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sulkingheichou012 · 2 months ago

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Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

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Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 12

The ground trembled beneath an army gathered at the heart of humanity’s last stand. Hunters of every rank stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons clenched tight in their grasp, faces grim but determined. Even the weakest among them stood their ground, refusing to abandon the front lines, because behind them was home—and family.

And at the forefront stood the Shadow Army. Ten thousand strong. Silent. Unflinching. Giants towered over mountains, the air thick with Tusk’s arcane incantations. Bellion, Igris and Beru knelt at Jinwoo’s side, their auras blazing in anticipation.

And standing just behind him was Y/N.

Her scythe rested over her shoulder, and at her feet was a massive, slumbering shadow—her dragon. Its pitch-black scales shimmered with deep violet veins, its breath rumbling like distant thunder.

She whispered to the dragon, “Be ready.”

The portal in the sky pulsed ominously, dark tendrils spilling out, distorting the air itself. And then— A tear ripped through the clouds.

He came.

Antares arrived like a black sun blotting out the heavens. Wings outspread, talons sharp enough to rend continents, his descent cracked the earth itself. His molten glowing red eyes swept the battlefield with disdain.

And then, they settled on Jinwoo.

“You’ve gathered quite the resistance,” Antares said, his deep voice like the grinding of mountains.

Jinwoo stood tall, unmoved. “They’re not here for me. They’re here to protect what matters.”

Antares chuckled. “Protect? When the end is inevitable?” He spread his claws wide, gesturing toward the swirling abyss above. “The Primordial Hunger stirs. Even if you kill me, you’ve already lost.”

Jinwoo tightened his grip on his blade. “I haven’t lost anything yet.”

Antares tilted his head, his gaze shifting—landing on Y/N.

She froze.

Her shadow dragon rose, snarling low at the Dragon Monarch. Antares’ interest piqued. “You,” he murmured. “The Balance Keeper. Ashborn’s broken anchor.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I’m not broken.”

She wasn’t ready for the sheer heat of that stare. It was like staring into the heart of an active volcano. Her chaotic brain, ever unhelpful, whispered: Majestic Daddy Dragon… Which was immediately followed by her own mental slap: Stop that!

But Antares noticed. Of course he did. Instead of fear, he found curiosity. Sparkle.

Antares gave a slow, cruel smile. “Perhaps not. But you will be.” he said, voice lowering as if it was a secret shared between them.

“I expected terror. But I see… fascination.”

But Jinwoo’s shadow swelled, and he took a deliberate step in front of her. “You will not touch her,” Jinwoo said, his voice dropping an octave.

Antares sighed. “A shame. She’s… intriguing.”

Antares’ offer came. Alliance. Partnership. Protection from the Primordial Hunger that was already stirring.

But Jinwoo refused. Exactly as Y/N knew he would.

And as Antares’ disappointment turned into lethal intent, Y/N found herself gripping her scythe tighter. This was it. The calm was over.

Jinwoo gave no warning. In a blink, he was in motion— Sword clashing against Antares’ talon in a blinding explosion of black and red.

The shockwave blew back the front line of Hunters. Tusk threw up shields of magic to hold the line.

Above them, titans clashed. Antares was relentless, his strength honed by eons of conquest. Jinwoo was faster, cutting deeper, shadow blades slashing like lightning strikes.

But it was not enough. Every time Jinwoo pressed forward, the portal tore wider behind Antares. The Primordial Hunger pulsed, screaming to be let loose upon the world.

Y/N didn’t stand still.

While Jinwoo fought Antares, she ran to the front lines. Hunters were falling, their ranks breaking under the weight of lesser dragons and corrupted beasts spilling from smaller tears. Y/N swung her scythe in wide arcs, cutting down monstrosities with brutal grace.

“Hold the line!” she shouted. Her dragon roared beside her, unleashing streams of black flame that consumed the enemy.

When a Hunter was about to fall, she was there. When a squad was about to break, she summoned shadow manifestations of ancient warriors, spectral heroes, and great beasts to bolster them.

But it wasn’t enough.

The monsters kept coming.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. But Y/N didn’t hesitate. She called forth more of her Shadow Manifestations—warriors she didn’t know, yet who stood for her as if they’d been waiting for the call their whole afterlife.

“You fight for me,” she whispered. “Then I fight for you.”

Y/N was everywhere. Her control of the battlefield was flawless.

And Antares noticed.

Through the corner of his eye, he watched as she rallied the broken, her dragon shielding the weak. The Balance Keeper… restoring the fragile thread between life and death, holding the tide back.

He sneered. “She’s interfering.”

But Jinwoo heard none of it. He was locked in a brutal exchange, his blade carving deep into Antares’ scales, his strength driven by something deeper—someone he couldn’t lose.

Antares roared, shifting back into his true form—massive wings blotting out the light. The heat of his flames scorched the land. The Shadow Legion roared in response. And Jinwoo’s shadows surged forward to meet him.

Jinwoo glanced once toward Y/N. And found her already staring at him.

He spoke through their minds. “I’m proud of you,” he said. And then, “Stay alive.”

Y/N’ throat tightened. “You too, idiot.”

And yet, the Primordial Hunger continued to awaken.

Y/N saw it. The portal above was too vast, too hungry. Even if Jinwoo defeated Antares, the world was moments away from being devoured.

And then it struck her.

Ashborn’s final battle. The memory of his agony as she gave her life to seal the rift. History was repeating itself.

Y/N bit her lip hard, her scythe trembling in her grip.

She turned back toward Jinwoo. He was fighting with everything he had. For her. For everyone.

Tears stung her eyes.

Jinwoo was struck hard by Antares.

He flew back, smashing into the ground with an explosion of debris.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She sprinted toward him, throwing herself down beside him.

He coughed, blood painting his lips. But his eyes were on her immediately, searching her face.

“You have to stay back,” he rasped. “I can do this.”

Y/N’ throat closed. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Before he could react, she leaned in— And pressed her forehead to his. A soft, lingering moment in the chaos.

“I’m glad I met you,” she whispered, tears threatening. “You… you are my home.”

Jinwoo’s breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t—”

But she was already rising. Running.

The battlefield had descended into utter chaos. The skies tore open with gaping maws of endless blackness, spilling the influence of the Primordial Hunger. Portals bled into each other, rupturing reality as monstrous distortions clawed at existence itself. Even Antares, locked in deadly combat with Jinwoo, glanced up once— And smiled. “The beginning of the end,” he whispered with cruel satisfaction.

But Y/N had already made her decision.

She exhaled shakily, lifting her gaze to the sky. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, calling to the massive shadow coiled nearby. Her dragon responded instantly, rising from the ground with a thunderous roar that shook what little was left of the earth.

Y/N vaulted onto its back. Her scythe stabbed into the beast’s hide—not to harm it, but to anchor herself as they surged skyward. The dragon’s wings spread wide, obsidian membranes shimmering like oil on water as it carried her toward the heart of the apocalyptic storm.

Below them, the Hunters were frozen in place, gazes lifted. “Lady Y/N…” murmured one of the low-rank Hunters, eyes wide in awe.

“She’s going for the portal!” shouted another.

“She’s going to close it!”

A rallying cry rose from the ranks. Their voices shook with desperation and hope.

Beru and other shadows knelt in the dirt, his mandibles clicking anxiously. Bellion and Igris, battered but standing tall, silently lifted his sword toward the sky in salute.

As Y/N and her dragon climbed higher, the winds howled violently. The Primordial Hunger’s influence battered at her, tendrils of dark energy lashing at her skin. Blood streaked her cheeks, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.

“Just a little closer…” she murmured. The dragon’s muscles coiled tight as it reached the apex of its flight. With a final, guttural roar, it unleashed a torrent of shadowflame, scouring a path directly into the heart of the portal.

Y/N rose to stand atop the dragon’s neck, arms wide. Her scythe vanished in a ripple of shadow. In its place, black tendrils erupted from her fingertips—long, thick shadow chains, glowing faintly with ancient runes.

“Bind,” she commanded. Her voice was steady, though her body shook.

The chains shot outward, spearing into the edges of the largest rift in the sky. The entire world seemed to groan under the strain as the chains anchored themselves deep into reality’s seams. Then— She pulled.

Y/N screamed. Shadow energy exploded from her body in a shockwave that sent the dragon tumbling beneath her. But she did not fall. She hovered, suspended by sheer will.

The chains groaned and tightened, inch by agonizing inch, dragging the portal shut. Each moment was a battle. For every meter the portal closed, the Primordial Hunger pushed back twice as hard.

Blood poured from her nose and ears. Her vision blurred. But Y/N smiled through it all. “Not this time,” she whispered. “I’ll finish it.”

Below, the Hunters watched in stunned silence. They saw her glowing like a dying star, her dragon dissolving beneath her into black dust. And still, she pulled the chains tighter.

Relief and sorrow warred in their expressions. “She’s doing it…” whispered a Hunter. “She’s winning.”

But others wept openly. “She’s… she’s not coming back, is she?”

Jinwoo felt it the moment Y/N gave herself to the Balance Keeper’s duty. A tearing sensation in his chest, as if something inside him was being ripped away.

He roared, driving Kamish’s fang deeper into Antares’ hide. The Dragon Monarch snarled, retaliating with brutal fury— But Jinwoo was relentless. Fueled by desperation. By rage.

He drove Antares back, deeper into the broken ruins of what was once a city. Every strike Jinwoo delivered cracked the air itself, his shadows swarming in a black hurricane.

Antares smirked through the pain. “You’ve already lost her,” he hissed.

And Jinwoo snapped. He unleashed everything. Antares’ massive body was thrown back, smashing through the remnants of a skyscraper, pinned by a forest of shadow spears.

Jinwoo didn’t wait. He turned and sprinted toward the sky.

The portal was closing. The chains had nearly finished their work. The sky was clearing.

But Y/N— She was falling.

Her dragon was gone, disintegrated into stardust. And she followed, her body fragmenting into particles of light and shadow. Each breath she took scattered her essence a little more.

Jinwoo’s heart stopped.

He leapt. Shadow teleportation blurred his form as he raced to catch her before she was lost.

“Y/N!” he shouted. Her gaze found him, dazed but soft. She smiled. “We did it.”

He caught her— But there was nothing solid. Her form dissolved against his chest, leaving faint warmth and motes of light behind.

“No. No, no, no… Please... not like this…” Jinwoo’s hands scrambled to hold her together, but his fingers passed through smoke and fading light.

And she was gone.

The portal sealed behind her, its edges stitched closed by shadow chains that dissolved into the ether.

Hunters dropped to their knees, some crying and roaring out in relief, others in grief. They had won. The world was saved.

But the cost…

Jinwoo stood in the center of the ruin, arms empty, head bowed. Shadows swirled around him, restless and mourning.

The silence was deafening.

Jinwoo knelt there for a long time, hands still out as if cradling something that wasn’t there. His head bowed. His shadows stood frozen behind him, unmoving, silent in mourning.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He simply… stopped.

The world was quiet. The battle was over. But the ache had only just begun.

And in the wind, A faint whisper: “I love you.”

His fists clenched. Tears dripped from his chin. But when he raised his head again, his eyes burned with purpose.

“I’ll find you, Y/N,” he swore. “Even if I have to tear through every realm to bring you home.”

And the Shadow Monarch took his first step toward a new journey.

<< Chapter 11 | Chapter 13 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet; @o-qi-shisme; @sleepyamaya; @harrystylesfan2686; @night-shadowblood-writes2; @weaponxgames; @bubera974;

Sending big hugs to every Y/N out there 😭💔

#jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo

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sweetflanfiction · 4 months ago

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Asymetrical Symphony - Part 17

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16

• ··········· • ············ •

After some long minutes of silent work, Viktor placed the goggles on his forehead again and turned his face to your almost sleeping figure.

"Wake up." He threw a small piece of pink chalk at your chest.

"Is it finished?" You blinked away the sleepiness and chucked the chalk back to him.

"No... but I am cross-eyed looking at the thing." He took the goggles off his head and swiveled the bench to you. "Have you tried the new suffix I showed you?”

The night of the dinner, he had sent Jayce a note with a new symbol to add to your runes. It was disappointing that he had come himself to give you the thing, but you knew how much he hated these events.

You were certain that, in every universe imaginable, Viktor, co-creator of Hextech, would not be caught dead in a room full of Pilties unless under threat. And Jayce wasn’t about to threaten his life for a two-hour dinner, mostly because if your mother knew, she would threaten Jayce’s life in return. It was a give-and-take with these two.

“Yes, I did.” You turned on the couch so you were fully lying on it, drawing runes in the air.

“And…?” He leaned his elbows into his knees.

“I had to explain to my mother why my bedroom was in disarray after a whirlwind went through it.” You looked down at him, watching his warm eyes widen. “And then I had to explain to Voltaire why all the lights in the house went out for the whole day."

“The rune I gave you was how we… well… in simple terms… solidify the hex gem light into a laser.” He made a gesture with his hand, like a claw coming from his back. “Those results are unexpected. What runes did you speak for them?”

“The move made the whirlwind and the starlight made lightning, but—”

“Lightning?” Viktor was already opening and closing drawers, trying to find his notebook.

“Yup…and--”

“The solidified state of your move rune is a whirlwind, and the starlight is lightning. I need to write this down.” He interrupted, his words coming out as quickly as the lighting from the little marbles of light.

“I already did…but—

“Good, we should try it again in a more... secure place.” He finally found the book with a little 'aha' sound and opened it.

“I’m not going back in the broom closet.” You quickly added to his speech. “Neither of these two runes makes me comfortable in an enclosed space.”

“Understandable.” He nodded after a while of consideration.

“Anyway…what shined was the mending rune…”

“How so?”

Getting up from the couch, you walked over to his desk, intent on grabbing the closest piece of chalk on the table, but Viktor’s hand appeared, palming his pencils and pulling them away from you quickly.

You leaned your hip against his table, crossed your arms, and raised an eyebrow, your face a mask of inquiry.

“There are disposable pencils in the first drawer.” He said, motioning with his chin to the place he mentioned.

You opened the drawer, and six, somewhat new, charcoal pencils were stored. You frowned and took one out. They hadn't even been sharpened yet.

“These are brand new.” You showed him the pencil, and he nodded.

“Yes, and they are also Jayce’s…” You saw the mischievous grin on his face and shook your head.

“For your information, I was going to do this with chalk.” You broke the pencil in three places.

“That would be even worse!" He quickly placed all his writing utensils in a mug with Jayce's face on it. "Do you know how much I have to defend the use of colored chalk? I feel like I’m arguing my thesis…”

“What's with the Academy and not giving its scientists what they need to survive the grueling task of mathing?” You joked and threw him the middle part of the pencil, watching him fumbling to catch it before it hit the floor.

"Would you like to do math? Because I can play the piano. We can switch one day. See who lasts longer." He jokingly pointed to the arachnid-looking machinery.

“Are you done with the pity party?" You asked, grinning at him, and he nodded brightly.

"Yes, go ahead." He stretched his leg in front of him as he grabbed the edge of the table.

"I've also been managing to speak the rune with fewer movements every time.”

“Abbreviations of words are very common.” He looked at the ground and tilted his head. "Once you become accustomed to speaking a word, you can simply say its condensed form, and it will be understandable."

Viktor gently pushed himself along the table to roll over to where you stood, the last push a little too strong as he came bumping into your side. You grabbed his shoulder to keep both of you from falling to the floor, and he instinctively moved an arm around your waist. You looked down at him, and he up at you.

You both stood there for a while, and your hand moved closer to his neck, stroking it for a couple of seconds. He moved away and made a little laughing sound. You tilted your head to the side, raised your eyebrows, and didn't again.

"No." He moved away laughing, his hand dragging behind you, leaving a cold trail on your lower back.

And it was then you found out that this Viktor was ticklish. And that little childish detail, the way his eyes instantly filled with laughter, made you extremely happy. Viktor deserved to feel joy and happiness.

With a cough to clear your throat and get back to the present, you took the pencil and placed its pieces a little further apart than the last time, the middle part that you had discarded, missing. As you spoke the rune, you added the sustain and solidify symbols at the end.

The tendrils came out of the rune and found the intended target, touching the two parts of the rough snapped wood and then solidifying around it until it had the consistency of a paste. After a second the paste started to grow, the tendrils now coming out like gravity-defying candle wax from both sides. They met in the middle, forming a bridge of a blue, slimy material. Once the missing part of the pencil was filled, the paste started to harden, becoming a blue, shimmery shape that connected and glued both parts together.

“It connects what's missing now.” You whispered, trying not to startle the enthralled scientist.

Viktor grabbed the pencil and looked it over from every angle against the light, even tapping on it with his nail. It was slightly translucent, and the noise resembled knocking on a piece of thick glass. He wrote with it, and it worked as it should.

“It is a solid shape, yes, but I believe it’s not a replica of the pencil.” He said, chewing the inside of his mouth. His eyes lifted for a moment, and he went to grab his crutch.

Autumn was around the corner, and the temperature change made his bones and muscles ache. He had told you when you widened your eyes at his crutch and leg brace that when the cold seasons come, he uses them more often to help him. You didn't need to touch his back to know the back brace was there too.

The Viktor in your dimension had the same problem in his better days. Any weather change would bring his pain level up. He once told you it felt like his bones were grinding on his other and that his muscles were made of fire. It didn’t stop him from coming to the lab.

It didn’t seem to stop either of them.

You hadn’t questioned him using the brace on the hex leg, but you’d assume it would help stabilize it and even out its weight.

You were snapped out of memory lane when Viktor sat back down with a ‘humph’ on the stool. He quickly grabbed the screwdriver and started to separate the top side of the crutch from the bottom. In between them, there was a small mechanism. He grabbed that and showed it to you.

“This makes me able to readjust the height of the crutch. This spring makes this pin go into that hole and makes the crutch adjustment secure.” He told you and waited for a confirmation that you understood.

“Alright.” You nodded, confused, your eyes shifting from his to what was in his hand.

He took the spring out, and it left a space in the mechanism.

“Fix it.” He told you and gave you the broken thing.

Without questioning him, you made the rune and waited. The gooey magic substance attached to where you saw the spring start and where it ended, but it didn’t make the shape of the spring. It just connected those two pieces the same way it connected the pencil: with a solid blue cylindrical shape.

"Sorry." You told him, afraid you had broken his walking aid, but he shook his head.

“Interesting…” He grabbed a small hammer he had on his table and hit the new blue piece softly. “It creates new forms but not specific ones.”

“I just learned to speak it. Maybe it comes with practice.” He hit it again with a bit more force, and it broke. "It would be good to be able to actually create new forms."

Viktor nodded as he grabbed the old spring and set it again in its rightful place. He redid the aid, tried it a couple of times, and after he was satisfied, kept it between his knees, leaning his chin and his hands on the middle handle.

“I may be able to help you with that.” The scientist smiled and got up from the table, his leg brace whining at the movement. He went over to the hex core storage and came back with a small thing in his hand.

“It’s a panel with a missing gear.” He limped back towards you and threw himself on the couch, motioning for you to do the same.

You did, your knees touching as he showed you what he had in his hand. It was a small copper panel with two gears on each side, an empty spot in the middle, and a switch. He touched the switch, and one gear moved, but without the middle one, the last kept still. He stopped off the switch and moved his hand, a gear appearing between his fingers.

“The shape.” He turned the loose gear over to you and pointed a finger at the panel. “The place."

Understanding what he meant, you nodded and grabbed the panel gently, turning it over in your hands.

“Yes, Professor.” You noticed his hand squeeze the gear quickly and then let go. You looked up at him and watched as his usually caring golden eyes turned into something fiery, like hot coals in a fireplace. You saw his gaze quickly shift downwards to your mouth and then up, and as quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Hum... Good luck." He awkwardly got up from the couch and sat back down on his stool, quickly grabbing his goggles and placing them over his eyes.

There was a heat behind his eyes. A small flash from your dimension told you exactly what it meant. There were some things Viktor would enjoy, and when he threw those glances at you, you could pinpoint what they were. It would mostly end up in something that both enjoyed.

But your Viktor had been stubborn, and although you knew his feelings for you matched your feelings for him, there was always that little ‘I am dying’ detail that, no matter how much you told him you didn’t care, he didn’t forget. And you didn’t—couldn’t—blame him.

In the end, the only thing you could do was respect that.

You stayed in the lab with Viktor, trying to make a little gear out of the goo. You’d managed to make some shape out of it, but the gear was proving a little too difficult, and you could feel the tingle in your hand fade as you kept using it.

At some point, Jayce had joined in on the two of you, mumbling something about the council and their demands. Viktor had looked at him and simply passed him another part of ‘The Reader.’.

For a few hours, you forgot this wasn’t where you belonged. These weren’t your old friends. For a few hours, this was just a normal day of yours. After leaving the orchestra, you’d come by and idly sit by them, listening to them tinkering and reading a book about whatever subject you felt like. Sometimes you’d bring a guitar or some of your father’s records.

You felt the couch sink next to you, and you tucked your socked feet under the leg of whoever had sat down, your back leaning into the arm of the couch. It was muscle memory. It wouldn’t be strange for Jayce to lean against you when he sat; his big shoulders and torso were most likely to be used as a pillow, or for Viktor to place his legs on your lap gently, the pain becoming bearable when he stretched his muscles after being sat all day.

“Oh!”

Immediately you looked up and saw it was Viktor who had sat down, and clumsily you moved your feet away. Only to be stopped by a hand on your knee, a tired smile on his lips.

“There is no need to move.”

He moved his leg, so you could place your feet back where they were under his thigh, and then he rested his arm on your knees. Viktor leaned his back and shoulders against the couch, his neck stretching back and his long legs sprawled on the floor.

For a while, the only thing heard through the lab was Jayce’s angrily muttering against whatever he was welding. Whatever the council had asked him, he was not happy to comply.

“How is your gear making?” Viktor asked, turning his neck to look at you.

The board now was not as pristine as it had been. There were small pieces of crystal that you could get detached with the small hammer Viktor had provided. The best shape you could make was a splatter sort of circle, connecting the dents of the two other gears.

“Well, good news, bad news. Which one do you want first?” He showed you two fingers in the hand that had wrapped around your knees, indicating the second choice. “I don’t think this rune is made for creating shapes.”

“I was thinking as much. But I was hopeful it could take different paths to mend things.” You gave him the board, and he grabbed it, turning it around near his face and inspecting the blue goo on it. “The good news?”

“I can abbreviate the rune.” You smiled when he looked at you, eyebrows raised, impressed and proud.

The sound of a metal tool falling to the ground, followed by a curse, was heard on the other side of the room, and at the same time, a knock on the door.

Viktor groaned and clumsily got up, using the arm of the couch, your knees, and then the table to get himself upright while you sat up to a less comfortable position.

You quickly hid the small powdery leftovers of your tests and placed the glove on your hand. Even though it wasn’t as bright as before, it was still glowing.

Jayce grumbled as he got up to open the door.

“Hello,” the bright young voice of Sky echoed in the lab. “The council has given me some more project briefings…”

“Great…” Jayce threw whatever tool he had picked up from the floor on his part of the table. Sky flinched at the sound.

“Thank you, Miss Young.” Viktor grabbed his crutch and limped towards her, trying to appease the girl. “Is there anything else?”

“Hum…yeah…yes…” She looked at Viktor and smiled. “The council wants them reviewed right now.”

Jayce turned to look at Sky and was about to open his mouth to contest, but Viktor took several quick strides towards the woman while throwing Jayce a look you couldn’t see but that shut him up.

“Thank you. You can wait here if you want.” He pointed to the couch you were sitting at, and you gave her a quick wave.

“We’ll give them back as quickly as we can.”

She looked confused for a while when she saw you there but quickly gave you a quick smile and nodded at Viktor.

He looked back to watch her make her way to you and then smiled softly when your eyes met.

“Hello.” Sky said, sitting down next to you, her hands on her knees. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here after your appointment.”

“Hi!" You shrugged and rolled your eyes in an exasperated manner. "The gadget didn’t work properly, and Viktor is making some adjustments as he goes. Saves me the trips and the rescheduling.”

“Ah…yes…makes sense. More efficient that way. It's strange to have to add a planner to the multitude of other things we have to keep in check.” She pushed her glasses up and smiled, her expression showing her distaste for the added unnecessary work. “Oh, congratulations on the orchestra seat.”

“How…?”It took you by surprise that she knew about this since it only happened two days ago.

“Oh…My father works at the printing house, and the orchestra is doing the flyers and posters for this season. I saw your name on the roster.”

“Ah! It’s your father…of course.” In your world, her sister worked in the printing house. “The first winter show is right around the corner. Are you going to go?”

She looked at her hands and shook her hand.

“The tickets for the season's first shows are always too expensive. We’ll probably go later in the season.”

“Let me rephrase that…” you grinned at the girl. Much like any other person you’d met in this timeline, some of their traits and likes probably still happened to their counterparts here. And you knew Sky enjoyed music. You had invited her several times to watch the orchestra rehearse in your time. It was a free concert for her, and it was worth it to see her just ramble about it afterwards. “Would you like to go to the first show of the season?”

Her eyes brightened up, and you smiled, but her elation stopped short, and she shook her head, sighing.

“There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.” She smiled sadly.

“It’s no trouble. I have 2 seats always reserved in my name. It’s a thing they do to their musicians. My mother and Willah have their box; these two have the Academy’s ticket and will likely be invited. I don’t mind giving you the seats; you can take whoever you want…maybe your sister could come…” Her face lit up again as you realized what you just said and quickly corrected. ��If you have sisters…maybe a date…I don’t know…”

“Yes, my sister would love to go. Maybe my mother…I’ll ask…” She adjusted her glasses. “Are you sure? I truly don’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition or trouble. I would rather you have them than for them to be empty.”

“Thank you! You’ll be at the piano, right?”

You nodded, and the conversation rolled out easily. Talking about music and compositions and favorites. Sky had always been easy to talk to. She was a genuinely nice person. Had a huge crush on Viktor, which you teased him about, but unfortunately for her, the feelings he had for her didn’t reach those heights. When he became the Herald, he told you she lived in the astral world, always there in the core helping him navigate his new circumstances. He told you she was a friend; you knew she was his guilt.

A high-pitched sound was heard from somewhere in the lab, and both you and Sky looked at each other in silent confusion. It sounded like a kettle ready to boil over.

“Do you hear that?” She asked, looking around, and you nodded, looking around yourself.

She got up from the couch and took a step forward towards the two men sitting at the end of the table. The noise grew louder.

“Vik…” Sky started but was interrupted by a small explosion and three wheezing sounds coming from Jayce’s work table.

