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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM | prologue

˗ˏˋ debts unpaid ˎˊ˗

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 3.5k

content: street racing culture, debt collection, first meetings, midnight races, dangerous driving, Spanish endearments as provocation, the dynamics of Tokyo's underground scene, and your first defeat in nineteen months.

✧ author's note ✧

Soooo here we fucking go.

I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you’re gonna read below hahaha.

“But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest” AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I’m okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it’s like… I write something else and my brain goes ‘yay thanks’. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music.

Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He’s cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She’s determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N’s because she’s handling different situations (you’ll see in later chapters).

And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line.

And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it.

AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story.

Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass.

But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves.

So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead.

Ready? Light’s about to turn green.

Also. Notes for this one are pretty high, that’s intentional. Like I just wanted to post the prologue to have it out for a bit but I still need to work on the arcs and major plot points. So I don’t have the story fully shaped out for now, which is why I want this to rest and check for engagement and reactions. Seriously—don’t crash out, I know this one will take time and that’s absolutely my intention!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

goal: 500 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @jkrailme @graydolan12

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solxamber · 2 months ago

Note

Going to get my driver's licence and now I'm curious. How bad do you think the twst characters would be behind a car?? Cause idk if they have cars in that world or some magic equivalent, but I'm 90% sure almost none of them now how. Like imagine Lillia behind the wheel. He would either crash the car or get you yo your destination with mild injuries. And I KNOW leona sucks at driving that sonnova gun probs doesn't even have his permit.

good luck soldier, hope you pass first try 🫡

leona is canonically good at driving! his liongarb vignette part 2 has him driving everyone and they say it's a surprisingly smooth ride, he's had his license since before he enrolled in nrc!

ooo let's see (these are my hcs)

How I think the twst boys drive:

Riddle

“If you don’t use your blinker, you deserve a revoked license and public humiliation.”

has a laminated printout of the dmv manual in his glove compartment. refers to it. frequently.

stress-mumbles the rules of the road like it’s a ritual to keep the car from crashing

WILL tailgate someone going under the speed limit while also ranting about how dangerous tailgating is

6/10 driving skills. you’ll get there. your spine might not survive the journey, but you’ll get there.

Trey

drives like a dad and acts like one too. snacks in the glovebox. tunes to an “easy listening” radio station no one asked for

makes full eye contact with you while backing into a parking space like it’s nothing. terrifying.

won’t yell at other drivers but will mutter very passive-aggressive things like “oh, nice turn signal, champ”

actually a good driver, but if you’re in a rush he suddenly forgets where the gas pedal is

9/10. safe, boring, you will arrive calmly unless you say something that triggers “dad lecture mode”

Cater

treats every red light like a selfie opportunity. traffic jam? story time.

“oops lol i forgot i was driving”—said as he casually swerves back into the lane with one hand and no shame

will absolutely blast hyperpop or sad girl music at full volume and sing along

uses gps and still misses every turn. rerouting? he’s rerouting his soul

4/10. looks good while driving but he’s taking you straight to the afterlife

Ace

somehow thinks he’s in mario kart. will try to drift. is bad at drifting.

screams “WE’RE FINEEEE” after hitting the curb for the third time

brakes too late, accelerates too fast, thinks honking is just “assertive communication”

if there’s a speed bump he’s treating it like a ramp. bonus points if he makes you hit your head on the ceiling

2/10. he’s the reason riddle has ulcers. do NOT get in the car if you value your life or bones.

Deuce

follows every rule with military precision. 10 and 2. full stops. checks mirrors like he’s solving a crime

“Yes ma’am, no ma’am, I mean—uh, officer! No officer! I wasn’t speeding I swear—” (he wasn’t. he was 5 under.)

will cry if you scream while he’s merging. please don’t scare the boy.

starts off driving like your grandma, then randomly hits you with a tokyo drift moment and doesn’t explain

7/10. either safest driver alive or full menace. depends on how much sleep he got.

Leona

the infuriatingly competent kind of driver who looks like he’s not paying attention, but then parallel parks in one smooth move without even checking the mirrors

arm out the window, seat leaned back, one hand on the wheel, vibes immaculate

doesn’t drive fast, but drives scarily efficient. like you blink and you’re at the destination

will not turn down the music. you are listening to the same remix loop for 45 minutes and you WILL like it.

9/10 driver. good under pressure, hates driving in the rain, will refuse to pick you up unless you bribe him with snacks or flattery.

Ruggie

terrifyingly resourceful behind the wheel. the kind of guy who’ll be like “oh yeah there’s a shortcut” and you end up on a goat trail with no guardrails

speed demon. not by choice. he just doesn’t believe in arriving late. or braking.

eats while driving. talks while driving. does parkour with the car while driving. you pray while riding.

every time he drives you somewhere, you owe him one. including emotional damage fees.

5/10. you will survive. but spiritually? you left your body three potholes ago.

Jack

rule follower. actual golden retriever on the road. if you litter out the window he will make a U-turn to go back and make you pick it up

will not speed, will not honk unless someone is literally on fire, will not change the radio station unless everyone agrees

but if someone cuts him off? feral instincts engaged.

quietly competitive. if someone passes him, he WILL accelerate. you may hear growling. don’t question it.

8.5/10. safe, solid, dependable. would drive you home from a party and make sure you drank water first.

Azul

thinks driving is a power move. like. he paid extra for that quiet engine start just to flex

fully uses driving time to monologue about business deals, plans, or subtle threats. you’re not sure if you’re carpooling or in a hostage negotiation

signals three miles ahead. checks mirrors like he’s being tailed by the fbi. he might be

very good at navigating. if gps reroutes, he reroutes it back. he wins against the algorithm.

9/10, but unnerving. you’re safe, but at what cost.

Jade

why does he have a license. who allowed this.

drives like he’s setting up a prank for someone ten miles ahead

never speeds, but takes the creepiest, emptiest backroads imaginable. says it’s “more scenic”

always smiling while driving. concerningly calm if something explodes. probably listening to classical music or nature documentaries

6/10. legally fine. emotionally? you’re not coming back the same.

Floyd

no one is shocked he passed the test. everyone is shocked he was legally allowed to take it

drives according to mood. if he’s bored, the car drifts. if he’s happy, he’s swerving in rhythm to the beat. if he’s angry? start writing your will.

makes driving sounds while driving. “vroom vroom~ screeeee~” for no reason

WILL throw fries at other cars. WILL try to high-five a biker at a stoplight. WILL unbuckle his seatbelt to “stretch” mid-drive

3/10. you either have the best day of your life or a near-death experience. possibly both.

Kalim

loudest driver alive. music blaring, windows down, shouting "WHEEEE~!" every time he accelerates

constantly turns around to talk to people in the backseat. like fully turns around. while driving.

forgets he’s not in a flying carpet. every stop sign is an opportunity to launch forward like it’s a joyride

someone told him roundabouts are fun so he goes around twice. just for the vibes.

4/10. he loves driving. driving does not love him back. you’re clutching the oh-shit handle the whole time.

Jamil

the only reason scarabia hasn’t been sued for vehicular crimes

drives like a tired single parent with 4 kids in the back screaming about McDonald's

SPEEDS when no one’s watching. you blink, he’s five miles ahead. shadow clone jutsu behind the wheel.

has memorized every traffic light timer in the city. never hits red. it’s… weird.

9/10. efficient, smooth, and will absolutely sigh dramatically the whole time you’re in the car.

Vil

drives a clean car. spotless. smells like luxury perfume and judgment

interior is curated. no trash. no crumbs. one water bottle and it’s aesthetically pleasing.

signals aggressively. like he flips that blinker with intent

will slow down to give you a Look if you’re in the wrong outfit to be seen with him

8/10. elegant and competent, but if you scuff his interior with your shoes, you’re walking.

Rook

who gave him a license. seriously. who looked at this man and went “yes. let him command a machine.”

sings full operas while driving. makes direct eye contact through the rearview mirror. unsettling.

has taken you on backroads even you didn’t know existed. somehow it was scenic.

talks like he’s narrating a wildlife documentary about the local traffic patterns

???/10. is he a good driver? no one knows. he’s just... driving.

Epel

lives for off-roading. doesn’t matter if he’s in a prius, he’s driving that baby like it’s a monster truck

drives like a 90-year-old when vil’s in the car. drives like he’s in a nascar trial when vil’s not

says “it’s fine, I’ve done this before” and proceeds to take a left turn at 70 mph

threatens to do donuts in the parking lot and then does them.

5/10. he’s trying his best. unfortunately, his best involves sick tricks and zero concern for tire life.

Idia

doesn’t.

has a license “for legal reasons,” but he treats driving like going outside is the final boss battle

owns a tricked-out car he never drives. it has led lights, anime decals, and a built-in gaming console. he uses it as a portable man cave

the one (1) time he did drive, he wore fingerless gloves, anime osts were blasting, and he whispered “initial D style” before forgetting which pedal was the brake

2/10. technically can drive. emotionally should not. you’re safer ubering with floyd.

Ortho

doesn't technically need a license but downloaded the entire dmv handbook into his memory for fun

his “car” is less “vehicle” and more “sentient ai-controlled hovercraft with wifi and snacks”

offers in-flight entertainment. like you’re not even on a plane. he just projects movies on the dashboard

drives at optimal efficiency.

11/10. the future of driving. terrifying and amazing. please stop letting him hack traffic lights though.

Malleus

he has a license. he studied for it. memorized the entire rulebook. aced the written.

the problem is: he drives like he's never seen another car before

goes 25 in a 60 because “it is the safest way to protect my precious cargo” (YOU)

stares at traffic lights like they personally offended him

car is some luxury vintage thing that makes no sense. you have to open the door with a key made of bone or something

3/10. you are deeply loved. and deeply late.

Lilia

drives like he’s lived through every era of vehicular invention. he owned a horse-drawn carriage and a tank

owns a beat-up, pink minivan with a custom wrap and dice in the mirror

speeds. aggressively. will swerve into the drive-thru and order fifty mcnuggets “for the road”

talks with both hands while driving. both. hands.

4/10. unpredictable. fun. chaos incarnate. your insurance company hates him.

Silver

good driver. responsible driver.

...except for the part where he falls asleep at stop signs

you’ll be halfway through a deep conversation and he’ll just nod off with his foot on the brake

car is clean, smells like lavender, and has one (1) emergency granola bar in every compartment

very gentle driver. almost too gentle. like “you didn’t feel the turn because he was spiritually aligned with the wheel” kind of gentle

6.5/10. smooth ride, but someone needs to keep him awake with snacks and playlist bangers.

Sebek

shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.

drives like he’s been assigned to escort the royal heir through enemy territory

yells at everyone on the road. pedestrians, squirrels, YOU—no one is safe from his critiques of your seatbelt position

insists on narrating everything. “SIGNALING LEFT. NOW SWITCHING LANES. REMAIN ALERT!”

the gps is set to his own voice. and you can’t turn it off

2/10. the only thing louder than the engine is his righteous fury.

Grim

that’s a cat.

(he tries to drive. he sits on the wheel. honks the horn with his butt. chews the seatbelt. it's a warzone in there.)

this was so fun to do lmao

#sol answers #twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #sol hcs

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rose24207 · 7 months ago

Note

I saw requests and I've read some of your Mafia Lando fics, can you do something where reader and Lando broke up and a few days later reader gets into a accident and the hospital calls him because he's next of kin when they were dating and when he gets there he's freaked and the doctors surprises him by saying the baby's fine.

Bound by blood and fate

Summary: After a devastating breakup, Lando is pulled back into your life when an accident reveals not only your fragile state but also the existence of the baby he never knew you carried, forcing him to confront his love for you and his vow to protect his growing family

Genre: Mafia!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: Mafia, car accident, pregnancy

A/N: thank youuu for the request. I really love all of your ideas! I hope you like it! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The breakup had been ugly.

Ugly and inevitable, or so it seemed. The constant arguments, Lando’s late nights, the secrets he wouldn’t share—it all built up until the tension became unbearable. When you’d finally walked out of his penthouse a few nights ago, neither of you had looked back.

You told yourself it was for the best. You weren’t meant to live in Lando’s dangerous world.

He had tried to shield you from it, tried to convince you that his darker dealings wouldn’t touch your life. But the cracks in his promises had widened over time, and you couldn’t ignore the risks anymore.

The days since then had passed in a blur of loneliness and regret.

Each moment away from him felt like a weight pressing down on your chest, but you reminded yourself why you’d left.

You couldn’t stay in the shadow of his empire.

You couldn’t live in fear.

But even as you repeated those words to yourself like a mantra, there was something you hadn’t told him. Something that made your stomach churn with every passing hour.

You were pregnant.

You’d found out two days before the breakup. The test had been positive, and your mind had spiraled in every direction—joy, fear, uncertainty. You’d planned to tell him that night, but the fight had derailed everything.

And now? Now it was too late. Lando was gone.

The accident happened on the fourth day after the breakup.

It was raining hard as you drove down the winding roads outside the city. The windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and visibility was poor. You had been heading to your doctor’s appointment, determined to make sense of your next steps alone.

But fate had other plans.

Your car skidded on the slick pavement as you rounded a corner, the tires losing traction. You tried to correct the steering, but it was too late. The vehicle spun out of control, slamming into a guardrail before flipping over and landing in a ditch.

The world went black.

When Lando’s phone rang, he almost didn’t answer it. He had been drowning in his own misery since you’d left, throwing himself into work to avoid thinking about you.

But something about the unknown number on the screen made him pause.

“Hello?” His voice was sharp, impatient.

“Is this Lando Norris?” a calm, clinical voice asked.

“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“This is St. James Hospital. You’ve been listed as the emergency contact for [Y/N]. She’s been in an accident.”

The blood drained from his face. “What? Is she—” His voice cracked. “Is she okay?”

“She’s stable, but she’s in critical care,” the doctor replied. “We need you to come in as soon as possible.”

He didn’t think twice. Grabbing his keys, he was out the door in minutes, driving faster than he had in his entire life.

Lando burst into the hospital, his heart racing as he approached the front desk.

“[Y/N] [L/N],” he said, barely able to keep his voice steady. “I’m her emergency contact. Where is she?”

The nurse nodded, quickly directing him to the ICU. He didn’t even thank her, his focus solely on reaching you.

When he stepped into the room, the sight of you lying in the hospital bed made his chest tighten painfully.

You looked so small, so fragile, your face pale against the stark white sheets.

A doctor stood at your bedside, checking your vitals. He turned as Lando entered, offering a calm but serious expression.

“You’re Mr. Norris?” the doctor asked.

Lando nodded. “What happened? Is she going to be okay?”

“She suffered a concussion and a few broken ribs, but she’s stable,” the doctor explained. “We’ll need to monitor her closely for the next 24 hours, but she’s a fighter.”

Relief flooded through Lando, but it was short-lived as the doctor continued.

“And the baby is fine as well,” the doctor added.

Lando froze. “The… what?”

The doctor frowned slightly. “You didn’t know? She’s about 10 weeks pregnant. The impact was severe, but there’s no sign of harm to the baby. It’s a miracle, really.”

Lando’s world tilted on its axis. Pregnant? You were pregnant? His heart pounded as he looked at you, the realization sinking in like a punch to the gut.

He sat by your bedside for hours, his hands trembling as he held yours. Memories of your last fight replayed in his mind, and guilt twisted in his chest.

If he had known… If you had told him…

But it didn’t matter now.

All that mattered was that you were okay, that both of you were okay.

When you finally stirred, your eyes fluttering open, his breath hitched. He leaned forward, his face hovering inches from yours.

“Lando?” Your voice was weak, but the surprise in your tone was unmistakable.

“I’m here,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I’m here, love.”

Tears welled in your eyes as the reality of your situation came rushing back. “The baby—”

“Is fine,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re both fine. But why didn’t you tell me?”

Fresh tears spilled over as you looked away. “We were already falling apart. I didn’t think it would change anything.”

“Change anything?” Lando’s voice cracked with emotion. “Everything changes, [Y/N]. You and this baby—you’re my everything.”

You turned back to him, searching his eyes for the truth. “But your world, Lando… it’s dangerous. I didn’t want to bring a child into it.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he considered your words. “You’re right. My world is dangerous. But I’ll protect you—both of you—with everything I have. I swear it.”

Your lip quivered, but before you could respond, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve lost too much already. I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

The days that followed were a blur of recovery and quiet conversations. Lando rarely left your side, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive.

He made calls, tightening security around your home and ensuring that anyone who even thought of causing trouble would think twice.

You saw a new side of him—a man willing to go to any lengths for the people he loved. And as much as you’d tried to deny it before, you realized that love had never stopped between the two of you.

It wasn’t going to be easy. There were still battles to fight, both within and outside of Lando’s world.

But as he sat beside you, his hand resting gently on your stomach, you knew one thing for certain:

You weren’t alone anymore.

Thank you for reading!

#lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando x you #f1 #fluff #mafia!lando #f1 mafia au #mafia #angst with a happy ending #angst #car crash #accident

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delopsia · 6 months ago

Text

the kind that money can't buy (calico creek) | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 12,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, friends to lovers, size kink, general awkwardness due to a love confession gone wrong. Cunnilingus, creampies, multiple orgasms, hand jobs, grinding, usage of the 'snowed-in' trope, slightly implied inexperienced reader. Reader generally being overwhelmed at times. Notes are subject to be updated because I feel like I'm forgetting something... My almost-late entry for @lewmagoo's holiday celebration!

Brief Summary: Sometimes, all love needs is a botched love confession, broken bridges, a tiny cabin out on Calico Creek, and an inconceivable amount of snow. Inspired by the Stephen Wilson Jr. song, Calico Creek.

"And what's the plan if we die on this mission?"

"There ain't one," Rhett chuckles, his eyes flickering between the bridge and the rearview mirror. Whatever he sees isn't enough, has to twist in his seat to look out the back window. "Might as well write your will and send it via carrier pigeon."

He's gonna die with the left side of his neck, and the lower portions of his jaw smeared in cheap paint, and he doesn't even know it. Hell, there might be some in his hair now that you look at it.

You don't know how he can manage to do this. You can hardly look away from the window for more than a second, staring down at the edge of the bridge. Nothing but rushing waters and wood laid decades before you were born, no guardrail to prevent you from plummeting a hundred-something feet to your rocky, hypothermic demise.

The turn onto this old-fashioned safety hazard is almost too tight for the trailer, one of the tires briefly hanging midair as it crawls onto the bridge. Something creaks below, low and grumpy, an ancient spirit disturbed from its eternal slumber.

"I still think it's cracking beneath us." That sounds like wood cracking. Does he not hear it? Why is he not putting it in reverse yet?

"Well, we don't seem to be fallin' yet." The idiot seems to have left his intelligence back at the rodeo.

You must have forgotten yours, too, because you're the one who stupidly agreed to this whole venture, knowing full well you would have to cross this godforsaken bridge. This thing has been ready to collapse since the day you were born and has threatened to take you down the countless times you've ventured over it. But, like clockwork, the truck crawls out the other side, emerging onto safe, solid ground.

"Oh, I forgot all about this," you don't mean to say it out loud, but it slips past your defenses, a breath that you can only hold back for so long.

Snow-covered trees decorate the sides of the beaten gravel road, arching overhead, their baren branches seeming to kiss the silver sky itself. Icicles hang from some of them, twinkling in the light. Stunning in its own right, but nowhere near as gorgeous as Calico Creek herself, still just as wild and alive as she has always been.

It's a wonder the Tillerson's haven't tried stealing this out from under the Abbotts, too. There's no way they haven't heard the stories about this place, and there's no way they have never wondered about where the water beneath the bridge on Warm Creek Road leads.

"The cabin is still standing?" It looks the same, too. Time itself must stop every time someone leaves this place.

"For some reason," Rhett's nails tap against the steering wheel. "Mom comes out here to pull weeds every other month in the summer."

"Still?"

"Old habits die hard."

And that...fuck, what do you say? Nothing? That was an invitation for a follow-up.

...no, maybe it wasn't. Why are you making it weird? Come on, think.What is it that you usually say when Cecelia comes up in conversation? Oh! You should ask about...no, he already said that she's spent all day cooking a roast.

The tires slip beneath the truck. Rhett reaches for the gear shifter. His paint-mottled hand spins across the wheel, drawing the vehicle off the ice as quickly as it crawled onto it. Focused entirely on the road and nothing else.

Rodeo lights flicker through your mind. Old dirt flies through the air again, a neverending plume of dust that still makes your nose burn. Your stomach is twisting around, working itself into a knot it'll never get out of.

"Hello?" A gloved hand waves in front of your face. "Y' in there?"

"Huh?"

The truck has long since stopped. Crudely parked in front of the cabin with no regard for how it may look to anyone else. It's been stopped for a while, too; you can already feel the cooler air creeping through the vents. How a cowboy like him can put up with a truck that only blows heat when it's moving is beyond you. You would have sold this thing years ago.

"I was askin' if you're ready," Rhett's brow furrows, and for a moment, you're worried that he can see straight through you. "Are you sure you slept last night?"

"Yeah." Lie.

The corner of his mouth wobbles up and down, lips parting with the beginnings of a sentence. Then, flattening into a line. Your eyes meet. You don't know what to say. Neither does he. Your face feels hot all of a sudden.

It's too damn quiet in this truck.

Your saving grace comes in the form of a squealing door hinge. Shrill. Screaming at the top of its lungs as Rhett shoves it open. Yeah. Okay. You'll get out, too, then.

If life were a comic, then the rush of frozen air would have steam rising from your heated cheeks. Fortunately, no such thing happens; it's just your burning skin and the vicious bite of single-digit temperatures eating away at what little moisture you have left, not satisfied until your skin has been left raw and chapped.

Snow crunches beneath your boots, soft at first but growing firm as it compacts under your weight. Every step feels just as unsteady as the last, and with each one, you're nearly certain that this time, you will find uneven ground and go tumbling head-first into this pristine, wintery hell that has encased the entire state of Wyoming. And yet, you continue to find solid footing.

"Remind me again why we're looking for a...?" Your words die in your throat, lost to the howling wind. Did he ever mention what you were looking for out here?

A moment passes. Rhett turns his head to you. Gives you a few more seconds to conjure up the words you're looking for. "Horse-drawn grain drill?" Finishing your thought. "Mom saw a post on Facebook and thinks she can turn it into decor."

You don't know what a horse-drawn grain drill is, but you've got a feeling that it's the old jumble of rusted metal that has been decaying against a cedar tree since you were in kindergarten. Somewhere behind the cabin, beyond the tree line. "Is this another one of those projects that she starts and you have to finish?"

"What makes ya guess that?" The corner of his eye crinkles with his smile; now that you've got something to compare it to, the snow doesn't seem so bright anymore.

"Well, last I checked, she was the one repainting the walls downstairs," the ground shifts beneath your foot. Sends you stumbling. "But half of your jaw is a nice shade of Beacon Gray."

"Shit." His hands rise, blindly pawing at his face with the backs of his gloved hands, digging at it the best that he can manage. "Why didn't ya tell me I had this shit all over my face?" Flecks of gray rain down like snowflakes, scattering across the front of his jacket.

He pauses, those expectant blue eyes landing on your shivering frame. Hopeful, even. Poor thing hasn't the slightest clue that his neck is stained with the imprint of his own hand right now.

You shake your head. "I think you're gonna have to shave to get it all off."

His whine echoes through the empty trees. "But I just got it to the right length again!"

As if it would get to last past the weekend, you can already hear Cecelia fussing at him to shave and tidy himself up for Christmas Service. She'll probably try squeezing him into that old suit she had tailored for him after he graduated high school, too. So tiny and narrow that the fabric visibly struggles to contain those broad shoulders...

You've gotta think of something else before you start drooling and a damn icicle forms.

"What, you don't think it adds character?" Rhett leans over, knocking his arm against yours. If he hears your heart lurch in your chest, he doesn't comment on it.

Looking at him is the worst thing you could possibly do. He's just so close, and he's waited until this very moment to tilt his head down and ease that old cowboy hat on, the felt one with the chipped brim. Rugged, just like his four-day-old scruff and the unruly hair that curls behind his ear and hasn't been cut since spring began.

"It adds...something," you don't know what your conclusion is supposed to mean. Fortunately, he doesn't ask any further; just rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

Against all odds, that old bench Royal built for you is still sitting and facing the creek. The piles of snow almost entirely obscure its frame, but it's the bench nonetheless. Two wooden pallets crudely cut and nailed together, Abbott engineering at its finest.

"Do you remember the tire swings?" You vaguely remember them, hung from trees that once occupied the space the bench now occupies. But they weren't ordinary tire swings. No, they were fashioned to look like horses, with old recycled bridles and name tags. Isabela and Flash.

Rhett shakes his head, chuckling at a memory. "I remember jumpin' off of 'em a lot."

"And breaking your arm because you overshot and landed in the creek?" You can still hear Cecelia screaming at the top of her lungs. "No wonder why you turned out to be a bull rider. You're still chasing the high of nearly breaking your neck in Calico Creek."

All he can do is laugh; there's no defending himself from this one.

Fortunately for him, the conversation dies at the sight of that old hunk of metal. It still lies in the same spot it's always been, somewhat sunken into the soil and leaving behind an indent in the tree it rests against. The thing has all the right in the world to stubbornly cling to its resting place, but Rhett doesn't even seem to struggle when he pulls on it.

It's reasonably light, all things considered.

...or maybe it just feels light because Rhett is doing most of the pulling.

But the metal is frozen in a thin sheet of ice, and by the time you get it within distance of the trailer, it's melted and seeped into your gloves. Frozen water gnawing at your already cold fingers, eating through flesh and straight down into the bone. Solidifying in your joints for extra measure.

You've got no choice but to drag it along for no reason other than you can't let go. Trudging through the snow, audibly crunching with every step, every inch of your exposed skin burning in a frozen fire. And it must freeze your memory, too, because the next thing you remember is the rear trailer gate falling open, clattering against the ground. It creates a ramp of sorts.

"I can pull it up from here," Rhett, ever the gentleman.

You'd love to let him take it, but...well, you're trying, but your fingers are hardly budging. Frozen in place, another piece of the machine. You don't remember when they went numb, but you can hardly feel them anymore; they may have even detached from your body entirely. But, slowly, they pry themselves open, stiff muscles fighting against your effort to pull your hand back to your chest.

Rhett tilts his head. "'s your hand frozen?"

"My glove got soaked," pausing to blow air onto it. The heat of your breath is nice...until it fades and leaves you even more aware of the difference in temperature. "It's fine, just a little cold."

"'Cold' my ass," muttering under his breath. He reaches out, his big hand practically engulfing yours as he pulls it toward him, plucking the soaked glove off before you've even realized what he's doing. "I ain't havin' ya get frostbit."

His other hand dives into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief that's been wrapped around something. You can feel the heat radiating off of it before he's even placed it in your frozen palm. A hand warmer.

The wind nips at your frosty skin, but the handkerchief is big enough that you can wrap the fabric around your hand entirely. A thin shield to block off at least some of the cold.

Truly, you don't think Rhett even needed you to come along in the first place because he gets the old piece of equipment onto the trailer without the slightest hint of a struggle. It's so easy that you almost catch yourself looking back to see if there's a bigger piece to haul up. Why did he ask you to help with something so simple?

And why did you agree to it?

It's something you're still wondering when you heave yourself back up into the truck, squeezing into the corner of the old cloth seat like it'll somehow save you from the burst of frigid air that races out of the vents. God, why were you wishing for snow last week? This is hell.

"How do you put up with this every winter?" You're fighting to keep your teeth from chattering, not even going to make an attempt at straightening yourself out to put the seat belt on. Curling into a ball sounds like a much better option than that; safety be damned.

"Layers 'n a dash of self-hatred." The truck rumbles as Rhett's foot presses on the gas pedal, the beaten tires frantically searching for traction on the slick ground. They find it. Lurching forward. "I shoulda become an accountant or somethin'."

"You as an accountant?" Snickering.

Somewhere, in the effort to almost entirely spin the truck around, Rhett finds the chance to lean over and knock his elbow against yours. "Hey, y' don't see none of them office folk freezin' for a livin', now do ya?"

"I'd love to see you crammed in a little cubicle," you laugh, and all he can do is roll his eyes, shaking his head all the while.

A beam of light bounces off the creek waters. You know it's merely the change in angle that caused it, but the little voice in your head quietly wonders if old Calico Creek is laughing with you. She keeps doing it, too. Light-reflecting in little sparks, bouncing off chunks of broken ice and the rushing silver water itself, following you all the way up to the bridge.

You don't remember the bridge groaning like this last time. Maybe more towards the middle, but certainly not this early. Though, even as you untwist from your huddle and peer out the window, you can't see anything crumbling.

"Rhett?"

"I hear it."

Still, he eases the truck forward, but you can hear the whir of the window as he rolls it down. You would do the same and stick your head out, too, if you weren't just now regaining sensation in your nose.

It sounds like popcorn beneath you. Soft little popping noises that you can feel when you press your feet against the floorboard.

Rhett jumps for the shifter.

Wood snaps.

The truck dips forward.

Something roars. You're going backward. The earth spins. White and silver and brown blurs into one big mess. Metal and tires scream. Your head bounces against the back of the seat.

And everything is still.

You're facing the river. The cabin is on your right, and the bridge is...the bridge is...

"Did it...?"

"Yeah..." Rhett whispers, his eyes as equally glued to the sight as yours are. "it did."

The bridge is gone.

"I have good news and bad news." Rhett's voice bounces off every wall in the cabin, almost makes it hard for you to figure out which of the two rooms he's walking out of. As if you didn't watch him disappear into one the moment that his phone started ringing.

"What's the good news?" You ask, squeezing the hand warmer just a little tighter. But there's no longer any heat radiating from it, reduced to nothing but a dull, rapidly fading warmth.

"The bad news is," it seems he's completely ignoring what you just said. "The roads are shit 'n Perry doesn't think he can plow out the upper path 'till at least tomorrow afternoon."

And then he's gone. Vanishing back into the room he just moseyed out of.

"The good news?" You know he can hear you, but you don't get a reply. Nothing but a load of underwhelming silence. "Rhett?"

Something thunks against the floor. Heavy. Solid.

"Remember that time we snuck out and went over to Idaho for that rodeo mom didn't want me goin' to?" The echo is so bad that it takes a moment to catch up to what he's just said.

A memory stirs to mind. "I remember you getting drunk and busting your lip falling out of the truck."

Rhett's head pokes around the corner, his pale nose wrinkled with what you can only identify as disgust. Maybe a hint of embarrassment. Not his favorite memory, you suppose.

"I don't know if y' remember it, but Dad was so furious that he made me come out here 'n chop every downed tree he could find for weeks." He disappears for another moment. Then, steps back into the room, lifting a chunk of split wood into the air. "Come to find out, all of it's still here."

"Suddenly, I'm considering forgiving you for the grilling your mom gave us after that." You can't resist your smile. For once, your teenage antics pay off, even if it was all his idea.

"It's inappropriate for you two to be alone together like that!" Mocking in the shrillest voice he can manage as he steps over to the fireplace, bending down to load the wood inside. "Don't know why she always thought that we..." His Adam's apple bobs. Glancing at you.

You look away.

...yeah.

Your lower belly twists, inexplicably filling with butterflies who have blades for wings. Or maybe they're moths, eating through you like old laundry. Whatever they are, they worsen when you peek at him through the corner of your eye, the momentary flicker of a memory nearly making you nauseous.

"Do you need help?" You don't know why you're asking when you're already reaching out, ready to take the next chunk of wood from him. It'll be easier for you to put it in; you're already down here on the floor.

"No, it's—it's fine," he freezes mid-crouch. Your fingers brush against the back of his hand. "I've got it. You should..."

Life...stops.

For a split second, you fear that your fingertips have melted and become one with him, stuck together for the rest of eternity. But the blaze of the fire burns before you can reach melting point, jerking away as if burned. Rhett looks away. You do, too.

You're right back at the rodeo again.

Dusty Sunday night air spirals around you. A dry earthy scent burns at your nose, disguising the already vague tinge of sweat and what you can only describe as animal that clings to him. Dirt clings to his glistening jaw, smeared all the way down his neck and the left side of his jeans.

If you didn't know any better, you would think they replaced Rhett with that of a wild-eyed mustang, icy blues damn near about to swallow you whole. It hardly matches his stuttered whispers, so damn shy in comparison to what lurks at the surface.

"I...I uhm..." his boot kicks at the ground, stirring up another plume of dirt. "I know ain't good at this sort of thing, but I—" His tongue hitches, lips still moving, but not a damn thing comes out.

Broad shoulders shiver. Caving in on themselves. And he drops his head, the brim of his hat concealing everything but his mouth from view. Hiding in plain sight. This doesn't nearly match the excitement that the shiny new championship buckle in his hand should warrant, but now it's been reduced to nothing but a toy for him to fidget with. Twisting it round and round in his wavering palm.

"Rhett...?" Hooking your finger under the very edge of his hat, lifting it until you catch sight of red cheeks and impossibly wide baby blues. A deer caught in the headlights.

"I love you."

It's there and gone with the breeze. So swift that if not for the sight of his lips shaping around those three little words, you would think you made it up entirely.

But it was there, still clear as day in your memory; if you try hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can step through time. Re-enter your starstruck body and kiss him before the sheriff can cut in and shoo you away to ask questions about another spat between his family and the Tillersons.

But time travel doesn't exist, and that confession still hangs in the air, its rusty hinges squealing every time you think you've finally forgotten about it. What do you even say now? 'Hey, I'm sorry that in the span of a few weeks, I couldn't conjure up a better way to revive the topic, but I love you too. Hope you haven't taken my silence as rejection and moved on already!' What if he didn't even mean it as a love confession?

Rhett hasn't said anything about it.

Neither have you.

The crackle of the fire is the only thing present to fill the silence. Occasionally broken apart by the pops of Rhett's joints every time he goes to fetch another piece of wood, ancient floorboards groaning in tandem with the thump of his boots. Even his jingling spurs are a welcome sound, shrill as they might be.

