustration.

And then it all spilled out—everything she’d been holding in for years.

“You wanna talk about what’s wrong? Let’s start with the fact that you haven’t looked at me since Dad died. You checked out! Mentally, emotionally—everything. And you only got your life together after he showed up!” Y/n jabbed a finger toward her stepfather.

“That’s not true,” Evangeline snapped, her voice dangerously low.

“Oh, please! You left me to drown in this damn house with the ghosts of yesterday, and now you want to punish me for acting out? Maybe if you were actually around, I wouldn’t have turned into this mess you keep trying to fix!”

“You barely passed this semester, Y/n! You don’t even try anymore!” Evangeline’s voice rose with every word, “You walk around looking like you haven’t seen a mirror in weeks! You’re mean, cruel to everyone who tries to care. You shoplift! You vandalize shops! You stopped ice skating—you were good, Y/n. You don't dance anymore You could’ve gone somewhere with it! But you gave up on everything.”

Y/n’s mouth fell open in disbelief. No way. No way her mother could be this delusional. What the fuck do you think happens when you leave a freshly fourteen year old whose father just died alone to process grief?

“You think I gave up? Maybe I just didn’t have anyone left to fight for. Maybe I was too busy surviving in a house where my mother pretended I didn’t exist!”

Evangeline’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She needed to calm down; this is not how she wanted this conversation to go. It wasn't time yet.

“I was grieving too—”

“Bullshit!” Y/n screamed, “You didn’t grieve! You buried yourself in your job and him, and pretended Dad never existed! You left me behind. You weren’t there. Not once. Not when I needed you. Not when I cried for him at night. Not when I stopped eating. Not when I begged for someone to see me—you weren’t there!”

Evangeline’s voice cracked with something low and furious; to hell with trying to spare feelings and save face. Clearly, Y/n only understood when people stooped to her level. She was just as headstrong as Harukemi, only less endearing.

“He might have been your dad…” Evangeline started, teeth clenched,��…but he was my husband. I lost my husband. And now I’m stuck with a horrible, entitled child who blames the whole world for her pain.”

Silence. Time stopped. And then, slowly, Y/n's expression hardened into something unreadable. Her lips parted—and the words came out like venom.

“It should have been you.”

Evangeline went still. The color drained from her face. Her mouth opened slightly in shock—but no words came. Only silence. Cold, sharp, final. Then, as if something inside her snapped, her face shut down. Emotionless. Cold.

“You’ll be attending Tengen’s Star on Ice Camp,” she said flatly, “It’s two months. After that, you’ll finish your final year of high school. Then—when you turn eighteen—you can leave. Go wherever the hell you want. I don’t care anymore. I'm done.”

She turned and walked away. Her pathetic husband followed right behind her, calling after her, but to no avail. Kiyara, who had witnessed the closing remarks, looked at her stepsister with a sad expression on her face as she bent down and picked up the items that had fallen out of the box. Y/n watched the girl with an unreadable expression as Kiyara finally sat the box down in front of her before making a quiet exit out of the hall.

Y/n stood there, still breathing hard, her chest tight, her throat raw. The box lay at her feet—scattered memories of a better time. She didn't cry. She just stood there. Alone. Again.

The weeks leading up to Y/n’s departure bled together in cold silence. She spent most of her time barricaded in her room, headphones in, lights off, buried beneath thick blankets like a fortress. When the walls felt too tight or the air too stale, she’d slip out unnoticed, making her way to the same ice rink she’d frequented as a child.

She never brought her skates. She just watched. Children laughed as they stumbled on the ice, couples clung to one another for balance, and seasoned skaters sliced across the frozen surface like it was second nature. It should have brought her joy—the sound of blades scraping ice, the smell of hot chocolate, the familiar hum of music from the old speakers—but now, it just felt like another reminder of everything she'd lost. Of everything that had changed.

No words had been exchanged between her and Evangeline since that day. Not a glance. Not a knock on the door. Nothing. The house was too big for that kind of silence, but somehow, they managed. And that, in itself, said everything. It was clear where the two stood now. No bridges left to burn. Just ash and distance.

Y/n told herself she was fine with that; she was seventeen now, anyway, only a couple of months left, and she could go wherever she wanted. Finally free. Finally unburdened. She could leave soon—really leave—and never come back. No more suffocating conversations. No more sideways looks. No more pretending. No regrets.

At least, that’s what she whispered to herself as she stared at the rink through fogged glass, heart aching in a way she couldn’t quite name. Because grief had a funny way of hiding itself in the quiet. And loneliness? It was best disguised as freedom. The night of her departure arrived cloaked in a thick, still quiet—the kind that seemed to hang in the air like a breath being held.

Y/n stood in the middle of her dimly lit room, zipping up the second of two small duffle bags. She hadn’t bothered to organize them with any real thought. A few sweaters, worn jeans, a couple pairs of shoes, and the same black hoodie she always wore when she didn’t want to be noticed. That was enough. It wasn’t like she cared to impress anyone at the camp. She wasn't going to make friends. She wasn’t going to start over.

She was just… going. She threw the bags near her bedroom door and sat down on the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking slightly under her weight. Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling, where the faded glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers still clung stubbornly to the plaster like ghosts of her childhood. They didn’t shine like they used to.

She leaned over to grab the crumpled scarf from her nightstand—the one that had belonged to her father. She wasn’t sure when she’d started sleeping with it under her pillow, but the scent had long since faded. Still, her fingers ran over the frayed edge like it might anchor her to something—anything—that felt real.

No one had said goodbye. Evangeline hadn’t even come to her room. Not that she expected her to. Not anymore. Y/n gave one last glance around the space that had once been her whole world before standing up, slipping her duffle straps over her shoulders. As she opened her bedroom door, the hallway light buzzed dimly above her. She didn’t look back. There was nothing left here for her to hold onto.

Just before leaving her room, Y/n paused. Her eyes lingered on the worn pair of ice skates tucked in the corner beneath her bookshelf—dust collecting lightly on the laces, blades dulled from lack of use. She told herself it was pointless to bring them. But her hand reached out anyway. Just in case.

The train platform was quiet, kissed by early morning frost and a sky still painted in faded hues of lavender and silver. Y/n boarded the nearly empty carriage, choosing a window seat near the back where she could stretch out, headphones already looped around her neck.

As the train lurched into motion, the city bled away behind her, tall buildings and traffic slowly giving way to open roads and fields blanketed in snow. They passed through valleys where the sun peeked through clouds, casting golden halos over snow-covered pines. Mountains loomed in the distance, their ridges softened by white drifts, like powdered sugar over a dream.

Snowflakes danced against the windows, soft and slow, like the sky was exhaling. Y/n leaned against the glass, pressing her cheek to the chill. She thumbed through her phone until she found it—the wedding playlist. The one her dad had made for Evangeline all those years ago. An odd mix of Motown classics, begging and pleading R&B (Harukemi's words, not hers), soft jazz, and powerful Japanese ballads her father had adored. She pressed play. Let it wash over her. She didn’t cry. She just... listened. And slowly, the lull of the train and the warmth of the music pulled her into sleep. When she woke, the train had stopped moving. A soft nudge pulled her from her dreams.

“Hey,” a voice said gently. “We’re here. You slept for a while.”

Y/n blinked groggily, squinting against the now-orange glow of the setting sun slanting through the train windows. She turned to find herself not alone, as she had thought. Her head had somehow—and she had no idea how—ended up resting against a stranger’s shoulder. A boy. He wore distressed black jeans, a tattered band tee under a plaid flannel, and a chain hanging from his belt loop. His ears were lined with mismatched silver piercings, and a subtle nose ring curved through his nostril. His shaggy shoulder-length dark brown hair peeked out from under a beanie that looked like it had seen better days. Despite the grunge armor, his expression was soft. Genuinely concerned.

“I—” Y/n scrambled upright, suddenly embarrassed at just how long she had been lying on him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—fall asleep—on you.”

He smiled a little, brushing off his shoulder like it was nothing. “It’s alright. You looked tired.”

His voice was calm. Unassuming. Not what she expected. Y/n mumbled a vague “thanks” under her breath, already avoiding eye contact as she grabbed her bags and skates. Her body was stiff from the five-hour nap, her pride even stiffer. She didn’t know what was worse—accidentally sleeping on a stranger or the fact that it had been the best sleep she’d had in months. No point in thinking about it now. She had a camp to survive. The cold bit at Y/n’s cheeks the moment she stepped off the train, her boots crunching into fresh snow that sparkled like crushed diamonds beneath the setting sun. Her breath came out in visible puffs as she took in the scene around her.

Everywhere she looked, groups of late teens and young adults were laughing, hugging, or shouting each other’s names across the platform. Some had clearly been coming to this camp for years—joking like old friends reunited. It was loud, chaotic, and warm in that annoying way that made her feel even more isolated. She kept her distance, clutching the strap of her bag tightly as she walked past them. Her skates were slung over her shoulder, bouncing lightly with every step. Then, her eyes lifted.

Beyond the crowd, the camp stretched out like something from a storybook. Wooden lodges lined with twinkling string lights. Candy cane–striped poles marking the paths. Icicles dripping from rooftops. Flakes of snow gently drifted down in slow spirals from the mountain ranges behind the camp, making the whole place look like a snow globe someone had just shaken. It was... beautiful. Painfully so.

“Still not impressed?”

A hand landed gently on her shoulder. Y/n shivered from the cold feeling of metal touching her exposed skin. Maybe wearing an off-shoulder sweatshirt wasn't the best idea. Just how many rings did one person need to wear on one hand? Y/n turned and met the gentle gaze of the boy from the train. He stood beside her now, lips tilted into a slight half-smile. It was like he was silently telling her to get used to seeing him because he wasn't going anywhere.

“Choso,” he said simply, offering the name like a quiet olive branch.

Y/n gave a small nod. “Y/n.”

He glanced around the camp. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

She let out a soft exhale through her nose. “Fantastic.”

Before either of them could say more, movement pulled their attention toward the entrance gates of the camp, where a raised wooden stage stood decorated with garlands of evergreen and silver ribbon.

Five figures approached it, stepping up onto the platform, followed closely by none other than Mr. Soraoka himself—his cane tapping lightly against the wood as he smiled at the crowd. Y/n’s eyes flicked to the five people flanking him. They were clearly counselors or returning seniors, dressed more put together than the chaos of everyone else. But one in particular stood out—like an explosion of sunlight on a cloudy day. A tall boy.

His hair was impossibly white—almost the same color as the snow around them—and fluffed out like freshly fallen powder. His skin glowed under the lights with a slight tan, and his eyes, an electric blue, scanned the crowd with practiced ease. Thick-rimmed glasses rested lazily on top of his head, pushed up like he hadn’t decided if he needed them or not.

He wore a baby blue oversized crewneck on it was a small logo belonging to a brand Y/n did could not make out, with a crisp white collared shirt peeking out from underneath the crewneck. The sleeves strained slightly over thick, muscular arms, the kind you wouldn’t expect someone so pretty to have. His legs, despite being mostly covered by mid-length khaki cargo shorts (how was he not cold?), still showcased evidence of a life well-lived—small bandaids, healed scrapes, light bruises like he collected them for fun. And on his feet—classic tan Timberlands, dusted in snow. He was… effortlessly chaotic. And irritatingly eye-catching.

The murmurs of the crowd quieted as Mr. Soraoka stepped to the center of the small wooden stage, the falling snow settling softly on his dark wool coat. Though his age showed in the curve of his spine and the lines around his kind eyes, his voice rang out strong and full of warmth.

“Welcome, welcome, my dear volunteers,” he began, raising his arms wide. “I must say, seeing all of you here so early, so eager to give back… it fills this old heart with joy.”

A soft round of applause rippled through the crowd.

“This camp,” he continued, motioning to the snow-covered grounds behind him, “was founded many years ago by my great-grandfather, Tengen. A man with a wild soul and a heart bigger than this mountain. He believed in the magic of youth, in the gift of joy, and most importantly—in the power of discovery.”

He paused, letting the wind carry his words.

“Tengen’s Star on Ice wasn’t just a winter camp. It was a place for children to find themselves, to build confidence through skill, to make friends who feel like family, and to create memories that last lifetimes.”

All around Y/n, heads nodded in agreement. It was clear—most of these people had lived that magic.

“Many of you were once those wide-eyed kids, bundled in oversized scarves and falling on your faces in the snow,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled, the crowd joining him. “And now look at you. Back here again, this time not as campers, but as guides. Mentors. Counselors. It’s your turn now—to carry the torch, to be the magic for someone else.”

Y/n’s eyes drifted upward, snowflakes catching in her lashes. Something in her chest shifted, uncomfortably so.

“And now,” Mr. Soraoka smiled, “let me introduce the people who have not only walked this path before you—but have practically carved it into the snow.”

He gestured to the five figures lined up beside him.

“First, our head counselors. You’ll report to them with questions, concerns, or if you simply need someone to talk to. Think of them as an extension of me; if they say it.. I said it.”

One by one, they stepped forward.

“Suguru Geto, let's make this break a good one. ” The tall, calm boy with a soft bun gave a graceful bow, hands tucked neatly behind his back. While he appeared kind and sweet, his baggy attire gave a different impression, especially with the piercing through his lip, and the slight condescending look as he gazed down at the crowd.

“Shoko Ieiri, stay out of the infirmary this year, please.” A girl with short, choppy hair and tired but kind eyes waved lazily, cigarette tucked behind one ear despite the posted no-smoking sign nearby.

“Utahime Iori, I'll do my best to not let you all down.” Stern and elegant, she bowed crisply, her dark bob unmoving even in the breeze.

“Nanami Kento,” who seemed to be the only counselor who wore a uniform, even in the snow, nodded sharply. “Follow the rules,” he said flatly. “And we’ll all survive the winter.”

Soft laughter bubbled through the group.

“And finally,” Mr. Soraoka sighed as though preparing himself, “Gojo Satoru.”

So his name was Gojo Satoru. The name fit him oddly. He stepped forward, flashing a blinding smile as he lifted his hands to gesture a peace sign.

“Call me Gojo,” He introduced himself innocently before sticking his tongue out and tugging his oversized baby blue sweater halfway up to reveal a flash of a very well-defined set of abs beneath.

The crowd erupted. Cheers, whoops, and groans of recognition. Utahime muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Shoko rolled her eyes. Nanami visibly pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Put your damn shirt down, Satoru,” Suguru sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk.

Gojo obeyed—eventually—and shot the crowd a wink.

Mr. Soraoka let out a deep belly laugh. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be just like him.”

Then, his eyes scanned the crowd again. Y/n shifted uncomfortably. Something about the look he was giving… And then it happened. The old man’s grin widened.

“This year,” he said, his voice now layered with something impish, “we’re doing things a little differently. In the spirit of growth—and to make this year even more unforgettable—we’re not stopping at five head counselors.”

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by an excited murmur.

“We’ve decided to add one more.”

Cheers. Whispers. A few confused expressions.

“Settle down,” came Nanami’s sharp tone, instantly restoring order.

“Thank you, Kento,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled. Then he straightened, his voice rising with significance.

“I would like to welcome our sixth counselor this year—a new face to some of you, perhaps. But to me… someone I’ve watched grow from a bright-eyed little girl to a force of her own.”

Y/n’s blood ran cold. Oh, no.

“Please welcome… Y/n Kashiwagi. Come on up here, my dear.”

A thousand eyes turned. Y/n froze. She didn’t move. Gojo’s eyebrow arched with intrigue. Choso looked over at her with a flicker of concern.

Mr. Soraoka just smiled warmly. “Don’t be shy now.”

Y/n’s legs felt like lead as she forced one foot in front of the other, the snow crunching softly beneath her boots as she reluctantly made her way toward the stage. The murmurs were like thunder in her ears. She kept her gaze low, wishing she could melt into the ice-covered ground. This had to be his twisted revenge for what she did to his shop. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like them. Just as she was about to step up, a sharp voice pierced through the cold air like a dagger.

“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice snapped. “Why is it that some random newcomer gets to be a counselor, but people who’ve attended this camp for years are overlooked?”

A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd like wildfire. More voices rose in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s not fair—”

“She’s never even been a camper—”

“What makes her so special?”

Y/n’s chest tightened as the angry buzz of the crowd grew louder, the warmth in her cheeks turning into a stifling burn. Her breath hitched in her throat. She didn’t know where to look. Her vision blurred. Her heart raced. They were right. They didn’t know her. And they already hated her. She didn’t even see Choso move until his hand engulfed hers—cool, large, steady.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low but firm, pulling her gently but quickly away from the center of attention.

She stumbled for a moment, overwhelmed by the noise, the eyes, the shame. She didn’t like being touched, not really, but this… this wasn’t bad. This was grounding. Her panic softened into a numb daze as Choso guided her down a snow-dusted path toward the staff cabins. They passed rows of tall pine trees, the smell of fresh snow and wood smoke hanging in the air. The camp’s chatter faded behind them, replaced by the quiet crunch of boots in the snow and Y/n’s quickened breathing.

Choso stopped at one of the cabins—dark wood, slightly weathered, icicles dangling from the roof. He pushed the door open and led her inside before shutting it behind them with a soft click. The cabin was small but warm, rustic with a couple of bunk beds, soft blankets folded neatly, and a heater humming softly in the corner. Y/n stood frozen in place, unsure of what to say, what to feel, what to do. She looked up only to find Choso staring at her, one dark brow raised in quiet question. His look wasn’t judgmental—it was curious. Calm. Like he was trying to figure her out, but wouldn’t press if she didn’t want to explain. Y/n felt her hands clench at her sides.

“I didn’t know,” she muttered. “They didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask to be some special sixth counselor or whatever.”

Choso nodded once, slowly. Still silent.

“I just… I didn’t even want to come here.”

Still nothing. His silence was almost irritating. But not in a bad way. More like… it gave her space to think. She hadn't ever experienced such kindness from a total stranger. This camp is way too weird.

Y/n sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. “All I wanted to do was coast through this whole thing. Now everyone knows who I am and already has some stupid ass opinion. So that’s great.”