You ducked your head as three bolts carved themselves like bullets on the wall behind you. Viktor called your name, and Jayce ran to his station, turning off his still-working welder. You, however, were watching as three red stains appeared on Sky’s uniform.

You rushed forward as she fell to her knees, grabbing her just in time for her head not to hit the ground. She groaned and touched her hand in the three small holes in her abdomen.

“No, no, no.” You chanted, grabbing the blanket from the couch and putting pressure on her wounds. “Get someone!”

Viktor limped his way to both of you and awkwardly plopped down on the floor, the brace on his leg making it difficult for him to sit down.

“Jayce! Get the enforcers we need to get her to the hospital.” Viktor shouted back as well, and you heard Jayce’s footsteps hit the ground running.

“Ouch,” Sky winced weakly, looking down at herself. “I hate blood.”

“We all do, dear.” You placed a bloody hand on her forehead. “You got to breathe and be calm. Help is coming.”

She nodded, and you looked at Viktor, a bloody pool starting to form at his knees. Both your hands were now holding the thick blanket to her midsection. You kept checking her breathing and making sure she was conscious, but the minutes seemed like hours.

In a moment of silence, you heard the sound of a crackling fire, an orange light shining above you. Craning your neck up, you saw the ceiling crack and move apart. Not like the glass shattering, but a slow movement as the ceiling pieces moved away. The crackling sound mixed with a slow bubbling of liquid. It reminded you of when your mother would boil caramel and condensed milk for her dessert.

The mix of sounds and the slow movement of the cement was mesmerizing. Then a drop of a bright, hot, sizzling orange substance fell right into your gloved hand. For a moment you thought it would burn the leather away, but it simply got absorbed. It looked like a pebble hitting water, making small rounded waves. Before another drop fell, you quickly ripped the glove from your hand and caught the orange drip. Same effect, but before the little waves stopped, a bead of bright blue shot up to the ceiling.

In the distance, you heard Viktor call your name, but you were far more interested in the liquid within the cracks going from red to blue.

You saw more tears of blue hit the ceiling as the sound of bubbling and crackling grew louder in your ears. Every time a drop landed, the cracks moved in a different direction. When it stopped, you saw a rune. A new rune.

Unlike the purple one, this one also had an urgency but not a devouring need to be spoken. It was more than the hunger to use it; it was the urgency of the situation. Like the arcane was telling you to trust it. It was still strange to have this outer pull to do something. The other runes didn’t have it.

The whole rune appeared, and you blinked, searing it into your memory. And when… whatever it was… knew you were gonna trust it, the world spun.

Your glowing hand was almost out, but it still had a bit of magic left, and it moved on its own. Speaking this rune was unlike any other; there was no intention, no need to flick it. You spoke it, and your hand snapped to the blanket. With a swift movement, you pushed the blanket away, blood gushing out of the wounds.

You, or better, whatever was moving you, turned your head to the wall in front of you, staring at the three little dots on the wall like there was nothing else more interesting in the world.

Your body worked on its own accord like you had felt in the council room when you wrote the runes on the ground. Sky’s blood felt warm against your hand for a few seconds, until you felt that same warmth drag up from your hand to your elbow, to your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Viktor half shouted, his bloody hand grabbing your forearm, but when your gaze snapped to him, he quieted down with a gasp.

You wanted to watch it happen, but whatever will you had to move had been sucked out, and you found yourself staring unemotionally at your friends' worried golden orbs.

You felt a warmth go up your arm, into your clothed shoulder, as it traveled down your torso until it reached the mirrored spot Sky was hurt.

And then the warm feeling became a searing, white burning pain.

You’ve been punched in the gut several times. By Vi, by an array of Noxus soldiers. Even by a beautiful white and gold construct, that one hurt more feelings than flesh. It wasn’t pleasant; it made the air inside your body come out in a huff. It was painful, but it wasn’t this.

This was like someone took a hot knife and was carving something into your flesh. You could almost smell the burned skin.

Viktor shouted your name, but there was nothing you could do to snap out of whatever trance that rune got you into. You wanted to scream in pain; you wanted to ask for help, but nothing came out. You kept your eyes focused on your friend at his concerned gaze, trying to convey the pain you were feeling, but you weren't sure he understood it. You didn’t feel any muscle on your face move, and for a moment you panicked.

Was this what the hex angels felt whenever Viktor took command of their bodies? Was this it? This lack of control over your body as your mind screamed in pain?

You felt your body fall to the ground with a thud, your heartbeat quickly drumming in your ears. You heard Viktor shuffling to your side, but the world was quickly becoming black. As your vision faded, you saw Sky's teary eyes blink as life crept back into her.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies

#arcane #viktor #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #slow burn #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane x you #arcane reader

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venusacrossthestars · 1 year ago

Text

your hands in mine

Pairings- Charles Leclerc x fem!reader

WC-1k

warnings- fluff, thunderstorm, 1 sexual-ish innuendo

A/N: this is something special for @arieslost and her obsession with hands, especially Charles' hands. I wrote this and am posting in today (3/12) in honor of our 3 years of friendship. I wouldn't be who I am without her. nyoom duo till the end.

f1 masterlist

The roll of thunder is what startles you out of your slumber. Senses clouded by the lingering effects of sleep. For a moment you are unsure as to where you were. This looked nothing like your apartment. Another wave of thunder brought back the realization, I spent the night at Charles’.

You and the Monégasque driver had spent the entire day together, doing everything and nothing. He had a week off between races and was adamant about spending it all with you, not that you were complaining. This night had been no different. The two of you had gone out for a nice dinner, a little local spot near Charles’ flat that had live music. Your walk home was filled with a comfortable silence, which was one of your favorite things about being with Charles. The two of you didn’t need to be in constant conversation with each other, just each other presence was enough.��

The peacefulness followed the both of you as you worked through the motions of your nightly routine. Yours ended with reading a few chapters of whatever book you were reading and Charles practicing the piano. Kissing him before you each went off to do your own routine was the last thing you could fully remember. You must’ve fallen asleep out on the balcony and Charles must’ve carried you to bed.

Turing over in Charles’ arms was a task easier said than done. Anytime the two of you spooned his arms would magically become vice grips, impossible to get out of. However, Charles must have been equally, if not more, beat than you. The rain helping lull him to sleep as it had done to you, his arms were lax across your middle, making it easier to roll over to your opposite side.

As the wind picked up, a cool breeze swept through the open windows making you nestle further into Charles’ bare chest. Your hands coming to rest across his chest. Another thing to love about him, he always slept shirtless. It was impossible to deny how handsome Charles was, and contrary to popular belief of the media, you weren’t with Charles only for his looks and fame, though it was a perk. You didn’t care about any of those things. When he was with you he wasn’t Charles Leclerc Prince of Ferrari, he was just Charles and that’s all you needed.

The rain began to pour harder and you couldn’t restrain yourself from staring at Charles’ sleeping figure, it was as if Michelangelo personally carved him out of marble. His sharp features only a tad more relaxed in his slumber. Shamelessly, you move your hand from his chest and lightly begin to trace his face with the backside of your hand, carefully trying not to wake him. Content with your mapping skills you move your hand back to his chest, now mindlessly drawing shapes into his tan skin.

You continued your drawing, listening to the sounds of the storm as it raged on, lost in your own world. You would’ve stayed like that for longer if it wasn’t for a practically bright flash of lightning followed by a wave of thunder that had enough force to shake the room. This startled Charles from his slumber, which in turn startled you.

“We should close the window before the floor gets all wet,” Charles mumbled out, still in the clutches of sleep.

“Too comfy, don’t wanna move,” you mutter into his skin.

Charles slides out from under you, causing you to whine at the loss of contact.

“I’m going to be right back, mon cheri, do not worry.”

With your eyes well adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom, you can make out the outline of Charles’ back, along with the muscles that flex as he closes the window and redraws the curtains that have been blown open. You watch shamelessly. How can a man be that perfect?

“See something you like?” Charles teases, standing at the foot of the bed.

“Best view in the city.” Your answer seems to satisfy Charles as he climbs back into bed, back to your previous position.

Now, instead of your hands tracing Charles’ features it is Charles whose hands soothingly roam your arm. On one particular ticklish pass of his hand, you let out a small giggle and before he can go back to try and tickle you again you grab his hand.

With his hand in yours, you bring it to your lips and press small kisses against each of his knuckles. Happy with the amount of kisses you have given him you bring his hand back down and absent-mindedly play with his fingers. Charles, still awake, says nothing and continues to let you do as you please.

“I love your hands,” you admit.

“I know,” he chuckles out, “I like my hands too, especially when they are wrapped around your throat.”

You gasp at the statement, “you pervert. I’m complimenting you and your head is stuck in the gutter.”

“It always is when you’re around.”

You roll your eyes at his comment and he pinches your side in retaliation, “you can’t even see what I did.”

“I know you, and I know you just rolled your eyes at me.”

Well, he’s got you there. You stop messing around with his fingers and now it is Charles’ turn to fiddle with yours. He copies your motions, bringing your hand to also kiss each knuckle. Instead of stopping as you did with his, he lightly massages the meat of your palm.

You are fighting the feeling of sleep, but it is a losing battle between the massage Charles is giving you and sound of the rain hitting the now closed window. Charles mutters something that your foggy brain is unable to catch.

Laced with sleep you ask, “what did you say?”

“Just that I love your hands too.” Charles says while kissing your ring finger but you are too far gone to hear the last part. “And one day I’ll put a ring on your finger and be able to call you mine forever.”

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fluff

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stellaspectral · 5 days ago

Note

rottmnt raph deserves more love so my request is a rottmnt raphael x female reader! raph and reader are friends but she is much closer to donnie thanks to their love for books and videogames and the fact that she is pretty smart. they are always playfully teasing each other and almost always together just the two of them and raph is starting to get jealous even though he doesn’t understand why. leo is the one who notices it and he confronts raph and tells him that he has an obvious crush on reader and he should try to get closer to her or even ask her out instead of seething in silence and ruining the vibes in the room. but since leo knows that raph is both still in denial and a chicken when it comes to feelings, and that he most likely will not follow his advices, he decides to take the situation in his own hands. leo goes to donnie and pester him with questions about the reader and their relationship until donnie gives up and tells leo that the reader has had the biggest crush on raph since the first time that they met and honestly he is quite tired of hearing her lust and simp after him without doing nothing about it. so they start planning a way to force raph and reader to be alone and create the right atmosphere for them to confess to each other. they succeed and raph ends up kissing her and asking her on a first date! thank you so much, i love the way you write!

ps: i read all the chapters of sun killer and omg i can’t wait for the next one, i love the story so much! you also have amazing music taste period.

A/N: Firstly, I agree; Rise Raph definitely deserves more love! 🩷 Second, thank you so much for the lovely compliments! They mean a lot to me 😊

I hope you enjoy this story, anon! 🫶

Mission Accomplished (fluff)

❤️ ROTTMNT Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, very mild angst, jealous Raph, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, meddling brothers, matchmaking shenanigans, first kiss. All characters are aged-up.

Colorful explosions detonate across the screen as you focus on your current mission of utterly annihilating your purple-clad opponent.

“Ha! Your timing is slipping, Don Tron,” you yell, sidestepping his attack. A grin splits your face as you input a complex chain of moves, ready to press your advantage with your ultimate combo. “Get ready to get wrecked!”

Your character, Azure Striker, unleashes her move. Jagged bolts of blue lightning fill the screen, culminating in a massive eruption graphic centered squarely on Donnie’s avatar, Techno-Titan. The triumphant fanfare blares from the speakers as Azure Striker poses before there’s a slow-motion replay of Techno-Titan getting absolutely demolished.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Oooh, that felt good,” you crow, glancing over at Donnie.

He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh as his fingers finally release their death grip on the controller. “Seriously? The infinite lightning juggle again?” His voice is a mixture of exasperation and grudging respect.

“Face it—you zigged when you should have zagged,” you counter. “So predictable.”

“Predictable? I baited you into that corner! You just got lucky with the input read.”

“Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity, my friend,” you say sagely, navigating the victory screen prompts. The scoreboard pops up, showing your decisive win streak for the evening. “And I am always prepared to strike.”

Donnie snorts, but a small smile plays on his lips. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Azure ‘Prepared’ Striker. That just means my glorious comeback will be even more satisfying.” He goes back to the character select screen and highlights Techno-Titan’s purple icon. “Best two out of three?”

Your grin widens as you select Azure Striker without hesitation. “You’re on. But don’t cry when lightning strikes twice.”

He lets out a groan at your pun as the game loads the neon-drenched cyberpunk arena where the two of you will have yet another match. As the ‘READY?’ prompt appears, you prepare to make good on your taunt by beating him for the fourth time in a row in Cosmic Combat Chaos VII.

You’re so engrossed in the playful back-and-forth, the comfortable rhythm you and Donnie fall into when spending time together, that you don’t notice the presence lingering on the other side of the communal area of the lair.

But Raph notices. He always does when you and Donnie are like this. Which, lately, seems to be all the time.

He stands there, arms cross tightly over his plastron. He watches your easy laughter, the way you bump Donnie’s shoulder when you finally win the round, the way Donnie just rolls his eyes fondly. How you lean conspiratorially towards him to point out a flaw in his defense strategy. Watches Donnie respond with a technical explanation that somehow makes you laugh again.

A low growl rumbles in Raph’s chest, something tight and uncomfortable twisting in his gut. He doesn’t get it. Why does this bother him so much? You’re his friend too, right? So why does watching you hang out with Donnie, just Donnie, make his fists clench? Why does it feel like someone has shoved a hot needle into his ribs, a feeling of being on the outside, looking in—

—even though he’s standing right here.

Why does it feel like … like he’s missing out on something important? He doesn’t understand the possessive spike that jabs at him when Donnie makes you genuinely laugh, or the hollow feeling when you get deep into a conversation about some book Raph’s never even heard of. He just knows he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the feeling as he pads towards the dojo, needing to hit something. A lot. And hard. To let the familiar impact against the punching bag drown out the confusing static in his head.

A bit later, Leo finds him there. He leans casually against the doorframe, that signature smirk already in place. “Whoa there, big guy,” he drawls. “What’s got your shell in a twist? Or should I say, who?”

Raph freezes mid-swing, the momentum dying. He slowly turns, his face already flushed, brow furrowed. “What are you even talkin’ about, Leo? Nothin’s got my shell twisted. Just workin’ out some energy.”

Leo pushes off the frame, strolling into the training area. “Riiight. ‘Energy.’ The kind that mysteriously flares up every time she and Donnie do their nerd thing?” He stops a few feet from Raph. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I am NOT jealous!” Raph explodes, the words coming out louder and harsher than intended. He gestures emphatically with a fist. “She’s my friend! Donnie’s my brother! Why would I be jealous?” But even as he says it, the lie feels thin and brittle.

“Okay, fine, you’re not jealous,” Leo concedes with exaggerated patience. “You just glower and radiate doom whenever she’s within five feet of Donnie. Totally normal friend behavior.” He waits a beat. “Seriously, Raph. You like her. A lot. Why don’t you, I don’t know, talk to her? Ask her out? Anything besides standing nearby looking like you wanna punch a hole through the space-time continuum?”

Raph freezes. Ask you out? The thought sends a jolt of panic through him. What would he even say? What if you laughed? What if you said no? What if you only saw him as the big, dumb muscle? It’s safer this way.

Even if ‘this way’ involves feeling miserable whenever you’re near Donnie.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, finally turning away from the punching bag, refusing to meet Leo’s gaze. He brushes past his brother. “Just drop it.”

Leo watches him, the smirk finally fading into something resembling exasperation mixed with pity. “Suit yourself, hermano. But stewing in it isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.” He watches Raph leave and thinks, considering what to do next. Then, a mischievous glint sparks in his eyes, an idea forming. “If you won’t fix this … guess I’ll have to.”

Leo finds Donnie in his lab, soldering something intricate. You’d headed off to the convenience store to grab more snacks earlier, promising to bring Donnie back something that wasn’t pure sugar.

“Donnie! Dee! Donatello!” Leo slides dramatically into the lab. “We need to have a little chat.”

Donnie sighs, not looking up from his project. “If this is about re-calibrating the toaster to achieve optimal crispiness levels again, the answer is no.”

Leo huffs and flops onto one of the lab’s rolling chairs, spinning once before stopping himself with a foot on the floor. “Nope, this is way juicier. It’s about you. And our guest. Specifically, your thing with her.”

Donnie finally glances up, brows knitting. “Thing? What thing? We play games. We talk. She appreciates my intellectual discourse—unlike some people.”

Leo points a finger, grinning. “Exactly! You like her.”

Donnie immediately fumbles the soldering tool, barely catching it before it hits the floor. “What?! No—I mean—I respect her. She’s cool. Smart. Sharp sense of humor. But that doesn’t mean I like her, like her. And even if I had feelings, she’s not exactly … available.”

Leo tilts his head. “What makes you think that?”

Donnie pushes his goggles up, setting the soldering tool down with deliberate care. “It’s obvious even to me she likes Raph.”

“Wait,” Leo says, grinning. “She likes him back?!”

“Likes him back?” Donnie repeats, before pinching the bridge of nose. “I’ve known for weeks. Probably longer.” He exhales slowly. “I have received detailed analyzes of his musculature during training sessions. I have endured exhaustive hypothetical scenarios regarding potential romantic encounters. Listened to her sigh dreamily over his protective instincts more times than I can count. They are both infuriatingly inert.”

A slow, positively wicked grin spreads across Leo’s face. Oh, this is perfect. Raph likes you. Donnie says you like Raph. This whole situation is a tangled mess of oblivious pining. “Maybe what this situation needs is a little … catalyst. A nudge. To get things moving.”

Donnie narrows his eyes at his twin. “Nardo, what are you plotting?”

Leo leans forward, conspiratorially lowering his voice even though they’re alone in the lab. “Operation: Get the Big Guy the Girl! Or Operation: Stop Raph From Moping Around Like A Sad Puppy.” He shrugs. “Title’s a work in progress.”

Donnie pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Meddling in complex interpersonal emotional dynamics is statistically likely to result in catastrophic failure. Variables include Raph’s emotional density, her potential reaction to perceived manipulation, and the inherent awkwardness of forced proximity …”

“Pfft, details!” Leo waves a dismissive hand. “Look, they both like each other. You said it yourself! They’re just … stuck. We just need to create the perfect storm.”

“Perfect storm?” Donnie raises a skeptical brow. “You intend to manufacture meteorological phenomena to facilitate romantic confessions?”

“No, Donnie, a metaphorical perfect storm,” Leo clarifies, rolling his eyes. “The perfect setting. The perfect mood. Just the two of them. No distractions.” He pointedly looks around the lab, then back at Donnie. “Meaning us.”

Donnie taps a finger against his chin, the gears visibly turning. “Eliminate external stimuli … Isolate the subjects … Create a controlled environment conducive to emotional vulnerability …” A slow, calculating smile touches his lips, mirroring Leo’s mischievous one. “The hypothesis is sound.”

“Yes! See? You get it!” Leo pumps a fist. “So, what’s the plan? Fake mission? Accidental lockdown?”

“Overly complicated,” Donnie muses. “Subtlety is key. We need a scenario that feels natural yet provides ample opportunity for unguarded conversation. Perhaps a rooftop observation task?”

Leo snaps his fingers. “Ooh, I like it! Romantic city lights, feeling of seclusion. Very prime confession real estate.”

“Precisely,” Donnie agrees. “We can fabricate some low-level reconnaissance. Or—”

You return to the lair, bag filled with snacks in one hand, a drink in the other. You glance around, not seeing Donnie in the communal area anymore. So you head towards the lab, seeing the lights on and hearing voices coming from inside.

Leo leaves just as you make it to the entrance, giving you a friendly wave before he disappears elsewhere in the lair. “Okay, brought the goods!” you announce cheerfully as you enter. “Got your weird seaweed chips, and look, they had that ridiculously sour candy Raph likes!” You put the bag on a relatively clear spot on one of Donnie’s workbenches. “What were you guys chatting about?”

Donnie startles slightly, whipping his head around to face you. His eyes dart momentarily towards the doorway where Leo just vanished before settling back on you. “Ah! Yes! Snacks! Excellent procurement,” he says, maybe a little too loudly, focusing intently on the bag you placed down. He picks up the seaweed chips. “And Leo? Oh, just … the usual.” He waves a hand dismissively, already turning back to his workbench, busying himself by organizing wires that didn’t seem to need tidying.

You raise an eyebrow slightly but decide not to press further as you grab the brightly colored package from the bag. The cartoon mascot on the front looks like it’s imploding from sourness. You figured you’d track Raph down and give him his candy early. Just as you’re about to ask Donnie where he is, Leo reappears back in the lab doorway, this time with Mikey trailing behind him.

“Change of plans! Me and Miguel are heading topside. Got a lead on some weird energy fluctuations down by the docks. Sounds … electrifying.” He winks, clearly proud of his pun.

Mikey nods vigorously. “And dangerous.”

Leo slings an arm around Mikey’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, it sounds like it needs a specialist’s touch. You know, scanners, tricorders, fancy gizmos. Your department.”

Donnie sighs dramatically, though you don’t know this is all part of a plan the twins concocted. “Seriously? Energy fluctuations? Must I be dragged away from my work for every errant power surge?” He glances at his console, then back at Leo. “Fine. But if this turns out to be faulty wiring in a streetlamp again, you owe me seventeen uninterrupted hours of lab time.”

“Deal!” Leo says quickly, already herding Donnie towards the door.

“Aw, man,” you pipe up, slumping slightly. “But tonight was supposed to be movie night.” The initial excitement of your gaming victory and snack run fades, replaced by a wave of disappointment. The five of you hanging out, watching cheesy movies, was something you’d been looking forward to all day.

Leo pauses, offering a sympathetic (and slightly smug, though you don’t catch it) look. “Sorry, chica. Duty calls! Raincheck?”

Mikey adds, “We’ll be back super-fast! Probably.”

Donnie gives you a quick, almost apologetic glance before being pulled away, Leo practically shoving him out of the lab.

“Okay. Well, uh, be careful, guys,” you call out as they leave.

You’re then left in the sudden quiet. Disappointment about movie night still lingers. But then—it hits you. Donnie’s gone. Leo’s gone. Mikey’s gone. Which leaves … Your eyes widen as you look over at the bag of sour candy still sitting on Donnie’s workbench.

Just you. And Raph.

For movie night.

Suddenly, the disappointment evaporates. A nervous flutter starts in your stomach, a warmth spreading through your chest, your mind racing. Just you and Raph? Watching a movie? Alone? Would he even want to? Okay, you tell yourself. This could work. This could be … nice. Really nice, actually.

Grabbing the sour candy and your own snacks, you practically bounce out of the lab, your mission suddenly shifting from ‘shared movie night’ to ‘potential low-key hang-out with the giant turtle who makes your heart do stupid backflips’.

Now, where’s Raph?

You find Raph exactly where you expect him—in the dojo. But he’s not training. Rather, he’s sitting cross-legged against the wall, looking somewhere between zoned out and brooding. He doesn’t notice you at first.

So you do what anyone in your situation would: lob the sour candy at his chest.

It hits him with a soft thwack, bouncing and landing in his lap. He startles, looking up. Then his expression shifts from confusion to surprise to something softer—warmer—when he sees it’s you.

“I, uh, brought back up.” You hold up your own snacks, trying to sound casual, even though your pulse is anything but. “Movie night’s still on. Kind of. The others bailed, so I guess it’s just us.”

His eyes flick from the candy in his lap to your hopeful expression, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. And then—

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little rougher than usual. “Just us?”

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly. “If you’re not too busy being a broody lone wolf or whatever.”

He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, standing up slowly. “Nah. Was just … thinkin’. But, uh—yeah. Movie night sounds good.”

The awkward air that follows is heavy, but not in a bad way. You walk side-by-side back to the communal area. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re trying not to overthink every step, every breath, every glance you might catch from him in your peripheral vision.

You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart’s beating.

You flop onto the couch first, placing the snacks and your drink on the coffee table. Raph hesitates just a moment before sitting beside you. Not close enough to touch, but not far, either. Just close enough that you feel it. Since you got the movie ready earlier, you turn on the projector and lean back into the cushions as the screen flickers to life.

It’s the movie the five of you were supposed to watch together. Something cheesy and action-packed, full of bad one-liners and over-the-top explosions. But now, it’s just you and Raph. And he’s so aware of you next to him.

And you’re so aware of him trying not to look at you too much.

During the movie, your knees bump once—then again—and neither of you moves away. And about halfway through, Raph speaks. Almost too quietly to hear over the explosions on the screen.

“… I’m glad it’s just us.”

You look at him, your breath catching. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes fixed on the screen like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “I mean, I like when we all hang out. But tonight … this is nice.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and you lean just a little closer, emboldened. “Yeah. It is.”

Another pause.

Then he finally looks at you—really looks at you—and says, voice low and uncertain, “Hey, can I tell you somethin’ kinda dumb?”

You smile. “I don’t think anything you say could be dumb.”

He grunts softly, like he doesn’t believe that, but he takes a breath, anyway. “I like you. A lot.” He pauses. “I’ve been tryin’ to say it for so long, but … but I didn’t wanna mess up what we already got.”

You blink, the warmth in your chest exploding into something bright and golden. “For the record … I like you too. A lot.”

His eyes widen, and for a split second, he looks like he just short-circuited. And then he smiles. This soft, genuine, Raph smile—like you just handed him the universe. You lean your head gently against his shoulder, and he shifts slightly to lean into you, cautious but firm, as if afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

On the screen, there’s another explosion.

But the real fireworks come when Raph, his heart thundering a rhythm against his plastron that you can almost feel, finally turns fully towards you. The flashing colors from the movie screen dance across his features, but all you can focus on are his eyes. Intense, vulnerable, and searching yours.

He lifts a hand, big and calloused, and gently—so gently—tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles brush your cheek, and the touch sends a delightful shiver racing down your spine. “So,” he starts, his voice huskier now, “is this for real?”

You nod, unable to trust your voice for a moment, a radiant, joyful smile spreading across your face. Words feel inadequate for the soaring feeling in your chest.

That silent confirmation seems to be all the encouragement he needs. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. You don’t want to.

You meet him halfway, your eyes fluttering closed as your worlds tilt, colliding in the best possible way. His lips meet yours, hesitant at first. You lean into him, a soft sigh escaping you. The kiss deepens, slow and sweet and full of all the things you’ve both been too scared to say.

When you finally break apart, both a little breathless, he rests his forehead against yours. A wide, almost disbelieving grin stretches across his face, and his eyes remain closed as if he is savoring the moment. “Wow,” he breathes out, the single word laden with emotion.