Nightfall is either your greatest blessing or the biggest curse known to mankind. The darkest corners of the cabin are lost to the shadows in a matter of hours. God knows if anything is lurking in there, ready to pounce at any given moment, but with it, Rhett's solemn face disappears, too. Reduced to glistening eyes and flashes of skin in the firelight.

"Do you remember when we used to beg your mom to let us spend the night up here?" The sound of your voice is borderline shocking. A smidge too loud for the heavy silence that covers the room like a thick winter blanket.

Rhett's hum dissolves into a chuckle. "Guess we really should have listened when she told us to watch what we wish for."

He peeks at you through the corner of his eye, a strand of brown hair falling out from behind his ear and into his face. You catch his gaze, locking for a lingering moment. His mouth rises into a weary smile.

"We should have wished for endless snacks and a million-dollar lottery ticket while we were at it," you can only imagine what other things you two have begged poor Cecelia for. "And maybe a spare blanket."

Rhett blinks. Staring into the fire. His eyes widen, lighting up with a realization. "I got some in the truck."

"Lottery tickets?"

"Blankets," he's trying his best to sound annoyed, but his own grin betrays him.

Something in his knee pops as he stands up, audibly protesting, but he's already on his feet. There go those spurs again, chiming away with every step, glinting in the light, and...

"What is that?" You ask, with a tilt of your head. It doesn't help you see any better, but the effort is there.

Rhett freezes. "Huh?"

"Come here," beckoning him closer. "You've got something on the back of your boot."

"Those are called spurs, sweetheart," but Rhett comes back to you anyway.

He...meant that as a joke. Yeah. That's what it was.

...right?

"No, it's..." There's something silver just above the spur on his left heel, so sharp that it pierces straight through the leather. Something long and gray hangs from it. Feels like plastic. It looks like...a rubber fish?

"'s that a damn Rapala?" Rhett's voice rises in pitch. Confused.

"I didn't know fishing lures could catch cowboys," giggling, you pinch the hook, tugging it from the hole it's created in his shoe. The thing is ancient. Its once brilliant silver scales now a muted yellow, the singular remaining hook mangled and warped into an unrecognizable mess.

He reaches down, opening that big hand of his. The little lure practically shrinks when you place it in his palm, suddenly nothing but a minuscule hunk of plastic and metal. "I knew they were in the creek but I didn't expect them to be all the way up here, too."

You think that you can still hear Cecelia calling out, warning you two to watch where you step and to be careful in the shallow creek waters. It's a wonder how neither of you ever got a hook in your foot. You've lost track of how many summer Sunday afternoons you've spent in Calico Creek. You don't think you even liked visiting their church; you only ever tagged along because of what came after the service ended.

Thump_

"What was that?" You're pretty sure it came from outside, but you're not about to dismiss the potential of someone lurking in the shadows of the room.

"Dunno," but he's about to find out, slinking toward the door like a stray cat. You don't know how he does it, but his boots are suddenly quiet. The spurs on his heels don't even sing. All holding their breath as he opens the door.

It's snowing so hard that you can see the shape of the wind when it bursts through the gap, cloaked like a ghost in a white sheet. Swirling around the room, all too eager to eat away at the warmth of the fire. Circling closer and closer with all the ferocity of a pack of hungry wolves. A shiver races up your spine.

"Hang on."

The door slams shut, and—

"Rhett?" You squeak. Where did he...did he go outside? He must have. You only looked away for a moment, and you would have heard it if he had rushed into the backroom.

In his place lingers, what you can only describe as a sentient winter wind, rushing through the thick fabric of your clothes as you stand and make your way to the door. It doesn't matter how long you've been huddled by the fire. By the time your hand finds the ice-cold door knob, you're shivering again.

Snow bursts through the gap once more, splattering across your face. Clinging to your eyelashes, wiggling down through the collar of your jacket.

"Rhett?" But the midnight air swallows your voice like a sponge. It doesn't even echo. You can't see a thing. Not the truck, not Calico Creek, not a damn thing. "Rhett!"

No such reply. It's as if he was never even here in the first place, but you can vaguely see his footprints in the snow. They don't go far.

Or rather, you can't see them go very far out. You could be floating through space right now, and you would be none the wiser about it. It's all just...black. Even as you step through the door, your unsteady frame slammed by a bigger, angrier gust of wind.

"Rhett!" Your voice should be able to get louder than this, but no such thing happens. Maxed out. "Rhett!"

You still don't see him. What the hell did he go looking for? Shit, what if it was someone lurking outside that grabbed him? And now you've just made it known to the whole forest that you're out here by yourself!

A shape moves in the distance.

You jump back, snow-caked boots sliding across the floor. Your grip on the door handle is the only reason you don't fall.

It's getting closer. You think you can see two legs. Walking closer and closer, and—

"Rhett!" Your voice breaks this time.

But it's him. Shoulders coated in a dusting of snow. Hair blowing into his windburnt face. Some kind of thick fabric bundled up into his arms. Blankets, you think. The wind blows harder, and he disappears into the sea of white once again, the waves trying to suck him back into the abyss.

Snow tumbles into the front door as he steps inside. He's carried half of tonight's snowfall into the damn cabin. But you can't think about that right now.

"Blankets?" You don't know if your voice is shaking from the cold or if you're just mad. "You run out into a blizzard and scare me half to death for fucking blankets?"

Rhett Abbott has had his soul replaced with that of a newborn deer because he looks like one caught in the headlights. Wide blue eyes staring back at you, can't possibly fathom what has got you so mad. As if he's not the one who just inexplicably ran off into the night with no regard for his own safety.

Those snow-dusted eyelashes flutter. "You said you wanted one." Innocent as can be.

And you...you did ask for those, but. "You could have said something before you just up and walked out."

"Were you worried about me?" His head tilts to the side.

"Maybe I was," muttering, you turn back to the fire. There's a chair sitting in the back corner. Wooden. Didn't look all that inviting until just now, swallowed up by one of the many shadows cast by the fire. The chilly air has collected over here, clustering into its own little storm, but you can't feel it. Not with how hot your face has gotten all of a sudden.

The chair creaks beneath your weight. It breaking is the last thing you need right now, but fortunately, it seems to hold. You lean forward, face falling into your hands. Of course. Of course, he went to get the blankets that you asked for. And here you are yelling at him like a damsel in distress as if he wasn't born and raised in conditions worse than this.

Something drapes across your shoulders. Fuzzy. Smells like the bonfire the Abbott's had a few weeks back, burning away the brush collected from the most recent storm. Another one wedges itself into your lap, Rhett stubbornly pushing it onto you as if you're the one covered in snow and not him.

"What are you doing?" Peeking through the gaps in your fingers.

"Buildin' you a cocoon and hangin' ya from the ceilin'," he hums, and if you didn't know him any better, you might have thought he was dead serious. "Wanna see if you'll come out with wings like one of them butterflies."

You're putting on your best frown.

Or at least, you think you are. You can't really feel your face. "This implies that I look like a caterpillar."

"Hey, caterpillars are cute," says Rhett Abbott, the man who yelped when he saw a bright green caterpillar inching up his pant leg last summer."Y' remember that book we used to have where the little dude kept eatin' everything?"

"The one you took a bite out of?" Yeah, you remember that.

"The caterpillar did that." Still just as defensive as he was when Cecelia started asking questions about what happened to the book. "Not me."

"Uhuh." Sure.

The last of the snowflakes scatter from his eyelashes, cascading down onto his bright red cheeks and melting into minuscule little droplets of water that seem to dance in the firelight. A tiny galaxy that is wiped out by a singular stroke of your thumb.

...you're touching his face.

You don't recall when your hand left your side, but it's resting against his jaw, your thumb still damp with the evidence of your crime. He's noticed it. There's no way he hasn't noticed it, but he's not telling you to stop. And...well...you're already here.

Properly curling your hand around his cheek is the easiest thing you've done in a lifetime, his soft scruff tickling your palm. Rhett still doesn't say anything. Hell, it's so quiet that you can hear the minuscule sound of him breathing through his nose. His lashes flutter again. Thinking about something.

He tilts his head, leaning into your touch.

"You're frozen." You noticed that a long time ago, but if you don't break the silence, you're gonna combust.

"Yeah, that kinda..." his mouth hangs open, tongue visibly faltering for a good moment or three, "happens when...you snow."

Your giggle is so loud that it echoes, but you hardly notice it. "When you snow, huh?"

He's running from you.

You can't believe it. He's squirming up to his feet and turning around, his hands rising to cover his face in a fashion identical to what you did mere minutes ago. Mutters something, but it's so muffled that you can't understand a word he's said. You don't necessarily care to figure it out, either. A little bit distracted by the sound of puzzle pieces clicking into place.

You think you get it now.

The floorboard squeals as you stand, the sharp sound eating away every bit of the certainty that you just built up, but your momentum still carries you forward. Feet falling one after the other as if caught in a trance.

Rhett turns to look at you, then back to the door.

He tries to, at least.

It happens on reflex. You grabbing ahold of his jacket collar, pulling so hard that you both stumble. He gasps. So do you. Chest to chest in this tiny old cabin, nothing but the flickering fire to guide your eyes as you drink in his face. The same old, big blue eyes you've always known. Pouty lips wobbling, torn between a lopsided smile and trying to come up with something to say.

If this were a dream, it would be perfect. Seamlessly falling into place like trained actors.

But this is real, and you're both moving at the same time, and your noses clash at the same time your mouths do. You stumble. His arm cinches around you. Pulls you closer. Teeth clatter. It's everything that a Hallmark first-kiss scene isn't, and it's incredible. All those movies, and they still couldn't quite capture the dream of kissing your best friend in—

Best friend.

"Shit, I..." Jerking away. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat. "I shouldn't have..." Shouldn't have what? Kissed him without asking?

Oh, but he's grinning at you like a damn fool. Wobbly smile and sparkling gaze, flickering back and forth between your lips and eyes. You don't feel the hand resting on the small of your back until it's pulling you back in, lips crashing once more.

A faint twinge of mint and chocolate still lingers on his lips, the only remaining evidence for his crime of raiding his momma's jar of Christmas chocolates. Or maybe cowboys just taste like that. Rough as stone, carved and broken into jagged edges by the test of time, but sweet as can be on your lips.

He steps forward at the same time you do, already can't stand the minuscule gap between your bodies. But your foot slips between his, and the side of his spur catches on the toe of your shoe, and you're falling.

Your elbow slams into the wooden floor. Chin bouncing off his too-firm chest. It's a damn miracle that he's the one who fell backward. You may not have survived if your positions were reversed, solid as he is.

"Guess I fell for you," Rhett wheezes, groaning low in his throat.

"Idiot," giggling.

Figuring out where your legs have landed is a task of its own, your frozen joints protesting any further movement for fear of another catastrophic fall. Rhett doesn't make much of an attempt to move. Content to part his legs and let your body fit between them, knees resting against your hips.

His palm finds your cheek, calloused fingertips stroking the soft skin there. You're melting into it before you can realize what you're doing, drowning in the sensation of how big his hand is. You think it could cover half of your face without even trying.

"'n here I thought I'd fucked this all up," his hum vibrates through his chest and right into yours; kind of feels like distant thunder.

"I didn't know how to bring it back up after Joy left." It's easy again. Talking to him, confessing exactly what's on your mind without fear of further fracturing things. "Then you didn't say anything either, and I...figured I'd read into it the wrong way."

His thumb finds the corner of your mouth, gently tugging it up into a squished smile. "Oops."

You can't help but reach for him, too, your hand finding his cheek once more, just for the hell of it. In the shadows of the fire, you can see the small chunk of skin permanently missing from his nose. An old scar from a kitchen fight with Perry a while back, courtesy of Perry's wedding ring and an argument that you don't remember the context of. Something about a remark Perry made on an already tense night.

Should you?

Rhett blinks.

Yeah, you should.

"Watcha doin'?" He asks, scrunching his nose as you lean in, pressing your lips to that little scar.

"Something I've thought about doing ever since you barged through my front door with blood pouring down your face," pressing another to the tip of his nose.

"Funny, I recall y' wantin' to hit me at first."

"Because you scared the hell out of me."

"'s that why y' tripped me just now?" There's that light tone in his voice. Taunting. "Revenge?"

"Shut up." You know where this is going.

So does he. "Make me—"

Kissing him quiet. Another thing off your bucket list. Maybe it was on his, too, because he laughs into your mouth like he's been waiting on this his whole damn life. Hell, you know you have.

Your skin prickles beneath your layers of clothing, burning from head to toe, and you can only peel your winter coat off so fast. Pulling away from him might be the hardest thing you've ever done, but in the time it takes you to shrug it off, Rhett has gotten his off, too. That old black undershirt hugs his frame a little bit too well; you almost stop and stare.

Almost.

Rhett's arm loops over your shoulders as you come back to him, hand curling around your bicep, lazily hanging on. Those jackets must have been a mile-thick because you don't recall being this close last time, his chest against yours, heart beating so heavy that you can feel it.

But you're a little bit too far down, an ache blooming in the back of your neck at the strain to reach him. You don't want to move, but now that you've noticed it, the pain is the only thing that you can think about. Gives you no real choice but to dig your knees into the hard floor and scoot up—

"Mmh—!"

You don't remember breaking away from Rhett, but you must have because you're blinking down at him, and he's found time to clamp a hand over his mouth. Eyes the size of dinner plates. Red in the ears.

"Did I...?" Suddenly aware of where your thigh is resting right now.

"Just a little bit," he doesn't seem to have any interest in making you move, either, using the arm around your shoulders to pull you back down once more.

You don't know how you've survived so long without this.

The pressure of his lips, the stubble on his jaw, the awkward bump of noses that haven't learned where to go quite yet. It's all so new, and yet you can already feel the embers of an addiction burning to life, roaring as hot as the fire, and you might need him more than you need to breathe. Heaven is a place on earth, and its name is Rhett Abbott.

Your forearms brace themselves on either side of his head, steadying yourself before you can become inconceivably lost. And again, your thigh unintentionally presses into him, and he's groaning low in his throat, lithe hips bucking up into it. You can't help yourself this time, intentionally grinding into the growing tent in his jeans, feeling his knees flutter around you.

"I'm sorry, I..." clarity strikes like lightning. "I'm rushing things, aren't I?"

"Naw, I'm..." he looks off to the side. Sheepish. "Kind of into it."

Even now, he's still Rhett. Bold one moment and shy the next, his impulses always a moment quicker than everything else. You don't need to ask if he's mortified about saying that out loud; the big dummy is already showing it. Gulping so hard that you can see the muscles in his neck flex with the effort, his cheeks three shades redder.

You throw one of your legs over his, straddling it, the silence broken by the sound of your knee hitting the floor a little too hard. And again, he covers his mouth when your thigh grinds into him, but he fails to conceal the slight roll of his eyes. Breathing hard through his nose, impulsively twitching up into your touch.

"You're something else, cowboy," you can't help but find your way to his jaw, pressing kisses into the soft outline of bone. His legs flutter around your thigh, clinging onto it as you work it against him. The arm around your shoulders tightens; you fear you might be anchored here.

It's on the side of his neck that you can feel the faint rumble of a moan, so quiet that it fails to make its way past his hand, but it's there. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised about it, but your daydreams never involved getting around this obstacle. There's no way you're prying his hand away, not with how he uses the same damn hand to cling onto the back of a thousand-pound bull every Sunday night.

Your lips make their way to the space below his ear, sucking lightly at an old scar that lingers there. He jumps. Hand coming off his mouth just long enough to audibly suck in a breath, cutting off the beginnings of a whine. His back rises off the ground, grinding into you the best he can. But it's not enough. He's still chasing you like he wants more, and you still can't hear him.

You're so quick to replace your thigh with your hand that you can almost deceive yourself into believing you've done this before. Palm pressing firm against his bulge, gently massaging the heel of it into him, and he jerks again. Impulsively reaching for your wrist, head tipping back, lips parted.

"That...you...I..." he can't talk. Words broken apart by surprisingly ragged breaths. Worked up over so fucking little. It has no right to make you clench around his thigh; desperation is a hellishly contagious virus.

You might be drooling.

Lazy, you fall into the space next to him, your leg splayed over his, hyper-aware of the way you've just tucked yourself under his arm and how perfectly you fit. That rodeo buckle falls open at the slightest pressure, button popping open just as eagerly. He shouldn't get anything out of the sensation of you tugging on his zipper, but his hips rise as if he can feel every bit of it.

The moment your hand wraps around his cock, his head thunks against yours. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but the impact still makes you wince.

"Ow."

"I'm sorr—" his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Biting back a noise as your thumb blindly traces the underside of his tip. "Sorry. Shit."

If only you could go back in time and tell yourself to do this sooner. You don't know how you can ever expect to go back from this. Lying with your head propped on the side of his chest, gingerly drawing him through the opening of his jeans, the head of his cock so wet that it glistens in the firelight, a bead of precum spilling over, barely caught by your thumb.