Choso finally moved. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his black long-sleeve, still silent but exuding a calm that somehow made the air less suffocating. She looked at him again. The nose ring. The dark eyes. The face tattoo across the bridge of his nose. The chipped black nail polish on his fingers. The cool indifference in his stance. And yet, he’d pulled her out of the fire without hesitation. She swallowed thickly and turned away, hugging her arms around herself.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly, almost too soft to hear.

Choso shrugged. “Didn’t want you to pass out on me. You looked like you were gonna.”

Y/n huffed a laugh, bitter and embarrassed.

He looked over at her again. “You good?”

She hesitated, then gave a weak nod.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the door, pausing before opening it. “Take a breath. Let ’em cool off. I’ll be outside.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stepped out into the snow and shut the door behind him. Y/n was left in the still cabin, her chest slowly rising and falling as she stared at the closed door, wondering why the hell he had helped her. And more importantly—what the hell she was supposed to do now?

Y/n sat on the edge of one of the lower bunks, the tension still coiled tight in her chest like a snake ready to strike. She sighed and raised a hand to her head, running her fingers through the thick, dyed strands of her hair—a nervous tick she hadn’t realized she’d started doing again. But her fingers snagged halfway through.

“Shit,” she muttered, wincing as she tugged them free. Her hair was dry and tangled from weeks of neglect. Frizzy at the ends, dull in color, no real shape. And her hoodie had a paint stain across the sleeve from when she "accidentally" vandalized the corner store with her latest emotional outburst.

For the first time in months… she felt it. That weird gnawing feeling in her gut. Self-consciousness. Y/n stared down at her scuffed boots. The old ones her dad bought her for a winter trip years ago. They were still her favorite, but the soles were half worn. She bit the inside of her cheek and slapped both cheeks lightly.

"Pull it together," she whispered to herself. "They don’t know you. They don’t matter."

But the truth was—they did. Somehow, this place already felt heavier than home. Like the air here carried expectations she hadn’t agreed to meet. That speech, that title, those eyes. All of it made her feel like she’d walked into a play halfway through and someone shoved her on stage without a script. She needed to find Mr. Soraoka. Say something. Apologize, maybe. Explain that she had zero business mentoring anyone when she could barely take care of herself. Offer to clean bathrooms, collect trash, whatever. Anything but being a counselor.

She stood, ready to do just that when the cabin door creaked open. Nanami Kento. Blond hair perfectly parted. Sweater vest and slacks like he stepped out of a different universe. His eyes didn’t just look at her—they evaluated. Cold. Precise. Y/n stiffened under his stare.

“Mr. Soraoka wishes to see you,” he said, voice clipped, professional. “Now. His office. The rest of the counselors will be present.”

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Y/n opened her mouth to speak—maybe to ask if she had to go, or why everyone was there—but Nanami had already turned on his heel, expecting her to follow. She exhaled shakily and grabbed her hoodie, yanking it straight over her shoulder. No more time for breathing. No more space to think.

Y/n trailed behind Nanami, the silence between them almost comforting in its awkwardness. No lecturing, no side-eyeing, no passive aggressive remarks—just quiet footsteps crunching against the snow-packed gravel path. But even that peace was short-lived. As they passed the last staff cabin, Choso stood waiting. Arms crossed, brows knit together, that ever-present calm demeanor fraying at the edges. The worry on his face was so out of place on someone who looked like he regularly got into fights behind convenience stores.

Y/n’s steps slowed, and before she could overthink it, she gave him a small, reassuring smile. Barely there, but honest. Choso blinked at her in surprise—just for a moment—before giving a subtle nod in return. Maybe… tolerating one person here wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Her eyes drifted to the windows they passed. The reflections were not kind. Each glimpse at herself dragged her confidence down another notch. Her hoodie hung awkwardly, the sleeves bunched at the elbows, the frizz of her hair puffing like an unbrushed storm cloud. Dark under-eyes. Dull complexion. Just a mess.

Y/n clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Son of a bitch”

With a few deft motions, she tugged a loose drawstring from her hoodie and quickly pulled her curls into a high puff, gently leaving a few strands out in the front to soften the look and avoid pulling too tight. She tied the paint-stained hoodie around her waist in a practiced swoop, letting it cover the worst of her jeans, then adjusted her off-shoulder sweatshirt so it slouched in a purposeful, grungy kind of way.

She bent to fix the cuffs of her ripped jeans, folding them neatly above her winter boots before retightening the laces with quick, precise tugs. Was this her best? No. But it was the version of her that wouldn’t walk into a room looking like she just lost a bar fight with her bedroom mirror. Nanami paused just before the door to Mr. Soraoka’s office. He glanced back at her—just a second longer than necessary.

“You look… better,” he said, then cleared his throat as if the words tasted weird.

Y/n quirked a brow at him.

“I meant… composed.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

But then, his expression softened, only slightly. His eyes lowered in thought, then lifted to meet hers as he spoke quietly.

“Don’t stress too much.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t casual. But coming from Nanami Kento, who she had already deduced did not hold his tongue by any means at all. That was practically a bear hug of encouragement. Y/n nodded once, then followed him as he pushed open the door. Inside, five pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Mr. Soraoka smiled warmly from behind his old oak desk, surrounded by Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and Nanami—who stepped aside to stand near the back. The room crackled with layered personalities and long-standing familiarity. And then there was Y/n. The outsider. She swallowed hard and kept her chin up. Time to find out what the hell this was all about. Or get on her knees and beg for him to have mercy. Mr. Soraoka’s warm expression brightened the moment Y/n stepped into the room. He sat up straighter in his worn leather chair, the aged wood creaking beneath him as he adjusted himself with purpose.

“Ah, Y/n,” he said, voice honey-smooth with that signature glint of affection only old mentors seemed to master. “I’m glad you came so quickly.”

His voice lowered in tone—not scolding, not stern, but something in between serious and apologetic. “First and foremost, allow me to offer a proper apology. What happened earlier… that introduction, the crowd, the chaos—it wasn’t right to spring that on you the way I did. That should’ve been a private conversation, not some grand stage reveal.”

Y/n blinked slowly but kept her gaze fixed on him, her posture stiff but not defensive anymore. His words—while they didn’t erase what happened—meant something. Enough to let her exhale, even if only just a little.

“I take full responsibility for the discomfort you endured,” he added. “It was unfair.”

She nodded, barely. Just enough. Mr. Soraoka’s eyes crinkled slightly, the smile that returned was softer this time—gentler.

“But I do mean what I said. You are the sixth counselor this year. That’s not a stunt. It’s not some filler role. It’s real.”

Y/n’s brows creased, but she said nothing.

He chuckled quietly. “I knew it from the moment we crossed paths in that shop downtown. You remember—the one you decided to redecorate with spray paint and attitude?”

The tension in her shoulders spiked immediately. Ah. There it was. The first true reaction. Her jaw clenched instinctively, but her gaze faltered—just for a second. The surprise, the unease at that being brought up in front of the others—until she realized… they weren’t reacting.A quick glance confirmed it: confusion colored the faces of Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and even Nanami. They didn’t know. Mr. Soraoka hadn’t told them anything. And that... was a relief.

She opened her mouth, her voice dry as dust. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

His brow rose, but he stayed silent.

“I didn’t come here to inspire anyone or… make kids feel magical or whatever. I’m just here to cruise through winter break and stay out of trouble.” She tried to keep her tone measured, but it wavered on the edges. “That’s it.”

Mr. Soraoka’s smile disappeared—not into disappointment, but into something far heavier. A solemn silence settled over him before he gently waved his hand toward the counselors.

“Would you all give us a moment?” he asked softly.

Gojo made a dramatic sound of disappointment but stood anyway. Suguru sighed, sharing a look with Shoko as they both gave Y/n a final, unreadable glance. Utahime said nothing, her expression unreadable. Nanami was the last to leave, giving Y/n a longer look than the others before quietly stepping out and closing the door behind him. And then it was just them. Mr. Soraoka and Y/n.

The old man leaned forward slightly, fingers lacing together atop the desk. When he spoke, his voice was low.

“You’re right. You didn’t come here for this.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Just stood stiffly.

“But Y/n… you’re not here by accident. You may not believe in fate, or timing, or second chances. That’s fine. I won’t try to change that today. But I will tell you this: I see something in you. The kind of something that Tengen dreamed this camp would uncover in people. Even if they don’t see it in themselves.”

Y/n’s lips parted slightly, unsure what to say to that.

“You’re not broken,” he added gently. “You’re grieving. And grief can make you feel ugly. It can make you act ugly. But it doesn’t make you unworthy of healing. Or of finding something beautiful on the other side.”

The words hit deeper than Y/n was ready for. She felt her throat tighten but shoved the emotion down like second nature. Mr. Soraoka leaned forward again, the lines in his face deepening—not from age, but from the weight of memory.

“You’re right, Y/n. You didn’t come here to be anyone’s role model. And maybe you think I’m making a mistake choosing you. But I didn’t choose you because I expected perfection.”

His gaze sharpened, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her freeze.

“I chose you because I knew your father.”

Y/n’s lips parted, and this time she couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise that crossed her face.

“I watched Harukemi grow up at this very camp,” Mr. Soraoka continued, voice dropping to something close to reverence. “From the first time he stepped onto the ice, all knees and nerves, to the day he left with more confidence and kindness than most men twice his age. I knew him before he was your father. Before he met your mother. Before the world shaped him into who he became.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, but she remained still, unsure where this was going.

“I have things,” he said slowly, deliberately. “Items. Stories. Pieces of him that no one else alive knows about or has seen. Things that could help you understand the man he was… the kind of father he tried to be even when you weren’t looking.”

Her breath caught, lashes lowering slightly as if she could hide from the sheer weight of those words.

“But here’s the deal, Y/n. A gamble, if you will.” Mr. Soraoka stood now, walking around the desk until he was just a few steps in front of her. “Complete one full day. One. Be present, be part of this. At the end of that day… I’ll give you something that belonged to Harukemi. Something real. And I’ll tell you the story behind it.”

Y/n’s heart pounded.

“But if you walk away now,” he added, the finality in his tone razor sharp, “then you’ll walk away from all of it. No second chances. No pleading, no begging, no matter how much you want to know. The door will close.”

Silence stretched between them like the hush before a winter storm.

“You choose, Y/n. Stay… and learn something that only I can give you. Or leave… and carry that emptiness forever.”

For a long moment, Y/n didn’t speak. Her eyes, which usually carried the weight of indifference and veiled frustration, shimmered with something unfamiliar—something raw. The crack in her armor was small, but undeniable. Her fingers moved slowly, as if unsure of themselves, until they gently wrapped around Mr. Soraoka’s weathered hand. The contact was soft, tentative, but sincere. Her thumb brushed against a callus near his knuckle, and her voice came out quieter than even she expected.

“What do I need to do first?”

Mr. Soraoka blinked, surprised—almost taken aback by the sudden shift in the girl who’d spent every second resisting connection like it was poison. But his surprise melted into something warmer, something deeply paternal. He smiled—no, beamed—and with his other hand, he gave her knuckles the gentlest rub, like how a father might comfort a child afraid of falling again.

“The first day is the easiest,” he said gently. “Today’s just about getting to know the other staff. Mingle, talk, let people see you. Let yourself… be seen.”

Y/n swallowed hard, trying to process the flood of unfamiliar emotions that stirred in her chest.

“You’ll be spending the next sixty-eight days with these people,” he continued. “You don’t have to make best friends, not today. But I want you to try. And even if it takes a minute—or a few—just keep trying. That’s all I ask.”

His words sat with her like a small fire in the cold.

“If you make it through the day,” he added, giving her hand one final squeeze before letting go, “come to my office tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting—and I’ll bring something of Harukemi’s with me. A story worth hearing.”

Y/n nodded once, the motion stiff but full of intent.

As she stepped back, her chest felt tighter—but not in the suffocating way it usually did. This was different. Something was pulling her forward now, however fragile the thread might be.And for the first time in a long time, she whispered inside her own head: Okay. Just try.

The first staff mixer of the day had quickly devolved into a teeth-grinding cacophony of I love love! and camp is like, totally the best way to discover your true self! sentiments. Y/n sat cross-legged in the circle of counselors and volunteers, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands and her expression utterly unreadable—except for the eye twitch that had made a persistent home on her left side. If she heard one more sentence that ended in “because love is the answer,” she might actually commit a felony... well another felony.

Would Dad be disappointed if I just… didn’t see this through? she thought, rubbing the back of her neck with a groan only she could hear. Her spiral of internal sarcasm was interrupted by a voice that struck her as familiar and annoying all in one.

“Huh?” Y/n asked, blinking as her focus snapped back to reality.

The same girl from earlier—the one who had pitched a fit about Y/n being named a counselor—was smirking at her with forced sweetness. But the second Y/n’s bored, flat tone hit the air, the smirk dissolved like sugar in water.

“I asked you a question. Are you even paying attention?” the girl pouted, clearly hoping to provoke something that just wasn’t going to come.

Y/n blinked once, slowly, then rolled her eyes and said absolutely nothing. Not today. She wasn’t going to get baited into a scene—not when she had something to prove. Something real. This girl and her issues weren’t her problem. Then, like a spotlight cutting through stage fog, a voice rang out over the chatter:

“Yo, newbie!”

Every head turned at the sound of Gojo’s voice—loud, smooth, and dripping with charisma he didn’t even try to contain.

“Come here,” he called, waving his long arm in a wide arc like a kid summoning a lost puppy. “All of us counselors wanna bond with you!”

There was a grin plastered on his face like he knew something she didn’t. Which made Y/n’s stomach twist with suspicion. What the hell does this guy want? She wondered, closing her eyes and grinding her molars together for just a second before forcing herself to stand up.

She didn't say a word to the group she was leaving behind—especially not to the pouty girl who now looked even more irritated at Y/n’s lack of reaction. She walked Gojo, who stood alone by an old totem pole wrapped in sparkling fairy lights and delicate snowflake garlands. Everything in the camp so far has screamed whimsical winter vibes—everything but the six-foot-something man himself. The closer Y/n got, the more aware she became of how tall Gojo actually was. He wasn’t just tall—he was tall tall. And it wasn’t just his height. His presence practically buzzed in the air, if chaos could wear sunglasses and crack jokes, it would look just like him.

Gojo’s bright blue eyes—so eerily similar to the icy wonderland around them—met hers. He smiled like the two of them were old friends even though they’d barely shared two words.

“Man, you’re tiny,” he said with a faux-pity sigh, resting his elbow on top of her head like she was furniture. “You sure you’re not here for the junior skaters' camp?”

Y/n glared up at him, deadpan. He was annoyingly even more good-looking up close. With how close they were, Y/n realized that he had healed cuts and scrapes on his face. Some of them looked as if they were deep and painful when they were first formed, but it did nothing to falter his beauty. Feeling as though she had been staring at him for far too long to be normal, Y/n opened her mouth.

“Touch me again and I’ll snap your arm like a twig.”

Gojo laughed—hard. A rich, full laugh that turned a few heads. But instead of being offended, he looked delighted. Almost as if the reaction Y/n gave is exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, I like you,” he said, taking a step back and motioning her to follow. “C’mon. We’ve got a game going—‘Two Truths and a Lie: Counselor Edition.’ You better not be boring.”

Y/n sighed but followed anyway. She had a deal to keep. Sixty-eight days. One day at a time. And if she had to deal with Gojo’s walking chaos generator of a personality to get there... fuck it we ball.

Y/n followed Gojo through the corridors of the camp, feeling the sharp bite of cold air through the large windows that dotted the halls. The camp was built like a small village, with sprawling cabins and wooden walkways that led to cozy rooms hidden away from the bustling activity outside. Gojo hummed a catchy tune as they walked, clearly unbothered by the chilly atmosphere, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Y/n, for her part, felt a prickling sense of unease, but she didn’t let it show—her mind was already somewhere else, counting down the minutes until she could disappear back into the shadows.

After a few turns, Gojo stopped in front of what appeared to be a newer small building that had a red door. He pulled out a key chain from under his shirt and inserted the key into the door lock.

"Alright, welcome to our little slice of peace," Gojo announced as he pushed the door open wide. Y/n stepped through, her eyes immediately scanning the room.

It was small—cozy, even—with soft lighting and plush chairs. A fireplace crackled in the corner, and a table was cluttered with snacks, drinks, and half-opened board games. But what stood out most was the atmosphere: the room was intimate, and there was a quiet, relaxed air to it that Y/n wasn’t expecting. Only the six counselors were inside, lounging around like old friends, casual and easy in a way Y/n wasn’t used to seeing from adults. This wasn’t the bustling mess of the camp’s main hall; this was a special break room, the kind of place that only certain people had access to.

“Okay,” Gojo continued, his eyes scanning the room. “We’ve got short-pint here, which means it’s time to get to know each other better. Two Truths and a Lie—camp edition. Don’t worry, I’ll play nice this time and keep it PG.”

Y/n glanced around, trying to get a sense of who the others were. There was the tall, gruff teen from earlier—Nanami, the one who had looked through her like she was invisible. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usual stern expression softened slightly, though Y/n could tell that he was still sizing her up. Then there was Suguru, the one with the quiet energy, sitting on the armrest of one of the chairs, chewing on something that looked like a granola bar. Shoko, the girl with sharp eyes and a cool demeanor, was sprawled out on the couch with her feet propped up on the cushion reading some magazine. Utahime, the more composed one with a delicate smile, was seated at the table, sketching away in a drawing book.

Gojo, ever the center of attention, leaned against the doorframe with that infuriatingly confident smile of his. He glanced over at Y/n jerking his head ever so slightly to encourage her to find a spot to sit. Y/n opted to sit in the bright red bean bag chair conveniently away from everyone else's seats.

“Alright, two truths and a lie: 1) I’ve been to five countries before I turned 10. 2) I can tie cherry stems in my mouth with nothing but my tongue. 3) I can do fifty pullups if not more in less than ten minutes.”

The others immediately started muttering among themselves, trying to guess which was the lie. Except for Suguru; who seemingly already knew the answer.