You giggle. “Wow is right.”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes again, his own shining. “So, uh,” he clears his throat, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, making him look so endearing. He scratches the back of his neck, that classic Raph gesture when he’s nervous but pushing through. “Since … since this is, y’know, real and all … I was wonderin’ if maybe … you’d wanna go on a date? With me? Like an actual one. Just us?”

The words are out, a hopeful, slightly clumsy tumble, and you can’t stop the beaming smile that spreads across your face. “A date?” you echo softly, your voice laced with playful surprise. “With the mighty Raphael Hamato? Are you sure you can handle it?”

His blush deepens, but he grins. “Pretty sure I’m the one who should be askin’ you that.”

“In that case,” you say, your voice full of warmth and certainty, “I would absolutely love to go on a date with you.”

His grin widens even more, if it’s even possible. “Awesome!” he exclaims, then visibly reigns himself in a little, though the excitement is still clear on his face. “I, uh … I’ll think of somewhere good for us to go.”

You snuggle back against his side, feeling his arm coil around you, pulling you closer this time. The movie continues to play, the hero spouting another terrible one-liner, but neither of you is really watching anymore. Eventually, the overly dramatic finale comes and goes.

“Next time,” Raph says, “I’m pickin’ the movie. Somethin’ with fewer explosions and more reasons to cuddle.”

You smirk. “Deal.”

Again, the two of you kiss. And somewhere, not too far away, a trio of turtle brothers high-five in the shadows.

Mission very much accomplished.

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jamespotterismydaddy · 1 year ago

Text

Lord Husband (Chapter 6)

cregan x reader

A/N: feel free to let me know if this is a shit chapter because there were far too many people in my vicinity when i wrote it and focusing is already hard enough

series masterlist

word count: 1,500 words

Thunderstorms. Fuck. It’s hardly welcoming that, as you enter the North, in the last weeks of your journey, it would be pouring so hard that the men on horseback can’t see through the rain. The travels all have to come to a rest, annoyingly prolonging your time spent on the road.

There’s a knock on the door before it swings open to reveal Cregan, looking very damp. But still, a goofy grin graces his face.

Before anyone else can say anything, Safia speaks. “Oh. my lord! You must come in to get away from the cold rain.” She insists and he gives her a nod as he directs the grin at her.

Cregan knows you likely wouldn’t grant him entrance so he takes your handmaiden’s words at face value and steps into the carriage. “Thank you, ladies.” He says and both of your handmaidens blush. Since they sit together, the only free space is by your side and he seems to have no qualms with making himself comfortable. “I do hope lightning doesn’t frighten you, princess.” He says with a light teasing tone.

“You smell like a wet dog.” You say firmly and glare at him.

“I suppose that I would. Perhaps I need to dry off?” He says almost mischievously and then shakes his head side to side, flinging water droplets from his hair. Safia and Rose squeal and giggle at his actions. You just groan.

“Ugh! Cregan, stop that.” You say in a frustrated tone.

“Oh, are we on a first name basis now, y/n?” You want to sigh at how nice your name sounds when he says it, dripping from his tongue like nectar. It makes you angry.

“I did not mean to say it.”

“I think we ought to call each other by our first names. We are to be man and wife very soon.” He says with a smile and you take in the sight of him, his damp curls, his goofy grin, but you quickly snap yourself out of it.

Man and wife. What a plague.

