#or would be like.. they are ocs.. and move on

[darkbluekies]

Make things right? Or make them worse? — part 2

Part 1

Yandere!doctor husband (platonic to his children) x twin daughters ocs x female!reader

Summary: the aftermath of drugging Lydia puts Nadia in a tight situation where she has to give up her own pride to save her sister

Warnings: toxic household, yandere, guilt, poison, throwing up, (things along this way, basically the same as part 1)

Word count: 4.7k

It’s in silence that she whisks the milk in the pot, but she's barely aware she's doing it. She pours some cocoa and sugar into it, continuing to whisk mindlessly. She can hear him move behind her, cleaning up after dinner. Doesn't give him attention. 

Nadia pours the hot cocoa into a white mug and places it to the side before washing the pot and whisk. In the same silence, she takes the mug and leaves the kitchen. She’s careful as she walks up the stairs, trying her best to not spill. 

She knocks softly in a pattern of two-two—a simple code she and her twin sister Lydia have come up with to let each other know that they are the ones wanting to visit … and not someone else. Nadia opens the door slowly. Her sister is lying in her bed, looking too similar to their mother, you. It hurts her in a way she can’t explain. It's as if she sees herself lay there, because in a way she does.

“Here you go”, Nadia says quietly and sits down on the side of the bed, giving Lydia the warm cup. “Careful, don’t drop it. It’s very hot.”

Lydia scoffs and she knows what she’s thinking—I’m not helpless—which makes Nadia smile. Don’t lose that, Lyd.

“Is it good?” she asks when Lydia is putting the mug against her colorless lips. 

“You put too much sugar”, Lydia whispers and smiles carefully. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let him know.”

Him. She doesn’t even call him dad anymore. 

“I’ve been lonely today, even more than usual”, Lydia whispers and places the mug on the bedside table. “It’s so excruciating being alone. I miss you so much. I miss school. I miss everything.”

The tears running down her twin sisters face make Nadia tear up too. She wipes Lydia's tears with trembling hands and sniffles. Lydia doesn't speak much anymore. Not like she used to. 

“I know”, Nadia whispers, caressing her cheeks. 

She wants nothing more than for Lydia to come back to school. Just to see Lydia anywhere else than in her bed would be a blessing. But her washed out skin, her dull eyes and weak voice makes it seem like an impossibility. Nadia would look like that too. She can see herself in her sister’s appearance. 

“What day is it?” Lydia asks quietly. 

“Thursday”, Nadia replies and clears her throat, feeling a rip from the inside.

Lydia smiles sadly and sniffles. Tears run down her face. 

“Gym class”, she whispers longingly. “I loved that.”

Nadia sniffles, voice giving up. “I know.”

Her smile falters. “I miss it all so much.”

Nadia’s entire body twitches with sobs. “I know. I miss you too. People ask for you a-and I don’t know what to say.”

She hasn’t told Lydia that she doesn’t hang out with their friends anymore. She can’t. Not when Lydia isn’t there. She can’t bring herself to enjoy herself as long as Lydia’s here. She hugs her sister and cries into her hair. Lydia hugs her back. They cry together, sobbing in each other's arms.

Lydia pulls away first, wiping her tears and her hair out of her face. 

“Crying doesn’t make it better”, she mumbles and clears her throat. 

Nadia stares at her with empty eyes. Lydia picks up the mug and takes a few mouthfuls. 

“Can you sleep here?” she asks quietly. 

Nadia nods without thinking. She has been spending quite a few nights in her sister’s bed after what happened. Lydia doesn’t want to sleep alone, scared that she won’t wake up again. She dreads to think about what would have happened if Nadia hadn’t been in her bed that night when she got poisoned for the first time. Their father wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have taken her to the hospital. She would have died that night. 

Lydia wakes up when Nadia gets out of bed the following morning. 

“I’m sorry”, Nadia says. “Go back to sleep again.”

“Sleeping is all I do”, Lydia mumbles tiredly and pulls away the covers. “I can sleep later, I have all the time in the world.”

Pretending to have a real morning routine has helped her with the everlasting feeling of dread. It doesn’t take it all away, but for a few minutes she can pretend that nothing is wrong. 

Nadia helps her downstairs to the kitchen by the arm. Lydia sits down by the table and yawns while Nadia boils water and oats. 

“Do you want tea?” Nadia asks. 

“Yes please”, Lydia answers. 

Nadia moves swiftly through the kitchen, cutting bananas, boiling water, making porridge and filling glasses with water. Sitting together at the breakfast table is one of the few normal activities they have together. None of them say anything, morning being their only time to catch their breaths. 

They hear sounds from upstairs. The two of them give side eyes towards the stairs, seeing him walk down. He walks straight over to the coffee machine. The twins can feel themselves lose their appetite. 

“I don’t want you to leave”, Lydia mumbles when Nadia puts her plate in the dishwasher, when they're alone again.

Nadia shivers. Lydia shouldn’t sound so small, that’s not who Lydia is. 

“If I stay home he might change his mind”, Nadia mumbles, voice dry. “He might start to think it's better if I'm home. I don't want to push his thoughts in that direction.”

“What do we do?” 

“I'll come up with something. You need to focus on resting. Don't eat anything that I haven't given you, remember?”

Lydia nods. She hasn't. Every time he has come with food, she has refused to eat, scared that he will have spiked it again.

Nadia helps Lydia back upstairs and goes back to her own room to get ready for the day. Putting on clothes, brushing her hair and teeth and makeup—but not even all The makeup in the world could cover up the dark circles under her eyes, the foggy look in her eyes and the destroyed lip she has chewed on. Nothing could cover the absolute emptiness on her face.

She walks out to the white car with Dr Kry. None of them say anything. She gets into the backseat and puts in her headphones. The music drowns out the sound of the car, of his breathing. For a few minutes she can pretend that he's dead.

The car stops outside the school.

“Three sharp, got it?” he says over his shoulder. 

“Sure”, Nadia answers, holding her breath as she opens the door.

“Nadia.”

She stops dead in her tracks.

“Since it's friday”, he starts, “why don't we swing by the store on the way home and you can buy yourself and Lydia some snacks?”

“Why?”

“You both have had it rough lately.”

You don't say.

“What about mom?” she questions coldly. “What will she get? Popcorn?”

Dr Kry gives her a quick look in the rear view mirror.

“Fine”, Nadia says. “Let's stop by the store. I'm sure Lydia would love to eat anything that she knows you can not have spiked.”

With that said, she leaves the car, carelessly closing the door behind her. She swings the black backpack over one shoulder. Doesn't look back until she steps into the school. One more day.

Lydia lies in bed, the silence eating her alive. She decides to get her laptop and watch a movie to pass the time, but she can swear that she has watched every movie there is. She had started with the good ones, then when they were done she gave in and watched the okay ones … and when they were done she caved in to watch the bad ones. But when the bad ones finish, what more is there? 

She's aware of your presence in the house. Despite the silence it's clear that you are home. She thinks back of how Nadia had tried to run away with you. How brave she had been. Lydia would never dare. 

Thank God it's me who's damaged. Nadia still has a chance. I'd never be able to do anything if the roles were reversed. I'd be completely useless.

Lydia climbs out of bed in silence, slowly dragging herself over to the door, out into the corridor and over to your door. You seem surprised to see her standing in the door frame.

“Mom …”, Lydia whispers, feeling tears build in her throat.

She pulls herself over to the bed, slumping down in your arms. Crying. She can't remember the last time she cried in your arms. She stopped after her father told her that tears never solved anything, it only clogged up the mind and made it harder to find a solution to the problem. But now that she's here, wrapped in your embrace, she feels like a little child again, before everything.

“I’m sorry”, Lydia says after a while.

“What for?” you ask, wiping her tears. 

“We never should have tried to find the truth. We should have never gone to his office to look for clues. We should have forgotten about it.”

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweetheart?”

“Because I know you wanted more of us. I didn’t understand why before … but now … I understand why you wanted us to be able to live our lives. I … I don’t want to live like this.”

“I know, sweetheart … I wish I could try to help you.”

Lydia shoots you a quick, harsh look. “Then why don’t you? Why do you allow this?”

“Lydia, I—”

“You let him. You lay here, holding me and telling me that you wish that you could help me, but if you really wanted to, you would. Wouldn’t you?”

You look at her with such sad eyes that Lydia almost apologizes, but the fury takes over her limp body, controlling her.

“It doesn’t matter what I say, Lydia”, you say sadly, trying to meet her eyes which she instinctively turns another way. “I’ve tried—trust me—I’ve tried. For years, I've tried, when I still had some of the strength I used to have left in me. I never agreed to this. cursed at him when I found out. But what can I do?”

“Why do you defend him …?”

You lower your eyes. 

“I suppose that you still have the folder you read out of … in the hospital. The yellow one. If you read that, you’ll see that I’ve never had any control when it comes to your father. It pained me to fight back. Everytime I did, he pulled me back twice as hard. I don’t have the strength left, I’m sorry, Lydia.” You quieten down before opening your mouth again. “But your sister does.”

Nadia. 

Lydia’s stomach twists at the thought of her. How she has been taking care of Lydia since it all started, how she tried to save everyone. How everything was for nothing. Lydia knows very well what Nadia needs to do to make it all go away, but she can’t tell her, because she knows that she will do it right away and she can’t let that happen. 

Nadia walks through the aisle with the red basket hanging over her arm. Her eyes wander over the shelves, looking for something to grab, but nothing is appetizing. The nausea, the lack of hunger, has been following her since the first day she was forced to go to school alone. She has had to stop attending football practice because neither her head nor her body were fit for playing. She has been sent to the nurses office more times than she can count, just because of her drastic change. And she has always had to lie. Why? she thinks. Why does she have to lie to cover up his deeds? Shouldn’t she tell everyone? 

But the thought always hits her like a slap, making her embarrassed. She can’t. His threats have been clear. She will never see her sister or mother again, and to Nadia, that punishment is worse than what her sister and mother is going through.

“Can I help you?”

Nadia is pulled out of her thoughts, blinking. A shops assistant stands beside her, smiling as if getting her a carton of milk will solve all her problems. If only it was that easy, Nadia thought and sighed, shaking her head. 

“No, thank you”, she replies and grabs a random bag of chips. 

She walks down the aisle, over to the bulk confectionary. She picks up a paper bag and starts filling it with candy she knows Lydia likes. Sour gummies, licorice. She picks a few careless chocolate bites for herself, but makes sure to include all of Lydia's favorites.

She pays for it and walks out, throwing herself in the backseat. Staying silent the entire way home. She walks straight up to Lydia's room the second the car stops outside the white villa. Lydia is sleeping. Nadia places the grocery bag on the nightstand and shakes her sister softly.

“Wake up”, she says. 

Lydia squirms slightly, opening her heavy eyes. She pulls herself up so that her back is resting against a propped up pillow.

“Look what I got you”, Nadia says and places the plastic bag in her sister’s stomach.

Lydia's hands dig through the bag, smiling slightly at the snacks.

“How did you sneak this behind him?” she asks.

“I didn't. It was his idea.”

“Everyone is losing their minds.”

Nadia opens the bag of chips and grimaces. She turns The bag around, inspecting what monstrosity she accidentally took. Salt and vinegar. She gags.

“Oh, come on”, Lydia smiles weakly. “They're not that bad.”

“I don't know whose taste buds you inherited because those are atrocious.”

Lydia breaks out into a familiar smile, one that makes Nadia’s heart break. She wants to restore that smile. Wants to restore all of her.

“I'm so sorry, Lydia”, Nadia sighs. “Everytime I look at you I can't stop thinking how stupid I was. If I hadn't blurted out that stupid thing about what I heard mom and dad talk about you wouldn't be here.”

Lydia scoffs. “If I blamed you, you'd already know that. Besides, I could have said no to looking through his office. It's my fault too. I'd rather take this than live in his delusion.”

“But you'll die, Lyd …”

Lydia's eyes twitch. She swallows. “Okay.”

“No, not fucking okay”, Nadia says grabbing her hand. “I know you're just saying that to end the conversation, but do you think I'll just sit here and be like ‘oh yeah, my twin is dying because our sick father is poisoning her’, or something? Really, Lydia?”

Lydia knows what Nadia has to do to make it stop. She has to crawl down on her knees and humiliate herself. Show him that he has full control over her. For the moment, he's cooperating, seeing the angry spark in Nadia’s eyes, the one refusing to give up. Knowing that she's still searching for a solution. She needs to show that her will to fight has died, by begging, pleading. 

Lydia knows, because they're the same. A spitting image of the man she used to love more than anyone. And that's why Lydia can't allow It. She knows what it'll do to his ego. And it disgusts her.

“What do you want me to do, then?” Lydia sighs. 

Nadia groans. “I don't know.” 

Lydia picks up the bag with candy. “You could at least have chosen more candy for yourself.”

“Why? I'm nauseous. If I eat I'll just throw up and that's a waste of money.”

“And you forgot that I don't have an appetite anymore, but I'll eat it. I'll take the chance to eat candy, even if I don't feel like it … just to piss him off.”

Nadia smiles slightly, sorrowfully.

“I talked to mom today”, Lydia says after a while.

“You did?” Nadia asks, almost feeling surprised.

“Yeah … and … I don't know but she's making me angry. Why does she let all of this just … happen?”

“She doesn't. Not intentionally, anyways. She's hurt too. Imagine how long he's been doing this to her. You feel weak, imagine how she must feel.”

“She should have protected us better.”

“How? She's bed bound. Have you ever seen her walk more than a few meters? Without dad holding her?”

Lydia shakes her head in defeat.

“Trust me, Lydia, if she could she would have”, Nadia says quietly. She cups her sister’s cheeks. “I will find a way to help you … and mom. Somehow.”

Lydia doesn’t answer, but she subconsciously leans into Nadia’s touch. 

Nadia sits with Lydia all evening, watching nonsense movies until she falls asleep. She falls asleep on her shoulder, something she normally wouldn't do. Nadia isn’t the most touchy, but her sister is even less, almost seems to be allergic to it. The only one she touches is her sister, but more for practical reasons than comfort. Nadia realises that this can’t go on. She doesn’t like who Lydia is becoming. 

Carefully, she removes her from her shoulder and lays her head down on her pillow. Nadia leaves the room in silence. She makes sure to step on the right floor planks. Her legs feel heavy as she walks down the stairs. He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. She’s left standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at his back as he moves around. Something painful erupts in her. The little girl in her wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms, like she did when she had gotten a scrub when she learned to ride a bicycle. Wanted him to hold her and whisper comforting words in her ear. Something in her wants to forget what he has done and pretend that it hadn’t happened. Live blissfully unaware. But when she looks at him, all she can see is the monster who has hurt her mother and her sister, and she mourns the father she used to have. Even though they were the same person, all along.

She knows that she shouldn't do this. Shouldn't give up, give in, but if that's what it takes ..

He flinches slightly as he turns around, eyes catching her. 

“Nadia?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

She haven’t even noticed the tears blurring her vision. She took a weak step forward, almost stumbling. Dr Kry took a step forward himself, as if ready to catch her, but the space between them felt unimaginably large. 

“Please”, Nadia croaked with a voice way too thick to be hers. “Please, dad, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Nadia …”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just please make her well. Stop doing whatever you’re doing to her. I can’t watch her like this anymore. I can’t watch her wither away.”

The tears are flowing freely down her cheeks and she doesn’t bother to wipe them. Her limbs feel lifeless. 

“You’ll kill her if you keep this up”, Nadia sobs. “It’s not fair! Not to her, not to me and not to mom. You’ve said it yourself that Lydia is bright and will go far … you’ll never see that if you kill her. I can't live without her. So please, dad, I beg you. Please, please, make her well again.”

She stands there, falling apart, as he watches her with an unreadable look in his eyes, before he sighs and closes the space between them. He gently wraps his arms around her trembling frame, bringing her closer. 

“Okay”, he says softly. “Okay, okay, I will.”

Nadia gasps and pulls back. She searches his blue eyes for signs of lies, but they’re as stoic as ever. 

“Will you?” she breathes out. “Will you really?”

“If you do something back”, Dr Kry says. 

Her heart stops. “What?”

“I will make Lydia well. Only Lydia. And you will behave. No more acting dumb, trying to catch attention from people. You will continue the way you’ve been doing—as if nothing has happened. Is that clear? If you even try anything stupid, you will join your sister and mother. I don’t want to do that, but I will not ruin my family.”

Nadia nods quickly. That's better than his last threat. Lydia has to get well first, then she’ll decide what she’ll do. 

“I don’t want to hurt either of you”, Dr Kry admits gently. “I want to see the two of you together. Get some sleep now.”

He gives her a gentle pat on the back towards the stairs. Nadia pulls herself up the stairs and ends up between the door to Lydia’s room and her parents’. She walks into your room. You’re reading. 

“Mom.”

You put down the book, eyes widening slightly as you see her. 

“Nadia, what’s wrong?” you ask and hold out your hand. 

Nadia takes it, sniffling. She sits down on the side of the bed, smiling slightly through the tears. 

“I did it”, she whispers and tries to sound happy, but her voice trembles with guilt. “He will heal Lydia.”

Your face relaxes in relief. 

“I’m so happy, Nadia”, you say. 

“But not you”, Nadia continues, as if she didn’t hear you. “You’re still ...” She can't finish the sentence.

“It’s okay. I rather want you and Lydia to be well.”

“But you don’t deserve this either …”

“I know … but don’t think about that. Make sure to be there for Lydia now. I’ll be okay, Nadia.”

She doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“I wish both of you—”

“Nadia, I’ll be fine”, you reassure her and lower your voice. “When Lydia is well enough, I want you to take her and leave. You’re smart girls, you will be fine.”

“But …”

“Even if I was healed, I don’t think I can go back to a normal life. My body will never go back to what it once was and I’ll still be in and out of the hospital. I’d rather stay here in my bed where I’m familiar. But Lydia will be able to go back to her normal self. She deserves to start over. I want you to make sure that the two of you are safe and that you can do what you want to do. Can you do that for me, Nadia?”

Nadia blinks away tears before she nods carefully. You smile softly. 

“Thank you, sweetheart”, you say. 

Nadia lets go of your hand and returns into Lydia’s room. The older twin wakes up when she sits down, sleepily looking up at her. 

“Why are you crying?” she mumbles. 

“I’ve done something”, Nadia whispers. 

“Something bad?”

“He’s going to heal you.”

Lydia freezes.

She did it. I knew she would.

“Nadia, please tell me you’re joking …”, Lydia breathes out. “You did not beg him.”

“I did.”

“Nadia, that’s exactly what he wanted—”

“I know, but I couldn’t watch you wither away anymore! I want you healed. I want you back.”

“I did not ask you to humiliate yourself for me, Nad!”

“I would much rather humiliate myself and throw all my morals and principles to the side, just to save you. Fuck all that. I can’t be alone anymore. I can’t watch you hurt. I can’t watch you throw your entire life away.”

Lydia’s shoulders sink. The anger in her eyes die out. 

“I know that he wanted me to give up my pride and beg”, Nadia sighs and smiles sheepishly. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. I can be a complete fool just to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re so stupid, Nad”, Lydia says, but doesn’t sound mad anymore. “But thank you.”

Nadia smiles slightly. 

It takes a week of no poison to get a quarter of Lydia’s strength back, but she insists on going to school anyway. It feels weird to do a morning routine together again, one that ends in both of them stepping outside the house. Lydia sits down in the backseat with Nadia, without a word. She clutches her black backpack tightly, eyes down on her shoes. Nadia doesn't say anything. Dr Kry glances at Lydia in the rear view mirror. There’s something off about her. She’s paler, almost a gray undertone. Her eyes are still sickly glassy. 

The white car stops outside the school gates and Nadia gets out, waiting for Lydia to pull herself out of the seat. 

“I’ll be here three sharp”, Dr Kry says. “You have to call me if Lydia is too weak too be here. I’ll be here as quickly as possible and drive her home.”

Nadia nods and closes the car door. Lydia gives the white car a cold look as it drives away. 

“Ready?” Nadia wonders. 

Lydia nods shortly. She holds onto her sister's arm as they walk into the building. Her body feels heavy, but not unmanageable. She moves slowly, and Nadia keeps a similar pace. 

She leads her sister to her locker and it took a few tries for her to remember her combination. They leave their belongings in their lockers and carry their computers and notebooks with them to the classroom. Twenty pairs of heads turn when they enter and Lydia wants to run away, but Nadia directs her over to their desk. Their friends are quick to bombard Lydia with questions and exclaims of ‘we’re so happy to see you again’, but she barely answers. The teacher seems happy to see her as well but doesn't make much of a scene about it, thankfully.

Despite being her favorite subject—physics—she can't find any of the old joy she used to have. She has missed so much that nothing makes sense anymore. Nadia can tell that she's gone dull again. She opens a fresh page in her notebook and scribbles: “are you ok?” and nudges Lydia's elbow to catch her attention.

Lydia glances at the page and nods and then doesn't give any signs of life for the rest of the class.

Two classes later and they're finally on a longer break. Nadia brings out a banana for, realizing how little energy Lydia has left. Their friends are talking nonstop, like usual, and Lydia finds her head pounding. If things were normal, she'd join in on the platter, but now it's too much noise, too much clatter. Nadia breaks off a bite of the banana and holds it to Lydia.

“Here”, she says.

Lydia begrudgingly takes it. 

“You don't have to treat me like a child”, she mumbles but takes a bite nonetheless.

“I'm not”, Nadia replies and takes a bite herself. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

It is meant as a joke, but as soon as she says it, she regrets it. Lydia lowers her eyes.

“Sorry”, Nadia mumbles shamefully. “Didn't mean it like that.”

“But you are though—doing it, I mean.”

Nadia glances towards their friends. Luckily they don't seem to have heard.

Lydia suddenly grimaces and shakes her head. “No, this isn't working.”

“What?” Nadia asks. “Are you feeling sick?”

Lydia nods. Nadia grabs their stuff and hurries alongside her to the bathroom stalls, leaving their friends without as much as a ‘goodbye’. Lydia hovers over the toilet, throwing up.

“Maybe it is too early for you to be here”, Nadia says quietly. “Maybe we should call—”

“No”, Lydia groans, coughing. “No. I'm not going back.”

“But you can't even stomach bananas …”

“It's just because I'm nervous. I'll be fine.”

Nadia sighs, leaning against the wall.

“Think you can drink a protein shake and keep it down?” she asks. “Or a milkshake? Or just milk?”

“Yes, I'll be fine, don't worry. Don't call him. If I go back I might not come out again and I … I can’t deal with that.”

“Okay … okay, I won’t.”

Nadia slides down the wall until she sits on the filthy floor. Normally they'd both rather die than touch the floor or the toilet without a napkin in the way.

“I'm so exhausted”, Nadia groans.

They sit there for what feels like ages in silence, just listening to their own hearts and feeling dread and exhaustion creep into their bodies. They have two years left until graduation … and then they can leave for university and never come back. But for now, they’re together again and they’ll get stronger day by day. Nadia looks at her sister who has a new look in her eyes. They’re not dull anymore. 

They have to survive. They will survive.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Mile High (2)

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Josh felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was close. His jaw ticked. He didn’t need to turn around to confirm it, the faint scent of her vanilla and something floral that always lingered too long, like a memory refusing to fade. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Jakara was saying anymore. His full focus was on the presence of Essence. 

Don’t turn around. He told himself over and over again. Don’t fucking do it. 

But it was like his body didn’t trust his brain. His shoulders were tight, fingers flexing at his sides like they remembered how she used to hold onto him when no one else was looking. Like they remembered everything he was trying so hard to forget.

His breath hitched in his throat as they made eye contact. Even though she had ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it, she was still the one his broken heart desired. She was the one he wanted to wake up next to every morning, The one he wanted to share every win, every loss, every damn breath with. But that wasn’t what she wanted. 

He clenched his jaw as he gave her a tight nod and turned his attention back to Jakara. His heart was hammering in his chest. The broken look on her face would be permanently scarred into his brain. 

She didn’t want you. 

He had to keep reminding himself. This was what she wanted. 

“You doing anything after the show?” Jakara asked him and he heard Essence suck in a deep breath, The sound of her heels echoing in the hallway as she all but ran away from them. 

Josh didn’t even realize he was walking away until he was already doing it.

Jakara called his name behind him, confusion in her voice. He didn’t stop, he had already made up his mind. He rounded the corner just in time to see the dressing room door close behind her.

His stomach was in knots as he knocked on the door. “Essence.” He called out softly. He closed his eyes, resting his hand flat against the wood. “I know you hear me.”

Inside, Essence stood just a few feet away, frozen. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her back to the door, as if distance could shield her from the weight of his voice. But it didn’t. “I’m not here to fight,” Josh said, his words more like a confession than a plea. “I just… please open the door.” 

Essence stayed still, her mind running wild. She wanted to ignore him. She wanted to scream at him to go away, to go back to Jakara, but she couldn’t; instead, she found herself turning towards the door and unlocking it. She cracked the door open just enough so that their eyes met. 

His heart stuttered in his chest as he got a good look at her for the first time in three weeks. He wasn’t over her. He had told himself he was. Josh didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, eyes locked with hers through the narrow space of the open door.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying.  For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them was dense with everything left unsaid. They stared at each other before Essence quietly opened the door wider. Josh cleared his throat and walked into the empty dressing room. Josh stood inside the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him. Essence didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched him. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, almost to himself, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

Essence nodded, leaning her back against the closed door. “Then why did you?”

Josh let out a slow, shaky breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Because no matter how many times I try to hate you,” he said, his voice low, “I can’t.”

Essence’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat was tight, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. She didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, she took the easy route. 

“I saw you…” She started, her eyes trained on the floor. “With Jakara. You looked… happy.” She shrugged, and Josh scoffed. 

“I mean, this whatchu’ wanted right?” He asked, his voice full of emotions that he was trying to keep at bay. 

Essence flinched at the bite in his tone, but she didn’t argue. Because she couldn’t, he was doing exactly what she thought she wanted. 

“I thought…” she started, then shook her head, blinking fast. “I thought it would be easier for you. If I stepped away before I became just another thing you had to carry.”

Josh stared at her like she’d just slapped him. “Easier?” he repeated, his voice low, incredulous. “Do I look like I’ve had it easy these past three weeks? I’ve been miserable, E.” 

“I didn’t know what else to do, Joshua!” She finally snapped. “I was scared. Everything between us was starting to feel real, and it scared me.” 

“You think I wasn’t scared, too?” he asked, eyes searching hers. “You think I knew what to do with how I felt about you? Hell, I still don’t. But the difference is, I stayed. I wanted to stay. I wanted to work out this love thing with you. 

“Josh…” Essence trailed off, tears now falling down her cheeks. “Each one of my relationships ended with me getting my heart broken.” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, arms wrapping tighter around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces in. “I just… I thought if I ended it first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much this time. Maybe I could control it—stop it before it got bad. But I was wrong. It still hurt. God, it still hurts.”

“You don’t get it, man,” Josh said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t get how much I fucking cared about you, How you were the only person on my mind.” Josh took a step closer, his voice trembling now, no longer sharp with anger but heavy with hurt. “You were it for me, Essence. Like… the one. Not some fling. Not some secret. I was ready to give you all of me, flaws and all, because I thought—” he swallowed hard, “I thought you wanted me, too.” Josh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I was never going to leave you, Essence. I loved you.” 

Essence’s breath caught. She looked up at him sharply, eyes wide with disbelief. “Loved?”

Josh held her gaze, his own eyes swimming with unshed emotion. “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” he said honestly. “Part of me still loves you. Part of me hates what you did. And part of me’s just tired of hurting every time I think about you.”

“I’m sorry.” Essence whispered. “I was just trying to protect myself, but I ended up destroying the one thing that felt real.” 

Josh didn’t move. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed at her. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Essence whispered. “But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn’t about you not being enough. It was me not knowing how to handle someone who actually loved me like I mattered.”

Josh looked down, then back up, like he was trying to hold himself together with threads that were already fraying. “So what now, E? What are we doing here?” His voice was tired. “Because I can’t go through this again unless it’s real. Unless you’re in it for real this time.”

Essence stared at him, the gravity in his voice anchoring her in place. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She wanted to run. Her first instinct was always to run. But she stayed in the same spot, eyes locked onto his. “I want you. I want everything.”

Josh’s expression didn’t change right away. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, like he was afraid she’d take the words back if he blinked too hard.

“You want me now,” he said quietly, the weight of doubt heavy in his voice. “But what about when it gets hard again? What happens when you start to feel too much? When it gets real again?”

Essence took a step forward. Just one. Her voice was still soft, but her eyes were steady now.

“Then I stay,” she said. “Even if I’m scared. Even if I don’t know how to do it perfectly. I stay. I show up. I try.”

A tear slid down Josh’s cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the lump threatening to choke him.

“You broke me, E,” he whispered, pain etched in every syllable. “You tossed me to the side like I meant nothing.” 

“I’m sorry, Josh. I’m so fucking sorry.” She whispered, moving closer to him. Essence's voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved. But I know now.” She stepped even closer, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing but their shared breath. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”

Essence could feel the heat of Josh’s body against hers, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of her own. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew, Josh was leaning down, his lips brushing against hers with a softness that took her by surprise.