Y/n wasn’t interested in playing. Instead, she stood at the back of the group, arms crossed, watching them all interact. The banter was lighthearted, but it felt... forced to her, as if everyone was playing a role they were expected to fill. Her gaze flickered to Gojo, she was confused on why he seemed so adamant about the "bonding" game. It was clear they all knew each other so why do this?

Nanami, not one for games, didn’t waste any time. “The amount of countries is the lie; You've travelled to far more. You probably have been banned in a few of them.”

“Hey! I am always on my best behavior.... in foreign countries.” Gojo protested with a mock offended expression, puffing out his chest dramatically. “But you’re right— I think it was twenty seven? I don't really remember. That’s was my lie.”

“Alright, my turn,” Suguru said, sitting up. “1) I strategically complete 1000 brushes of my hair at night. 2) I used to collect rare insects. 3) I can hold my breath for over five minutes.”

“Man, I’d like to see that first one. Mr. Barbie,” Shoko teased with a smirk. “You definitely don’t strike me as flower, gleam, and glow type”

Suguru shrugged casually, clearly unfazed. “If you're ever stuck outside my tower, I would not let my hair down for you.”

They went around the circle, each counselor revealing little facts about themselves—some true, some not. Y/n couldn’t help but listen, though she wasn’t quite participating. The game remained lighthearted among all of the teens. Even Nanami participated.. When it was Y/n’s turn, Gojo raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting some kind of spectacular reveal.

“Well?” he prodded. “Your turn, short-pint.”

Y/n didn’t answer immediately; she only frowned in annoyance from the already aggravating nickname. She wasn't even short; he was just a fucking giant. She let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of her words to settle. What should she say? Be honest? Lie? With a glance at each of the counselors, she finally spoke, her voice casual but flat.

“Um.. Okay. 1) I have three tattoos. 2) I once did a backflip on ice in skates. 3) My nipples are pierced.”

A small choking noise came immediately from Nanami's mouth as he looked away from Y/n. Shoko and Utahime doubled over in laughter at the blush rising on the blonde's face. Suguru smirked slightly before nodding in approval while Gojo's eyes flickered down to her chest, but came back up as he felt the hard shove from Suguru on his side.

"What? I just wanted to confirm." Gojo shrugged, holding back a laugh

“I wonder which one could be the lie?” Utahime asked, cutting Gojo off between her giggles.

Y/n didn’t respond, instead letting the silence drag on. There was something satisfying about making them work for her attention. Nanami let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater as he finally looked back at Y/n. “The lie is the piercings” he stated firmly.

“Aw... boo... I had mad respect for you” Shoko pouted, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth without missing a beat.

Gojo laughed, “I think you just wanted to see them, Shoko."

“Like you weren't staring. ” Suguru teased with a small smile, to which Gojo gasped and elbowed his friend playfully.

“Now that,” Gojo said, “was for research nothing more.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “You both are exhausting. But yes that is the lie. ”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart. “What are you saying fuck me for? What did I do?”

Despite herself, a small chuckle escaped her lips. Just barely. It died quickly, but it had happened, and unfortunately for her, they all noticed.

“So,” Utahime said with a curious smile, “you really have tattoos? But you're so young though”

Y/n shrugged and leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Not that young; I'm 17.”

“Definitely the youngest here. You're the baby now” Shoko said. “Utahime is the oldest so she'll take good care of you.”

Gojo tilted his head, watching her a little more closely now. “You're 17? Jeez, I feel old now. I almost 19.”

“You are only a year and some change older than me; relax buddy. Y/n replied, tapping her foot against the wooden floor lazily. "I'll be 18 soon anyways."

There was a brief silence, one that was more curious than awkward. It felt like—for the first time—Y/n wasn’t a ghost hovering on the edge of the group. She’d slipped into the fold without fully meaning to. She wasn't sure how to feel about these people as of yet, but it was clear that she was going to be around them often so being cordial was the best option.

“You’re an interesting one,” Gojo said, looking Y/n up and down with an unreadable expression. “We are gonna have so much fun together.”

“Is that so?” Y/n replied; despite her dry tone, she had the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on her lips.

Utahime stood and clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough bonding for now. Let’s get ready for dinner prep before people start trying to eat each other.”

Everyone slowly began to rise, stretching and finishing their snacks. As they filtered out of the room, Gojo lingered behind, giving Y/n a glance as he pulled open the door.

“You’re better at this than you think,” he said casually.

“I’m not trying,” Y/n replied, blinking owlishly at the man.

Gojo grinned, showing off that award-winning smile again. “Exactly.”

The mess hall had transformed. What once looked like a basic communal dining area was now buzzing with preparation and purpose. Lights dimmed just slightly, casting a warm hue across the wood-paneled walls. The long dining tables had been cleaned, lined with simple but elegant tablecloths, and set with actual cutlery—none of the flimsy plastic Y/n was expecting. She stood near the entrance, watching the chaos unfold like an outsider at a stage production. Everyone had slipped seamlessly into their roles, as if this dance had been rehearsed a thousand times.

Utahime was in full organizer mode, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hung subtle winter-themed garlands near the windows and placed small battery-operated candles at the center of each table. Her movements were quick, efficient, and entirely focused. Geto was at the far end of the hall, bent over the sound system tucked into a wooden corner shelf. Soft instrumental music floated from the speakers, nothing overpowering, just ambiance. He adjusted the volume, then turned to angle the small spotlight in a way that wouldn’t blind anyone but would still keep the area well-lit. He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied.

Near the kitchen entrance, Shoko stood over a series of prepared plates, moving with practiced ease. She wore an apron—probably stolen from a cartoon character’s wardrobe—that said “Too Tired to Function,” and yet she looked perfectly at ease as she added garnishes to the steaming dishes, inspecting each one before sliding it down to the next station. Gojo, unsurprisingly, had the least structured role, and yet somehow the most chaotic. He flitted between the stove and the prep counter, grabbing a small container of chili flakes to add a final kick to one of the trays of roasted vegetables. His sleeves were rolled up, and there was flour on the side of his cheek like some weird war paint. He whistled while he worked, completely in his own world.

Then there was Nanami. Clipboard in hand, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, he looked like the most intimidating camp counselor anyone had ever seen—but damn if things weren’t running smoothly under his watch. He kept a close eye on the clock and called out time checks every so often, reminding people of deadlines with all the grace of a seasoned drill sergeant.

Y/n swallowed hard. How the hell did they do this every day? It wasn’t just the physical labor—it was the energy, the care, the constant alertness to everyone else’s needs. She felt like her chest was tightening just watching it. It was too much. No one had ever expected her to take care of anyone else. Hell, half the time she forgot to eat herself. And now here she was, in a room full of people that made this look easy. She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing frozen near the door until she heard someone call her name.

“Y/n!” Shoko’s voice rang out, sharp but not unkind. The older girl glanced up from the stack of plates she was organizing and gave a slight nod toward the drink pitchers on the side cart. “Can you help pour drinks and set them out on the tables outside?”

Y/n blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

She moved toward the cart, grabbing a few empty glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Her hands weren’t exactly steady, but she focused on not spilling anything. That was manageable, right? Just pour drinks. Carry them outside. Don’t trip. Don’t overthink it. As she stepped outside, the cool air hit her skin, a small comfort to balance out the buzzing anxiety in her chest. She walked between the tables, setting down the drinks carefully, letting the music and the warmth inside trail behind her like a distant hum. The scent of warm food and crisp winter air blended together as everyone finally took their seats at the long outdoor table, the sky now cloaked in hues of navy and deep violet. String lights overhead blinked softly like distant stars, casting a golden glow over everyone’s faces. Laughter was easy, and for a brief moment, the stress of preparation melted away into the steam rising from their plates.

Y/n sat toward the end of the table, a plate of food in front of her she hadn’t quite touched yet. Her eyes drifted from person to person, watching the way they filled the space around her—Utahime smiling politely between bites, Suguru teasing Gojo for putting too much heat on the vegetables, Shoko sipping from a mug that probably had more than hot chocolate in it, and Nanami chewing quietly but listening to every word. It was… weird. The ease of it all.

“Man, I can’t wait for the kids to get here,” Gojo said with a bright grin, his voice rising above the low murmur of conversation. “That’s when things really start. Chaos, excitement, and endless requests for extra dessert—what’s not to love?”

“They really are the heart of the camp,” Utahime added, folding her napkin neatly into her lap. “Some of them look forward to this all year.”

“Even the ones who pretend they hate it,” Shoko chimed in, arching a brow in Y/n’s direction.

Y/n blinked, caught off guard. She gave a noncommittal shrug and picked at a piece of bread on her plate.

Suguru leaned back in his chair. “You’ll see. First-timers are always a little overwhelmed, but when the kids get here… things shift.”

“I’m not really a kid person,” Y/n muttered under her breath, but no one seemed to hear her. Or maybe they just chose not to.

Nanami finally set down his fork, brushing his fingers with a napkin before clearing his throat in that quiet, no-nonsense way of his.

“Speaking of which,” he said, glancing at Y/n. “You’ll need to be tested before the week ends.”

Y/n’s gaze snapped toward him, her brows furrowing. “Tested?”

“Ice skating,” he said plainly. “You’re set to be one of the instructors this year. It’s one of the more popular activities, and we can’t have someone teaching if they don’t know the basics. Safety and skill go hand-in-hand.”

Y/n nearly choked on her water. “You want me to teach a bunch of kids how to ice skate?”

Nanami’s expression didn’t change. “It’s part of your counselor assignment.”

“Do you even know if I can skate?”

“That’s why you’re being tested.”

Gojo leaned in from across the table, grinning like a troublemaker with a front-row seat to the drama. “C’mon, it'll be fun. Worst case scenario, you fall on your ass, and we all laugh before taking to our best nurse, Shoko.”

"Nurse in training." Shoko correct, “But he's right. The best-case scenario though, is you impress us all and become the camp’s unexpected prodigy.”

Y/n stared down at her plate, lips pressing into a tight line. Why did it feel like everyone here was always ten steps ahead of her? Like they knew exactly where she was supposed to fit in, even when she didn’t? She didn’t answer—not right away, at least. But something about the way they were talking… they weren’t mocking her. Not really. They were including her, in the same breath they teased and pushed. Like she was already expected to rise to the occasion. God, her dad really had to be some kind of saint if this was the kind of world he belonged to.

Y/n finally picked up her fork and stabbed a carrot. “Fine. But if I break something, I’m haunting all of you.”

Gojo raised his cup like a toast. “Deal.”

After dinner, the warm, comforting chatter in the mess hall slowly gave way to the clatter of dishes being cleared and chairs scraping against the wooden floors. Everyone moved with purpose, each counselor seamlessly falling into their roles—Gojo cracking jokes while rinsing plates, Utahime stacking chairs with practiced grace, Nanami double-checking everyone’s assigned tasks, and Shoko wiping down tables in calm, efficient motions. Even Suguru, quiet as ever, was collecting the leftover decorations with a lazy rhythm.

Y/n did her part without complaint, but her hands were clumsy. Her thoughts spun in circles, spiraling fast. You’ll be tested… to see if you're fit to teach the kids how to skate. Nanami had said it so casually during dinner, but the words hadn’t stopped replaying in her head since. Skating. Teaching skating. Her stomach was twisted in a series of tight, painful knots—more like cramps now. She hadn’t skated in years. Not seriously, anyway. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they expected her to be responsible for actual children. Children who would look to her for guidance and trust her to keep them safe on the ice.

God. She could barely take care of herself.

Once the mess hall was back in order, Nanami dismissed them for personal wind-down time. “Two hours. Be where you need to be.”

Y/n wasted no time slipping out. The cold air hit her like a slap the moment she stepped outside, but she welcomed it. The quiet of the night was a relief compared to the buzz in her head. By the time she reached her private cabin—one of the perks of being a counselor—she was moving on autopilot. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper of her jacket, and her eyes drifted toward the bed where her old skates hung loosely from the post. Mocking her. Daring her. She stared at them for what felt like an eternity before moving. Fifteen minutes later, she was slipping out the back of the cabin dressed in clothes she definitely hadn’t packed with skating in mind: form-fitting black flare leggings, a pastel pink tank top she hadn’t worn in months, and her zip-up hoodie drawn tightly.

The path to the rink was lit by soft, overhead bulbs strung between the trees like fairy lights, but her focus was razor sharp. When she finally found the main door to the rink, it was locked. That didn’t stop her. Locks were more like suggestions to someone with her history. She crouched down, worked quickly, and with a satisfying click, the door creaked open. She stepped inside, pulling it shut quietly behind her. The rink stretched out in front of her, vast and untouched under the dim lights. The stillness made her heart race. Her breath puffed out in soft clouds as she stepped toward the edge and slipped off her hoodie, folding it neatly by the boards. Now exposed to the cold, she felt everything sharper—each sound, each memory that the ice awakened beneath her skin.

She laced up her skates with shaking hands, trying to ignore the swell of bittersweet feeling pressing against her ribcage. The last time she skated… it had felt like freedom. Now it felt like pressure. Like expectation. With a slow inhale, she stood. The first step onto the ice nearly sent her sprawling. She caught herself against the boards with a curse and a wince. The cold was biting through her clothes and into her bones now, but she didn’t stop. She pushed forward, unsteady, her legs unsure, and her balance off. She fell. Hard. The second time, it hurt less. The third time, she didn’t fall; she began to remember.

It wasn’t graceful. Her movements were stiff, her knees too locked, her posture too guarded—but there was something there. Muscle memory kicking in. Every pass across the rink got a little smoother. Every fall hurt a little less. She kept going. Again and again.

By the time she glided toward the center of the ice without stumbling, her breath was heaving and her body was shaking—but not from the cold. It was something else. Something raw and strange. She closed her eyes. The ice was silent beneath her. Her father had skated here. Maybe even stood right here.

If you make it through all the activities today, I’ll give you an item that belonged to Harukemi and tell you the story surrounding it. Her fingers curled at her sides. There were things she needed to know. Y/n opened her eyes and took a deep, measured breath. She wasn’t ready for kids. She wasn’t ready to be seen, not really. But maybe she could try. If she kept falling, she’d just have to keep getting up. One skate pushed forward, then the other.

Gojo hadn’t meant to follow her. Honestly, he was just heading back from dropping off a crate of leftover pantry goods when he saw movement by the rink’s side building. The soft sound of the front door creaking open caught his attention. It wasn’t supposed to be open. Not this late. Not when everything was shut down. Curiosity piqued, he slipped into the shadows. He found himself leaning against the outer wall of the rink, tucked just far enough in the darkness to go unnoticed. Through the high glass windows, he saw her. Y/n.

At first, she was just a bundled shape by the boards, sitting still, head low, lacing up skates. He almost turned away—figured maybe she needed the ice to think, and honestly, everyone at this camp had their thing. But then she stood. And fell. Gojo winced a little, covering his mouth as a quiet laugh slipped out. It wasn’t mocking—there was something oddly endearing about it. The girl who stared everyone down with that deadpan glare was out here looking like a newborn deer on ice. She pushed herself back up, brushed frost from her leggings, and tried again. And again.

Each fall brought another smirk tugging at Gojo’s lips, an itch in his fingers to step out and help her up, make a dumb joke, pull her in close and show her how it’s done. But something about the way she gritted her teeth, how she refused to give up, made him hold back. She didn’t need saving. So he stayed there, in the dark. Then something happened. Without warning—like flipping a switch—her body began to remember. Her skates stopped scraping clumsily against the ice. Her posture straightened, her movements shifted. The unsure fumbling turned to gliding, then to spinning, then to soaring. Her arms flowed out at her sides, chest lifted, eyes half-closed like she was listening to music no one else could hear.

Gojo squinted; he had to be seeing incorrectly.

He reached up and pulled his prescription glasses from his head and slipped them onto his face. The world sharpened instantly, and his breath caught in his throat. Wow. That was all he could think. Y/n—this messy, sharp-tongued, dry-humored girl who barely spoke in full sentences—was glowing. Not just metaphorically. It was like something deep inside her had been ignited. Her usual dull aura, that heavy fog she dragged behind her like a second skin, was gone. In its place was something radiant. Beautiful. Light that didn’t just shine—it danced. It reached out and touched everything around her, rippling across the ice like sunbeams caught in snow.

She skated like she belonged to the air itself.

Her hair was freed from the makeshift hair tie she had and bounced with every move she made, arms cutting clean lines through the frosted night, her tank top clinging to her in soft pastel hues that contrasted the raw power of her movement. There was elegance there, but also pain. Precision and chaos, perfectly blended. Every turn of her skate, every breath she took—it was art. And Gojo couldn’t look away. His fingers curled slightly against the wooden paneling he leaned on. His heart didn’t race—he wouldn’t even call it that—but something in his chest shifted. Twitched. Pulled.

He didn’t understand it, not yet. But something about her—this girl who barely spoke, who looked at the world like it had already disappointed her beyond repair—was beginning to unravel a knot inside of him he didn’t know existed. She looked free and he wanted that freedom desperately. Her movements were strategically calculated like his were. She moved on her own accord and still managed to look graceful. He needed to feel that free at least once in his life; especially before his parents do anymore damage.