“Of course… Cregan.” You say through gritted teeth and though you don’t sound like you’re talking to a lover, he seems more than pleased with the progress.

~~~

You do have to admit that the North is beautiful. You’ve seen winter. You’ve seen snow, but never like this. You want to press your face against the window like a silly child. It’s all you’ve wanted to do since you entered the area a few days ago, but you can’t. Because it is time. Winterfell must be just around the corner because the procession stops. There is a want to make a big show of you and Cregan as a united front, side by side on horseback as your dragon flies overhead. So that must be what it is time for, you think as the carriage door is opened for you.

“My dearest betrothed.” Lord Stark says as he holds out a hand for you. You feel the cold air nip at your cheeks as you accept it and step out of the carriage. You shiver a little bit. “You are cold.” He says as he removes one of his own furs.

“I am fine, my lord.” You say but he drapes it around your shoulders anyhow.

“I thought we agreed that you would call me by my name in non-formal settings.” He says a bit teasingly.

“We did.” You confirm and he chuckles when you don’t address him further.

You hold his arm as he leads you to the front of the procession. “Your horse.” He says as you approach a silver mare.

What a coincidence, a silver horse for a Targaryen.

You like the look of the beast anyhow. Even if you never had much need for horses before, you still are a skilled rider. By the time Cregan is motioning for a mounting block to be brought over, you have already helped yourself into the saddle with the stirrup. He looks almost surprised.

“If one can mount a dragon without aid, then they can do the same with a horse.” You say to him.

“Of course.” He replies with a little smile before mounting his own horse next to you. You wonder if you look like a true Northern lady, riding next to Cregan Stark with furs draped over shoulders. You assume the dragon flying overhead ruins that image. People cheer as you make your way into their city and stare in awe at the Hellion, Sȳndror. You assume that a majority of them have never seen a dragon.

They are lucky to lay their eyes upon him.

When you ride through the gates, into the courtyard, a small greeting party waits for you. The maesters, the advisers, they all express how delighted they are to meet you. What surprises you the most is the girl you are introduced to.

“My sister.” Cregan says.

Sister? He doesn’t have a sister.

“Your sister…” You repeat as you nod your head at the woman who seems to be around your age.

“Sara Snow.” He finishes and you try not to let your surprise show. Nobody expects to be formally greeted by a bastard. Cregan treats her like she’s trueborn.

You wonder what prompted him to allow her to be introduced this way. Perhaps he always treats her like an equal. Perhaps you like it.

“It is a pleasure to meet my future good sister.” You say sweetly because she looks a tad bit frightened.

“It is my pleasure entirely, princess.” She says back with a smile.

“I am tired from my travels.” You say to nobody in particular. “I would be seen to my chambers.” You speak as if it’s a preference but Lord Stark knows it isn’t a simple request.

“Would you like to eat first?” He asks tenderly.

“My food can be brought to me.”

“Of course. I have some things to tend to first but I shall check on how you’re settling in later.” You allow him to press a kiss to your hand before you are led away, through the castle.

“Girls, go and figure out your accommodations. I will be alright without you for a moment.” You say to Safia and Rose and they scurry off as you enter your chambers with Ser, Robert where there’s servants bringing things into the grand room.

“How is it still fucking freezing? We’re inside.” You murmur and Robert laughs. “Boy, light a fire.” You say to one of the servants who puts down the chest he was holding and immediately gets started on the fire.

Even after the fire is burning in the hearth and you’ve worked to set things up in your space, with the help of your handmaidens once they returned, you’re still cold.

“Rose, please run a bath and then you both may leave me. I want some time to myself.” You say quietly as you look out the window, contemplating your new home. You barely notice when they do leave but you know you should undress soon, before the water grows cold.

You’re just about to when there’s a knock at the door. “Enter.” You call out.

Cregan walks in. “Is the room to your liking?” He asks gently. You’ve never known such a formidable warrior to look so nervous. Though, he hides it well.

“It’s a fine room.” Is all you say.

“It’s very close to my chambers. One of your chambers’ doors connects to one of mine as well.” You’re not sure how he expects you to react to this information. “But it shan’t be used without your permission.” He adds.

“Hmm…” You hum in response to show you heard him. “I was just going to have a bath.” You say.

He blushes at that, actually blushes. “Yes, it shall take you some time to get used to the cold so i’d imagine that would help.”

He stands there for a moment too long so you shed your cloak. He clearly didn’t get the hint that the conversation was over. You begin to untie the back of your dress as well. Poor Lord Stark is clearly stunned.

“You’re undressing.” He says dumbly.

“The water is getting cold.” The water is still steaming and would burn a normal person.

As you continue to untie the gown, his eyes follow the curve of your neck, to your shoulder, and then for a moment, to the swell of your breasts before quickly flicking back to yours. You’ve got the man flustered like a virgin now.

“Of course, my apologies. I’ll leave you to your bath.” He says quickly before leaving the room as swiftly as he can.

You giggle to yourself as you drop the gown, baring yourself completely before you step into the tub, enjoying the burning warmth. You know Cregan Stark is a proper gentleman but you also catch yourself wondering how long he would’ve stayed if you didn’t open your mouth, how many garments he would have let you remove.

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#lord husband #cregan stark fic #cregan stark #cregan #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #hotd #hotd fic

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vellichor-of-the-solivagant · 2 months ago

Text

How To Plant Snapdragons | 18

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Masterlist / Discord

Trigger Warning: Telling Graves to shut the fuck up

You let go of Graves, pushing him away, and sighed loudly. You raked your eyes over his dirtied, rugged features, considering how the Shadows had handled him earlier. Thankfully, his leg had been bandaged, but the blood was sipping through the fabric. You waved at him. “Come on.”

“I am not getting out of this room when they’re waiting to shoot me.” Graves pointed at the 141 and the leaders of Vaqueros, who all stood in silence outside the room, their grips tightening around their rifles.

Alejandro scoffed and wore a mocking expression on his face. “Good thing you know.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the room, waving at him to follow you. “Get out, Graves. We don’t have all day.”

Graves exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before limping forward, finally stepping out of his confinement. The moment he did, an unmistakable tension spread through the hallway, Several safeties clicked off, and you could feel the burning gazes of Alejandro and the rest of the team, each of them itching to pull the trigger.

He didn’t cower, but he didn’t meet their eyes either. His hand twitched near his belt, then relaxed. No weapon. No way out, but he knew better than to do anything that would cause them to blast bullets through his body. Graves simply sighed, then shifted his gaze away from the obvious hostility—only to land on the group standing further down the hall.

Keegan, eyes shadowed beneath his balaclava, gave him an unreadable stare, fingers resting near his holsters. Logan stood next to him, jaw clenched, while Hesh had his arms crossed, expression practically daring Graves to open his mouth.

The Shadow himself tilted his head, blinking at them. “And who the hell are they?”

You didn’t bother answering. Instead, you turned on your heel, facing Keegan and the Walkers, and motioned for them to start moving up the stairs. Without hesitation, they followed your lead, stepping past Graves like he was just another piece of debris in their way.

As you passed by the former commander, Hesh’s voice rumbled low beside you, just loud enough for you to catch. “He doesn’t have that much presence.”

You scoffed, eyes still forward. “He’s a snake,” you murmured back. “Sheds his skin whenever things are in his favor.”

Behind you, Soap gave Graves a firm shove forward. “Move it. And don’t try anything, or I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you.”

Graves chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, MacTavish, watch your fucking tone.”

Soap scoffed. “You’re a backstabbing piece of shite. I don’t owe you a single ounce of respect.”

Graves frowned at his words. “I did not—”

“Shut the fuck up, Graves!” You shouted from the stairs, “If you had told us Shepherd is gonna betray us, then it wouldn’t have come to this, you asshole!”

Graves didn’t respond this time, only exhaling through his nose once again as he limped along the group.

You didn’t turn back to watch, your focus staying ahead as Rodolfo’s voice cut through the comms. “More Vaqueros down the hallway.”

Just as he said that Keegan, Logan, and Hesh pushed themselves against the corner, eyes locked on the corridor ahead. Then, without hesitation, they sprang forward, diving into the path of the rouge Shadows. Muzzles flashed like lightning, the deafening roar of gunfire bouncing off the concrete walls. The enemies barely had enough time to react before they were shot down with precision.

Logan was unrelenting, his rifle held steady as he advanced. A Shadow peeked out from a doorway—he fired twice, center mass, dropping him instantly. Another enemy attempted to rush from the side, but Logan pivoted and swung the butt of his rifle into the man’s temple with a sickening crack before finishing him off with a round to the chest.

Hesh, more aggressive than his brother, pushed forward without hesitation. A Shadow fired wildly at him, the bullets barely grazing past his shoulder as he dove behind a crate. Without missing a beat, he pulled a grenade from his vest, yanked the pin with his teeth, and lobbed it over. A second later, an explosion rocked the hallway, sending dust and shrapnel flying. The Shadows were thrown off their feet, and Hesh wasted no time picking them off as they scrambled to recover.

Keegan moved like a phantom, slipping through the chaos with sharp, calculated motions. He fired a suppressed shot, the bullet snapping through the person's skull before he swiftly ducked behind cover, reloading in a smooth, practiced motion. And damn, if that wasn’t the hottest thing you’d seen all day. You couldn’t help but smile, eyes tracking the way he moved—efficient, ruthless, an absolute menace in combat. The flickering firelight from the guns cast jagged shadows on his features, illuminating his sharp eyes, and the furrow of his brows beneath the balaclava.

Right now, you wanted to grab him by the straps of his vest and kiss him senseless as blood pooled beneath your shoes. Heck, you’d fuck him inside a cell if he wants to.

God help you.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to snap out of it. You raised your weapon, covering their flank, while Soap and Alejandro took positions to assist. Meanwhile, Rodolfo kept an eye on Graves. You all advanced alongside the Ghosts, pushing through the stronghold with ruthless efficiency.

You moved in tandem with them, dropping low as you took a shot at a Shadow trying to flank Keegan. The bullet tore through his knee, sending him crumpling to the floor with a scream before you put another round in his head.

“Clear the hallway!” Alejandro barked, his voice sharp over the chaos.

Rodolfo fired past you, hitting a Shadow mid-sprint. The man’s body twisted before slamming against the wall, smearing blood as he slid down lifelessly.

Ghost moved with brutal efficiency, his suppressed rifle cutting through enemies like a scalpel. He snapped the stock against a Shadow’s face, shattering his nose before putting a bullet through his skull. Beside him, Soap was a storm of movement, switching between his rifle and pistol as he tore through the opposition.

Graves, still unarmed, stuck close behind, wisely keeping his head low. He watched the fight unfold, eyes narrowed as he took in the sheer force of the combined teams. If he was impressed or bitter, he didn’t say.

Another wave of Shadows tried to reinforce the hallway, but the Walkers weren’t about to let them. Keegan threw a hand signal, and the brothers fanned out. Logan moved to the left, Hesh took the center, and Keegan shifted to the right.

Logan fired in bursts, each shot finding its mark. A Shadow raised his weapon—Logan shot him through the throat before shifting his aim to another. Hesh took the brunt of the enemy fire, dodging between cover as he laid down suppressive shots. Keegan, fast and precise, eliminated stragglers with deadly accuracy.

You took the chance to push forward, vaulting over a fallen body. One Shadow tried to charge you with a knife, but you twisted, grabbing his wrist before driving your own blade up into his ribs. He choked, eyes wide, before you shoved him off.

With a final barrage of bullets, the last of the Shadows dropped, their bodies slumped against the walls and floor.

Silence settled, only broken by the distant sound of boots echoing from the hallway ahead—Vaqueros reinforcements.

“Hallway secure,” Ghost announced, lowering his weapon.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before glancing at the others. The Walkers checked their weapons, unfazed, while Alejandro and Rodolfo nodded in approval.

Graves, standing at the back, scoffed lightly. “Hell of a show.”

Hesh, without looking back, flipped him off again.

The group moved swiftly through the dimly lit hallways, the scent of gunpowder and scorched metal still heavy in the air. Rounding a corner, you spotted the reinforced cell doors lining the walls—this was it.

Rodolfo stepped forward, nodding toward the control room just ahead. “That’s where we’ll get them out.”

Soap didn’t waste a second. He jogged ahead, slipping into the command post with Rodolfo guiding him. Inside, the glow of outdated monitors cast sharp shadows over the walls. With swift, practiced hands, the Scot scanned the controls before finding what he needed—a single red button, blinking ominously.

“Here goes nothin’,” he muttered, slamming his palm against it.

A mechanical hiss filled the air as the cell doors unlocked one by one. For a brief moment, everything was still—then, the prisoners stormed out.

Vaqueros, some battered and bruised but still burning with resolve, rushed forward. Some stumbled, eyes wary and confused, until they spotted Alejandro standing tall before them.

“Comandante!” one of them gasped, relief breaking through his exhausted expression.

Alejandro grasped the soldier’s shoulder firmly. “Arm up, hermano. It’s time to take back our home.”

Weapons were immediately handed out, and the team worked fast to distribute whatever they had. Some Vaqueros barely hesitated before checking their weapons, while others—especially the ones who had been held the longest—took an extra second to steady themselves.

You handed a rifle to one of them, watching as his trembling fingers curled tightly around the grip. “You good to fight?” you asked, voice firm but not unkind.

The man exhaled sharply, nodding as his grip steadied. “Sí. Time to make these bastards pay.”

Rodolfo scanned the group, his expression hard but focused. “We move fast and clean. Sweep the hallways, and clear the exits. No one gets left behind.”

Soap reappeared from the control room, rolling his shoulders. “We’re on a clock. Shadows’ll notice soon.”

Ghost clicked a fresh magazine into his rifle. “Then we hit them first.”

Hesh smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Now you’re talking.”

You jabbed your brother’s shoulder with a smirk. “Showtime.”

Hesh huffed a small laugh, rolling his shoulders, but before you could take another step, a sudden wave of dizziness crashed over you.

Your vision tunneled, black creeping at the edges of your sight. A sharp, pounding headache struck behind your eyes, a brutal contrast to the adrenaline rushing through your veins. For a moment, your balance faltered—your boots scraping the floor as you stumbled slightly.

“Whoa, hey—” Hesh’s hand was on your arm in an instant, steadying you.

Keegan’s sharp gaze flicked to you immediately, his posture shifting slightly as if ready to catch you. Ghost gave you a questioning look, and even Alejandro frowned, eyes scanning you with concern.

“Y’alright?” Soap’s voice cut through, gruff yet laced with something of a concern.

Graves, ever the opportunist, raised an eyebrow. “Not gonna drop dead on us, are you, Snapdragon?”

You forced a breath through your nose, shaking your head as you quickly planted your feet, regaining control. The moment passed, though the dull throb in your skull lingered.

“Nothing,” you muttered, brushing Hesh’s hand off and rolling your shoulders like it was just a cramp. “Just a head rush.”

None of them looked convinced, but you weren’t about to let them dig into it. Instead, you tightened your grip on your rifle and strode forward, ignoring the way their gazes followed you.

Ghost suddenly pushed forward, his broad frame cutting in front of you before you could take another step.

“You’re not going first,” he muttered over his shoulder, voice firm and leaving no room for argument.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t fight it—there was no time. With Ghost taking point, the group followed, jogging down the corridor until you reached a jagged opening in the wall. The explosion that had torn through it left twisted metal and chunks of concrete scattered across the ground, revealing another part of the prison—a mess hall.

The second your boots hit the ledge, you took in the scene below—rows of overturned tables, trays, and food scattered from previous fights, and the flickering glow of emergency lights barely illuminating the space.

“Move!” Ghost ordered, and one by one, the gang leaped down. Footfalls echoed like gunshots against the cold floor.

Bullets whizzed past your head the second you landed, slamming into the walls and sending sparks flying. The Shadows had already taken position, dug in behind flipped tables and kitchen counters, laying down suppressive fire.

You dove behind a steel serving station, back pressed against it as rounds ricocheted off the surface. “Contact—2 o’clock!” you shouted.

Keegan moved first, fast and silent, slipping between cover and picking off a Shadow with a single suppressed shot. His rifle barely made a sound, but the body hitting the floor did.

“Grenade out!” Soap’s voice cut through the chaos as he pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed a frag straight toward the Shadows’ cover.

Boom!

The explosion rocked the room, sending bodies flying and shattering nearby glass.

“Holy shit—” Hesh muttered, shielding his face from the debris before popping up and unloading a burst into the disoriented enemies.

You didn’t hesitate, vaulting over your cover and snapping your rifle up, taking down a Shadow who was still reeling from the blast.

Ghost was already in motion, moving like a force of nature. He fired a few precise shots, dropping two Shadows before flipping a table onto its side and kicking it forward for more cover.

Logan, silent and deadly, rushed the left flank, clearing a path with ruthless efficiency. He used his knife when needed, quick and brutal.

At the center of it all, Graves had taken cover behind a pillar, occasionally firing back but staying mostly out of the way. You didn’t bother looking his way—you had more important things to focus on.

“Push up!” Alejandro commanded, leading a group of Vaqueros forward. They took the opening your team had created, sweeping through the room and gunning down any remaining resistance.

Within moments, the last Shadow fell, their body slumping over an overturned bench.

Silence followed, save for the distant sound of crackling flames and the ragged breaths of your team.

Soap exhaled, grinning as he nudged Ghost. “Now that was a proper fuckin’ mess.”

Ghost grunted, rolling his shoulders. “Least we’re consistent.”

You wiped a bit of dust off your face, glancing around at the destruction. Blood pooled near the bodies smoke from the grenade still lingering in the air. You cracked your neck, gripping your rifle tighter as you turned to the others. “Alright. Who’s ready to crash the next room?”

Keegan rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he scanned the room. “We need an exit, not more trouble, dumbass,” he muttered.”

You shot him a glare, ready to fire back with a snarky comeback, but before you could, a Vaquero near the back shouted, “Aquí! Found an exit!”

The group shifted their attention to the Vaquero, who pointed at a heavy, reinforced door near the far end of the mess hall. The only problem was that the door was locked tight. Its metal bars and bolted lock made it look more like a vault than a way out.

Without a second thought, Ghost stepped up, pushing past you with a quick shove. “Stay close,” he ordered in that low, steady voice.

You grumbled but followed his lead as he pulled out his tool—a heavy, compact cutting device—and set to work on the lock.

Soap crouched next to you, eyes scanning the hallway behind them. “Hurry up, Ghost. We don’t need more company,” he muttered, hands twitching near his weapon.

Ghost didn’t respond, his attention focused entirely on the lock. Sparks flew as the cutter chewed through the metal, grinding and hissing with every twist.

The seconds stretched on, tense and tight. The others were ready to move, weapons raised, eyes darting around in the uneasy silence of the hallway.

Finally, the lock gave way with a satisfying clunk. Ghost shoved the door open with a grunt, revealing a narrow passage leading to another section of the prison.

“Let's move,” he said, his tone firm, stepping aside to let the others through.

Rifle in hand, you dashed through the door, followed closely by Keegan. The hallway ahead was dim, but the weight of your weapons and the sound of footsteps echoed.

Alejandro moved forward, his grip tightening around his weapon as he took the lead. “Weapons hot,” he ordered, his voice carrying a sharp edge of authority. Without hesitation, the group followed as he advanced down the hallway, turning a sharp corner before descending a flight of stairs at a quick pace. The air was thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood, but there was no time to linger—every second wasted meant more Shadows regrouping.

As boots pounded against concrete, Alejandro spoke over his shoulder. “We link up with the others and exfil the fuck out of here.”

“Already got vehicles waiting outside,” Rodolfo responded, barely out of breath. “And Ghost planted some surprises under the Shadows’ rides to make sure they don’t follow.”

A low chuckle came from Ghost. “Didn’t do it alone,” he admitted, glancing toward the others as they ran. “Had help—Johnny, her, and . . . and Russ, and the Walkers.”

Alejandro nodded in approval, his focus still ahead. “Good work. Now let’s—” He suddenly paused for a fraction of a second, a thought crossing his mind. “—ah, I cannot call Soap Johnny.”

Soap, just a step behind, let out an amused breath. “Aye, only Ghost can pull it off.”

That piqued your curiosity. You raised a brow, glancing sideways at Soap. “Wait, so I can’t call you Johnny?”

A grin spread across Soap’s face as he glanced at you. “I suppose I can make an exception,” he said with a playful tilt of his head.

You smirked, letting out a soft huff. “Lucky me.”

Despite the tension of the mission, a brief flicker of amusement passed through the group before Alejandro refocused on the objective. “Move, move!” he urged, pushing forward with renewed determination.

As you prepared to fire off another quip at Soap, a firm yet grounding weight settled on your shoulder. Keegan’s gloved hand. You felt his fingers press down lightly, not forceful, but enough to make you immediately clamp your mouth shut. Your lips pressed into a thin line, and without a single word, you yielded to silence.

No one else seemed to notice, too focused on their rapid escape. The moment Ghost wrenched the door open, the gang rushed out into the open.

A wide yard sprawled before you, littered with rusted, broken-down vehicles, crumbling walls, and scattered debris. The remnants of past battles were everywhere, and among the mess, Shadows were already dug in—waiting.

“CONTACT!” Alejandro barked, just as the first hail of gunfire ripped toward you.

The gang scrambled for cover, diving behind whatever they could find—burnt-out trucks, shattered concrete, old steel beams. Bullets tore through the air, kicking up dust and debris as Shadows rained down fire from higher vantage points.

Hesh, crouched low behind an overturned vehicle, palmed a grenade. With an easy smirk, he reared his arm back and launched it like he was pitching a fastball. The grenade arced high, spinning toward a cluster of Shadows taking position near a makeshift barricade.

BOOM!

The explosion sent bodies flying, the sheer force scattering debris like shrapnel.

“Damn, that was a hell of a throw!” Soap called out, ducking behind a half-broken wall.

Just then, a fresh barrage of bullets came screaming toward them. Soap reacted in an instant, angling his rifle up and firing at the top of the wall where enemy gunmen were raining hell on them. The shots forced the Shadows to duck, momentarily halting their onslaught.

Hesh, chest rising and falling from the adrenaline, glanced at Soap with a smirk. “Appreciate the cover.”

You saw the exchange from where you crouched behind a rusted-out truck, an amused smile tugging at your lips.

You jogged past the towering concrete pillars, boots thudding against the dust-covered ground. For a moment, your brain latched onto the sheer size of them, unbidden calculations starting to form. How much cement did that take? Gravel… sand… reinforcement bars? Rebar density, PSI strength, Mix ratio . . .

You frowned. Wait—what’s the ratio for structural integrity again?

Doubt crept in almost immediately.

“Snapdragon!” Keegan’s sharp voice cut through your spiraling thoughts like a blade.

You jerked, blinking hard before slapping your own cheek—focus, dammit! This wasn’t the time for mental gymnastics over structural integrity. Your head pounded, the nagging headache pressing at your skull, but you shoved it aside and hurried forward to rejoin the group.

Your distraction hadn’t gone unnoticed. Keegan shot you a look, sharp and assessing, but he didn’t say anything. You appreciated that.

A sudden warning snapped through the comms.

“Sniper on the roof!” a Vaquero called out, voice taut with urgency.

Everyone instinctively ducked, pressing into cover as a high-caliber round whizzed past, chipping the edge of a broken-down vehicle.

Without hesitation, Keegan moved. He shifted out just enough, quick eyes tracking the glint of a scope perched on the rooftop.

Crack!

A single shot. The sniper crumpled, lifeless, before they could even react.

Ghost, crouched beside him, tilted his head slightly in approval before giving Keegan a solid nod. No words were needed—just silent recognition.

Keegan merely huffed, lowering his rifle as if that had been the easiest thing in the world.

The roar of an engine cut through the chaos, tires screeching against the pavement as a truck swerved into the yard. The Shadows inside wasted no time, pouring out with rifles raised, their muzzles flashing as they fired toward your team.

Ghost’s voice crackled over the comms, cool and composed despite the gunfire. “That’s one of the trucks I planted a bomb on.”

Soap, ducking behind the cover, gave a sharp nod. “On it.” He yanked a small detonation remote from his vest, thumb pressing firmly onto the button.

The truck erupted in a violent explosion, flames consuming the vehicle as debris and bodies were thrown in all directions. The shockwave hit like a punch to the chest, and just as you ducked, a large chunk of metal whizzed past your head, missing you by mere inches.

Heart hammering, you scrambled to a more secure position—shadowed, covered. You exhaled, steadying your breath, gripping your rifle tighter. But as you shifted into position, ready to fire—sharp pain tore through your side.

Your breath hitched, a choked gasp slipping past your lips. You twisted your body just enough to see the Shadow behind you, a knife buried in your side. Instinct took over—before he could yank it out and go for another strike, you raised your gun and pulled the trigger.

Blood splattered across your face as the Shadow’s body went limp, collapsing to the ground with a dull thud, the sound drowned by the gunfire and explosions around you.

Gritting your teeth, you reached down, wrapping a hand around the hilt of the blade. You yanked it out in one swift motion, hissing as a fresh wave of pain flared through your torso. It wasn’t too deep—your clothing and gear had absorbed most of it—but fuck, it still burned.

Pushing forward, you forced yourself back into the fight.

That’s when you noticed the deep, thrumming sound cutting through the battlefield.

A helicopter loomed above, its side doors open, Shadows inside firing down at the team. Rounds pinged off the ground, sparking against debris as everyone took cover, bullets tearing through the air.

You inhaled sharply, lifting your rifle.

Your vision narrowed.

You took aim.

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

The bullet sliced through the air, striking the helicopter’s rotor assembly just as a missile streaked in from the distance—fast, precise, and lethal. The impact was immediate. The chopper detonated mid-air, metal, and fire bursting out in every direction. Its remains spun wildly, trailing smoke and debris as it lost altitude, crashing down in a violent explosion on the other side of the prison wall. The shockwave rattled the ground beneath your feet, the heat licking at your skin even from afar.

For a split second, the battlefield quieted, as if everyone paused to register what had just happened.

Then Ghost’s voice cut through the moment, his tone sharp and unwavering. “That was Price.”

Soap let out a triumphant laugh, pumping a fist in the air. “Aye! That’s my fuckin’ Cap’n!”

Graves, standing at the back, scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “And how the hell did Price even know where we were?”

You exhaled deeply, heart still hammering from the chaos, and turned your head toward him with a glare. Without hesitation, you snapped, “Shut the fuck up.”

Then, like a ghost from the past, a voice crackled through the comms—gravelly, steady, commanding.

“All Bravo and Vaqueros, top o’ the wall. Get here, and I’ll get you out. How copy?”

Your breath hitched for just a second. That voice. Price.

A weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying lifted from your chest.

Ghost pressed two fingers to his comms, voice clipped and sure. “Affirmative. Moving now.”

A moment passed before Rodolfo, still breathing heavily from the fight, turned sharply toward Ghost. “Who the hell is Price?” His voice carried over the gunfire, frustration, and urgency laced into the words.

Soap, shoving a fresh mag into his rifle with an audible click, smirked. “A friend.”

Alejandro huffed a short laugh, shaking his head as he moved forward. “I like him already.”

Before anyone could say more, a plume of green smoke curled into the air beyond the wall ahead, bright against the darkened sky. The telltale mark of an exfil. Alejandro caught sight of it first, his sharp eyes locking onto the signal like a hawk. Without hesitation, he turned to his brothers, his voice booming. “Vaqueros, move to the wall!”

The team surged forward, navigating through the wreckage of rusted-out vehicles and the scattered bodies of fallen Shadows. The battlefield was still alive with sporadic gunfire, bullets snapping past as they kept low, weaving between debris. The heat of the earlier explosion still lingered in the air, the scent of burning metal thick in your lungs.

As you pushed forward, Hesh fell into step beside you with his brother, his expression tight with distrust. “So, that’s the guy you left us for?” His voice was edged with skepticism, but beneath it was something else—concern.

Without hesitation, you answered, “Yes.”

He turned his head toward you, brows furrowed at the certainty in your tone. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. Your eyes were locked ahead, focused on the rising green smoke, your grip firm on your rifle as you moved.

“I’ve confided in him before,” you continued, voice steady despite the rapid pounding in your chest. “About Shepherd. About my father.” You exhaled sharply, adjusting your hold on your weapon as another round of bullets whizzed past. “If there’s anyone I trust to get us out of here alive other than you guys, it’s him.”

Hesh didn’t respond immediately, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw the way his jaw tensed—processing, considering.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he nodded once. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s move.”

Meanwhile, Keegan’s sharp eyes flickered up toward the wall, scanning the height and calculating the best way up. Then, almost instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. His gaze found you and the Walkers moving swiftly through the chaos, weaving through debris and keeping pace with the group.

The ropes descended with a rapid swoosh, dropping down the wall like lifelines, each coil slapping against the concrete in the dimming light. Ghost was the first to move, gripping the rope with practiced ease, his weight shifting as he started hauling himself up. His voice was calm, sharp as ever, even as he looked back at the team.

“Clear for now, but don’t get too comfortable. Shadows are on their way.”

He didn’t need to say more. The urgency in his tone was enough. The team had no time to waste.

Soap was right behind Ghost, his movements fluid and fast. Hesh followed quickly after, Vaqueros trailing in tow as well as Graves. The ropes were beginning to stretch taut with their weight as they scrambled up the wall.

As your hand reached for the rope, a bullet zipped past you, its shriek cutting through the air like a razor. Your heart skipped a beat, and you instinctively ducked, adrenaline hitting you hard. The blast of wind from the bullet’s near-miss still tingled in your ear, and before you could react further, Logan’s voice called out behind you.

You spun around just in time to see Logan sprinting toward a Shadow who had fired at you, moving with deadly intent to end him. Your breath caught, instinct pulling you to stop him.

“No,” you snapped, voice harsh. “Don’t kill him. I’m bringing the bastard back.”

Logan paused, just for a moment, giving you a look of uncertainty, but he trusted you, nodding grimly. You quickly took position, covering him as he closed the distance. Your rifle barked, cutting down Shadows who had shifted their attention to Logan as he reached the enemy soldier.

The shots rang out, hitting their mark with precision, the thunderous sounds mixing with the crackling of distant explosions. You barely noticed the fire lighting up the night sky as you focused on keeping Logan covered.

Logan, undeterred, reached the Shadow and, with a swift move, knocked him unconscious. He dragged the limp body toward the rope, his muscles straining as he maneuvered with the weight of the hostage in tow.

You stayed low, scanning for any more threats, until Logan reached the rope. Without hesitation, he grabbed on, effortlessly hauling both himself and the unconscious Shadow up with a few determined pulls, the man’s limp body trailing behind.

You stayed alert, the seconds stretching long, but as Logan disappeared over the edge of the wall, you grabbed your rope and followed, climbing with urgency.

As you scaled the wall, the pain in your side flared with every movement. Your muscles screamed, and each pull of the rope sent a jolt of agony through you, the wound on your side reopening from the strain. The dizziness crept in again, the world tilting as your vision blurred momentarily. You gritted your teeth, clutching your side as if holding yourself together.

Your hand reached for the rope, but the pain was almost too much. Then, just as your grip began to slip, a gloved hand shot out, steadying you. You instinctively grabbed onto it, feeling the strength of the hand pull you upwards.

You cursed under your breath, trying to fight back the pain, but it was hard to ignore. As you were hauled up, the agony on your side intensified, and your head felt heavy with the pounding ache. When you finally found solid ground, you met a pair of steady baby blue eyes.

"Price?" you gasped, breath shaky as you stood unsteadily, leaning into him for support.

He didn’t say a word, just gave you a steadying look as he helped you get your footing. Then, the sound of a familiar voice caught your attention. You turned, meeting the gaze of Gaz, who was looking at you with that signature soft smile of his. He raised an eyebrow as you locked eyes with him, giving him a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Your grin spread across your face, and without a second thought, you pulled both Price and Gaz into a tight hug, your relief spilling out in the embrace. It felt good to see them both again, to know they were here, and it felt even better when they wrapped their arms around you as if making sure you were real, and that everything—however briefly—was okay. The tension in your chest eased, if only for a moment.

Soap, standing off to the side, couldn't help but smile at the sight of the three of you. His eyes softened with a knowing look, seeing how you all just needed that moment of relief, a reunion of sorts in the middle of chaos.

Ghost, however, was less sentimental. He huffed, but it was with a tone that could almost be read as approval, his eyes lingering on the three of you before turning back to the task at hand.

Keegan stood off to the side, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the three of you with a look that was hard to decipher. He watched as Gaz buried his face into your shoulder, an expression on his face that said a lot without needing words. Keegan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in them. He said nothing but the tension around him grew ever so slightly.