Rhett's scruffy cheek presses against your forehead, blindly nuzzling into you as your hand wanders, gradually working down his length. It's such a simple motion, but his hips rise to chase you on your way back up, a stifled noise rumbling out of his chest. The tip of your index finger glides over his tip, rubbing past his slit and—

"Mmh!" Jumping like a live wire. Still muffled, but louder than last time.

You can't help but repeat it, using your thumb to draw loose circles against his weeping tip. Those hips jump again, slipping from your grasp. But it doesn't take more than a second to get ahold of him again, a sharp little sound slipping out of him as you pick up right where you left off. Swirling around and around and around.

"Who taught you how to..." He sucks in a breath. "Who taught..." But he can't finish that thought, trailing off into nothingness once more.

You haven't the slightest clue where your voice has gone. Lost somewhere in your throat, stolen by the same thing that took Rhett's ability to speak.

All of a sudden, he's moving. Rolling onto his side, blindly guiding himself with his nose until he can properly find your lips, stealing them away before you can find a way to talk. You don't know if you could have come up with words even if you wanted to. Not when he whines into your mouth like that.

Whatever you were trying to do before this is lost to the abyss. Too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips melting against yours and the tiny noises he's making to realize that you're properly stroking him now. Working up and down his cock as if you're already familiar with it, wrist lazily twisting on every upward glide.

"Shit, I'm—" His voice is raspy all of a sudden. "I..."

He doesn't finish that thought, either. Mouth hanging open with a silent moan, his hand reaching to cling to the side of your shoulder. Something to hang onto. He might crumble into a million tiny pieces if he doesn't. And he's panting into your mouth like a dog in the blistering heat; it's hardly even a kiss anymore, but neither of you is making any move to pull away.

His breath audibly catches in his throat. Cock twitching, cumming with a whine. Painting your still-moving hand white, spreading over his length, makes this sickeningly loud squelching sound that ought to make your head swim. Fuck there's so much of it, rope after rope of white, making a damn mess that you haven't the slightest hope of cleaning up.

"Sens—ah!" His big hand dwarfs your wrist as he grabs it. Forcing it still.

"Too much?"

"Too much."

It's quiet.

At least, it is for a moment or two. The wind squeals outside the fragile window, ripping around the edges of the cabin, frantically searching for a crack in the foundation to squeeze through, desperate to steal the heat of the fire out from under you. But the flames still dance, the wood crackling as it burns.

The squeal of the wooden floor is your only indication that Rhett is moving, rolling over top of you in the blink of an eye. His mouth finds the side of your neck, the scruff clinging to his chin brushing against the skin there, as if the heat of his lips alone wasn't enough to make you gasp.

"I thought..." Words. Where the hell are your words? What were you even about to ask him?

"Never said I was done," his voice vibrates up your spine, rattling the thoughts swirling around your head.

His body slips between your knees like it's something you've been doing for your entire lives. And maybe he did wind up there once a few months ago when you snatched the hat off his head and tried to flee the scene, but you don't remember it feeling quite like this.

You don't get to linger on that thought for too long. Not when he's pepering kisses across your sensitive neck, his tongue boldly darting out to trace the outline of a vein. Heat flushes across your body. The tiny, invisible embers of a fire sparking to life, the smoke already beginning to cloud your head.

"Rhett," gasping. Now it's your turn to squeeze your legs around him, vaguely aware of how you can feel his hip bones pressing against you. Firm, nothing but muscle trained from a lifetime of ranch work, rippling under your touch. You can't help yourself, grabbing hold of a bicep with your only clean hand.

And you can just barely catch how he pauses, peering up at you through thick lashes, like something has just occurred to him. Doesn't make any move to voice it, but his smile is enough of a hint.

"Is this," smooching at the collar of your shirt, the flimsiest barrier that you wish wasn't there, "alright?"

On their own, your legs squeeze around him, forcing him closer. "More than alright." Because telling him that you never want him to stop might be a little too much too soon.

Big hands dip beneath your shirt, tracing with his nails as they glide up your sides. Your back arches up off the ground. Not sure if you're chasing the sensation or running away from it. The bottom of your shirt catches on his wrists, sliding up until he's pushed the fabric over your chest.

"So fuckin' pretty," downright marveling at you, his eyes shimmering like he's just found a pot of gold. There's a whole night ahead of you, but he doesn't give himself time to linger. There's a whole lifetime of kisses to catch up on, and he's already getting started, peppering his way down your chest.

You've waited all this time, only to have one available hand to use, forced to let go of his bicep and curl into his hair instead, fingers twirling in the loose curls that rest at his nape. Can't do both. Not without making a bigger mess out of your cum stained hand, and it might just be the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

Because here he is. Real and warm and alive and kissing at the underside of your breast, those big blue eyes flickering up to drink in your expression, and you can't touch him how you want to. You feel like you're gonna float away. One more kiss, and you're gone. Out the window. Never to be seen or heard from again. One with the snow.

Rhett laughs against your belly, almost sends you straight through the roof instead. "'m I takin' too long?"

"Huh?" Blinking.

"You're squintin' at me like you're mad 'bout somethin'," and now that he says that, you can feel your face begin to relax.

"I'm not mad." Have your internal thoughts always been that obvious?

"Your little nose is scrunched up," kissing closer to the start of your sweats, poking his tongue out to lick his way down. "You're mad."

"I'm not mad," holding up your sticky palm, "I'm just frustrated that I can't use my hand."

He was just in the process of curling his fingers beneath your waistband, but he pauses, fishing for something in his back pocket. That red handkerchief again. Passes it off to you before returning to the task at hand, but you're already one step ahead, lifting your hips until he's gotten the fabric over the swell of your ass.

You don't realize he's stolen your underwear until the breeze hits you, thighs shyly squeezing together. Don't really know what for; it's not as if you weren't anticipating this, but now that you're in the moment...

Rhett tilts his head, looks kind of like a confused puppy sitting at your heels, those gears visibly twisting and turning in his head. His eyes widen with a thought, and before you know it, he's reaching for his own waistband, shoving them past his legs and over his ankles.

Now you're both naked from the waist down.

He reaches for your ankle, delicately lifting your leg until he can kiss at the inside of it. Not satisfied until he's marked every square inch of you. But your knees still remain defiantly glued together. Timid, as if you haven't thought about this more times than you'd like to admit.

His hands dip beneath your naked thighs. Raking his nails down the sensitive skin there. And for a fleeting moment, the concept of worry has flown straight out the window, your legs falling open with a shiver.

Fuck just the feeling of him kissing your inner thigh is enough to make you whine. A little spark of heat darting up your core is the tiniest thing, and yet it's the most overwhelming thing you've felt in your life. Because it's Rhett. It's Rhett fucking Abbott sucking a mark into your skin, right where it'll poke out from beneath your pajama shorts and tell everyone who sees it what you've been up to.

"'s this too much?" He hums. He fucking hums. Sends you jumping.

"Yes." That's not what you wanted to say. "Maybe? No? I don't know." Your head thunks against the floor, can't give a damn about if it hurts or not.

Rhett pauses. "Want me to stop?"

"No!" Too loud. You said that way too loud. "No... I—I want you to keep going. It's just...new?"

There go those hands again, massaging the fat of your thighs, stealing away whatever tension was lingering there. His mouth burns against them, working another mark into your skin, just in case the first one disappears too quickly.

"You just tell me when it's too much, a'ight?" He murmurs, peering up at you, and it's all you can do to nod and utter a fragile 'yes.'

There's a rising chance that he'll be bringing you home in a sack and spend the next week gluing you back together because you might fall apart at any given moment. Nerves alight with a newfound anxiousness. You don't know what for. This is Rhett you're talking about here. Same old cowboy that you've known for as long as you can remember.

Lips find the thin skin where your thigh joins with the rest of your body. Jumping out of your skin is suddenly a very possible task.

"Y've no idea how long I've been wantin' to do this." And that's the last thing you hear before his mouth is on you.

You might pass away on the spot. Off to heaven, hell, or whatever the fuck is out there.

But all that comes of it is a hitched breath, a shudder racing through your body as his burning hot tongue licks a long strip up your cunt. Experimental. Does it again when your hips rise up off the floor; he's just started, and you're already impatiently chasing him.

"Hang on, hang on. 'm takin' care of ya," you can hear the smile in his voice as he forces you back onto the floor. "Don't gotta chase me for it."

It's a promise he's already making good on.

Lazily mouthing at your clit, nothing but fleeting barely-there touches that have you squirming and biting into your fist. Oh, shit shit shit, he's twirling his tongue around it now, directly targeting that poor little bud for nothing but a few seconds.

Your whine is too damn loud for this little cabin; his folks probably heard you from ten miles up the road. But all Rhett does is curl his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer. One of your legs wind up over his shoulder, and you don't know when you started reaching down, but you're pawing at his forehead. Helpless as he prods his tongue at your entrance, pushing inside if only to feel you clench around him for a moment or two.

"Rhett," you don't know what you're babbling about. Didn't know you were talking until your ears catch the familiar tone of your own voice.

The bastard fucking hums, vibrating up your lower belly and through your spine, and again you're jumping. But you're not getting anywhere. Not with those arms around your thighs, holding you perfectly still as his tongue glides up through your folds, drawing a little figure eight around your clit.

His lips wrap around it again, gently sucking on it as he flicks the tip of his tongue over it and—

"Too much!" Your hands are in his hair. Yanking him away. "Too much."

You don't know what the hell you'll do with the sight of Rhett's chin glistening in the light, thin lips stretched around a big ol' grin as he climbs back up your body.

"Cute thing," he chuckles; you pretend you don't feel how wet his mouth is when he kisses your cheek.

He's already hard again. Cock so heavy that it can't even stand, resting against a pale, freckled thigh. It's so damn close to where you want him. Can only imagine what it would be like to feel him push into you for the first time, but there's an item critically missing here.

Rhett's nose bumps against yours. "Y' look mad again."

"Because I just realized that we don't have lube," you grumble.

...or maybe you do because he's on the move all of a sudden. Grabbing the pant leg of his discarded jeans and dragging them over, rustling through the pockets until he finds what he's looking for.

Lube packets.

"Were you planning on this, or do you just keep lube on you at all times?" You can't help but ask, can't really believe what you're looking at right now.

"Believe it or not, I use it when that fuckin' barn door gets jammed," he pauses, tearing at the corner of a packet with his teeth, "but I'd rather it be you than a rusty hinge."

Eyeroll. "How romantic."

Even his oversized hand isn't enough to make his cock look any less intimidating; you thought it would dwarf in comparison, but it's almost as if the complete opposite has happened. Daunting, even as he strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. The voice in your head suggests that you might have bitten off more than you can chew, but there's only one way to find out for sure.

The calloused tip of his middle finger glides between your folds. Has you jumping a little bit. A slight pressure blooms, slowly pushing into you, his gaze fixated on the sight. It certainly feels bigger than it looked, if that is even remotely possible, blindly feeling around for a particular little spot.

The asshole knows he's found it before you even do. Pushing a second, dripping finger into you, deliberately crooking them to rub up into it. Heat sparks between your thighs. Pretty sure that's just the lube, but you're convinced that you can feel yourself getting wetter, already hopelessly desperate.

"Rhett," mewling in a tone so unlike you that it's almost insulting.

"What?" Tilting his head.

You didn't really think that far. Aren't particularly sure of what it is you want or why you're saying his name, but your arms lift themselves into the air, hands opening and closing in a vague grabbing motion. You still don't know what you initially wanted, but you sure would like to have him closer.

And he gives it to you.

Carefully settles into your waiting arms without a fuss, his lips wrangled up into another one of those wild grins that you can never seem to get enough of. A strand of hair falls out from behind his ear, just long enough for the ends of it to tickle your cheek, drawing a giggle out of you. And for reasons unbeknownst to you, he giggles, too.

His length rudely bumps against your thigh, demanding attention from both of you. Damn thing is so heavy that he has no choice but to reach down and guide himself, dragging the fat tip through your folds just for the hell of it. A slight pressure appears at your entrance. Then, disappears. Slipping upward and gliding past your clit instead.

But then the pressure appears again, and this time he's not intentionally screwing up to mess with you. Air jams in your throat.

"Gonna have to relax for me, sweetheart," he whispers; there's that pet name again. God, you might legally change your name to sweetheart just so he'll call you that every day for the rest of your life. Something in your lower belly unwinds. "There y' go."

The fat tip slips into you without any further warning, simultaneously puts a shiver in your bones, and steals away the little bit of clarity that you had left. You don't even know what you're shaking for. The fire is still crackling next to you, albeit dimmer than it was before. The room is far from cold, but you can't seem to keep still, quivering like an autumn leaf in the breeze.

Rhett appears like a fucking daydream. Cradling your face in his hands, a sudden presence that you've somehow managed to forget about, murmuring something against your lips that sounds like your name. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. You don't care to find out, too eager to steal him away in a kiss instead.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle that you find there, clinging to him for dear life as his cock gradually pushes into you. Inch after devastating inch, your chest progressively becoming tighter and tighter, as if you're running out of space to give.

This can't be right. There's no way that you're really doing this. Lying here in the deserted cabin out on Calico Creek, nothing but a fire and Rhett's burning body to keep you warm, thighs squeezing his sharp hips as he sinks into you. It's a scene plucked right out of your own wild imagination. You should be waking up right now. Alone, in bed, like you have every other time this has happened.

But the scruffy chin that your hand has found its way to feels so real. The kiss breaks. Rhett leans back just far enough for you to catch sight of that stupid old grin, and holy shit, you've got Rhett fucking Abbott's cock in you right now.

"Just a little more," he's murmuring so nonchalantly, and you really, truly, have no idea if that 'little more' is gonna fit or not.

It either fits, or you pass away in the process of trying. The jury is still out for that one. One way or another, though, he's bottoming out, body flush with yours, not a centimeter left to take, and you think you've stopped breathing. Rhett has, too, for that matter. Completely and utterly quiet as he leans back, lashes fluttering at what he finds.

"'m almost too big for your poor little pussy, shit." He's not staring; he's marveling at you. "You're sure I ain't hurtin' ya?" The pad of his thumb traces where you're stretched around him, hopelessly bound together with no hope of ever untangling from each other.

Experimental, his hips roll, drawing a little noise past your lips. It's so much. So, so much. Helplessly curling your legs around his waist, heels digging into the swell of his ass, as if that can possibly save you.

Rhett's not doing much better. Dropping his head into the crook of your neck, timidly drawing back by an inch before pushing back in just as slowly as he did the first time. His labored breath burns through your skin, grumbling something incoherent below his breath. But he's doing it again, and now, now...

"Fuck, Rhett," whimpering, clinging to his shoulders.

The fire could go out at this very moment, and you would never feel even a wisp of the cold, not with how he's already finding a lazy rhythm. Hardly pulling out, rocking your body beneath him. His weight is the only thing keeping you from scooting up the floor, little puffs of air knocked out of you with every thrust.

He's got it just as bad as you do. Panting into your mouth like a dog, the softest noises resting in the back of his mouth. Still sensitive from already cumming once.

All of a sudden, he draws back, and for a fleeting moment, you're horrified that he's already pulling out of you. But he's pushing back into you a little quicker now and, and, and...

"'s that feel good?" He's grunting, already peeling back to do that again. The length of his cock grazes against a familiar bundle of nerves. Stars sparkle behind your vision.

"Uhuh," all that you can come up with.

Now that he's found it, he's not letting up. Moving a little quicker now. A wet little noise punctuating the snap of his hips, your poor pussy helplessly fluttering around him, so fucking full of him that it almost aches. Writhing beneath him, torn between wriggling away from the sensation and pushing into it, as if you have any choice when you're pinned beneath him like this.

"Can feel ya clenchin' round my cock, sweetheart," he's grinning as he says it, cocky in the worst way imaginable.

Your face is so hot that you're gonna catch on fire. "Please quit talking."

To his credit, he does exactly as you ask, but that does nothing to wipe the stupid fucking grin off his face. You can't escape it. Not when he's leaning back onto his haunches, just far enough to gaze down at where his thick cock disappears into you, and suddenly you can see it. Such a wide fucking stretch that you feel bite-sized beneath him.

The weeping head of his cock strikes those little nerves. Knocks a cry right out of you. And it's the worst possible thing you could have done because he's doing it again. Tilting his hips, working just a little quicker now, drilling into that same fucking spot.

"'s that the spot?" He coos, breathless, his hands finding your hips, dragging you into. Every. Single. Thrust. "Fuck, I don't know how I even fit in ya."

You don't even know how to talk anymore, never mind put up with his senseless mutterings. Voice caught in your throat, your cries completely and utterly silent. Blindly pawing at his forearms. Squeezing. Clawing. You manage to get ahold of one, dragging it up to your chest like you're trying to hug the damn thing.

"Rhett," your voice wavers, "Rhett, I want—" Closer. You want him closer. But all you can manage to do is pull on his arm.

Those pretty eyes widen. The next thing you know, he's coming back to you. Using his only forearm to brace his weight beside your head, his chest snug against yours once again. You only let go of his arm in exchange for his shoulders, practically pulling him into a hug.