It wasn’t a forceful kiss, nor was it rushed. It was slow, deliberate—like they were both savoring the moment, testing the waters, unsure if it was real.

Essence’s fingers found the back of Josh’s neck, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his hands settling on her waist, guiding her closer as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer. The kiss deepened, the tension from weeks of silence and hurt melting away, leaving only the rawness of their connection.

"I missed you," Essence whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with emotion. "Every single day."

“I missed you, too,” Josh muttered back as he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Me and you.” He said, staring deep into her eyes. “Me and you, Essence. No more pushing me away, no more running.” 

“No more running,” She promised. Josh’s grip tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her even closer. The way he held her felt different—stronger, as though he was anchoring them both in the moment, ensuring neither of them could slip away again.

Essence met his gaze, her heart racing in her chest. She had always ran, always pulled away when things got too real. But now? Now, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk away again. Not when everything she wanted was standing right in front of her.

Soooo... what yall think? Worth the wait or I could've kept this shit lmao? 🤣,

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

Taglist : @paigereeder @empressdede @jaethaone @mzv11 @shantinextdoor

@xmonetsworld @li-da-savage @adoreesun @bebesobrielo @rianasixx

@queeny23 @cyberdejos2 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @msbigredmachine @ashykneee

@callmekayd @yana3sworld @alichesmi @nayys-world @partypoison00

@raya-hunter01 @trippinsorrows @theusotwinzcom @vampygomez @christinabae

@amandairene88 @4milly @mindairy @fearlesschimera @emotionalhottiee

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 3

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Note: A lot of time jumps and flashbacks as said on the warnings. A lot's happening in this part as well since the story needs to progress. Comment below if you want to be tagged for the future parts. Once again, I am so sorry for mean/selfish/jerk Kook. He gets better…I think. Don't fight me 😭 We love the bunny man.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning air feels different today — crisper somehow, even though the sky outside the kitchen window glows the same pale blue as every other morning.

You don’t flinch when the doorbell rings. You knew he’d come.

When you open the door, Jeongguk is standing there, awkward in his usual work button up and slacks, a small bouquet of purple tulips in his hands. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t settle on a single one. His eyes flicker down to the purple tulips, then up to you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans forward and presses a brief kiss to your forehead, his arms coming around you in a hesitant, practiced hug — one that used to mean comfort, but now it’s just obligatory. His grip is gentle, almost too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked.

Still, you hold on to him a little longer, hanging on to the bit of happiness your heart feels.

Stepping aside, you let him in. The scent of eggs and toast floats lightly from the kitchen, where your mother busies herself with the stove. Her clattering is pointedly loud, each clang sharper than necessary. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t even glance his way. Stays silent. Keeps her promise. Lets you have this.

Sitting across from him at the dining table, a plate of toast is left untouched between you. There's a heavy silence, like you're both waiting for someone to call cut on a campaign shoot you’re both working on. He twirls the tulips nervously in his fingers before you gently reach over and take them from him, burying your nose into the petals.

"You remembered," you say softly, a little laugh escaping.

“I’d get sued if I forgot,” he murmurs, lips curling into a faint ghost of a smile—one you haven’t seen in a long time.

Neither of you speak. It's just the clinking of silverware filling the awkward space between you. There’s no pressure to talk, not yet. The list said conversations are optional, and maybe that’s mercy for both of you this morning.

So you just observe him. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the table or the clock or the edge of his coffee mug. But his hand twitches a little, like he's trying to grasp for something. Finally, he asks,

“Am I…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”

You knew this question would come at some point. The revised and signed agreements that Seokjin brings to you by morning after you had them delivered to Jeongguk's lawyer, made you figure out just as much. Your own lawyer was shocked with how fast things were progressing.

Setting the fork down carefully, wiping your fingers with a napkin, you reply, “No. No questions throughout the days. You signed, had the chance to counter, but you didn’t.”

Jeongguk swallows hard but says nothing else. Simply goes back to the breakfast he has a hard time digesting.

You breathe in deeply, searching for something easier to talk about. “Wanna tell me about work? What’s been going on lately?”

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. “Mingyu’s the new face of Calvin Klein. I’ve been working on the campaign with him.”

You grin, genuine this time. “Look at you. Still the golden boy.”

He chuckles under his breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “Just trying to do my job. You know how it is.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Work’s just about to get crazy for me, too. Seora’s landed a spot at Paris Fashion Week again.”

His eyes widen, a spark of pride flickering there. “Seriously? That’s…that’s huge.” The excitement he shares almost feel real. “Two years in row. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Mark’s been working really hard to keep getting us the spot. He’ll head to Paris soon with the team to prep.”

His gaze softens a little at the mention of your business partner. “You’re not going this time?”

You shake your head, casually swirling the coffee in your cup. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort here.” The lie comes out smoothly.

“But… Paris is your favorite,” Jeongguk says, quieter this time. “You used to call me at three a.m. just to show me the Eiffel Tower lights.”

Your heart skips a beat, hearing how he remembers the better times of your lives, the soft smile across your lips you don’t hide. “Things change, Gguk. Priorities, you know?”

He watches you longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see through your carefully placed calm. “And Mark’s okay with you staying back?”

There’s a shift in his expression you don’t quite pin point. Jealousy? Sadness?

You laugh, ignoring the possibilities, shaking your head. “Mark’s job is to travel and secure global opportunities for us. It’s what we pay him to do. He’s always been my business partner. You know that.”

Leaning back in your chair, cheek resting on your knuckles, you study him. There’s a hint of relief on him that you catch.

“Were you hoping I was secretly dating him?” The faintest shade of red on his ears makes you chuckle. “Or…wait, Jeon Jeongguk, are you jealous?” That thought would’ve been a miracle. But for now, it’s just a good joke to share over breakfast.

He chuckles, shaking his head, voice barely above a mumble. “No. Just… curious.”

It breaks some of the remaining tension between you. The rest of the breakfast is filled with easier conversations. Updates about mutual friends, industry rumors, the chaos of wrangling Seventeen’s troublemaker into a shoot.

“Thought photographers were supposed to be calm under pressure,” you tease, tapping your spoon lightly against your cup.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “Try staying calm when your model’s flexing so hard he knocks over the entire backdrop.”

You laugh harder than you should, and for a moment, it feels like you're twenty something again — sitting cross-legged on your old apartment’s rooftop at midnight, talking about dreams and futures you thought were set in stone.

The scent of iris, white musk, and soft leather clings to the air — the signature fragrance of Seora, your second home for so many years.

Your mother walks beside you, silent but steady, her presence a pillar against the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. She’s dressed sharply, as always — an elegant blazer, pearl earrings, her posture straight and proud. But you see the way her hands tighten briefly around the strap of her handbag.

You pretend not to notice.

Employees bow as you pass — some with genuine warmth, others with careful restraint. Still, you return every bow with a polite smile, polished and practiced, a mask you've worn too long to forget.

Mark is already waiting just outside your office – leaning lazily against the wall like he owns the place, as usual.

“There she is. Queen of Seora.” He greets you with wide grin, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Her Royal Highness finally graces us with her presence.”

You huff a laugh, and even your mother’s lips twitch with reluctant amusement. She’s long since accepted your dynamic with Mark — chaos and comfort stitched together.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Tuan,” you reply, brushing past him.

He shrugs, falling into step behind you. “Worth a shot.”

Inside, your office is unchanged — glass desk, curated shelves, years of framed achievements, the photo of you and your mother at your first gala.

But something feels off today. The air, maybe. Or the way the room echoes in silence a little too much.

Setting your bag down, you smooth the creases out of your skirt, take a seat after behind your desk. Your mother sits across from you – dignified, composed – her eyes scanning the folders Mark has already placed neatly at the center of the table.

“Preliminary turnover documents.” He explains, voice light, still professional. “Contracts, executive summaries, shareholder agreements. The ones needing your signature are flagged.”

You nod, flipping open the top folder. The pages blur for a moment before your vision clears.

You focus. One step at a time.

Across from you, your mother doesn’t speak. But you feel her eyes — weighted, patient. This was her legacy, once. Then yours. Now returning to her hands again only because it was necessary.

Forgetting the folder, she takes your hand in hers. Gives a hesitant but assuring smile as much as she can. “I’ll take care of it, darling. Don’t worry about a thing.”

You swallow thickly as you try to return a smile.

Mark leans back in his chair, trying to break the heaviness taking over the room. “So,” he says, stretching exaggeratedly, “does this mean I get majority of the shares now that the queen is abdicating?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up brighter than you expect. “If you’re willing to handle future meetings with Jeongguk. He’s getting a nice chunk once the papers go through, in case you’re forgetting.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So he gets the shares and visitation rights to you?”

“Didn’t realize this was a custody battle.”

Your mother chimes in dryly, eyes still on the new folders spread across your desk. “Funny how he always ends up with the best part of things he barely worked for.”

Mark’s expression tightens, a mix of humor and something sharper. “Always been the lucky one.”

The next hour is all motion. Documents reviewed, initials scrawled, strategies adjusted. You talk vendor relations. You approve final budget notes. When the paperwork is finally stacked neatly in three clean piles — Pending, Signed, Review Again — you lean back in your chair with a sigh.

Your mother rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer. “We’ll go over the audit reports tomorrow. For now, let’s go home.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment — searching, aching — before she composes herself again.

You stand too, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of your desk.

Mark doesn’t move. You look at him. The silence stretches too long — too full. “I’ll handle the Paris accounts. Send you photos soon.”

You manage a soft smile, grateful for everything he’s doing without saying it. “Make sure the lighting at our booth doesn’t wash out the models this year.”

“I’m offended you’d even think it.”

You roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful — so grateful — for the way he keeps the edges of this afternoon from cutting too deep.

The evening settled quietly over the house. No peace lingering – more like a tension waiting for the first person to break. The table was already set when Jeongguk arrived. Steam rose from the dishes laid out — galbi, japchae, kimchi jjigae, and a small stack of neatly rolled egg omelettes.

Picking up his chopsticks, he hesitated before speaking. “So…how was work today?”

You chew slowly, buying yourself a little time before answering. “Busy. Meetings here and there. Some finalizing needed for fashion week. A few contract turnovers. You know, the usual things when companies shift hands.” You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the entire afternoon sorting years of hard work.

Jeongguk’s brows furrow slightly. “You’re…handing things over?”

You’re too quick to answer. “No, no—just…just creating a little space to breathe. Was thinking I want some time to myself.” The assuring smile you give Jeongguk was convincing enough for him to move on to lighter things. “Nothing major.”

“Mark still driving you crazy with last-minute changes?”

"Who else do you know works with me, that loves throwing in new ideas when deadlines are hours away?”

Jeongguk’s mouth quirks into a smile, the first genuine one since he sat down. “Mark. Mark Tuan. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The night falls into a soft stillness, the kind that follows when the laughter fades and the last dishes are cleaned. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting a warm glow that barely reached past the doorway, leaving the front hall in shadow.

Jeongguk stands by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, fingers lightly touching it like he needs something to hold onto. His eyes drift – over the neatly hung photos on the wall, the soft rug that shows signs of time, the wide staircase that curves the way he remembers.

One photo catches his eye—bigger than the others and set a little apart. Two people in white, laughing like nothing could ever go wrong, with the ocean in the background—Gwangalli, if he’s really looking. You wonder if he missed it this morning. Don’t blame him if he did. The nerves must’ve been burying him six feet under.

“Sorry. I’ll have Eomma take it down,” you clear your throat, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk shifts. Glances at you and then away. “So…the hugs and forehead kisses,” You notice the small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, feeling thankful for the shift from the awkwardness. "That really had to be on the list, huh?"

A soft laugh slips from you, unguarded. “It did.”

“Was it a punishment?” It’s a joke, but you don’t miss the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

“Is that how you feel?”

Your bluntness catches him off guard. Guilt flashes. The breath he lets out like a quiet surrender.

Slowly, he steps forward, arms coming up in a hesitant, careful hug. His chest brushes yours, his forehead resting lightly against your temple – a touch familiar, but no longer easy.

Your eyes slip closed as you let yourself lean in, not because it feels natural, but because for a moment, it’s enough to remember how it once did.

“Goodnight,” Jeongguk murmurs, his voice low and close.

You smile, the kind that’s felt more than seen. “Goodnight, Gguk.”

He lingers just long enough to press the lightest kiss to your temple — so fleeting it’s almost not there, and yet, when the door clicks shut behind him and the quiet stretches in, it’s the one thing that stays.

You sit on the edge of the bed later, hair still damp from a quick shower, your fingers curled around the corner of the old photo album you'd told yourself not to open tonight.

The room is filled with nothing but the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the wall clock. You don’t know what you’re hoping to find in these pages. Something soft, maybe. Something easier than the quiet goodbye at the door.

The pages smell like dust and faint vanilla — the kind your mother used to tuck into the drawers when you were younger. You flip until your fingers still on a picture, one that had always made you laugh.

You’re on a picnic mat, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off beside you. Jeongguk’s in the next one — lying flat on his back with his arms thrown wide, squinting at the sun. There’s a juice box pressed to his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him alive in the heat. He’s smiling wide, without shame or thought. His hair’s longer, lighter — summer had bleached the tips — and his shirt has ketchup on it.

You can almost hear it again.

"You're the worst picnic planner ever," he groans, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

"You said you wanted hot dogs."

"Not molten lava ones!"

You laugh at the memory. Remembered, he’d still eaten two more after that. Said they were terrible with his mouth full and asked for a third.

You remember how he used to love loudly. How he’d pull you into hugs like he never wanted to let go. The way he’d lean in to kiss your forehead in the middle of a crowd without caring who saw. The time he ran to the other side of the beach where the ice-cream kiosk was, just to bring you a mint chocolate cone he badly wanted you to try, holding it above his head like it was sacred.

"It’s ugly and green."

"You love ugly things."

"That’s why I’m dating you?"

"Exactly," he’d said, grinning, rain dripping from his lashes, "you’ve got great taste."

You close the album slowly.

Tonight, his arms were careful. His kiss, light as a breath. Back then, there was no hesitation. No pause before he touched you, no weight between your names.

You lie back on the bed, pressing your palms over your face, hoping to bury the pain that feels like it has made a home in your chest.

You didn’t think the time would come that you’d have to miss a version of Jeongguk who used to laugh into your shoulder and whisper stupid things to make you snort in public. The version who always held you a little longer, like he could make time stop if he tried hard enough.

You always thought that version of him would stay for a lifetime.

Now, the only way you get to see that side of him is through a list—through something he feels he has to do.

But you’ll take what you can. For now, you’ll accept whatever life hands you.

The sun hasn’t climbed high enough to chase away the gray. The streets are still damp from the night, and your breath clouds faintly as you step outside, coat collar turned up against the early chill. There’s something about mornings like this — quiet, half-lit — that makes everything feel softer around the edges.

You hadn’t slept much. Rest felt like a visitor you forgot to greet last night, slipping past you somewhere between the click of the door and the ache that settled deep in your chest. Still, your steps are steady as you make your way through familiar streets, ones your feet could trace even blindfolded.

The shop appears like a memory made solid — tucked between a florist and a tiny dry cleaner, its awning still a little crooked on one side. The glass is fogged near the bottom, and someone’s taped a doodle of a smiling sun on the door.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar.

The left wall is still lined with notebooks and sketchpads in soft neutral tones, racks of pastel washi tape, pens arranged by gradient. You let your fingers skim the edge of a purple sketchbook on display — the same brand you used to hoard during finals week. The same ones Jeongguk used to scribble dumb little nothings in just to annoy you.

You claim your usual seat by the window, near the radiator that still hums faintly when it kicks on. The light here is gentle, and the table still has the faint outline of a coffee ring etched into the wood. The café counter sits snug beside the stationery section, and for a second, it’s easy to believe no time has passed at all.

You order for two. Wait. Don’t check your phone. Know Jeongguk’s on his way. Not like you’ve given him a choice.

Your gaze drifts — over the shelves, to the corner where a worn beanbag still sits, slouched as always. Something about the moment folds in on itself, slipping back in time.

You were running late. Again. Hair barely brushed, laces undone, your tote bag unorganized and overflowing with books needed for classes today, jammed under your arm.

The bell above the door had barely finished ringing when you stumbled in and spotted him already there, halfway through a chocolate croissant and bent over your sketchbook – the one you’ve been looking for hours this whole morning, the reason why you were late.

“Seriously?” you’d huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. “Flipped our dorm upside down looking for that and it was with you this whole time?”

“Page 14,” Jeongguk ignored your dramatic flair, eyes not even lifting. “Your mannequin’s missing a head.”

“That’s on purpose,” you muttered, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it shut. “It’s avant-garde.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Ah. The Headless Collection. Bold.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. I rehearse.”

You’d kicked him lightly under the table. He’d stolen a bite of your sandwich in retaliation. You’d retaliated harder, dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee knowing he only liked it black and snatched the entire croissant off his plate.

“Hey!” he’d gasped, scandalized, mid-chew. “That’s a war crime.”

You shrugged, all innocence as you took a deliberately slow bite, crumbs tumbling down your chin. “Shouldn’t have touched my sandwich.”

His eyes narrowed. “That croissant had layers.”

“So did my patience,” you replied, mouth full.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was delivering a threat. “You realize this means war.”

You grinned. “Then choose your weapon wisely, Jeon.”

“Fine. Sketchbook turned doodle board it is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

And just like that, he was scribbling something on your sketchbook, tongue poking out in concentration while you lunged to grab it back. 

The stationery café had always been your reset button — notebooks open, drinks warm, pencils rolling off the table because Jeongguk couldn’t sit still. He always left little doodles on your margins – stick figures with six-packs, dramatic cape swirls, and when he’d feel to be more annoying, he’d scribble a crown your head.

“This one's you,” he said once, pointing to a tiny sketch of a girl shouting at a sewing machine.

“She looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Art imitates life.”

You snorted into your latte. “I’m replacing you with someone quieter.”

“Impossible,” he grinned. “You’d miss me by lunchtime.”

He was right.

You always did.

And now, it wasn’t just during your chaotic uni lunch breaks that you missed him

The chair across from you slides back gently.

You don’t look up right away — just fumble with your phone before meeting his eyes.

Jeongguk shrugs off his coat with one hand, ruffles his hair like the wind annoyed him, then sits. Tie loose around his collar, shirt wrinkled just enough to tell you he dressed in a hurry. He glances around, then places a single stem of purple tulips on the table, the soft color a little too bright for the morning. “They still sell those overpriced gel pens?”

You nod, sipping your drink. “They’re too smooth to resist.“

His eyes flick toward the shelves. “I used to steal yours.”

“You used to steal everything.”

He smiles faintly — just the corner of his mouth lifting. “You let me.”

“Was being generous.”

The waitress sets down your orders — one pastry each, two drinks. You watch as Jeongguk breaks a corner off his croissant. Eats it with quiet precision. He never used to do that. Used to make a mess.

You don’t comment on it.

“So,” he says after a moment, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “still designing things with no heads?”

You didn’t think he’d remember. A smile slips across your lips. “Wow. Callback.”

“I’m nostalgic.”

Your eyes meet. There’s something light there, flickering — not quite the warmth from before, but you’re glad to see something at least.

You reach into your bag and pull out a thin sketchpad, sliding it across the table. He lifts the cover slowly, eyes scanning your latest work. “You gave her a head this time.”

You lean back, arms crossed loosely. “Growth.”

He chuckles under his breath, fingers smoothing the paper. “She looks like she’s running.”

“She is.”

Jeongguk doesn’t ask from what. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just taps the edge of the page twice, then closes it.

The silence is comfortable. A little cautious. But not cold.

You tear off a small piece of your pastry, drop it on his plate like old habit. Used to do it when you still had some left from his that you’d stolen. Even if you’d stolen his precious croissant, you never actually finished it, always left most of it for him – knowing breakfast was the only time he’d actually eat properly, your favorite meal of the day – before the two of you start your own classes.

You knew he’d run on caffeine and stubbornness alone until evening. Then he’d video call you during one of his lectures looking like a grumpy, overgrown bunny with a camera strap digging into his neck and a frown set between his brows.

He blinks at it, then at you. “What’s that for?”

“For luck,” you simply reason.

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“Thought maybe I could this time.”

Jeongguk looks at you as if he’s trying to read you. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Ends up not saying anything. Just eats the piece.

Your drink’s gone lukewarm, still you sip away hoping to drown in the energy it’s supposed to give with the day that’s waiting ahead of you. Jeongguk’s gaze lingers out the window for a moment, watching a cyclist roll by, the soft clatter of gears audible through the glass.

“You still come here often?” he asks, voice casual.

“Every now and then,” you say softly. “Some places just… stick.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press. You’re thankful he doesn’t.

“I used to think the owner hated me,” he says instead. “Always caught me doodling on the napkins.”

��She didn’t hate you,” you reply. “She thought you were wasting perfectly good napkins.”

A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I was creating modern art.”

You roll your eyes. “You drew a chicken with sunglasses.”

“Exactly. Groundbreaking stuff. I’m the direct descendant of Van Gogh.”

The laugh that escapes you is softer this time — real, but quieter than it might’ve been years ago. You catch him watching you then. Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… there. Present. It slips away quickly when he looks down, wiping off his side of the table in random circles.

You glance over your shoulder at the display shelf by the counter — a glass case where people leave notes, scraps of things from past visits. It used to be empty. Now it’s cluttered and full of lives layered on top of one another.

Jeongguk follows your gaze. “We never left anything in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “We never needed to.”

He nods slowly, and you wonder if the weight in your words settled somewhere in him too.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a pen. Those smooth gel types you always fell for even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend another won on stationery. You slide it across the table toward him.

He looks at it, then at you. “For me?”

“Figured you’d want to deface another napkin.”

Jeongguk tears off the corner of one of the paper placemats and scribbles something. You reach over and take the pen back before he can set it down, slipping it into your pocket like it was nothing. He folds the scrap once and tucks it into his jacket.

“You’re not putting it in the case?” You ask, confused why he’d even want to keep something like that – something you’re sure doesn’t matter to him anymore.

“Maybe next time.”

You finish the last sip of your drink as the hour pulls closer to what’s next — work, the rest of the day, the return to whatever this routine is becoming between the two of you.

You stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder, grabbing on to the purple tulip after.

Jeongguk rises too, fingers brushing the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself again – a new habit you started noticing from him.

“Thanks for showing up,” you say lightly, adjusting your scarf.

I had to. He doesn’t say it, but you can see the words hovering in the hesitation behind his eyes — quiet, but impossible to miss.

The sky’s a little brighter when you both step out. The cold still clings to your skin, but the café warmth lingers at your back.

As you turn to go, Jeongguk calls out, “Hey.”

You glance back.

“I liked the new sketch,” he says. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”

“She doesn’t.”

He smiles faintly. “Neither did we.”

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your hands into your pockets, gave one last nod, before walking away.

As you pass the glass, you catch a glimpse of something slightly out of step, tucked into the reflection. You, a little lighter, and the boy beside you who used to draw chickens with sunglasses and mumble dumb jokes just to see you pretend not to laugh.

And for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another morning in the middle of an old life that never cracked at the seams.

The office is a mess. Papers piled up like threats, some teetering close to the edge of his desk. The inbox blinks like a warning light. Jeongguk sits in the middle of it all, elbows pressing into the surface, fingers rubbing at his eyes. The screen blurs. Photoshoots. Edits. Meetings he’s already missed. His coffee’s gone cold. The tremble in his hand says it’s his third cup — or fourth. He’s lost count.

And on top of it all, a notification from Taehyung flashes across his phone.

K. Taehyung: Lunch date with Jiwoo.

Jeongguk swears under his breath, chair scraping against the floor as he stands. He grabs his coat on the way out, not bothering to fix his hair in the hallway mirror. As he shrugs it on, something light slips from his pocket and lands near the leg of the desk—a torn bit of paper, edges smudged faintly with purple petals drawn from a gel pen. He doesn’t notice. Leaves the office without checking if he’s forgotten anything else.

The drive to the café blurs by. Taehyung’s voice crackles through the speaker, rambling about a rookie group, a broken light, a late shoot — but Jeongguk only half-listens, mind drifting far away.

Muted light through tall windows. The smell of ground coffee, old novels, and notebooks. The gentle scrape of a cup across a wooden table. A sketchbook lying open.

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The café he pulls up to now is different. Newer, glass and steel, designed for aesthetics more than comfort. Inside, everything gleams. Clean lines. Polished floors. The hum of conversation blends with quiet jazz in the background, curated to feel effortless.

Jiwoo’s already at the table when he enters. She stands when she sees him, her smile brief, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to gauge the weather. She leans in for a hug, light and cautious.

A waitress appears, takes their orders — sandwiches, two coffees. Then the silence settles between them, brittle and careful.

 “You texted me,” Jiwoo speaks first. “Didn’t say much.”

Jeongguk exhales, straightens the napkin on his lap. “It wasn’t something I could explain over the phone.”

She nods slowly. “I figured.”

He runs a thumb along the rim of his water glass. “She found the divorce papers.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoo’s gaze drops for a moment, something unreadable settling in her expression before she nods again. “I thought that might happen. You waited too long, Gguk.”

“I know.”

“How did she take it?”

Jeongguk stares at the edge of the table. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just… agreed. Agreed to sign on her terms.”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of terms?”

“Meals together. Flowers. Staying close. Old habits. Forehead kisses,” he finishes, voice lower now. “Just… things we used to do.”

The words sounded simple when laid out like that, but they weren’t. They were heavy, drenched in old love and broken memories.

She looks down at her drink, stirring it even though it doesn’t need stirring. “And you agreed?”

Jeongguk nods. “I owe her at least that much.”

The noise in the café comes like a blessing. Somewhere behind them, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A baby laughs. Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the window, to the glint of sun on glass, anywhere else except on Jiwoo, too scared of what he might find — anger, jealousy, resentment.

But he finds none of it when he finally turns to her. Only sadness. And love. And guilt.

“I hate that we hurt her,” Jiwoo says after a moment, her voice thick with guilt. “I never meant for it to turn out like this. I hope I can tell her that.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to her hands, still, folded tightly together. There’s a quiet ache in the way they sit, almost like they’re waiting for something. He doesn’t pause to think—just moves, his hand gently covering hers. It’s not an answer. Not an apology. Simply a comfort he hopes she feels is enough from his touch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Neither of us did.”

The words hang in the space between them, soft but solid. Like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. They don’t shatter anything. Not yet. But they make everything shift.

Jiwoo lets out a breath she’s been holding. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

“You didn’t make me love her less,” Jeongguk says. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

His words are calm, certain—like if he says it gently enough, it’ll stop the noise in his head.

The hard office couch pressing into your back wakes you up with a sharp breath and neck sore from where you’d curled up with your throw blanket. The room is dim and quiet, the evening air is calm and something warm and tasty drifts through the air.

Your eyes flutter open, confusion tightening in your chest.

Jeongguk.

He’s there, kneeling by the coffee table, unpacking takeout containers with quick, careful movements. The soft crinkle of paper bags and the light tap of chopsticks on plastic fill the still of the room. His hair falls over his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight and sharp in the fading light.

“Jeongguk… what—” you rasp, voice rough from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

He stills for half a second, fingers pausing on the lid of a box.

When he looks up, his eyes flick across you quickly — too quickly.  “You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is soft, faintly bitter. “You called me here. Dinner. List.” He lifts a takeout box slightly, then lets it fall back with a soft thud. “Just following orders.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he holds himself, something tense in his shoulders, in the tired set of his mouth. But you can’t name it. Only know it’s been this way for the past few days.

Silence was acceptable, clearly you stated that on the list, but meals lately went on without your slight playful banter. Just when you thought your conversations could last more than five sentences now.

Jeongguk was never the type to waste food – something about a silly belief that the Gods would take away his perfect sculpture if he even dared – but you’ve been cleaning up for him lately, giving away his leftovers to the homeless you’d find after your dinners.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you. Just pushes a pair of chopsticks toward your side of the table, carelessly, like he doesn’t want to talk. Then you catch it – subtle, but present.

A scent that doesn’t belong here. Sweet, citrus, expensive – far from the lavender one that sticks to your blazers for weeks – one that you’d sense clinging onto his shirts when he came home too late. The same scent hovering in the car when you borrowed his since yours was in the shop one time. The scent that told you something had shifted before the universe decided to slap you with the truth.

You shift your legs beneath the blanket, voice gentle. “You were with her today, weren’t you?”

Jeongguk stops mid-movement. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Still, you smile—small, sad, and real. “It’s okay. I just… noticed.”

He exhales, short and stiff. “You always do.”

“You’re acting like you got caught doing something wrong.” It’s meant to tease, to warm the cold edge creeping in – a light touch to remind him that he doesn’t have to walk on egg shells around you anymore.

He finally turns to face you, expression tired. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” you say, quiet. “Not really.”

Jeongguk stares at you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness you’ve been showing. Eyes flicking away for a second like he’s searching for a reason to deserve it. But there’s nothing—just you, sitting there, still choosing to stay soft when it would’ve been easier not to.  