Logan and Hesh exchanged a brief glance, noticing Keegan's subtle shift in demeanor. There was a brief pause before Logan cleared his throat, his attention drifting back to the group, while Hesh, ever the observant one, gave a subtle nod in Keegan’s direction.

The moment stretched on, but it didn't last long. You finally pulled away from the hug, smiling brightly at both Price and Gaz. "Didn’t think I’d see you two again," you muttered, pulling away after a brief moment.

Soap chuckled, shaking his head as he crossed his arms. "How the hell did you two get in here?" he asked, eyeing the three of you curiously.

Gaz was the first to answer, his voice light but serious. “Laswell,” he said, nodding to Price.

Price’s voice came in next, smooth but commanding, as always. “As soon as Shepherd’s operations went dark, someone reached out to Laswell, and she contacted us. She got us in here.”

Keegan, who had just finished climbing up, joined the conversation, his brows furrowing. “It was Kick,” he added, his tone serious as he looked at you, then shifted to the 141 that was once again complete. “Part of us.”

Before anyone could press Keegan further about how they managed to get in touch with Laswell and follow you here, the sound of bullets tearing through the air cut the conversation short. The wall next to you cracked as the onslaught of gunfire hammered against it, and the Shadows emerged from the dark corners, their relentless assault forcing everyone to take cover.

Alejandro was the first to react. He moved forward, his posture firm and purposeful, eyes scanning the area for a position. Soap quickly stepped up, nodding toward Alejandro as he introduced him to the others.

"Colonel Vargas, meet Captain John Price and Sergeant Garrick," Soap said, his voice quick and efficient, keeping his focus on the emerging Shadows.

Price and Gaz gave brief but respectful nods, their attention never straying from their targets as they continued to cover the team.

Alejandro gave a short nod of thanks, his voice steady but urgent. “We need cover fire, now,” he said, positioning himself behind the nearby debris. His eyes flicked from Soap to Ghost, and then to Price.

Price immediately took charge. “Gaz, Ghost, Soap—overwatch. Take them out.”

Without hesitation, the three of them moved into position, their rifles aimed at the oncoming Shadows, picking them off with precision fire. The sounds of gunfire filled the air, each shot echoing as it struck its mark.

Meanwhile, Price approached Keegan, Hesh, and Logan, who were still tying down the captured Shadow. Price glanced over at Keegan with a nod of respect. “I assume you all are part of Task Force: STALKER, otherwise known as the Ghosts. She mentioned you lots to me before,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Thanks for helping my men out.”

Keegan gave a sharp nod, the hint of a smirk on his face as he holstered his weapon. “It was for her,” he said, his voice low but clear.

Price nodded in acknowledgment, his lips twitching into a rare, approving smile.

You shook your head, despite the sharp pain still gnawing at your side and the exhaustion creeping in. A playful smile cut through the strain on your face, and then you watch his gaze shift to the other American in the group, Graves.

His smile immediately faltered just as Graves offered him a smile.

“Captain,” Graves nodded, extending a hand.

But Price stepped away from him, pointing a finger at him instead. “We will deal with you later.”

Graves quickly painted a frown over his smile. “I’m innocent.”

“No, the fuck you’re not,” you immediately batted, making him scowl at you, but Hesh was quick to cover his vision with his body. Graves’ eyes shifted to your brother’s challenging glare.

Then, the pain struck again, searing through your side, making your vision blur and your head swim. The sounds around you became muffled, distant—like you were underwater. Sweat quickly beaded on your skin, the throbbing sensation from the wound growing more intense. You pressed a shaky hand against your side, biting down on a curse as you looked at your palm, stained with blood. It was sticky and warm, and the discomfort was becoming almost unbearable.

You forced yourself to focus, but the world seemed to sway slightly. The sharp crack of boots hitting the ground broke through the fog in your mind. From the tower next to you, a hatch opened, and Shadows emerged. Without hesitation, you gritted your teeth and opened fire, each shot ringing through the air with precision.

"Snapdragon, check the tower for weapons!" you heard his command, and you made your way inside the structure, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

Inside, your eyes fell on a grenade launcher. A wicked grin curled on your lips despite the agony in your body as you hefted the weapon in your hands. "Look at this beauty," you called over to your team, your voice strained but eager. You aimed it at the Shadows scattered across the yard, the weight of the launcher feeling oddly reassuring in your hands.

Keegan, Logan, and Hesh were stationed on the roofs, methodically picking off the snipers who dared to show their faces.

You fired, the grenade launcher erupting with a thunderous blast, sending enemies scattering in the explosion. You exhaled heavily, the weight of the grenade launcher growing heavier with each passing second. It felt like the metal was burning into your hands, your muscles aching from the strain. You hadn’t remembered it being this heavy before. But then again, you weren’t in the best shape right now.

Then, you heard Rodolfo’s voice again, louder this time. “Everyone is good to go!”

You exhaled, forcing your muscles to cooperate as you turned toward the ropes. Alejandro barked an order, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Price’s command rang out next, a direct order that pierced through the noise. “Sergeants, get the ropes. You’re with me,” he said, nodding toward you and the rest of your team. Without waiting, he moved forward, steady as ever, ready to lead you out.

You grabbed the rope, your hands trembling as you pulled yourself up, your body protesting with each movement. The climb was slower than you wanted, but you had no choice but to keep going. When your boots finally hit solid ground again, you didn’t stop. You ran, pushing yourself as hard as you could, the weight of exhaustion pulling at your every step.

But then, your vision blurred, the world spinning uncontrollably as you stumbled, your knees buckling beneath you. A sharp pain shot through your side, the cut from earlier flaring up again. You didn’t have the strength to stay on your feet. You fell to your knees, gasping for breath, your body shaking uncontrollably.

You tried to call out to the others, but your voice didn’t come. The only sound was a whimper that barely escaped your lips. Shadows were everywhere now, descending from the rooftops. One of them reached for you, grabbing you by the arm, and pulling you back as you struggled against their grip.

“Got you!” one of them yelled, hauling you back with ease.

You tried to pray off their hands, wincing at the burn and sting of your wounds every time you moved, but before they could drag you away, everything exploded into chaos. Keegan was at your side, his knife slashing through the enemy’s neck with deadly precision. Gaz, quick as always, fired a bullet through another’s skull, dropping them instantly. Soap punched another shadow with a brutal force, and Ghost appeared, his knife finding its mark in yet another shadow’s throat.

And then, Price was there. He pulled you up, his grip firm and steady as he helped you back to your feet. His voice was frantic but low, “What’s wrong? Talk to me. Now.”

You groaned, clutching your side, the pain making it hard to focus on anything else. “I’m good,” you managed to rasp, but the words were a lie. You weren’t good. You were far from it.

Before you could finish the sentence, your body gave out, your legs collapsing beneath you as you went limp in his arms. Price’s eyes immediately locked onto the cut on your stomach, and then to the blood slowly seeping through the bandage on your shoulder. His expression hardened, the worry in his eyes more intense than you’d ever seen it before.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, lifting you with surprising ease. His voice, though still rough, softened as he glanced over at the others. “We need to get you out of here.”

As soon as Price lifted you into his arms, the urgency was palpable. The group sprang into action, moving with precision and purpose, their eyes sharp and focused as they rushed toward the vehicles. The sound of boots hitting the ground echoed in the chaos, each soldier moving with practiced efficiency.

Price’s grip on you tightened, his expression set with determination as he quickly adjusted you in his arms, his eyes flicking up to the others. Without missing a beat, he tossed the keys to Gaz, who caught them with one hand, already sprinting toward the truck.

Alejandro led the way, barking orders to the others as they moved, coordinating the group with military precision. “Hurry it up!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the urgency as he shoved Graves forward. The others followed close behind, weapons raised, scanning for threats, while Price continued to move swiftly toward the truck.

You could feel the cold air against your skin, your body shivering despite the heat of the blood coursing from your wounds. Your world had narrowed down to a haze, the pain becoming a dull throb that mixed with the growing darkness in your vision. You could barely hold onto consciousness, your mind struggling to keep you awake, but it was a losing battle.

The sound of the truck doors slamming shut and the engine roaring to life barely reached you as you were gently placed in the back of the vehicle, your body slumping against the cool metal. Price was by your side in an instant, his presence a solid, reassuring weight, though his eyes were filled with a concern you could barely process.

“Stay with us,” he muttered, his voice low, as his hand pressed against your wound. But the words barely made it through your foggy mind before everything went black.

Next Chapter / Archive of Our Own / Discord

Taglist: @yyiikes @the-faceless-bride @cassiecasluciluce @annoyingstrawberryballoon @unicorngirly1 @thriving-n-jiving @squidalapobre @tallicaside @eustassh

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somaliapearls · 1 month ago

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Chapter I - Callsigns & Cold Shoulders

✩ Flight Risk masterlist

✈️ bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem x jake “hangman” seresin

✩ genre: drama, romance, military, angst, slow burn, love triangle

✩ wc: 657

✩ warnings: Language, military lingo, mentions of past injury, tension (sexual and otherwise), love triangle beginnings, lots of unspoken emotions, jet talk, and slow-burn intensity

Song: “Love and War” by Fleurie

San Diego, Naval Air Station North Island

Three Years Since Top Gun Graduation

Zero Seconds Since She Saw Him Again

The first thing Eden “Skye” Carter noticed wasn’t the jet engines screaming overhead.

It was him—leaning against a steel locker like sin in a flight suit.

“Carter,” Jake Seresin drawled, voice just as smug as she remembered. “Didn’t think you’d show up.”

Skye didn’t slow her step. She just threw her duffel on the bench and rolled her shoulders back, calm as ever. “Didn’t think you’d still be trying to flirt with the rearview mirror.”

A low whistle from someone across the room. Hangman just smirked.

Rooster was across the hangar, sitting on a crate and thumbing through a flight manual he definitely didn’t need to read. His head lifted at the sound of her voice—and their eyes locked for a second too long. Long enough for her chest to ache in a way that had nothing to do with altitude.

She looked away first.

“Everyone here?” A familiar voice snapped the moment like a cable on the deck. Maverick had entered the room, clipboard in hand, mirrored aviators hiding whatever judgment he was silently making of them all.

“Briefing starts in five,” he added. “Mission outline’s classified. Just know this—if you’re here, it’s because someone thinks you’re worth risking everything for. Don’t prove them wrong.”

Skye exhaled. She was back in the cockpit—metaphorically, anyway. Back in the shark tank with the same faces and same ghosts she thought she’d buried at thirty thousand feet.

⸻

The Mission (What They Know)

Word was it was a black-ops run. Terrain-based, altitude-sensitive, zero margin for error. The kind of assignment you either came back from with your name carved into a medal—or didn’t come back from at all.

Twelve pilots were called. Only six would fly it.

And she wasn’t here to lose.

Still, she felt it. The weight of two pairs of eyes.

One watching her like he wanted to pull her apart and rebuild her the way she used to be.

The other like he saw the whole damn blueprint already—and was afraid of what it meant.

⸻

Pensacola, Three Years Ago

“You’re not the kind of girl who lets someone get too close,” Jake had said once, shirt half-buttoned and hands in his pockets, eyes all fire.

She didn’t answer then.

She had kissed him instead.

⸻

Present

Rooster stood beside her before the sim run started. His voice was quiet, but there was tension underneath it like a loaded wing.

“You okay?”

Skye nodded, adjusting her gloves, not looking up. “Just peachy.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. He never had.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

She blinked. That part got through.

“I’m not,” she said, and glanced toward the sim board where Jake was already smirking like he knew he’d beat them all. “Unfortunately.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched. But he didn’t argue.

He never did.

⸻

The Sim Run: Chaos in Motion

Tactical dodging. Barrel rolls. Target locks. Dive, climb, invert. A blur of motion, voice comms crackling like lightning in her ear.

Hangman was cocky as hell. Showboating. But he didn’t miss.

Rooster was steady. Surgical. Clean lines, perfect form.

Skye?

She danced between them—fast, ruthless, flying like she had something to outrun. Maybe she did.

By the end of it, Maverick was watching her. Eyes unreadable.

“She’s got it,” he said, almost to himself.

Jake clapped her on the shoulder as they stepped off the sim. “Still flying like a ghost, Carter. Bet you didn’t miss me.”

She didn’t flinch. “Not even once.”

Bradley walked past them both without a word.

But his shoulder brushed hers.

Hard enough to feel.

⸻

Later That Night – Barracks

She sat on her bunk, headphones in, half-listening to Love and War, ironic, while staring at the ceiling.

Hangman had texted: “Drink tonight?”

Rooster hadn’t said a word.

And Skye didn’t know which silence was louder.

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iobartach · 11 months ago

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chapter definitions

hey heys! i've finally updated this post with something meaningful! using the following tags, i intend to track particular story arcs & events that occur on this blog , with a emphasis on plotted and/or long form / long term stuff

all of these will use my main verse as a basis - details can be found here!

if we've been plotting together and worldbuilding for a while, i'm liable to (quietly) add a tag. so, without further delay, let's see what miguel's been up to! ;

added 2023

chapter; las vegas -- miguel & thera spend some time in sin city!

chapter; force of nature -- not all anomalies are spider-man villain variants, as miguel is quick to learn; but not before he gets stabbed in the side!

chapter; past meets future -- cut off from the society and 2099, miguel finds himself stuck in the modern day, where a chance encounter with a stranger blooms into something else entirely.

added 2024

chapter; entangled in obsession -- what lengths will a man go to achieve what he desires the most? miguel isn't sure, but he's about to find out when he becomes ensnared in trouble involving one salvador octavius, and his fixation with the members of the vasquez-navarro family

chapter; teeth a white row -- what's worse than reluctantly working for a criminal organisation? why being watched over by a man-sized mountain, of course! here, miguel operates under the careful eyes of an ever grinning mauga, whose remit is to ensure that Talon's reluctant Spider thinks twice about defecting.

chapter; alive and well -- from thefirst moment they threw fists whilst fending off alien fighters together, such an unlikely duo were bound to cross paths again. miguel shows broly what it's like to live in the year 2099.

chapter; angels with dirty faces -- paradiso's angels have descended upon nueva york, only all is not what it appears to be. in miguel's search for answers, the prophetesses of casualty will reveal what's at stake.

chapter; lightning in motion -- after a crispy encounter, misconceptions are addressed as a new ally is gained.

added 2025

chapter; sorching sun -- the creator god amon ra reaches out to miguel with an offer to become his sun king. miguel declines.

chapter; cure begets curse -- when encountering a researcher with intentions of stopping the distribution of alchemax's latest product, miguel is quick quick to lend a hand, only for disaster for strike.

chapter; mind in chains -- a sort of what-if where miguel and otto octavius are colleagues at alchemax!

chapter; never will fall never will end -- chronicling the adventures of miguel and his friend, the cosmic contender rex!

chapter; in need of time -- miguel searched the vast expanse of the multiverse for a glimpse at his other selves. upon finding one who happened to perish, and be a father at the same time, the choice before him seemed obvious; he would step in and replace his deceased version, acting in his place. / this will also be used to single out threads where miguel grieves for his daughter!

for fun

chapter; olympic games -- miguel competes in the mario olympics... just so he could beat a legendary saiyan and mutant turtle in points

chapter; night of the spooky boops -- that time when booking was all the rage one halloween... :)

more tba'd eventually!

#ooc #chapter definition #chapter; las vegas #chapter; olympic games #chapter; force of nature #chapter; past meets future #chapter; entangled in obsession #chapter; teeth a white row #chapter; alive and well #chapter; angels with dirty faces #chapter; night of the spooky boops #chapter; lightning in motion #chapter; scorching sun #chapter; cure begets curse #chapter; mind in chains #chapter; never will fall never will end #chapter; in need of time

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hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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tequila!

6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter

summary: a night off and some well deserved drinks put you and frankie in the same spot on a friday night.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food and alcohol consumption, intro to triple frontier friends, reader is mentioned having hair and wearing perfume, swearing, pet names (princess), jealousy, angst, hot girls cry in the bathroom, smut, fingering (f! receiving), cum eating, discussions of men being douchebags. if I missed anything, please let me know!

A/N: it’s been since halloween! how are we doing?! here’s more frankie and princess figuring out their shit and actually communicating! can we get a round of applause? thank you to @undercoverpena for the emotional and plot support! thank you to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

The town was small, but you guys knew how to kick it.

Pool balls clattered, people cheered, and butts of beer bottles clinked in celebration.

This was exactly what you needed, a night off and a fucking drink.

You tried to tell yourself that your spat with Frankie a month ago hadn’t taken its toll on you, but he was plaguing your thoughts. The fastest way to forget your inhibitions? To forget Frankie?

Tequila.

Sideways was known for breaking health code violations and overserving its customers. Despite their negative Yelp reviews, they were the only bar in town packed on this Friday night.

You were two and a half drinks in with your girlfriends, the ones you never get to see from working late shifts. They were sweet and funny as hell. They were the pick-me-up that you really needed after what happened with Frankie.

It was still sitting in the back of your mind, playing on a loop like Christmas songs do in the winter.

“What do you want from me, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

Heat scorches your throat, burning and scraping at the inside as you accept a shot from a stranger. Not your smartest decision, but you suppose you haven’t been making a lot of those as of late anyway.

Just as you take a deep sigh, you see it. That stupid hat and nest of dark curls accompanied by broad shoulders. What was Frankie doing here?

You try to drop your head, avert your gaze, but it's pointless. The moment your eyes meet, time warps into slow motion. His usual honey-brown eyes look oaky-brown in the low light ambiance Sideways provides. His face softens at the sight of you, taking you in. Even as he walks past your small table, his head cranes to keep you in sight.

Then his friends slap his back and keep him moving, their large and loud group weaving through the sea of strangers. And it’s over. He’s gone, probably somewhere tucked in the back of the bar ordering drinks. Time returns to its normal pace, and the loud hum of drunk twenty-somethings returns.

“Jeez, Fish, that’s like the second bullseye tonight.” Frankie’s friends playfully clap with mustaches tickled with white foam from their beers.

Frankie shrugs a shoulder, glances at your table, sees your pretty smile and the way your hair swishes before his eyes return to the dart board. An angry huff leaves his lips before he raises his arm, eyes narrowed on the dart board a good seven feet away from him, before he releases the dart like a lightning fast whip and he sinks it right into the center.

His friends howl, a little smile on his lips at their approval.

“Make that three!” One chimes in. “He’s hot tonight, folks! Get’em while he’s hot!”

Despite being with his friends and cheap alcohol, Frankie didn’t feel very happy. Not after what went down after the last time he saw you. And now, you were here, which was making the pistons in his brain fire a whole lot faster. He wonders what happened, why you threw up your hands that night and pushed him away.

Work has been hell trying to avoid you. Nothing more than giving him orders and brushing past him with your pretty smelling perfume that has put him in a trance since the first day he started at the diner. Now you were here, huffs of people in between you two, and he could still pick out the sweet blossomy smell he considers to be your own.

“I need a fucking drink,” Frankie mutters, plucking the darts from the board as he slaps them in the hands of his buddy for his turn.

Frankie pushes through people to the bar, gently rapping his knuckles against the dark wood of the bar for a beer. His head dips down to look for his wallet, pulling it from his back pocket. The last thing he expects when he looks up is… not you.

“Do you know that girl or something?” Your friend nudges, eyes still locked on the glowing redhead who had approached Frankie at the bar.

“No.” You mutter, sucking in at the side of your cheek as you watch her put the moves on an adorably awkward Frankie.

“You sure seem to act like you know her, you won’t stop staring.” She teases before she’s distracted by one of your girlfriends spilling off her barstool.

All you can see is the way she blocks your view of Frankie, doing all the typical flirtatious moves you can get away with when you’re hot. Twisting her hair around her finger, smiling at Frankie like he was the funniest guy in the world, leaning into his front. She had a gorgeous body, tight waist, glowing smile, and a huge fucking rack she purposely accentuated when she threw her head back in laughter.

First off, you hate the way she looks at him like he’s already hers. Second, when did Frankie become so goddamn funny?

You huff out a sigh and throw back another tequila shot as soon as it’s delivered.

Jealousy wasn’t your thing. Frankie just knew how to pinch your fucking nerve. It’s so fresh still, you know? Now here he was, talking to another girl. Part of you feels like you deserve it. You cut him loose, there were no more strings that tied you two together. So why did you feel like this? Angry, annoyed, sad. Jealous.

Fuck that.

“Another tequila?” The bartender perks up upon seeing you nudge your way to the front of the bar’s counter.

You give him a tight nod and a blank mhm leaving your mouth, leaning over the counter as you wait.

His cologne shatters your thoughts. “Hey.”

You look up to see Frankie has turned away from his girl, eyeing you over. You couldn’t deny how good you looked tonight, taking advantage of your one night off to wear something that accentuated your figure.

And it was catching more eyes than Frankie’s. The woman beside him glares at you as if you took her favorite toy on the playground, as if she had dibs.

You hate to admit that your eyes drift as well, a certain sexually charged energy between you both. His classic khaki jacket and ballcap accompanied by a dark wash pair of jeans. His stupid hands are stuffed in his stupid pockets, and his stupid chocolate curls curve up toward the brim of his hat.

Frankie’s eyes fell to your sweet neck, then to the curves of your body, your mouth going dry at the way he was drinking you up.

“Hey,” you muster up, giving him a tight-lipped grin as you nod as a greeting.

You want him. He looks so fucking good tonight. But he already had a date going, you didn’t need to interrupt. You nip at your lower lip and force yourself to stare elsewhere.

“Rum and coke, please, Frankie,” The woman coos, an attempt to stray Frankie’s attention from you. She’s obviously seen the way he looks at you, both of you practically eye fucking each other right in front of her. You kind of got a kick out of getting under her skin, though.

“Hi,” you say as you reach your hand past Frankie, offering the woman a handshake and your name. “I work with Frankie.”

She gives you a snotty little hmph, nodding tightly instead of shaking your hand.

“I’ll meet you at the table with my drink.” She insists to Frankie, leaving the two of you on your own, but not without a squeeze to his broad arm and a certain look in your direction.

“Wow,” you fake applaud, “she’s a real keeper, Frankie. No, really, I mean it. Didn’t know you had a thing for girls with tits bigger than their face.”

“I just met her ten minutes ago,” Frankie mutters as he’s served his beer and the girl’s rum and coke, as well as your tequila shot being delivered.

You try not to roll your eyes too obviously. “Well, she’s certainly all over you.”

“What do you care?” He counters, finally facing you again, his eyes still lingering on your body for longer than you know he should. “You came up here to us, princess. If there’s something you wanna say, say it.”

A larger group comes in through the front door and pushes through to the bar, a light gasp leaving you as you’re shoved into Frankie, your fronts aligning. You feel his toned torso and smell his fresh cologne as his hand instinctually clutches your waist to keep you upright.

Both of you take one another in again, not being able to fight the tension between you both that could be cut with a knife.

The last time you were this close was Halloween. The last time he touched you was Halloween. Now, he was touching you again, and god, all you wanted was for him to flip his hat around, duck down, and kiss you. Kiss you hard, make up for all the time you had lost.

Have you ever missed someone so much you feel physically sick? You had no idea how much your little talks in the kitchen meant to you until you forced Frankie to let you go. You had the overwhelming urge to run away, like he was too close, he would learn everything about you, and he’d leave after finding out you’re just a broken plate that can’t be glued together.

You were unfixable. And Frankie was a fixer, down to his bones, and in his heart, he would try to mend you back together, only to be disappointed after many failed attempts. You wouldn’t put him through that, and more importantly, you didn’t want anyone to try. It would just hurt you more.

But you looked at each other a little too long to be just friends.

If there’s something you wanna say, say it.

I can’t.

Frankie’s eyes sink as you throw back the shot, feeling the liquid burn your throat and then your chest again. This is what you’d rather feel than hurt.

“Well,” you say, a bit raspy from the fresh alcohol. You gently push your hand into Frankie’s abdomen in an attempt to squeeze out from between him and a random drunkard, nails sinking into his toned torso. “Have a good rest of your night. See you at Tommy’s.”

Your shoulders swivel back and forth as you carve through the bar to the rest of your friends, toppling over people to get back to your seat as you sigh defeatedly. God, why are you torturing me?

It’s an hour later, followed by two tall water glasses. Your friends have ordered some appetizers off the menu to soak up the alcohol. And because you were all damn hungry. Your eyes stray to Frankie’s table every few minutes.

You couldn’t help it, you were overthinking. Was he looking at you when you looked away? Was he not looking at all, too into Miss Red? The more you thought, the more your chest felt like it wanted to give way. But you weren’t prepared for what you saw the next moment you looked up.

Big Red decided to make her move, her long fingernail catching Frankie’s chin and swiftly guiding him to face her as she leaned in and kissed him.

She kissed him, your Frankie, she kissed him. Put her pink lipstick on his mouth and marked him as her own.

Goosebumps flood over your skin, eyes sinking as you watched helplessly from across the room. Suddenly, it was all too much. The loud talking, the buzzing of people, the alcohol, her and him, it was all too much.

Your feet find the floor before you can stop yourself, you feel like you might shed a tear in your race to the bathroom. You tug on the handle, and it’s locked.

“Occupied!” Some snotty girl whines.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you shout amongst the crowd of people to ensure she can hear the urgency in your voice. Your throat feels thick with wetness.

Finally, the door opens, and the woman looks you up and down in annoyance. You don’t care. You put a hand on her shoulder to guide her out of the doorway, trying to push yourself in and close the door. Not before a familiar pair of thunderous boot steps echo in your ears.

You let out a grunt as you attempt to slam the door, but you see a hand curve around the frame. He speaks your name, it’s Frankie. Your stomach falls, and you quickly shake your head, feeling angry tears threaten to spill.

“Fuck off,” you say behind gritted teeth, attempting to use your body to finish closing the door. But he’s a hell of a lot stronger than you.

“Come on, princess, open up, just wanna talk.” He pushes himself in, tall figure looming over yours as you look away with annoyance. He flips the lock and presses his hand above the wall you’re leaning back on. “What’s wrong?”

Anger surges through your voice, planting your hands on his chest as you attempt to shove him away again. You find yourself confused when your own hands curl in on his shirt and bring him closer. “I told you to fuck off, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He says as his hands attempt to cradle your face, but you shove them down.

“Then stop looking,” You quickly shake your head, the heat of his hands making your stomach churn.

Suddenly, you don’t want to cry, you want to shout.

“I saw you kiss her!”

Frankie’s eyes met your glaring ones, your lips parting as you let out panted breaths.

“I didn’t kiss her,” he starts to say before you interject.

“I saw you! Why are you lying to my face?” You accuse, feeling your body flush with warmth as your hands gently push at his pecs. “Get away from me.” You mutter, but Frankie always returns despite how many times you push him away.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere until you listen to me, okay?” Frankie goes to cup your cheeks again, but the warning look on your face makes him groan in annoyance and drop his head before he comes back up to look at you. “She kissed me, I didn’t kiss her back, and-and I didn’t want her, okay? I want you, I want you, I want you, goddamit, I want you!”

You quickly shake your head, feeling your hoop earrings gently hit your cheeks. “No.” You whisper, feeling small under his gaze. And he’s looking at you again like you put the sun in the sky. You absolutely hate it in some ways, but he looks at you with such clarity that it makes your heart flutter. Like he knows his place is with you.

“No, what?” He challenges. You find yourself fisting at his shirt, both in comfort and also a way to keep him at a distance.

“No, you don’t want me, Frankie,” Your face is pinched in anger, eyes searching for his intentions. You watch as his face sinks at your words, hurt by what you’ve said.

“How can you fuckin’ say that? How can you say I don’t want you? You don’t get to decide that for me, alright?” His voice is stern, eyes narrowed in on yours as he fills the space between you two, no matter if you take a step back, he’s right there on your toes. “I like you.”

“You don’t know me, not really,” You say.

“I want to, though. I’m scared as hell to want you, but here I am, telling you I want you anyway because that’s how much I care. I want you more than I fear the rejection on Halloween happening all over again.”

All you can do is shake your head, feeling the mixture of angry sad tears start to melt at your eyes again. You hurt him so badly on Halloween, yet he was still here trying to say how much you mean to him.

“Frankie,” your lower lip wobbles, straying eye contact.

“No, listen to me, I’ve got more to say,” he says as he cradles your face once more, and this time, you don’t push him away. His beautiful brown eyes pour into your own, and you feel so drunk that he’s kissing your soul with his eyes.

“I haven’t even missed you,”

“Bullshit, I know you fuckin’ miss me because I miss you.” He sees through all your lies, you feel transparent as he holds you close, backing you up against the sink as he strokes a thumb along your cheekbone.

“No,” you start to say, shaking your head as tears cloud your vision.

“No, no, no,” he mocks, “Is that all you can say?”

You despise how much your throat feels swollen, and your words sound thick with wanting to cry. “I just wanted you to fuck me, but then I got greedy, and I wanted you to love me, too. But that would be a waste of your time, Frankie, you need to listen to me.”

The admission felt like a dam breaking inside of you, and Frankie only pulls you closer. Suddenly, the buzz of everyone else outside the bar died down, and all you could think or hear was Frankie.

“Loving someone is never a waste,” Frankie whispers.

You playfully scoff and wipe under your eyes around his hand. “You don’t love me.”

“No, not yet. But I could. I know I could. Because this past month has been hell without talking to you. I don’t wanna walk around the diner, pretending like you don’t exist or that you don’t do something to me. You do everything to me, you are everything.”

Frankie starts swiping away the tears you didn’t even know were falling, taking them away with the pads of his thumbs.

“I think of you at two in the morning when I can’t sleep, you’re always the first place my mind runs to. You stayed over once, once, and my body just fuckin’ craves the way I got to hold you. It was addictive, how it felt to finally be close to you, when you finally let me in.”

You force yourself to close your eyes and try to breathe, his words feeling like the powers a hurricane carries. Your shaky fists are still clutching his shirt at his sides, not willing to let him go after his confession.

After you gather a few breaths, you meet his eyes. “Frankie, once you care, you’re fucked.” It’s a warning.

Now, he’s the one shaking his head. “I don’t believe that for a minute. I’ve cared for you ever since I started working at Tommy’s, and even more when you kissed me at the Christmas party last year.”

You playfully scoff and break a smile. “We were both drunk.”

Frankie shrugs. “Yeah, and I wished I was sober so I could remember every bit of how good it felt. Now we’re almost a year later. It took me from December to August to make another real move on you, and I don’t want to let you go. Not after having the real thing. This feeling doesn’t just go away. I miss you.”

You nip at your lower lip, goosebumps flying across your skin away.

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” you whimper, your forehead gently leaning into the support of his large palms. Your glassy eyes make him melt.

He hushes you gently, your voices growing softer the closer he comes to you. Your noses gently brush, making your wet eyelashes flutter. Frankie sighs before he speaks. “If you promise to stay, I’ll promise not to leave.”

Frankie’s care for you was evident. You knew pushing him away was wrong, trying to save yourself only wounded you both. But what a waste it would be not to try with someone who was as good-hearted as Frankie.

The douchebag you once knew was long gone. In fact, it feels like he started to drift away after last December. Because he had made up his mind a year ago that he wanted to be with you, and he would change for the better to make it happen. He’s been showing you all this time what you mean to him, that he wouldn’t hurt you.

You must have left him hanging for too long because he parts his lips to speak your name.

“Stop talking,” you whisper as you lean up and crash your lips against his. No more words needed to be said.

You can feel Frankie’s cheeks perk up from his smile, both of your mouths upturned, happy to be in one another’s arms again. Being apart felt like a drought, and he was finally touching you. And both of you were fucking starved.

Frankie’s once soft movements turn greedy. As do yours. Hands are gliding over waists, teeth are tugging lips, and your core physically buzzes as Frankie flips his hat to face backward without breaking your kiss. Jesus Christ. His tongue glides against your bottom lip and you easily part your lips to grant the access he so desperately craves.