Rhett nuzzles his nose into the side of your cheek, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Don't want me too far away?"

"No," grumbling.

You've got just enough leverage to crane your neck up, mouthing at the sweaty underside of his neck. You're not trying to leave marks. Not when you know that you'll have no choice but to face his family after this; it's only a matter of time before Perry puts two and two together, but you can't help yourself. Lips finding a space just beneath his ear, mindlessly sucking on the skin there, uncaring of what evidence you leave behind.

Rhett whines. Loud in your ear, sends your lower belly twisting with something inexplicably warm, pussy clamping down around him, drawing a second sound out of him. His arms shiver. Fighting to keep his weight up. Hardly has the strength to pull away from your mouth, his hips stuttering.

"Look how well you're takin' me," he's peeled back just far enough for you to get a glimpse, mouth hanging open, can't seem to shut himself up.

"It's mortifying."

"It's hot."

You'd argue. You want to argue, but fuck, you can't. Not when he's got you pinned to the floor like this, fat cock bullying into your poor pussy, panting into each other's mouths like it's the only thing you're good for. A lewd smack of skin on skin defiling every innocent memory you've ever had here.

There's a familiar coil in your lower belly, your cunt clenching down around him, legs locking around him. Your vision blurs. Chest tight. "I'm..."

"Yeah," he's agreeing before you've even finished your thought.

It's the mistake of looking down that does you in. The obscene sight of his wet cock disappearing into you, those strong hips stuttering as you clench around him again, punctuated by that stupid breathy moan that falls off his tongue.

Your back arches off the floor, burying your face into the crook of his neck as it hits you. Heart hammering against your chest. Ears ringing. Cumming around his cock with nothing but a choked wail. Helplessly clinging to him, squeezing him so tight that your arms ache from it.

The fire might as well jump out and engulf you in flames; everything is burning. Distantly aware of how your legs have begun to tremble again, locked so tight around him that you can feel him try and fail to pull away from you. Babbling something about how you need to let him go, one of his hands pawing at your thigh. Pushing, trying his best to peel you away.

But it's too late. His hips are seizing up, and your eyes are opening to the sound of his strangled whine, collapsing back into you. The muscles in his back twitch beneath your fingertips as his orgasm washes over him, cock spasming so hard that you can almost convince yourself that you feel his cum flooding you.

Oh.

Oh shit, he's cumming in you.

You should be more worried about it than you actually are, lazily letting your legs unwind from around him, uncaring about the kind of problems that this is going to cause in a few minutes. Worry is beyond you, on a completely different plane of existence. The only thing your mind has the ability to comprehend is the warmth of Rhett's face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, a final shiver racing up his spine before he becomes dead weight on top of you.

"You..." he tries, breathless. "Was that...too much?"

You don't even know where your voice has gone, wordlessly laughing into his shoulder. "It was perfect," is what you try to say, but your poor tongue can hardly shape around the letters, nothing but a senseless warble leaving you instead. And maybe Rhett's got the same condition because whatever he says next makes no sense, either.

It takes a minute for him to roll off of you, and when he does, you wind up rolling with him, your naked back facing the fire. You don't really mean to, just mindlessly following, can't look away from him for more than a second. The fire isn't nearly as bright as it was when all of this first started, but certainly not any cooler. Heat licking up your sensitive back. Pleasant at first, but the longer it goes on...

"This fire is hot on my ass," your sentence makes sense this time.

His hand drifts down onto your ass cheek. Your eyes roll. Rhett's face lights up with a giggle, lips twisting up into a smile that you need to kiss off of him. Even if you can't really lift your head, noses crashing, kisses reduced to fleeting pecks.

"If I woulda known this was gonna happen, I promise I would've brought somethin' to clean you up with," he murmurs, reaching to brush something off of your jaw. You don't want to know what it is.

"If I had known this was going to happen," your momentum is interrupted by a yawn, "we wouldn't have made it out of my bedroom."

He winks at you. "We can still make that happen."

"Oh my god." Eyeroll. You're gonna walk home.

Or, you would if he didn't curl an arm around your waist and pull you into him like a teddy bear that he's suddenly decided he wants to snuggle. And you just fit into the space below his chin so perfectly that you can't possibly bring yourself to move.

The wind wails outside, and the fire desperately needs tending to, but neither of you are moving. If anything, you're making it worse, tangling your legs together, wedging an arm around his torso, and for a moment, you can convince yourself that you can stay like this forever. Wrapped up in your favorite person, out here on Calico Creek, never to be seen or heard from again. Lost to the magic of winter.

Your stomach growls.

So does his.

Laughter spins through the air.

Maybe forever out on this creek would only work if you had electricity and a snack. But you don't mind losing out on forever, so long as Rhett's with you. Just like he always has been, snowstorm or not.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #oneshot #afab reader #outer range #delgato writes

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linedbycaro · 7 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝟑𝟎𝐭𝐡 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 (𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫) 𝚸𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢 𝚸𝐭. 𝟐

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈'𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 (𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐲, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝). 𝚸𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤!! 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫…

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐲 / 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑.𝟑𝐤

Azzi stays on the phone until she hears a nurse walk in. Even then, she is hesitant to hang up. Paige is still sleeping on the other end, face out of frame, phone now dropped to her side. But Azzi can hear her breathing—inhale shallow and shaky, exhale short and even. But breathing. Alive.

The nurse gently pries the phone from Paige's hand, entering Azzi's screen. "Why don't you get some sleep, sweetheart. Visiting hours are from 10:00-2:00 tomorrow if she's awake."

"Alright, thank you so much," Azzi says gratefully. And feeling a little stupid, she asks, "What hospital is it again?"

"Cedars Sinai. I'm not sure who you are to her, but Paige kept asking to call you over and over until we let her. Kept saying your name. Thought you should know."

"Thanks," Azzi says hoarsely.

"Goodnight Dear. Try and get some rest."

The call ends, and Azzi is left sitting blankly on her couch, unable to move or process.

Needless to say, she doesn't get rest. She doesn't even try to sleep.

Instead, she goes into autopilot. She researches the best recovery treatments and PTSD programs in the area, goes on Amazon, finds several books she thinks Paige will like- buys them all on next-day shipping. She cleans. Does laundry. She packs a bag full of Paige's favorite snacks (which she still regularly buys out of habit, she supposes). Then showers. Methodically, efficiently.

And it isn't until she's rinsing out her conditioner that it hits her:

The traffic. From that afternoon- yesterday now, technically. It had felt like a perfect day. How had she not recognized the car? That had been Paige's gray jeep—totaled, hanging off the side of the road. It had been Paige in the accident. And Azzi had just driven by, annoyed, thinking she'd be late. So unaware of how close Paige was to dying.

What if she hadn't survived? What if they'd been just a mile apart, and Paige had died, and Azzi never knew—just went on with her day?

What if Paige hadn't been alone? What if no one had found her in time? What if the guardrail hadn't held?

But she's alive, Azzi reminds herself. Don't spiral.

She lets the water rush over her, turning cool. The icy streams giving her clarity, pulling her back to the present.

She's alive, she's alive, she's alive, Azzi repeats like a mantra as she turns off the water.

She's alive, Azzi thinks as she pulls on one of Paige's old sweatshirts, wishing it still smelled like her. She called. She's okay. She's seeing her soon.

Not tomorrow. In a few hours.

Azzi glances at the clock. 7 a.m. Four hours since the call. Three more to go, she thinks and busies herself with the next task.

Paige POV

Paige wakes up groggy and disoriented. Her body hurts. Like- all over. Her head is pounding. Her lungs ache. Her leg is numb.

She feels like she's been hit by a truck. Which, technically, was accurate. That's what the doctors keep telling her, anyway.

She had left her apartment and headed to an off-season workout. She got in her car like any normal day, merged onto the 5. And then, nothing.

Just remembers waking up in an ambulance, groggy. In pain. An out-of-body how-am-i-not-dead type of pain.

But the rest of the night—the rest of it only comes back to her blurry clips—half-formed, foggy, and fractured.

She remembers waking up and hearing the doctor mention something about a broken leg, something about her head.

And then she remembers being panicked, scared, and tired. She remembers asking for something, needing something so desperately. She remembers feeling intense relief. And then that's it. That's the extent of her memory.

And Paige tries—really tries—to remember. She attempts to force the memories to come, figure out the missing shapes, and place the unfamiliar voices. Connect the dots.

There's a knock on the door.

"Hi, hon, good morning. I'm just checking to see if you've woken. We want to run some tests." A nurse steps into the room, followed by a doctor.

They change her IV, check her vitals, poke and prod. She's stable. They ask her questions: Have you gained any memory of the accident? No. But do you know where you were headed? Yes. A workout. Do you know what day it is? Not really, but I know it's Late November. Your birthday? October 20th, 2001.

She learns that her mother (her emergency contact) is on her way, flying in from Montana. She re-learns that she truly was, unironically, hit by an 18-wheeler. And that she's broken a leg, shattered a rib, has a mildly collapsed lung (which explains the nose tubes), and has a severe concussion. Well, isn't that just great?

"Do you remember anything else from last night?" The nurse asks, finally opening the door to leave.

"No..?" Paige responds carefully, because the nurse is asking like there is something she should be remembering.

"Okay, hon. Get some rest. Visiting hours are soon, maybe you'll remember then." With that, she closes the door, leaving Paige even more confused.

She feels this underlying sense of panic—how unsettled and shaken she is—or really, how shaken she should be—because she can't even remember the scary parts. And that's what's even more terrifying.

What if- what if she had just died like that? Left the world, like she supposes we all will one day- and that was it? Gone. Dead. Cold.

And for the first time, maybe, she questions her faith- if there really was a heaven, if there was an afterlife. That really hurts her brain to think about.

But I'm alive, she shoves the spiraling down. The rest will come later. I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive. Focus on that.

Paige gets to "enjoy" another hour of laying in a grey hospital room, staring into space, trying to put the pieces together before another knock sounds.

And when Paige turns to look at the door, her heart stops. It drops. Her whole body and soul freeze. Her head becomes clear.

Because it's Azzi. Azzi.

Azzi Fudd is in my hospital room, she thinks—and it's her first coherent, certain thought since the accident. Like her whole being just recognizes Azzi, it just knows. In the way time stills, in the way Paige could be in a completely alternate universe as a whole different person and understand who Azzi is.

But- but it couldn't be, right?

Her second thought, undoubtedly less coherent than the first, is how on Earth is it possible Azzi Fudd is in my hospital room?

Her brain hurts, and the fog returns. She's trying to think in circles, coming up with nothing. Paige looks like she's seeing a ghost, which she's pretty sure she is.

Did she die? Is she in heaven? Did Azzi die, too? No.

Is this some weird in-between realm where you interact with visions of people who haunted your life on Earth? Because it's true, Azzi haunts her.

And Azzi's just there. Standing in the doorway, uncertain, staring, like she can't move. Like her soul also feels Paige's.

Her arms are filled with goods. A stuffed tote slung over her shoulder, a blanket folded under her arm. Flowers in one hand, coffee in another.

Azzi begins to look uncertain, brows twisting into caution, eyes dropping, then looking back at Paige—her big, brown, deep stare, worried and hopeful at the same time. God, those eyes. Paige can see her thoughts simmering, her anxiety, her unease.

Instinctively, Paige wants to comfort her. Even if it's not real- even if it's some ghost-version of Azzi. She's just wired that way. Like her body (even broken) was designed for this- for Azzi.

And even though Paige doesn't have the words, doesn't know how to process Azzi being here, Paige does what she can. She smiles. Soft. Tender. Assuring.

And Azzi smiles back, small, more certain. Face filled with adoration.

"P? Hey, how are you feeling?" Azzi says, stepping forward.

All Paige can do is stare at her- curls framing her face, lips slightly parted, eyes tired. Paige studies her carefully, almost clinically, like if she blinks, Azzi will vanish- just another illusion pulled from pain and memory.

But Azzi looks… healthy. Full. Solid. Like a person, not a dream. Not at all like the shackled person Paige had pulled off the ledge, drunk and trembling and broken.

Azzi tries again, "Paige? It's me, Azzi. Are you-"

"Azzi?" Paige repeats, talking over her hoarsely, "Azzi, I know it's you. I jus- I don't understand. I-. Azzi, what are you doing here? How-"

"You called, remember?" Azzi's face twists into concern. "Remember you called me last night? You were in an accident?"

"Oh," comes the reply, barely audible. "Oh. I don't remember." Paige's brows furrow, eyes shifting around the room. She had called Azzi? When? And she didn't remember? Azzi? Jesus, what had she even said to make Azzi come here?

"I'm sorry," Paige says—and she truly means it. "I mean- I didn't mean to worry you or anything. I didn't even-"

Paige truly has no words. Just confusion. And now, guilt. Why on Earth would she call Azzi? Why would she bother her? Drag her into this like Azzi was still in her life- still hers to call and seek comfort in.

Azzi had her own life. A better life. The last thing Paige dreams of doing is burden Azzi, especially after everything she's already carried.

The silence stretches for a beat- tight, unsure, not awkward, but loaded.

"I—" Azzi stammers softly, breaking the silence. "Last night on the phone, you asked me to stay until you fell asleep and to call in the morning. After you fell asleep, the nurse told me to come to your visiting hours and that you had repeatedly asked for me to call me, so I thought," her voice falters, "I can get her—if you want—the nurse."

"Azzi, no," Paige says quickly. "I believe you; I believe that you called. My memory has just been in and out, and I'm really sorry I bothered you at all."

"Bother me? "Azzi looks stunned—like the idea of Paige being a bother physically hurts her. She steps closer, her voice trembling but firm. "Paige, I'm glad you called. I'm so fucking glad you called. I was scared out of my mind, but knowing you're okay... I .. You'd never be a burden, not after.... everything."

She pauses for a minute, brown eyes boring into Paige's, searching. "Do you- do you regret calling me? Do you want me to leave?"

Paige blinks, startled by the question. "No—God, no."

She shakes her head, wincing slightly at the motion. Her voice is raspy but certain. "I just… I didn't expect you to come. I didn't even remember I called, and when I saw you—I thought I was hallucinating or something."

A breath. A beat.

"I don't regret it," Paige says quietly. "I just didn't think I was still allowed."

Azzi POV

Azzi's face softens, shoulders dropping like she's been holding a thousand pounds of tension. She doesn't speak—just steps closer. Setting the flowers and coffee on a table with a quiet clink, Azzi crouches beside the bed.

"Paige you can always call me- we can always call each other. I thought-" she shakes her head, swallowing hard, "No, no. You're right. I'm sorry I made it this way- for things to be so weird between us. I-"

A tear threatens to spill down her cheek now, "Paige, I'm so sorry. For everything. I never called. I'm sorry i never called and I said those awful things, I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm so sorry I messed things up between us. I'm sorry I-"

"Az, shh, it's okay," Paige says softly, weakly lifting her hand to cover Azzi's. Not holding it, just brushing her fingers carefully, letting the weight of her hand settle, comforting. The touch spreads warmth through Azzi's body, melting her soul.

"No, let me finish," Azzi says. Then, half mumbles, "You shouldn't even be the one comforting me." She sniffles.

Just say thank you, Azzi thinks.

But the words feel too big. Her throat tightens, breath catching as a sob slips through. And she tries to open her mouth, but she can't; her breath catches, making an audible cry.

She doesn't know what to say- how to convey her gratitude to the person who quite literally saved her life. Paige is looking at her like she hangs the moon, and Azzi wants to explode, so overcome with emotion for the person in front of her. For a moment, she just takes Paige's hand, clutching it with both of her own, letting herself cry, letting Paige ground her.

Paige, whose eyes are now red too, is giving her the gentlest, kindest look, her lips folded in concentration. They stare at each other for a moment, taking each other in, letting tears silently fall down their faces, hands tightly entwined.

And after a long while, Azzi finds her voice.

"Thank you. Thank you, Paige."

Paige just squeezes her hand, swallowing thickly. "You don't have to thank me, Azzi. There's nothing to thank me for. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"You... You saved my life." Azzi whispers, voice hoarse. "You saved my life, and I came so close to never seeing you again, never being able to say thank you in person."

"But its okay. I'm alive. I'm here." Paige says earnestly, wincing just a little bit as she tries to shift up slightly. "I'll be okay. We'll be okay."

"Yeah?"

Yeah, Azzi. I know it." Paige gives her a half-lazy grin. Azzi cracks a small smile, sniffling. "But I am sorry, truly sorry for hurting you. Please forgive me."

"It's okay, I understand. I really understand. And I obviously forgive you."

Azzi smiles wider this time, head tilting to really look at her. "I missed you."

Paige's cheeks flushed, her smile soft and sheepish in the way it only does for Azzi. "I missed you. Everyday."

"If I hug you, are you gonna break?" Azzi wipes tears from her eyes.

"Prolly not, but I want you to either way." Paige tries to shift toward her but immediately winces with a dramatic, "Ow, fuck—okay, no."

"P, stop. You gotta be careful," Azzi scolds, gently helping her settle back against the pillows.