You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Sit down. Eat something. Then talk to me.”

“Kind of hard to do when our wedding rings are right here and well –“

A small laugh echoes from you, unsure if it’s meant to ease the tension or just fill the silence.

“Think about you and me, back in Uni, two dumb teenagers whose biggest crisis was whether to stock up on strawberry or banana milk for finals week."

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the old Jeongguk you remember. “Banana Milk wins, by the way.”

“Nuh-uh. Strawberry milk.” You chuckle, slowly drifting back to your point. “You’ve got to let out whatever you’re holding in there, Gguk. Sulking through the remaining twenty-two days will make you feel like there’s twenty-two years left. I can’t have you hating me for that long."

It’s a soft joke, still, it curls in your chest like smoke.

“I don’t hate you.” he says, like it never even crossed his mind.

Eyes focused on the blanket, you nod, holding onto the words quietly—they’re not much, but they’re more than you thought you’d get.

“If it helps, I’ll turn around and you can talk,” Shifting slight, folding your legs beneath, you face the other way. “You won’t get to see me, won’t get to worry about how I’ll react. Maybe I’ll nod, just to let you know I’m listening, and promise, I will.”

The air is filled with stillness. You think Jeongguk might’ve left you in the office but you hear his soft breaths as he lowers himself beside you, slowly but heavy with the weight he’s been carrying for the past few days.

“I was with her today.” He starts, quickly stops, unsure if he should continue but does anyway, the weight burning in his chest. “We talked earlier this week. About you. About…everything.”

You wait. Because if there’s one thing you still know how to do, it’s wait for him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

“She feels guilty,” he goes on. “Wants you to know that she never meant for it to happen this way. That we hurt you.”

You nod slowly, not because it helps, but because you’re too tired to hold it against her, against them. Most importantly, if it eases something in Jeongguk, then that’s more than enough.

Your heart stumbles but you let him continue, keeping that promise to listen.

“Told her about the list you set up before we…”

“Divorce. You can say it.” There’s a quiet laugh that escapes you.

“Right. That. Uhm…so I told her that and she’s scared.” Jeongguk says, voice cracking in between. “Thinks she’s going to lose me.”

“Will she?” You question a little sharp. Didn’t mean to. Just blurted it out in the spur of the moment.

“No.” he answers too quickly. Your heart silently cracks too quickly. “I mean…fuck, I don’t mean to sound –” You begin to hear sniffs and the slight tremble of his hands that are too close to your back now, as if he’s trying to reach out to you, trying to apologize to you.

“Hey, Gguk, breathe. It’s okay. It’s just me. Eighteen-year-old me, strawberry milk. Focus. I know you’ve got this.” You smile even though he can’t see it. Hoped he hears it in your voice the comfort you want to give him.

And you think it might’ve worked when you catch that soft, boyish laugh, just like the one he had at eighteen.

“It’s why I’ve been seeing her more often these days. Wanted to make her feel that I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good you’re trying for her,” you manage to say. “But you sound more exhausted than relieved that you’re trying.”

He lets out a breath, ragged. “Because I am exhausted. Feels like I’m not trying enough. Feels like I broke something." He pauses. "No, I know I did. Her. You. Me. And now I feel stuck pretending like I know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything, Gguk.” You say softly. “Not for me.”

The quiet in the room makes you hear him clearly swallow the lump in his throat. “What do I do?”

“Focus on you and her, if that’s what you want. Save what you can. Fight for what you can. Don’t carry all of the weight.” You pause, staring ahead, on the shelves behind your desk. “You may be the golden boy, but you’re not God.” The words sit between you for a second. “Can’t save everybody. Simple as that.”

A small silence settles, like peace finding its way.

Behind you, the shift is clear when you hear Jeongguk move closer; leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. His arms wrap around you, gentle, like old times. You’d like to think it is and not because of some stupid terms you listed on paper.

“You always knew how to keep me off the ledge.” His grip around your waist tightens for a second. Your heart tightens too. “Why did you let me talk to you like this?”

You let out an unintended shaky breath. “Because you’re trying.”

“Trying what?”

“To be good.” You don’t move, just sit there with him holding on, blanket in between, your hands curled into the fabric to keep them from shaking.

You wanted this—for him to feel lighter, even just a little. And you meant every word. You really did.

But each word that slipped out left a mark, small and invisible, like paper cuts. You blink, slow, but a tear still slips free, soaking into your lap before you can stop it.

Jeongguk doesn’t see. You don’t let him.

The deal was for him to open up to you. No one said anything about you needing to open up in return.

And some things are better left quiet.

[soulsnatcha3000]

Second Glances

human!remmick au x black fem oc

Summary: Liana has been a good wife to a man who stopped noticing. When the quiet, observant new neighbor moves in, she doesn’t mean to get close—but Remmick sees what her husband never does, not anymore. One conversation turns into many, and soon, the lie isn’t where she goes—it’s where she feels like home.

Warnings: Mentions of marital strain and emotional neglect, romantic tension, implied infidelity, slow burn, southern cultural references, heavy themes of loneliness and longing

a/n: hiii, I’ve been thinking about this all day and had to start writing it! Im also working on the preacher boy ff requested by @thugger-wugger (here) and the Remmick x Bo Chow x oc ff. Imma make this a series!

I’ve got plans to get to the other requests too—it might take a little time, but I promise they’re coming!

until then I hope you all enjoyed reading this!

✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ♡

Liana folded his shirts the way he liked them—sleeves tucked in, collars crisp, stacked in color order. She set them in his drawer without a word. No thanks. No glance. Just the sound of the closet door shutting behind him.

She didn’t expect much anymore. A nod at dinner. Maybe a goodnight if he wasn’t too tired. But every now and then, something inside her ached loud enough to remind her she was still in there—beneath the routine, beneath the silence.

Ever since the accident, she’d hoped he’d open up, that something would change. A year had passed, but the gap between them only widened. He was still the same—quiet, distant, lost in his own world. And she? She was just there, waiting for something to spark again, but it never did. He shrugged her off, and she wondered if that was what she deserved. Everyone else seemed to get his attention—his work, his friends, his own unresolved grief. But her? She’d become just another part of the background.

Her husband hadn’t always been like this. They’d once shared a closeness, a warmth that made their small home feel like a world of its own. But ever since the accident, the distance between them had only grown. It had been nearly a year now—long enough for her to stop hoping he’d open up, long enough to wonder if she was merely a shadow in his life.

She couldn’t blame him for the way things had changed. People grieve differently, and the accident had been traumatic for both of them. But every day felt like a slow unraveling, like a thread being pulled from something that had once been whole. And now, with every quiet meal and unspoken word, it felt like that thread was about to snap.

That afternoon, she noticed the moving truck across the street. Someone new, finally. The house next door had been empty for months, lawn overgrown, porch sagging with disuse. Now, a man stood on the curb in worn jeans and a grey t-shirt, lifting boxes like it was nothing. He looked… serious. Not unfriendly. Just quiet, like the kind of person who listened more than he talked.

She couldn’t help but watch for a few moments. The unfamiliarity of it all, the newness, the hint of something fresh that she hadn’t felt in so long, made her pause. She never expected much of the world outside anymore, but maybe—just maybe—it was time to take a step beyond the silence.

It was the small things, like this—watching the man work, noticing the way he moved with purpose—that made her realize how much she’d shrunk back. How much she’d let her own life grow stagnant. And yet, when she looked back at her own front door, the echo of her husband’s absence weighed heavier than any moving truck ever could.

She wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending.

Maybe it was time. Time to finally acknowledge that this marriage, this routine, might not be enough anymore. Time to admit that she was already living in a divorce without ever signing the papers.

Later That Day

The clock ticked slowly, marking time as the day moved on in its usual silence. Liana had cleaned, organized, and puttered around the house as she always did. Her husband came and went, absorbed in his own world, his quiet disregard for her presence like a background hum.

And then, just as she was finishing up dinner preparations, she heard a knock at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. But when she opened it, there stood Remmick, his posture just a little stiff, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. His hands were empty, but his eyes held something warm—a curiosity, maybe, or maybe an unspoken question.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low, the British lilt in his accent smooth and grounding. “Sorry to bother you, but I realized we never properly introduced ourselves. I’m Remmick, your new neighbor.” His eyes flicked briefly to the house behind her, his gaze soft but calculating, as though reading the space between them.

Liana blinked, taken off guard by the sudden appearance of this man at her door, the same one she’d seen through the window earlier. Her stomach tightened, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say.

“Oh,” she finally stammered, forcing herself to sound composed. “I’m Liana. Nice to meet you.”

Her heart skipped in her chest, but she tried to focus on the casualness of the moment, forcing herself to stay calm. “We haven’t had a chance to say hello yet.”

Remmick’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his eyes briefly scanning her face, studying her in a way that made her feel seen. It felt odd, but not unpleasant—like someone paying attention to the details that others might overlook.

“I thought I should introduce myself before the whole neighborhood gets to know me,” he said with a half-smile. “Plus, I could use some help with figuring out where the best place is to grab some food around here. Any recommendations?”

Liana hesitated, her mind racing. Should she invite him inside? Offer to help him settle in? Would it be too forward?

But before she could respond, her husband appeared at the door, walking down the hallway from the living room. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure why she was talking to the neighbor. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“This is Remmick,” Liana said, trying to keep her voice steady, feeling an odd lump in her throat. “He just moved in next door.”

Her husband’s response was distant at best, just a quick nod of acknowledgment before he turned back to head inside. No introduction, no real interest in either of them. And that was the moment it hit her.

She had been standing here, so eager to engage with Remmick, so hungry for something, anything that felt real. But the person she’d once shared everything with hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the new man who’d just entered their lives. The realization cut deeper than it should have.

Liana took a breath, ready to change the subject, but then something clicked. She had caught the slight lilt in Remmick’s voice, that rhythm of his words, something that reminded her of conversations she’d overheard in the past, something distinctly different from the local cadence.

She tilted her head, her curiosity bubbling to the surface. “Are you Irish?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Remmick blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden question. He blinked, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I am,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “From Dublin. How’d you know?”

Liana smirked, crossing her arms. “It’s the accent,” she said, a little more confidently now. “I’m not an expert or anything, but it’s hard to miss.”

His grin widened, the light in his eyes flickering with something that felt warm, inviting. “Fair enough. I suppose it’s a bit more obvious when I’m actually speaking, huh?”

Liana laughed lightly, feeling the tension ease just a little. For the first time that day, she didn’t feel like she was just playing a part. She wasn’t pretending to be something she wasn’t for her husband’s sake. Remmick had cut through the usual static, just by being himself. And, damn, that felt good.

Her husband, now standing at the doorway, cleared his throat, but Liana didn’t look his way. She didn’t need to. She didn’t want to.

“Well,” Liana said, shaking her head slightly, “if you ever want some recommendations, I’m happy to help. I know all the good spots around here.”

Remmick’s eyes softened, his voice lowering just a little. “I’ll take you up on that,” he said with a sincerity that caught her off guard. “Tomorrow then?”

Liana nodded, feeling something in her chest twist as she gave a slight smile. “Tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, the brief, fleeting moment they shared lingered in her mind. His presence had felt real, something tangible in the midst of all the quiet that had taken over her life. She closed the door behind her, standing there for a long moment before she shook her head, pushing away the thoughts that kept resurfacing.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the second she turned around, there he was—leaned against the counter like he hadn’t just acted like a damn ghost five minutes ago.

Liana crossed her arms. “You know you could’ve tried to engage with him.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t know meetin’ new folks was at the top of my to-do list.”

She gave him a look. “He’s our neighbor, not a stray dog. You could’ve said something. Shown the man you got some sense.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Right. Never are.”

He sighed, already pushing off the counter like he was done. Like that was the end of it. “You’re reading too deep into it, Li. It’s not that serious.”

“It is when it’s every damn thing,” she said, heat in her voice now. “Not just today. Every day. You been walking around like you don’t live here. Like I don’t live here.”

He stopped in the hallway, didn’t even turn around. “Ain’t like I asked for all this.”

Liana paused mid-step, her back toward him, hand still on the fridge door. She turned slowly, squinting. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, all tired breath and no eye contact. “Just sayin’. I ain’t the one asked you to fold my shit or play hostess or act like this house is some damn showpiece. You the one doin’ all that.”

Her mouth parted, and for a second, she couldn’t even speak. The words hit her in the chest like a slap.

“I’m sorry—what?” she said, voice sharper now. “You act like I’m out here beggin’ for gold stars. I do it ‘cause it’s what you’re supposed to do for someone you love. But I ain’t seen you lift a damn finger or even thank me in—God knows how long.”

He finally looked up, his face set. “You act like I’m the villain every time I breathe.”

“Nah,” she said, stepping closer, fire rising now, “you act like you don’t even see me. Like I’m some ghost floatin’ through this house, just cookin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of shit—and for what? So you can keep pretendin’ like that accident didn’t mess us both up?”

He flinched at that, but she didn’t stop.

“It’s been almost a year. A year, and you still shut down on me like I’m askin’ you to relive the whole thing every time I try to talk.”

He set the towel down with a sharp flick. “I talk to people.”

“Yeah,” she snapped, “everybody but me.”

The silence between them crackled—loud, hot, stifling.

She crossed her arms. “No. You just let me stand there, lookin’ stupid, tryna be polite while you can’t even fake interest in someone new movin’ next door. God forbid you pretend to give a damn about something.”

He scoffed and turned away, and Liana stood there, jaw tight, pulse hammering. She wasn’t yelling. But she felt like she could’ve.

Like her whole body was one deep breath away from breaking.

Silence. Again. The same kind that had been filling their house for months—thick, choking silence. The kind that said everything without saying a word.

She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m not gon’ keep beggin’ you to show up.”

And with that, she turned away, jaw tight, eyes stinging. She didn’t even realize her feet had taken her out the kitchen to the living room and right back to the window until her hand was already moving the blinds.

And there he was.

Remmick. On his porch, sipping something from a mug, arms folded like he was thinking deep about something.

Liana exhaled, low and slow. “Mm,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling just a little. “My goodness that man is fine…”

Then she caught herself, straightened up. “Girl, get it together.”

——————

That night, Liana went to bed without another word. No resolution. No warmth on her side of the bed. Just the hum of the ceiling fan above her and the dry, distant sound of crickets chirping through the open window. Her husband hadn’t even bothered to say goodnight. But then again, he rarely did anymore.

She lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, eyes dry. Nothing left to cry about.

The next morning, sunlight pushed through the gauzy curtains in long, golden strokes. Liana stirred beneath the covers, body heavy, mind numb. But the rhythm of routine—the one she’d lived in for years now—eventually tugged her out of bed.

She made the bed first, corners tight like her mama taught her. Dusted the shelves in the hallway, wiped down the kitchen counters, watered the thirsty plants that sagged in their terracotta pots. The bathroom faucet still squeaked when she turned it on, and she made a quiet note to remind him to fix it. Again. Though she knew he wouldn’t.

By the time she got to folding laundry, the heat had already settled into the house like an uninvited guest—thick and slow. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and made her way to the bathroom.

She took a lukewarm shower, letting the water slide over her skin and wash away the sour taste of yesterday. She took her time—washed gently, scrubbed her skin soft, brushed her teeth until her mouth felt fresh again. She oiled her scalp and moisturized her legs with cocoa butter, letting the scent rise like something holy.

Her box braids—neat, waist-length, and dark as coffee beans—were gathered up into a high ponytail to keep them off her neck. No fuss, just practical. She checked the mirror once, then turned away.

She didn’t bother dressing up. It was too damn hot for all that. She slipped into a faded ribbed tank the color of sage and a pair of soft, worn-in denim shorts. The kind that hugged her hips without trying too hard. Her gold hoops went in out of habit. A swipe of gloss to keep her lips from cracking. That was it.

Liana slid into her sandals, grabbed her canvas tote from the hook by the door, and stepped out into the sun.

The air hit her like a wall—thick, buzzing, the kind of southern heat that made you feel like you were walking through molasses. The town was still waking up. A few folks already out on porches, rocking slow, sipping sweet tea from mason jars, flies buzzing lazily around them like they’d made peace with the annoyance.

She climbed into her car and rolled the windows down, letting the wind touch her face as she eased onto the road. The radio played low—some old soul tune humming through the speakers. She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular. Maybe the market. Maybe the café where the cobbler tasted like something her grandma used to pull from the oven with bare hands.

Anywhere that gave her space. That let her move without questions.

And as the streets rolled by—storefronts she knew by heart, sidewalks cracked by time—Liana felt it settle in her bones

She wasn’t in a rush. Not today.

The place was small, cozy, the kind of spot with real wood tables and sunlight that warmed your skin through the front windows. A little chalkboard by the door read “Peach Cobbler’s back.”

And then, she saw him.

Remmick.

Liana smiled to herself.

He was posted up at one of the tables on the patio, coffee in hand, shades on, leaning back like he’d been waiting on her and didn’t mind one bit.

“You punctual or just greedy?” she asked as she walked up.

He grinned without missing a beat. “Little of both. You came, though. That’s what matters.”

“I said I’d take you,” she said, pulling out the chair across from him. “I ain’t in the habit of sayin’ things I don’t mean.”

He raised his cup in a small toast. “Duly noted.”

She ordered her coffee and a biscuit from inside, then came back out to join him, settling in with a soft exhale. The morning sun was bright but not unbearable yet, and a slight breeze stirred the air just enough to make it tolerable.

“So,” he said, sipping. “You the type to start with breakfast or dessert first?”

She tilted her head. “Ain’t even ten yet and you talkin’ cobbler?”

“I’m just sayin’—priorities.”

She laughed, warm and real. “We gon’ do both. But we’re startin’ here, ‘cause this biscuit about to change your life.”

He leaned in like he was ready for the sermon. “That so?”

“Trust me,” she said, breaking the biscuit in half. “This right here? It’s strawberry jam with hazelnut spread.”

Remmick leaned back in his chair, giving the biscuit a skeptical once-over like it might bite him first. “Strawberry jam and hazelnut?” he repeated, tone flat.

Liana didn’t flinch. Just tore off her piece and popped it in her mouth. “Trust me. You’ll live.”

He snorted, still staring at it. “You sure? Sounds like somethin’ a kid made by accident.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

He finally took a bite—hesitant at first, then slower as the taste hit. He chewed in silence, chewing like he didn’t wanna admit it was good. Then, with a deadpan shake of his head

“…Nah, that’s proper, that is.”

Liana smirked. “Mhm. Thought so.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, still chewing. “Still sounds mad, though. You ever think maybe you got strange taste?”

“Only when I’m dealin’ with you.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—low, rough, honest. He leaned in, elbow on the table. “Yeah? Could be worse.”

They shared their food, passed bites back and forth, talked in between sips of coffee. She told him about her favorite hidden spots in town, the ones tourists didn’t know to ask about. He listened, not just hearing her but paying attention—and that felt rare.

Every now and then, his knee bumped hers under the table. Not on purpose, but not exactly by accident, either.

They stayed longer than planned. The sun climbed higher. Her coffee got cold. But she didn’t rush. Neither did he.

Eventually, she glanced at the time. “Alright, next spot ain’t too far. You still got room?”

He stood with that slow, easy confidence of his. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

And just like that, they walked off down the sidewalk together, the summer heat curling around them, the day just beginning.

✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿✿ ✿✿✿✿

⋆˚✿ y’all come back now ✿˚⋆

[talesofesther]

ten reasons not to kiss her

➥ Ch two: The second reason

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: Natasha slowly adapts to a life by your side, all the while thinking of all the reasons why she shouldn't kiss you.

A/N: Natasha is a lil awkward, and we love her for it. <3

Masterlist | Previous chapter

Weeks turned into months. Each time Natasha was able to stay at her apartment, she quietly hoped to see you.

Sometimes, you would notice first that she was home, and Natasha would hear three gentle knocks on her door. The first time you showed up with a plate of freshly baked cookies, Natasha thought you were looking to ask for a favor. She was caught off guard when you simply wanted to share the sweets with the neighbor who spent more time away from home than in it.

Natasha had no way of knowing that you had become enraptured by her melancholic eyes. She had no way of knowing her mask fell more easily when it was just the two of you in the empty hallway, and you came to adore the real her.

During Friday mornings, Natasha knew you left for work a little later than usual. If she were home, she'd take the elevator ride down with you and then the short walk to the coffee shop. Natasha had nowhere to be, but you didn't need to know that. A routine formed, because she liked the weight of your presence beside her.

Today, the sound of the elevator wires wasn't the only thing humming in her ears. Natasha stood beside you, hands in the pockets of her jacket as she rocked back and forth on the heels of her feet. You had a backpack on your shoulders. Fidgeting with the straps of it, your restlessness was quite loud, too.

Natasha thought you to be endearingly normal in a life that was anything but.

The ding of the elevator announced the arrival at the ground floor. Neither of you made a move to leave. A beat passed, and Natasha bit back a smirk as she looked at you with narrowed eyes.

Your lips were pursed and your eyes big and bright when you turned to her. You felt like an old friend. Natasha had never felt her chest so light.

"Do you want to have a sleepover?"

The words that fell from your mouth made Natasha's smile stumble. She blinked slowly, buying herself time. "What?"

Your gaze shifted to your converse sneakers sheepishly. You grabbed the straps of your backpack tightly. "A sleepover," you shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. "You know, girls' night. Movies, snacks?"

No, Natasha didn't know. The idea was novel to her, and she felt a little out of place in her own skin. The only idea of a girls' night that Natasha knew involved brutal training that could end with someone being killed.

But you didn't have to know that; you were the unstained part of her life, and she wanted to keep it that way. Natasha cleared her throat, hands closing into fists inside her pockets. She had trouble finding her voice, not used to feeling this nervous about something so simple.

From the corner of her eye, Natasha spotted the old lady, who lived across the hallway from you two, making her way to the elevator. Natasha blamed it on instinct when she reached for your lower waist and guided you out and to the side, fingers pressing gently against your spine. She pulled away as soon as you stopped walking.

"You and… Me?"

"Yeah." You nodded, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Okay." Maybe Natasha should've known better. But you made her soft.

Later, the red numbers on her clock read 8 pm when Natasha walked out her door to knock on yours. She wouldn't tell you she had been silently sitting on her couch since 6, observing her little potted plant by the window—now not so little anymore—sway softly with the breeze, and wishing time would go by faster.

Natasha didn't know what the attire should be for a girls' night, but she settled on grey sweatpants and a white tank top. You opened your door for her, and the smile on your face was the biggest Natasha had seen. It made her heart pump blood much faster than it should.

You wore a light blue shirt and pants, with drawings of little sheep on them. Something as ordinary as this shouldn't be making Natasha bite back tears.

You had it all ready; snacks, soda, and a fuzzy blanket on the couch for you and her to share. Natasha walked into your apartment with the caution of a stray cat. She looked around and saw telltales of you everywhere, on each portrait hung on the walls and each book on the shelves. There was a warmth to your home that mimicked your own.

The lights were out, save for a lamp in one corner and the bright screen of the TV waiting to play a movie. In the back of her mind, Natasha thought about the steps that were skipped. She found herself wanting to take you out to dinner first.

You handed her the bowl of popcorn, brimming with excitement. "Is there a movie you'd like to watch?"

The fantasy shattered just a little more. Natasha avoided your gaze, her nails tapping the bowl rhythmically.

"I don't have a preference." Her voice sounded small, and she stood awkwardly in the middle of your living room. In truth, she wasn't too well-versed in the recent movies. Because while you were going out with friends, she was going out for a job that would make her take people's lives.

You two were so different. Natasha feared she would taint you.

But you sat down on your couch and patted the space beside you, and Natasha felt like a satellite unable to deny your orbit. She sat beside you, pulling her knees up to her chest as you draped the blanket over both of you.

The movie you chose seemed to be one you liked, because you talked almost as much as the characters on the screen.

Natasha didn't mind, she liked your voice better anyway.

Natasha felt a shiver go up her spine when you reached for popcorn at the same time, and your hands tangled together for a fleeting moment. You chuckled then, a soft sound under your breath, all shy and gentle.

The light from the TV shaped your features like something from a dream. Natasha's gaze mapped each curve, staying longer on your lips. She sighed, full of want, but also fear.

By the middle of the second movie, the bowl of popcorn was almost empty, and the cans of soda were forgotten on your coffee table. You weren't talking as much, and Natasha observed how your eyes became sleepy. She found herself doing that a lot, just looking at you. Committing every detail to memory for when she had to leave the apartment for the last time, and not return.

Your body shifted as you hugged the blanket closer. Your shoulder came to rest against Natasha's, and your head soon followed. It was a warm and constant presence. You were so close.

Natasha had tensed up immediately, nails digging into the fabric of her pants and shoulders going stiff. She hardly dared to breathe, stuck between the instinct to protect herself and the want to lean closer.

Even with a tired mind, you felt it. And combined with how quiet Natasha had been for most of the night, you pulled away. You didn't know that you were the first to give Natasha a taste of the ordinary life she'd secretly wished for.

She was good at being a spy, she was good at being an assassin. She wasn't too good at being a person.

No one ever taught Natasha how to love. Her war paint and scarred hands could never hold you like you deserved. This was the second reason why she shouldn't want to kiss you.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next chapter will be out soon.

Natasha’s taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this chapter. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

[mercurial-chuckles]

Permanence

Part 02: Distressing Transience

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff | Angst | Angry & Grumpy Bucky | Mutual Pining | Eventual Poly Relationship | Eventual Smut Galore | Eventual Fluff Galore | ~3k | Canon Divergent | Nightmare | Bucky's Hydra-Related Trauma | Happy Ending (it's me!) Kept the warnings basic 'coz I don't wanna reveal too much. If angsty or mature content affects you, please refrain from reading | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything! A/N: I'm excited for the great reveal in this. 🥰 This is based on a request. The OC version of this story will run in parallel, but since I got quite a few requests for a reader version, here it goes! Hope you enjoy! ✨ Take a moment to reblog or share your thoughts--it makes all the difference in the world. Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me in Canva. Picture credits to the internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Skovheim, Norway, 2011

It was bitterly cold. You draped the throw blanket from the couch, hoping to keep yourself warm.

You hated the cold. It reminded you of terrible times. Times of loss.

You'd pushed those thoughts away and went to check on the cake. Plum. Bucky's absolute favorite. You set the cake on the tray to let it cool.

Outside, the birch tree branches rattled on the kitchen window. The wind seemed to picked up. It had been raining since morning, which was rare for this time of year.

The tiny clock over the small island in the kitchen ticked past seven.

Bucky was never late.

Fear mounted you by the second. You turned off the light in kitchen to get a glimpse down the winding road. It was too hard to get a view through the fogged up window. The heavy rain blurred everything outside, but that was your only view. The sensors had stopped working and needed to be replaced. Bucky had installed several of them, starting from the point where the hidden road to your isolated home began, down at the base of the hill.

The cottage was located up the steep hill, hidden by luscious trees, with a patch of birch trees between the thick coverage. It was beautiful, to say the least, but most importantly, it was strategic. One side was shielded by the edge of the cliff, which overlooked the sea, and there was only one way of entry and no residences nearby.

You told yourself the roads were probably flooded--or maybe there were fallen trees. Bucky was a supersoldier; moving a tree or two would be nothing for him. Still, unease coiled tight in your chest. You could sense him, just like you had always known he was alive--even back when the world grieved Sgt. Barnes' heroic death in World War II. You knew Bucky was alive.

But you worried.

You were, after all, more human. Moments like this made you wish you had the power to teleport.

You didn't want him to go in the first place, but you were running low on groceries, and Bucky was fretting about replacing the sensors in the security system. Usually, night was a safer time to avoid interaction with the townsfolk. Also, Arne, your trusted contact, was to meet with Bucky in the town to deliver the equipment, monitors, transponders, sensors, and a few others. You hated that you couldn't convince Bucky to let you join. James Buchanan Barnes was a stubborn man, alright.

When you heard a distant rumble, you were unsure if it was just the whether; you could barely make the lights--one brighter than the other--of the pickup truck in the foggy downpour.

You ran and waited by the door. Your nerves wouldn't settle until you saw him. Standing by the door, you chanted, 'Come on. Come on.'

After a few minutes, you heard the shuffling behind the door. Then came the muffled creak of the floor. A groan behind the door frame made you freeze.

Silence.

You waited.

Then, two knocks. Two seconds apart.

Your body moved before you could breathe in relief, hand on the knob, waiting. He'd drilled it into your head: Never open unless you hear the knock.

You unlatched the door and let it swing open against the push of the wind.

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him, with more force than necessary. Water dripped from the hem of his jacket, pooling on the wooden floor. The cap was soaked, plastered to his head, shadowing his eyes.

He didn't greet you with the usual, 'I'm here, I'm okay.' in that gentle tone like he usually assured you every time he returned.

You searched his eyes, worry wrecking your gut.

"I'm fine," Bucky muttered after a few seconds, eyes flicking to your face.

You let out a sigh of relief. He seemed off but you didn't think much about it, more worried that he was soaked to the bones.

"You're drenched," you said.

"It's pouring," he offered with a faint, bitter chuckle, trying to toe off his boots, but they were sloppy wet, squelching with the slightest movement.