❄ Author's Note: I know this is long... probably the longest thing I have ever written. It started off as a drabble, but I got carried away. I plan to post part two sometime this week, but I really really am proud of it. I have always been a sucker for cheesy high school romcoms and decided that Gojo didn't belong in Shonen but a Shoujo so I am making it happen my damn-self. I plan for this to be finished in eight parts and have five major plot points to meet, and then random little scenarios that I have thought were cute and needed to see. This is a Gojo-centered fic, so no other love interests will be an option, but more characters will be mentioned, and Y/n will interact with everyone individually. I can answer any questions in the comments! Thank you to all who read the entire thing! You guys mean the world to me

94 notes · View notes

cryptidmickle · 9 months ago

Text

so what if. and hear me out. i made my own au for shadowvanilla purposes-

au details below

HELLO SO I PRESENT AMNESIAC AU

so you see, i was minding my business, drawing and looking at cookies and how everyone has their own cool aus with awesome designs and i went "well im not very good at designing but i Love putting characters in Situations"

this au is mostly focused on shadowvanilla so dont be too hopeful I'll get into the other cookies besides their little circle, im ill for gay yaoi only okay

So! motions to comic above, amnesia smilk time! let me elaborate

Pure vanilla fucked up BIG TIME, in that he maybe ventured out to beast yeast alone to try and find out more about the beasts and a way to stop them, as people with a savior complex have a habit of doing. Maybe, perhaps, also at the same time, smilk was getting the workings of his new dough body done and sensing pv was nearby decided to take the opportunity to torment him a little, yknow he cant help himself! he needs to see him

a nasty little fight and confrontation in some old structures of smilk (or at the spire) result in pv using a strange spell he spotted in the surrounding papers and documents, and .... accidentally cracks smilk's soul jam! hehe, oops!

and also sealing his memories. double oops. damn, what are you gonna do now pv?

well he cant leave confused smilk alone here, and itd honestly be best the other beasts and dark enchantress dont drag him back there in this state, so he offers a hand.

"Come with me. We can help you, I'll make sure you're okay."

a memory-less smilk is confused by this but... he's already grabbing the other cookie's hand before he realizes it. It'll probably be fine, something about this cookie... makes something in him feel okay.

taps forehead, im still working everything out of course, and i WILL be cursing all of you with sketchy stuff about it when I'm able, i need more time to figure out smilk's behaviors without the soul jam and corruption

of course I'm always of the mind that pre-corruption smilk was kind of a rat and rude but how exactly is the real question!! how bad was it before the corruption exacerbated the negative qualities of knowledge and his personality

anyways,,, feel free to ask questions!! it could help me figure this all out, if yall are interested of course,,,,,,,my,,,, handful of crk followers SNRRKS

#pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #white lily cookie #gingerbrave #wizard cookie #strawberry cookie #crk fanart #crk au #amnesiac au #shadowvanilla #pureshadow #<- that is my end goal here guys the men are going to kiss #my drawbs #ALSO THIS WONT BE TOO ANGSTY AN AU #WE ARE A HOUSE OF HAPPY ENDINGS HERE IM SORRY I LOVE HAPPY ENDINGS OR AT LEAST HOPEFUL ONES #but rest assured there will still be angst and conflict #as is a constant with liars #looks directly at pv

6K notes · View notes

toughbunnyforever · 11 months ago

Text

the beginning and the end

#angsty sketch i did when i was sad thinking about deku #he's just so #ugh #i love him #mha #bnha #my art #digital art #digital illustration #sketch #my hero academia #deku #izuku midoriya #also i drew this before the last ch came out #i like the ending #it actually made me v happy for him

4K notes · View notes

urfriendlywriter · 2 months ago

Text

Angsty Prompts

(feel free to use, tag me when yall write!!! mwah xoxo)

"You're okay, look at me--yes, my love, you're okay. I'm here now."

tight hugs, their hands cradling you and your heart close to theirs.

Their heart shattering with every ragged breath u take and every sob that escapes your lips

"Do u know.. it's incredibly brave of you to.." They pause, gently rubbing the tears stains off your cheeks, "Be vulnerable with me? It's my honor, to protect you, and be a safe place for you."

being hospitalized, and waking up to find them curled at the foot of your bed, holding onto ur hand.

Voice breaking as they whisper, their hand tightening around yours, "I-I thought I lost you.."

pressing your lips their forehead, as they break apart in your arms, clinging onto you. eyes full of pain, tears and rare vulnerability that bares open their entire being to you

^ caressing their face, unable to know what to say or do but whispering, "Let me hold you through this all. It's okay to cry, my love.." and they completely shatter.

Them curling up into ur chest, needing comfort, security and strength

"I'm so sorry--" "No, no, no. You did ur best, my soul, i---i am the one sorry."

2K notes · View notes

hoonatic · 11 months ago

Text

emergency contact | park sunghoon x reader

prompt: weeks after your breakup, sunghoon finds out that he’s still your emergency contact. pairing: non-idol sunghoon x implied female reader genre: angst with hopeful/happy? ending; second chance romance??; exes to lovers??? word count: 2800 note: i’ve had a cute fic idea that i wanted to write forever…but this is not it. the sad demons have visited me once again. hope y’all enjoy nevertheless and any feedback is much appreciated <3

sunghoon was miserable.

it had been three weeks, five days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes since the two of you had gone no contact.

he wished he could say he was happy to be single, that he was no longer “locked down” and “whipped” as his friends had always called him. but the so-called “freedom” felt like hell since it meant losing you.

at first, he kept telling himself that time would heal the pain. “it’s natural,” he had repeated like a mantra, “she was your best friend and lover for years.” but no, this heartbreak was inhumane. his desire to see you, apologize endlessly, and spend days holding you until you could feel every ounce of his love was gnawing at his soul. if anything, it got worse by the minute.

he had tried so hard to balance work and the rest of his life, using the excuse several times that he was securing this future for your shared life with him. that one day, you’d be able to reap the rewards of his efforts and live comfortably together without stress.

but what was the use of all of that now? the future he had worked so hard to create was ripped out from his hands by no one other than himself.

you had accused him of being too busy for you. dates canceled at the last minute, a birthday forgotten, and all the texts left on read had built up to the argument that ended it all. he was always good at fighting, a little too good. he had retorted that you weren’t being supportive, and he was never one to sugarcoat his words. his tongue was sharp, and he did nothing to dull its blade.

but there wasn’t too much yelling on your part, and he thought that that hurt more. he wanted you to fight back, to stand your ground because he knew deep down that he was being the asshole. his toxic thought was that by you fighting back, this meant that you were still fighting for your relationship. but instead, you just stared with silent tears and a blank expression. seeing the indifference in eyes that had previously held so much love was a sight that would stay with him forever. so, in fear of you leaving, he ran instead.

he was a coward, leaving your shared home to run back to the apartment he had still technically owned but hadn’t lived in for more than a year. he locked himself away for a few days, but the realization that you hadn’t attempted to contact him burned more than he could put into words. you were done with him. he had hurt you, had the audacity to be the one to run, and now he had lost you.

he had even run from his job. he couldn’t stand to walk into the same building he stayed in when he forgot dates with you. his coworkers wouldn’t stop asking what happened to him, why he looked so rough. he even found an empty container that had once held lunch you made for him. but his final straw was getting promoted. his first instinct was to call you, but he remembered the sad truth before he could dial. any ounce of pride was washed away with shame in that moment. that same day, he quit without notice.

so there he was: miserable, alone, and unemployed with nothing left to run from but memories. he had spent the last week going through his phone and saving your pictures together in a locked album. he wouldn’t dare delete them, but he couldn’t stomach looking at you either.

he wished he could get drunk and sleep away the pain. he had tried, he definitely did - but that night, he dreamt of you. you were smiling at first, eyes ever full of love. you were speaking, yet he couldn’t hear you. but he could see how your words started to gradually look sadder, and slowly, tears started to fall as your grin dropped. he woke up that next morning crying with the conclusion that he would have to face this heartbreak sober.

but another day of scrolling through albums had stopped abruptly when he saw the notification that changed everything.

SOS i called emergency services from this approximate location after my watch detected a hard fall. you are receiving this message because i have you listed as my emergency contact.

sunghoon had to remind himself to breathe.

he had purchased that watch for you as a “just because” present months ago. you had complained of bad sleep and he wanted you to use it as a way to track your slumber. he hated seeing you tired. he knew that the watch had a fall detection function, but it had never been used before.

his heart was in his stomach as he went to his favorite contacts page and selected your name for the first time in weeks.

“please,” he begged, all notion of running away from you leaving his brain, “pick up please.”

but you just weren’t answering. so he tried again and again and again.

for a moment while the line attempted to connect, he wondered if this was how he had made you feel for months - desperate for a sliver of attention from him. but instead, he was desperate for a sign of life.

finally, after about two minutes of trying to reach you, his body moved of its own accord. before he knew it, his car keys were in his hands and he was out the door.

the car ride there might have been the worst part. the speed at which he drove at almost defied the laws of physics. other drivers were cursing at him but he wasn’t registering anything except the thought of your safety. he just needed to get to you.

why did he run? why didn’t he try to talk it out? if he was so afraid of losing you, why did he do the one thing that would guarantee that? he should have been there like he promised to be from the beginning. you would have been safe with him.

when he pulled up to the house you had shared for so long, he suddenly felt the world slow down. why were emergency services there? you should’ve canceled them by now.

he had to double park as the ambulance was blocking the driveway. why were they here?

the emts and police had arrived at the same time as him, which both increased his anxiety and soothed him. for one, that meant he had been quick enough. but why did you need them?

“sir, do you know–” an officer had approached him as he stumbled to the front door. all he could understand was your name. why were they asking if he knew you? of course he knew you. you, the love of his life. you, his soulmate by every meaning of the word. you were you. and you were safe.

as if sensing his distress, he felt an emt worker pull him to the side as the same officer prepared to break down the door. seeing this, sunghoon finally returned to his senses.

“w-wait! sorry, i have a key.” sunghoon’s hands were shaking. the only way that door had unlocked was by pure muscle memory because he didn’t understand what he was doing at all.

as soon as the door opened, sunghoon tried to step in. finally, he was close to you.

the officer, however, pulled him back.

“sir, you should wait here. we need to make an initial search before you can go in.”

“what, why? if she’s in there, i want to see–”

“sir, it’s just in case we find something we wouldn’t want you to see.”

all of sunghoon’s hesitation and fear went out the window at those words. his body flew automatically as he ran inside.

he screamed your name as he rushed in, ignoring the yells of the police officers who followed him in. as it had been for almost four weeks, his only thought was you. he just needed you.

he checked the ground floor first, eyes scanning the open space in less than a second as his body avoided an officer trying to grab him. sunghoon then moved to the staircase, long legs prepared to skip steps to reach you. then suddenly, he heard the voice his ears had been longing for,

“sunghoon?!”

his head shot up. there you were, finally. he saw the sadness, confusion, and fear all flash your face as you registered the emergency workers behind him. you looked exhausted and unruly, but he had never felt more in love.

he didn’t even remember climbing the steps, but suddenly he was at the top of the staircase and you were in his arms.

you could feel him trembling as he held you. you took his face into your hands to look at him, “sunghoon? what’s wrong? why are you here? is it my parents? is someone hurt?” you watched as his mouth opened but no words came out. after a few seconds, one of the officers spoke from the bottom of the steps,

“ma’am, we received an alert from your device that a hard fall had occurred.”

suddenly, you understood everything. taking sunghoon’s hand gently, you led him down the stairs, afraid he’d fall from shock. he followed you silently, but his grip tightened seemingly with every step.

that’s when you noticed your shattered watch on the third step.

you let sunghoon go and you could hear his deep breath when you did. you picked up the watch and offered it up to the officer as an explanation, “i’m sorry officer, it looks like there’s been a misunderstanding…”

the officer nodded in understanding, and dismissed the emts, “got it, ma’am. we will still need a formal report for our records since this was registered as an emergency call.” he motioned to your couch as he took out a pen and paper.

you reached for sunghoon’s hand once more and led him to sit with you. in the moment, you knew he needed you more than you would ever understand. so, as you explained to the officer, you held his trembling hand, rubbing soothing circles with your thumb.

“i was doing laundry here downstairs and had taken off my watch to prevent it from getting wet,” you recounted, “i put it on top of the basket of clothes that i took upstairs. i remember tripping a little going up the stairs - i didn’t fall, but that must’ve been when the watch fell."

"what about your phone, where is it? i'm sure your boyfriend must've tried to call you."

sunghoon slowly nodded at that, turning to look at you. you smiled sheepishly, "i left it upstairs and it was on silent while i folded the clothes. i’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

after finishing up your statement, the remaining officer prepared to leave. as he walked out the door, he gave a soft smile to the both of you,

“glad to see it was a false alarm, ma’am. you had this gentleman quite worried - ran so fast i couldn’t even grab him!” the officer laughed, “you two have a nice day now! sorry about your watch, though!”

after he shut your door, the silence enveloped your home. you closed your eyes and breathed deeply to prepare to speak to your ex-boyfriend. but as soon as you opened them, sunghoon started to cry softly.

he hugged you tighter than he ever had, and soon enough, his face was buried in your neck. his cries were silent, but you could feel his body shaking as his tears soaked your shirt.

“sunghoon…” you started, stroking his back, “i’m sorry i worried you, honey.”

you knew you shouldn’t be calling your ex pet names, especially an ex that had run from you without properly ending the relationship. but your heart still held so much love for him that it flowed out naturally. and you knew he was crying from more than just worry, so you doubt he minded at all in the moment.

his crying slowed down as his arms took to loosely wrapping around your waist instead. he pulled away from your neck to rest his forehead on yours. from this angle, you could see his swollen eyes and red nose - a sight so rare in all the years you had dated. he was never a crier after all.

but memories of several late-night conversations rushed your mind. he always said his number one fear was your death, and now you could see he had never lied about that.

he could see your mind go elsewhere so he called your name softly, “don’t say you’re sorry. i’m so happy, these are relieved tears. and i just really, really missed you.” he croaked out. you knew he had more to say, so you just nodded, letting him go on.

“and i’m sorry, baby. for everything. i shouldn’t have run, i shouldn’t have tried to egg you on to fight me back. i shouldn’t have even fought anything you said that night. you were right. i didn’t prioritize you. in my attempt to secure you for life, i let you go instead. i’m so sorry, i never wanted to break up.” he was rambling in earnest now, afraid that no words would make you take him back.

you listened quietly as he went on for a few minutes after that, hand continuing to rub his back, “i know honey, i know.”

“baby, you need to understand that i almost died thinking you almost died today,” you could’ve laughed at how dramatically he spoke, “i couldn’t breathe right thinking that our last conversation could’ve been an argument. that you wouldn't have ever known just how deeply i love you and need you. i have so much regret for how i treated you, but if you’d give me the chance, i have all the time in the world to make it up to you…let’s go on that vacation i promised you. we can leave tomorrow if you’d like.” he smiled hopefully at you.

“hoon,” his heart soared at the use of his beloved nickname, “what do you mean? don’t you have work? can you really leave with such short notice?”

“i quit my job.”

“excuse me?”

“no job that made me work that much is worth it. i’ll find one with better work-life balance…after our vacation. if that’s what you still want of course…” he spoke more quietly, as if afraid of rejection.

you sighed. you really should be realistic with this - you two had been broken up for a few weeks at that point. you knew the love was still there, but was this a good decision?

while there was still some hesitation on your part, you couldn't help but notice how gingerly he held you. his arms were still around your waist loosely, yet there was something desperate about their hold. you knew he was holding back from hurting you - you could tell how tightly he wanted to hug you.

he was so shaken up at the idea of you being hurt that he rushed over there despite the two of you not being on speaking terms. for someone who had trouble communicating how he felt sometimes, you knew his actions spoke louder than words. he always acted brave, but there was so much he feared. and you knew losing you was always at the top of this list.

you could also feel how he was simply soaking in the sight of your face. his eyes were shy, yet determined. he wasn't going to risk missing another second of staring at you. a part of you grew conscious, but you knew he was just taking in what he had missed for weeks.

“what about…” you started and almost giggled at how he perked up, “we take it slow - another two weeks or so to talk everything out and relax? to get us to a good place again before you hold me hostage in some foreign country?”

sunghoon smiled softly, kissing your forehead. you leaned in naturally to his warmth, to his touch that you missed so much. “that sounds like a great idea, love.” he spoke, “we’ll get you a new watch too. and i’ll do all the itinerary planning and packing whenever you’re ready, okay? i love you.”

“okay. and i love you too. can’t wait to enjoy your unemployment with you for now!”

one smile and nod from you had him taking you into his arms once more, relishing in your being. he was back where he belonged. he had experienced the scariest reminder ever that he needed you, and sunghoon was never letting you go now.

3K notes · View notes

steddie-lyfalling · 10 days ago

Text

Steve Harrington knew what he was, he'd known for a little while now, he knew it simply and eloquently. Steve Harrington was, is, always will be, a placeholder.

Placeholder friend, placeholder son, placeholder boyfriend, placeholder brother, placeholder king. He existed for one reason, to be everything for someone, everything they needed. And, for a time, to feel that love and that everything in return. There until someone is more. More than he could ever be, more than needed. Wanted.

Nancy Wheeler had needed him for a while, a charming boyfriend who boosted her social status. She had needed someone to talk to, someone nice to look at, someone loyal with a good easy future ahead of him. But she wanted someone who would talk back, who was booksmart like her, who was interesting as well as interested. So she found that someone and walked away.

Dustin Henderson needed a big brother, some help with the "fairer sex" (Dustin's words), hair care tips and, along with the whole group of young little misfits, someone physically strong, broad and tall to protect them from monsters. Steve can already see this one waining, the wants outweighing the needs, who would want a bitchy older brother when you could have one who connects to your world, who plays your games, someone aloof and nerdy, dark and goofy, smart and funny. Someone better.

Even his parents had needed a child to carry their name and their status, but wanted a freedom he couldn't provide. Wanted a pride they could not find in him.

Robin will be the next to go, that one will hurt the most, she's basically a whole half of his own soul at this point, a full part of him. She's his everything. But college will be a whole new world, one where Steve's quips won't hold weight amongst Robin's new intellectual friends, where Steve's questioning nature about himself and his own sexuality won't hold a candle to the actual queer culture she's sure to find herself diving into. At least she'll call, she's too good, to perfect of a person, she'll stop needing him but she'll know he can't stop wanting her, so she'll call.

The thing is, it's all well and good figuring out your place in the world, how you fit around other people's lives. But it still hurts. It always hurts. It will never not hurt. Because hope, hope is a terrible thing, a thing that covers you in twisted vines until you can't see beyond the beautiful green of it, so when it's brutally stripped away darkness floods your vision and you cannot deny the loss. Hope hides the poison of loneliness, so, when it is pulled away, it's sweetness gone, it highlights the bitter poison left in its wake.