“Lemme make it up to you,” Frankie mutters against your mouth, tasting remnants of his ale and he, your citrussy-lime tongue.

“Please,” you beg.

He doesn’t waste another moment, nipping at your bottom lip and making you mewl while his large palms find the back of your thighs. His strength makes lifting you look easy, gasping into his mouth as he sets you on top of the sink while his hands fasten on your waist once more.

You push his hand towards the button of your jeans and he pops it open with one hand.

“Fuck,” you moan out, jaw dropped as his hand pushes past the band of your panties, large fingers gliding down through your slick, then back up your valley. A breath catches in your throat, your back archiving off the mirror as Frankie takes the opportunity to bury his head into your chest, planting kisses along your breasts over your shirt. He eventually moves his lips up your body, across your sweet neck, to where he nibbles on your jawline.

Your jaw drops against his cheek, your faces smooshed together as you feel his familiar stubble scrape against your soft skin. It’s like there’s a non-stopping rollercoaster in your mind, with his fingers moving up and down your soaking pussy, you can’t fucking think.

A weak cry leaves your lips against the shell of his ear as he plunges two fingers into your entrance. You brace an arm around his shoulder and pull him into you, ensuring he keeps his damn fingers stay buried in your cunt.

“Please,” you whimper, grinding your hips with vigor against his hand, his wrist rolling with you.

“That’s it baby,” his silken voice purrs with praise, “let go for me.”

You become completely pliant under his touch, under the lead of his fingers. He was already filling you up, you couldn’t imagine being filled up by the girth of his cock after a month without it.

With two fingers inside of you and his thumb working sweet circles around your clit, you feel as if you might explode. He walks a line between kissing and sucking on your neck, the surface of your skin becoming clammy and raw.

There’s a sense of safety in his arms, his tense bicep that’s hardened from the one that’s working up into you.

You barely acknowledge the knock on the door, forcing yourself to bite down onto Frankie’s shoulder and his jacket flap to keep yourself from spilling out loose moans. Loud music and even louder chanter is muffled by the door.

“Fuck, fuck, Frankie-” you moan, mouth stuffed and jumbling your words.

Frankie clamps his free hand over your mouth, guiding your head to rest back against the mirror once more, your hot pants fanning against his palm.

“So fuckin’ loud, don’t remember you bein’ this loud for me.” He says with a wide cocky smirk. You will yourself to roll your eyes, but they end up staying at the back of your head as you continue to fuck yourself against his fingers.

He curls them inside of you, your back arching as you feel your stomach swirl with excitement. Your small hands clench at his jacket, gasping shakily as your high nears closer.

Your muffled moans stay concealed by Frankie’s hand clamped over you, letting your weak moans and cries land into his palm. It felt so good, the way your clit twitches under his control and his fingers work effortlessly to plunge deeper and deeper into your depths.

There’s another incessant knock at the door. Fuck, there was no way to be quiet.

Frankie smirks wider as your walls clench around his fingers, one long moan of his name landing muffled against his fingers as his eyes fixate on your own, spilling your orgasm across his fingers.

“Good girl, just needed to get off, didn’t you?” He belittles.

You sigh weakly against his hand, hearing still fuzzy from feeling so over the moon. A slow, tired smirk grazes your lips as you playfully push his face away.

“Such a douchebag.” You mutter, nipping at your lower lip while Frankie gently removes his fingers from your entrance. You feel empty, you hate it.

Frankie raises his two fingers to your lips, your eyes studying the pretty cream he’s gathered amongst the mix of your slick.

“Taste yourself, baby.” Such a fucking charmer. You can’t help the heat that gathers at the back of your neck, shyly leaning in and wrapping your lips around the tips of his fingers. You lock your eyes with his own as you flatten your tongue and hollow your cheeks, sinking your mouth lower and taking him to the knuckle.

Your heart pounds thinking about his cock angrily twitching against his thigh, desperate for his own release. But he’s always put you first. And you always make his loyalty to you worth his while.

Frankie’s cocky face slowly melts as you swallow around his fingers, lips parting as he looks over you in a sense of pride.

Another damn knock on the door. More like an incessant pounding.

He forces himself to release his fingers from your mouth.

“What?” Frankie protectively barked, voice laced with annoyance.

“Fish?” A voice called from the other side. One of his friends.

He looks at you apologetically, grabbing you by your hips and lowering you off the sink. His hands are already on the hem of your jeans, and securing the button while you zip the fly and hurry to make yourselves presentable.

Frankie puts his hand on the knob, ready to flip the lock. He feels compelled to kiss you one more time. He spins on the spot and cups your cheeks, meshing your lips together and pulling your chin up to face him. He savors it, lets his tongue tangle with yours to get that last taste of come on your tastebuds.

He forces himself to let you go, finally opening the door.

“Santi? What, man?” He asks in annoyance, seeing his friend on the other side.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pauses to look past Frankie, to you, a sly little smirk on his lips after he’s put two and two together. “Listen, uh, Benny’s been arrested.”

Frankie shares a look of confusion with you. Frankie and Santi both stand there a little dumbfounded, unsure of what to do.

“Well, come on, he can’t stay there all night. Let’s go.” You urge. It’s enough to snap the two out of their surprised trance. Frankie takes your hand and leads you towards the bar’s exit, pushing people aside with his arms and broad shoulders so no drunk asshole knocks you around in the crowd.

You’re surprised to see his friend, who you’ve gathered is Santi, doing the same. It felt like you had two incredibly handsome escorts. Or maybe a better term would be guard dogs, pretty and sleek Dobermans.

After saying goodnight to your friends and grabbing your purse, Santi catches up you both while Frankie drives his truck.

“This drunk guy came up and started hitting on this girl he knows from.. somewhere.. I don’t know, but then he started getting all belligerent when she rejected him, and Benny stepped in. They started knocking each other around, it was so fuckin’ crowded in there, and I didn’t know where you went. Surprised you guys didn’t hear all the commotion.”

You weren’t surprised you missed the whole fiasco. Frankie had you coming so hard that you saw Jesus Christ himself.

“So, what?” Frankie prodded, annoyance laced in his voice as he drove over the bumpy road, glancing in his rearview mirror every few moments to see you. “The police got called and they both got arrested?”

Santi makes an affirmative humming noise, looking out the window as they pull up to the town’s police department.

“Fuck,” Santi swears as he hops out the back of the truck. “I haven’t done this in a few years. Don’t remember how it goes.”

You jump in before you can stop yourself. “We need to go in, ask for his name, and figure out what he’s being charged with. We pay his bail, he completes his release paperwork, and as long as he didn’t bad mouth any cops in there, we should be in and out, bada-bing-bada-boom.” You say as you clap-wipe your hands in demonstration of how painless this process should be. But Frankie and Santi still look starstruck.

“Don’t ask. Let’s go.” You say as you hop out of the truck, the two men following suit.

You imagined their friend Benny to be this mean, big, bad guy. But you guys didn’t see the way this man smiled upon seeing his friends come to pick him up. He was the definition of a Golden Retriever if we’re still speaking in dog lingo.

Tussled dark blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a smile that would make any person melt. He just wasn’t what you were expecting when you heard that one of Frankie’s drunk asshole friends was arrested. Maybe you expected another stoner-type who didn’t give a fuck. You were wrong.

“Arrested for defending a woman’s honor,” Benny scoffs as he digs his possessions out of a large envelope. You eye the way he delicately places his watch back on his wrist before bumming a cigarette from Frankie. The glow of the lighter illuminates his face a mute orange before the end of his cigarette caught blaze. Then you were all surrounded by the blue of a midnight sky again.

“What, like you wouldn’t do it again?” Santi teases, stuffing his hands in his pockets as the cigarette slowly made its way down the line to Frankie.

“Fuck that, I’d do it again tomorrow if I had to.” He chirps with a laugh. “Fish, you should have heard the way this guy was badmouthing this woman, I mean, the most vulgar shit that came out of his mouth just because she wouldn’t let him buy her a drink.”

“M’glad I wasn’t there. There would have been two guys arrested tonight.” Frankie mutters, the cigarette passing from him to you.

“Wouldn’t believe how often that shit happens.” You mutter before you take a drag. Benny leans forward to take a look at you, maybe just now realizing you were even here.

“Yeah?” He probes for more as you slowly nod, tipping the ash off the end of the cigarette.

“My friend was called a cunt last week after saying no to a guy wanting to sit next to her at the bar. He knew the seat was taken, our other friend just went to the bathroom. He purposely waited until she was alone to make a move.”

“No shit.” Santi hummed curiously.

“Seriously. Called her a fat bitch, said he’d hope somethin’ really bad would happen to her. If I was there, I would have knocked his teeth in.”

Benny slowly smiles, nodding proudly. “I have no doubt. Just wish you didn’t have to do that stuff in the first place.”

You sigh as you glance at Frankie, who’s looking at you with sympathetic eyes. But he knows you don’t really like it when he looks at you like that, so he quickly glances at his shoes.

“Wait,” Benny whispers with a goofy grin. “Fish, is this the girl from the diner you always talk about?”

Even in the dark of night, Frankie’s sweet glowy blush tints his face. Or maybe it was the alcohol, but he wouldn’t have driven if he was that out of it.

“Yeah, yeah, Benny, this is her.”

“Oh shit, hi,” Bennys says as he stands in front of you and offers you his hand to shake. “I know this is kind of a bad start, gettin’ me out of jail and all, but I’m Benny Miller, nice to meet you in person. My guy here,” Benny pauses to playfully yank around Frankie’s shoulder, “he’s always tellin’ us stories about the diner. Can’t think of one you’re not mentioned or the star of the show.”

The smile on your face can’t help but grow as you playfully eye Frankie who is being all too quiet. You hand Frankie the cigarette as a distraction, shaking Benny’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Benny. And trust me, I’ve met guys under worse circumstances. Like working with them at a diner.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Frankie mutters playfully around the cigarette in his mouth.

The whole group erupts into laughter, Benny and Santi both taking the opportunity to say their proper greetings and apologies for busting up your night with their friend.

“I should probably get back to my brother.” Benny hums, motioning his head back to the bar’s general direction. “If he thinks I had to do another overnighter, I owe him twenty bucks.” He teases as you all start piling back into the truck.

Frankie drops Santi and Benny back off at the bar, the entirety of the building shaking with applause and whistles to see that their noble heroes have returned. A very specific pretty blonde rushes up to Benny and thanks him with a kiss.

“And he still gets the girl.” You hum, watching from the passenger side window.

“He always does, that one.” Frankie teases, his hand coming over to rest on your upper thigh, thumb making gentle circles over your jeans. “Lemme take you home.”

You swallow down a lump in your throat, gently resting your hand over Frankie’s. “Is home your apartment?” You ask, slowly raising a hopeful eyebrow as he nods.

“Can be.”

A nod to that, Frankie starts his truck down the road again.

You need to tell him the truth, that this didn’t make you official. That you were still wary, trying to learn how to ride a bike again, sort of thing.

“What?” He asks, knowing you’re thinking too loud in your head.

You part your lips to speak but realize you shouldn’t feel bad about what you have to say. “I’m not ready for a full commitment. You’re not my boyfriend, Frankie, not yet. I just wanna take things slow. See if this is what we both really want.”

The right side of Frankie’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “We’ll figure it out. If no label is what you want right now, I’ll wait.”

You can feel your heart swell at his understanding. The last thing you wanted was for Frankie to start announcing to the world that you were dating. Not when you didn’t feel fully ready. You had bad relationship habits, ones you were ready to finally outgrow. But you didn’t want him to be subjected to your learning process. So you both could wait.

Frankie’s hand rotates palm side up, fingers apart. You slip your hand over his, your fingers interlocking as he starts the familiar route back to his apartment. This would be a lot of work, and you both had to be patient.

“Take things slow...” Frankie slowly murmurs. “Does this mean we can’t have sex?”

“No, fuck that.” You both laugh, squeezing his hand in your hold.

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moongirlcleo · 3 months ago

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Echoes of the Crimson Tide- Chapter 1

❤︎ tags and content: pirate au, potential myth lore, friends to lovers, vivid dreams

❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞

Dividers: @/cafekitsune

Fic: @moongirlcleo

You thought the Aetum Protocore was just another tool, another piece of tech to be studied and mastered. But ever since it came into your possession, the dreams started—vivid, impossible memories of a life you never lived. A life where you weren’t a Deepspace Hunter, but a pirate sailing under the infamous Crimson Corsair.

Now, the past is clawing its way back, and the bond you and Caleb share runs deeper than just childhood. The question is—what exactly are you remembering? And what happens when the past refuses to stay buried?

The scent of salt and gunpowder filled your lungs. The crash of the waves roared in your ears. The deck beneath your boots lurched, sending a spray of seawater over the rail as cannon fire rattled through the air. The sky was a storm-washed canvas of purples and grays, thick clouds rolling overhead like the wrath of the gods themselves.

And you—your hands clenched tight around the hilt of your sword—were in the heart of the fray.

Steel clashed against steel as figures darted around you, shadowed and blurred by the chaos. Your body moved on instinct, blade meeting an incoming strike with practiced ease, a vicious thrill singing through your veins. This was familiar. The weight of the sword in your grip, the sway of the ship beneath your feet, the battle cries carried on the wind—this was home.

A deep voice cut through the bedlam, sharp and commanding.

"Stay with me, love!"

Caleb.

You turned toward him, and there he was—grinning like a devil amidst the carnage, his coat billowing behind him as he cut down a foe with a single, fluid motion. The Crimson Corsair. Your Caleb.

The nickname fell from your lips without thought. "You think I’d let you have all the fun?"

His eyes flashed—storm-violet, glinting with something that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’d expect nothing less."

But even as you fought beside him, something itched at the back of your mind, a whisper beneath the roar of cannon fire. Something was off.

You shouldn’t be here.

Or rather—you had been here before.

The déjà vu struck like lightning, searing and sudden. This battle, this ship, the way your heart slammed against your ribs as Caleb spun to deflect a blade aimed at your back—it wasn’t just familiar. It was memory.

Your breath hitched as the dream started to unravel at the edges, reality bleeding through like water soaking into parchment. You knew this ship. Knew the way the wood beneath your boots had been shaped by countless tides, knew the scent of the sea that had been your constant companion. Knew him.

Knew that this was a dream.

Your sword wavered, hesitation creeping into your limbs as the knowledge settled deep into your bones. The world around you was still moving—Caleb, the fight, the ship rocking beneath the sky—but you could feel it now. The way the air had changed.

This wasn’t just a dream. It was something more.

And Caleb—your Caleb—was staring at you now, brow furrowed in a way that sent something aching through your chest.

"You’re distracted." His voice softened, dipping beneath the clash of swords. "What’s wrong?"

Your lips parted, but before you could speak, the dream fractured—

—And you woke up.

<hr>

The dream clung to you like static

It refused to fade, even as you stared through the reinforced glass of the Deepspace Hunters’ headquarters. Below, the city sprawled out in neon and holographic projections, but your mind was somewhere else—adrift in a reality that shouldn’t have existed but somehow did.

The Aetum Protocore sat securely in your pocket, its presence an insistent pulse against your skin, like a secret itching to be unearthed.

This wasn’t the first time.

At first, the visions had been nothing more than fleeting disturbances—stray flashes of turbulent waters, the scent of salt on the wind, the phantom sensation of a blade in your grip, and a voice—his voice—calling your name. You had dismissed them as the side effect of your evolving abilities, chalked it up to exhaustion from too many missions in the field.

But now?

Now you had lived inside the dream. You had felt the ship lurch beneath your feet, heard the clash of steel on steel, smelled the acrid tang of gunpowder thick in the air. And Caleb—Crimson Corsair (who?)—had looked at you with something more than recognition.

It was a tether, a connection as deep and unshakable as the gravity that kept planets in orbit.

The thought sent a pulse of heat through your chest, unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with battle instincts.

A sharp chime from your wrist communicator snapped you back to reality. You straightened, blinking against the artificial light of the control room. The Operator’s voice filtered through your earpiece, crisp and unwavering.

“Hunter, focus. We have an anomaly reading in Quadrant X-07. You’re needed in the hangar.”

Routine. Work. A mission. That was what you needed.

Shaking off the lingering fog of the dream, you pushed away from the railing and strode toward the exit. The hum of the base was a familiar comfort—the chatter of operatives, the sharp beeps of incoming transmissions, the distant whir of docking ships.

You weren’t a pirate sailing under blood-red skies.

You were a Hunter. A warrior.

And yet, as your fingers absently brushed over the Aetum Protocore in your pocket, a single question lingered in the back of your mind.

If it was just a dream…

Then why did it feel like a memory trying to break free?

<hr>

The dreams wouldn’t stop.

No matter how hard you threw yourself into missions, reports, or combat simulations, the past bled into the present like ink spreading across a page. You caught glimpses of him—Caleb—between blaster fire and mission briefings, in the reflection of your visor, in the flickering glow of a warp gate.

The harder you tried to dismiss it, the more insistent it became.

“Hunter, focus!”

Jenna’s sharp command cut through the static-filled air of the training hall just as the simulation bot lunged. You barely twisted in time, plasma blade meeting steel with a clash that sent vibrations down your arm. Gritting your teeth, you shoved the droid back, ignoring the subtle pulse in your jacket pocket—the Aetum Protocore still tucked securely inside.

Jenna crossed her arms, tapping her boot against the ground. “Your reaction time is sluggish,” she said, her voice level but firm. “You almost got clipped.”

You shut down the droid, exhaling through your nose. “I’m fine.”

Jenna wasn’t convinced. “Are you?” she asked, studying you with that sharp, assessing look she always gave when something didn’t add up. “Because I’ve seen cadets handle themselves better in simulations.”

“I’ve just been… distracted.”

Jenna tilted her head. “By what?”

You hesitated. How could you explain this? That every time you closed your eyes, you found yourself in another time, another place—one where you weren’t a Deepspace Hunter, but a pirate bound to Caleb by something unexplainable? That you could still feel the echo of his voice, his touch, long after waking?

You scoffed at yourself. It sounded insane. Even in a world of Evols and celestial artifacts, past lives weren’t exactly standard protocol.

“It’s complicated,” you finally said, running a hand through your hair.

Jenna sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Look, I don’t care if it’s personal, but whatever it is? You need to get a handle on it.” Her voice softened—just a fraction. “You know what happens when you hesitate out there.”

Your fists clenched. Yeah. You knew.

But the moment you stepped out of the training hall, your feet carried you straight to your quarters. The door sealed behind you, and with a steadying breath, you pulled out the Aetum Protocore.

It hummed against your palm.

You traced the intricate markings, searching for meaning. Why now? Why these visions?

A deep part of you already knew the answer.

Because it wasn’t just a dream.

And there was only one person who could help you prove it.

<hr>

The next morning, you didn’t hesitate.

The moment your shift ended, you packed your bags and headed toward the train to Skyhaven, his name already on the tip of your tongue. The mystery of the Aetum Protocore had burrowed too deep inside you, and if anyone could unravel the truth—it was him.

Caleb had always been a constant in your life—like the stars above Linkon, ever-present, even when unseen.

You grew up together on the fringes of civilization, where the divide between ordinary people and those with Evol powers was as vast as the galaxies you now patrolled. Back then, before training halls and mission protocols, before the weight of responsibility settled on your shoulders, life was simpler.

Your first memories of Caleb weren’t of his skill in combat or the way his presence could shift the air in a room.

No, they were of warmth.

Of stolen afternoons spent racing through abandoned starship ruins, laughter echoing through metal corridors. Of sneaking onto restricted rooftops to watch the shuttles launch, dreaming about the day you’d leave, promising—always promising—that you’d look out for each other.

And, of course, the fights.

The arguments that always ended in stubborn glares and, inevitably, Caleb tossing an arm around your shoulders with that boyish, too-charming smirk.

"You really think I'd let you stay mad at me forever, pipsqueak?"

And damn him, because no matter how much you wanted to hold a grudge, you never could.

Even now, years later, that part of your relationship hadn’t changed.

You had trained together. Fought together. Nearly died together more times than you could count. He was your best friend. Your closest ally.

And yet…

Somewhere along the way, things shifted.

It was in the way his voice dipped a little lower when he spoke your name. The way his eyes lingered on you in moments of quiet, as if searching for something he couldn’t quite name. The way his touches—once careless, playful—had become deliberate. A hand on your lower back, a brush of his fingers against yours in passing.

It wasn’t just friendship anymore.

At least, not for you.

And that terrified you.

Because the one thing you feared more than facing an enemy fleet alone was losing this—losing him.

If you said something, if you took that leap and misread the signals, it wouldn’t just be rejection. It would be disaster.

Caleb was your anchor in the chaos of Deepspace, the one person who made this life feel less lonely. If you risked it—if you fell—and he wasn’t there to catch you, you weren’t sure how you’d ever recover.

So, you buried it. Buried it deep.

Because as long as things stayed the same, as long as Caleb remained beside you, even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted…

At least you wouldn’t lose him.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

<hr>

Skyhaven never lost its brilliance.

Even in the quiet of the evening, the floating city hummed with soft neon glows, airships coasting along invisible currents, and the distant chatter of people enjoying the nightlife below. The air was crisp with the lingering scent of fuel and spice, a unique blend of industrial and exotic that only a place like Skyhaven could offer.

You strode through the bustling streets, eyes flicking between the towering structures and the ever-changing holographic displays that lined the walkways. It had been too long since you last visited—too long since you saw him.

Caleb had always been a hard man to track down. Between his duties as Colonel and his ever-growing reputation, it wasn’t surprising that he had very little time for social calls. But tonight, you weren’t giving him a choice.

As you neared the grand entrance to the Skyhaven Barracks, you felt a small buzz of anticipation. The guards barely spared you a glance, already recognizing you from past visits, and let you through without a word.

Caleb’s office was near the top floor, its glass-paneled windows offering a stunning panoramic view of the city below. But when you stepped inside, you found him hunched over his desk, one hand raking through his messy brunette hair, a holopad glowing in front of him with various reports.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "You look like you need a break."

Caleb stiffened for half a second before turning toward you, violet eyes widening in surprise.

"Pipsqueak?" His voice was almost incredulous, but then a slow grin spread across his face. "Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you anytime soon."

You smirked, stepping further into the room. "Figured I’d drop in on my favorite Colonel. Unless you’re too busy being important?"

Caleb snorted, leaning back in his chair with an easy grin. "Oh, I’m always important, but for you? I guess I can make time."

And just like that, you felt it again.

That warmth. That gravity. The thing tethering you to him, no matter how far you tried to run.

"Come on," you said, jerking your head toward the exit.

"I’m kidnapping you for the night. We’re getting dinner."

Caleb arched a brow, amusement flickering behind storm-violet eyes. "Oh? And what if I had plans?"

You scoffed. "Then they’re canceled. Besides, I know you haven’t eaten yet. You always forget when you’re working."

His grin widened, slow and lazy. "You do know me too well, pipsqueak." He grabbed his coat, slinging it over his shoulders before nodding toward the door. "Alright then. Lead the way."

The streets of Skyhaven were alive.

Neon signs pulsed with electric color, bathing the city in a hazy glow. Airships hummed overhead, gliding along invisible currents, their lights reflecting off the polished streets below. The familiar energy of the city wrapped around you, vibrant and unrelenting, yet somehow comforting.

You walked side by side, seamlessly slipping back into old conversations—training mishaps, ridiculous missions, gossip about the other Deepspace Hunters. It was easy. It always was with Caleb.

Tonight, you made a choice. You didn’t ask about his latest classified assignments. Didn’t bring up war, duty, or the weight of the galaxy on your shoulders.

Tonight, you weren’t soldiers.

Just you and Caleb.

"You still take your coffee way too sweet?" Caleb teased as you stepped into a quiet little diner nestled between the towering spires of the city.

You rolled your eyes. "Obviously." Sliding into the booth across from him, you leaned back against the cushioned seat. "Not all of us have a death wish for black coffee, Colonel."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tch. You’ve gone soft."

"Says the guy who nearly died drinking that one prototype energy drink back at the Academy."

Caleb groaned, letting his head fall against the table with a dramatic thud. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I swear I could hear colors for three days."

Laughter bubbled up before you could stop it. Genuine, weightless. This—this was what you had missed. The easy rhythm of your conversations, the warmth, the way Caleb always made the world feel a little less heavy.

You caught it then—just for a second. The way his eyes lingered. The usual smirk softened into something unreadable, something slower, something more.

Your breath hitched.

But before you could say anything, the server arrived, and the moment passed like a fleeting shadow.

The warmth of the diner hummed around you.

The quiet murmur of patrons, the soft clinking of dishes, the glow of neon bleeding in from the city outside. Caleb stretched out in the booth, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that slow, knowing look that always meant trouble.

"Alright, pipsqueak," he drawled, voice smooth but laced with suspicion. "You didn’t come all this way just to force me into a decent meal. Spill."

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as you idly traced the edge of your napkin. "What? I can’t just drop in on my oldest friend without an ulterior motive?"

Caleb snorted. "Not a chance. You—showing up unannounced, kidnapping me from my work, and making sure I eat? That’s normal." He leaned forward slightly, amethyst eyes narrowing. "But you’ve been fidgeting all night. You’re either hiding something, or you’re about to confess you blew up something important again."

You scoffed. "That happened one time, and it was totally not my fault."

Caleb tilted his head, unimpressed. "So? What is it?"

For a moment, you considered brushing it off, keeping up the act, pretending this was just another casual visit. But the truth pressed against your ribs, too heavy to ignore.

And Caleb—he had always been able to see through you.

You sighed, exhaling slowly before meeting his gaze. "It’s the Aetum Protocore."

His expression didn’t shift immediately, but his fingers twitched where they rested against the table. A subtle tell.

You pressed on before he could interrupt.

"Ever since I’ve had it, things have been… strange. Not just the usual headaches or energy surges. I’ve been having these dreams—no, memories." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. "They feel too real to be random. Like a past life or something. And in them, I’m—"

A breath.

"I’m a pirate. And you’re there too, Caleb. The ‘Crimson Corsair.’"

Silence stretched between you, thick and charged.

Caleb didn’t laugh it off.

Didn’t call you crazy.

Didn’t tell you it was just stress, or exhaustion, or another side effect of handling the Protocore.

He just sat there, studying you, his violet gaze unreadable, the usual lazy amusement nowhere to be found.

And then, finally—he exhaled.

Leaning back slightly, voice quieter this time.

"Well, damn, pipsqueak."

A wry smirk, something sharp at the edges. "And here I was thinking my recent dreams were just a vivid fantasy."

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

You stared at him, the weight of what he’d just admitted settling over you like a heavy storm rolling in.

Whatever was happening to you—

It was happening to Caleb too.

#xia yizhou #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb #love and deepspace #lnds smut #lnds #lads x y/n #moongirlcleo

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inky-writing · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: From Afar

Cato Hadley x reader

Warnings: fighting, blood, weapons, dictatorship...

Word count: 966

Masterlist

The sun hung low in the sky over District 2, casting a golden glow over the large training arena where the finest young people sharpened their skills. The smell of sweat and steel filled the air, an almost intoxicating reminder of the district’s pride in its warriors.

Cato Hadley stood near the edge of the arena, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched the trainees spar in pairs. His sharp blue eyes scanned the scene, but they always seemed to find their way back to one person: Y/N.

She was a force to be reckoned with, her sword flashing like lightning as she danced around her opponent. The other girl, a strong and beefy fighter in her own right, barely had time to raise her weapon before Y/N disarmed her with a well-timed feint and a brutal strike to her wrist. The clatter of the sword hitting the floor echoed through the arena, followed by the sound of the girl’s knees hitting the mat. Y/N didn’t stop there. With a fluid motion, she pointed the tip of her blade at her opponent’s throat, her stance poised and lethal.

"Enough!" barked their instructor, his voice carrying across the room.

Y/N stepped back, lowering her sword, though the intensity in her eyes didn’t waver. Her opponent groaned, clutching her wrist as two medics hurried over to escort her to the infirmary. Y/N’s face softened slightly as she watched the girl leave, but she didn’t apologize. That wasn’t the way of District 2.

Cato’s jaw tightened as he watched her. She was… incredible. He had always known Y/N was special, from the moment they had met as kids. She had outmatched every opponent she faced, and over the years, she had only grown stronger, sharper, deadlier. Even now, at sixteen, she was better with a sword than he was, though he would never admit it out loud. It wasn’t just her skill that drew him to her, though. It was the fire in her, the determination in every move she made, the way she carried herself as though nothing in the world could break her.

But she was more than just a fighter to him. She was Y/N. His Y/N, though he’d never dared to say the words out loud.

Clove’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You’re staring again," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

Cato scowled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I’m not staring."

"Oh, please," Clove said, rolling her eyes. "You’ve been watching her like a hawk all day. It’s a wonder how she doesn’t notice."

"She’s my…" Cato hesitated, searching for the right word. "She’s my friend. I’m just… making sure she’s focused."

Clove raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Cato ignored her, turning his attention back to the arena just in time to see Y/N sparring with a new opponent. This time, it was a boy their age, one of the strongest trainees. He rushed at her with a roar, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Y/N sidestepped effortlessly, her movements precise and calculated. Within seconds, she had disarmed him, sending his sword flying across the room. She followed up with a swift kick to his chest, knocking him flat on his back. The match was over before it had even begun.

The other trainees erupted into cheers and applause, though there was an undercurrent of unease in the room. No one wanted to face Y/N in the arena, not even the boys. She was simply too good.

Y/N turned, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Cato. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them. Her lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile before she turned away, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Cato felt his heart skip a beat. Damn it.

"You should just tell her," Clove said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall next to him.

"Tell her what?" Cato asked, though he already knew what she meant.

"That you’re in love with her, smarty pants," Clove said, smirking. "It’s not like it’s a secret."

Cato shook his head, his expression hardening. "It doesn’t matter. She… she deserves better."

Clove’s smirk faded, replaced by a rare look of seriousness. "You’re an idiot, you know that? She’s crazy about you. Everyone can see it. Well, everyone except you, apparently."

Before Cato could respond, Y/N approached them, her sword resting against her shoulder. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing," Cato said quickly, his voice a little too sharp.

Clove snorted. "We were just talking about how you’re going to end up in the infirmary one day if you keep sparring like that. You’re going to run out of opponents at this rate."

Y/N laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Maybe I’ll start sparring with you instead."

Clove raised her hands in mock surrender. "I’ll pass, thanks. I like my limbs intact."

Y/N turned her attention to Cato, her smile softening. "What about you? Care for a match?"

Cato hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "Maybe later."

Y/N’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, as though she could see right through him, before she nodded. "Suit yourself."

As she walked away, Cato felt a pang of regret. He wanted to tell her, to say all the things he had been holding back for years. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The Reaping was only a week away, and if either of them was chosen…

He clenched his fists, pushing the thought away. For now, he would watch her from the sidelines, silently rooting for her, silently loving her. It was all he could do.

Next chapter >>>

#cato x y/n #cato hadley x reader #cato hadley #cato x reader #cato hunger games #cato #hunger games #district 2 #love #reaping #serie #fanfic #fandom #x reader #tumblr #requests #y/n #x y/n #reader

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flurry-of-stars · 8 months ago

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𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Emotional conflict and distress. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion.

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going.

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable.

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales.

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огон��к has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now.