"You don't say," you chuckled, crouching down to help him tug the boot off.

"I got it," he hissed sharply.

You stilled immediately, retrieving your hand and standing up. Bucky rarely got this way. After escaping from the clutches of Hydra, touch bothered him, but that was years ago. He never shied away from your touch. However, it seemed like he was past that. Now, your mind was back to worrying.

"Are you okay?" You asked softly. Bucky visibly stiffened. Your focus shifted to his right palm, fisted tightly around the box in his hand. Bucky seemed to notice you glance because he loosened his grip.

He carefully placed the plastic wrapped carton beside the door, along with two other bags, wordlessly.

You dragged the old chair from the dining table, the legs scraping softly across the wood. He lowered himself into the chair, broad shoulders hunched, clothes clinging to his body and accentuating his form. Bucky didn't meet your eyes, removing his shoes, almost tearing them off his feet.

Reaching for his cap, you gently tugged it off his head. He finally looked at you, and you were pretty sure he looked miffed.

"You'll get sick," you mumbled. You just needed to hug him.

"I don't get sick," he quipped.

You tutted, his mood firing up your frustration further, but you knew nothing would yield when he was in a mood.

You'd have to wait to ask questions later, once he showered and ate.

You'd have to wait for that hug.

"Hang up your things. I'll make you some tea. Don't take long in the shower," you said.

The stiffness in his shoulder became evident when he walked to the bathroom at the far end of the living room. That shoulder must be acting up again. You wondered if he'd let you ease the pain in peace or if you'd have to coax him into it. The cold always made it worse.

Gosh! You hated the cold!

~

By the time Bucky returned from the shower and changed into his joggers and Henley, you had mopped the floor and unpacked the groceries from the waterproof bags.

His hair was still wet, droplets falling. It was fricking cold, and this man didn't flinch. It bothered you how blatantly reckless he was with his health.

It bothered you how much he affected you, all while looking infuriatingly gorgeous. You'd rather not delve into those waters. It was a dangerous realm.

So, you ignored the trickling water droplets down the expanse of his neck and internally berated yourself. You handed him the cup of tea and turned to fetch a dry towel.

Bucky's gaze followed you when you walked to get another dry towel. You noticed him eyeing the cake when you returned.

"You're not getting a single piece unless you dry your hair right now," you said pointedly, pushing the towel toward him.

"Is that so," he sniggered, looking down at you. You caught the sly twitch of his pink lips before he turned to sit on the couch.

Bucky wasn't the man you remembered from the 40s--the playful, flirty, sassy, nerdy boy from Brooklyn. Hydra had changed him immensely so. It had been almost a decade since he escaped their clutches, a decade since you found him. He was healing slowly but surely. You'd like to believe that. You'd been through a lot, collectively as well as individually. So, the little glimpses of the lost man always rejoiced you. Eventually, he'd get there. He had to.

"Stop it, you'll hurt your neck," you chastised when you noticed him vigorously moving his head against the towel. You pulled the towel from his grasp, at least tried. Initially, Bucky didn't budge but he reluctantly let go. You smiled, victorious, as he slumped into the couch and sighed, letting you gently towel off his hair.

You knew he hadn't slept well last night. He'd nearly finished reading the book he had started--you'd noticed the bookmark in the morning.

Every time he had to go into the town, he got tense. Bucky wouldn't tell you, but you knew it. You'd been living and navigating through this life for a few years now. Though you were grateful he'd come a long way, Bucky still had a long winding road ahead to fully heal.

"That's how you do it, Sergeant Barnes," you jested, pulling his hair back into a small bun. He let out a satisfied hum, which made your stomach flip.

"Hand me that scrunchie."

He leaned over, tugging you gently along the couch as you held his hair together. That's when you noticed him flinching.

"Bucky?" You quickly tied his hair and moved around to sit beside him on the couch. You tried to reach for his hand, but he pulled away.

"Bucky," you prompted, this time pleading.

He sighed, pulling the sleeve of his right arm up over his veiny forearm, revealing a long gash of red and blue bruising that marred his skin. If his serum didn't already heal, it only meant the bruise was worse, to begin with.

"What happened?" You asked, worried and angry that he hadn't told you about it.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, "Got a flat, had to change the tire in the nasty weather. Hurt myself," he finished, already pulling away, but you held onto it with all your strength, fighting him. He didn't look guilty, unlike the other times when he hid his injuries or sufferings. He looked unapologetic.

"Bucky."

"I'm fine," he murmured.

"Shut up and stay put," You hissed, livid. This wasn't the first time, and you knew it wasn't going to be the last. Bucky loved to suffer, and he thought he was reaping all the consequences of his actions. You'd fight this war with him until you won despite losing the battles every now and then.

You cupped your palm over his bruise and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth emanate. You felt the faint, dizzying sensation. When you opened your eyes, the bruise faded, and the skin on his warm forearm looked normal, with no sign of the gash anymore.

Bucky's silence was telling, the sharp tick of the jaw and the crease between his brows, and you waited for a long moment, but he said nothing.

"What?" You asked, not being able to bear his silence anymore.

"Nothing." He bit out rather harshly.

"I can't see you hurt," those words hurtled before you could stop. In an attempt to belie your vulnerability--your love, you got up from there, hoping to fade your emotional turmoil. You blinked back the tears threatening to spill and made your way to the kitchen, willing your thoughts to quiet as you focused on heating up dinner.

"Bucky, dinner's ready," you called out, surprised to see him already near his bedroom door.

He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. "I'm not hungry," he remarked.

"I made your favorite cake," you added gently, trying to coax him. You hated it when he went without eating. He hadn't skipped a meal in a long time, not since the early days after escaping Hydra, when nausea haunted him daily. You knew too well that when the mind is in chaos, the appetite is usually the first thing to go.

"Not hungry," he repeated, more bitterly this time, before disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.

~

You couldn't sleep--not until you knew he was. You'd gotten used to sleeping next to him. Just knowing he was there settled your nerves. You waited for hours, hoping to hear the gentle knock, the soft padding of footsteps, and the familiar 'Can I?'--a question that had become rhetorical over time. But he hadn't come.

You tried to read, but your focus kept slipping away. Feeling thirsty, you reached for your bottle, only to realize it was empty as you gave it a shake.

Ugh! You'd forgotten you'd downed the whole thing when you got hungry earlier in the night.

As you hopped off the bed, you talked yourself out of knocking on his door. But the moment you stepped into the living room, you heard him cry out.

With a sigh, you slid off the bed, quietly debating whether or not to knock on his door. You told yourself not to, and to wait for him to come to you when he was ready, even though you were sure something was wrong.

But the moment you stepped into the living room, a sound stopped you cold.

"NO. PLEASE. NO." Bucky was sobbing, groaning.

The bottle slipped from your hand as your heart leapt into your throat. You bolted for his room. The door was unlocked, thankfully. But he wasn't in bed.

You flicked on the table lamp. The soft light fell over his figure, curled on the floor, trembling.

"Buck. Hey, hey…it's okay," you said quickly, crouching beside him and reaching for his face.

"NO. Not you," he cried, grabbing your wrist in a panic.

"It was just a dream," you said, wiping his tear-streaked face.

He caught your hands and pressed your palms against his cheeks. Then he pulled you into his lap, arms tight around you.

"You're hurt," he gasped, frantic, inspecting your neck and arms, turning your hands over, searching.

"Bucky," you said gently, blinking your tears away.

"I'm alright. It was just a nightmare." You reminded.

His chest heaved, "I… I thought…" But the words broke off as he crushed you to him, sobbing into your shoulder. You held him just as tightly.

After a while, you whispered, "I'll get you some water." But he wouldn't let go.

"Okay. Okay… just lie down with me," you murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

With you in his arms, he rose from the floor without so much as a flinch. You clung to him instinctively, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he carried you to the bed. You held on as he gently laid you down, then climbed in beside you, immediately curling himself around you. His fingers found yours, intertwining them softly.

"I got you, Bucky. Always," you whispered, feeling his tear-streaked face pressed against your temple. Your right palm settled over his heart, feeling it slowly begin to calm beneath your touch.

~

In an attempt to calm him, you talked about random things--from constellations to the book you'd been reading, which you thought was horrible, and why. He let out a throaty chuckle when you told him you should seriously reconsider the situation with Gollum, the alpine hare you both named, who visited your humble garden now and then and caused a ruckus.

Eventually, you convinced him to let you make some tea, and he followed you to the kitchen without a word.

"Buck…" you started, unsure.

You slid the mug toward him. He leaned onto the counter and slowly sipped. You studied him for a long moment and then asked softly, "What happened out there?" You were pretty sure something was bothering him.

He didn't answer immediately. Bucky took a few slow sips.

"I saw Hagen," Bucky said finally, eyes fully focused on you.

You stilled, staring at him wide-eyed as things clicked into place. The subtle hostility when he'd returned home that evening. The nightmare that followed. It all made sense now. You had chalked it all up to the rain--he was soaked through when he walked in. You should've guessed that his silence was more telling than his words. You didn't expect this though.

The odds of that encounter were next to none tonight. That was what you'd counted on.

Exactly five days ago, when Bucky made the trip to the city to place an order with Arne, the electronics guy, you'd ventured alone into town, breaking his most sacred rule--never go anywhere without me.

But you lived in a far corner of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and mist, and the town was safe even if Bucky thought otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Hagen, who owned the small bookstore you frequented, were kind people. That day, you'd noticed how worn Mr. Hagen looked. When you gently asked if he was okay, he told you Mrs. Hagen's health was failing. And when he asked if you wanted to see Mrs. Hagen, you agreed. Mrs. Hagen was a lovely lady. You and Bucky visited the store every now and then, hoarding books as you both enjoyed reading, and Mrs. Hagen often added a couple of books onto the pile for free. 'You can never have enough books.'

"He thinks it was a miracle," Bucky said flatly. "Said you visited," He bit out loud.

But you said nothing.

Bucky stared at you. His jaw tightened. "It fucking makes sense why you looked off that day. You know the price of using your gift."

"She was dying, Buck," you said quietly, looking away. "I couldn't walk away."

"And what about...you?" His voice dropped lower. "What happens when someone gets a whiff?" He gritted out.

You chanced a look at him. The shadow above him from the kitchen light cut sharp lines across his face, making him look like a sculpted god. Albeit an angry-looking god.

"She was suffering," you repeated, moving your gaze onto the foggy kitchen window, rain still pelting.

"That doesn't matter," he snapped. Bucky stepped forward, his right hand finding your elbow as he tugged you toward him. You didn't resist.

"Look at me." Bucky gritted out, frustration marring his features.

Your gaze rose slowly to meet his, guilty.

"What were you thinking?" he asked sharply. You could sense his pain.

"I was thinking she would've died."

"And I'm thinking I can't lose you too," he thundered, like the sky outside. His arm slipped around your back, his grip tightening as he pulled you closer.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to remind him that you were strong, more than human. That you'd lived in the harsh world alone for decades, that you went into the clutches of Hydra's lair to find him, that you weren't the one people should be afraid of. But your mother's words rang loudly in your head, 'Sweetheart, sometimes what makes you powerful is exactly what makes you vulnerable…hunted.'

Feeling utterly helpless, your shoulders dropped. You couldn't see people suffer. You carried a lot of regrets yourself. The fact that you didn't find Bucky soon enough after he fell off the train, the fact that you should've stopped Steve from getting the serum. If Steve hadn't, he would not have sacrificed his life. Those haunted you every damn day. So, what if you alleviated Mr. and Mrs. Hagen's suffering. It brought you peace.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, burying your face into his chest.

He sighed into your hair, kissing you tenderly.

"I need you to resist helping people," he pleaded.

"I don't know how Buck," you whispered, holding him tightly.

~

Bucky dreaded love more than he ever feared Hydra. While he mourned the love he had lost--Steve--he also mourned not being the kind of man you deserved.  

The way you saved him persistently, and resurrected him after Hydra, with years and years of patience. It was beyond his understanding. Gosh! You could totally beat Steve when it came to being stubborn.

He watched you, relaxed in his arms, deep in sleep.

His Angel!

Sometimes, it was hard to believe that you were by his side. His fingers traced your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

Bucky knew he was a selfish man because he'd never said he loved you out loud, afraid he'd cause an imbalance in the perfect ecosystem. Because he knew you loved him. And even if you never explicitly worded your love, you defined it in every little action. It pained him how deeply you loved him despite what he'd done.

In the late hours of the night, when he curled up beside you--nightmares as an excuse--he'd usually think of a better tomorrow. One where he'd repented the doings of a man in his mind who he'd been unwillingly sharing space with. Where he could love you the way you deserved. Where Steve was still alive, and you all lived in a world where freedom wouldn't be weighed by norms. But fate couldn't be that forgiving, right?

Bucky still hoped and prayed for forgiveness--for the actions he had unwittingly committed. He tried to be a better man every day.

Bucky was protective of you--territorial might befit. But the fact was, you protected him every day. From himself. From his nightmares. You were his salvation.

You shifted, turning more into his side, still deep asleep, slipping your hand around his waist. Bucky chuckled softly, clutching the oversized T-shirt on the little of your back, and pulled you closer.

God! You were divine. So far out of his league. Did you even know that?

He could literally kill for you. And he was close to committing that heinous act that very evening.

He'd gone to the bookstore to buy the book you'd been waiting for, only to overhear Hagen talking about you and 'miracle' in the same breath. The fear hit him instantly. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the wrinkled man. A sinister thought crawled into his mind: kill Hagen and his wife. Make it look like a robbery.

Then, Bucky thought of you and felt utterly disgusted with himself for even thinking of it. He wasn't that person, and he'd never be him again. He fled from there as fast as he could, terrified of himself.

He wondered if he could ever truly be the man you deserved. He highly doubted it. But the fact was, he couldn't let you go. He'd already lost Steve. He couldn't fathom losing you, too.

Bucky loved you. With every tiny, broken piece of himself--he loved you.

He moved closer, admiring your peaceful face and enveloping himself in your intoxicating scent.

You were so goddamn delicate. So mesmerizingly pretty. It was up to him to safeguard you.

You'd wake up in a few hours. You hadn't eaten because he hadn't. And he'd been a fucking prick all evening. You'd even baked him his favorite cake, but he'd been too cooped up in his head, too angry at you for being so reckless. Didn't you understand he couldn't live without you?

He'd make your favorite breakfast and apologize. Maybe you'd kiss him on the cheek like you had yesterday. That little kiss where you'd rise on your toes and tug him down gently always made him feel alive.

Bucky leaned in, and placed a small kiss on your forehead. Your scent enveloping him, a medicine to his wounded thoughts and shattered soul. In the confines of his mind, he whispered, 'I love you,' perhaps too loudly for your heart not to hear.

Fic-a-boo Part 03: Perennial Embers The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Pepper Potts speaking." "Hi...Umm. Hi, Pepper," you said, your voice a little shaky, "I need to cash in that favor."

If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3

Tags:

@nekoannie-chan   @salvatoreitmeanssaviour   @bitchy-bi-trash   @theallknown213  @tripletstephaniescp  @greatenthusiasttidalwave   @zaraomarrogers   @shadowrose13-blog1   @king814318   @yiiiikesmish @buck-star @ohmylovewhereartthou-blog @thiquefunlover63 @notsostrangerthing @iamtamera @blackhawkfanatic @pebbles20 @starsrfun   @iwudbutnah @daydreaming-lightly @kpopgirlbtssvt @slytherinmates   @doilooklikeigiveafrack @bubblessunshinehoney @rnurse-kole @astheskycries @unclearblur @saiyanprincessswanie @soelstress @stellar-solar-flare @zandra-42 @roofwitty779 @vintagebuckybarnes @cupcake-cup @hazzspazidiot @buckingforbuckybarnes @aosky18 @waywardwifey @littlesuniee @venunsgirl

[nataliasquote]

Honesty pt.2 | n romanoff

mac and cheese queen | pt.1

summary: a frosty interaction with Natasha is not out of the ordinary, but it’s really not welcome. But in Yelena’s eyes, there’s nothing that mac and cheese can’t fix… mostly

pairings: enemies-to…, (Nat, O!C), yelena belova x best!friend! OC

wc: 2.5k

note: hiii :) part 2 for you. more nat interactions will be coming, you just have to be patient

-⧗-

"I need to be more interesting." Kaia sighed as she adjusted the waistband of her leggings, making eye contact with her best friend through the large mirror. Yelena just laughed and placed down her phone, pulling one knee up to her chest.

"You? More interesting? You make me feel like a dusty old dictionary sitting next to the newest bestselling novel. If you get more interesting I'm gonna have to start building houses in Africa." Kaia stopped changing her music and peered over her shoulder at her dramatic friend, the upbeat pop music coming to an abrupt pause.

The young dancer had hired out a studio room so she could practice and dragged Yelena along as her personal hype woman who would also listen to her mile long list of critiques as she watched herself dance in the mirror. As she improv-ed to the music, thoughts of dancing in college swirled in her mind, the endless days of dance and music enticing her future.

"Yelly please, you're the most interesting person I know. No one else could have so many stories to tell me on a daily basis, when we spend every waking moment together."

Yelena tossed her braid over her shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows. "Well, I did take most of the personality in the house. Gotta make up for the fact that I'm not Natasha somehow."

Kaia picked up her phone again, scrolling through her improv playlist on spotify. Her body was itching to move and she couldn't stand still even as she shuffled the songs, her hips swaying back and forth. "Wow I didn't know this was a therapy session." She quipped, slightly rolling her eyes.

"Well yes, you use dance as therapy, I use you as a therapist. That way you can dance out both of our problems."

The brunette stood still for a moment, listening to the song that played through her speaker. But the faint grumbles coming from the blonde across the room made her strut over and hold out her hands.

"What?"

"Dance with me." Kaia whined with a pout. Difficult to resist.

"Kyyyy I don't dance. You know that."

"I'm sure baby ballet Yelena is still in there somewhere." She teased, grabbing her best friend's wrists and hauling her up from the floor. But her task proved difficult when Yelena made her body go limp, meaning Kaia felt like she was pulling around a sack of potatoes. "Yel, please."

Yelena was an incredibly tough girl, but one thing she couldn't resist was Kaia. They were close enough to be lovers and sisters at the same time, which confused people a lot of the time. They would wander round stores hand in hand, earning disapproving looks from elderly people who couldn't help but be homophobic, but it was exactly the reaction they wanted. Something about pissing off old people made the perfect saturday afternoon entertainment.

"Ky I don't dance. End of." She shoved her hands under her butt and gave her friend a glare, but this did nothing but spur Kaia onwards.

"Okay well last time I checked you weren't Chad from High School Musical, so shush, and I'll help you!" Yelena still didn't budge, although her lips twitched into a smile at the high school musical reference. "Lenaaa..."

"I hate you, you know that right?" Kaia let out a squeal as Yelena stood up, adjusting her jeans so they sat more comfortably around her waist. Her khaki vest and jeans combo weren't the best for dancing, but Kaia didn't care less at all. It was a miracle that Yelena wanted to dance at all, seeing as she'd sworn off it for years.

"No. You love me. Now come on." Kaia dragged her into the middle of the studio as 'Walking on Sunshine' started playing through the speakers, the upbeat happy tempo immediately pulling out a smile on her face. "You can't dance to this song with a frown like that!" She yelled over the music.

"Try me bitch!" Yelena started mumbling along with the words as Kaia danced around stupidly, grabbing her hands in an attempt to turn the blonde around in an awkward spin.

In their duo, Yelena was the singer. She had a deep raspy voice that Kaia loved, but every time she was asked to sing Yelena would go silent. So in the privacy of their soundproof studio, Yelena let herself go.

"I'm walking on sunshine..."

"OHHH!" Kaia echoed.

"I'm walking on sunshine..."

"Woahhhhh!"

"I'm walking on sunshine!" Yelena moved to do a shimmy with Kai, who returned it gleefully as she echoed once more.

"And don't it feel GOOD!"

"HEY!" With a burst of spontaneous energy, the brunette whipped out a quick aerial, spinning back around to launch herself at Yelena.

"Talented ass bitch." Yelena muttered. But Kai just planted a huge kiss on her cheek, throwing her arms around her neck.

"Awww I love you Yelly!" Yelena squirmed out of her grip, holding her best friend at arms length by the shoulders.

"You're being weird. Why are you being weird?" She narrowed her eyes but Kaia just laughed, dancing over to her phone as the song came to an end.

"I'm not the weird one. You are."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Not!"

"Are!"

"I hate you."

"I know." Kai disconnected her phone and quickly slipped on her converse. "It's 6pm. Wanna grab dinner?"

"If you're really asking me if I want to get food with you, then I need to rethink our friendship. Plus, I've been wanting mac and cheese since we got here, so you owe me that." Yelena was pulling faces at herself in the mirror as she spoke, wandering aimlessly around the studio as she tried to keep herself entertained, knowing just how long Kaiiarina took to get ready.

"Then let's go."

The dance school was buzzing with activity as the summer school's extra classes meant more kids danced throughout the day. The girls only had a few more weeks before they left for college so they spent their days in summer doing whatever they wanted. Which... in Kaia's case, meant days at the dance studio.

They chatted together as they made their way down the stairs, smiling at some of the young girls who ran past giggling in their baby pink leotards. They reminisced of how they used to be that small, spotting a wild haired blonde girl who resembled Yelena far too closely. She dragged her feet as she followed her friends, pulled harshly at her leotard with disgust.

"Oh surprise surprise." Yelena whispered loudly, placing an arm infront of Kaia to halt them both on the bottom step.

"What?" The blonde pointed across the room to where a familiar redhead was signing her name in the register book, talking intently to the tall girl stood next to her. "Oh."

"I swear she's put a gps tracker in my brain. I can't get a break!" Yelena exclaimed, but still keeping her voice low. It was like they were hiding from a lion in the rushes, staying low and quiet, not wanting to startle the hunting and deadly predator. Kaia didn't want to become dinner today.

"We can just walk past quickly. She won't notice." Kaia said in a hushed tone, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Plus, it's not like she's going to want to talk to you when she sees you're with me."

"Ky you know she's gonna make a jab comment at you."

Kaia just shrugged and stepped down, holding her head up high as she walked towards the sliding doors. Her ponytail swung and her envious jawline was on show. She was stunning, there was no doubt, but clearly Natasha didn't see that. Just blinded by hatred.

Yelena rushed after her friend, falling into step beside her just in time to hear Nat's low and raspy voice call out.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was blunt, not a single ounce of care about how rude she was being come over at all. The taller blonde girl stood next to the redhead turned away, not wanting to involve herself in the conversation.

"Probably for the same reason you're here." Kaia quipped, stopping so she was face to face with Nat. Well, almost. The redhead was slightly taller, but that didn't phase Kaia. She was sure in herself, and Natasha didn't scare her. "It's a dance school. I'm a dancer. I came to dance"

"Well no shit Sherlock," Nat said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Getting last minute practice in before college? You'll need to spend more hours in the studio if you want to keep up. It's an intense course, I would know."

"Yes, you would know because you're the dance captain. We've all heard you before. Now can you stop harassing my best friend and leave her alone because she owes me mac and cheese and my stomach is gonna start eating itself. So thank you, dearest sister, but we will be leaving." Yelena grabbed Kaia's arm and dragged her away, mumbling about mac and cheese the whole way to the car.

"Lena I can walk on my own you know." Kaia grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on her bicep where the blonde had dug her fingers in rather hard.

"Well you have yet to prove that to me whenever Nat is around. It's like she glues your feet to the floor."

"Okay now you're being dramatic. I don't want to be around Nat any longer than I have to be. Your sister is a dementor. She sucks the life out of me with every word because I know she just wants to make comments." She chucked her car keys into the cup holder and passed Yelena the charger, which she accepted gratefully, knowing her phone would be nearly dead.

"Okay I love the chit chat, but let's drive. I was being serious about my stomach earlier."

The mac and cheese house lit up in the distance as Kaia pulled into a parking space, barely switching her car off before Yelena opened the door. She ran inside, not even checking if her friend was following her before taking a big deep breath of the smell that hit her nostrils as she hauled open the large glass doors.

She started humming 'I'm In Heaven' under her breath as she read the huge menu boards, which was ridiculous considering her order was planned out from the moment Kaia pressed play on the first track she danced to.

Classic Mac with a generous helping of hot sauce. The first time she ordered the server looked at her in disgust, but she made him try it and his life was changed ever since. Anyone who doubts her flavour combination is forced to try it, due to her stubborn nature.

"You ordered yet?" Kaiiarina asked, suddenly appearing being her friend, startling her slightly.

"Shush. I'm considering my options."

"You're gonna get something new?" Yelena hummed in agreement. "We both know that's not gonna happen."

"I hate it when you're right." She huffed.

"I know. Now go order." Kaia shoved Yelena forward and then went to grab a table by the window, so she could people watch as she waited for food. No need to tell Lena her order; that girl had everything mac and cheese ordered.

The brunette pulled out her phone and replied to a couple of texts, including one from her mother asking how long she would be out for. Her curiosity got the best of her and she clicked on the message, replying back rather quickly. Her mother almost never messaged her, so it caught her by surprise.

But the mysterious 'I'll tell you once you're home' message that she received back made her feel slightly sick, but luckily Yelena came to the rescue.

"One toasted Mac and Cheese for the exhausted and malnourished prima ballerina," she announced with a flourish, placing the steaming pot on the table in front of Kaia, her face lighting up.

"Ohohohoh that smells divine!" Yelena agreed, shovelling a forkful of pasta in her mouth, chattering her teeth and letting out puffs of air as it was still boiling hot. "And I'm not malnourished. You don't make that possible."

"I'm too good to you."

Their conversation lessened significantly as they began eating, the flavours of their mac and cheese exploding on their tongues and distracting them from forming words and sentences to converse.

But they didn't need to talk. They'd been best friends for so long that nothing ever felt awkward, not even sitting in silence. They were comfortable just being in each other's company, which was good considering they were never apart.

Yelena finished her mac and cheese in half the time it took Kaia, so she started stealing her own forkfuls now and again, moaning at how hot sauce was a complete necessity.

"You can't steal my food and then complain about it That's really not how this works."

"I can and I will. So deal with it." There were only a couple of bites left and Kaia pushed her pot away, completely stuffed. But wasting food wasn't her concern around Yelena. That girl was a human vacuum, and somehow still managed to stay in impeccable shape. Probably due to the hours she spent on soccer in highschool and now college.

"I hate to cut this short, but my mom wants me home. She said some weird cryptic message and it's slowly eating my alive." Kaia huffed, tapping the screen of her phone and rolling her eyes at the messages that had appeared.

Yelena burst out laughing, clamping her hand quickly over her mouth. "Sorry." She sniggered, pulling odd faces to try and stop her laugher. "It's just that guy behind you almost walked into the door because it didn't open fast enough."

Kaia swivelled round in her seat, a smile tugging at her lips as she saw the disgruntled middle-aged man storming off in a huff, a bag of food tucked under his arm.

"As mad as I am you interrupted me, that was funny."

"Allow me to provide the quality entertainment."

"I need to stop saying that. It's gonna make your head even bigger." Yelena's jaw dropped as she rubbed her hands over her head, shielding it from Kaiiarina's eagle eyes.

"I do not have a big head!" The blonde exclaimed, her usually disguised russian accent subtly seeping through as her voice cracked. "You're just being mean!"

"I am, but it's only because I love you. Now come on bitch, if you want a lift home we need to go now before my mother sends anymore dumb messages."

"Yes sir." Yelena saluted at her best friend before getting up from the table, chucking their empty containers in the recycling. "Taylor Swift jam session?"

"Are you even asking me?"

"Fuck yeah."

[iluminatka16]

"From beyond the stars" Chapter 3

Chapter 2 [Chapter List]

Summary: Why it's not worth insulting the Emperor and a conversation with the main culprit of the whole Heresy, Horus.

Tags: isekai, ending up in a fictional universe, primarchxf!oc, found family trope, emperor and horus make an apperance

Warnings: mention of failed suicide attempt, cursing, typical canon violence, mention of child abuse

Word count: 2773 Edit: FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHIG THAT IS HOLY AND UNHOLY, I ACCIDENTALY PUT FEW WRONG TAGS, AND TUMBLR ISN'T ALLOWING ME TO DELETE THEM (*screams of despair*). no, this isn't emperor x reader fic

Unfortunately, she was not given peace of mind this time either. Before either brother had time to answer her, heavy rhythmic footsteps sounded behind them. Yelena turned toward the sound and sighed quietly. It seemed that Custodian had returned to his post. But since he was walking towards them, it meant that either they were in trouble for talking to her, or the Neoth wanted something from her.

“The Emperor is expecting you.” briefly without explanation. Of course, she could have tried to inquire, but she knew perfectly well that it would have accomplished nothing. The bodyguard of the most powerful man in the galaxy probably didn't know himself what exactly was going on. Because why share his plans with anyone? What could have gone wrong? Let's think. Ah well! All this mystery led to a fucking heresy and Neoth looking like a zombie from The Walking Dead.

“Looks like I'm in trouble. Farawell gentlemen, if I survive then I definitely need to have a chat with you.” Yelena extended her finger in front of her and moved it to none other than the primarch, after whom the aforementioned heresy was named. “Especially with you Horus.”