Thankfully, now he knows what to expect, he can prune and manage that hope, keep the green from obscuring his vision, keep the saccharine sweetness from disguising the poison. Leaving only a small tinge of green in the corner of his eye, and the bittersweet taste of liquorice on his lips. Of course the poison still burns his throat and eats away at his vital organs, but now he can see it being administered. Now he can't fall as far backwards.

The Eddie Munson of it all seems to have other ideas. Ever since meeting Eddie, properly meeting Eddie, and knowing Eddie, properly knowing Eddie, all Steve has seen is bright leafy green.

499 notes · View notes

promptedwordsmith · 5 months ago

Note

Hi hiiiii!!

I LOVED the valentine based piece you did!

If you're still taking requests, can I ask for angst-comfort this time where the guys forgot mc's birthday? I'm excited to see your take on this especially for Caleb!

Thank you and I'll be on the lookout for more of your work 💕💕💕

THANK YOU <3 <3 <3

I had SO. MUCH. FUN. writing this it was crazy!

Hopefully its OK!

Caleb

Caleb had been so busy. More than usual. It was one thing to have patrols through the Deep Space Tunnel, endless reports, meetings with higher-ups who never seemed satisfied, but on top of that, he had taken it upon himself to organize an important dinner party.

Or so he thought.

The truth—the awful truth—hit him like a physical blow when he unrolled the custom banner that had just arrived.

"Happy Birthday, [Your Name]!"

The world seemed to tilt. His grip on the fabric tightened, knuckles turning white as his violet eyes darted across the bold, celebratory letters. His mind, exhausted and running on autopilot for weeks, scrambled through his memory, piecing together the moments he had lost. The meticulous planning. The decorations. The food. He had arranged everything… for a party that had already passed.

Your birthday.

It had come and gone, and he—he—had completely missed it.

For a full five seconds, Caleb didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The weight of realization pressed against his chest, drowning out every thought except one:

I forgot your birthday.

The sickening guilt settled deep in his stomach, twisting, tightening. You had waited for him that day. He could picture it—your hopeful glances, the way you had likely told yourself, he’s just busy, he’ll remember soon. But he hadn’t. You must have gone to bed that night thinking he didn’t care, thinking that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as important to him as you truly were.

The very idea of it made him feel like the worst kind of man.

He didn’t waste another second. He abandoned everything—work, reports, the dinner he had been planning for the higher-ups—none of it mattered now. The only thing that mattered was you.

By the time he reached your home, it was already evening. His uniform was slightly disheveled, his hair tousled from running his hands through it in frustration, but the guilt was what weighed on him the most.

You answered the door, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Caleb searched your face, looking for signs of anger, sadness—hurt. And when he found them, faint but undeniably there, the guilt doubled.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "I messed up." His voice was low, raw, as if saying it out loud made the weight of it even heavier.

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. "You think?"

Your words weren’t angry, but the tired disappointment in them was somehow worse. You had already processed it, already come to terms with the fact that he had forgotten, and that made his chest ache.

Caleb was never one to stumble over words, but right now, he struggled. "I didn’t mean to forget. I was planning something. I was—" He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not an excuse. It’s just…" He let out a dry, humorless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was so damn exhausted, I forgot what I was even planning for."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

He let out a slow breath. "I was planning your party. That’s what I’ve been doing for weeks." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "But I worked myself into the ground so much that when your birthday came, I just—" His jaw clenched. "I thought I was planning a dinner for the higher-ups. It didn’t even register."

You stared at him, processing. He watched you carefully, waiting, hoping for anything that would tell him how to fix this.

Finally, you sighed. "You’re an idiot."

Something in his chest loosened at that—because you weren’t shutting him out, weren’t furious.

"Yeah," he admitted without hesitation. "The worst one."

Caleb wasn’t the type to grovel, but when it came to you, he would do whatever it took.

He spent the entire night making it up to you. He didn’t just say sorry—he showed you.

First, he insisted on taking you out to eat, somewhere special, somewhere you liked. He wouldn’t let you brush him off, wouldn’t let you say, It’s fine, it’s over now. No, it wasn’t fine, and he wouldn’t let it be until he saw that light in your eyes again.

Then, after dinner, he walked with you through the quiet streets, hand in yours, holding on like he had something to prove. He was quieter than usual, more thoughtful, stealing glances at you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Finally, when you arrived home, he pulled you into his arms, pressing you close, his chin resting against your head.

"I swear to you," he murmured against your hair, voice rough with sincerity, "I will never forget again. Not in this life, not in the next, not ever."

And you believed him.

Because Caleb may have made mistakes, but when it came to you, he would always make it right.

Rafayel

Rafayel had been locked in his studio for days, unreachable. Your calls went unanswered, your texts ignored. Even when you showed up at his door, knocking, waiting, hoping, there was nothing. Just silence, just the knowledge that somewhere beyond those walls, he was lost in his art again.

And still, despite it all, you held out hope.

Hope that, even in the middle of his artistic madness, he would remember.

But the day had passed.

By the time three days had gone by, your hope had shrunk into something small and fragile. Maybe it was foolish of you to think this year would be different. Maybe you should have expected this. Rafayel loved intensely—when he loved, he loved with everything he had—but sometimes he got lost in his own world, and that love, no matter how deep, could feel far away.

Then, out of nowhere, your phone rang.

"Come over!" Rafayel's voice practically crackled with excitement, as if he hadn’t been a ghost for the last few days. "I finally finished it! You have to see it first!"

"Raf—"

"Ah, don’t say anything yet! Just come. Hurry!"

And then he hung up.

No apology for vanishing. No recognition of the days he had missed.

And certainly, no acknowledgment of your day.

You trudged through the cold toward his home, trying to ignore the sting in your chest. Maybe he had remembered and wanted to surprise you. Maybe this was his way of making up for it.

But deep down, a part of you knew better.

Inside his studio, Rafayel was frozen.

The moment he checked his calendar to see when his next exhibition was, the date jumped out at him like a slap to the face. The realization slammed into him so hard that he nearly knocked over a jar of brushes.

Your birthday.

It had come and gone.

The guilt hit him like a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought.

How could he forget?

He tore through his studio, hands shaking. A gift—he needed something, anything—! His eyes darted across the room, landing on a pile of canvases shoved into a forgotten corner.

His secret.

Bunches and bunches of paintings of you.

Sketches of you laughing, paintings of you gazing out at the sea, studies of your hands, your lips, the way your hair caught the light. He had never shown them to anyone, not even you. They were too raw, too personal, too embarrassing.

But now…

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed them all. He turned out all the lights, lit every candle he could find, and placed the paintings around the room. The atmosphere had to be perfect. When he was done, he shut the door, smoothing his hair, taking a deep breath.

He had a plan.

Just pretend everything was normal. Show you his newest painting, make you smile, then lead you to the hidden room to surprise you. Yes. That would work.

And maybe—just maybe—it would make up for everything.

When you arrived, Rafayel greeted you with his usual playful grin, grabbing your wrist and dragging you inside before you could even get a word in.

"Look," he said, presenting the canvas like it was the greatest treasure in the world. "What do you think?"

It was beautiful—of course it was. Rafayel’s art always was. The strokes, the colors, the emotion captured in every detail. It was a masterpiece.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not today.

He was watching you closely, waiting for your reaction.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "It’s… incredible, Raf."

The way your voice wavered, the way you didn’t meet his eyes—it was subtle, but he noticed.

And suddenly, the guilt became unbearable.

Without a word, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the hidden room.

"Wait—Raf, where are we—?"

The door creaked open, and the glow of candlelight washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat.

Paintings.

Of you.

Dozens of them, covering every wall. Each one full of emotion, of devotion, of him. Some were unfinished, others so detailed they looked like they could breathe. It was overwhelming.

You turned to him, eyes wide.

"You…?"

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual bravado gone. His cheeks were tinged pink, the tips of his ears burning red.

"I—" He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I forgot your birthday."

Your stomach twisted. So he had forgotten.

"I was painting," he went on, words rushed. "I lost track of time, and I—damn it—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to."

You turned back to the paintings, something warm pressing at your chest.

"You made all of these?" you asked quietly.

His hands clenched at his sides. "Yeah."

"For how long?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"Years."

The confession hung between you.

He had been painting you for years.

Slowly, you turned to face him. The usual mischief in his eyes was gone, replaced with something raw, something vulnerable.

"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I don’t know how I forgot something so important. You mean too much to me for that. I—I just…" He sighed, rubbing his temple. "I got lost in making something for you, and I ended up missing the thing that mattered most—you."

The anger, the disappointment, the hurt—they all melted away. Because here he was, standing before you, baring himself in a way he rarely ever did.

You stepped forward, hesitating for only a moment before wrapping your arms around him.

His breath hitched.

"You’re an idiot," you whispered.

A shaky laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"But…" You looked up at him, a soft smile playing at your lips. "This is the best apology I’ve ever seen."

Relief flooded his features. "So you forgive me?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe if you make me a cake."

He scoffed. "I’m a painter, not a baker."

"Then take me out for cake."

He smirked, his confidence slipping back into place. "Anything for my muse."

And as he pulled you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, you knew—

Even when he forgot the days on a calendar, Rafayel would never really forget you.

Sylus

Sylus prided himself on many things. His sharp mind, his strategic brilliance, his ability to anticipate every move before it happened. He was the kind of man who didn’t forget things—especially not something as important as your birthday.

Which was why, when he saw the disappointed look on your face as you pelted him with soft plushies, something deep in his chest twisted—an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation that almost felt like panic.

Almost.

But Sylus didn’t panic.

Instead, he stood there, one plushie bouncing harmlessly off his shoulder, another smacking his chest before falling to the floor. His crimson eyes flickered between you and the growing pile of soft toys you had weaponized against him.

“You forgot,” you accused, arms crossed, hurt flashing in your gaze.

He opened his mouth to deny it. To tell you he’d never forget something so important. But the realization hit him like a slow, creeping dread. He had forgotten.

The meticulously planned dinners. The gifts he had meant to have delivered. The subtle reminders he had given his men—Kieran, Luke, even Mephisto—to ensure he never let today slip his mind.

And yet, here you were.

Disappointed.

Angry.

Hurt.

It was a sight that unsettled him more than any rival, more than any enemy who had ever dared to challenge him. He could handle a hundred assassination attempts, negotiate the bloodiest of deals, and walk into a war zone without breaking a sweat.

But the idea that he had been the one to hurt you? That he had been the reason your smile had faded today?

Unacceptable.

He took a step forward, but you threw another plushie at his face before he could speak. This time, he caught it mid-air, fingers tightening around the soft fabric as he exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll fix it,” he said, voice calm, steady.

You huffed, turning your head away. “Too late.”

His jaw clenched. Too late? No. Nothing was ever too late when it came to you.

Sylus wasn’t the type to apologize with empty words. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d simply say “sorry” and expect you to accept it. He had to show you.

And he would.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

You had expected him to brush it off. To smirk, tease you, tell you that you were cute when you were mad. Maybe even promise to make it up to you later in a way that would leave you breathless.

But Sylus had left.

Just walked out without an explanation.

That made you angrier.

You flopped onto the couch, hugging one of the plushies to your chest, your pout deepening. He had forgotten, and now he was leaving?

Your thoughts swirled in frustration until a knock sounded at your door—not the sharp, precise kind that his men would give, but a slow, deliberate rhythm you recognized instantly.

Sylus.

You hesitated for only a moment before getting up and opening the door.

And what you saw left you speechless.

He stood there, slightly out of breath, his silver hair a bit messier than usual, his blazer discarded, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. In his hands? A massive bouquet—roses, lilies, your favorite flowers all woven together in a way that looked too beautiful to have been bought last-minute.

And then there were the gifts.

Not one. Not two. But an entire armful—beautifully wrapped boxes, all stacked precariously as he balanced them with ease.

Your lips parted in shock.

Sylus? The man who was always cool, calculated, in control? Looking just a little bit frazzled as he stood in your doorway with gifts clearly gathered in a rushed effort to make up for his mistake?

You should have stayed mad.

But instead, your heart clenched.

“I had everything planned,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, controlled but tinged with something you almost wanted to call regret. “Dinners. Gifts. Things meant to arrive today.”

He stepped forward, pressing the bouquet into your arms as his crimson eyes locked onto yours.

“I forgot,” he admitted, as if the words physically pained him to say. “And I don’t forget things.”

You swallowed, staring at him. This was Sylus. The man who could tear down entire organizations with a single whisper. Who could predict a person’s every move before they even knew they would make it.

And yet, he had forgotten.

Because, for once, he had been too wrapped up in things that weren’t you.

You should have made him suffer more.

But then he did something unexpected.

He lowered himself to one knee, not in a proposal, but in something equally as disarming.

A genuine apology.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” he said, eyes unwavering. “I don’t need it. But you deserve better than today, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

His hand reached for yours, fingers brushing over your wrist in a touch so uncharacteristically soft that your breath hitched.

You weren’t used to seeing him like this.

Vulnerable.

But maybe that was the point.

Sylus didn’t grovel. He didn’t beg. He didn’t need to.

And yet, here he was, choosing to show you a side of himself no one else would ever see.

“I…” Your throat felt tight as you looked at him, then at the bouquet, then at the ridiculous number of gifts he had somehow managed to gather in an hour.

His lips curled into a small smirk, sensing the shift in your demeanor. “Still mad?”

You should be.

But instead, you sighed dramatically, stepping back to let him inside.

“I’ll think about forgiving you,” you muttered, clutching the flowers to your chest.

His smirk widened as he straightened, stepping closer, hands finding your waist as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“I can be very persuasive,” he murmured.

You shivered, pressing your lips together to keep from smiling. He knew you too well.

And he had forgotten.

But he had also gone through all this effort to make it right.

Maybe you would forgive him.

Eventually.

But first? You were going to make him work for it.

Xavier

Xavier wakes up the next morning with the unsettling feeling that he’s forgotten something important. It lingers in his chest, creeping up his spine as he runs through the previous day in his mind. Work had gone as usual, no missions went sideways, nothing seemed off—so why does he feel like he’s made a terrible mistake?

And then, it hits him.

Your birthday.

Xavier sits up so fast that he actually gets lightheaded. He forgot. He forgot.

The realization settles into his bones like a cold weight, making his usual grogginess disappear instantly. He’s already moving before he can even fully process it, running a hand through his silver hair in frustration. How could he have let this happen? He knows he’s forgetful sometimes—distracted, too caught up in missions or losing track of time—but your birthday? Of all the things to forget, he had forgotten the one day that should have been about you.

His mind races with every possible reaction you might have had. Were you upset? Had you been waiting all day for him to say something? Did you pretend it was fine, even though it wasn’t? That thought hurts. It hurts worse than any injury he’s ever sustained in battle. He imagines you spending the day holding out hope, maybe even giving him chances to remember, only for him to say nothing.

He feels sick.

Xavier doesn’t hesitate. He throws on his jacket, grabs his keys, and heads straight to find you. If you’re at home, he knocks—firmer than usual, as if he’s trying to physically knock away his mistake. If you’re out, he searches, guided by instinct and urgency.

The moment he sees you, his sharp blue eyes search your face for signs of how you’re feeling. Are you angry? Disappointed? Trying to act like it doesn’t matter? He hates that he has to guess. He should have been there. He should have remembered.

"…I forgot, didn’t I?" His voice is softer than usual, lacking its usual teasing edge. There’s no excuse, no attempt to dodge the truth. Just quiet guilt.

Xavier isn’t the type to panic openly, but his regret is undeniable. He rubs the back of his neck—a rare show of uncertainty from him—and steps closer, as if trying to physically close the distance that his mistake has created.

"I don’t have an excuse. I just—" He exhales, frustration at himself bleeding into his voice. "I don’t know how I forgot. I should have been there, should have made the day special for you. But I didn’t. And that’s on me."

His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he deserves to. He hates the idea of you feeling unimportant because of him. The thought alone makes something tighten in his chest.

"Tell me how to make it up to you," he says, looking at you with the kind of intensity that makes it impossible to doubt his sincerity. "Because I will. However you want. Just say the word."

But that’s not enough. Not for him. He’s not just going to fix this with a single apology. He wants to show you.

Xavier doesn’t waste time. Once he knows where he stands with you—whether you need space, reassurance, or a little payback in the form of making him work for your forgiveness—he immediately starts making things right.

He doesn’t just buy you a last-minute gift to try and make up for it. No, that’s not personal enough. Instead, he recreates your birthday, a day late but no less meaningful.

Maybe he takes you somewhere quiet but special, a place that reminds him of you. Maybe he sets up a stargazing spot on a rooftop, bringing blankets and snacks, telling you it’s because he wanted to give you something that feels like forever.

Maybe he cooks for you—badly, because Xavier and the kitchen are a dangerous combination, but the effort is so heartfelt that you can’t be mad. He’d get flour on his face, burn something slightly, and still look at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

Or maybe he brings you a gift—not something extravagant, but something thoughtful. A tiny, carefully chosen charm. A book that reminded him of you. A star-shaped pendant, because you always joked that he had a habit of falling asleep under the stars. He wouldn’t say much about it, just press it into your hands and murmur, "Didn’t want you to think I don’t pay attention."

He watches you carefully the whole time, making sure you feel loved, valued. He doesn’t over-explain or beg for forgiveness—he just shows you.

And when the night winds down, and he pulls you into his arms, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, he whispers:

"I won’t forget again."

And you know, in the quiet certainty of his voice, that he means it.

Zayne

Zayne was exhausted.

The hospital had been relentless, a blur of critical patients, rapid decisions, and near misses. There had been moments he thought he might not even make it home tonight—almost being quarantined had only been the cherry on top of the chaos. His body ached in a way he had learned to ignore, but as he finally stepped out into the cold night air, his thoughts were blank, his mind running on autopilot.

That was, until he saw you.

Sitting on the doorstep of his home, your figure illuminated under the soft yellow glow of the streetlight. A glittering dress hugged your form, shimmering faintly even in the dim light, and a sash lay diagonally across your body, its edges slightly crinkled from the way your arms had been folded over yourself. Your head rested in your hands, your posture slumped—not just from the cold, but from something else entirely.