For a second, they both laugh—quiet and breathless. A kind of laughter that lives right on the edge of tears.

Azzi doesn't hesitate this time. She leans in slowly, carefully, wrapping her arms around Paige like she's memorizing the shape of her. It's not a tight hug—it can't be—but it's full. Solid. Steady. Azzi presses her forehead lightly to Paige's temple, and Paige lets her eyes fall closed.

They stay like that, breathing each other in.

Holding on.

And then Paige breaks the silence with a whisper. "Azzi?"

"Yeah?" Comes the just as quiet reply, their breaths mingling.

"Can you kiss it better?"

"You're stupid." Azzi whispers affectionately.

"Don't deny a girl in pain, come on."

Azzi giggles at that. Softly. Drunk on the moment, their quiet touch, them being them. Finally. Azzi opens her eyes to find Paige's already open, endless blue staring into her soul. She shivers. That look makes her blush deep.

And because they were never really good at being just friends- in any universe or timeline, because it was always going to be them together, inevitably, Azzi kisses her. Tenderly, gently. Lips melting together intimately, reuniting slowly, softly. And when they pull back, Paige says, "Damn, I feel better already."

And Azzi just laughs, smiling more than she had in a while. "Oh yeah? Wait till you see the other stuff I brought."

And much to Paige's dismay, Azzi untangles from their embrace (not without giving her a forehead kiss AND a kiss on the nose), and begins to smother the blonde with flowers and snacks and affection.

They spend the following hours talking, giving each other life updates, holding each other. Azzi climbs into the small space next to Paige in bed, careful not to hurt her, grateful for the close proximity.

Paige is feeling the best she's felt since the accident- and no, not just Azzi's kisses, but because of her presence, her persistence, her hope, and her ability to talk to Paige- really make her mind feel less foggy and confused. Paige literally feels her brain healing.

"You smell good," Azzi says fondly, curing into Paige's uninjured side and breathing in deeply.

"Don't lie, baby. I haven't showered in over 24 hours."

"No, you smell like you, in a good way. I swear."

"Freak."

Azzi giggles again.

"Also," Paige says, more slowly, letting her thoughts settle. "I know we probably have so much more to talk about, but I'm glad we can be us. And I'm so glad you're here. I'm so much less sad now, for real."

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be, P. I'm gonna help you get through this." Azzi assures. "And I know we have more to talk about, and we will, but right now, let's just focus on you, okay? We can unpack the other stuff later. I'm yours, I'm gonna take care you."

"You're mine?" Paige's voice is filled with pride, teasing but a little breathless.

"Yeah, P. Always. I've always been yours."

Paige groans dramatically. "God, I can't wait until I can properly move again. You can't say shit like that to me while I'm out here all lame and half-dead."

Azzi snorts, her head dropping to Paige's shoulder. "You're ridiculous."

"You're the one saying stuff like 'I'm yours' with a straight face," Paige shoots back. "Of course I'm gonna get ideas. You don't even know what you do to me." She shakes her head.

"I dunno, maybe I can get creative too," Azzi says coyly. "I can think of a few ways to get around that broken leg."

And Paige's face turns bright red- just in time for the nurse to walk in.

"Hey—oh!" the nurse exclaims, stopping in her tracks at the sight of Azzi curled up in the hospital bed.

"Sorry," she adds quickly, trying not to smile, "just here to let you know visiting hours are technically over." She pauses, glancing at the two of them.

Azzi flushes, scrambling to sit up like she's sixteen again. "Sorry—sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"You're fine," the nurse says, amused but gentle.

Azzi laughs nervously and starts sliding off the bed, mumbling something about grabbing her stuff.

But before she can fully stand, Paige speaks—quiet, a little hesitant.

"Can she stay?" Paige asks, eyes flicking to the nurse. Her voice is scratchy but steady. "Just for a little while? Please?"

The nurse hesitates for only a beat before softening.

"Well… technically, no. But I think I can be an exception." She smiles. "If you can still get some rest, then yeah. She can stay. She's... a significant other, yes?"

"Basically my wife."

Azzi's face flushes. Paige has zero chill.

"Okay, you two. Call if you need anything." The nurse turns back to the door.

"Thank you," Paige says sincerely.

Azzi slowly sits back down on the bed, quieter this time.

"You want me to stay?" she asks.

Paige nods, looking at her like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Duh."

They settle into quiet talk, laughter slipping between them like muscle memory. It's easy. Familiar. The kind of warmth that makes everything else hurt a little less.

And somehow, in the middle of a sterile hospital room, everything feels right again.

It took two phone calls. Two near-death experiences. But the world is finally spinning the way it should.

Order has been restored.

Paige and Azzi are together again.

#paige x azzi #pazzi fics #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #dallas wings #azzi #azzi35 #billie eilish #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #injury #hospital #reunion #wnba #wnba basketball

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neuvilette-tea-party · 6 months ago

Note

Hi, I'm so in love with your last Steb writing and and the knotting was so 😩🙏 I would love to see him having his mini him and happy family life if you ever write it ❤️

Can't wait to read more from you 💖

Hihihihi, thank you ❤️ I love him so much and the knoooooot 😩 I'm feral! Now he gets to be a daddy!

⋆⁺₊⋆━━━━⊱༒︎ • Steb x F!reader • ༒︎⊰━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆

Tags: fluff, happiness, non-descriptive birth, domestic, Steb becomes a doting dad

request open for best boy Steb

Steb runs

With large strides, he crosses Piltover from his station to the hospital. He just had time to warn Caytlin and Vi and burst off the Police station, not even taking the time to close his enforcer jacket.

Birth!

You are giving birth!

It had to happen today! When they called him for reinforcement! He swore he would be here all the steps of the way!

He sprints like he has never sprinted before, slaloming between other passersby, focused on his breathing to not slow down. He holds down the bouquet to not let it escape his grip while he crosses the busy roads and streets

He is an aquatic Vastaya but right this instant he feels wings at his ankles propelling him forward in the streets. People jump out of his way, who would stand in front of an enforcer with such a grave expression?

Nobody sane, that’s for sure.

He jumps over train guardrails, making the inspectors scream but he is already so far away, his mind only focused on you and the trial you are going through right this instant.

Trial he isn’t even here to support you with! He grits his teeth, disappointed in himself, and accelerates even more, cars honk when he crosses before them carelessly and people yelp when they almost collide.

But he evades every obstacle with gracious ease, deadly focused like never before. Despite his haste he is actually extremely careful to not collect dirt on his clothes to not dirty the delivery room.

When he arrives at the hospital he is panting and sweaty, his cheek fins waving under tension and stress. He allows himself only 15 seconds to take his breath back and enters the lobby, heading directly to the nurse behind the counter.

She doesn’t know sign language, but he came prepared with questions and general information in his notebook and she escorts him to the room in question.

He standsl before the double door.

Still

Unmoving

Paralyzed

Terrified...

He almost jolts hearing a scream inside.

Your scream.

He takes a deep breath

You are waiting for your husband, his love and support!

He takes a big breath and enters.

Immediately, the screams get clearer and he discovers you on a bed in a blue tunic, surrounded by nurses and surgeons, looking exhausted and at the end of your rope.

“Who are you?” A nurse intercepts him before he can take a step inside.

He is frantically searching his anticipated response in his notebook when

“Steb...?” You call out weakly, “Steb!”

You extend your hand to him, desperate for him to hold it tight and help you in this moment. The nurse lets him pass and he immediately grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers together.

He reverently kisses your hand and circles your shoulders, kissing your face all over, his cheek fins shaking terribly between fear and bliss.

A baby

Your baby to your both

Your family

Your little one!

He cannot wait.

He squeezes your shoulders and lets you dig your nails in his skin as deep as you need, letting you draw blood while you push hard, losing your sanity in the pain, screaming everything you have out.

He tenderly presses his forehead to your temple.

“You can do it...” He manages to speak despite the pain of talking, “I am here for you...”

You weakly nod and resume pushing. He lets the bouquet on some chairs and pats your head with a towel, hugging you tight, purring to soothe you.

The entire room smells like blood and amniotic fluid and you are absolutely crushing his hand in your grip, but it is so soft to him.

He kisses your temple and cheek reverently, his ears twitching with emotion when

A baby’s scream resonates

Everything seems to come to a halt, even his heart, when he hears that sound for the very first time.

Your Baby’s first scream !

He looks at you excited like a puppy, unable to refrain from an excited chuckle, kissing your hand endlessly

‘’One last push and the baby will be here.’’ The surgeon indicates, perfectly calm.

You grit your teeth and push one last time, trembling terribly, disheveled, sweaty, exhausted

But you are absolutely radiant in his eyes right now, shining like a star...

‘’And… there we go.’’ The nurse exclaims joyfully, raising your baby for you both to see.

Steb feels about to faint suddenly.

‘’Sir? Sir?’’ She calls for him, ‘’This is your baby.’’ She smiles with her eyes, her mouth hidden behind a mask

Steb gulps and takes a step forward, feeling his legs weak. He approaches so slowly and softly, like he is affraid to scare his baby

He lets out an incredulous chuckle when she puts them in his arms.

They are green with stripes like him, and so warm…

He looks at the nurse, not believing it, and giggles again as she nods to him

Your baby…

He suddenly feel like falling and three nurses hold him back

‘’Careful Sir. Maybe you should sit down.’’ She said with a smile taking the baby from his arms to allow him to sit and not lose consciousness

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything is over.

You are peacefully napping in your bed, finally resting after the birth in your hospital room, the flowers in a vase.

Steb stands still before the crib, his heart so full of love he feels like it will explode at any moment now.

A babygirl

A daughter.

He wants to cry

A daughter to brighten his days.

She is so small and cute. The most adorable baby he had ever seen in his totally unbiased opinion.

He managed to gather enough strength to cut the umbilical cord and show her to you for 30 seconds before she was taken for medical examination, but it is done and now calm and peace came back.

This is a healthy baby that was in a rush to come into the world. She was quite energetic in your womb and Steb had great hopes that she would come out fine.

He leans forward to tenderly caress her cheek. Her sensitive little fins wave in reaction to that strange new sensation, but she does not wake up.

His throat contracts as he feels tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

Finally, a baby.

His very own family, the one thing war did not take from him!

He bites his lower lips to not let his sobs wake up his darling baby, she needs to sleep and eat a lot for now.

His gaze travels to you, sleeping soundly. You are visibly exhausted but happiness is unmistakable on your features. Steb smiles through the tears. He could not have dreamed of a better mother than you.

You are his blessing.

The both of you.

His gaze returns to his jewel when he hears her yawn, stretching the best she can with her small baby body.

So, so adorable... He will choke on love

He takes off his jacket and shirt, remaining bare chest as he leans over the crib to take his baby, his daughter in his arms for the second time, his heart beating painfully in his chest.

What... What if he hurts her in some way? What if his clumsy and wound her at some point?

He shakes his head to silence the dark thoughts and sits down on a chair, pressing his baby against his naked chest, initiating skin-to-skin contact, so needed for babies, holding her fragile little head so carefully like she is made of glass.

He refrains from audibly gasping.

He can feel her little heart beating against his chest

A little drum

Small but strong and steady

Right in the palms his hands.

This time, he doesn’t try to refrain from anything and starts chuckling and crying freely, pressing his cheek against her small head like the most precious of treasures, his fins gently grazing her bald little head like a caress.

He feels alive

And like Good is still of this world

He holds the very proof in his trembling hands

At last

-------------------------------------------

Steb gently holds your hair back while you puke, curled over the toilet seat.

You cough and spit while he tenderly caresses your back, soothing you in the little ways he can, only a helpless witness to your discomfort.

You sigh and sit down on your ankle to breathe while he flushes the toilet and kneels next to you, letting you fall in his embrace.

Your former pregnancy was not especially restful but this one is manhandling you so much more. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear fondly as he purrs, comforting you with the steady sound and vibration of his chest.

“I’m sorry...” You grumble.

He brushes his forehead against your temple as if to say it was nothing he could not handle, especially for you, his beloved wife.

You both look up when you hear crying start on the second floor.

“She must be hungry...” You sigh, exhausted. “I’ll go and-”

He immediately seizes your chin to make you turn to him and express his disapproval. He explains with signs his true thoughts while you look at him, tired.

“But... You woke up in the night to feed her, it’s my turn to take care of-”

He shakes his head, categorical.

Before you could add anything else he helps you stand up and captures your legs to lift you up bridal style, carrying you up the stairs. You let your head rest against your husband’s chest, too tired to argue.

He leaves you in the bathroom to let you brush your teeth and enters the small nursery where his daughter is crying all the tears of her small body. He gently takes her and bops her up and down.

Indeed, this was her hungry cry, he recognized it instantly.

He pats her back gently as he exits the nursery. He takes a glance inside the bedroom to see you getting to bed with your round belly and a deep sigh. He nods to himself and heads downstairs as he cradles his darling baby.

He puts her in her baby chair and opens a baby can you both cooked. Steb isn’t especially trusting of the baby food in the market and prefers to cook his daughter’s food himself. He comes near her and cannot refrain from smiling as he sees her whining and extending her two hands toward him, knowing he has yummy food for her.

He gives her spoonfuls, mimicking a plane or a boat to distract and amuse her and she eats her food without making a fuss.

She is always making a fuss with you to your dismay but Steb magically calms her down just by taking her in his warm embrace. You are deeply jealous of him for that, but you both know it is just a baby passing fancy. He likes to tell you she will grow out of it and be terrible to both of you once she grows up, never failing to make you giggle and ease your mood.

He smiles as she takes such a huge gulp some food escapes her baby mouth, he gently wipes it off with a towel, purring loudly, simply happy.

He contemplates his daughter with eyes full of wonders.

She is green with stripes like him but she has your hair and nose, she inherited her eyes from his mother.

He plays, making the spoon wave in the air like a plane before reaching her wide-open mouth as she slaps her little hands on the chair with excitement.

She giggles a lot and eats her fills to his relief.

Steb keeps track of her weight and height and all other medical marks that he meticulously notes down in her health record booklet.

She takes the final spoonful and almost spits it out laughing. Steb tidies up the can and spoon and gives her a small bowl of biscuits you baked that she absolutely loves.

While she nibbles on the biscuits he pours some hot tea into a large mug and cuts some brioche slices with some mandarines, puts everything on a tray, and frees his baby of her chair, holding her with one arm, the tray with the other.

He kisses his daughter’s forehead as he walp up the stairs and enter the bedroom. He silently skirts the bed to reach your side where you are laying down and leaves the tray on your bedside table, prompting you to open your eyes.

‘’Oh Steb… you shouldn’t have.’’ You yawn, thankful.

He boops your nose playfully and goes to lay on his side, your daughter between the two of you

You turn toward them with a tired sigh and pull your baby to you with a relieved breathe.

Steb silently smiles.

He circles your shoulders with his arm, caressing your hair.

When you will be sleeping he will leave to take care of the dishes and laundry.

But for now, he will hug you both, reveling in your warmth and scents, hugging you tight like his treasures.

Ses deux petits cœurs

☆☆Taglist☆☆

@dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @brandy-and-bane @sp-the-fae-queen @aeeliy @sanktastuff @telephoneonawire @daichisito @sofiyathelast-blog

#steb #steb my love #steb arcane #steb x reader #steb imagine #steb fics #arcane imagine #arcane x reader #arcane fic #fanfic #neuvilette tea party

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tinytownn · 2 months ago

Text

road rage – iv

joel miller x f!reader

word count: 4.7k

summary: on a drive home after a late night shift, a tailgating truck hits you, sending you off the road. the driver—his looks catching you by surprise—offers you a ride home.

content: [18+], bon appetit joel!!, age gap, lotsss of skipping around this chapter, joel being insecure and old, aching joints lol, soft joelll, no use of y/n

a/n: [UNEDITED] my first smut ever??? terrfied to post this, but let me know what you guys think?? either way thank you guys so much for all the support on this mini series, i can't believe it's almost coming to an end!! i got back into writing after years and it's been such a motivator to have you guys interacting and enjoying my work. as always messages are open and send any requests my way!!

pt. i pt. ii pt. iii pt. v

—

FRIDAY - 9AM - TWO DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

Although his promise last night seemed sweet–his eyes locked with yours, still glossy from crying–he arrived the next morning agitated. He knocked on your door, but when you opened it he stood hunched over, hair tousled, and under-eyes puffier and darker than usual.

“Good morning!” You cheerfully waved to him, wrapping an arm around his bicep.

He only gave a tight lipped hum in response.

You glanced up at him, worry beginning to creep in. Last night flashed through your mind—Sarah’s icy glare, the way Joel trembled in your arms, the pressure in his jaw as he held back words. The stress of his week had clearly taken its toll on him.

The trip had been short. You visited a few local used car dealerships, but nothing caught your eye. Joel followed behind you like a shadow–his boots dragged against the pavement, each step weighted with tension. He barely spoke, instead cracking his knuckles, chewing his cheek raw, running agitated fingers through his hair. A fidgeting mess.

You tried not to take it personally.

“Joel,” you asked gently, hoping to pull him out of his silence, “what kind of car should I get?”