“Horus? I thought most baseline humans call me My Lord.”

Yelena only smiled.

The road through the golden corridors was a torture. Lack of sleep, hunger, anxiety. All this made her think she was going crazy. She had barely been here, and she had managed to insult the fucking Emperor himself and break his ban. Three times! She was not supposed to talk to the primarchs, and she talked to three of them. And also with Curz. It's a good thing the Heresy of Horus hadn't happened yet, because if she had met that version of Konrad… well, she still remembered the passage in the book about him, where he decided to murder almost the entire crew of the ship and torture the only survivor. On top of that, there was still that fucking Custodian. Not only did he not react when the Night Haunter followed her footsteps into the garden, even though the primarchs were also forbidden to go near her, but he also walked away from the site of his post-

Wait a moment.

Custodian is no ordinary soldier who simply runs away from his post to go play cards. Even if his family was dying in front of him, he wouldn't move unless the Emperor himself gave the order… THAT BASTARD.

The door to the spacious study closed behind her, and Yelena was left alone with Neoth. The man was staring at a holographic map projector of some planetary system in front of him, not even raising his eyes to look at her.

“You set me up.” Yelena didn't care about the titles at this point, feeling her rage boiling inside her. She thought that she was indeed going mad from lack of sleep.

“You said they could be saved. Testing your words was the only option. Admittedly, my plans for your first confrontation looked a bit different, but you handled everything yourself by running out into the garden. It was a matter of time before Curze followed you. From what I noticed, you are like a magnet for my sons. I was honestly surprised that none of them broke my prohibition and entered the chamber I assigned to you. But I must admit that you have done remarkably well.”

“Talking to him was "doing remarkably well"? He didn't take anything from my words, an-”

“Konrad spent the whole night talking to you.” The Emperor interrupted her, finally lifting his gaze from above the map. “That's more than his brothers accomplished in their years of Crusade together. And you managed to get him interested in just a dozen minutes of discussion together.”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“Since you were able to get to Konrad, it should go easily with the other primarchs. You know their mentality, past and future. You know what awaits them.”

“And then what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Yelena slowly approached the table. She didn't even think about her next words.

“Let's say I'll stop the heresy, which might be difficult, because there's a chance I'll accidentally make things worse. Great, you have your generals, you're not trapped in a golden chair, undergoing torture for ten thousand years. You've conquered the entire cosmos. What's next? Are you going to get rid of them like you got rid of the Thunder Warriors?”

Neoth slowly straightened up. Probably it was the action of his power, but Yelena felt an unpleasant shudder run through her body under his gaze. She felt so small, so insignificant. Like a bug that he could trample with his shoe. Well, and here his was a mistake. She was so familiar to this feeling, that it only fueled her rage.

“Careful…”

“Because what? Are you going to kill me?” Yelena hissed, clenching her hands into fists. “Just like you killed those who opposed you? Because so far I am the only one who knows the exact course of events of the heresy. You don't know them, otherwise you wouldn't have ended up the way you ended up in the books with the whole Imperium going to shit.”

“Don't overestimate yourself. You are not as important as you think. The fact that you're still alive is due solely to my grace. One more word and you'll end up in a cell, where I'll extract this information from you with torture.”

“Even knowing the exact course of the heresy, you wouldn't be able to stop it. Do you know why? Because you are an bad father who sees, men who blindly obey you, as tools in your Great Fucking Plan.”

After that, there was only pain. Yelena felt like her body went up in flames. Blood gushed from her nose and filled her throat, running down her chin. Suddenly standing became too painful and before she knew it, she was collapsed onto the floor, convulsing in pain. She had no idea what was happening, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. It was hard to tell how long it lasted, but suddenly everything went quiet. She was still on the floor, choking on her own blood, and standing over her was none other than Neoth.

“Maybe the world you were born into is much softer and merciful, but there are different rules here. I have killed for lesser offenses than loudly insulting me. You are weak. You are a nobody. And killing you will be like squashing an ant with a shoe.”

As if to confirm her words, Yelena felt his boot resting on her head. She wasn't stupid. She knew that he could easily split her skull, mix bones and brain. One push. That was all it took. The fact that he hadn't done it yet meant that he was giving her a chance to apologize. For her to beg for mercy.

The problem was that she felt no fear. Only rage. It was as if she was again a child being beaten by her father using his belt, trying to break her. If he wasn't able to do it, she'd sooner die than let a fucking fictional character do this. Even if she was going to die for it.

“And you're an arrogant prick whose own personality made all the perpetuals run away from him, then his sons, who loved him above life, betrayed him, and his Great Plan went to shit.”

Yelena was panting like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her eyes were wide open, and although her view was partially obscured by the man's boot, she stared ahead with almost burning gaze. Her bloody face was contorted in a grimace that she had worn more than once when dealing with bad fathers.

“I can kill you at any second, and yet you are not afraid. All I can sense from you is rage. You are filled with hatred. You say I am arrogant, yet look at yourself. Too proud to yield even in the face of death.”

Yelena did not answer him. She merely clenched her jaw, waiting for a push to fix what should have happened when she jumped off that bridge. But to her surprise, no, shock, instead she felt the pressure on her head disappear and a strong hand grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. Oh fuck, how painful it was. Her muscles forced to move ignited, drawing a broken whimper from her mouth.

“The pain will go away soon.”

Easy to fucking say. Yelena had no idea what was going on until someone pushed her to sit on a armchair, clearly made for the measurements of primarchs, and a silk handkerchief was placed in her hand.

“Get yourself in order.” The Emperor muttered, resting his hands on the beautifully decorated table. “You mentioned two times that… how did you put it? The Imperium went to shit. What is the fate of humanity after my sons betrayed me?”

Yelena thought for a moment about telling him to fuck off after the way he treated her, but decided she didn't feel like testing her luck any further. “Ten thousand years have passed, you are immobilized on the Golden Throne, the Imperium is attacked from all sides. It is ruled by corrupt fanatics and the Inquisition… ah yes, the Inquisition are also corrupt fanatics.” With a quick movement, she wiped the blood from under her nose and moved her handkerchief to her chin. “Chaos is attacking with new power, on top of that new enemies have appeared - Tau, Necrons, Tyranids. You almost became the fifth god of chaos, and ten thousand years of constant torture probably destroyed your psyche to the point that you were probably no longer yourself. And also they made you into a god in whose name they kill others or even themselves.”

Fucking Lorgar.

Neoth nodded slowly. “What do you expect in return for your help?”

“Excuse me?"

“You don't want to help me kill potential traitors, so I expect you to help me stop them from descending into chaos. Death threats don't work on you, so I'm asking what you want from me in exchange for your help.”

Yelena thought for a second. “First of all, nothing will succeed without your help. Be their father, even if you don't see them as your sons. Teach them about the threat from the chaos gods, explain Warp to Magnus, help Konrad with his madness. Just… take care of them. Second - when the Great Crusade is over, don't kill them. Let them live in peace, in the way they choose. Third… if you decide to kill me after all this is over, I ask that you do it quickly. Don't send me to the Astra Militarum to die there, just kill me in my sleep. So that I don't have to suffer.”

“You're not going to beg for your life? You know that I am able to make you a lord of some rich pleasure planet, or give you a place in one of my offices. Why don't you beg for it?”

Yelena shrugged her shoulders. “You will do what you think is right. I only ask that if you decide you want to kill me, that you spare me the suffering.”

“It's a deal then. I will change my attitude toward my sons, and your death will not be painful. You have my word.”

She had no idea if he was lying. He had done it many times in the books, so she could expect pretty much anything. This time, however, she did not question him. If, after what she told him, he still decided, to be stubborn, there was nothing she could do. They talked for a good hour, where she briefly had to explain to him what tyranids and tau were, but in the end, perhaps seeing that she was actually barely keeping her eyes due to the exhaustion, he took pity on her, ordering the Custodian to escort her to her chamber. Unfortunately, she couldn't have a moment of peace here either, as she was caught on the way by none other than Horus. Primarch, of course, demanded an explanation, which she refused to give him until they were both in her chamber.

“Can you explain why you insist so much that we talk in private? You run like a rabbit from me.” Horus began, watching as Yelena sat down on the bed

“Because if anyone were to hear that you were responsible for the heresy named after you, which almost killed your father, placing his almost corpse on the golden throne and led to the death of most of the primarchs, one of us would be in a lot of trouble.” The girl fixed her green eyes on him, silently hissing in pain as she moved her aching body a little deeper into the bed.

“Oh”

“Oh, definitely. The corruption wasn't necessarily your fault, but what happened next… well. The death of trillions of people, with the Imperium in shambles. Also you killed Sanguinius.”

Horus stared at her in silence. She wasn't sure if it was due to disbelief in her words, or if he simply ran out of words.

“How do I know you're telling the truth? That sounds absurd. Even leaving aside my loyalty to my father, I would never hurt my closest friend.”

“The gods of chaos make mush out of your mind. And why would I lie? It was your father who first tried to boil my blood alive and then almost smashed my head with his shoe. All because I called him out and refused to give him your name, among other things, as a potential traitor.”

Silent footsteps sounded and after a moment the mattress next to her depressed downwards under Horus' weight.

“Why did you risk so much? And if it's true… what made me turn my back on my family?”

“Well… I think each of you has a chance to avoid this fate.” Yelena took one strand of hair between her fingers, trying to brush away the dried blood that was on the tip. “Your fall to chaos was the fault of Erebus and Lorgar. You were seriously wounded in battle and a ritual was performed on your dying body. Erebus appeared to you as someone you trusted, unfortunately I don't remember the name, and showed you a vision that after the Great Crusade was successful, the Emperor would rule as a god and kill the primarchs as soon as they were no longer useful. You believed this vision, and then after talking to Erebus, you joined the chaos gods.”

“Lorgar? How long has he been a traitor? Has he already become one?”

“Has the Monarchia been destroyed?”

“No.”

“So he hasn't become one yet. I have no idea exactly where in the timeline we are, but incydent in Monarchia was actually the beginning of what I know as the Horus Heresy. Erebus, on the other hand… well, he's been a pawn of the chaos gods basically since he was a child and is currently manipulating Lorgar.”

Another moment of silence from Horus. “We need to get rid of him, but we can't openly kill him without evidence. I'm guessing that father prefers that your… origins remain a secret, so I can't use your words as evidence. I also can't attack and kill him without reason, after all he is an acolyte of Lorgar.”

“We need to talk to your brother. And actually with all the brothers. If the original heresy can be stopped, there is a chance that another of its variants will happen. From what you said, Lion is already furious with your father for giving me so much freedom.”

“Don't worry about Lion, I'll talk to him.” Horus got out of bed and walked toward the door. “You'll have a chance to talk to the other brothers, because they're all coming together for the great feast father is throwing to celebrate the tremendous victories during the Great Crusade. I, Sangunius, Lion and Curze arrived first, but from what I've heard, Magnus, Guilliman, Vulkan and Perturabo should show up in a few days. The rest will show up within a month.”

“Oh Lord…” Bonus: The collage I created for Yelena. Yes, she was a singer and performed in the theater.

Author's note: I would like to apologize for going so long without a chapter and for this one being so short. A lot has happened in my life, and college has done to me what Vulcan did to Konrad using his teleporter, which was also a hammer. In addition, the writer's block is still biting me in the ass. The plot begins to slowly unfold, and I guarantee that not every primarch will be so friendly (calling Perturapo a “manchild”? what could go wrong). Tag list: @beckyninja @athenaremo @justfreakynothingelse @lukarus @synfiction @thatnightlamp @pirateshippers-first-mate @amoelcafe12345 @zyra-7 @walking-natural-disaster @vithralith @ihasnopen @mooniequeen @kit-williams @roxygobyebye

[goodlucktai]

hold the world to its best (6/?)

rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: raph & OC title borrowed from light by sleeping at last part of the archer au

(prev) (next)

x

The storm rolls in later than the forecast called for, starting in earnest the next afternoon. 

The first crack of thunder is so loud, even underground, that it makes everyone jump and Mikey almost fumbles the huge mixing bowl of eggs he’s whisking. It even startles SHELLDON awake from the nap he was taking in the charging dock in the corner. The string of beeps he lets out must be something pretty foul in binary, because Donnie whips around as quick as a snake. 

“Watch your language in front of the impressionable youth!” he yells after his kid, who makes a quick escape down the hall. 

Raph’s about to step into the line of fire for his robot nephew’s sake and point out the obvious—that none of them have half an idea what SHELLDON said, let alone the four-year-old among them—but Leo beats him to the punch.

“Uhhhhh speaking of the impressionable youth,” the slider says, “where’s George?”

“He’s right—oh,” Mikey stops short. His tiny spotted helper has vanished from where he had been parked on the stool pushed up to the counter. 

Mikey puts his bowl down and joins Leo in looking around, a frown tugging at his mouth. While he’s distracted, Leo swipes a chunk of bell pepper from his cutting board, which may or may not have been his endgame all along. 

“That’s so weird, he was here two seconds ago,” Mikey says.

Raph pushes back from the table and gets up to check the living room. A Jupiter Jim movie is playing on the projector, and Gio has revealed himself to be as much of a fan as the rest of his siblings are, but there are no little turtles sitting transfixed in front of the screen. 

“Not in here,” he reports back. 

“Stay calm, people, we have protocols in place for this,” Donnie says, tapping his bracer until it projects a holographic screen of color-coded GPS location pins. 

“Donald, you did not microchip that baby,” Mikey intones ominously. 

“Of course I didn’t. That would be unethical,” Donnie replies. He even rolls his eyes, because he has no sense of danger. “I implanted the chip in his nineteen-year-old self two days after he first moved in, like a reasonable person.”

Raph pinches the bridge of his beak and reminds himself to revisit this conversation later. For the hundredth time in their lives. 

“Can you find the kid or not, Dee?”

“Please, name literally one time my Genius Built methods have ever failed us in any capacity. Of course I can find him,” Donnie scoffs, only to frown at the big error symbol that pops up on the holoscreen a second later. “Ah. Update, due to certain magical interference, the tracker currently does not exist. I can’t find him.” 

“Great contribution, Tello,” Leo says, sounding like he’s fighting for his life to keep a straight face. “Maybe now we can just look for him with our eyes.”

Another rumble of thunder bullies into the conversation. The new lair is a repurposed subway station, closer to the surface than the old one had been, and this is the first time it’s stormed this hard since they moved in, so none of them were prepared for the magnitude of the sound. It reverberates through the tunnels and pipes, amplified by the metal and cement and hollow spaces. 

“He probably went after SHELLDON,” Raph reasons. “I’ll go find him. You two bozos stay put and help Mike finish making lunch.”

“Are you punishing them or me?” Mikey demands. Behind him Leo steals a cherry tomato off the cutting board, because he also has no sense of danger. Raph gets while the getting is good. 

Gio isn’t in the lab, where SHELLDON is buzzing around singing Speed Drive by Charli xcx to himself, or the bathroom. 

Anxiety begins to stir in the back of his heart, where it’s lived for as long as he can remember. It sleeps some of the time, but not as much as it used to. 

The steps leading up to the front door have been baby-gated to lengths of absurdity, part of Donnie’s manic lair-wide Georgie-proofing—so the odds of Gio making it past the stairs and into the dark maze-like tunnels in the handful of seconds someone wasn’t actively watching him are slim to none. 

It doesn’t stop Raph from worrying. He doesn’t want to shout Gio’s name, because he doesn’t want to do anything on purpose that would make that little boy’s eyes get big and fearful, but he can feel his steps getting more frantic with every room that he checks that comes up empty. 

The door to Gio’s room is ajar—it’s rarely ever closed—and Raph pokes his head in without expecting much. Baby Gio got an eyeful of it on the whirlwind tour Mikey took him on but didn’t seem particularly interested in exploring the space. 

It’s a comfortable room. Cozy, even, which is a style that a total stranger might be surprised to find out that Gio subscribes to, but absolutely no one who knows him needed longer than one second to conceptualize before they realized it made perfect sense. 

There are string lights draped across the ceiling, and a huge felt board that takes up half the length and height of the back wall, where photos and drawings and little mementos are pinned. A downy polka-dotted duvet swallows up the bed, and the curtains strung across the front-facing window, to block some of the light that beams in from the living areas, are polka-dotted for good measure—because if there’s one thing this family loves, it’s leaning into a bit. 

And it would be tidy if not for Gio’s little siblings leaving evidence behind of their constant comings and goings. Donnie’s Switch and wireless headphones have been tossed on the bed, and Leo’s guitar is balanced crookedly on the chair by the desk, and the desk itself is covered in the half-inked pages of a graphic novel Mikey is brainstorming. Even one of April’s college textbooks has ended up in here. 

Growing up, Raph never understood why all three little gremlins wanted to be in his room all the time—sprawled on his floor bickering over snacks, or cramming into his bed to make him watch two hour long video essays about any obscure topic under the sun—and then Raph got a big brother, and it all clicked. The huge pink beanbag that used to live in Raph’s room gravitated to the corner of Gio’s, where it ended up staying as a permanent fixture. Half the time Raph just lets himself in and flops into his designated seat, in the exact same way that Donnie and Mikey and Leo consistently get on his last nerve for doing. 

Gio, who thinks everything his siblings do is silly or charming or both, complains about it a lot less than Raph does. 

“Georgie?” he says, just in case there are any turtle toddlers lurking.

Of course no one answers, and he’s turning to leave and find another place to look, when he hears two separate sounds. A vicious growling bark of thunder that echoes down the tunnel, and a muffled whimper from much closer. 

Raph stops dead in his tracks. Now he’s listening for that second sound again specifically, straining to hear it, all his ninja senses and supersoldier senses and—most of all—biggest brother senses on high alert. 

He hears it, and follows it down onto his hands and knees to peer under the bed at where a tiny spotted turtle is hiding. 

Gio’s face is streaked with tears and he’s shuddering from head to toe, hands clamped over his ears, limbs all curled up like every frightened instinct in his body is urging him to go inside his shell. 

Feeling his heart break clean down the middle, Raph trips over himself to soothe, “Hey, hey, kiddo, it’s okay! Gio, what—”

Thunder rolls, and Gio flinches and makes another quiet sound of fear, and Raph realizes immediately what the situation is. He is also about two seconds from bodily lifting the bedframe and flinging it out of the way to better scoop Giorgio up. He has always, historically, hated any potential barrier between himself and his siblings with a single-minded fervor. He can’t even function when someone he loves is crying and he can’t reach them. 

He reigns in the impulse to charge forward. It takes both hands and considerable willpower. 

Running in recklessly always worked out when he was a child, because stakes were low and his brothers would follow him anywhere even if they fully believed his plan would fall apart as early as step one. 

But as he got older, and had to force the leadership reins into Leo’s unwilling hands, and that charming and reliable guy who was forever on Raph’s right hand side with a clever idea or an exit strategy suddenly became someone willing to let them all fail just to prove a point, Raphael learned the value of thinking things through. 

And he can’t just throw the bed out of the way, he reminds himself with gritted teeth, because that would scare the baby. 

So instead he settles on his plastron right there on the floor, cheek pressed to the rug, and starts to rumble deep and low in his chest. April calls it his car engine sound, and Donnie has correlated it with the healing frequency of a cat’s purr more than once. Guaranteed to comfort frightened little turtles or your money back. 

Sure enough, after a moment, Gio’s eyes peek open. He’s crying so hard he’s hiccupping, but other than that he’s barely made a peep. Until he manages to focus on Raph’s face, and then his sobs have a little voice behind them. 

“Hey, big man,” Raph soothes. “Raphie’s right here. Nothing bad is gonna happen while Raphie’s right here.” 

Gio doesn’t budge from where he’s wedged against the wall but he’s listening. He’s such a good kid, always listening. His limbs are curled so tight they must hurt, it would probably feel better for him to just pull inside his shell at this point, but for whatever reason he stays in a miserable little ball. 

“That storm is pretty loud, huh? Raph doesn’t like it either.” He reaches an arm under the bed, offering a hand. “But you know something? The best thing about being part of such a big family is that we keep each other safe. Even when it gets loud and scary and makes you wanna hide, you’ve got all of us here on your team.” Then, with a silly frown, he adds, “I’ll go wrestle that storm right out of the sky and make it say sorry for being such a bully and making my Georgie cry. How ‘bout that?”

Thunder rumbles again, and Gio jumps and shivers at the sound, but when he starts to squirm it’s forward, towards Raph’s open hand. He holds it with both of his much smaller ones, tears dripping from his chin, grip white-knuckled. 

Mouth wobbling, he bravely shakes his head. 

“No?” Raph says, playful and gentle in equal parts. “Okay, I’ll stay in here with you instead. Do you think I could fit under there? Scooch over a bit.”

Something that might one day grow up into a smile touches just the corners of Gio’s mouth. He shakes his head again. 

“Raphie’s too big,” he whispers. Raph scoffs in fake-offense and the almost smile on Gio’s face inches closer to the real thing. “We can go under the table,” he adds very earnestly. 

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Raph says, down for literally anything that will make his babyfied older brother stop crying. “Come on over here, spots. We’ll go together.”

Some jangling, dislocated thing in Raph’s heart only settles when he’s got Gio in his arms, tiny, insubstantial thing that he is. He sits on the floor for an extra minute, rumbling extra loud, until Gio’s pulse slows its frantic leaping into something closer to its normal resting rate. The next time the storm tries to speak up where it isn’t wanted, Gio’s tucked safely under Raph’s chin absorbing his car engine sound and only shivers. 

Red catches Raph’s eye, a familiar hoodie hanging from the handle of the closet door. He’d given it to Gio months ago, when a cooking incident led to Gio’s jacket getting tossed into the wash, and Raph had said, “Here, you can borrow one of mine.”

He’d fished the old hoodie out of a basket of clean laundry and passed it over. It wasn’t anything to write home about, weathered and faded over the years, the hem stretched out and a corner of the hoodie pocket peeling away thanks to a loose string. 

But Gio looked stunned when he saw it. He took it from Raph’s hands robotically and pulled it over his head with a mumbled thank you. It was laughably big on Raph’s big brother, who would probably only have a few inches on the twins for a few more years.

Raph grinned and helped Gio roll up the sleeves, saying, “All my siblings steal this one from me constantly. Right of passage. Look, see? Perfect fit!”

“Yeah,” Gio said hoarsely, thumbing carefully at the frayed hem as if it was spun with gold. “Perfect fit.”

Since he seemed to like it so much, Raph let it keep mysteriously ending up in his room. And Raph reaches over for it now, tucking it in with his armful of Georgie as a makeshift toddler blanket before he finally pushes to his feet. 

“Sorry,” Gio says very quietly as they make their way back toward the light and laughter pouring out of the kitchen. “For hiding.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Raph says, startled. “Georgie, you got scared, that’s not your fault. Of course you hid, that’s what any smart little turtle would do. Mikey hides when the toaster pops too loud. And I get scared all the time.”

Gio clearly doesn’t believe him, frowning deeply. That stubborn face is one-hundred-percent their Gio.

“Raph’s too big and strong to be scared,” the spotted turtle retorts, as close as he’s likely to ever come to a more age-appropriate “nuh-uh!” 

“Hah,” Raph says, “I wish that was true.” He looks down at Gio and tells him, “The thing that always makes me feel brave is remembering that I have all of you guys with me. I have a thing I say that helps. Maybe you can try it next time you get scared. Just say I’m not alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Gio repeats obediently.

One day, Raph thinks, it’ll stick. 

Until then, they’ll keep reminding him. They’ll drag him out of the dark a hundred thousand times and lead him to a warmer, well-lit place, where his siblings will trip over themselves to put a smile on his face, even if that means eating frittatas on the floor under the kitchen table. 

Leo keeps stealing food from Mikey’s plate until finally Mikey snaps and goes in for the kill, and Donnie shrieks when they kick over the pitcher of lemonade because now he’s sticky and someone will be paying for it, and Splinter comes in to investigate the noise and takes in the scene playing out under the table and says, “Why are you like this? Who raised you?”

The rest of the storm passes the way storms always do. The next time thunder rumbles through the lair, Gio is too busy giggling to hear it. 

[paxaz535]

Unspoken Desires (HM/3)

paige bueckers x fem!oc

————

this is literally just them being freaked the fuck out😭 uh, heavy content, overstim, mention of strap, just smutty

————

The storm had rolled in fast.

Dark clouds pressed low over the cabin, wind howling through the trees outside as thunder echoed in the distance. Inside, the lights flickered once, twice—before finally settling. Jake stood in the center of the living room, remote in hand, trying to decide on a movie.

“Let’s do something scary,” one of the cousins called out, already wrapped in a fuzzy blanket on the floor.

“Like actually scary,” someone else chimed in.

Jake smirked and scrolled until he landed on a classic slasher film—low-budget, high on jump scares. “This one’s legit,” he said proudly. “Y’all are gonna scream.”

Pumpkin didn’t say much. She was curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, trying to stay warm as the cabin chilled with the weather. She figured Jake would sit next to her—he always did—but just as he started toward the couch, his little cousin tugged on his hoodie and begged him to sit on the other end near the snacks.

“Babe, I’ll be right there,” he said with a smile before heading off.

And then Paige slid into the seat beside her, like she’d been waiting for the moment.

“Mind if I…?” she asked, already halfway under Pumpkin’s blanket.

Pumpkin blinked, caught off guard. “Uh. Yeah—sure. I mean, no. It’s fine.”

Paige smirked, like she knew exactly how flustered that answer was.

The movie started. Screams. Shadows. A bloody title card with ominous music. Everyone got quieter, the occasional rustle of popcorn bags filling the space.

Pumpkin tried to focus on the screen. But Paige’s thigh brushed hers—warm, solid—and she didn’t move away. The blanket was heavy across both their laps, and Paige slowly, casually, leaned in just enough that her shoulder pressed against Pumpkin’s.

“Scared yet?” Paige asked, her voice low, teasing.

Pumpkin shook her head. “Not even close.”

“Liar,” Paige whispered, lips close enough to graze her ear.

Pumpkin turned, about to snap something back—when she felt it.

Paige’s hand, sliding underneath the blanket.

It started innocently enough—just fingers resting on her leg. But then they moved. Slow, deliberate. Up her thigh, dragging soft circles into her skin, closer to the place that made her breath catch.

“Paige,” she hissed softly. “Stop.”

“You want me to?” Paige murmured.

Pumpkin didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her legs tensed under the blanket.

That’s when the power went out.

A sharp click of the TV dying. The lights blinked out, leaving the entire room in a pitch-black silence.

A beat of stillness.

Then chaos.

“Oh come on!”

“Was that the wind?”

“Jake, go check the breaker!”

Ami’s voice cut through the noise. “Jake, sweetie, basement.”

Jake sighed. “I got it.” He grabbed his phone, turned on the flashlight, and disappeared down the hall.

Pumpkin thought Paige would stop.

She didn’t.

“Now we’ve got privacy,” Paige whispered in the dark, her breath hot against Pumpkin’s cheek.

Her fingers moved again—this time pressing harder, slipping between Pumpkin’s thighs and brushing over her heat. The thin barrier of her leggings was no help.

Pumpkin stiffened. She was surrounded by people—Jake not far away, voices still chatting in the dark.

And Paige was touching her like they were completely alone.

“You’re soaked,” Paige breathed. “You really want me to stop now?”

Pumpkin’s hips jerked just slightly, betraying her.

That was all Paige needed.

Her hand slid beneath Pumpkin’s waistband, fingers stroking her gently, expertly, until Pumpkin’s head dropped back against the couch. Her lips parted in a silent moan she couldn’t let out. Her hands gripped the edge of the blanket like a lifeline.

“Keep quiet,” Paige whispered, kissing the edge of her jaw. “Come for me and don’t make a sound.”

Pumpkin was unraveling.

The pressure built with every slow circle of Paige’s fingers. Her body was shaking with the effort of staying still, staying silent. Her thighs clenched around Paige’s hand, back arching slightly.

“I bet you look so pretty, baby.”

It hit her hard.

She came with her teeth sunk into her lip, body trembling under the blanket while Paige never let up—drawing it out, milking every last twitch until Pumpkin nearly sobbed into her shoulder.

And then—

Click.

The power returned.

The lights blinked on. The movie resumed mid-scream.

Pumpkin was still panting, eyes wide, flushed to her ears as Paige casually adjusted the blanket like nothing had happened.

Paige leaned in, lips barely moving. “Perfect timing.”

Pumpkin didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

From across the room, Jake smiled at her, completely oblivious. “Miss me?”

Pumpkin gave a weak nod, trying to keep her breathing even.

Paige’s hand stayed in her lap just a second longer—lingering, like a promise.

-

“Fuck, you’re doing so good for me.”

Pumpkin felt the heat in her stomach coil at the sound of Paige’s voice—subtle, but wrecked. That low rasp that cracked when she was close to falling apart.

They were in Paige’s attic room.

A secret spot she’d claimed two summers ago, tucked away from the rest of the cabin. The stairs were steep, the ceiling slanted, but it had just enough space to breathe—and just enough privacy for what they were doing now.