Something in his chest clenched.

He stopped in his tracks, the weight of his coat sliding off his arm. It landed on the pavement with a quiet thud, the sound breaking the silence of the night. You startled at the noise, lifting your head to see him standing there, his expression unreadable.

Then, as if some unseen force wrenched his gaze downward, his eyes flicked to his watch.

2:04 AM.

The date had changed.

It hit him all at once. The cogs in his mind, sluggish from exhaustion, clicked into place, and his stomach twisted with the weight of the realization.

Your birthday.

His breath left him in a slow, silent exhale.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stared at him, and for the first time in a long time, Zayne felt a crushing, unfamiliar sense of guilt settle over him. He had let the day slip through his fingers, consumed by the chaos of work, and now—now, here you were, alone, in a dress you had probably worn in hopes of celebrating. And he had missed it.

Completely.

He took a slow step toward you, lowering himself to sit beside you on the step. The cold from the pavement seeped through his slacks, but he ignored it.

“You should’ve called me.” His voice was quiet, steady, but there was a tightness beneath it.

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “I did.”

His jaw tensed. He had no memory of that. The hospital had been chaos—his phone likely left in his office, forgotten in the madness. That didn’t make it better.

For a long moment, there was only silence. The city around you was quiet at this hour, the world asleep while the two of you sat in the aftermath of his mistake.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn’t a rushed, meaningless apology. It was slow, deliberate—weighted with sincerity.

You turned to look at him, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself to truly see you. The way your makeup had smudged slightly, the way your lips pressed together as if fighting back something you didn’t want to say.

You weren’t just disappointed.

You were hurt.

His fingers curled into his slacks, his mind searching for the right thing to do, the right thing to say.

Then, as if making a decision, he reached for you. His hands—steady, careful hands that had saved lives and stitched wounds—found yours, his fingertips brushing against the chill of your skin before enclosing them completely.

“Let me fix this.”

You blinked. “It’s already tomorrow, Zayne.”

“Then we’ll start over.” His voice was firm, resolute. “Right now.”

Before you could argue, he was already standing, tugging you gently up with him. The world may have declared your birthday over, but he refused to accept that.

Without hesitation, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering at the lapels for just a second before he pulled away. Then, taking your hand in his, he gave the faintest tug, silently urging you to follow him.

You furrowed your brows. “Where are we going?”

His lips quirked—just slightly. “To get cake.”

You stared at him. “Zayne, it’s two in the morning.”

“And you still haven’t had a proper birthday.”

His voice was so matter-of-fact, so Zayne, that you almost wanted to laugh. Almost.

But there was something about the way he was holding your hand, something about the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, as if grounding himself in your presence. Something about the way he had taken one look at you and immediately decided that no, the day wasn’t over, not until he made it right.

So you followed him.

The city at 2 AM was eerily quiet, but Zayne led you with the same certainty he carried in the operating room, his hand never leaving yours as he walked with purpose. Eventually, you ended up at a small convenience store—the only place still open at this hour.

Zayne scanned the shelves with a critical eye, and you watched, bemused, as this brilliant, award-winning surgeon carefully inspected pre-packaged slices of cake as if they were surgical instruments.

Finally, he picked one. A simple chocolate slice. He held it up to you in silent question.

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “That’ll do.”

Minutes later, you found yourselves outside again, sitting on a bench beneath the glow of a streetlamp, the city stretching empty and quiet around you.

Zayne pulled out a pair of disposable chopsticks from his pocket, breaking them apart with practiced ease before handing them to you.

You gave him a look. “Of course you have chopsticks on you.”

He merely raised a brow. “You forgot utensils last time.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh at that—softer this time, real. And when he caught the sound of it, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

The two of you sat in silence, sharing the slice of cake, the quiet hum of the city your only companion.

At one point, he glanced down at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with the utmost care, he reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the last remnants of smudged mascara.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

It was late. Too late. The moment had passed. But somehow, as you sat there, eating cake in the early hours of the morning with Zayne by your side, it didn’t seem to matter.

And when he finally leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

1K notes · View notes

longlivethedragons · 2 months ago

Text

I was just gonna draw this as a silly meme doodle buuuuuuuuuuuut I might’ve gotten a bit carried away lol

Version without the textbox below

640 notes · View notes

onlybeeewrites · 3 months ago

Text

Echos

Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.

But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.

He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.

For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.

And then it all fell apart.

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.

963 notes · View notes

lostintransist · 4 months ago

Text

Noona's Dukedom Gave Me Brain Worms

@beloveds-embrace legit gave me brain worms. We aren't going to talk about how long this damn thing got. Can be read without context of the Dukedom AU but it makes more sense if you've read all the possible endings. Shout out to @strangergraphics for the cute divider. ***It got a little bit away from me... Word count: Shy of 6K AO3

Sneaking into the stable of the noble house of Price was a bad idea. He knew it. The hunger gnawing at his spine pushed him forward despite his mind’s warnings. Due to the starvation, his body was smaller than it should have been. He used that advantage to sneak between the slats in the fencing and to hide below the edge of the empty stalls.

Voices and clopping of hooves lifted over the walls. The grooms were rotating the horses in the paddock, he would have a few moments to scrounge for something to eat. He would even take the horse’s oats at this point.

Darting from the stall he scanned the walls for a full door; the horse food would most likely be up to keep away the rodents. His hand nearly touched the handle when a swish of skirts had him unlatching a stall with a large black horse and hiding. The horse did not care for his presence and began to flick its ears and swish their tail.

The swishing of skirts continued, nearer and nearer to the stall with the upset horse. It stopped and he ducked further down, holding the door shut but not letting it latch for fear that the sound would travel. Three loud breaths in his ears and the horse pawing at the straw were all the sounds that he could hear.

“Child, I need you to come out of there. Now.”

The voice held the commands with familiarity. Shutting his eyes tight the boy wished that God listened to orphans. He did not complete another breath before he was hauled out by the collar of his shirt. The damn thing ripped as the woman slammed the door closed to the angry sounds of a horse.

“Ma’am!” A groom, dressed in nicer clothes than should ever be used to care for horses, came running in. He skidded to a halt at the sight of the boy. “Do you need me to take care of him, my Lady?”

Hells beyond, of course, he had been found by the lady of the house. The devil must want his soul something fierce.

“No. Thank you, Benjamin.” You must dismiss him with a nod for the groom eyes him warily before heading back outside.

Chancing a glance upward he saw a lovely dress, must be the height of fashion because none of it made sense to him, and a sad face.

“What is your name child?” You ask him kindly, despite the hand still gripping the ripped portion of his shirt.

He thought about running, leaving his shirt behind in your hand.

You let out a small hiss of reprimand and the thought is abandoned.

“David, ma’am.”

Even in those two words, he knew his low-brow accent could be heard.

“And what are you doing in the stables and with my husband’s horse, David?”

He thinks about lying. You must see it in his face for the small bit of tension in your shoulders falls away, as does your hand.

“Come with me, David. And before you tell me the lie on your tongue, make up a story. Tell me the most unrealistic reason of how you came here, and then we can discuss the truth.” You gesture to the bright light beyond the stable and begin to walk.

You make it several steps before you turn around and lift a brow at him. Trained by society to listen to his betters David scurries after you.

He tells you a tale, of how fae had stolen him away from his family and left him for dead in the woods because he never seemed to grow. He spun the story so neatly that he nearly missed that they entered the side door of the grand manor on the property. A maid passed in front of you, long strides taking her down the hall.

“Mary,” you state her name, waiting for her to pause with a quiet, ‘yes ma’am’ before you continue. “Please send a tray of bread and cheese to my room. Also, have someone open the old trunks in the nursery to see if there are any clothes that would fit this child.”

Mary’s eyes flick to him and back to the lady, the confusion only thinly masked.

“And if his Lordship asks?”

David knew this wasn’t usual; his last posting would have called that cheek and seen him dismissed. You handle it with almost an ease of familiarity.

“Then send his Lordship to my room.” You settle a hand on his shoulder, directing him to the stairs, “Come, David.”

He moves where you direct, curious and cautious in equal measure. He had no training for how to act when the lady of the house pulls him into her sitting room and directed him to sit on a wooden chair near a writing desk. You disappear into what David assumes to be your bedroom for a moment.

Taking a moment to observe the room he notices a stack of books next to a comfortable chair with a blanket draped over the back of it. There is dust in the corners of the room and along the windowsill. Your maids were terrible at their jobs.

His mother had been a maid before she had been forced to put him in the orphanage due to illness and probably dying from consumption. She would be ashamed to claim this room as clean. For a duchess no less? Disgraceful. David could feel his brows pull down in a glare as he looked more. No stack of wood near the hearth, and a large collection of ash in the grate spoke of negligence.

When you return you are carrying a pitcher of water, a bowl, and a rag. Setting all of them on the floor you settle yourself down next to them. David had never seen a lady deign to sit on the floor before.

Pouring some water into the bowl, you wet the rag and wring it out before gently lifting it to his face.

“Where are your parents, child?” You ask in kindness, he flinches anyway.

He was a bastard of an earl and a maid who could not refuse. A knowing enters your eyes at the set of his chin.

“They do not care for you here.” His tone is serious.

It is your turn to flinch. It does not stop you from wiping the dirt from his face.

“What makes you say that?” You ask in a quiet voice, eyes not straying from your task.

“The maid was cheeky, and the state of your sitting room. Any maid worth her salt would not let dust collect like this.” He is still scowling as you rinse your rag and begin on one eye.

“Mmm, the staff were chosen by my husband before marriage. He is…resistant to change,” you hedge.

David does not reply other than to watch you in silence. Something here did not feel right. He would know, he had served in a great house once before. The lady of that house had been a mean and hateful woman, nothing like what you had presented yourself as. No one in the gentry would have saved him from a horse or brought him into their space to dress and feed him. He decided he would stay, ask for a position, and see if you were as good as this first impression.

A light knock at the door did not prevent you from finishing your task.

“Enter,” you called as you started on his hands.

“Found these in the nursery ma’am, a few moth holes but they will serve for now.” Mary, the cheeky maid from earlier glared at you as she settled the clothes across the settee. The tray of bread and cheese rested on the cushion next to the clothes.

David glared at her over your head. Mary jerked back when she saw his black look. She returned a sneer and breezed from the room as easy as you please. Acted like she owned the damn place.

“You need new maids,” David near as growled as his child’s voice would allow. Confusion washed over him like sacrament water at your soft smile, both hands holding his.

“Let’s get you in some clean clothes and get some food in your belly. I can hear it from here,” rising from your position on the floor you settle the water on a side table and join him near the settee.

David fingers the fabric. It is finer than anything he has ever worn, even with the moth holes. Glancing up you are looking at him with expectation. He had not grown much since the orphanage at eight but he knew that changing in front of you would not be wise. In response to the single brow you lifted, he held up the clothes in answer.

“Use the antechamber,” you point to the same door you had used to bring back the water.

Soon enough David is changed into new clothes and is seated on the settee stuffing his face with bread and cheese in alternating bites. Sleep overtook him with the strength of an executioner. When he stirred next he could feel your fingers parting his hair. The deep voice came again, that is what had woken him.

“Are you sure this is what you are willing to bargain for, wife?”

“John, as I am your wife in name only, I am asking for a compromise. Let me take the child as a ward and I will delay choosing a lover until he is grown and managing his own affairs.”

You present the option as if it makes sense and is the only logical choice. David slits his eyes open, taking in the pattern of your dress up close.

“I am not allowed,” David heard the fury in your words, he wondered if the duke did. “To take a lover for fear that he will feed the roses. But none of you would stoop so low as to murder a child. Heaven forbid I get to feel a modicum of love in my own home.”

“You tread a dangerous line, wife.”

Shifting fabric from behind his head has David tensing to leap up and defend you from a blow. Your fingers dig into his hair enough to give a warning, ‘Stay still.’

“No more dangerous than your lovers do, husband.”

The silence is laced with danger, it wrings his neck as if he were the queen. Your fingers tighten almost painfully on his skull. David breathes, slow and steady, matching the lie of your calming breaths.

“Are you threate—”

“I am again repeating my offer. I care for the boy as my ward; in return, I delay taking a lover so you may continue to enjoy your three without worrying about my behavior.”

David thinks not even the queen could keep her composure in this situation. You maneuvered your husband magnificently.

“You would have been a good general wife,” the Duke replies coolly.

“How fortunate for me then women are property and not people,” you reply with equal chill.

He grew, and grew, and grew. Regular meals and exercise saw David immediately falling into several growth spurts. He only wore short pants for three months before you had a tailor taking in some of your husband’s older and discarded clothes. He still wonders how much you paid the valet to sneak them out of John’s room.

David had taken to calling everyone by their first names. John and Simon were not ‘my lord’ or any other superfluous title they did not deserve, for they did not treat you as a gentleman should. Dinners were stilted in silence. You sat at one end of the great table, David seated next to you; eight chairs separated the pair of men at the end from your bright smile. They never attempted to usurp convention and sit closer, or invite either of you to move up and forgo the distance.

Your days were split between bringing David’s reading and math skills up to speed as you secured a teacher for him. Or rather David flourished under your tutelage until several teachers arrived to teach him math, French, history, Latin, and even science.

The house never suffered under the reduction in your attention. That did not stop the head butler from calling attention to the delay in requests being fulfilled.

Mr. Kyle Garrick could be no older than you. While twenty-four appeared ancient to his twelve the head butler being no more than thirty. He had never heard of such a thing below stairs, and the servants would have gossiped about it.

Kyle stood now in your office, eyes trained above your head as he spoke to you. David watched from his place at a side table; chalk pinched between his fingers and letters abandoned.

“The staff have reported that the expected deliveries have been delayed,” he clasped his hands behind his back, still not looking at you.

“Are the staff in need of an item urgently?” You look up from your correspondence. While John might manage the land, you managed the people and the tenants and the local clergy and did so without ruffling any feathers. David had to say you worked harder than your husband.

Kyle’s nose scrunched as if the question were one he would rather not answer.

“No. Not as of yet ma’am”

“And have you confirmed that the deliveries will arrive before the matter becomes urgent?” You arch a brow at your head butler.

The angry shift of his jaw tells David you are a master at stepping through this house without any of the blood you let fall onto your skirts.

“Yes,” comes the terse reply.

“Then is there anything else you need from me, Mr. Garrick?” Your face is innocent and open as Kyle’s eyes flick to you.

“No, ma’am. Thank you,” Kyle turns sharply on a heel, every line of his suit pressed to perfection.

Both you and David watch Kyle as he pauses at the door. Without turning he broaches the subject.

“Ma’am the staff have all been wondering…about the boy.”

David glances to Kyle’s hand on the doorknob. His arm shakes with the force with which he is holding it.

“David is my ward. He is confirmed as such in my will and by John’s own solicitor. If any of the staff take issue with the decision they can be dismissed immediately with a letter of recommendation and their wages due,” you reply, the chill in your tone removing all heat from your office.

The words land like arrows in Kyle’s back from the way his spine straightens.

“Yes ma’am, thank you,” he flings open the door and is gone with only a soft click of the shutting door to mark his departure.

Kyle was added to his list of people in this place who were not safe, right next to John and Simon. The head chef joined that list on the selfsame day.

Nipping down into the kitchens for a bite to eat, for feeding his hungry body only seemed to fuel more hunger, David listened to Johnny rant and rave about the lady of the house and her ‘particular tastes’ and her unwillingness to eat any meat presented to her. Something in his tone hinted that his anger grew from something deeper than a delicate palette. David did not raid the kitchen when any staff might be present from now on.

Observation was a tool that kept David safe on the streets after he had escaped the orphanage. Between his teachers and his daily meals with you, David witnessed a deepening sadness he could only attribute to your husband and his lovers.

Each night you tucked him into bed in the room next to yours. Reciting the Lord’s Prayer, reading a chapter of whatever book he had been reading, and laying a kiss on his brow were the standard. One night you laid an especially long kiss on his brow.

“I think I would have taken to my bed and never left if you had not arrived when you did David. Thank you for allowing me to save myself for you,” were the whispered words against his forehead.

Having no words for the overwhelming feelings in his chest David sat upright and hugged you tight.

“You’re the best mother I could have asked for,” came his own whispered reply.

Neither of you commented on the tears in the others eyes.

Nearly a year passed in that building others called home and he thought of it as a shared prison. At thirteen he had put on nearly a stone in weight and could hold his own academically with any boy his age who had been nurtured from the womb to stand among the peerage.

A letter from your desk, and a preemptive payment, secured him a spot at Eton in London. The household held its breath as you directed both your items and David’s to be packed for the move. John preferred the country estate but kept a home in the city for when Parliament was in session. David had missed the frigid argument that must have ensued before you were allowed to leave.

The years at Eton were grueling. Being a no-name ward to the Lady Price did not buy him the safety he would have received at being an acknowledged earl’s son. He often returned to the home he shared with you each weekend littered with bruises and with a sour mood.

It only took three weekends for you to call on your friends with children at Eton to run interference and to hire a pugilist to teach David how to handle the rest. Things didn’t get easier for nearly a year.

Returning as a fourteen-year-old with a bit more weight on his bones David channeled the attitudes he had seen both John and Simon wield to great effect and used his fists to even greater effect. His attitude and willingness to scrabble with even the boys who could be called men made the rounds. He walked away from every fight. Limping and spitting blood still counted as walking away.

Only once did David pull the attitude of the duke out with you.

“I will not be attending the picnic this weekend.”

David looked down his nose at you where you sat reading a Jane Austin novel. He stood, to give himself the illusion of height. He didn’t really mind either way about the picnic but he wanted to test his powers against you. When he looked back on the moment as a fully grown man he could see that he wanted to be sure that you could, would, still love him and keep him in hand as he grew. He wanted to know if you would protect him, even from himself.

A single finger slipped between the pages, turning it.

“David, if I do not let my husband speak to me so, why would I let you?”