He shrugged, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. “One that’s not so destructible,” he muttered flatly.

You frowned. “What about this one?” you said, amplifying your excitement as you pointed to a small silver Corolla. “Look at this thing– it’s so cute! Plus it’s a reliable car, it’ll last me until I’m as old as you!”

His gaze barely flicked up to the car. “Nice. I like it,” he said, tone devoid of any emotion.

You bit your tongue. There was clearly something on his mind. Probably Sarah. You wondered if he’d even spoken to her at all.

But you didn’t mention it.

Joel had always been complicated when it came to confrontation. With people like Sarah, Tommy…you. His hardened exterior didn’t quite hold when it came to those he cared about. Beneath the biting sarcasm and scowls, he was softer. More afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of losing someone again.

He knew what people said about him—that he was intimidating, gruff, unapproachable. At work, it didn’t matter. But when it came to you, it did.

He remembered the night of the accident vividly—how you stormed up to his truck, wild-eyed and furious, and yet still visibly shaking. You didn’t even notice, but he did. The panic just under your skin. The car door had slammed against the guardrail, and he remembered how carefully you moved, bracing yourself, your expression dancing between fear and fury.

That memory followed him as you waltzed from dealership to dealership. Sometimes your hand would occasionally graze his, bringing him out of some daydream and he would continue to follow behind you.

The ride home was silent. The hum of the engine and the shuffling of your feet on the mat filled the silence..

“I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, I can walk myself to the door.” You insisted when he pulled into your driveway.

Joel looked at you then—really looked. For the first time all day, his eyes focused on yours.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m lettin’ you walk yourself to the door, sweetheart,” he replied, voice laced with faint humor. You heard the familiar click of the locks. “And don’t even think about touchin' that door!”

You laughed, grateful for even a flicker of lightness. You waited as he came around to open the door for you, hand extended just like always. You took it, warm and familiar, unaware of how badly you’d come to miss that feeling.

–

TUESDAY - 1PM - SIX DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

You sat hunched over your desk, chewing the cap of your pen–unfocused and anxious. Dull office chatter and copier whirring had been the only thing you’d heard for hours. You hadn’t spoken to anyone but your Uber driver and the phone call with your boss the night previous. You made it a point to avoid everyone in the office, burying yourself under all the paperwork you had to catch up on.

It had now been four days since you had seen Joel.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he’d said that night, giving you a chaste kiss, lips tight. His wave was small, almost hesitant.

You leaned in the doorway, giving him a longing grin. “See you soon, Joel.”

He didn’t answer. Only looked back with tired, unreadable eyes.

You gave him space, assuming he’d text you if he wanted. Maybe he still had to talk to Sarah. Maybe work was too much. Either way, you didn’t want to push him.

By Saturday, after a full day of radio silence, your chest ached from the quiet. You stared at your phone for hours before finally sending a message:

Thinking about you :) Call me?

He didn’t answer. You didn’t press it.

The following days were slow. Your car was still wrecked, the insurance company useless, and Joel—a ghost. You wandered around your home, the silence stretching like fog.

Then, as the night grew dark, your phone buzzed.

You need a ride to work tomorrow?

You frowned at the cold, transactional message. Staring down at his text, you knew you still needed a ride. And–maybe more than that–you just wanted to see Joel again.

Guilt panged your chest as you typed out your message.

If it wouldn’t be a bother. Thank you so much!!

He quickly read your message, saying nothing in response.

Hours passed. You tried to distract yourself with a documentary, half-watching when your phone rang.

Joel.

“Hello?” You said, your tone a little more nervous than you meant to give off.

You could hear shuffling through the receiver, what sounded like Sarah’s voice muffled in the background, and the slamming of a door. A ringing static filled the air and the chirping of crickets filled your ears.

“Sorry, darlin’” His voice came in low, worn thin. “Somethin’ came up at work. They want me in tomorrow morning.”

“That’s okay,” you said quickly, each word lifting a weight from his heavy shoulders. “You’ve already done so much for me. I can figure it out.”

There was a beat of silence–Joel was thinking.

“You sure, sweetheart? I can ask Tommy to come out and take ya.” He sounded unsure, the plan probably just had been formulated in his mind.

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see. “It’s okay, Joel. I promise. I’ll find a way there.”

Your laugh, light and familiar, drifted through the phone. Joel exhaled, a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You’re too damn good to me,” he muttered. “I’ll make it-”

The screen door smacked open–another voice chimed in.

“Dad? Uncle Tommy and Anthony are here. Is everything okay?”

Sarah. She was breathless, panting each word by the time she got to Joel.

There was a shuffle, the phone rattling as Joel likely dropped it to his side. You could hear muffled voices, then the door shut again.

“I’ll make it up to you another time, darlin’,” his words were rushed. “I’ve gotta go for now. I’m sorry.”

A group of deep voices and the creaking of floorboards told you he was back inside now. You could pick out Tommy’s similar southern drawl out of the crowd, raised and indignant.

“It’s bullshit I’m tellin’ ya! Thinkin’ they can just just push us around like that!”

You cleared your throat, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “It’s alright– but is everything okay?”

Joel sighed, the firmness returning to his voice. “Yes, it’s just– a lot is goin’ on right now, sweetheart. I’ll fill you in later, but I have to go. Right now.”

His tone shocked you. It wasn’t mean–just demanding and firm.

“Yeah– okay, sorry. I hope it all works out…whatever it is.” You said awkwardly, trying to ease his stress.

“Thanks, darlin’. I’ll talk to you later.”

The line clicked.

–

SUNDAY - 8PM - FOUR DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

Joel threw his phone onto the couch with a thud, dragging a hand through his peppered beard. The three standing in his living room stared at him expectantly as if he had called them there.

Tommy was the first to speak, his tone sharp, patience worn thin. “Joel, it’s bullshit what they suspended you for.” His jaw was tight, hands gesturing wildly. “That man is a fucking pain in my ass and I don’t care if you cussed him out or not–he deserved it.”

Joel scoffed, crossing his arms.

“A real ray of sunshine, ain’t he?” He muttered, sarcasm sharp. He knew Tommy had finally tasted the man’s entitled attitude while covering the site. Felt good to be validated, but it didn’t solve a thing.

Anthony stepped between the brothers, voice more measured. “Corporate isn’t going to listen if we’re angry. They’re already talking about moving you to the office–permanently.”

Sarah was curled on the couch, eyes wide as she listened to the men speak. “Are you gonna lose your job, Dad?”

“No, Sarah. Go upstairs.” Joel barked.

Usually she would argue, shoot back with some witty comment, but she knew better than to bite back at that tone. Light, tiptoed steps brought her to the top of the stairs where she kept out of sight–listening.

Joel turned back to the men, his eyes sharp. “Now why the hell would they do that? I’ve been runnin’ sites for twenty years now and they wanna stick me in the damn shop?”

Anthony didn’t flinch. “They’re sayin’ you’re a liability, Joel. Too many people walked off your jobs. Now they think you’re chasin’ clients away too.”

Tommy was quick to turn to his boss, betrayal stamped on his face. “You’re backin’ them now? That ain’t what you said on the ride over here! Joel said he didn’t say anything, so he didn’t!”

“I ain’t ever yell at someone who didn’t deserve it,” his words were slow, careful as he made unwavering eye contact with Anthony. “And as much as that man deserved it, I didn’t say nothin’. Honest.”

A thick silence settled between them, coating the walls.

–

TUESDAY - 3PM - SIX DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

It was nearing the end of your shift and the weight of your worries weighed almost as much as the stack of unfinished work on your desk. It was looking to be the beginning of another lonely night.

Until–

Your phone brightly buzzed atop your desk, hands wasting no time to pick up the call.

“Hey, Joel.” Your voice was hushed, trying not to attract attention to your cubicle.

The lowered radio and steady engine humming filtered through the static.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice brought you back to when you laid in his arms–soft and comforting. It sent shivers up your spine. “What time do you get out of work?”

You knitted your brows in confusion. “In fifteen. Why?”

“I’ll be there. Don’t go anywhere.”

Click

Before you could ask any questions he had already hung up the line, leaving you in a wave of confusion. You sat back, riding out the rest of your shift until your coworkers began to get up in groups–signaling it was time to go home.

You stepped outside into the cooling dusk. Joel’s rusty truck was parked to your left under a flickering streetlight. He leaned on the passenger door, one hand behind his back, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

As you approached, he revealed a bouquet of white lilies.

Your hands flew to your face. “What’s all this?”

He reached towards you, arm snaking around your waist as he pecked your lips. “Told you I’d make it up to ya, didn’t I?”

You giggled, remembering the promise the man had made you. His breath tickled your neck as he leaned across you, pulling open the passenger door. You held the flowers close to your chest, cherishing them as you climbed into the seat.

“These are beautiful. Thank you.” You beamed.

As he drove, his tension seemed to melt. The familiar crinkle by his eyes returned.

“Didn’t know your favourite, but…these reminded me of you.” His voice was almost shy.

There was a moment of silence before he quietly added, “Thanks for bein’ patient.”

You looked to him, eyes earnest. “It really wasn't a big deal. I get it– work, family, it’s a lot.

Joel nodded, then chuckled under his breath. “Still…I’m lucky I’ve got someone as kind as you.”

You bit your lip, unsure to cross a boundary. “How did your talk with Sarah go?”

Unexpectedly, his face softened and his fingers relaxed on the wheel.

“I don’t know what I did to have a daughter as great as her.” His eyes were beaming with admiration. “She came up to me and talked about it– Sunday before I called you. Told me she wasn’t mad…just surprised. She’s just so mature, still teaching me things at my grown age.”

“She seems like it. With a dad like you I don’t doubt she’s got a good head on her shoulders.” You reached for the hand in his lap. “I’m glad things settled between you two. I was scared she wouldn’t like me.”

His hand squeezed yours. “Ain’t nothin’ not to like.”

You blushed, smiling down at the lilies in your lap. “You’re pretty damn good to me too, y’know.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I’m tryin’, sweetheart. Just…tryin’ to get it right this time.”

A new, lingering sensation settled between the two of you as Joel’s truck rumbled into its usual spot in your driveway. The low purr of the engine faded as he threw it in park and the cab went silent except for his voice.

Joel talked absentmindedly about the parts of his week you’d missed—his late-night talks with Sarah, how Tommy and Anthony were helping him fix the mess at work, and threaded through it all, how much he’d missed you. His tone turned softer when he said it. “Missed you so damn much, darlin’...”

You listened silently, eyes trained on the curve of his lips as he spoke. God, you missed him too–more than you wanted to admit. There was something about being near him again that made your chest ache and flutter all at once.

The warmth from his smile radiated through your whole body. That smile that started at hte corners of his mouth and always reached his eyes. His hard gaze, always serious, sofetned the moment he looked at you, His eyes never stopped searching, studying every detail of your face to tell him everything it could about you.

And then there were his arms. Always flexing through his sleeves when he moved, the fabric tight around his biceps, the cling of his shirts to his chest drawing you eyes far too long for subtlety. You bit your lip, remembering how he looked after work–sweat curling his hair to his forehead, breath ragged, his whole body groaning with fatigue.

You were staring. He noticed.

“Somethin’ caught your eye?” Joel smirked, arm lazily draped over the wheel.

Cheeks flushed, you looked down to your lap. “You…” you murmured, just barely loud enough for him to hear.

A low, amused click of his tongue followed. “What was that, darlin’?” he asked, voice rougher now, more suggestive.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. There was something new in his voice—heat, intrigue, control. It made your breath catch.

His hand reached across the console, slow and deliberate, resting gently on your thigh. Fingers traced small, teasing circles, inching higher with each pass. He watched you closely, his eyes flicking between your expression and his own movements.

“C’mon now,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “I know those pretty lips got somethin’ to say.”

Instinctively, your lips reached to wrap around his thumb, pressing a small kiss to the tip. Your eyes stayed locked with his.

“You…” you whispered. “I was looking at you…”

He hummed, satisfied with your answer. “You like what you see?”

You swallowed hard, barely able to nod. His gaze pinned you in place, pupils dark and wide, a slow-burning desire etched into every feature.

Joel’s hand cupped your cheek, warm and steady, fingertips pressing lightly to your skin as he leaned in closer. “You’re shakin’,” he noted with a smirk.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice trembling.

His hand didn’t leave your thigh even after he pulled the keys from the ignition. Without a word, he opened his door and circled the truck, opening yours like he always did. A small gesture, one you’d grown to love.

Inside the house, the cool air from the ceiling fan washed over you, easing the heat in your cheeks–but only for a moment. Joel’s hand was placed firmly on your back, making his way lower the further you walked in.

You tried to hide the way you trembled, but he noticed anyway.

“You nervous, sweetheart?” he teased, his voice low in your ear as he leaned close.

You shook your head quickly. “No…”

Joel chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re a terrible liar.”

His touch, soft and sure, made the same teasing trail as before–but slower now. More purposeful. He started with a taunting trail from your thigh that danced up your waist, grazing the curve of your waist, before stopping at your jaw. He tilted your face to his.

“Told you I was gonna make it up to ya, didn’t I?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear.

He repeated himself–slower, sensually–as his tongue traces along the shell of your ear. A soft whimper escaped you, a blurring frenzy of pleasure clouded your mind,

You squeezed your thighs together, core alight with anticipation. “Joel…”

“You gonna show me to that bed of yours, pretty girl?” His breath was hot, tingling against the back of your neck as he pressed wet, deliberate kisses. “Or you want me to just bend you over right here?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you took his hand and led him down the hall, your grip tight, your heartbeat pounding in your throat.

Once inside your room, you sank down to the edge of the bed, legs trembling. Joel shut the door quietly behind him and approached, standing between your parted thighs. His fingers cradled your face again, eyes locked onto yours.

“This okay, darlin’?” He asked gently.

You nodded, lip between your teeth. “Yes…please.”

That was all he needed–your eyes dark and hungry, silently pleading for your touch. Joel surged forward, his lips crashing onto yours, hot and desperate. His tongue coaxed your lips open, demanding entry as if he wasn’t close enough. Fingertips teasingly traced shapes on your skin and worked their way to the hem of your shirt, tauntingly tugging at the stitches.

A breathless gasp escaped you as he finally pulled back, his chest heaving. His eyes, blown wide with lust, locked onto your face—lips red and swollen from his kiss, chest rising and falling fast. You leaned into the warmth of his lingering touch.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So beautiful.”

Hungry for more, Joel dipped down to your neck, planting sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His teeth grazed your shoulder before biting down, just hard enough to leave a mark and you whimpered, wriggling beneath him.

The shocks of pain pulsed through your body and the tender, loving kisses he placed on each bite left each shock with a surge of pleasure. His hands twisted in your shirt, pulling it up over your head with a smooth, practiced motion. The sudden chill in the air hardened your nipples, and a low, guttural groan left Joel’s lips as he took in the sight.

“Fuck…” His eyes darkened. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

He cupped your breasts gently, the heat from his palms radiating through you. As you tilted your head back, his gaze flicked upward, catching yours through your lashes and he couldn’t hold himself back.

Without a word, he leaned down and took one taut nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud while his other hand pinched and rolled the other. Your back arched, a desperate cry leaving your throat as your hand gripped the sheet, knuckles paling.

“Shit- Joel!” you moaned, his name slipping out like a prayer.

He hummed at the sound, lips still wrapped around your skin. “Love hearin’ you like this for me,” he muttered against your chest. “So goddamn sweet.”

Your body jolted when he pulled away, a needy whine slipping from your lips at the loss of contact. You looked up at him through fluttering lashes–his spit still glistening on your skin, connecting him to your chest.

He dropped to his knees with a gunt, both the floorboards and his joints popping at the contact.

“Lay back for me.” His voice low, commanding.

You nodded, grabbing a pillow to tuck under your head as you settled back onto the mattress. Hooking his hands under your knees, Joel pulled you to the edge of the bed.

Fingertips trailed up to the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuttoning them as you lifted your hips to assist him ease them off your hips.

His breath hitched. “Fuck me…”

A low groan left his lips at the sight of a blooming pool of darkness through the fabric of your underwear.

“All this for me?” His lips curled into a smug grin.

“Joel-” you whined, hips shifting.

He traced a lazy finger over the dampened fabric and you hissed at the contact, bucking your hips upward.

“Easy,” he chuckled, placing rough kisses to the inside of your thighs. “Be patient, sweetheart. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“S’not fair,” you whimpered, voice small, breathless.

A firm hand gripped your hips, holding you in place while you wriggled upwards, craving any sort of contact. “No rush. Wanna savor this.”

A growl rumbled from his chest as he gripped your thighs, tugging your core to the edge of the bed so your heat hovered just inches from his lips. Each touch was tauntingly slow, his tongue tracing a path up your thigh to the hem of your undergarments, his breath fanning your core.

“Fine,” he snarled. “I’ll give you what you want.”

In one solid movement your underwear was tugged to the side, the slick coating the fabric sticking to your skin. Joel took in a sharp breath, admiring the sight before him–your folds glistened with arousal that stained the sheets.

“Fuck…Look at you.”