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst, “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home.

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food.

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff.

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise.

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table.

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure.

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone !)

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics

Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #fyodor x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #flurry-of-writing

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moeitsu · 3 months ago

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The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 8 - A Storm Is Born In Still Water Summary: Spending the evening with the Marstons, laughter and warmth filling the space, you couldn’t ignore the looming presence of the hurricane on the horizon. A quiet unease has settled in your chest—this night felt like the calm before the storm. The last taste of normalcy before everything was about to change. wc: 11k tw: none! Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: This ended up being longer than I intended, but I really enjoyed it. Reader spends some quality time with the Marstons in this chapter. With a juicy little surprise from Arthur at the end :)

tag list: @photo1030 @v3lv3tf0x @ireallyhonestlydontcare @shygamergirl01 @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @sevikaspuertoricanwife @abducted-cowz @ilovethatforyousworld @gatodebiquini @onyxlune @bomdada

Standing in front of the bathroom sink, I rolled the small pearl between my fingers, its smooth surface cool against my damp skin. Steam curled around the room in ghostly wisps, clinging to the mirror in a thick, hazy veil. The humid air pressed against my bare skin, making me sweat all over again, as if the shower had done nothing to wash away the night.

Since I’d arrived home, I couldn’t stop replaying everything.

I could still feel him everywhere—Arthur’s strong hands gripping my waist, his slick tongue dancing with mine, his warm breath filling my lungs. No amount of scrubbing could erase the phantom sensation of his touch, the way my skin still tingled as if he had left an invisible mark on me.

Maybe it wasn’t just his touch that had me so undone. Maybe it was the trust, the raw vulnerability of it all. Arthur had a way of making me feel safe, seen—like I was something treasured. He unraveled me with the sound of his deep, melodic voice, lured me in with the ethereal glow of his body, pulsing like a heartbeat in the water.

A shiver rolled through me, despite the heat lingering in the air. If he hadn’t been the one to pull away, how far would I have gone?

At that moment, I had been ready to strip my wetsuit from my body, to give myself to him completely, to discover what lay beneath those shimmering scales. It was insane. I had only known him for a week. I barely understood his biology. And yet…to Arthur, I was the first to show him kindness. To explore him with gentleness and admiration.

And standing here, miles away from him, I still felt his pull. That strange, invisible tether binding us together. This feeling inside me was foreign yet familiar, and it felt wonderful. Damn it, some part of me truly did love him.

My gaze dropped to his gift, its pearly-white surface reflecting the golden glow of the bathroom light. My stomach twisted as I finally let the weight of this tiny treasure settle over me.

I had sealed my fate. Not that I could or even wanted to refuse him. But the future… whatever awaited us… terrified me. I had accepted his courtship. I had expressed a mutual desire to mate. The thought of sex with him sent heat rushing up my neck, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My thighs pressed together instinctively, aching with an anticipation I barely understood.

Part of me knew I shouldn’t want this. And yet every time I was near him my body betrayed me.

But this was bigger than just desire. Charles’ warning rang in my ears. This was bigger than my feelings. It could be dangerous. Hell, it could even be deadly.

I placed the pearl down on the cool porcelain sink, its milky surface gleaming under the dim light. My fingers lingered on it for a moment before I turned away, grabbing my night creams and smoothing them over my skin with slow, absentminded strokes. And yet, as I went through the motions, my thoughts wandered.

What do his cocks look like?

The question struck like a bolt of lightning, sending a flush creeping up my neck. I don’t think I’ll ever truly grasp the fact that he has two. My hands faltered for a moment before I forced myself to keep going, spreading the thick cream over my cheeks with shaking fingers.

What would they feel like?

Would they be like the rest of him—silken, slick, and impossibly warm? Would they have the same ridges as his tongue, designed to pleasure and devour? A whimper nearly slipped from my lips at the thought.

I snatched my toothbrush, clicking it on with a little too much force before shoving the humming bristles into my mouth.

Would he even fit inside me?

Arthur was big. Not just in size but in presence, in the way his chest and shoulders dwarfed me, the way his powerful frame moved through the water with effortless grace. He was far bigger than any human I’d ever met. His tail alone nearly weighed 300 lbs. Would it hurt? Would his body even be compatible with mine? Surely there was some way we could make it work.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure up the brief glimpse I’d caught when I was stroking his gills—the way he had pressed them into my soft stomach, the heat of him unmistakable even beneath the water. Slipping past his scales in a moment of raw hunger and pure arousal. Part of me loved that I had that effect on him, that my touch alone brought out a primal side that he tried to keep locked away. That instinctual need to—

My eyes flew open.

Did he want to impregnate me?

My breath caught in my throat, the electric hum of my toothbrush suddenly deafening in the small bathroom.

Could he?

His father was human, which meant there was some possibility for offspring. And sirens—at least from what little I knew from Lenny’s lesson—didn’t just mate for pleasure. Mating season wasn’t about getting off from the heat of arousal. It was a biological imperative, an instinctual drive to breed, to create strong, healthy offspring so the species could endure for generations. Arthur’s body was driven by its biological processes, much like my own. My body still followed its natural reproductive cycle, ovulation and menses occurred whether I wanted it to or not. And I was certain, there was no birth control for sirens.

I spit out the foamy toothpaste, watching the milky swirl spin down the drain as I gripped the edge of the sink, my thoughts following it into the abyss. There was only one way to answer these questions, and standing here spiraling like my minty spit wasn’t going to help.

I needed to take this one day at a time.

Arthur had been open with me about nearly everything. He would understand my hesitation, my concerns, my fears and my fantasies. If he was going to be my mate, and I his, there were things we needed to discuss. Things I had to know first.

But for now, this pearl—this sacred vow—would remain between us. Like our own little secret.

Grabbing my hairbrush, I wrung the excess water from my hair over the sink, watching droplets slide down the porcelain before wiping the mirror with my palm. The fog smeared under my touch, revealing my reflection in hazy fragments. I pulled my tangled hair back from my face, only to freeze as the light caught something shimmering on my ear.

My breath hitched.

Leaning closer, my pulse pounded in my throat as the blood drained from my face.

Iridescent lines, thin as spider silk, wrapped delicately around my earlobe, tracing up the helix in intricate, swirling patterns. The faint shimmer was unmistakable. Evidence of Arthur’s hunger, where he had nipped at my flesh and then soothed the ache with his traitorous tongue.

Shit.

A rush of heat crawled up my neck, an unrelenting mix of embarrassment and something far more dangerous—desire.

With a sharp grunt, I tossed my hairbrush into the sink, the clatter echoing in the small space. Yanking my bathrobe off the door, I threw it around my shoulders and stormed out of the bathroom.

So much for keeping this a secret.

At this rate, I might as well walk into work on Monday with a brand-new fucking piercing.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The microwave let out a shrill beep, its sound slicing through my quiet apartment like a judge’s gavel, sentencing me to another regrettable meal. With a sigh, I trudged to the kitchen, grabbing the steaming plastic tray and peeling back the film. A wave of artificial cheese and processed nostalgia wafted up, clinging to the air like an unavoidable truth.

Flopping onto my bed, I sank into the pillows, the mattress dipping beneath me. Eating in bed was typically reserved for the days I truly felt pathetic—but after tonight’s adrenaline-fueled chaos, I figured I’d earned it. The glow of the bedside lamp cast long, soft shadows across the walls, wrapping the room in a cozy, almost melancholic warmth.

Ah, gourmet.

Just as I reached for the remote, my phone buzzed against the nightstand, the vibration rattling the wood, its soft white light cutting through the dimly lit room like a whisper demanding to be heard.

Hey. ~JM

A small smile tugged at my lips. Placing my dinner down on my lap as I swiped the notification open and typed back.

Hi.

You alive? ~JM

No, you’re talking to a ghost right now.

Grinning, I stabbed at the sad excuse for macaroni with my fork as I waited for his reply.

Very funny. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe. ~JM

Home by 11 PM sharp, Mr. Marston. Don’t worry, I didn’t break my curfew ;)

Taking a streaming bite, I instantly regretted it, and reached for my drink to wash away the taste of disappointment. My phone vibrated again.

You’re impossible. How’d your swim with Arthur go? ~JM

I smirked, stretching out across the mattress, my legs tangled in the blankets.

Wouldn’t you like to know? You tryna get lessons to be a lifeguard or something?

Three little dots danced on the screen. Disappearing for a moment then coming back. Then—

Forget it. ~JM

I laughed softly, and he was calling me impossible? Perhaps I was playing too much. Despite our antics John was a sincere friend. He was only looking out for me after all.

I’m teasing, you idiot. It was nice. Arthur showed me around the tank. Discovered some new abilities of his too. He really is something incredible.

I couldn’t help but think back to the way his bioluminescence had flickered like a living constellation beneath the water, the way his voice had wrapped around me like a song meant just for me. The way his warm breath curled in my chest. It crossed my mind whether or not I should share that piece of information with the others. Charles asked me to keep him updated on everything. But how much did I really need to share?

Yeah, incredibly weird. You both are. Guess that’s why you get along so well. ~JM

Rolling my eyes, I bit back another laugh.

Don’t hate me ‘cuz I got to swim with the magic fish and you didn’t :P

Oh shut up. Are we still on for tomorrow? Abby and Jack are coming too. ~JM

That made me sit up, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

It was tradition—an unspoken ritual between John and me. Every time a big hurricane loomed on the horizon, we’d go out for drinks, raising our glasses to the storm before it had the chance to take anything away from us. One last hoorah, just in case we woke up to find the world outside our doors washed away.

It was a morbid tradition, sure, but necessary. The hurricanes had been growing stronger, more relentless. Sometimes it felt like Mother Earth was being sinister, toying with its humans. Though who could blame her. Each summer, we lost more land to the sea, watched the shoreline creep further inland, watched the cost of repairs climb higher than we could keep up with.

But this tradition—this small act of defiance—was our way of saying we wouldn’t break. That no matter what was coming, we’d face it together, with laughter in our throats and whiskey in our veins.

This time, though, Abigail and Jack would be joining us. It meant fewer drinks, fewer reckless choices, but I didn’t mind. If anything, I was proud of John for bringing them along, for letting them be part of something that had always just been ours. It meant he wasn’t just bracing for the storm anymore—he was facing it with the people he loved most in the world.

Absolutely, I’ll be there. I miss those two!

They miss you too. Was thinking either Shady Belle or Bronte’s. ~JM

I nearly choked on my drink.

This little island off the coast wasn’t exactly known for its fine dining. There were only a handful of places to eat, and even fewer that were appropriate for the whole family. Neither John nor I were rolling in cash, which meant our options were limited. But Shady Belle? Really?

To put it kindly, Shady Belle was a dump. A dive bar tucked into the shadiest part of town—hence the name. The kind of place where the floors were perpetually sticky, the jukebox was always playing something just off-key, and you were guaranteed to see at least one fight break out before closing time. It attracted the worst kind of crowd—drifters, troublemakers, men who smelled like cheap beer and regret. But it was cheap. Greasy burgers, stale fries, watered-down whiskey. You got what you paid for, and in our case, that wasn’t much.

Bronte’s, on the other hand, was a different world entirely. A cozy little beachside Italian restaurant, nestled right by the harbor where the scent of salt and grilled seafood filled the air. The place had charm—worn wooden tables, twinkling string lights, and the soft hum of waves crashing just beyond the deck. Their seafood was as fresh as it got, pulled straight from the harbor each morning and served up in buttery pastas and rich, fragrant risottos. It wasn’t fancy, not exactly, but it was a place you took your family, where you lingered over good food and even better conversation.

And somehow, John thought these two were interchangeable.

John Marston, you are not bringing your lovely family to a dump like Shady Belle. I forbid it, shame on you. >:(

I’m just messing with you, boss. We’ll see you tomorrow at Bronte’s. ~JM

I set my phone down with a contented sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. My food had gone cold, my show remained unwatched, and yet my mind was still tangled in thoughts of Arthur—his touch, his voice, the pull of something I didn’t fully understand.

And yet, despite it all, a weight had lifted from my chest.

That small conversation with John had grounded me, brought back a sense of normalcy, like an anchor in the middle of a storm. The calm in the eye of a hurricane. For tonight, I let myself believe that the little pearl gleaming on my nightstand was just that—a simple pearl. A treasure from the abyss. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever future awaited me with Arthur could wait.

With that thought, I let my eyes slip closed, drifting off to sleep with a small smile on my lips.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The hum of my truck’s engine faded into silence as I shifted in my seat, giving myself one last once-over in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t vanity that kept me checking my reflection—it was the damn iridescent marks that shimmered no matter how I tried to conceal them. The fading sunlight caught the delicate lines, making them glint like pearls against my skin.

Covering the scars on my wrist was easy enough with a well placed watch or bracelet. But my ear was a different challenge. I had tried earrings, but they only drew more attention. A beanie had crossed my mind, but late summer in the Outer Banks was no time for extra layers. With a sigh and a silent prayer that no one would notice, I raked my fingers through my hair one last time, letting it fall over my ear before stepping out of the truck.

The scent of salt air and freshly baked bread welcomed me as I stepped into the restaurant. It didn’t take long to find the Marstons—the hostess barely had time to point me in their direction before the sound of Jack’s high-pitched giggles rang through the patio. His little voice carried over the murmur of dinner conversations as he eagerly scribbled across his kids’ menu, tongue poking out in deep concentration.

“Aunty!” he shrieked the moment I leaned over his chair, wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug.

“Hey, nugget,” I grinned, ruffling his blond hair as he giggled into my shoulder. I slid into my seat, warmth settling in my chest as I turned to Abigail. “It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking great! How’s the baby?”

Her tired but radiant smile said it all before she even answered.

A few months ago, I had been jolted awake by a drunken call from John, slurring his way through the news that he was going to be a father of two. I had given him an earful—not just for drowning himself in whiskey instead of being there for Abigail, but for calling me instead of facing his own emotions head-on. Still, beneath my frustration, I understood.

John wasn’t in the best place, mentally or physically, when Jack was born. That was before I came around, but Abigail had told me how much he struggled with fatherhood in the beginning. His own father had been a hard, unloving man, and John had spent his youth running wild, just another orphaned street kid scraping by however he could. It wasn’t until Hosea took him under his wing that he found something like guidance—like family.

By the time I entered the picture, John was already trying to be better, to be more present. And then he found out Abigail was pregnant again. The drinking didn’t stop overnight, but I helped him reel it in, reminded him that this time, he didn’t have to figure it out alone. He didn’t have many friends outside the facility, and I had quickly become the person he called on those nights when doubt crept in, when he mumbled about being a failure and a sorry excuse for a father. I listened. I talked him down. I reminded him that he wasn’t his old man—that he had a choice in the kind of father he wanted to be.

And looking at him now, his hand resting protectively on Abigail’s, his eyes soft as he watched Jack chatter away, it warmed my heart to see how far he’d come. To see him not just accepting fatherhood, but embracing it.

Abigail beamed, her whole face lighting up. “She’s wonderful. Been kickin’ around in there like she’s training for the Olympics, though,” she laughed, resting a hand on her belly as if to calm the tiny storm within.

I gasped, nearly dropping my napkin. “She?!” My voice came out more like a squeak. Last time I saw her, the baby’s gender had still been a mystery.

With a proud nod, she confirmed it, and I looked between her and John, my excitement bubbling over. “Well, congratulations, you two! A baby girl—what wonderful news!” I turned to Jack, who was still absorbed in his coloring. “What about you, Nugget? Are you excited?”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He threw a crayon triumphantly into the air and declared, “I’m gonna be the best big sister!”

Laughter erupted around the table. John chuckled, shaking his head as he gave his son’s shoulder a light nudge. “Big brother, kid. You’re gonna be the best big brother to your little sister.”

The minutes melted away as we talked about everything and nothing, Abigail filling me in on all the baby know-how while Jack chartered between this topic and the next. When the waitress arrived to take our orders, I raised a knowing eyebrow at John as he casually ordered a Blue Moon. He caught my expression and mouthed just one before returning his attention to Jack’s latest tic-tac-toe match.

When my turn came, I ordered an Irish coffee.

John shot me a look. “Little late for coffee, isn’t it? You tryna pull an all-nighter?”

I nodded, stirring my straw absently in my water. “Gonna stay up to track the storm. It’s not supposed to hit land until after midnight. They’re saying it’ll weaken to a Cat 3, but I’m not sure I believe that.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly as she twisted her hands in her lap. “I heard they already evacuated some parts of the island. Are you sure you’re safe in your apartment?”

Before I could answer, our drinks arrived, and John lifted his beer in salute. “I’ll drink to that,” he said with a grin before taking a long sip. Jack, wanting to be just like his old man, eagerly lifted his sippy cup of milk and took a dramatic gulp, his little brows furrowed in exaggerated seriousness.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’ll be fine, Abby,” I reassured her, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m on the fourth floor, anyway. Only thing I really gotta worry about is the wind.” I threw in a wink for good measure.

Abigail didn’t look entirely convinced. She reached over the table and took my hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now. “But if you lose power, water—or even if you just need some company—you’re more than welcome to stay at Hosea’s with us.”

Her warmth settled over me like a blanket, and for a moment, the looming storm didn’t seem quite so daunting.

Dinner carried on in a comfortable rhythm, the conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. Abigail shared stories of Jack’s latest antics—his newfound fascination with bugs, his insistence that he could build a boat out of sticks, his stubborn refusal to accept that the moon wasn’t actually following him home at night. John chimed in with the occasional quip, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation whenever his son interrupted him to “correct” the details of the stories.

Plates were passed, forks scraped against ceramic, and the scent of garlic and butter mingled with the salty ocean breeze. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in deep hues of indigo and violet. The colors reminded me of a certain someone, but I pushed those thoughts aside. As if on cue, the string lights flickered to life above the patio, bathing the space in a warm, golden glow. The soft hum of conversation from other tables drifted around us, but beneath it all, there was something else.

A shift in the air.

The wind carried a different weight now, cooler, charged with something powerful and untamed. The storm loomed just beyond the horizon, invisible but present, pressing against the edges of our peaceful evening. The distant rumble of waves against the shore sounded rougher than before, like an unspoken warning. I glanced toward the darkened sky, the edges of heavy clouds rolling in, and felt it deep in my bones. The tension, the waiting.

But here, on this little patio strung with golden lights, everything still felt normal. Safe.

Jack, having polished off his dinner with the determined enthusiasm only a child could manage, rocked back and forth in his chair, barely containing his excitement. “Dad, can we go inside and see the fish? Please? Please, please, please?”

John sighed, already pushing back his chair. “Alright, alright. But you gotta actually look this time, not just tap on the glass and scare ‘em off.”

Jack beamed, leaping up from his seat and practically dragging his father toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You know Papa Hosea owns an aquarium right? You can come see the fish whenever you like.”

“But I wanna see those fish!” He pointed a small finger towards the tank inside the restaurant.

Abigail and I watched them go, their figures illuminated briefly by the warm glow of the doorway before disappearing inside.

A gust of wind sent a shiver through the patio, rattling the string lights overhead. Abigail pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders and shot me a look. “You sure you don’t want to take that offer?” she teased, but there was something genuine in her eyes.

I smirked, but the thought lingered. The storm was coming, and even with a full belly and good company, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this might be the last normal night for a while.

Abigail studied me for a moment, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her water glass. The playful glint in her eyes softened into something quieter, something knowing. “And how are you doing?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “I feel like a terrible friend. We’ve spent the whole night talking about me and the baby, and I haven’t even asked about you.”

“You are the farthest thing from a terrible friend Abby. Hell, you’re practically like family.” I hesitated before my next words, swirling the last of my Irish coffee in my mug. “But, I’m fine. Nothing exciting to report,” I said, but even I wasn’t convinced.

Abigail arched her brow. “Oh, fine, huh? That’s convincing.”

I huffed a laugh and shook my head. “I mean it. I’m just… busy. Work’s been a lot.”

“So I’ve heard,” Abigail said, swirling the last of her drink before setting it down. “John told me all about that monster you guys found on the beach. He still won’t let me come see it, though—said he doesn’t want me to get wrapped up in it. Whatever that means.” She waved a dismissive hand, her tone light, but the word monster lodged itself like a thorn in my chest.

I forced a small smile, but my throat tightened. I couldn’t blame her—how could I? She had never met Arthur, never seen him beyond whatever crude image John had painted for her. Knowing him, he had probably fed her just enough details to keep her curiosity in check, just enough to make sure she didn’t go snooping around for more. But I doubted he spared the more unsettling details—the sharpness of Arthur’s features, the unearthly glow in his eyes, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

To her, he was just a story. A strange, terrifying thing washed up from the deep, something not quite human. And maybe that was easier. Easier to believe in a monster than to acknowledge the gentle yet broken man beneath.

I shifted in my seat, holding my drink just to have something to do with my hands. “John just worries,” I said carefully. “You know how he gets.”

Abigail scoffed. “That’s one way to put it. He acts like I can’t handle myself.” She shook her head, then gave me a pointed look. “But you have seen it, haven’t you?”

My fingers curled around the ceramic mug. Him, I almost corrected. But instead, I just nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

Abigail tilted her head, watching me closely. “And? Is it really as bad as John says?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of the truth pressing against my ribs. Worse, I wanted to say. And yet... not at all. Instead, I just swallowed and gave her the safest answer I could.

“We’re taking it one day at a time.”

She wasn’t buying it. She never did. “You sound just like Hosea. Anyways, are you seeing anyone?” she pressed, her voice light but her gaze sharp. “Or still working yourself into the grave?”

I exhaled slowly, tapping my fingers against the side of my cup. “I don’t know if I’d call it seeing someone,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully. “It’s… complicated.”

That caught her interest. Abigail leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Complicated how?”

I let out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through my hair. Where did I even begin? “He’s… different.”

Abigail’s brows lifted. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t really know yet,” I admitted honestly. “He’s just—he doesn’t fit into any category. Not someone I ever expected to know, let alone…”

“Let alone what?” she prompted, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

I sighed, shaking my head. “He’s not like anyone else, Abigail. He’s got this way about him—like he’s seen and done things most people couldn’t even begin to understand. And it’s not just that he’s been through a lot, it’s that he wears it, you know? Like it’s stitched into him, into the way he moves, the way he talks.”

Abigail’s expression softened. “Sounds like someone with a rough past,” she said gently.

I swallowed, staring down at the swirls in my coffee. A rough past. That was one way to put it. “Yeah,” I murmured. “And sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t fully see. Like if I step too close, I might lose my footing entirely.”

For a long moment, Abigail didn’t say anything. Then, she reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “You’re not scared of him, are you?”

The question caught me off guard, but the answer was easy. “No. Never.” That much I knew for certain.

“Then maybe that’s what matters,” she said simply. “Different doesn’t always mean bad. And complicated doesn’t always mean impossible.”

I looked up at her, at the quiet reassurance in her eyes, and for a moment, I let myself believe her. But deep down, I knew that Arthur wasn’t just different. He was something else entirely. And that was what made this so damn complicated.

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence. The clinking of silverware and the hum of distant conversation dimming in the space between us as patrons left to take shelter from the oncoming hurricane. The air was thick now, charged with the quiet presence of the storm rolling in from the sea. The string lights overhead flickered slightly as the wind picked up, rustling the palm trees and sending the scent of salt and rain through the open patio.

Abigail glanced at the sky, then at Jack, who was starting to rub at his eyes between half-hearted scribbles on his kids’ menu. “We should get going before it really starts coming down,” she said, pushing back from the table.

We settled the bill, and as we stepped into the parking lot, the restaurant’s warm glow spilling onto the pavement, the wind had gained strength. It whipped at Abigail’s cardigan and sent Jack giggling as he tried to fight against it.

“Be safe, alright?” she said, pulling me into a tight hug. She smelled like vanilla and the faintest trace of baby powder. “And if you change your mind about staying with us—”

“I know where to find you,” I finished with a small smile.

She gave me one last squeeze before turning to buckle Jack into his car seat, her voice soft and affectionate as she reassured him they’d be home soon. That left me alone with John for a moment, the space between us filled with the howling wind and the rustling of palm fronds overhead.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “Storm’s rolling in fast,” he muttered.

Before I could respond, a sudden gust swept through the parking lot, catching my hair and blowing it back from my face. I barely noticed it—until I saw the way John’s expression shifted.

His eyes flickered, just for a second, to the iridescent glint of the thread like jewels on my ear, catching the restaurant’s light like tiny embers against my skin. It was only a second. A brief, unreadable look before he schooled his expression into something neutral.

I froze, unsure if I should say something—unsure if he would. But John just exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head before stepping forward and pulling me into a quick, tight, one-armed hug.

“Stay dry,” he mumbled against my hair, his voice low and rough.

“You too.”

And just like that, he let go, turning away without another word. I watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat, the glow of the dashboard briefly illuminating his face before he started the car. Abigail waved at me through the window, and then they were gone, disappearing down the darkened road toward Hosea’s home.

I stood there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at my clothes, the scent of rain heavy in the air. Then, with a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I turned and headed for my truck. It was going to be a long night, and I had a date with the storm radar.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

Sometime after midnight, exhaustion must have won—I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The coffee I’d downed earlier had lost its fight against the weight of my eyelids. The last thing I remembered was watching the storm churn on my computer screen, the swirling eye of the hurricane swallowing our little island whole. Reds and yellows slashed across the radar like open wounds, fading into greens and blues on the outskirts. I had been listening to the radio, tracking power outages, storm surges, trees crashing onto roads, and the eerie mention of debris washing up on the shore.

Now, I woke to a sharp crick in my neck, my laptop dimly glowing where it had slipped between the folds of my blankets. The storm still raged outside—wind shrieking against the windows, rattling the glass in their frames. But something was… off. It was too quiet.

The low hum of the radio had been reduced to static, its garbled voice flickering in and out, whispering in fragmented syllables. I reached up, tugging the string of my bedside lamp. Nothing. No power. That explains the silence, the hum of my AC is typically a comforting white noise.

Rubbing the sleep from my face, I sat up, disoriented. My watch read 3:17 AM. Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, its ghostly wails slipping through the cracks in the building. But beneath it—beneath the storm’s fury—I heard something else.

A faint, rhythmic buzzing. My phone.

It must have slipped from my bed while I slept, and now it was vibrating somewhere on the floor, lost in the darkness. I strained to listen, feeling blindly across the wooden boards until my fingers brushed the smooth glass.

I flipped it over, squinting at the screen. John.

A cold weight settled in my stomach. My thumb hovered over the answer button for only a second before I swiped to pick up.

“John?” My voice was hoarse, the word barely audible over the static hum in the air.

For a moment, there was nothing but the howl of the storm.

Panic began to coil in my gut, tightening with each second of silence. “John, is everything alright?” I was praying this was some kind of butt dial, or that he was simply calling to check in on me.

A sharp burst of static crackled through the line, followed by a distorted mess of noise—wind shrieking, the distant clang of something metal slamming against concrete.

“—out. Power’s out—damn generators—”

I sat up straighter, gripping the phone a little tighter. Did Hosea lose power too? But why would he be calling me about it? “John, I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

The wind battered against my windows, rattling them in their frames. My heart pounded against my ribs, its rhythm matching the erratic pulse of the storm.

“—at the facility—” His voice wavered, distant, then returned in a frantic rush. “It’s bad. Real bad.”

I threw the blankets off and shot up from the bed, already reaching for my boots. So he’s not at Hosea’s, got it. Leave it to John to be at work during a damn hurricane. “What’s happening?”

More static. A low, shuddering creak echoed through the speaker, like steel under pressure.

“—system’s down—” His voice cut in and out, growing more frantic. “Aerators failed—oxygen levels—” Another sharp cut of silence. “Pumps not working.”

I cursed under my breath, fumbling in the darkness as I yanked my jacket on and scrambled for my keys. My hands shook, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a vice. If the generators were down, that meant the entire facility was in darkness—no lights, no air circulation, no cooling systems. And John… John was there alone, trying to handle it himself.

He’d be working himself into the grave, pushing through exhaustion, sweat soaking his clothes in the humid, stifling air. And if the tanks were failing—if the aeration system was down—he wasn’t just fighting to keep the lights on. He was fighting to keep everything inside that building alive.

“Hang on, John, I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid, wait—”

His voice broke through again, this time with a single, chilling sentence:

“They’re suffocating.”

I froze. My breath hitched. The wildlife was suffocating.

My mind raced, connecting the dots at a sickening speed. No generators meant no power. No power meant no saltwater pumps. No filtration. No oxygen cycling through the water.

In a normal aquarium tank, that would be bad. In an enclosed system as massive as the facility’s main exhibit—housing fish, sharks, rays, and other massive marine life—it would be a death sentence. Oxygen depletion would happen fast.

Too fast.

Hypoxia. It could happen within hours. A slow, suffocating death. The fish would panic first, gills flaring, their bodies slamming against the glass in erratic distress. Then tissue damage. Starved organs. Their movements slowing as their bodies failed them. Then—

I swallowed hard, forcing my spiraling thoughts to a stop.

A sharp inhale hissed through my teeth as realization slammed into me like a tidal wave.

John wasn’t just talking about the fish.

The static flared again, his voice cutting through—urgent. Desperate.

“Arthur—”

The line crackled, breaking apart into nothingness.

I clutched the phone tighter, pulse hammering in my ears. “John?” I pressed, voice rising. “John, what about Arthur?!”

But the call had already gone dead.

My mind raced as I bounded down the staircase, taking two steps at a time, barely feeling the impact beneath my feet. The last step was a blur—I half-jumped, half-stumbled, but I didn’t stop moving. I tried to remind myself—Arthur can breathe air. He’ll be okay. If things got bad, he could pull himself to a shallower part of the tank, find a pocket of safety.

But that wasn’t enough to quell the gnawing fear twisting in my gut.

Without oxygen circulation, the water would turn against him. CO₂ and ammonia would build rapidly, poisoning the very environment he called home. And Arthur—his entire life had been spent in a controlled aquatic space, monitored, maintained. What if his body needed those precise conditions? What if we had overlooked something critical?

And even if he survived physically, the psychological toll would be its own kind of torment. He would be trapped in that space, forced to witness the creatures he shared his world with convulsing, gasping, dying. The thrashing, the desperation—he wouldn’t just see it; he would feel it.

I shoved through the front doors, and the storm nearly knocked me off my feet.