The lack of emotion in your question sent sparks of fear up his spine, akin to the fireworks he had seen last year.

He remained silent and unsure how to reign in the wild horse of his mistake.

Closing your book softly you lift your eyes up to him. A wall of neutrality sat in your eyes that he hadn’t seen since leaving the country estate. Patting the seat next to you twice you waited until David sat to prune his behavior.

“Command is something given, not taken. If you wish to be a leader among men they first will need to want to follow you.” Only the sounds of carriages on the cobblestone outside the window break the silence. “My husband commands because of his birthright. I command because I have been trusted to do so. All of the charitable works I accomplish while you are in school, the lives I change, the directives I lead? These have all been trusted to me because I have proven I will not abuse them.”

David swallowed hard, lip starting to quiver.

“I’m sorry, mum,” his voice is small, a dandelion of admitting he had been wrong.

You reach up behind him, and despite the years between then and now being filled with nothing but love and gentle guidance, he still flinched. The hand on his head pulled him to your breast, soothing him as he cried.

“Trust I will care for you. Trust that I love you, David. If you have concerns we can discuss them, but no one deserves high-handedness unless they have proved themselves worthy of its censure.”

College had been his goal, the plan he would dare say. That plan flew out the window when John called David to his London office and handed him a letter.

“I have need of my wife, and our bargain has come to a conclusion. This is your commission. You will be serving under Admiral Wishart. He is expecting you on the third. The Royal William sets sail on the fifth,” John said all this with a wild gleam in his eye.

David snatched the letter from John’s hand, scanning over every word. His stomach sank further with each line he reread.

John Price had purchased a commission for him. As no law stood in the way of paying for a commission for any man, David had been promised to the crown as a soldier against his will.

Straightening to his full height David took three deep breaths to prepare his thoughts.

“She will not forgive you for this.”

“Maybe,” John shrugged, “But a woman of her age yearns for a child and with you gone, I can provide her with one.”

Civility fled with the thought of this man, so long abandoning his wife, touching her in any way filled David with nothing but rage.

“You would have better luck stealing the king’s trousers from his still awake body than bedding your wife. Good day, sir,” he infused the word sir with every ounce of hate he held for the man.

David had searched you out after leaving John’s office. Eighteen had once felt so grown, but now he knew he could be nothing more than a child masquerading as an adult. He had found you having tea with the neighbor. Pacing the front hall his hands worrying at his cuffs David swallowed hard to force the acid back into his stomach. The butler, this one old like every other butler was, announced him.

Rodgers opened the door wide for David to pass through. Instead, he caught your eye, the tears in his own clear even from the distance. Rising without removing your eyes from him you took your leave. Sliding your hand into the crook of his arm you nod for Rodgers to open the front door.

The door is not fully shut when David whips out the commission letter for you and tears streak down his face. Reading the letter three times all color leeches from your face.

“He didn’t,” you whisper, aghast.

“Mum, I’m scared,” David hugs himself, trying to keep the pieces of himself from flying in every direction. “He said you yearned for a child, and he could give you one with me gone.”

The pallor of your panic disappears until all that is left is a Duchess. You take his hand, squeezing it tight.

“You have all the skills to get through this. Wishart is a solid man to serve under and despite all his faults, John did purchase you a commission which will keep you safer than if you had volunteered. Now come and lay down in my bed and let me read to you.”

David laughed out a sob. You had not read to him like this since he went to Eton. The offer is all the sweeter because soon he won’t have a chance. Holding your hand up all the stairs he settles into your bed, arms wrapped around your middle. The soothing effect of your voice lulls him into sleep.

When he wakes he is alone in your bed and a soft sobbing drifts from the closet. He never doubted your love for him, but to hear you weep for him nailed it to the center of his soul.

He would survive the war.

Better yet he would come back decorated and rich beyond measure.

Six years passed before David could settle his feet on soil and not track his eyes around the port waiting for the bell to drag him back. He had clawed his way through the ranks; he saved so many men that when he had received his own ship as a captain he had nearly a full crew from volunteers alone. He had been made one of the youngest captains in the Navy.

Your last letter had reached him four years ago. He doubted any of his had reached you, spread out along the coasts as they were.

He and his men had eight weeks of leave while their ship was dry-docked and fixed. The first thought that crossed his might was to find you, Duchess Price, his mum.

The lamp lighters were working their way down the street as he approached the last non-floating home he had. Music drifted to the street from the open windows. Laughter and a cacophony of voices told him that a party was in full swing. Bounding up the stairs David knocked twice, loudly.

Hawthorne, the man who had served as butler when he left for the sea opened the door with an imperious look.

“Yes?” He lifted a brow.

“Hawthorne is that any way to greet the prodigal son?” David grinned and lifted both brows.

All servant’s decorum fled when Hawthorne realized who stood on the stoop.

“Master David? We all thought you dead.”

Stepping into the door David pushes it open forcing Hawthorne to let him in.

“Is the duchess in my good man?” He pats the butler on the shoulder.

“She is entertaining, bu—”

David does not wait to hear what other words might have followed. His long strides ate up the distance to the sitting room. And there you were, dressed in starlight. A healthy look on your face and a gentle smile at your current conversation companion ease the tightness in his chest that had lingered since you waved him off at the docks all those years ago.

The woman you are speaking with glances at him as he moves closer. Turning you follow her gaze. Your brows pull together as you look him over.

He had been so familiar with your thoughts when he left he can see them now. ‘This is not a guest I invited. Could he be my husband’s invite? Why does he look familiar?’ And there it is, the recognition.

“David?!”

No sign of a woman trained in moderation here, only a mum welcoming her son back from the dead. He catches you as you fling yourself into his arms. David spins you twice before settling you back on your feet.

“‘‘ello mum,” he whispered down to you.

Blinking away the tears you remember all of your guests. Turning you address the room.

“My friends, let me reintroduce you to my ward, David. He has been serving in the Royal Navy and has just returned to us,” your hand settles on his arm, fingers digging into the muscle below his sleeve.

Nodding to the room David settled his other hand on yours. That is when he shifts his head enough to find Simon and John standing together, staring daggers at him. He gifts them with a saccharine grin. They scowl all the harder.

The instant you let go of his arm they bully David into the hall and further into the study.

“When I sent you to war I did not expect you to return a captain,” John flicked at the brass on David’s chest.

“I didn’t expect you to still be holding tighter to your lover than your wife,” David eyed Simon before dropping his eyes back to John. “She never did forgive you, did she?”

David had gotten taller than he realized. Simon had towered over him as a child, now he looked down to make eye contact with the man.

“We’ll make this fast. Are you the duchess’ paramore?”

Recoiling as if he had been shot, David stared at the two men agog.

“This is the longest I have been on land since I left to fulfill my commission and you are asking if I am bedding the woman who I view as a mother?” Disgust dripped off every word. “What in the nine hells led you to that conclusion?”

John and Simon share a look.

“There is a report that the duchess took a lover. A man of large stature who has not been seen in polite society before,” John explains, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

Smirking, David can’t help the rush of pride that fills his chest. You were still holding your own.

“Must burn you up inside, both of you, that she continues to hold you at bay,” David gloated.

“And how would you know that so recently returned to land?” Simon snapped at him.

“It’s clear from this conversation.” David gestures between them, “You waited too long to offer her love and she found the idea of your bitter fruit repugnant, didn’t she?”

The sour look on their faces had David folding in half laughing.

“And now she has taken a lover and you mistook me for her paramore,” David clutched at his stomach as the laughter continued. “Ah, this is such a better reunion than I had hoped for.”

“This is not a laughing matter, boy,” John chastised him.

Standing tall David wiped the tears that had leaked from his eyes.

“On the contrary I find this to be the funniest thing I have heard in nearly a year. When the duchess brought me into your home as a child she did so to fill the void you left her with. Had you loved her, any of you or your lovers, she would not have taken me in to fill that hole. But more’s the loss for you. Now when you can finally see the gem you threw away, I hope it burns.”

David threw open the door of the study. He left behind him two men who would forever regret not seeing the gem in their midst. Rejoining you in the party he answered your questioning look with a smile and a shake of his head.

When at last all the guests are tucked into their carriages and heading for home you pull David into your sitting room and lock the door. It is here you are able to take his face between your hands and study him like a vicar does the bible. Seated on the settee, he lets you examine him and ensure for yourself that he is well.

“You scared me, David. I thought you were dead. No one could confirm if you were alive or dead for so long I went into mourning for you.”

The thought of you wearing black for him tugged at his heart.

“We were pulled into a series of secret missions, our still being alive was not reported anywhere. I doubt even your husband would have been able to find the information on us if he had asked,” David bumped your forehead with his own.

Letting his face go with a laugh he can finally appreciate the fact you are more beautiful than when he took to the sea. It’s no wonder there are rumors of you taking a lover.

“Is it true you have taken a paramore?” David leans back into the seat.

His eyes go wide as you squirm slightly. He sits straight again and stares at you as you grab a shawl left within reach.

“Mum?”

“It is not that simple, David,” you hedge.

“I am a smart man, you made sure of that. Now tell me, please,” he took one of your hands between his.

Heaving a great sigh you look at the man your son had become.

“After John signed you away to death I nearly perished. My heart had been broken and I knew deep in my soul you would not return to me.” Curling your fingers around his you look at them as you continue, “The crown asked that I help host a collection of the Austrian aristocracy. The task gave me something to focus on. It was no more than something to fill my time until the fourth set of visitors. I meet one Lukas König, a lord.”

Your words peter out as your shifting and squirming increase.

“Go on,” David encourages.

“It did not begin as it has progressed. He makes me laugh and listens and values my opinion,” you speak as if pleading your case before a judge.

You look up at him, searching for something. He must not provide the answer you are looking for because you tuck your chin to your chest again.

“Mum,” David frees one hand to lift your chin to see your tear-stained eyes, “What do you need from me to be free of this prison? A divorce? I know men close to the Archbishop and am willing to call in all my favors to see you happy.”

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, so different from the ones earlier squeezed from his eyes by laughter.

“You would do that for me?” The breaks in your voice hurt him deeply.

“For the woman that saved me time and again? For you who became my mother when you did not need to? I would do anything for you, including delivering you to Austria myself.”

“David, my son, I think I will take you up on that offer.”

Before he heads back to the sea, David will see you to the arms of a man who loves you. He will know you are safe and when he returns to you he expects to have at least one sibling. He keeps that thought tucked behind his smile.

Masterlist

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #dukedom au #noona inspired this #konig x you #konig x reader #lostintransist writing #x reader #poly 141 #angsty au #but it ends happy

414 notes · View notes

snowyslytherinowl · 6 months ago

Text

A Love Paid in Galleons - Part 2

PAIRING: Severus Snape x Reader

SUMMARY: Knowing that no one would ever want him, Severus hires a prostitute to help him lose his virginity. But what he doesn't anticipate is that he'll give his heart to her as well.

Part 1 here

This part is heavier and less smutty than part 1, but it ofc includes a happy ending. 🫶 WARNINGS: IMPLIED SEXUAL ABUSE AND DISCUSSIONS OF PROSTITUTION (no graphic descriptions of either, however).

18+ DUE TO SEXUAL CONTENT; MINORS DNI!

*GIF isn't mine; credit to @smilingformoney

“G’morning,” you mumble into Severus’s back. He didn’t hear your footsteps as you climbed down the stairs. He has to stop himself from jumping at the sudden contact, but he soon relaxes. Nothing beats the feeling of your arms snuggly wrapped around him.

“Hello, darling.” Severus tries to discreetly hide the sliced food and basket. He can only hope that you didn’t see anything on your walk into the kitchen.

“What’re you making?” you ask, your voice still heavy with sleepiness. You pull away from him to pour yourself a steaming cup of coffee, freshly brewed by Severus. Your eyes drift to the minced ham and plucked grapes resting in bowls on the counter.

He nervously chuckles and pulls the food toward him in a poor attempt to conceal his plans. “Lunch. For later, of course.”

“Mmm, I hope you enjoy it.”

He picks at his cuticles and looks at the ground, too shy to look you in the eye. “Well, er, this is a picnic for the both of us.” When you only stare at him, he nervously adds, “As long as you do not have a busy schedule for the day.”

Severus is surprised when you tear up and throw yourself into his arms. “Severus…. You really made this for me? For us?”

“I… of course,” he says. “There is nothing I enjoy more than spending time with you.”

“Oh, Sev.” You pull back from the hug and kiss him. He wraps his arms around you and melts into the kiss, pouring his heart out to you.

You keep him close even when you have to break for air. You twirl his hair with your fingers and rest your head on his shoulder, your breath tickling his ear as you whisper, “I love you.”

Severus drifts from his dream into a groggy haze when he feels something wet on his neck. He first internally groans, wishing that the dream lasted for at least another minute. And then he panics, wondering where he is and what is happening. Then, he remembers the events of the previous night and relaxes. Even though he usually hates waking up in the mornings, this one is different: he has you here. Sunlight pours in from the window and shines on your face and messy hair. You move closer to him and press another wet kiss to his neck. Severus shivers.

“Good morning, Severus. How you’d sleep?” Severus looks around and takes in more of his surroundings. One of your legs is sprawled over his legs and you’re tightly hugging his middle. He naturally gets flustered at even the briefest of touches from you, yet his most recent dream has left him extra sensitive to your touch. He tries to push away thoughts of the dream now that he has the real you in front of him, but he can’t ignore the pang in his heart.

“Pleasantly. How was your night?”

“Excellent.” You nuzzle your nose in the crook of his shoulder and lazily kiss his neck once more. Severus relaxes in your embrace and your soft touches, feeling no rush to get out of bed. It seems that your touches aren’t aimless, though. One of your hands slowly caresses his chest and down his torso until you reach the hem of his pajama pants.

Your hand isn’t even anywhere near his cock, but he struggles to stifle a whimper. You pull back so that you’re facing him, a lazy grin on your face. “Did you dream about me last night, Severus?”

He doesn’t know whether he’d be more embarrassed to admit that he had overly affectionate dreams about you, or to lie and say that he dreamt of inappropriate things. “Er… I… did,” he stammers, hoping that you won’t ask for specifics.

You light up with curiosity. “What were they like?”

“Well…. they were… relaxing,” he replies, trying to dodge the question.

“Oh? What did we do?”

“Er…” His mind goes blank, partially because he doesn’t know what to say and partially because he can feel your fingers playing with the hem of his pajama pants. You pull back the band of his pants and stick one finger inside while you aimlessly tap your other fingers. His face heats up as you continue to gaze at him expectantly.

Seconds drag on for an eternity before you finally laugh. “It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me.” You go one step further, stretching back the elastic of the boxers and slithering three fingers inside. His breath hitches when you move closer to whisper into his ear, “I just hope that you dreamt only good things about me.”

“Of course I did,” he breathes. An angel like you can only produce heavenly dreams.

You grin and slowly start to massage his cock. Severus groans in delight and allows his eyes to flutter closed, wanting to savor the moment and likely the last touches he’d experience from you. Without thinking, he rests his head on your shoulder and buries his face against your chest. He breathes in the dampened scent of your perfume and the orchid body wash you borrowed from him, trying to memorize this exact scent.

You touch him like you’re in no rush either; your fingers stroke his length and you press wet kisses to the exposed parts of his neck and face. It doesn’t take long before he’s fully hard and throbbing in your hand. You swipe your thumb over the precum now beading at the tip of his cock, spreading it up and down his length. And while he wants to drag this out, your touch is too gentle and he becomes desperate for more friction. He instinctually shifts his hips to press closer to you and thrusts himself in your hand.

Your lips pull into a smile at the sound of his whimpers and how the slightest of touches turn him into a desperate man. Embarrassment flushes his cheeks, yet his heart and body show no desire to maintain his dignity. His hips rut more erratically, begging for you to squeeze tighter and rub more aggressively. A desperate “please” escapes his lips and his fingers clutch your forearm.

You oblige to his desires and stroke his cock with more gusto, even slithering your other hand into his boxers to massage his balls. His balls tighten and his manhood twitches, waiting for sweet release. He begs his body to hold on for a moment longer, to stop being so sensitive, to not embarrass him by coming so soon. But he’s too weak to hold himself back. Severus presses his lips against yours as he shakes and cums all over your hands and his boxers, his moans drowned out by your lips.

His body reels from your caresses and the warmth of your embrace, stuck in a state of utter bliss. He wants to stay here with you forever, even if it means never getting up from this bed.

You nuzzle your nose against his and then into his hair to peck more lazy kisses. Severus can’t tell how long you stay pressed against him, but he’s disappointed when you pull away and stand from the bed. He feels an urge to pull you back into bed and cuddle against you, keeping you here for as long as he can. There’s also a strange look in your eyes; you gaze down at him in silence for an awkward amount of time before you speak up. “I’m going to wash my hands,” you say quietly.

“Okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes follow you from the bedside table and to the sink until you close the bathroom door behind you. Severus spreads himself out on the bed and sighs, trying to prevent his mind from drifting into the inevitable yet horrible thoughts he doesn’t want to confront.

Once you finish cleaning yourself, he slips into the bathroom without saying a word to you. He pulls down his pants and winces at the sight of his cum-stained underwear, feeling like a pathetic teenager. He peels off the rest of his clothes and starts a warm shower, wanting to erase the signs of how pathetic and sensitive he is. Yet his hands ghost over his hips, neck, and hair, remembering the feelings of your soft hands all over his body. Control yourself, Severus has to tell himself when a lump forms in his throat.

But Severus struggles to keep himself together. He changes into clean underwear, pants, and a dark green T-shirt and looks at himself in the mirror. He looks at his crooked nose, his greasy hair, his sallow skin, the bags under his eyes, and the lines already forming on his face. So miserable, so pathetic. But as he continues to stare at himself, he sees something new in himself. He looks more relaxed, the usual tired and resentful expression in his eyes mixed with a new emotion: joy. How can he cope with your parting when you’ve made him happier than he’s ever been before? His eyes fill with tears and he faces away from the mirror, blinking them away.