The makeshift bed creaked under Paige’s weight as her fingers tangled in Pumpkin’s hair, guiding her but never forcing. Paige’s head was tilted back, mouth parted, eyes fluttering.

“Your mouth feels so fucking good, Pumpkin. Shit.”

Pumpkin hummed against her, lips and tongue working with a steady rhythm, drinking in every reaction.

Paige’s thighs trembled around her ears.

She wasn’t quiet like she usually was. Downstairs, Paige was subtle—careful. But up here? With the insulation of wood beams and distance between them and everyone else?

She was loud.

She moaned openly. She whispered dirty encouragements like they were gospel. And when Pumpkin’s tongue hit just the right spot, Paige’s hips jerked and her breath hitched in a gasp that nearly unraveled her.

“You gonna make me come?” Paige asked, breathless, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress. “Fuck—you are. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Pumpkin didn’t.

She held Paige down with firm hands, dragging her closer, deeper into the heat of it. Her tongue moved faster now, more intentional, every flick met with a broken cry above her.

Paige was shaking.

“God, yes—fuck, I’m right there, I—”

She didn’t even finish the sentence.

Her back arched, her fingers clawed at the sheets, and she came hard—legs trembling, breath catching in her throat as her cries echoed through the attic like a secret only the wood could hold.

Pumpkin didn’t stop until Paige was whimpering, until she was pulling at her hair with a soft, “Okay, okay—too much.”

She finally pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, heart still thudding like a bass drum.

Paige looked wrecked.

Hair stuck to her forehead. Chest rising and falling. Eyes glassy with that satisfied haze.

And then she smiled.

Slow. Dangerous.

“Your turn.”

-

“You’re so big, P. Oh my—”

The room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin—sharp, steady, relentless. Paige’s grip on Pumpkin’s waist was bruising, grounding, like she needed to hold her there just as much as Pumpkin needed to be held.

They’d been at it for a while now—sheets kicked to the floor, air thick with sweat and the kind of heat that felt almost unreal.

Pumpkin couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

She’d lost count of how many times Paige had pulled her apart and put her back together. Every stroke, every snap of Paige’s hips, sent her spiraling again.

“Yeah? You feel that shit?” Paige’s voice was rough, wrecked, all control and desire tangled together.

Pumpkin could only nod, face buried in the pillow, breath catching every time Paige pushed deeper, harder. Words tumbled from her mouth—nonsense, prayers, Paige’s name. She didn’t know what she was saying anymore.

All she knew was that she never wanted it to stop.

Behind her, Paige groaned, hand sliding up Pumpkin’s back before fisting in her curls and tugging gently, just enough to make Pumpkin gasp.

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” Paige whispered against her shoulder. “So perfect for me.”

Pumpkin whimpered, whole body trembling, legs threatening to give out.

And Paige—Paige didn’t let her fall.

She never did.

Pumpkin’s knees were barely holding her up now, her fingers clawing at the mattress as Paige kept her pressed down, working her hips in a rhythm that had long passed teasing.

There was nothing sweet about it anymore—it was raw, it was greedy.

It was Paige claiming her.

“You still with me?” Paige asked, voice a little breathless, lips ghosting along Pumpkin’s spine.

Pumpkin nodded again, but her reply came out a muffled, “Y-yeah,” followed by a low, drawn-out moan when Paige rolled her hips just right.

“Good girl,” Paige murmured, dragging her hand down Pumpkin’s back. “You can take a little more.”

Pumpkin gasped, nails digging into the sheets as Paige gave her just that—more.

The kind of more that made her legs shake. The kind of more that filled the air with nothing but the sound of soft cries and skin meeting skin and their mingled breathing, like a rhythm only they could create.

Paige leaned forward, lips at Pumpkin’s ear now, breath hot.

“You feel how deep I am?” she whispered, voice curling into a groan. “How perfect you fit around me?”

Pumpkin nodded again, overwhelmed, barely able to answer. Her mind was haze, her body on autopilot, and Paige—Paige was driving her straight to the edge again.

“Say it,” Paige demanded, hand sliding down Pumpkin’s hip to grip her tighter.

“I—I feel it,” Pumpkin gasped. “All of you—P, I can’t—”

“You can,” Paige whispered. “You always do.”

And just like that, Paige shifted the angle—deeper, sharper.

Pumpkin broke.

Her body arched, a cry ripped from her throat as Paige slowed just enough to feel every twitch, every pulse. She didn’t rush it. She rode it out, kept her close, kept her grounded.

Only when Pumpkin was trembling—completely undone—did Paige finally ease her hips to a stop.

She leaned forward, pressing kisses to Pumpkin’s shoulder, her back, the nape of her neck.

“You’re so damn good for me,” she whispered. “Always.”

-

Paige was now lying down, her back pressed against the mattress as her legs trembled. Pumpkin was eager to keep going, just to see how much further she could push her.

Paige was on her fourth climax, not counting the earlier ones. Her teeth sank into her lip as waves of pleasure intensified.

“You’re so wet, baby,” Pumpkin teased with a smirk, looking down at the flushed blonde beneath her.

Paige nodded, her face glowing with embarrassment and arousal. Her eyes met Pumpkin’s, filled with desperation and need.

“You’re so fuc—oh my gosh. You’re so fucking sexy, Pumpkin,” she gasped.

Pumpkin winked at her before speeding up her fingers, causing Paige to grip the mattress tightly. Pumpkin could tell she was close to screaming out, so she quickly covered Paige’s mouth with her hand.

Seeing the tears welling in Paige’s eyes, Pumpkin offered a gentle smile. “Almost there, baby?” Paige nodded quickly, her gaze never leaving Pumpkin’s, her body tense with anticipation.

Pumpkin leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Paige’s ear as she whispered, “Let it go, baby. I’ve got you.” Paige’s body trembled as she took a shaky breath, then finally let out a muffled scream into Pumpkin’s hand. Her hips bucked involuntarily, her entire body shuddering with the intensity of her release.

Pumpkin kept her fingers moving, riding out Paige’s waves of pleasure. As the last shudders subsided, she gently removed her hand and brushed a damp strand of hair from Paige’s forehead, her own smile softening.

“Good girl,” Pumpkin murmured, her voice tender but still full of desire.

Paige’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. She looked up at Pumpkin, a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction on her face.

Pumpkin leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Paige’s lips. “You were incredible,” she whispered, her voice warm and reassuring.

For a moment, they simply lay there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the night alive with unspoken promises and the lingering heat of their passion.

“You are one freaky motherfucker, p.”

She chuckled.

“What can I say? I eat pussy.”

[katyaromanoffpetrova]

Trojan Horse (crime boss AU: part II)

Natasha gets sent on her most dangerous mission yet: go undercover in the drug operation of the biggest crime empress in the world and take her down. But as they grow closer, she starts to forget about the mission more and more...

• Natasha Romanoff x Fem!OC (Katya Petrova) second pov on Ao3 • Wordcount: 3k • Warnings: mentions of crimes, drugs and sex •A/N: if you didn't get it already, this will be a slowburn :) Also, I added this fic to Ao3 written in the second pov. So if you'd rather read 'you' than Katya, click here Masterlist Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

Life at Katya's estate was much calmer than Natasha expected it to be. A serenity enveloped the beautiful property day and night. Birds chirped in the early morning dew, and the evening sun cast an orange glow over the white buildings in the late afternoon. Without the criminal activities, this could have been a holiday destination, hidden away in the gorgeous forest.

Natasha had started to settle into a routine. For the past two weeks, she and the other women who chose to stay—nine in total—had been in training. Getting stronger, handling and firing weapons, learning the ins and outs of the business, and what would be expected of them as one of Katya's Ghosts—the name fondly given to her employees. 

Most days were the same. Natasha would wake up in her single room in one of the outbuildings, eat breakfast in the adjacent dining room slash kitchen, spend a whole day training, have dinner from the live-in cook, and then spend her free evening reading or writing before going to bed. 

There wasn't much she could do yet. In this stage of the mission, it was mostly important to lay low and gain trust. Go with the flow, do nothing that could raise suspicions. So she followed orders, kept her head down, and trained eagerly.

Only when less eyes were watching her around the clock, could she start to reach out. Build relationships, work her way into places that were restricted to her now. She knew that the best place to find the information she was after was the house. And Katya. Getting closer to her was the main objective. 

So far, Natasha hadn't really had the chance to learn a lot about her. Katya only showed herself occasionally. She liked to go on a stroll around the property after dinner, sauntering around alone, chatting up the people she ran into. Sometimes, she stopped by training to see how her new employees were doing. 

Natasha learned that she was very much a hands-on kind of boss. Katya knew all her employees' names, chatted with them like they were her friends, and cared well for them. The bedrooms were clean, the beds comfortable, the food rich. She shared her wealth, because they were the reason she was still alive.

In many ways, it felt like one big family. There was no hostility among the girls. They laughed and joked like sisters, bonded by trauma and fierce loyalty to the one who saved them from it. Because all of them came from human trafficking transports just like the one Natasha was on. 

Some spoke to each other in their native language, but usually, Natasha caught pieces of broken English and thick accents. 

Somehow, it was beautiful. Their pasts didn't matter here. The color of their skin, the culture and traditions they came from… And not a single man in sight. 

Katya had built the strongest army possible. These women would not hesitate to give their own lives for hers. Because she was the reason they still had one.

The sun burned down brightly on the shooting range. Natasha was grateful for the sail canopy above her head, because her pale, freckled skin wasn't made for this weather. Gunshots popped off around her, the "teacher"—which was actually just one of Katya's oldest, most talented employees—pacing behind the row of rookies to give them instructions.

Natasha barely focused on her shooting. She could shoot a moving target in her sleep, let alone a cardboard one that was barely twenty feet away from her. Child's play. 

Instead, she kept a watchful eye on her surroundings. The shooting range was on the far edge of the property, but it didn't mean there was nothing to see. She tried to identify walking patterns of the guards, a building they were particularly protective of, secret passageways... 

It's how she spotted Katya first.

The woman was dressed in a new outfit. Natasha had never seen her wear the same thing twice. This time, she'd traded the darker colors for something more neutral. Sand colored linen pants and a slouchy white tee. Katya made everything look classy.

Natasha's heart skipped an anxious beat as the brunette came closer, her brown loafers crunching the gravel. It was time to be on her A-game. No slouching. 

She straightened her back, and so did the other women down the line, the gunshots halting without anyone telling them to stop.

"Keep going." Katya smiled. An easy smile that meant to settle their nerves. "Pretend I'm not here."

That was easier said than done. Natasha was hyper aware of her presence as she started to walk behind the line of shooters, studying them silently as the shooting resumed, stopping occasionally before walking off with a quiet sound of approval. 

After pacing the line twice, Katya stopped behind her. Natasha stiffened. Katya's steady presence burned against her back as she fired another bullet, pretending not to notice the woman's sharp eye watching over her shoulder and sliding down her body. 

She expected Katya to study her for a moment before moving on, like she'd done with the others, but even after Natasha emptied her magazine and clicked a new one into place, the brunette didn't budge.

With every passing heartbeat, she expected Katya to see right through her act. Not that she doubted her own undercover acting skills, but Katya's entire life and empire depended on her ability to sniff out lies and deception. If even the smallest thing was off, sirens and alarm bells would go off in her head.

Natasha could not underestimate her. And never assume she was safe.

When she fired the last bullet in her magazine and reached for a new one, Katya's hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Leave the gun, walk with me."

Natasha's stomach twisted fearfully, but she nodded as calmly as she could. 

She clicked the safety on and handed the gun back to the teacher, taking one last look at her cardboard target. All the holes were situated around the center. She could hit the red dot in the middle every time if she wanted to. It was actually harder to miss it.

The gunshots faded away as they left the shooting range behind, Katya's steps in stride with Natasha's. They took a turn down an unfamiliar path, hugging the treeline at the back of the property. It was secluded, a perfect place to tell an undercover spy that you knew who she was. Natasha fought to keep her nerves in place.

Katya was unreadable. She stared ahead as she walked, calmly and confidently. Natasha caught whiffs of her perfume. Drifting up her nose and swirling in her chest. Sunscreen, and something very rich—amber. Slightly spicy and musky but not overpowering. Strong. Sensual.

Being next to her was confusing. Natasha expected to feel small, but Katya had a natural gift of making people feel comfortable around her if she wanted to. Instead of hunching forward, Natasha's shoulders pulled back, and she had to actively remind herself not to get lured into the honey trap. Katya was not going to succeed in soothing her into a slip-up.

"You're good with a gun," she spoke eventually, side-eyeing Natasha's expression for a reaction.

Natasha nodded respectfully. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Katya is fine." She smiled. It was a reserved smile. This was her moment of evaluating her rookie, if she could trust Natasha or not. "You've shot a gun before."

Again, Natasha nodded. "I used to hunt with my father." She'd studied the background story of her undercover character Nadia so deeply, that she could make herself believe the lies she told. 

"So you're used to taking lives," Katya concluded, pleased. "Deer?"

"And foxes. Rabbits."

"And men." 

Natasha didn't miss a beat. She looked away, feigning shame to keep up her act. She was Nadia right now. Not Natasha.

Katya smiled, shaking her long hair over her shoulder. Now that she was closer, Natasha concluded that it was, in fact, dark brown. So dark it looked black. 

"I read your file, Nadia. You intrigue me. Revenged the murder of your sister by killing the man who did it. Not many have the guts to do that."

Respect laced through her words, and Natasha cautiously looked back at her. 

It was to be expected that Katya got her hands on "official" background information, received through channels that shouldn't be accessible to her. The tech guys at SHIELD did an amazing job at making Nadia look legit. They chose every detail of her life carefully, trying to appeal to the kind of person Katya was without making it too obvious. 

"He didn't deserve to walk around free after he took her from me," Natasha answered softly, mixing her grief with anger. Katya's eyes lit up curiously.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Natasha hesitated, pretending to think about it. Her type of answer was really important here. It had to keep Katya intrigued. "For a second," she admitted shamefully, avoiding the brunette's bright blue eyes. "Then I realized that his death didn't make the pain any less."

Katya nodded to herself, as if agreeing. "Anger is so powerful. It hides the true emotions that you feel once it's gone." 

For a moment, Natasha thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. Something raw. A memory? But it was gone as soon as it came, replaced with that piercing look that reminded her that she was talking to one of the most dangerous crime bosses in the world.

"Would you do it again? Kill for someone you care about?"

Natasha didn't miss the real question: 'would you kill for me?' 

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There's no better way to show someone you love them." Her character Nadia was a bit twisted, not as pure of soul, wounded by her trauma. But not crazy, and Katya saw that too.

Her expression softened, and something twinged within Natasha's chest. "I think you and I are alike. If we care, we care deeply, and we will stop at nothing to protect and avenge the people we care about." 

The words crashed into Natasha like a reality check. She was playing mind games with a real person, and she was slowly starting to realize that Katya was in no way the cruel, evil woman the world made her out to be. 

Sure, she tortured her enemies, but there was a huge heart in her chest that cared immensely for the few people she did trust. Not only were they loyal to her, she was loyal to them, willing to run through fire. It was admirable.

"Since you are part of us now, we will do the same for you."

Natasha didn't know what to answer, so she just gave her a brief, careful smile. It felt nice, to be wanted. Even though Katya welcomed Nadia, not Natasha.

"Why did you choose to stay?" Katya continued, but it sounded more like genuine curiosity than suspicion now.

"The people of the man I killed are after me, so I can't go home. And I have nowhere else to go." Natasha bit her lip, glancing down at her shoes. More desperation, more ass-kissing. She needed Katya to believe that she saved her. "I guess I just wanted a place where I belong. Where I'm safe."

Katya stopped, and so did Natasha, watching her curiously as a soft smile spread across her lips. "You are. You never have to be afraid again." Katya's hand landed on her arm, squeezing her bicep comfortingly. Warmth bloomed and spread through Natasha's body, starting at the spot where their skin met.

For a second, she was lost, staring into Katya's blue eyes in a trance. This wasn't the sweet honey trap from before, meant to catch out liars. This was genuine care. 

She'd underestimated Katya's character. Knew she had a soft heart for the women she rescued, but didn't realize her care ran this deep. It affected Natasha more than she realized.

She wanted to ask more, but undercover work came with patience, and knowing when to take the victory and walk away. This conversation went so well, she didn't want to risk ruining whatever little trust she'd managed to build with Katya.

Her hand still lay on her arm. They were near the sleeping quarters now. Natasha could almost see her room from here.

"I never said thank you, for rescuing me."

"You don't have to." Katya's hand slipped down her arm, her fingers grazing the inside of her elbow. Natasha's skin tingled. "I'm happy you found a home here. You seem to fit right in."

Standing so close, the sun illuminating Katya's pale skin, Natasha suddenly noticed there were faint, little scars all over her face. Shrapnel? Glass splinters? They were just a tad lighter than the rest of her skin.

"How can I ever repay you?"

"By working hard. And keeping your word." She looked at Natasha pointedly, and the redhead understood what she meant. 

She would kill to protect Katya. Not only to keep her cover alive, but the government couldn't prosecute a dead woman. 

"Katya!" 

They both turned to look at a woman a short distance away, a worried expression on her face as she held up a phone. Something was wrong.

Reality crashed over their bubble like a bucket of ice. Katya straightened up, the softness disappearing from her stance in favor of the businesswoman with an empire to run. Natasha tensed up herself, only realizing how close they were until she took a step back.

Katya looked at her one last time, ready to walk away. "I'm keeping my eye on you." Then she was off, leaving Natasha to celebrate on her own. 

Her boss's words weren't a threat. They were letting her know that her hard work and potential was seen and appreciated, and that she could hope for good things—promotions—in the future if she kept it up.

The things she was doing, the angles she played, were good. She was going down the right path. Hopefully soon, she was allowed into Katya's inner circle and know what crises were going on. 

With a sigh, she returned to her training.

Natasha sat on top of one of the many decorative stone walls of the estate, pretending to read as she watched the back of the main house from the corner of her eye.

Evening had come, the last streaks of orange lacing the dark blue sky. It was getting harder to see the words on the pages of her book, but she wasn't here to read anyway. 

Katya had not shown herself since the crisis earlier on. In fact, she'd called more of her employees into the house and only started letting them go about half an hour ago, when the first ones started to come out the front door. 

They didn't speak a word. Not to each other, and not to the girls who weren't invited to Katya's meeting. Natasha wouldn't get anything out of them. 

So, she relocated to the back of the house, where the pool glistened in the twilight, in the hopes that Katya would come out to make a phone call or speak in private with someone. So far, nothing. 

She told herself she'd sit here until reading became impossible. It would become suspicious if she stayed longer than that. The guards walking their regular rounds around the compound were already eyeing her weirdly.

Movement in the corner of her eye made her head snap up. There, in one of the windows on the top floor—or rather, a door leading out to a balcony—a light flicked on. She saw a part of the ceiling, white, and the edges of a beige curtain. It could be any room, but something told her it was a bedroom.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, something crashed into the glass.

Or rather—someone. 

Natasha's eyes widened. A woman, half bare, only her bra and a pair of jeans on, was pressed with her back against the glass. 

Natasha knew that dragon tattoo on her back, that impossibly long dark hair that reached her butt. She was one of Katya's Ghosts, seen circling around in her proximity quite often. Ana, Natasha believed her name was.

Firm hands held her in place against the door, another body morphing against hers. 

Katya.

Entranced, Natasha watched the scene unfold. Katya didn't seem to care that the curtains were open. Her lips sucked at Ana's neck, her hands sliding over her bare torso until her fingers hooked into the clasp of her bra.

Natasha tore her eyes away, her pulse racing. She saw what she needed to see.

Katya hooked up with her employees. She was into women. 

This was the type of intel she would have loved to have beforehand. It changed everything. She was trained to be a master of seduction. Closer to Katya than in her bed, she couldn't get.

Euphoric with this new information, she slid off the stone wall. The scene replayed in her head as she walked back to her room and got ready for bed. 

Sleeping with a target was nothing new, but this was on another level. Natasha couldn't ignore that Katya was a very attractive woman. Exactly her type. It wouldn't be torture to eat her out for a few hours. She bet Katya was amazing in bed.

Natasha's stomach clenched, and she scolded herself strictly. If Clint was here, he would be laughing and telling her that she needed to get laid more often. It was sad that she fantasized about having sex with a target like this. Especially when it was a means to an end.

That didn't mean it couldn't be enjoyable, though…

Natasha groaned, splashing her face with ice cold water until the sinful thoughts left her head. 

Yes, she was an undercover agent on a mission, but she was also just a woman with needs. And something in Katya brought out her weakness.

[pukupoww]

Notes⏜ 𖹭 This has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I've finally gained the courage to share my work for the first time here so feedback would be appreciated<33

Warnings⏜ 𖹭 Angst, angst and more angst, maybe slightly oc Ness

Bf!Ness who was absolutely devastated—heartbroken, to say the least, when you uttered those dreaded words that night.

Bf!Ness who stood frozen before you, watching his whole word shatter. He couldn't believe you'd wanted a break out of nowhere. Had he done something wrong? Surely, he must have. Why else would you look at him like that..?

Bf!Ness who wanted to respect your decision, give the time and space needed, couldn't help but wonder, if he was ever enough to begin with.

ExBf!Ness who didn’t fight to keep you—not because he didn’t love you, but because he loved you too much to make you stay.

ExBf!Ness who replayed that night over and over, wondering what he missed, what he could’ve done, what he should’ve been.

ExBf!Ness who stared at the empty side of the bed like it might suddenly hold you again if he waited long enough.

ExBf!Ness who told himself he was over it, that people move on—but still reached for his phone when something reminded him of you.

ExBf!Ness who saw you again just once, across the street, laughing with someone else.

ExBf!Ness who, in the end, could only turn away, knowing he would never stop loving you—never stop loving you, even if you were already gone.

Credits to @cafekitsune for the divider

[thebumblebeesworld]

MISSISSIPPI • MOONSHINE

part one • annie x fem oc

summary: suga’ sees annie at a local juke in town and comes to talk to her, havin’ been pining after her for quite a while. annie had been turning down suga’s advances until she finally gave in.

cw: alcohol, use of the nword (i’m black y’all)

a/n: first time writing anything on tumblr. i’m usually over on wattpad churning out taraji x fantasia, but i needed to see some love for annie. (also i’m from mississippi so sinners hit home for me :3)

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

Annie had a long day of filling orders, conjuring spirits, and settling unruly souls, hoping that her day could wind down with a little tune drifting through the horn of her phonograph and a glass of cherry wine she made from last years spring harvest. Her dreams were soon to leave as Mary dragged her out of her home, touting how she should get out—“live a little.”

Life has been stagnant since Smoke had ran off with his brother. She worked. Tended to her home. Sought after her garden and the few chickens she had running ‘round the yard. But things were stagnant.

Predictable.

Unfun.

“Come on, girl,” Mary shouted, rummaging through Annie’s armoire to find that little black dress every woman kept away for a special occasion. “We gon’ get you some tonight!”

“Get me some from where,” Annie huffed, throwing her body against the cushion of her bed. Her head cocked to the side as Mary quickly moved on to a jewelry box Annie had been passed down from her grandmother.

“Charlie’s juke s’posed to be hot tonight,” Mary sing-songed. She swayed dreamily in her silk white dress.

“Charlie patrons ain’t nothing but grimy men that don’ been in the fields all day,” she rolled her eyes.

“Girl, put this on,” Mary demanded by throwing the black dress Annie’s way. It was simple. A plunging neckline. Slit up the left side to show off her thick thighs. “I heard yo’ woman gonna be there.” Mary knew what she was doing by teasing Annie.

She chuckled, earning a look of reproach from the other woman.

“Suga’ is not my woman.”

Annie dressed, slightly more willing to now. Suga’ had been trying to get under her skin for a long while now. Bringing Annie small gifts and treats. Offering to fix up things around her li’l shack.

Suga’ was sweet on her.

But Annie couldn’t make up her mind ‘bout what she wanted. Her body craved connection, but she was fearful of giving in to someone again.

Smoke had done a number on her heart somethin’ fierce.

“Suga’ want to be your woman,” Mary laughs, helping Annie adjust the straps of her dress as she put on her jewelry. “I think you should let her be.”

A knowing silence settled over the pair, full of a hundred memories and long-lived pasts. They stared ahead in Annie’s vanity mirror, understanding each more than anyone else could.

“Them SmokeStack Twins’ll make it hard for you to see any worth in anyone else,” Mary started, “make it hard for you to see any worth in yourself.”

Mary moved away, and Annie nervously fiddled with the necklace around her neck.

“Let’s just have fun tonight, yes?” Mary encouraged. “No expectations. No men. No sad thoughts. Just good times, good music, and good moonshine.”

Mary’s energy livened, and being the infectious person she was, it immediately rubbed off on Annie as a smile shown on her face.

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

Annie and Mary walked into Charlie’s juke—an old run down, one room shack on the edge of an even smaller pond. Blood-sucking mosquitoes swarmed viciously, and the humid Mississippi summer air dampened their skin.

But they strode into that juke like they owned the place.

Annie could feel eyes dancing around her body, greedily taking in her exposed chest and creamy skin.

Not many people had actually attempted to scoop either of them up since the twins left, scared the two would return and hear tales of them fornicating with their women. But that didn’t stop men’s eyes from roaming and minds from dreaming about sex-filled nights under moonlight they’d never get to have.

Suga’ never seemed scared or threatened by the possibility of Smoke returning. She was a strong woman. A capable woman. A woman who knew what she wanted.

Annie.

From the moment the two had walked in, Suga’ gawked at the dress that clung to Annie’s form.

She had only seen the woman in more day-wear clothes and the occasional night gown when Suga’ would stop by late to bring Annie the collards, dandelion root, or delta clay she had gotten when out in the fields that day.

The black dress was a welcomed change from what she knew Annie as, but she adored the woman in all her forms.

“You gon’ play or not nigga,” Charlie shouted, pulling Suga’ from her reverie and back to the card game happening in front of her. She sat amongst a rounded table of men—the only woman there and taking every li’l bit of their money.

Seeing Annie convinced Suga’ that she had a lucky charm, betting everything she had won so far on that last round of the card game.

“You a plum fool if you think you finna get all that money back,” the table laughed at her, but she just sat back, drinking Annie in as she watched her dance to the slow blues playing.

“I know what doin’,” she assured them with a challenging gaze. They each went around the table showing their cards one after the other. Disappointment washing over them. When it got to her, Suga’ flushed out her hand, laughing loudly when saddened and angry looks settled on the faces of the men around her.

Suga’ stood up, politely collected her winnings and turned towards the dance floor, attempting to find the woman that consumed her thoughts day and night.

“You’re lookin’ mighty pretty t’night, Honey,” Suga’ purred into Annie’s ear as she stood behind her. Annie had been talking to a group of her friends, but when she heard that affectionate pet name and smooth sounding voice, her breath hitched and speech stopped.

Her friends laughed—Mary loudest of all—and they each greeted Suga’ with batted eyelashes and waving fingertips.

Suga’ was quick to return a kind nod before shifting her attention back to the woman before her.

Annie turned around, head tilting to look Suga’ in the eyes. But as she did, her nerves overtook her, causing her to face her eyes to the side before looking back again.

A smirk played at the corner of Suga’s lips.

Annie wore one that matched.

“You clean up pretty well ya’self, Sug’,” Annie announced. “Didn’t think too much of you with them dirt-covered hands and clothes.”

Annie knew she was lying. She loved knowing Suga’ worked hard. That she knew her way around the outdoors.

“Oh, quit playin’, woman,” Suga’ laughed, placing a warm hand on Annie’s hip, leaning into her ear with heavy breath. “You and I both know you can’t keep yo’ eyes off me. Even when I’m mud-covered.”

Warmth made its way to Annie’s cheeks and she just hoped that Suga’ won’t call out the way her body is reacting to her, but one thing she can always count on is her friends to make a fool of her.

“Oop- You got my girl bashful, Suga’,” one of them harped, clapping her hands like she’s watching a motion picture.

“Can y’all please,” Annie begged, turning to them with an embarrassed expression.

“Fine, fine,” Mary led the women away, but not before delivering a message Suga’s way. “Make sure you take care of her, ya’ here?”

“No need to worry about that,” Suga’ assured, hands still toying with the fabric on the sides of her hips. Eyes gazing longingly into Annie’s eyes. “She’ll be well taken care of.”

Shivers went down Annie’s spine as she let Suga’ control the situation. She was never a person to let others speak for or around her, but Sug’ was different.

Suga’ guided her and Annie to the bar, sitting in quiet as Annie didn’t know what to say and Suga’ wanted to know how long it would take for the other woman to speak up. They sat on barstools, facing each other with affectionate and wondering eyes.

“You’re interesting,” Suga’ spoke finally, sipping on her glass of moonshine.

Annie snapped her head back a little, eyes wide but mouth still closed. She wanted to ask her what she meant, but she didn’t trust herself enough not to ask her to wreck her body.

In front of her was someone she knew would do so willingly.

With the help of the clear alcohol nestled in her hand, Annie was tingling all over. Body damn near screaming to be taken care of. Every word that poured out of Suga’s mouth added to her dazed mind. She wanted her, and she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Suga’ chuckled melodically at Annie’s hushed demeanor and her inner turmoil. She decided to answer the question written all over her face.