Wind roared around me, a force so strong it stole the breath from my lungs. Rain pelted my skin like a relentless volley of tiny bullets, cold and stinging. I had to squint against the downpour, barely able to make out anything beyond a few feet ahead. The street was an endless expanse of blackness, the power outage swallowing every familiar landmark into a shapeless void.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the truck keys, the metal slick from the rain. I yanked the door open, using the full force of my body to fight against the wind, and threw myself inside. The moment I slammed the door shut, the world outside became muffled, but the storm still howled, rattling the windows, making the vehicle feel like a fragile bubble against something vast and furious.

I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white. I was terrified.

Of the storm. Of what I might find when I got to the facility. Of what Arthur might be enduring right now.

This was reckless. I knew that. But John was alone. Arthur could be suffering. And I couldn’t sit here, waiting, hoping, while the worst unfolded in the dark.

I had to get to them. I shoved the keys into the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned the engine over.

The roads were a nightmare.

Water pooled in deep, deceptive pockets along the asphalt, and my tires skidded more than once as I navigated the flooded streets. The rain pounded relentlessly, turning the windshield into a smeared, shifting blur, my wipers barely keeping up. Streetlights were dead, leaving only the erratic flashes of lightning to illuminate my path in harsh, fleeting bursts. Each time the sky cracked open, it revealed a scene more unsettling than the last—fallen palm trees, submerged sidewalks, waves crashing violently over the breakwater.

As I neared the facility, the ocean raged against the shore, its swollen tides rising higher than I’d ever seen, swallowing chunks of sand and hurling salt spray across the road. My chest tightened. If the storm surge got worse, the flooding would only accelerate.

Then, through the sheets of rain, I spotted John’s truck parked near the back entrance. Relief and urgency tangled in my chest. I swerved into the lot, barely throwing the gear into park before yanking the door open.

The second I stepped out, the storm slammed into me with full force. Wind tore at my clothes, rain slashed at my skin, and the ground beneath my boots felt slick with rushing water. I forced myself forward, head down, arms wrapped around myself as I fought against the gale.

By the time I reached the door and shoved my way inside, I was drenched to the bone, my breath coming in gasps. The moment I was safe from the storm, another realization hit me like a brick.

I should have brought a flashlight.

The facility was pitch black.

The only sounds were the muffled roar of the wind outside and the frequent claps of thunder that seemed to shake the whole earth. Accompanied by the slow, eerie drip of water somewhere deeper in the dark.

The beam of my phone’s flashlight cut through the suffocating darkness, barely illuminating more than a few feet ahead. The air inside the facility was thick and damp, carrying the scent of saltwater and something faintly metallic. Every step I took echoed down the empty corridors, swallowed by the creaks and moans of the building as it strained against the wind and rain hammering from outside.

“John?” My voice wavered, lost in the vast, suffocating silence.

Nothing.

The emergency lights weren’t working. That meant the backup battery system had failed too, leaving the entire place cloaked in a darkness so absolute it felt unnatural. My pulse pounded in my ears as I moved forward, the walls pressing in closer with every passing second. Shadows stretched and twisted with each flicker of my light, my own breath sounding too loud in the stillness.

A sudden groan reverberated through the ceiling, the metal framework shifting under the storm’s relentless force. I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath as a distant crash echoed somewhere deeper in the facility.

“John!” I called again, louder this time, urgency creeping into my voice. I pushed open the nearest door—a supply closet. Empty.

I turned down another hallway, checking every room I could think of—his office, the staff lounge, even the breakroom. Each one was abandoned, cold, and eerily still. The farther I went without seeing him, the more the panic gnawed at me.

A door down the hall rattled violently, the wind slamming against it from the other side. I spun toward the sound, my breath hitching as the phone’s flashlight beam trembled in my grasp.

“John, where the hell are you?” My voice cracked, frustration and fear tangling in my throat.

I was running out of places to look. If he wasn’t in the generator room or one of the main labs, then that only left one place—the tanks.

My grip tightened around my phone as I turned toward the large double doors leading to the main exhibit hall—the heart of the facility. The water filtration tanks, the viewing platforms, and, of course, Arthur’s enclosure loomed ahead.

Dread coiled in my stomach, the weight of it pressing against my chest as I stepped forward. There was no possible way he was outside. He couldn’t be. My mind began to spiral into dark places, and I fought to pull myself back.

A new fear gripped me, chilling my bones. What if he’d gone outside? What if he’d tried to check the outdoor power lines? The floodwaters had already crept dangerously close to the shoreline. If he got swept away, carried out to sea—no.

Stop.

I couldn’t afford to let my mind race ahead. There was still a whole aquarium to search. Panicking would only slow me down and it certainly wouldn’t help Arthur.

I forced myself to focus, squaring my shoulders as my heart hammered in my chest. A faint sound caught my attention—something that almost felt like instinct pulling me up the stairs. The dive locker. The very top of the facility, where divers prepared for routine cleanings, repairs, and underwater shows. The thought of him up there made my skin crawl, but it was the only place left to check.

I pushed myself faster, my legs burning as I took the steps two at a time. Sweat slicked my face, dripping down my neck, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to find him. And I needed to find him now.

I called his name again, the sound of my voice small and hoarse in the oppressive silence.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I threw open the door without hesitation. The weak beam of my phone’s flashlight sliced through the dark, illuminating the expansive space ahead. The water glimmered, reflecting the dim light in small, rippling waves. It looked strange, like a portal to something deep and unknown—an abyss that threatened to swallow everything in its path.

I moved deeper into the room, my breath shallow, chest tight. Every shadow seemed to shift, each movement amplified in the silence of the storm’s fury outside.

Then, I saw it.

A figure.

Cloaked in shadow, their silhouette outlined faintly against the water’s surface. They were frantic, their hands moving quickly, pulling on something heavy. An oxygen tank. The sound of metal scraping against metal cut through the stillness, a sharp contrast to the storm’s distant wail.

But even in the darkness, I knew who it was.

A flash of pale skin, the faint glow of scars, pink and familiar, unmistakable.

John.

My breath caught in my throat, a mix of relief and dread flooding me all at once. I took a cautious step forward, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, I had no time to waste.

"John!" My voice came out hoarse, louder now, trembling with an urgency that made my hands shake. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

The wind howled through the building, its voice blending with the roar of the storm outside. John didn’t hear me. His back was to me, his focus entirely on the task in front of him—strapping the oxygen tank to his back. Securing the mouth piece for him to breathe and then—

Without warning, he jumped into the water.

I froze, my heart slamming in my chest as the splash echoed across the room. The sound felt too loud, too sudden, like it had split the air. Panic ripped through me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

"John!" I screamed again, but the storm drowned my words, swallowing them whole. He couldn’t hear me. My phone slipped from my trembling hand, hitting the metal floor with a harsh clatter before sliding across the platform into the murky water below.

I didn’t hesitate. I bolted toward the diving stage, my legs shaky and my mind racing. What the hell was he thinking? John couldn’t swim—he’d never learned. And he certainly wasn’t certified to dive. He was throwing himself into a dark, cold ocean of uncertainty with no experience, no knowledge of how to survive down there. Taking a deadly risk on everything.

I reached the edge, my hands gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. My chest was tight, panic clawing its way up my throat. I looked out at the rippling water, scanning the dark expanse, my pulse pounding. It was too dark to see him, let alone see anything in the tank. Did he have a light with him? He could bump into something, or something could bump into him.

What the fuck was he thinking?!

More importantly, what should I do? What could I do? Standing here I felt as useless as a blobfish out of water.

I wanted to dive in after him, to drag him back to safety, but I was no diver either. I couldn’t risk both of us. And besides—if I couldn’t find him in this black water, what would I do? If he was unconscious, if he was already struggling… I’d be no better off. We would both end up dead.

Should I try to get the generator up and running? Was that even possible with the storm raging? I had no knowledge of electrical currents and power supply. But I’d seen it done before, you just pull a ripcord. How hard could it be? The air inside the building was becoming thick with heat, the lack of oxygen starting to settle into my lungs. Time was running out. It was like everything was moving in slow motion—every second stretching into eternity.

I paced back and forth, my hands shaking violently. The cold sweat on my skin clung to me, sticky and nauseating. There were so many things I needed to do, so many choices—and all of them felt like life-or-death decisions.

The air was getting heavier with each passing second, but it was hard to focus, hard to stay calm when my thoughts kept circling back to John, to his reckless jump into the water. I couldn’t lose him, not like this.

Minutes stretched into an endless haze. It was like I was trapped inside a nightmare. No light, no air, no way to call for help. I could hear my own heartbeat, feel the seconds dragging by as I stared into the murky water below, waiting for any sign of movement. Waiting for anything—anything at all—to show me that John was still alive.

And then, suddenly, I heard a sound—a faint, distant thump followed by the familiar hum of the filters. My heart leapt in my chest, but it was swallowed by the howling winds. Was that him?

I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do something. I turned toward the diving equipment, my hands fumbling as I tried to get the gear on. My fingers were slick with sweat, slipping against the straps and valves. It felt like everything was moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

But what if I made it worse? What if I was too late?

I barely registered the eerie glow steadily growing beneath the water, my mind too tangled in panic, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. It wasn’t until a sudden, violent splash shattered the silence that my head snapped up, my fingers still clumsy against the buckles of the oxygen tank.

Bodies hit the platform with a sickening thud, the wet slap of limbs against the slick metal ringing through the storm-rattled air. My heart seized in my chest.

Arthur.

And beneath him, heaving, coughing, a goddamn mess—John fucking Marston.

Relief hit me first, a bone-deep rush that nearly took my knees out from under me, but it was quickly drowned by something hotter, something furious. The adrenaline that had been running through my veins since I first bolted out into the storm boiled over. I stormed toward them, my pulse still hammering from the sheer terror of thinking I was going to have to drag John’s lifeless body out of that water.

As if sensing my rage, Arthur backed away, slipping silently beneath the surface, his dark eyes lingering on me as he floated in the murky depths. I was glad to see he was okay—grateful—but right now, my fury had a singular target.

“Do you have a goddamn death wish, Marston?” I shouted over the thunder’s deafening growl, my voice shaking with the weight of all the things I wasn’t saying—I thought you were dead, you idiot. I thought I was too late.

John, of course, wasn’t the least bit fazed by my anger. He rolled onto his knees, hacking up water, and cleared his throat like he hadn’t just jumped into a pitch-black tank during a hurricane with no diving experience.

“Pumps are running,” he rasped, still catching his breath. “I can redirect the generators to keep ‘em on so they don’t fail again.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was shaking, his body trembling with cold, adrenaline, maybe even fear—though he’d never admit it. His lips had a bluish tint, his hands clumsy as they tried to push against the slick platform.

“Enough about the goddamn generators!” I snapped, my voice cracking from the force of it. “You could have died, John! Why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

He let out a breath, slow and heavy, shifting onto his knees. In the dim light, I could see it clearly now—the raw exhaustion in his expression, the way his fingers curled against the platform as if steadying himself.

“We were running out of time,” he murmured, his voice rough with strain. “Without the pumps filtering the water… everything would have—”

He trailed off, his breath still uneven, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. I swallowed hard, my anger warring with something else. Something dangerously close to fear. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Defeated, I yanked a towel from the nearest locker and wrapped it around him as he shrugged the heavy oxygen tank from his back. John coughed again, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater before dragging a trembling hand down his face.

"One of the main pumps was clogged," he finally said, voice raw. "I tried clearing it from the control panel, but nothing was working. The pressure was building, and if it backed up any further, the whole damn system would’ve started dumping toxins back into the tank." He looked up at me then, eyes glassy but sharp with determination. "Everything would’ve died."

I exhaled sharply, my hands tightening around the damp towel I’d just wrapped around him. I knew he was right, knew how delicate the balance in Arthur’s enclosure was. But knowing didn’t make it easier to swallow the fact that he’d risked his life to fix it.

Before I could say anything, a soft ripple caught my attention, and Arthur moved to the edge of the platform, watching us with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His dark hair clung to his face, water glistening on his skin under the glow of his veins. "He nearly drowned," Arthur said bluntly, his voice calm but edged with something deeper. "By the time he realized the tank wasn’t secured properly, he was already sinking."

My stomach twisted violently. I turned back to John, my breath catching in my throat. "Jesus Christ, John—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he cut me off, his lips pressing into a tight line. "By the time I figured out the straps were loose, I was already flailing. Damn near sucked in half the tank trying to stay afloat." He let out a humorless chuckle, but it fell flat against the weight of what had just happened.

Arthur shifted, the water lapping softly as he leaned on the edge of the platform. "I got to him just in time," he continued, eyes locked on mine. "Dragged him up ‘fore he could panic and make it worse."

A shudder ran down my spine. I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the fact that John had nearly drowned in the dark, or the thought of what might have happened if Arthur hadn’t been there to pull him out.

I sighed, leaning back on my heels. “You got lucky, John. Abigail would’ve killed us all if something happened to you. Go home. Be with your family before this storm tries to take away what really matters.”

John let out a slow breath, his head hanging low as he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” He turned to Arthur, shifting the towel around his shoulders. “Thank you, Arthur….I don’t know how to—”

Arthur waved a dismissive, webbed hand. “No need. I understand, just do as the lady says. Go be with your family.”

A quiet chuckle escaped John as he pushed himself to his feet, tightening the towel around him. “You two are my family. This place… it’s my home. I’d be lost without it.”

My chest ached at the words, he had always been like family to me. But to acknowledge Arthur like that, it made my heart grow warm. He’d come such a long way. Before I could stop myself, I pulled him into a tight hug. “And we’d be lost without you. Just promise me you’ll be careful getting home. The roads are hell.”

John nodded against my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Just gonna check the generator room one last time and grab some dry clothes from my office.” He pulled back slightly, studying me with a look of concern. “You sure you don’t wanna come back to Hosea’s with me? I don’t like the idea of you driving out there alone.”

I smiled, touched by his worry—especially after what he’d just been through. But as I glanced at Arthur, something in my gut told me I needed to stay. That I’d be safer here with him. “I’ll be alright. I think I should stay with Arthur, make sure no more pumps get clogged.” I shot him a wink, trying to keep it light.

John huffed out a laugh and pulled me in for one last hug. “Not exactly the swimming lesson I was hoping for.” He gave my shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back. “You be safe, ya hear?”

I nodded, watching as John disappeared into the darkened corridor, his wet footsteps fading into the storm’s relentless roar. A deep sigh left my lips as I finally let myself sink onto the platform, crossing my legs beneath me. The adrenaline that had kept me moving, kept me focused, was finally wearing off. In its place came exhaustion, creeping in like the tide, mingling with the lingering relief that John was—at least for now—safe.

But even with Arthur’s presence, unease curled around my ribs. The storm was still raging outside, the building groaning under the relentless wind and rain. It was so dark in here, the only source of light coming from the gentle glow of Arthur’s bioluminescent veins, pulsing with his heartbeat beneath the skin. The water around him shimmered with the soft glow, casting strange, shifting shadows along the walls. They twisted and danced with each ripple, almost alive, taunting in the periphery of my vision.

My gaze remained fixed on the door where John had left. Would he be okay? Should I have gone with him? The roads were treacherous, barely visible even with headlights. And the thought of him driving alone in this storm, half-drowned and exhausted—

A violent crack of thunder shook the facility, so loud it felt like the sky itself was splitting open. My whole body jolted, a sharp gasp escaping before I could stop it.

I didn’t even notice Arthur moving until I felt him behind me. The platform barely creaked under his weight as he pulled himself up, his broad chest pressing against my back. Before I could say anything, two strong arms wrapped around my waist, his warmth chasing away the cold that had settled in my bones. His chin found my shoulder, his breath fanning across my neck, a steady and grounding presence against the chaos outside.

“You are afraid,” he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the storm, resonating right next to my ear.

There was no mistaking his meaning, no way the wind could steal his words away. He was close enough that I knew, without a doubt, he was inhaling my scent. Taking in the subtle shifts in my emotions the way he always did.

I swallowed, my fingers absentmindedly grazing over the tops of his hands, feeling the slight texture of his silky skin, the way his thumbs traced slow, soothing circles against my abdomen. “Not afraid,” I whispered, though my voice wavered. “Just… worried. What’s going to be left of this place tomorrow? What if… what if John doesn’t make it home?”

Arthur exhaled a slow, steady breath, then pressed a lingering kiss just beneath my ear. The warmth of it sent a shiver down my spine, but gods, it was a welcome distraction.

“Shhh,” he rumbled against my skin, his lips brushing so softly it made my heart stutter. “You make my hearts bleed when you worry like that.” His embrace tightened, pulling me impossibly closer, as if he could shield me from the weight of my thoughts. “We cannot control the storm, only focus on what’s in front of us.”

Or behind us, I thought, exhaling as I leaned back against him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. He was such a massive presence, his body swallowing mine completely, a wall of solid strength against the uncertainty surrounding us.

Arthur let out a quiet, contented sound, something between a sigh and a low, pleased hum, his arms flexing as he drew me in. His hold was protective, steady, unshakable. And for the first time since I’d raced through the storm to get here, I let myself close my eyes, just for a moment, letting his warmth anchor me.

“Try to relax,” his voice was low, almost strained, like he was holding back something deep and primal. “You’re safe here. Safe with me.”

His hand moved agonizingly slow up my side, fingers tracing along the curve of my ribs, his palm so big that the tips ghosted over my breast. The barely-there touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I sucked in a breath, trying—and failing—to quell the growing heat pooling between my thighs.

I wanted more. Gods, I needed more of him.

Everywhere.

I wanted him to touch me everywhere. I wanted him to slide that hand fully over my chest, to feel the way his rough but gentle thumb would tease over my hardened nipple. To know what it was like to be touched, claimed by something as wild and untamed as Arthur. I wanted his claws to tear through the thin barrier of my clothing, to leave nothing between us. These were dangerous thoughts; terrible, sinful thoughts.

There must be a special place in hell for women who looked at a creature like Arthur and imagined how he would feel between her thighs.

But fuck. These are where my thoughts are.

I was drowning in them, so lost in the heat of my own fantasy that I barely noticed when his hand shifted, cupping my cheek with careful reverence. It wasn’t until I heard the deep, rolling timbre of his voice that reality snapped into focus.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart? What I’m doing to you in your thoughts?”

My breath caught. My body tensed, a mixture of shock and shame flickering through me like a live wire. Startled, I started to pull away, but before I could—

“No,” he whispered against my neck, his voice firm yet impossibly soft. “Don’t stop, I’m certain that whatever it is you’re imagining is something I’m enjoying immensely.”

A large, webbed hand slid down, fingers splaying wide over my belly, holding me in place. If only his hand would move a little lower…claws grazing the line of my waistband. Almost like he was teasing. The pressure of his touch grounded me, kept me from slipping away. I could feel his hearts beating against my back, steady and strong.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I swallowed hard. “S-so you can read my thoughts now too?” My voice was barely a whisper, breathless and unsteady.

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his body, reverberating through me like a melody I never wanted to stop hearing. The fondness for him that stretched through my chest was almost painful at this point.

“No, my love,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath my ear, sending a delicious shiver racing down my spine. “But when I touch you, your soul is so familiar to me. It’s as if I have known you in a hundred lifetimes before this.”

His grip on my waist tightened, fingers curling possessively, but not to restrain—to anchor.

“I feel your need calling to me, and my own… my own wishes to bury itself inside you.” His voice darkened, rich with longing, heavy with promise. “It tells me to cling to the curve of your waist, to clutch at the feeling in my chest that lingers when you’re near. My soul wishes to keep you—” his lips pressed lightly against my temple, sealing his words into my skin “—and never let you go.”

Something between us shifted then, something that had been dancing on the edge of certainty, now falling into place with an undeniable finality. And it wasn’t just the slickness between my thighs or the fire licking up my spine.

Arthur had just placed the leash to his heart in my hands.

And I knew—he would never ask for it back.

AN: I promise the next chapter is pure smut. The title is "The Point of No Return" and I think we can all guess what that implies. I have sooo many steamy ideas I just need to figure out how to put them all together. But it's gonna be fun ;) I know this was a long chapter, so I hope you don't feel too deprived of our favorite seaboy. I love John/Abigail/Jack so dearly, they deserved some one-on-one time with the reader <3

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #monster au #rdr2 modern au #siren au #siren x reader #monster romance #red dead fandom #ao3

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deliciousangelfestival · 11 months ago

Text

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! - 12

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

It can’t happen again!

That’s what Bucky kept thinking as he froze, watching you being dragged away by the bad guy. His mind was paralyzed with fear, reliving the trauma of his past. He bit his tongue hard, trying to snap himself out of it.

When the other abductor tried to silence him, something inside Bucky clicked. He entered defense mode, years of training kicking in. “Wake up, Bucky, you have to save her,” he murmured to himself.

As the abductor reached for him, Bucky made a lightning-fast move, grabbing the man's throat and choking him. He lifted the abductor effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing, and threw him aside like a bag of garbage.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” another abductor yelled, struggling to get you into the SUV.

Bucky sprinted to the car, his heart pounding. He leaped through the air and delivered a powerful kick to the abductor through the car window, shattering the glass. The abductor stumbled back, stunned.

You watched in awe as Bucky’s movements were swift and precise, each one a product of years of training. He grabbed the abductor by the collar and yanked him out of the car, slamming him to the ground with a thud. The abductor tried to fight back, but Bucky blocked every punch with ease.

The abductor threw a desperate punch at Bucky, but he dodged it effortlessly. With a quick, fluid motion, Bucky delivered a powerful blow to the abductor’s midsection, causing him to double over in pain. Bucky didn’t give him a chance to recover; he followed up with a swift uppercut that sent the abductor sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

After Bucky made sure the abductor was unconscious, he rushed over to you. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

You were still speechless, struggling to process what had just happened. You thought you were strong, but facing this type of danger left you paralyzed with fear. If it weren’t for Bucky, you might have been taken.

Bucky noticed your unfocused eyes, recognizing the look from his own past experiences. He gently pulled you into his arms. This time, it was his turn to save you.

Your breath hitched as he hugged you suddenly. It was unexpected, but it felt right. You needed this. You tightened your grip around him, realizing you were safe now.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I will find out who ordered these two,” he said, his voice low and angry. He didn’t know why, but he had a short list of suspects who could be behind this. His protective instinct was in overdrive, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

👗👗👗👗

At the press release, all the journalists and fashion critics had been waiting for you for an hour. Andrea and the rest of the team were already on edge. They had been trying to call you and were running out of excuses for your tardiness.

“Can you call her again?” Andrea asked her assistant, her voice tight with worry.

Her assistant shook her head, letting out a disappointed sigh. “No luck,” she replied.

Andrea clasped her hands together, silently praying for your arrival.

While the new team wondered where you were, Victoria watched from the backstage with a smug smile.

Genevieve glanced at her daughter. “Late to your first press release and making the magazine editors wait? Good luck recovering from that.”

Victoria smirked. “She won't be coming.”

“What do you mean?” Genevieve asked, her eyes narrowing.

Suddenly, the sound of police sirens filled the air. No one gave much thought to the police car stopping in front of the Velari building until they saw you and Bucky step out.

The journalists' cameras flashed incessantly, capturing every moment as they bombarded you and Bucky with questions about your delay and disheveled appearance.

Andrea and the others sighed in relief at your arrival, but Victoria's face went pale as snow. Her nervousness did not escape her mother’s notice.

Genevieve turned to Victoria, her eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

Victoria remained silent, trembling visibly.

“You…!” Genevieve gritted her teeth, furious at her daughter's recklessness.

‘Tap. Tap.’

The sound of your heels echoed as you walked up to the podium, your face set with determination. You glanced at Andrea, who gave you a reassuring nod, and then faced the crowd. Bucky stood close by, his presence a silent support.

Genevieve clenched her fists, trying to control her anger, while Victoria’s eyes darted nervously, unable to hide her fear.

With a deep breath, you began, “Thank you all for your patience. I apologize for the delay. We faced an unexpected situation, but we’re here now to share some exciting news about Velari’s future.”

The room quieted, every eye on you, as you began to outline the new direction for Velari, with Bucky’s steady gaze lending you strength.

“May I ask what happened to you?” one of the journalists inquired.

You cleared your throat, a confident smile playing on your lips. “Well, when life gives you lemons, squeeze them into the eyes of your enemies. That's how I’d describe what happened to me today.”

The crowd chuckled, and even Bucky couldn’t help but smile. He then noticed Victoria and Genevieve trying to sneak out through the backdoor. His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

Your answer left the room momentarily stunned. The journalists exchanged glances, intrigued and curious about the kind of new leadership Velari was under.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and began your speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed critics, and valued partners of Velari, today marks a new chapter for us. Velari was built on the dreams and designs of my grandmother, Cassandra, and my mother, Ophelia. Their vision and passion created a legacy that has inspired countless people. It is time to return to those roots, to honor their memory by bringing back the essence of what made Velari great.”

You paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with as many people as possible. “We will be reintroducing classic designs with a modern twist, focusing on quality craftsmanship and timeless elegance. Our goal is to make Velari not just a brand, but a symbol of enduring style and grace.”

You could see heads nodding in agreement, the journalists scribbling notes furiously. Your confidence grew.

“We will also be launching a new line dedicated to sustainability, reflecting our commitment to the environment and ethical fashion. This isn't just about looking good; it's about feeling good, knowing that our choices make a positive impact on the world.”

You noticed some magazine editors smiling, clearly impressed. Andrea was beaming with pride, and even Bucky looked at you with admiration.

“Our journey will not be easy, and there will be challenges ahead. But with your support and our shared dedication, I believe we can elevate Velari to new heights. Together, we can revive the heart and soul of this fashion house.”

The room erupted in applause. Some of the magazine editors even stood up, clapping their hands enthusiastically. You felt a wave of relief wash over you, grateful that your vision resonated with them.

Bucky gave you a reassuring nod, and Andrea looked like she could burst with pride. Meanwhile, Victoria and Genevieve, still trying to slip away unnoticed, froze momentarily at the sound of the applause.

You stepped back from the podium, your heart pounding but filled with hope. “Thank you all for believing in Velari,” you concluded, “and for being part of this incredible journey.”

As the applause continued, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. You were ready to lead Velari into a brighter future, no matter the obstacles.

👗👗👗👗👗

‘Slap!’

Victoria's cheek stung sharply from the blow. She touched her reddening skin, eyes wide with shock. It had been years since her mother had slapped her. Memories of Genevieve hitting her for failing to surpass you in school flooded back. No matter how hard Victoria tried, you were always number one.

Genevieve glared at her, seething with anger. “Are you stupid? Why the hell would you try to kidnap her in broad daylight, with Bucky there too?”

“I just… I'm sorry, Mother,” Victoria stammered, her voice trembling. She knew it was useless to offer excuses; Genevieve was never one to accept them.

Genevieve sighed deeply, shaking her head in frustration. “At least you should’ve hired professionals, not those two amateurs. If you want to scare someone, make it count. One hit should be enough to terrify your enemies.” She had learned this from Jonathan, whose success was partly due to his brutal methods. If persuasion failed, he resorted to fists rather than words.

She sighed again, her frustration palpable. “If your father knew about this, he would be disappointed.” She grabbed her phone and started typing furiously.

“Mom, are you going to tell Dad?” Victoria's voice was laced with fear.

“No way. He would be angry at me too. Be quiet. I’m going to hire someone to clean up your mess,” Genevieve replied curtly.

Victoria's heart raced. “What do you mean?”

Genevieve didn’t look up from her phone, her fingers tapping rapidly. “I mean, I’m going to fix this. Properly.” She glanced at her daughter, her eyes cold and calculating. “And next time, think before you act. One more mistake like this, and I might not be able to protect you.”

👗👗👗👗👗

After the success and the warm welcome from the fashion world, Bucky insists on taking you to the hospital for a check-up.

“I’m fine, really,” you reassure him for the umpteenth time. “Nothing’s broken. I’m just a bit shaken.”

But Bucky remains adamant. “I already called the best doctor to check on you,” he says, his voice firm.

The doctor’s examination confirms your words. “You’re perfectly fine, just a bit of shock,” the doctor says with a smile.

Bucky finally relaxes, albeit reluctantly. “Alright, if the doctor says you’re fine…”

You smile, touched by his protectiveness. “Thank you, Bucky.”

Suddenly, his phone buzzes, and he answers it. “Are you alright? Why didn’t you tell us? Your mom is panicking right now,” Rowan’s voice comes through, laced with worry.

“I’m fine,” Bucky replies, trying to sound reassuring.

Rowan sounds frustrated. “You’re so stubborn. Fine, if you insist. By the way, someone wants to see you and Y/N.”

“Who?” Bucky raises his eyebrows. It’s unusual for his father to ask him to meet someone, especially along with you.

“An old friend of mine,” Rowan says cryptically.

Bucky sighs and looks at you. “My father wants us to meet someone.”

“Who?” you ask, curiosity piqued.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I asked the same thing."

So, both of you arrive at the big mansion. It’s beautiful, reminiscent of Bucky’s place. You can’t help but ask, “Is this your other house?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, it belongs to my dad’s friend.”

When you arrive, a butler is already waiting and opens the door. “Welcome.”

Rowan is there, waiting. “Come here,” he says, guiding both of you inside. As you walk, you notice the house is filled with antiques, like the interior of a castle.

“Who is this person you’re going to introduce us to?” Bucky asks his dad.

Rowan responds, “An old friend of mine. He just got back from Europe and is interested in investing in Velari.”

The mention of Velari catches your attention.

“What’s his name?” Bucky asks.

“Patrick Beaumont,” Rowan replies.

The name 'Patrick' makes you and Bucky exchange glances.

Finally, you stop at the living room. Standing near the fireplace is a man whose presence is strikingly similar to Bucky’s dad. A successful man. Well, it's evident from the big mansion.

Rowan gestures towards him. “Patrick, here they are.” Rowan continues, “this is Bucky and Y/N. They’re leading the new direction for Velari.”

The man who called himself Patrick turned around and smiled warmly at you and Bucky. He was handsome, tall, and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. Despite being in his 50s, he exuded an air of vitality and sophistication.

Patrick approached you, and you felt an unexpected wave of emotion from him. There was a subtle sadness in his eyes that made you pause.

While you were trying to read Patrick’s expression, Bucky stood close by, his jaw tightening. He didn't like it when another man looked at you for too long.

Patrick’s voice was soft and tinged with longing. “You look so much like Ophelia.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Bucky’s did, too. Was this the Patrick your grandma had often mentioned? And why did he mention your mother’s name?

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Author Note: Hey friends,

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Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

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