After he pulls himself together and erases the evidence of his tears, he goes back into the bedroom. He discovers that you’ve done his bed and neatly placed his sleeping clothes and the pajamas you borrowed into his laundry basket. He frowns when he sees that you’ve changed back into your original dress. It’s colder than usual this morning and he doesn’t want you to shiver.

“If you prefer, I can give you a shirt to wear.”

You shake your head. “But I won’t be able to give it back to you.”

“Do not worry about that.” He pulls out a black T-shirt from his closet and hands it to you. “You may keep it.”

You fiddle with the soft fabric and avoid looking at him. “Severus, thank you.”

“You are welcome.” An awkward silence engulfs the room until he asks, “When must you leave?”

“I have to be back at the brothel by nine, but I want to leave fifteen minutes early if that’s fine by you. I want to have time to get ready for work.” He looks at the clock. 7:25. Less than an hour and a half. Severus feels like he might be sick.

“They ask you to work this early?”

“No. I work two jobs. This isn’t my primary job.”

Two jobs? Why would you work as a prostitute if you have a second job? And if you start your second job shortly after nine, then that must mean you barely have any time for yourself. Even though he desperately wants to cherish your presence for these last two hours, he knows that he should give you a break.

“I will go downstairs to cook us breakfast. You may stay here and do as you please. I will notify you when the food is prepared.”

“It’s all right. I’ll come down with you.” You smile and put a hand on his shoulder. Severus tries not to immediately crumble.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I can help you cook too.” You gesture to the door, expecting him to lead the way. Severus obliges and brings you to the kitchen, secretly internally soaring at the thought of spending more time with you.

Severus rummages the fridge for half-decent breakfast food. Sausages and eggs are the best that he can come up with. The bruised fruits he finds in the back of the fridge will have to do. Now he wishes he had gone grocery shopping to buy better food for you.

When you ask him what you can prepare, he directs you to brew the coffee. Once the coffee machine stops whirring, you turn to him. “What else can I do to help?”

“Nothing. You may sit.”

You instead lean against the kitchen counter, standing much closer to him than expected. So close that he can feel the heat radiating off your body. “Are you sure? You’re already doing a huge favor by cooking.”

“Nonsense. You are my guest. I do not expect anything significant of you.” All he wants to do in these last moments together is to serve you, to make you feel cared for.

“Alrighty then.” You watch as he cooks, how he moves effortlessly as he flips the pan and slices the bruises off the fruit. Years of cutting potion ingredients have given him swift fingers.

Severus tries not to get flustered at your gaze or proximity, but it’s so hard when he can see your little smirk in the corner of his eye. He steadies his hand on the knife, trying to conceal his nervous shaking. Then, he stops himself from jumping when you nudge him and say, “You’re quite the talented cook.”

Severus looks up at you mid-slicing and pauses, the knife hovering above a strawberry. Your hair is still messy from sleep. Part of your shoulder is showing from your askew shirt. Your face may be plain after washing away the makeup, but you look utterly beautiful in the sunlight softly illuminating your face. He can see the natural pinkish hue of your lips and how bright your eyes are even without eyeliner or mascara to accentuate your features. He has to look back down at the cutting board before he looks even more like a fool.

Your smile grows into a smirk when you see red tinting his cheeks. “You’re quite cute, too.”

Severus coughs from the embarrassment. “That is hardly the right word to describe me.”

“I disagree. You get flustered easily and you’re so sweet. Those two traits epitomize cuteness.”

Sweet? You know nothing about him, nothing of his past. If you knew how he used to be a Death Eater, what he did to Lily, hell, even what he was like as a student, you would never call him sweet in a million years. What a blessing it is to have someone around who has no knowledge of him.

“While I am certain that your intentions are pure, I would not describe myself as ‘sweet’ either,” Severus scoffs, despite the warm and fuzzy feeling he’s experiencing because of that word. He plates the food and guides you to sit at the table all while avoiding your gaze.

“Well, I don’t often come across men who are as kind as you,” you comment with a shrug.

Severus looks up at you and you give him a lazy smile. But he can tell from the slight sag of your shoulders and the tired look in your eyes that your comment is more than a compliment for him; it attests to what you’ve been through. He knows that you’re a prostitute, yet the full scope of your reality hasn’t hit him until you made that simple comment. What happens to you behind closed doors? You may be understanding and kind to him, but is that the kind of treatment that’s afforded to you on a daily basis? You may be cheery around him, but do all of your clients get that same reaction out of you?

Severus likes to think that he’s treating you well. Yes, he provided you with clothing, allowed you to sleep on the bed, and cooked breakfast for you. But does doing those things really make him better than the other men who solicit you to feel better about themselves? He treated you as he should: like another human being. Yet how many nights have you gone to bed with an empty stomach, woken up with a stiff back from sleeping somewhere unideal, or abandoned like rubbish?

He feels as though his heart is being squeezed by a fist. A kind soul like you doesn’t deserve any of this. “I cannot imagine what you’ve been through…” Severus chokes out.

Although Severus is usually a master at hiding his emotions, he can barely control himself around you. His inner turmoil must be clearly reflected on his face because you bite your lower lip and frown. You reach across the table and take his hand in yours. “Severus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty.”

All of this feels wrong. You’ve spent your entire time here comforting and pleasing him. Even now, you’re comforting him after he became upset about your life. He wonders how you can stay so calm and be so sympathetic with him, and he can’t help but yearn to know more about who you are outside of this context.

There is one question about you that pops into his mind. Knowing that it’s likely too sensitive to ask, Severus’s words drag as he says, “May I ask you a question?”

Your thumb gently swipes over his hand. Even in these circumstances, the simplest touches from you are pleasant. “Of course. Go ahead,” you reply, encouragingly.

“I apologize if this is too personal, but I would like to know.” Severus continues hesitantly, “If you have another job… why do you also work as a prostitute?’

You look down and poke at your sausage, but thankfully, you aren’t taken aback. “One of them is my dream job. Unfortunately for me, that one doesn’t pay well and the income I make varies by week. The other, well…”

You pause and sigh before continuing, “Prostituting isn’t the… ideal job or something that I enjoy, but it pays well in proportion to how many hours I work. I need to spend as much time on… my other job as I can. I take on as many clients as necessary to cover the remaining expenses that my other job doesn’t cover. I usually only need to take on a few clients on the weekend and I’m free.”

Another pang pierces his heart. There has to be some other way for you to make money other than prostituting. “Do you have anyone to support you?”

“No. I don’t have many friends and my parents never cared for me,” you reply sadly. You slump in your seat and pick at your food without actually eating. Your sociable, sweet demeanor is gone.

Severus understands how you feel, to be trapped in a situation you don’t exactly desire without anyone caring for you. His father never loved him and his mother was too preoccupied with protecting herself to help him achieve a bright future. Even now, Severus doesn’t have anyone who truly loves or cares for him.

The reminders of his loneliness bear down heavily on him, but Severus takes it upon himself to squeeze your hand in reassurance. “I am truly sorry to hear this. I have experienced something similar myself, albeit that it doesn’t involve prostitution.”

“Really?” You perk up not because you are happy to hear about his own struggles, but because you’re happy that perhaps someone else finally understands you.

“Yes. I am the Potions Professor at Hogwarts.” His earlier hesitation to reveal his identity is long gone. After all, you just opened up to him about something very sensitive and private. The least he can do is confide in you and he has a feeling that you won’t go around telling his secrets.

“I took up my post at Hogwarts to honor an agreement I made with someone. Truth be told, I did not have a dream job in mind during my youth. My parents never encouraged me to think highly of myself or my capabilities, yet I knew I did not want to work with petulant students.” Severus tenses as he thinks of his parents, Dumbledore, Lily, and that dunderhead Harry Potter. “I have been stuck working at Hogwarts for approximately a decade now and am forced to clean up the messes of the rest of the staff and students. I dread the thought of returning there once this summer ends.”

“Hey, at least you have the rest of the summer to yourself,” you say, trying to cheer him up. There’s no humor or happiness in this conversation, but you continue, “At least look on the bright side. Only the best wizards and witches are hired to work at Hogwarts, so you must be incredibly intelligent.”

“Do not flatter me,” he scoffs, yet your compliment has made him feel better. Severus has always prided himself on his intelligence, but to hear you praise him like that, he feels even more special.

“It’s the truth! I was never good at brewing Potions. I’m pretty good with Charms though.” You pause and consider something. Then, seeming to have the same trust in him that he has in you, you continue, “I own a bookstore in wizarding London. I write and produce my own illustrated and charmed children’s books. It takes a long time to draw everything and even longer to test out what combinations of charms will produce the best effects.”

You sigh and shake your head. “I still haven’t made it big, though. It’s hard competing with Flourish and Blotts and there are already thousands of children’s books. It’s just disappointing because I’ve spent all my savings on buying that bookstore.”

“Do not worry. It is simply that your time has not yet come. I have full faith that you will find success soon.” As if to convey his conviction, he tightly squeezes your hand. He has never read your books or seen your store, but he just knows that there is something promising about you. You deserve all the success in the world.

“Thank you, Severus. You’re very kind.” To his surprise, you reach across the table and peck a kiss on his cheek. He presses a hand to the spot where you just kissed him, hopelessly wishing that the feeling of your lips against his cheek will stay with him forever.

You two start digging into your breakfast before it can get cold. Severus listens to your plans for the shop for the day and your complaints of children who try to steal books when they think you’re not looking. Dealing with annoying children is something that he can definitely relate to.

After you finish eating, you pour yourself a cup of coffee. Severus notices that you stand still in front of the brewer for longer than what’s necessary and even when you turn around, your hands are gripping the cup too tightly. “Do you think that we could just sit on the couch for a bit before I go?”

Severus looks at the clock on the wall. Only fifteen minutes remain until you must leave. His heart begins to beat rapidly. How hadn’t he noticed how fast the time was flying by?

“Yes. That is fine.” Severus pours himself his own cup of coffee and sits on the couch. He’s surprised, yet pleased, when you scoot over and settle against him, your head resting on his shoulder.

The time again moves by in silence. He doesn’t know what to say and perhaps that’s for the best. No matter what he may speak about, he’s afraid that his voice will choke with emotion. He can’t bear to look at you either, especially as you idly twirl his long hair with your fingers. Tears are already threatening to form in his eyes, his muscles are tense, and he can’t rip his mind off your impending departure. He’s at least thankful that you’re not snuggled closely enough to hear his heart racing in his chest.

You suddenly break the silence when you quietly comment, “Breakfast was great.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” he responds without looking at you.

“By the way, you should wear dark green more often. You look awfully cute in it.”

There you go, using that word again. Severus meets your gaze and notices you biting your bottom lip, smiling at him. Just your smile causes his heart to skip a beat and he has to look away from you before he gets too emotional.

“Thank you,” he says, not protesting this time. He does make a note to buy more dark green clothes, though.

In what feels like seconds, the clock indicates that it’s now your time for departure, 8:45. Severus hopes that you won’t notice the time on the wall or tell him you don’t want to leave either. A solid minute goes by without you saying anything until you sigh and untangle yourself from him. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go now.”

“I… I understand,” Severus concedes quietly. You two stand from the couch and head towards his front door, the place where all of this truly started.

But the full threat of your departure doesn’t totally sink in for Severus until you place your hand on the doorknob. At that moment, he breaks into a full panic. These are the very last seconds he’ll ever spend with you. He’s never going to see you again, never going to learn more about you, unless he solicits you again or finds your bookstore. But after everything you said about prostituting, it doesn’t feel right for him to do that. It’s not guaranteed that he’d be able to find your shop either.

This is too much to handle. His blood runs cold, his heart is now hammering, and he’s frozen in place. He has no idea how it happens, but his lips start moving. “I simply want to mention that I meant what I said earlier. I truly believe in you and your future success.”

You turn around to face him. His gaze bores into you as if he’s memorizing what you look like. He must get one last good look at you. Your messy but smooth hair. Gentle eyes. Soft lips. The curves of your jaw and cheeks. The way that your eyebrows are curved. He stores it all in his mind, hoping to never forget a detail.

“And I hope that things will work out for you, too.” You look at him for a long time before adding, “Maybe you can start a potion shop if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Open a potion shop, start a career in the Ministry, or work at Hogwarts for the rest of his life, it doesn’t matter. No matter what his future holds for him, he has realized one thing about it: he could truly be happy only if you were a part of it. As much as he hates to think that he’s given his heart to someone he’s known for less than a day, he knows that that is the reality. Yet there is one thing that will never become a reality: his desire for you two to be together. Your kind words and actions only occur because of your friendly affection towards him. He’s sure of it.

“Perhaps,” he replies idly.

You two look at each other for an awkward amount of time until you break the silence. “I guess I should go now.”

“Yes… you are right.” When you turn the doorknob, Severus quickly interjects, “Allow me.”

Severus opens his front door onto the street. Sunlight shines brightly and the sky is a beautiful blue. He wishes that he could spend such a beautiful day with you.

You two look out at children biking on the road and parents adjusting their briefcases before heading to work. “It would be best if you apparate behind the house,” he hesitantly suggests.

“Yeah.” You make no effort to move except for the turning of your head. “By the way, thanks for everything. Especially the food and the clothes. Your kindness means a lot to me.”

You briefly touch Severus’s arm and he has to quickly blink away the tears that form no matter how many times he tells himself to stay in control. This is it. You’re leaving. You’re finally leaving. The only person that has made him feel alive, made him feel valued and heard, is leaving. How can he ever cope with this separation? When Severus climbs into bed every night, his mind won’t be able to settle into sleep because he’ll constantly think about how you slept against him. Whenever Severus sits in his desk chair, he’ll always think about how he gave himself to you there. Whenever he enters his study to create his lesson plans for the following year, he’ll instead be reminded of your first kiss. Whenever he sits at his dining table to eat breakfast, he’ll always wish that you were sitting across from him, holding his hand and telling him secrets that you’ve never told anyone else. The memory of you will be too painful for him to bear, but he doesn’t ever want to forget you. An odd concoction of desperation, sadness, shame, confusion, frustration, anger, pain, and love all run through him.

Perhaps Severus is delusional. Perhaps this is the moment, out of all the moments in his life, that he’s completely lost his mind. But Severus notices something that sparks a dangerous sense of hope in him: one of your feet is on the pavement and the other foot is on the wood floor of his living room. You don’t want to leave either. And does he see a look of longing in your eyes? Did you place your hand on the doorframe to steady yourself or because you’re subconsciously tethering yourself to this place?

But behind that longing, he can also tell you’re in pain. In pain because your bookstore is struggling. In pain because you barely ever make enough to make ends meet. In pain because you have to prostitute tonight yet again. In pain because you have no one that cares for you. In pain because your life feels meaningless.

At that moment, the moment that you move to fully step out of his house and turn to walk down the alley, Severus has an incredibly impulsive thought. He knows that he has to do something. Not just for him, but more importantly, for you. He can’t allow you to suffer any longer.

“Wait!” he shouts after you. You stop and turn to face him, but you avoid his gaze.

“I deeply apologize if I am overstepping. However, I must ask you this before you leave, or else I will regret a missed opportunity for the rest of my life.” Severus is so arrested with fear, panic, and self-consciousness that he has no idea how his lips move or how he even forces his words out of his mouth. “I would like you to live here with me. I will cover all your financial expenses and support your store. You will not have to prostitute anymore.”

He takes both of your hands in his and holds onto them for dear life. The tears that he’s been trying to suppress have won out. They now flow freely down his cheeks and drip onto his shirt. He must look pitiful and pathetic, but he’s too overcome with emotion to control himself.

“I do not ask for sexual favors. I do not even ask that you pursue a romantic relationship with me. All I ask for in return is your companionship.” Severus is barely able to choke out his last sentence. “Please… I cannot bear to be alone any longer.”

Your expression is unreadable. You stare at him in silence for such a long time that he convinces himself that this was a mistake. You would never want to stay with him. He’s a disgusting man who does not understand boundaries. He must remind you of a desperate dog tied to a post, pathetically begging his owner not to abandon him. He’s so ashamed, so embarrassed for even asking you that he’s ready to run back into his house, shut the door, and cry for the rest of the day. That is until you throw yourself into his arms and kiss him.

Severus stumbles back from the impact but most importantly, the shock of your actions. You don’t need to say a word for him to understand that you’ve not just accepted his invitation to live with him, but that you want to pursue a romantic relationship with him. The new development fills him with such joy and giddiness that he wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes you tighter than he knows he should. And as demented as it sounds, he revels in the way your body shakes with sobs and how he can taste the tears now streaking down your face. Yet what he enjoys the most is how you kiss him with such intensity that this might as well be your last kiss. Thankfully, though, this will be the first of many kisses that you two will share.

You kiss each other for so long and with such intensity that by the time you separate, it’s a real possibility that you both might pass out. You laugh at his red face and cheeks and rest your forehead against his. “I would love to live with you. And I would also love to be your girlfriend if you’re willing.”

His heart soars to the heavens. Never in a million years did he think that he would have a girlfriend, let alone that it would be you. He responds with such enthusiasm that he trips over his words. “Girlfriend? That would… I… er… that would be more than I could dream of. Yes. I want to be your boyfriend.”

“You’re so cute.” You press a kiss on his cheek and step back. “Look, I want to run back into your house, but I still have to check in at the brothel and let them know that I’m quitting forever. And I still have to tend to the bookstore for the day and get ready. But I’ll come back here tonight at six, on the dot. I promise.”

“That is fine. I will see you at six.” These nine hours waiting for you will be the longest nine hours of his life, though every passing second means that he is one second closer to seeing you again.

“Great. See you soon!” You peck one last kiss to his lips and then walk down the alley, apparating away.

Severus has plenty of ideas of how to pass the time before you come back, but there is one thing that he’s most excited for: getting groceries and buying a second pillow just for you. And with you around, his house will finally become a home.

#snape #severus snape #smut #reader insert #severus snape x y/n #severus snape x you #severus snape x reader #snape x y/n #snape x reader #snape x you #hp #hp fanfic #angsty snape #angst #fluff #fluff and angst #happy ending

466 notes · View notes