“Sometimes you challenge me. Say all type ‘a things. Try to jab at me. Other times, you get real quiet like this. What be goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

Annie didn’t know what to do with Suga’s assessment of her. Suga’ made her question herself and her past. Smoke was her first everything—the person she thought would save her over and over again. But somewhere along the way, she realized she’d have to get over that and start saving herself.

With how stagnant her life has been, she ain’t really had the chance to think about life outside of the quiet bubble she formed around her li’l home.

Suga’ was a new addition to her life after years of running behind a man who knew nothing but creating havoc.

Suga’, in contrast to him, was stable.

Sure of herself.

Dependable.

Hard-working.

And while Smoke has been some of those things at one point in time, he had left a sour note in Annie’s mouth.

So to answer her question, half the time Annie couldn’t decipher what was going on in her head, so she just said that out loud.

“I don’t even know,” Annie spoke quietly, nursing her glass to avoid the other woman’s eyes. “Sometimes I think it’s just hard for me to give in.”

Suga’ relaxed at her confession, finding understanding there. Of course she knew Annie had a thing for her back. She wouldn’t have pursued her so hard if she thought otherwise, but this was the first time they’d be having a real conversation.

“I don’t ever wanna make things harder for you,” Suga’ began, placing a hand over Annie’s that sat on the top of her thigh. “I just wanna hold you, Honey. Kiss you. Make you feel good. Cook you breakfast in the morning. Bring you things home from work. Run yo’ bath water. Make yo’ life easier. Bit by bit.”

Annie peered into her eyes to find nothing but honesty there. Tears prickled in her eyes.

“Ain’t nobody ever tried to court me as genuinely as you have,” Annie cheesed, wiping her cheek.

Suga’ looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

“I hope you get used to it,” she smiled brightly, “‘cause I ain’t stoppin’ ‘til you mine. And even then, I’m gon’ treat you the way you deserve m.”

Suga’s fingers wandered to the edge of Annie’s dress that was rising up on her thighs. Annie’s hands played with the watch and rings the other woman wore. They were in their own little world.

Moonshine on their lips.

Sweet words on their tongues.

Heat building up in the air between them.

Annie watched as a bead of sweat fell down the side of Suga’s neck, sinking into the soft spot at the bottom of her throat and gliding across her collarbone. It mesmerized the woman as she had never seen anyone’s body glisten the way Suga’s did.

As music churned in the background, Annie found herself fighting to reach out and touch that soft spot at the bottom of her throat. But she couldn’t give in.

Suga’ had the same problem. Not wanting to scandalized the room they were in by placing heavy hands on the woman facing her. But her fingers twitched, attempting to make their way underneath the black fabric.

Annie’s skin was a delicious brown.

The color of coffee on Sunday mornings spent sitting on the front porch.

The color of cool delta clay, putty in Suga’s hands as she works it diligently.

Their eyes danced about each other, urging the other to give in to the temptation. After a while, Annie finally did so, placing a finger under Suga’s chin, forcing her eyes up.

Her voice was low.

Smooth.

Practically purring.

“Wanna get outta here, Sug’” Annie asked.

She nudged her head towards the door smirking at the quickening of Suga’s heart rate.

Suga’ glanced around the room, a soft smile causing her cheek to dimple.

She leaned over in her stool, grabbing Annie’s hips that were seated in her own stool.

“Go say bye to yo’ peoples,” Suga’ demanded, kissing the side of Annie’s neck. That caused the woman’s breathing to stop for just a short second, but Suga’ picked up on everything that had to do with Annie. She left another kiss on her collarbone. This time a small whine erupted from Annie’s lips, but she couldn’t revel in it long as Suga’ stood up, helping Annie down from her stool.

“I’ll be at the door waitin’ for ya’,” she breathed, brushing a hand along the top of Annie’s ass as she went out in search of Mary to say her goodbyes.

[valc-cq0]

Occupied by You

Pairing: German Officer!OC x French!F!Idol (Giselle, Aespa)

Genre/theme: Historical fiction, romance, angst, slow burn, war, tragedy

Rating: Mature

Word Count: [6400]

(a/n) War is hell! I’ve come to love writing historical fiction ever since I wrote this one.

May 1940 - Loire Valley, France

The vines were quiet this season.

They usually weren’t, not in late spring, when the sun dappled the hills and the field hands moved between rows with sunburned necks and rolled-up sleeves, humming old chansons. But this year, there was only silence. The kind that comes when even the birds forget how to sing.

Giselle Marchand stood in her father’s study, her fingers trailing the edge of his worn desk. Dust covered the mahogany. A glass of unfinished cognac sat beside an ink-stained letter opener. The radio whispered static.

The letter was still there. Folded once, official. She had memorized the words.

“Nous regrettons de vous informer que le Colonel François Marchand est tombé au combat près de Sedan. Il est mort en héros, défendant la patrie.”

(We regret to inform you that Colonel François Marchand has fallen in combat near Sedan. He died a hero, defending the homeland.)

Giselle’s lips trembled, but she refused to cry again.

“He hated that uniform.” she muttered in French, brushing her thumb over the military seal. “But he wore it anyway. For France. And now this, this is what’s left?”

She tore the letter in half, then again. The pieces fluttered to the floor like dried petals.

Outside, the world moved on. At least, it pretended to.

Locals passed with their heads low, market stalls thinning by the day. Men disappeared quietly. Young women whispered about tanks being spotted near Reims. The German machine was rolling west, and everyone in the Loire could feel it in their bones.

The Marchand estate, once a thriving vineyard, export hub, and minor political salon, had become a mausoleum of memory. Giselle took over the business in her father’s name, but most buyers had vanished. Who cared about fine wine when the ground itself shook?

The morning paper said Paris might fall within weeks.

She slammed it shut.

That night, she walked the halls alone, her heels echoing sharply on the tiled floor.

Portraits lined the walls, generations of Marchands in oil and frame. Her father’s stood at the end of the corridor, freshly hung. Dark mustache, sharp blue eyes. The painter had caught his sternness, but not his warmth.

“You should have left when I told you.” she whispered in French. “You could have come south. We could’ve run.”

But she knew he never would. François Marchand was not a man to abandon his post. He’d served through the last war. He believed in duty. In France.

She lit a candle beneath his painting and sat on the settee with a bottle of wine and a silence that hurt more than any scream.

The next morning, at the far edge of the estate, an unfamiliar sound echoed up the hill.

Engines.

Not the sputter of village cars or farm tractors, this was different. Heavy. Metallic. The low grind of gears and weight.

She froze in the courtyard, her breath catching. A servant rushed to her side, face pale.

“Madame Giselle, ils arrivent…”

(They’re coming…)

Across the distant fields, over golden waves of wheat and trembling vine leaves, dark figures emerged, long, angular, glinting in the morning light.

Tanks.

German tanks.

She didn’t run. She couldn’t. Her fingers clenched the gate’s wrought-iron bars as the rumble grew closer. Smoke rose behind them, columns of black crawling across the sky.

They weren’t at her doorstep yet, but she knew.

They would be.

That night, unable to sleep, Giselle sat at her father's desk again, writing in his old journal. Her script was messy, urgent.

“I will not let them take everything. Not this house. Not this land. Not what remains of you.”

A drop of ink smeared the page.

In the distance, something metallic groaned.

The war had arrived.

May 1940 - Outside Orléans, France

Hauptmann Valc Neumann stood on the sloped turret of his Panzer IV, arms crossed, coat flapping in the wind as he watched the French countryside bend beneath German treads.

The fields burned slowly. Villages were empty, save for pale faces peeking through curtains, all too aware of what the black cross on the tanks meant. And still, Valc felt… nothing.

Not victory. Not joy. Only the mechanical rhythm of duty.

“Wir sichern die Brücke in zwei Stunden, Hauptmann.” his radio officer called up.

(We’ll secure the bridge in two hours, Captain.)

“Gut.” he answered without turning.

(Good.)

His voice was clipped, dry, wrapped in that German edge that even his English couldn’t smooth out. When he spoke to locals, he used their language, but it always came out taut, full of sharp consonants and a shadow of Berlin in the vowels.

“Zis is vhat efficiency looks like.” he once told a younger lieutenant, correcting his uniform. “Not bombs. Not fear. Control. Precision. Zat is ze Reich.”

The French campaign had been faster than even the generals predicted. The Maginot Line had crumbled, the Luftwaffe painted fire across the sky, and cities fell like dominos. But still, he felt no triumph.

Only motion.

His thoughts turned briefly to Berlin. His mother wrote often, mostly about his younger brother Otto, who was studying medicine. “He’s too soft.” Valc had replied in his last letter. “He will break in this new world.” But sometimes, when the motor whined low and the men fell asleep on cold ground, Valc envied Otto. Medicine felt clean. This was steel and rot and orders barked over the dying.

At a camp just past Châteaudun, a map lay unfurled on a folding table. Valc traced a finger along the River Loire. “Hauptmann.” said an older intelligence officer, “SS units ahead have designated a vineyard estate near Blois as a suitable local command post. Elevated, spacious, with strong infrastructure. Formerly owned by Colonel Marchand. He died near Sedan.” Valc raised an eyebrow. “Colonel? French?”

“Yes. Decorated. Politically relevant. His daughter now owns the property. Civilian. No known resistance links.”

Valc’s lips pursed. “A soldier’s house. Hmm.”

He tapped the estate with the edge of his glove.

“Ve vill take it tomorrow.”

That night, while his men slept, Valc stood alone beneath the stars, arms behind his back. Somewhere in the woods, a night bird called. Distant howls of wolves answered.

He lit a cigarette and took one long drag.

“Es gibt keine Ehre im Tod.” he muttered under his breath. (There is no honor in death.) He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He glanced at the shadows around him, as if someone might’ve heard. His face reset quickly, jaw locking again.

This was France. Not home.

Here, softness was a death sentence.

As dawn painted the earth in gold and ash, Valc climbed back atop his tank.

“Prepare for occupation. No looting. No fire. We are soldiers, not savages.”

“Jawohl!” the men barked below.

His eyes locked on the horizon. Past the vineyards. Toward the mansion that waited, untouched, but not for long.

He had no idea what would be waiting for him there.

May 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The tanks rolled in just after sunrise.

Giselle stood at the gates in her best coat, arms folded, chin raised, her dark hair pulled tight in a bun. She hadn’t dressed to impress. She’d dressed to defend. If they were going to take her house, they would not take her dignity.

Dust kicked up from the long gravel road as the column approached. Soldiers, so young, so smug, jumped from the transport trucks. Helmets gleamed. Boots stomped in perfect rhythm.

But her eyes locked on the one in front.

He didn’t wear a helmet.

Instead, the officer had slicked-back black hair, a long coat that whipped like a blade, and a square jaw clenched in purpose. His presence swallowed the space around him.

He dismounted from the tank with a feline grace, his eyes scanning the estate. Cold. Measuring.

He approached her.

“Hauptmann Valc Neumann.” he said, accent thick, voice low and precise. “Zis residence has been requisitioned under Wehrmacht authority for temporary command use.” Giselle did not move.

Her French spilled sharp. “Et si je refuse ?”

(And if I refuse?)

He paused, almost amused.

“Zat… would be unvise.”

She lifted her chin higher. “This land is mine. That house belongs to my family. My father—”

“—is dead.” he said without hesitation. “Colonel François Marchand. Killed at Sedan. A… tragedy.” The word clinked like glass in his mouth.

“You know nothing of him.” she hissed, switching to English now, with venom. “He was twice the man any of you will ever be.”

A faint twitch in his jaw.

“And yet, he is buried under German boots. As are many.”

Giselle took a step forward. “You think you own everything you conquer? That every town, every house, every breath belongs to Berlin?”

His eyes met hers for the first time, truly met them. There was something there, a flicker. Recognition, perhaps. Or disdain.

“I do not ‘zink’, Mademoiselle. I follow orders.”

“And you think that makes you a man?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped past her, boots crunching the gravel. He scanned the façade of the chateau, then turned to his second-in-command.

“Secure ze perimeter. Keep ze men off ze vines. No damage to the structure. She will remain inside. Limited access.”

Giselle’s eyes widened. “You think I’ll host you? Serve you tea? Smile and curtsy while you plant flags in my garden?”

Valc turned back slowly. “You vill obey ze rules. Or you vill be removed.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“I don’t intend to.” He paused. “Fear is for children. Obedience is for adults.”

She nearly slapped him.

But instead, she gritted her teeth and stormed toward the house, her heels cracking like gunshots against the stone.

Inside, the servants scurried. German boots stomped up the stairs. One soldier gawked at a crystal vase. Giselle yanked it from his hands.

“Touch nothing.” she spat.

Valc, now touring the drawing room, didn’t even glance her way.

“This vill do.” he said, removing his gloves. “Have radio installed. Map tables here. And find ze wine cellar, if she has not burned it.”

Giselle sat down in her father’s chair, legs crossed, watching him like a hawk.

He looked at her finally. Not with threat. Just… acknowledgment.

“I vill not interfere more zan necessary.” he said evenly. “You may continue your business. Within limits.”

“My business.” she said, voice like fire, “was killed by men like you.”

His silence stretched.

Then, softly, almost too low to hear: “We are not ze same.”

She blinked.

But before she could ask, before she could tear the words apart, he turned and exited the room.

The echo of his boots was the only sound that remained.

That night, Giselle stood at the window, arms wrapped around herself. Below, a fire crackled where the soldiers camped. Laughter rose occasionally, young boys playing war.

And alone by the courtyard, Valc stood smoking.

He looked… still.

Not proud. Not cruel.

Just a man holding too much weight.

Giselle hated him.

She hated that she wasn’t sure why.

Late May 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The chateau didn’t sleep.

Even at night, radios hissed from the drawing room. Boots patrolled the hallways. Soldiers shouted orders outside, their language slicing through the silence like blades.

And in the heart of it all, Giselle remained unmoved.

She made it her mission to be present. To haunt every room the Germans occupied.

Valc had taken over her father’s study, but she sat in the library just across the hall, a glass of red wine in hand, staring at the untouched books like they might burn under German eyes.

Valc noticed her, of course. How could he not?

Every time he stepped out, she was there, perfect posture, unreadable expression. Once, he passed her in the corridor, and she muttered under her breath:

“Tumeur allemande.”

(German tumor.)

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

But that evening, while examining a regional map, he spoke without looking up:

“You know, your French insults are not as quiet as you zink.”

Giselle, seated in the corner, arms folded, didn’t even flinch. “Good. Maybe they’ll remind you whose house this is.”

Valc looked up finally, his pale eyes catching hers across the room.

“No.” he said simply. “Zis is no longer a house. It is a war post. You live inside a uniform now. Even if it is invisible.”

She exhaled sharply. “You really believe all this, don’t you? That the Reich is right. That your orders make you righteous.”

Valc shrugged one shoulder. “Righteous is for priests. I believe in structure. Obedience. Germany fell apart once. We rebuild it now. Stronger.”

“And everyone else?” she snapped. “We’re just… collateral?”

He didn’t blink. “Yes.”

The word hung in the air like gunpowder.

A few days later, Giselle hosted a quiet lunch with a local supplier, one of the few who still dared come. Valc allowed it under “civilian allowances.” but placed two guards outside the terrace doors.

Still, Giselle wore her sharpest dress. She laughed too loudly. She made sure to speak French, only French, and dropped her silverware with just enough force to be distracting.

Valc sat inside, reading reports, but she knew he could hear.

Later, as the guest left, Valc appeared behind her in the hallway.

“You play vith fire.”

She spun. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” he said. “It is a fact. Zese visits, you zink zey mean defiance. But zey mean attention. From people vith fewer rules than me.”

His voice lowered. Just slightly.

“I let you host. Do not give zem reason to… notice you.”

Giselle stared at him. For the first time, she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Not fear. Not cruelty.

Worry?

Her chest tightened. She hated the feeling.

“I don’t need your protection.” she said.

He leaned closer, barely a breath between them. “Zat’s good.” he said. “Because I am not offering it.”

And yet—

He walked away slower than usual.

That night, storm clouds rolled in.

The power flickered. The radio cut out. Giselle lit candles in the hallway, frowning as thunder rumbled overhead.

She passed the study, and froze.

Valc was still there, coat removed, sleeves rolled up. Maps scattered. A tin cup of coffee beside his revolver. He didn’t look like a monster now.

He looked… tired.

And when the lightning struck, illuminating the stained-glass windows in red and gold, she saw him flinch. Just for a second.

Not fear.

Something deeper.

Weight.

Giselle backed away before he noticed her. She returned to her room, lay awake, and cursed herself for thinking of him as a man.

Early June 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The days bled together like watercolors.

French summer had arrived, reluctant but warm. Vines crept up the stone walls of the chateau. Lavender bloomed by the fountain where Valc’s soldiers now cleaned their rifles. The contrast was maddening.

Inside, Giselle found herself pacing more. Not out of fear, but fury.

Why was he still here?

Why hadn’t she driven him out with her sharp tongue and colder stares?

And worse, why had he stopped responding?

Valc had changed.

He still followed orders. He still barked commands in his sharp, German-laced English. But he had grown quieter with her.

No more baiting. No more retorts.

Just silence.

And Giselle hated it.

She wanted to argue. To fight. To feel something when he looked at her, not this horrible, twisted calm.

It was a Tuesday when the first crack appeared.

Giselle had gone into the village to check on her family’s shop, what remained of it. Broken shelves. Looted goods. Her father’s name scrubbed from the window. It felt like visiting a grave.

She returned late, muddy from walking through a nearby field to avoid German patrols.

As she entered the foyer, she paused.

The entire east wing was dark. Candlelight flickered down the corridor where the soldiers usually lounged. But today, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Then she heard it.

Shouting.

German voices.

Tense. Heated.

She moved closer, pressing her ear to the cracked door of the map room.

“…unverschämt, she leaves without escort!”

(Shameless, she leaves without escort!)

“Sie ist eine Gefahr—”

(She is a risk—)

And then, Valc’s voice. Cold, measured.

“Sie ist kein Risiko. Sie ist unter meinem Befehl.”

(She is no risk. She is under my command.)

A pause.

Then louder, with steel: “You vill not touch her. Zis is not open for discussion.”

Another voice muttered something about “Französische Hure.”

(French whore.)

Giselle flinched.

And then, smash. A chair scraped violently. A loud thud. Something hit the wall.

Valc’s voice again, furious.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

Dead silence.

Giselle backed away before they saw her, heart pounding, breath shaky.

She shouldn’t care.

She shouldn’t feel anything but disdain.

And yet—

Later that night, there was a knock on her door.

Not the sharp pounding of a soldier.

A polite knock. One, then two.

She opened it.

Valc stood there, arms behind his back, expression unreadable.

“I trust your trip to ze village vas safe.”

She folded her arms. “You knew?”

“Of course.”

“You followed me?”

His jaw flexed. “No. But I pay attention.”

A beat passed.

Then he stepped forward, and held something out.

A scarf. Torn. Dirt-streaked.

Hers.

“You dropped zis.” he said quietly.

Giselle took it slowly. Their fingers brushed. Just for a second.

“Merci.” she murmured, too tired to fight.

He nodded once.

Turned to leave.

Then paused. Without turning back, he said:

“I do not let zem speak of you zat way.”

And then he was gone.

That night, Giselle stood by her window again.

But this time, she searched for him.

He was there, by the fountain. Smoking. Staring at the stars.

Not a conqueror.

Not a monster.

Just a man.

And though she would never admit it, something in her chest softened, barely.

But it was enough.

Mid-June 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

Rain had returned.

Thick, grey sheets soaked the valley for days, turning the roads to mud and the skies to ash. Most of the soldiers stayed indoors, playing cards or sharpening knives, the low hum of German chatter blending with the storm.

Giselle sat in the parlor, fireplace glowing faintly. Her fingers idly ran over a book she wasn’t reading. Her eyes had been drifting to the hallway more than the pages lately.

Valc hadn’t spoken to her in three days.

Not since the scarf.

Not since the strange, quiet moment that lingered like perfume.

She hated how it clung to her.

Then, late in the afternoon, the silence shattered.

A soldier crashed through the side entrance, dragging another limp figure behind him. Mud caked the uniform. Blood soaked the fabric below the ribs.

“Verdammt!” the man cursed. “He was shot, ambushed outside the village!”

Valc appeared instantly. Calm but sharp. “Zere was supposed to be no resistance left in zat sector.”

The injured man groaned, his skin pale and wet. The medic was delayed. Rain blocked the road.

They needed to act now.

Giselle watched from the stairs, unmoving.

Until she saw the soldier’s face twist in pain, young. Barely older than her. Barely a man.

She stepped forward before she realized it.

“I… I can help.”

All heads turned. Valc’s eyes locked on hers.

“What?” he said quietly.

“I’ve stitched wounds before.” she muttered. “During the last war. My uncle… was a doctor.” She didn’t know why she said it. Maybe it was true. Maybe it was a lie.

Valc didn’t question it. “Get hot water.” he told one of the soldiers. Then to her, only her: “You will not run. Ja?”

She met his gaze. “You’re lucky I’m still here at all.”

He didn’t smile. But something in his eyes shifted.

Minutes later, the man lay on the dining table, writhing. Giselle worked fast. Cleaned. Disinfected. Sewed.

Valc watched silently.

At one point, she pressed a towel to the soldier’s lips. “Chut… reste tranquille… ça ira…”

(Shh... stay calm… it will be alright…)

Her voice was soft. Like wind through stained glass.

When she glanced up, Valc was staring at her. Not with suspicion. Not with hostility.

With something else.

Something like… recognition.

Like for a second, he wasn’t seeing a Frenchwoman.

He was just seeing her.

When it was over, and the soldier sedated, Valc followed her into the kitchen.

She washed her hands in silence.

He stood near the doorway, hands behind his back, boots muddy from pacing.

“You vere good.” he said finally.

Giselle didn’t respond.

He stepped closer.

“I vould not expect it. Compassion, I mean.”

She turned. Her hair was damp from sweat and steam. “I don’t do it for you.”

“I know.” he said. “But still. You did it.”

A pause.

“Danke.” he added quietly.

She blinked. “De rien.”

(You're welcome.)

Another pause. This one longer.

And then:

“I vanted to hate you.” he said suddenly.

She stilled.

“I zought, if I kept you a name. An enemy. A… French ghost of resistance. It vould be easier.”

She studied him.

“And now?”

Valc hesitated. His jaw tensed. Then relaxed.

“I do not know.”

That night, Giselle didn’t sleep. She replayed every word. Every pause. Every glance.

He wasn’t just cracking.

She was, too.

Late June 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The estate gleamed unnaturally clean.

White linens covered once-scuffed tables. Brass buttons shone. Boots stomped louder than usual in the halls. Something important was coming, and everyone knew it.

A convoy of high-ranking officers was due for inspection.

Valc hadn’t told her.

But Giselle saw it in the way he moved. In the way his voice sharpened. His posture turned iron.

She had overheard just enough:

“General Krause. Two staff officers. Temporary review of discipline.”

And then the worst part—

“They’ll want to meet the Marchand girl. For appearances.”

For appearances.

She should’ve refused. Slapped him. Screamed.

Instead, she wore her late mother’s navy dress and braided her hair in quiet defiance.

If she had to be paraded like a loyal, broken Frenchwoman, she’d at least look like a ghost of elegance.

They arrived just after noon.

The general was tall, pale, and carried cruelty in his gaze. His smile never reached his eyes. He nodded at Valc like inspecting a blade. “You keep a clean post, Oberleutnant.”

“Danke, Herr General.”

“And this is the… civilian?”

Valc’s lips twitched. “Mademoiselle Marchand.”

Giselle curtsied stiffly. “Enchantée.” she said flatly.

(Pleased to meet you.)

The general eyed her like livestock. “She looks obedient.”

Valc gave a short nod. “She is.”

The words hit her harder than they should have.

She is.

Not she can speak for herself. Not even a flicker of defense.

Her blood turned cold.

Throughout the inspection, Valc barely glanced her way. Not once. He was all soldier. Spine straight, hands clasped behind his back. Obedient. Efficient. Cold.

Giselle felt something rise inside her, sharp and bitter.

When the general and his men finally retreated to their quarters for wine and maps, she stayed behind in the drawing room, fuming.

She didn’t hear Valc approach.

“Zank you. You played your role.”

She turned slowly.

“You didn’t defend me.” she said, voice low.

“I couldn’t.” he answered, equally low. “Not in front of them.”

“Oh, pardon.” she snapped. “I forgot you had an image to keep up. Wouldn’t want your precious swastika friends thinking you’d gone soft.”

Valc’s jaw locked. “You don’t understand what zey are capable of.”

“No.” she said coldly. “But I’m starting to understand you.”

She moved past him, shoulder brushing his.

Then—

His hand caught her wrist.

She froze.

“I am not your enemy.” he said, accent thick, voice trembling at the edges. “Not anymore.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. He was closer than he had ever dared to be.

“Then what are you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at her, like she was a war he didn’t know how to win.

Later that night, she watched him from her window again.

He stood alone in the courtyard, staring up at the sky.

This time, she whispered to herself:

“Je ne sais plus…”

(I don’t know anymore…)

Early July 1940 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The storm returned with a vengeance.

Rain clawed against the windows like ghosts begging to be let in. Most of the soldiers were asleep, lulled by wine and thunder. The hallways flickered dimly with candlelight.

Giselle couldn’t sleep.

Neither could Valc.

She found him in the library just past midnight.

He stood at the window, coat off, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hands were clasped behind his back, ever the soldier even in silence.

“You shouldn’t wander.” he said without turning.

“And you shouldn’t brood.” she replied, stepping closer. “But here we are.”

He finally glanced at her, eyes soft but tired.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked gently.

He gave a humorless laugh. “Soldiers rarely do. Especially when ve’re stationed in homes of ghosts.”

She tilted her head. “You think I’m a ghost?”

“No.” he said quietly. “But zere are days you remind me of one.”

She smiled faintly. “My father used to say I could disappear from a room without ever moving.”

“François Marchand.” Valc said, with surprising care. “He died during the first push, ja?”

She nodded, surprised he even remembered.

“Do you… blame all of us?” he asked.

Giselle met his gaze. “I did.”

A pause.

“I still do sometimes.”

Another pause.

“But not always.”

Valc looked away. “Zat’s more forgiveness than I deserve.”

They stood in silence as the rain hammered the windows.

Then—

“Do you know.” Valc began, voice lower, “my brother died in Poland.”

Giselle turned to him.

“He vas not a soldier. Just… unlucky. A mistake during a crossfire. I never even saw his body.” He clenched his jaw. “I told myself it vas justified. Collateral damage.” He laughed bitterly. “I even said it out loud. To our mother.”

Her breath caught.

“Is that why you joined?” she asked.

He looked at her. “I joined because I believed in order. Because I vas angry. Because it vas easier to follow than to grieve.”

“And now?” she whispered.

His voice cracked, just slightly. “Now… I do not know vhat I believe.”

The rain grew louder.

Giselle stepped towards him, slowly. She could smell the rain in his coat, the faint scent of leather and tobacco.

“You never say what you feel.” she said.

“Neither do you.” he countered.

“Because if I start.” she breathed, “I won’t be able to stop.”

He blinked. “Try.”

Their eyes locked.

And just when it felt like they’d crash into each other like two desperate storms—

Thunder cracked. A door slammed.

Footsteps echoed upstairs. A soldier, maybe. Or just the wind playing tricks again.

They pulled away like cowards.

But something had shifted.

Something undeniable had rooted between them.

Later, in the dark, Giselle whispered to herself:

“Pourquoi faut-il toujours attendre la fin pour ressentir?”

(Why must we always wait until the end to feel?)

Four Years in Occupied France

After that stormy July night in 1940, everything changed quietly.

Giselle, once a fiery woman filled with grief and defiance, buried herself in her late father's business, reopening his winery under German surveillance. To survive, she learned to play both sides: dignified for her countrymen, diplomatic for the occupiers. Beneath it all, she nursed a quiet resistance, helping pass messages, hiding Allied contacts when she dared.

Valc, still a Panzer officer under Nazi command, was stationed across France, Paris, Rouen, even the Eastern Front for a winter. But somehow, he always returned to the Loire Valley. Officially, it was for "logistics and estate security." Unofficially, it was her.

Their bond simmered under glances, chance touches, and brief, stolen conversations. Still unspoken. Still dangerous.

He changed slowly.

The man who once quoted ideology like scripture began to question. The war chipped at his armor. Giselle saw the cracks but never pushed.

In winter of 1943, he arrived with a scar down his ribs and blood on his uniform. He didn’t say where it came from.

In spring 1944, he returned quieter, older. And Giselle, she was tired too. So much hope had died, and yet… something fragile still lived between them.

May 1944 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

It was late spring, but the heat felt like August. The vines had grown wild this year, untamed and heavy with green.

Giselle watched him walk between the rows. No hat. No salute. No uniform today, just a pale shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. He was sunburnt. Tired. And beautiful in a way that made her ache.

“Is it true?” she asked as she approached. “They’re moving troops north.”

Valc didn’t look at her right away. “Ja. Normandy.”

She swallowed. The name tasted bitter.

“When?”

“I leave in three days.”

She turned to the horizon, trying to breathe through the crushing quiet.

“Will you fight?” she asked.

His jaw tightened. “They think the Americans vill come. Eisenhower is planning something, maybe soon.”

“So you’ll go.” she said flatly. “And fight for something you don’t believe in anymore.”

He finally looked at her. “I still believe in you.”

She blinked.

He stepped forward, cautiously. “Giselle, I have never said this. Because if I did, it vould be real. And real things in war do not last.”

“Say it anyway.” she whispered.

He reached out, brushing a curl from her cheek with calloused fingers.

“I have loved you since that first winter.” he said, voice trembling. “Since you threw a candle at my head and told me to rot in hell.”

She laughed through tears. “I meant it.”

“I know.”

And then she kissed him.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

It was desperate and clumsy and soaked in four years of grief, stolen glances, and forbidden hope.

When they finally parted, she whispered:

“Ne me laisse pas seule.”

(Don’t leave me alone.)

“Ich komme zurück.”

(I will come back.)

He held her like a promise. But war doesn’t keep them.

June 1944 - Normandy, Outskirts of Caen

The morning was unnatural. The sky was dim and ash-colored, and the wind carried more than salt from the sea, it carried the scent of fire, blood, and fate. Valc stood atop his tank with a pair of binoculars pressed to his face. The coast below was alive, but not with birds or waves. No, it crawled with machines. Men. Iron monsters rolling onto French soil.

“Scheiße.” he muttered, voice rough, accent thick. “Zey have brought everything.”

The American and British navies were pouring out steel. Landing crafts cut through the surf like knives. Explosions flashed at a distance.

One of his junior officers called up, pale and shaking. “Herr Hauptmann, orders?”

Valc climbed down with rigid precision, his leather coat flapping behind him. “Ve hold.” he said, flatly. “Ve do not run.”

“But sir—”

He snapped. “Ich habe gesprochen!” (I have spoken!)

Silence fell. The Panzer crew scrambled into position.

Inside the tank, it was dim. Valc’s voice echoed as he gave orders, clipped, efficient, controlled.

But his thoughts strayed.

In the left chest of his uniform, beneath steel and discipline, was the folded photograph of Giselle.

He’d looked at it every night since Paris. She hadn’t written, of course. But neither had he. The war didn’t allow for romance.

He sighed and pressed his head to the steel wall.

“Verdammt... I should have said goodbye better.”

The first shells hit like thunder.

The earth convulsed. Valc gritted his teeth as he shouted over the comms. “Angle! Forty degrees left! Sherman tanks at ze ridge, destroy them!”

The Panzer fired, kicking dust and metal into the air. A direct hit. Cheers. Then came the roar of Allied bombers overhead.

Fire rained down from the sky.

The tank rocked as a near miss sent debris flying.

“Radio's dead!” one of the crew screamed.

Valc shoved the hatch open and climbed out into chaos.

He saw it.

Shermans. Dozens. Pouring through the beaches. Infantry behind them. The line was collapsing.

And his men, boys, really, were dying.

“Deckung!”

(Take cover!)

He didn’t wait for backup.

Valc sprinted from the Panzer toward a nearby supply truck that had caught fire. A wounded soldier lay beneath it, bleeding from the leg, crying for his mother in choked German.

Valc grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him away, coughing as smoke filled his lungs.

A shell exploded nearby. Valc’s body jerked forward. His ears rang. His face hit mud and shrapnel. Blood.

But he kept moving.

He pulled the boy behind a pile of sandbags and grunted through clenched teeth.

“You, stay alive. Zis is an order.”

He staggered to his feet just in time to see the Panzer take a direct hit. A flash. A roar. A blossom of black fire.

His crew.

Gone.

He screamed, hoarse, broken.

“No! Nein!”

Something in him cracked.

He ran forward, through the wreckage, rifle raised. Firing wildly into the oncoming Allied soldiers. Men screamed. He took one down, then two.

But then, sharp heat.

A bullet tore through his side.

He dropped to his knees, coughing blood, clutching his wound.

His hands reached into his coat, instinctively, trembling.

The photo.

He pulled it out. Dirt-smudged. Frayed.

Giselle.

He smiled. Just barely.

"Du hättest mich gehasst, wenn du mich jetzt sehen würdest..."

(You would’ve hated me if you saw me now...)

Another shell hit nearby. Dirt rained over him.

He tried to rise. Failed.

Crawled towards the base of a wrecked panzer, dragging the photo against his chest. Breath shallow. Vision fading.

He whispered, “I... I vanted to come back. To you. I vas going to leave it all... for you...”

He pressed his back against the metal, every nerve screaming.

The photo lay in his lap now, soaked with blood. His hand hovered over it protectively.

“Giselle…”

He looked up one last time.

The sky above Normandy was burning.

And then he saw her, not really, but something like her, walking through the smoke.

He smiled.

And then his head tilted softly to the side.

Still.

September 1944 - Marchand Estate, Loire Valley

The ground trembled, a dull rumble beneath her.

Giselle paused at the window of her father's study, her hand still on the tattered curtain, eyes narrowing toward the tree-lined road that curved into the hills beyond the vineyards. The vines were unkempt now. Her family’s estate, once a picture of polished elegance, had wilted under war and grief.

Then came the sound.

Tanks.

She straightened, breath catching.

Not the hollow roar of distant artillery, no, this was closer. Familiar. She knew the pitch now. She had heard it so many nights she could tell the difference between Panzer and Kübelwagen in her sleep.

“Valc.” she breathed, stepping out onto the stone balcony.

The air was tense with summer. Cicadas quieted.

Hope, brittle and reckless, bloomed in her chest. He had promised, or maybe he hadn’t, but he said he would come back. That he would "survive Normandy." even though his voice wavered when he said it.

“Ich bin nicht so leicht zu töten, Giselle.” (I’m not so easy to kill.) But as the tanks crested the hill, she saw them.

Olive green. Wide-bodied. American flags on the sides. Stars painted white.

Not German.

Not Valc.

She blinked. The breath she held cracked inside her. Her knees gave out before the sob did.

“No...” she gasped. “Non... non, non, non...!”

Her voice echoed down the vineyards.

The war was here, but he was not.

She hadn’t moved in hours.

The sun dipped west, painting the Loire’s waters blood orange. The estate was quiet except for the occasional shout from locals greeting the Americans. She sat on the stone steps, hair undone, eyes glassy and red, arms wrapped around herself as if still waiting to wake from it all.

Then, boots.

American.

A young soldier, not more than twenty-five, walked up the gravel path, accompanied by an interpreter. His uniform was dusty, and he held something carefully in his hand. Giselle looked up, blinking against the late light.

“Ma’am?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

The interpreter stepped forward, French-accented but uncertain. “Madame… are you Giselle Marchand?”

Her heart jumped. “Oui…” she whispered, voice trembling. “C’est moi.”

The soldier hesitated. Then he slowly held out a worn, scorched envelope and a small photograph. The photo was placed side-by-side to her face.

“Jesus.” the American muttered. “It’s her. It’s really her.”

The interpreter swallowed, translating as gently as he could.

“We… found this. On the lap of a fallen German officer. A Hauptmann. Panzer division.”

Giselle stared. Her hand rose shakily as he passed the picture to her. It was one Valc had taken.

He had snapped it one late afternoon with a pilfered Leica, pretending to act annoyed but hiding a smile behind his sharp jaw.

He never gave it back.

The envelope was sealed in blood-streaked wax. German military paper.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

My dearest Giselle,

If this letter finds you, then I have not returned.

And if I have not returned, it means I died a soldier’s death, though what that means to me now, after you, is very different than what it once meant.

I was raised to believe in war, in pride, in country.

But loving you taught me to believe in peace. In softness. In something I was told was weakness but discovered was strength.

Your voice, your fury, your stubborn heart, they saved me.

You made me question orders. You made me human.

You may never forgive me. I would not blame you. But I would die again to know you remember me not as a monster in uniform, but as the man who fell in love with your fire.

I am sorry for every night I left without a goodbye. I was afraid that if I said it, it would become real.

Giselle, meine Liebe... I loved you in silence so loudly it echoed in every breath of my last march. I died with your name on my lips.

Live. Even if I did not. Be free. For both of us.

Always yours,

Valc Neumann

The letter dropped from her hands.

Her shoulders shook.

A sound escaped her lips, half cry, half scream, as she curled forward, clutching the letter to her chest.

She screamed.

A scream so raw, so hoarse, it scraped the sky itself.

She screamed for the man who should have never been her enemy, but had become her entire world.

[saturnyo]

Before You Go

Chapter 1- Something Borrowed, Something Burned

Pairing: dbfJoel x OC(Delilah)

Warnings: Emotional Cheating, Angst, Age Gap, foul language, Suppressed Emotions, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Minor injury, mentions of possible Infidelity,

Summary: It's a month before my wedding, and I have to return to my hometown to finalize the details before the big day. But then i see the man I've been trying to forget for years. Joel Miller, my dad's best friend. He's always been off limits. But now, with too many late nights and lingering looks, the line starts to blur.

Word Count: lil over 3.2k

Song Choice: Eyes Closed- Halsey

**I just discovered this song and I thought this goes perfectly with the vibe of this fic**

In one month, I'll join my fiancé in holy matrimony, the happiest event of my life.

Amid the chaos of wedding planning and the constant flow of congratulations, I stand beside him, managing only a small, tight smile while Dustin, my husband-to-be, is head over heels in love.

It’s not that I don’t love him. I feel something for him, but “madly in love” isn’t exactly how I would describe my feelings.

Maybe contentment? But nothing more.

One specific memory slowly erodes into my mind as a bit of guilt settles in my heart while I watch Dustin deep in conversation with my dad. He talks about the effort he put into the proposal and the struggle he went through to keep it a secret. Marriage had come up in discussion before, which I expected after being in a relationship for two years, and the idea of it was nice. But in that moment, seeing the way Dustin’s eyes lit up as he spoke about the wedding made me realize something.

That night, when he was down on one knee, explaining how much he loved me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I realized I had never truly envisioned my life, my future, with him.

Needing a moment to clear my head before dinner started, I stepped outside onto the front porch, taking in the cool autumn air. The memory that slowly came to the surface was practically screaming at full volume as I remembered the feeling of another man's lips on mine, sending a persistent ache between my legs. Joel Miller, my dad’s best friend, the man who was a constant in my childhood. He worked alongside my dad at their construction company while being co-CEO.

He would make me lunches when my dad forgot, caught up in his work, and he would drive me and Sarah to the mall on Saturdays. The age difference between us was 20 years. Completely off-limits. That crush I used to have was just some silly childhood fantasy, and the kiss we shared, the feeling of his lips molding perfectly against mine, was just a fluke, a moment of alcohol helping me make bad decisions.

It was my 25th birthday, a final sendoff my dad wanted to throw for me before I moved to the big city. During the night, Joel seemed to get closer to me, placing light touches on my arm and whispering in my ear. His voice cut through my drunken haze, making every nerve ending light on fire. Stepping away from the party, I ran into him. I’m not sure how it happened, but he started kissing me, pushing my body against the wall as he found his hands beneath my dress. The magic of the moment came to a grinding halt once we both realized where we were, the sound of footsteps coming toward us in the hallway.

Since then, we avoided each other like the plague. The kiss, despite how it made me feel, was a mistake, and it seemed Joel thought that as well. His cold gaze stared at me whenever I came home for the holidays.

Holding the wedding in my hometown was for family reasons, but deep down, I knew Joel’s presence played a huge part. Shaking away those thoughts, I thought about how I insisted I would not hold the wedding in the summer, no matter how much Dustin tried to convince me otherwise. A Texas summer would be brutal on my makeup and would make me uncomfortable in my wedding dress. Finally, he caved, and the ceremony was set for October 18.

My relationship with Dustin was calm and steady, a huge contrast to my past relationships. But this was the life I wanted: stable, predictable, and simple. Not every couple needs to have that earth-shattering love that creates sparks every time they kiss; that kind of passion is for books and movies. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, which I ignored, chalking it up to pre-wedding jitters.

“It’s normal,” I thought to myself. Not every day needs to be exciting. Some can be boring, and that doesn’t mean the relationship should end. But that nagging feeling deep in my gut just wouldn’t leave.

The hard concrete scratched against my thighs, pulling my attention from the storm of doubt and uncertainty raging in my mind. The autumn breeze tousled my hair as night fell, biting cold and sending a shiver down my spine. My thin jacket offered little protection, leaving goosebumps all over my body. The clouds settled along the skyline as dusk blended hues of orange and red, offering a sense of familiarity amidst my inner confusion.

Despite everything I was feeling, home was the one place where I could find peace.

Or so I thought.

My tirade of emotions was cut short by my dad calling for me from the kitchen.

“Delilah! Dinner is ready!”

A deep sigh fell from my mouth as I got up, putting on a fake, award-winning practiced smile as I walked inside. The tune of some old 2000s song I used to listen to played from the speakers my fiancé set up earlier that day. I walked up to him, placing a kiss on his cheek before he pulled out my chair for me.

He was always a gentleman, opening my car door for me whether I was driving or just a passenger, getting me things at the store that he’d say reminded him of me, and just a bunch of other stuff that felt like it fell out of my typical romance novel.

His tastes and mine were vastly different, though. I wanted someone dominant, someone to take control. That was my preference. But Dustin… he was like milk toast. Extremely vanilla. The sex was lackluster.

As I took in the mountain of food on the table, settling in before the chime of the doorbell rang out throughout the house.

“Oh wait, I almost forgot,” my dad mentioned. He rushed over to the front door, swinging it open to reveal someone I certainly did not expect to see.

Joel Miller…

The man who had been haunting my subconscious since I was a teenager.

I thought I escaped him, and the way his brown eyes made me melt into a puddle. The way his lips parted slightly, taking in my full figure and narrowing in on the 6-carat engagement ring on my left hand. His jaw clenched in a way that I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t really looking at him. His micro-expressions showcased the first two steps of the five stages of grief, and I say that because Joel was never really a man for bargaining, so that negated the third, fourth, and fifth step.

I was angry.

He didn’t necessarily do anything, but him being here in front of me felt as though I was put back at square one. Suddenly, Sarah threw herself into my arms, giving me a huge hug. A part of me was glad she was there to at least take away some of the tension.

“Delilah, I've missed you so much,” Sarah said excitedly. “And that ring of yours is gorgeous. Your fiancé chose well.”

“Of course. I'll always know what my future wife loves,” Dustin answered. His grip on my waist grew tighter, staking some sort of weird claim on me. It rubbed me the wrong way, even though I knew he was trying to be sweet. Sometimes he had this strange notion of saying “mine” or “all mine.” I just didn’t like it when it came out of his mouth.

Joel’s gaze grew even more hardened at Dustin’s words. I’m not sure why, he has no right to be upset with me or Dustin.

“Come eat, everybody,” my dad waved us all back over to the table. It was filled to the brim with enough food to feed an army.

I sat down beside Dustin and Sarah as they started to talk about the proposal and the upcoming wedding. I needed to distract myself, so I began to stuff my face full of the delicious food my dad made. It did provide me with some comfort. Words flew around about the flowers that I chose and the theme of the wedding and reception. My dress and his tux and how his tie matched me.

I kept nodding along, seemingly engaged in the conversation, but my eyes kept drifting to Joel, also deep in conversation, but with my dad, talking about some random construction job that’s coming up where the client is demanding. Despite not knowing anything about it, I couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation. The way his deep voice rumbled as if he was grinding his voice through clenched teeth. Every word, every syllable feels deliberate, like he’s not letting anything slip.

It was low and quiet. I never remembered him raising his voice, ever. But there’s a bite in the way he folds his hands, clenching his knuckles almost turning them white. If he clenched them any tighter, I think he would break them. The drawl in his voice is dragged out on certain syllables, as if he’s buying time to rein himself in from jumping across the table and attacking my fiancé. I felt bold in the way my hand gripped Dustin’s shoulder, looking him in the eye and daring Joel to do something. A part of me actually wanted him to do it so this whole charade would be over.

But there’s one frustrating thing about him. Despite his being quick to anger, he has an incredible amount of patience.

The loud clinking of forks and spoons against plates cuts through the tension that everyone is seemingly blind to. I finally got a moment to breathe as I take the dishes into the kitchen. When dinner was over, I practically jumped at the chance to get as far away as I could from Joel. Being near him caused a lot of feelings that I just did not want to deal with. Dustin did notice something weird, but of course, he can’t see past the fog of our wedding looming over our heads.

He figured it was because Joel was there when I was growing up, so alongside my dad, he took up some sort of fatherly role as well.

Thank fuck my husband-to-be can be pretty dim sometimes. If he truly had half a mind, he would notice the way my eyes couldn’t quite meet his gaze and the way I clenched my legs, trying to ignore how wet I was.

The beautiful dusk creates a beautiful mirage of colors as the night settles down, and the lights make the city come alive. It looked like someone had spilled wine and fire across the horizon.

I felt like it was mocking me on how perfect it was. a huge contrast to the broken jumbled mess i was

The dishes were stacked in the sink in front of me as the steam rose and fogged up the window. I braced myself against the counter, pressing my palms into the linoleum. My chest felt tight. I could still hear Joel’s voice coming from the dining room. It was as smooth as bourbon and extremely dangerous. Needing something to distract myself, I started rinsing, scrubbing the dishes harder than necessary. My hands felt raw as the sponge dried out my skin.

Like a broken record, the way Joel said my name kept replaying in my head, deep and slow. He only said it just once, but the way he did made me want to punch something. Or kiss. Honestly, I'm not really sure.

And that confused me more than anything.

Sarah had left just a few minutes before, but Joel stayed behind. Casually and effortlessly, he made an excuse to stay, pretending it was only because he needed to talk to my dad. I'm not sure what his goal is here, but I think it’s just to piss me off.

I didn’t realize the way I was gripping a knife I was cleaning until blood started to drip from my hand. The stinging pain was a welcoming distraction, even though it was brief. Remembering my dad had a first aid kit somewhere in the kitchen due to his having accidents and accidentally cutting himself by using the knife the wrong way.

Like father, like daughter.

The blood drips onto the counter and into the grooves of the once pure white countertop. The disinfectant stings like a bitch against the cut, making me wish I was anywhere but here. This was supposed to be the happiest time of my life, but here I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, a gash on my hand, with my fiancé, and thinking about the 56-year-old man in my living room bending me over this countertop.

I’m such a terrible person for thinking that.

I hear footsteps against the floor, expecting it to be the two of the three I would rather see, but the universe threw up a middle finger and sent Joel my way. His stature is imposing no matter what room he walks into. It’s like he demands his presence to be known.

“Are you okay, Delilah?” Joel asks. His concern rattles me as if ten minutes before he wasn’t just staring me down like I was the most delicious thing at the dining table.

I gulp slightly, shaking off the feeling of want and need. “Yeah… I just somehow accidentally cut myself while washing dishes.”

“Like father, like daughter,” he says. A small chuckle comes deep from Joel’s chest. I never really heard him laugh all that much growing up while hanging out with Sarah after school or on weekends. He was the strong, silent type, always brooding in a corner.

“Yeah, it seems like it is.”

Tension settled back into the air, stifling and heady, making me feel uncomfortable. There was a question demanding to be answered, and neither one of us wanted to be the one who had to.

“So you’re getting married soon…” Joel muttered. He asked it like a question, but deep down, it was a matter of disdain. He never seemed to be the type of man to stoop so low as to play with my mind and linger beside me, dripping uncertainty, infecting me with the thought of his lips on mine. Bringing me back to that night about five years ago.

“You haven’t changed much,” he said

I clenched my jaw, ignoring the sudden urge to just throw myself in the middle of the road. I would rather get hit by a car than be standing here with him in the kitchen. Joel carefully steps forward, taking my hand in his as he puts the final bit of disinfectant on my cut. His fingers dance across my wrist as i notice his own hands shaking, his touch sends shockwaves and overloading my nerves. It’s unusual. Such a feeling I haven’t experienced in years. The very look in his eyes sends me into orbit and into the heavens, stealing my breath and giving me his instead.

He places a band-aid on my hand and gives it a light kiss. A sweet gesture that not even my future husband would do.

What the hell was I doing?

Backing up from Joel, creating as much space as I possibly could, I pretended there was some sort of invisible barrier between us, acting as if he’s on the other side of the world. Far away from me.

“Don’t…” my voice trembled, unable to hide my frustration. “You can’t do this. Not now.”

“Darlin’, I… that kiss…” Joel hesitated. “That kiss felt right, but your dad… he would kill me.”

“I spent the last five years in torment because of you. And now that I’m getting married, you’re here and for what? Your big ego couldn’t handle it?”

“Delilah, that is not—look, that guy is not right for you. I can see it plain as day.”

“That guy is Dustin, and he will be my husband. And what do you know about what’s right for me? The man who kisses someone and then runs away like they’re some shy teenager?”

Joel’s face fills with guilt and shame. He looks like someone who’s about to confess a sin and ask for repentance. I could tell it was gnawing away at him, stripping him down to sinew and remorse.

Dustin’s voice cuts through the remaining bit of sanity I had left.

“Delilah… are you okay in there?” Dustin asked.

“Yes, honey, I’m almost done with the dishes,” I replied.

I finally put away the first aid kit as I hear Joel shuffle behind me, leaving the kitchen, hopefully to leave and go home. This month is going to be like when I was a kid, being dragged to church on Sundays. Long and drawn out.

The rest of the night was uneventful. After I finished the dishes and Joel finally went home, my dad decided to go to bed. Wishing us goodnight, he headed upstairs, leaving me and Dustin alone. I kind of wished that he wasn’t here, as terrible as that may sound. I felt overstimulated, and I didn’t want him to be all over me. His touch wasn’t the one I wanted. He’s downstairs while I’m up in our room, my childhood bedroom, trying to sort out the extremely complicated situation that I have somehow put myself in.

After all these years, Joel still ignited a fire that pooled in my lower belly. I’m not sure what I did in a past life, but I was being given torture and punishment like how Prometheus was punished after stealing fire for the humans. Never-ending, rib-sticking pain.

A hot shower did nothing to soothe my aches and pains of being rigid and stone-faced all night. Hopefully, some sleep will fix it. I laid in my bed, the mattress molding into my frame, giving some relief.

The stick-on stars I put on the roof glare at me as I start to nod off, my eyes growing heavy with drowsiness. I got them when I was about eight. It was when I was really into outer space and everything in between. Begged my dad for weeks to let me, until he finally gave up. Him and Joel put them up one weekend, and they’ve been there since. Everywhere I look is a constant damn reminder of the southern drawl that reminds me of a warm summer day here in Texas, sipping on sweet tea while sitting on the porch.

The last thought I had before finally going to sleep was a pair of brown eyes instead of the usual blue ones, and rough, calloused hands instead of smooth and soft ones.

I am absolutely screwed.

[qwordavoider]

Hey, my love. So seeing as we're so upset about 8x17, can I request a lil' bit of 🦅🦅🦅? I'm SOOO curious about this one!

Anything for you 🥰 especially after that part of the episode. How does almost 1.3k words sound? This is a little introduction to Agent Kinard, Chief of Staff Bobby Nash, and one of my new OCs for this AU. Follows this snippet, enjoy!

-

“I’m only 5 years older than you, Evan,” he hissed in response.

“Fine, but you’re still moving too slow, Tommy.”

Thank god Buck had worn him down in the 7 months he had been assigned to oversee his protection.  Now he was able to just call him Tommy. He had been adamant about Buck calling him Agent Kinard from the jump. But that had felt so stuffy to Buck, so he refused. Tommy was able to hold out in the beginning, only responding when Buck eventually caved and said Agent Kinard. But by about month two, he could say Tommy and immediately get a response. 

The first time it had happened, Buck had cheered and gloated for days. Tommy pretended to be annoyed, but Buck had heard him the next morning humming the celebratory jingle Buck had made up the night before. Likely stuck in Tommy's head after Buck recited it non-stop for hours. He liked to think of Tommy as a friend, even if the man would vehemently deny it every time Buck brought it up.

Right now, though, he considered Tommy dead weight, at best.

They had been sneaking out like this the entirety of the time Tommy had been assigned to protect him. Their one agreement from the start was that, if Buck was going to do it, he had to stay in Tommy’s sight at all times. Buck hadn’t expected Tommy to agree at all, so he was happy to compromise with the man.

Thankfully, they made it to the end of the tunnel before the scheduled sweep and were slipping out the door to the crisp autumn air. Buck hated how immediately it felt like he could breathe better. He would never admit it to Tommy, but Buck was really grateful that he put up with this most nights. It sometimes felt like the only time he could truly be himself. 

As they approached where a couple of vehicles were stashed for emergencies, he again turned to Tommy and whispered, “Which one?”

“Echo 57,” Tommy replied, pointing at the small armored sedan. 

It was less conspicuous than the big SUVs Buck normally rode in, but no less safe in terms of being bulletproof and having as many blacked-out windows as legally allowed. They quickly loaded up and got the car moving, luckily, it was electric to aid in their stealth mission. 

As Buck and Tommy approached the security gate at the exit of the property, Buck pulled a container out of his bag. 

“Your snickerdoodles as requested. Courtesy of me and Bobby Nash,” Buck said as he handed it over to Daryl, his favorite security guard. 

The first time Buck and Tommy had tried to sneak out, Daryl caught them and was about to send them back when he saw how disappointed Buck was. The man had been working at the White House for almost 3 decades at this point. He had been through the previous 3 administrations and knew that sometimes, the first kids needed an escape from the daily drudgery. Or that was Buck’s assumption based on the way his gaze softened. 

He had made a deal with Buck. Any time he wanted to leave, he just needed to bring Daryl something from the kitchen. He let them go without payment that first night.

After that, Buck made sure to always come prepared with something else. By about the 5th time, Daryl had started making requests. Which Buck had been more than happy to provide because it allowed him to try his hand at some different recipes. Daryl was a willing test subject who was always honest about how it tasted. Sometimes brutally so. But Buck took it in stride, and he thought he had gotten pretty good after about 6 months of this. 

He watched as Daryl tried the cookies and beamed when Daryl moaned.

“These snickerdoodles are better than my mama’s. But don’t tell her I said that,” Daryl said, pointing a finger at both of them. 

“Our lips are sealed,” Buck played along. 

“I don’t know how that man finds time to make delicious cookies while also handling the stress of being your mother’s Chief of Staff,” Daryl pondered, shaking his head. 

Buck noticed there was a bit more disdain lacing his voice when he said, “your mother’s”. He knew that most of the staff’s opinions of his mother ranged from tolerance to outright contempt. No one ever explicitly said this, including Daryl, but Buck was around them enough to know anyway. Daryl was probably the staff member who was at the very farthest end of the contempt side of that scale. 

“He’s a man of many talents,” Buck said, shrugging. 

Truthfully, he didn’t know how Bobby did it either. But he always found a spare moment each day to say hi to Buck. And typically, about once a week, they would head to the kitchen for a lesson with the chef. Bobby was much better than Buck to begin with, but he appreciated having an additional instructor there guiding him through the recipe. 

Tommy was usually down there with them, unless it was his day off. It was probably the times when he would see the secret service agent at his most relaxed. He didn’t know if it was because he knew that they were safe or if it was because they were away from the prying eyes of his mother. But either way, Buck had been delighted when Tommy first joked along with them as they cooked. 

He turned back to the task at hand as he watched Daryl tuck the cookies away for safekeeping and passed back the container from the egg rolls Buck had made last week. Daryl would clean it when he went home and bring it back for it to be filled with his new request the following week.

“Any requests for next week?” Buck asked as he tucked the empty container back in his bag. 

“Hmm,” Daryl contemplated for a second before asking, “Kinard, you got any good family recipes?”

The shock was evident on Tommy’s face, but Buck found himself leaning forward in anticipation of what the normally very private man was going to say. 

He recovered quickly and answered with a question of his own, “You going for sweet again or something savory?”

“You know, let's stick with sweet again,” Daryl replied.

Tommy nodded and offered, “My Nonna has a recipe for cuccidati, which are these soft fig cookies that are typically served around Christmas time, but she would make them occasionally other times of the year too.”

“Count me in. Sheryl has been trying to get me to eat more fiber since I’ve been constipated a lot recently-”

Buck and Tommy groaned at the same time. “We didn’t need to know that, Daryl,” Buck said through a laugh. 

“It’s a natural part of getting older, kid. Get used to it,” Daryl chuckled before continuing, “So, where you fellas headed tonight?”

Tommy turned to Buck with an eyebrow raised in question, so Buck replied, “I was thinking we would go see Astrid tonight.”

Daryl turned and wrote that down on his paper. That had been the final part of their deal. He always had to tell Daryl where they were going in case something went wrong. At least one person outside of the duo had to know where they were going. 

“Good choice,” Daryl said with a smile as he pushed the button to open the gate. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“No promises,” Buck replied as he and Tommy pulled away, Daryl’s laugh following them to the end of the driveway.

The last of the tension, a permanent fixture in Buck’s shoulders these days, dissipated as they officially left the residence grounds.

-

Make me write