“Please—Joel, I need—just…your tongue, fingers, anything—please.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and begging.

He flicked his gaze up to you, chest rising with each breath. “Don’t gotta ask me twice, darlin’.”

His tongue licked a firm strip through your folds before diving into your entrance, licking up everything you had to give. You cried out, hands flying to his head, tangling in his hair.

“Sweetheart,” he moaned against your skin. “Tastes so good f’me. So pretty too.”

He started with long, slow licks across your entrance, circling his way to your clit. While his tongue danced on your bundle of nerves, unworking you just the way you like, you entangled your fingers further into his peppered hair. You tugged him closer, trying to rut your hips up despite his pressing force.

Still pressing down on your hip, he removed a hand to carefully slip a finger into your entrance, you gasped in shock. He diligently explored your walls, and they pulsed as he slipped a second digit into your core. Looking up at you through his lashes, he continued lapping at your clit like a starved man and his fingers curled inside you in ways that made you scream.

You could barely see him through your watery eyes, the pleasure that rang through your body brought tears that fell down your face. You felt his pace quicken and the pulsing in your core grew more persistent as Joel brought you to the edge.

Pleasure clouded your mind, leaving your words a muddled mess. “Joel- mmm don’t stop…feels so good, please.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he purred, lips shiny, gaze hungry. “I feel her gettin’ tighter. Let it go for me.”

His sweet words combined with the added pressure of his tongue returning to your clit was enough to undo the knot in your stomach. Joel’s pressure released slightly as your legs shook underneath him and your walls gripped his fingers as you came undone with a broken sob

But Joel didn’t stop.

While garbled moans and pleas left your lips Joel was still between your legs. He was relentless against your aching, sensitive bud, and continued to lap at your juices long after you had come.

“J-Joel, s’too much,” you begged, fingers dug into his scalp. “Please, I can’t-”

A vibration shot through your core as Joel pulled away with a hum, licking his lips clean. He slowly opened his eyes, looking up to you in a lidded gaze, and he retracted his fingers from you, popping them into his mouth, moaning at the sweet taste.

“Got me fuckin’ addicted,” he groaned, voice low. “Tastes too good.”

You lay on the bed, body trembling, tears drying on your cheeks. He said something—soft, low—but you couldn’t make it out over the pounding in your ears.

Then came his touch again, careful and delicate.

A warm cloth glided between your thighs, his hands uncharacteristically gentle. He worked in silence, wiping away the slick that coated your legs. The room was quiet except for the sound of your shaky breaths and the occasional, quiet sniffle you tried to hide.

Joel didn’t say a word as he finished, tossing the cloth aside and reaching for the edge of the blanket to pull over your legs. His movements were slow. Thoughtful. But his eyes didn’t meet yours.

When he finally climbed onto the bed beside you, you felt the shift in his energy. Not lust. Not dominance. Something else entirely—hesitance.

He laid back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand resting a safe distance away on the mattress, barely touching you.

It was only when he gently brushed a strand of damp hair from your face and pressed a feather-light kiss to your nose that you saw it—the uncertainty flickering behind his eyes.

“How you feelin’?” he asked, voice thick and low. “Was that… okay?”

You turned towards him, confused at the vulnerability in his tone. “Joel…?”

Despite how confident he'd sounded in the heat of the moment—how sure his hands and mouth had been—he suddenly looked regretful and scared.

He swallowed hard, voice quiet. “It’s just…been a while y’know. Since I’ve done that. Since I’ve wanted to do that.”

You blinked slowly, listening.

“I worry that…” he trailed off, fingers twitching on the sheet between you. “That I don’t got a right to touch you like that. You’re…younger. You look at me like I’m worthy and…I just-” He broke off with a shaky breath, running a hand down his face. “I dunno. Maybe I messed things up.”

Your heart twisted at his confession. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his before he could pull away.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you whispered, thumb brushing the back of his hand. “Not even close.”

He finally looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant everything I said,” you told him, curling closer into his side. “That was perfect. You were perfect.”

Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, his arm came around you slowly, unsure at first, until you nestled fully into his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel,” you murmured against his skin.

You felt the deep breath he took—felt it in the way his chest rose beneath your cheek. He kissed the top of your head and let out a barely audible, “Alright,” like he was still trying to believe it.

But his grip around you tightened, and for the first time since he'd left your body shaking, you felt him start to relax.

—

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ @anoverwhelmingdin @auteurdelabre @tweakersqueaker @icanbringyouinhot @forpunishers @doeeyestoji @legoemma @woodxtock @jaxmom66 @iheartoldermem @iamawkwardandshy @thejoywillburnoutthepain (message me to be added or removed)

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

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dina-winchester · 29 days ago

Text

Echoes of Us ⁶

Read part five here

Pairing: Dean x you

Summary: Some people never really leave. And some loves… some loves find their way back, even across time, even after goodbye.

The road is quiet now.

Overgrown grass curls along the shoulder, and the metal guardrail is still bent—scarred from where the car hit.

You step out slowly, the wind tugging at your coat, your boots crunching over gravel and memory.

The crash site.

It looks smaller than you remember.

You walk closer, stopping right where the twisted metal meets the dirt. Your fingers tremble as they reach into your pocket and pull out a single photograph—one from Paris.

You’re smiling. But you’re alone.

You stare at it for a long moment, then kneel down, placing it gently on the grass. The wind tries to take it, but you press your palm over it to keep it still.

“I know you were there,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I felt you. I don’t care what the pictures say. I know.”

A breeze moves past you, warm for a second—too warm for spring.

You close your eyes.

“I hope it was real for you too. I hope you saw me smiling and dancing and loving you.”

The tears come quietly, sliding down your cheeks.

“I don’t know how to move on, Dean,” you say. “But I know I can’t keep pretending you’re still here like you were before.”

You take a shaky breath.

“I love you. I always will. But I’m gonna try. I’m gonna try to live.”

The wind picks up gently, brushing your hair back—like a touch.

You place a single kiss to your fingertips, then press it to the spot on the earth where you imagine he took his last breath.

“Goodbye, baby,” you whisper. “I’ll see you again.”

Then you rise.

And this time, when you walk away, you don’t look back.

Not because you’re forgetting.

But because you’re carrying him with you now.

Every step forward, he’s there.

Always.

The apartment is quiet when you return.

Not empty.

Just… still.

You set your keys down and shrug off your coat, your steps slow, heavy from the weight of goodbye.

But something’s different.

A faint flicker of light is coming from under the bedroom door.

You pause.

When you push the door open, your breath catches in your throat.

There, resting neatly at the foot of the bed, is a small box. Wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with string. A folded note rests on top—your name written in his handwriting.

Your knees nearly buckle.

Hands trembling, you sink down onto the mattress and unfold the paper.

“In case I couldn’t stay…

Don’t stop dancing.

Love,

Dean.”

Your tears fall before you even open the box.

Inside, wrapped in soft fabric, is an old iPod. Yours, but long forgotten. When you press the power button, it flickers to life. And the screen reads:

Dean’s Playlist

For Her.

A list of songs begins to scroll. Some you danced to in Paris. Some he sang along to in the car. One labeled simply “Our Song.”

You press play.

The music fills the room, slow and steady.

And without thinking, you rise to your feet. You wrap your arms around yourself. And you dance.

There’s no one else there.

But you feel him—like the air, like gravity, like a memory that never fades.

And maybe, just maybe… his arms are around you too.

You close your eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper to the music, to the silence, to the ghost of the man who loved you more than life.

And in the soft rhythm of the song, you swear—

You hear it back.

The sun filters gently through your kitchen window, dust dancing in the light. With time and years passed, the place has changed—new furniture, new paint, even new memories.

But some things remain.

The old iPod sits nestled in a small glass case on your bookshelf. You still play it sometimes. Never when anyone else is around. Just you and the music. Just you and him.

It’s been years.

The ache is quieter now. Softer around the edges. But he’s still there—woven into every part of your life.

Today, you’re cleaning out the hall closet, sorting through a forgotten box of jackets and flannels you couldn’t bear to throw away.

At the very bottom, folded with care, you find a sealed envelope.

Your name.

That same handwriting.

Your heart stumbles.

With shaking fingers, you sit on the floor and open it.

“Hey, sweetheart.

If you’re reading this… guess that means I didn’t make it. I hate that.

I wanted forever with you.

But if there’s one thing I know, it’s this—love like ours doesn’t just stop. Doesn’t disappear.

So I’m asking you to keep going. Not to forget me. But to live. Really live.

Laugh too hard. Fall in love again if it ever feels right.

Keep dancing.

And every now and then, look up at the stars.

I’ll be there.

Yours always,

Dean.”

You press the letter to your chest, eyes closed, breath catching.

He never really left.

And somehow, you know—he never will.

You smile through the tears, letting them fall.

And later that night, with the stars burning quiet above your roof, you dance again.

Not alone.

Never alone.

A/N: Thank you for reading everyone! I believe this is the end of the story. I could bring him back but I’m pretty happy with the way this ended. Are you? Let me know what you thought. Kinda broke my own heart writing this. Seriously. I hope you liked it! 🫶🏻

Special tags: @robynn9436-blog @candy-coated-misery0731 @pillowjj @piertomaximoffsgirl @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @mrswinchester3 @cherryresidence @shanimallina87 @amourcri3s @mandee7 @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @samlou @almostshamelesstale @alexfms97 @bigmoodyjoody @deanswifeyy @anjee0

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x you #dina writes

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moody-alcoholic · 7 months ago

Text

These Violent Delights

Chapter 15 - Heal My Wounds

Summary: Poly 141 x fem!reader, a/b/o alternate universe 5.6k words. It's the all hurt no comfort chapter.

CW: a/b/o alternative universe, a/b/o dynamics, typical a/b/o universe tropes, VERY HEAVY HURT/ little bit of comfort, miscarriage, medical inaccuracies (omega's body is all kinds of fucked up, more about that later on™), ectopic pregnancy, lot’s of pain, mentions of death, nightmares, panic attacks, angst, depression, mental health.

Previous - masterlist - next Bonus AO3

Enjoy!

You’re running. You don’t know where you’re going as you sprint into the woods, and you don’t care. You don’t care how long you need to run for, you just want to get away, away from your pack.

They said they would save her. They failed.

You’re running as fast as you can, ignoring the pain burning through your body. You will have ripped stitches for sure, but you don’t care. The rain is cold on your hot skin. There’s a deep pain in your body, throbbing with each pound of your feet on the ground.

You don’t care. You deserve the pain.

You’re deep in the forest now. You can hear people calling for you. It’s dark and you managed to give them the slip. You trip over some roots putting out your arms to stop you from slambing painfully on the forest floor. Your neck throbs. You use your hands pushing your chest up off the ground.

Pain radiates through your body. You stand up using a tree to support you. There are voices getting closer, and you can see lights shining. They must have flashlights. You don’t want to see them. You take a step forward. Pain shoots through your body, you push on anyway.

You can’t keep going for much longer. It feels like someone is stabbing you in the abdomen. You press your hand on it to quell the pain, but it’s not helping. Reaching up, you feel the bandage on your neck is almost ripped off, and now it's catching your hair. You rip it off, your fingers getting coated in blood. You’ve definitely torn stitches.

You keep moving until you’re gasping for air, your lungs burning. The pain is too much, and you collapse against a tree, gripping it for support. You can’t hear their voices any more. Maybe you’ve run far enough. You cry out as you force your body to move. You think you can see a road through the trees. Maybe you’ll be able to find someone to give you a ride somewhere, anywhere away from here.

Each step is painful, and the rain is heavier. The closer you get to the opening you see that it’s definitely a road. You can see the shiny flat concrete. You climb up the embankment on your hands and knees. It takes all your energy, and when you make it up you lean against the guard rail. You take a second to look up. You can’t see stars, there are too many rain clouds. You sit there shivering as your panting becomes shallow breaths again.

She’s dead. Dr. Piper is dead.

You don’t have time to mourn. The stabbing pain comes back with a vengeance causing you to cry out, gripping your stomach. It feels like someone is stabbing you over and over again. It can’t be good. You don’t have time to worry about it though. You need to get away. Maybe if you follow the road you might find your way to a building or a person.

You remember the drive with Kate but you don’t know which direction to start in. You’re all turned around. The road bends ahead of you, and you decide that’s the best way to go as long as you’re not going backwards. You straighten up your body and go to take a step forward.

There’s pain, so much pain.

You close your eyes, gritting your teeth. You deserve this. John should have done the swap, then Dr. Piper would have been alive. You deserve this pain. You bend forward, your hand gripping the cold metal of the guardrail.

“Over here!” you hear Kyle's voice shouting. Fuck, you have to move now. You don’t want to see them, you don’t want to be near them. You press forward trying to use the guardrail to support you. It’s going to end soon and then you will have to let go. You let out a pained groan as you force your body to stand up.

You give yourself a second to breathe. Something's very wrong. This pain is not normal. It’s worse than anything you have ever experienced before. You take a few shaky steps, and you turn to see lights flashing through the trees. Someone calls your name. You have to move.

You cry through the pain willing your body to go forward with everything you have. Where’s the rush of adrenaline when you need it? It’s too much though. Your body is shaking, radiating with pain and before you know it you sink to your knees.

You kneel there in the wet mud, “move!” You grit between your teeth, you have to get away. They let Dr. Piper die. You don’t want to see them. You can’t though, your body feels like a lead weight. You’re drenched and shivering.

Maybe this is it. Maybe you deserve this. Karma or something. You hear noises behind you, and you can see lights shining as you sit back on your knees.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Kyle says as he kneels down next to you. You turn using the last of your energy to fight him. He’s pulling his jacket off trying to throw it over you while you push him back. He’s stronger than you and you’re in pain. You scoot backwards trying to kick him.

You don’t want to see anyone. A surge of adrenaline hits you and you jump up on your feet.

“Go away!” you snap. Your head is starting to swim. You walk backwards looking at them. You can hear a car, and then next thing you know the truck you took with Kate is here.

“Take it easy,” Kyle says, trying again to grab you. Another pain radiates through you and you cry out, falling back to your knees. You hear more voices and boots in the mud as you double over in pain again.

“What’s wrong?” That's Johnny’s voice. He kneels down too, his hands pressing on your shoulders. More lights, and you see John jog over. You don't have the energy to fight them, you relent looking between the lights up at Kyle.

“Kyle,” you sob, reaching for him. He grabs your hand, and you fall into his chest.

“Yeah, you’re okay,” he says, wrapping his arms around you.

“Hurts,” you sob, gripping your stomach. You don’t get time to register his reaction before another pain shoots through you. More voices, more lights. You grit your teeth moaning out as you’re lifted up off the ground. Your body is shaking as you’re carried into the back of a truck and laid out on a bench.

“That’s a lot of blood,” someone says. You feel movement, the truck is moving. Your head is swimming.

“Where does it hurt lass?” Johnny asks as you start to lose your grip on consciousness. Someone presses a bandage to your neck. There are other hands running over your body, pulling your shirt up, pressing on your legs and arms. Everything hurts.

You move your hands down your stomach to your lower body. You don’t have the energy to talk. You press your hand on your abdomen, and it makes you yelp in pain. Someone's hand is on your head brushing your hair. You can smell beta in the air.

You're rolled over onto your side. Warm hands running down your back. Something feels wrong. Something deep inside you. Maybe you're dying of a broken heart. You’ve read about that in stories, when people lose someone they love.

It doesn't matter anyway. You don't deserve to be here. Dr. Piper is dead. John should have done the swap. Then she would still be alive.

“Shite,” there’s a fist banging on metal that makes you jump.

“Price, she needs a hospital!” Johnny calls. You close your eyes, you're in too much pain.

“Don’t close your eyes, c’mon stay awake.” Kyle shakes your shoulders. You open your eyes again as you're rolled onto your back. Kyle looks down at you. You smile at him, your eyes feeling heavy again. He shakes you again calling your name. Your eyes snap open for a second, but you can't stay awake though. You close your eyes one last time and drift into unconsciousness.

…

When you wake, there’s beeping. There are bright lights above you, and there’s something on your face. It’s cold. You reach up to pull it off, even that hurts. In your whole body there's a deep throbbing pain. The beeping makes your head pound.

There is so much pain, in your muscles, in your chest. You take a breath and it makes you wince.

Something is wrong, something's very wrong. You’ve never felt like this before.

“Leave it on, love. You need it.” It’s Johnny. His hand comes up to yours pushing the mask back over your nose. Cold air blows on your face. You look around the room. Everything is just a blur of colours and shapes. The voices are echoing, as Johnny’s warm hand rubs your arm. You look down, you're in a bed. You can smell the disinfectant, and there’s a tube coming off your hand. You’re in the hospital.

You see Kyle standing in the doorway of the room looking out into the hall. You feel the dull throbbing get stronger.

“Where are we?” you ask, your throat raw. It’s barely words.

“Canada, we’re at a hospital.” You’re getting sleepy again. Canada is above the US right? You can’t remember. You let out a sigh closing your eyes.

“Just rest, we’ll be out of here soon,” he says.

…

When you open your eyes again, Simon is by your side. There is still a dull throbbing pain, and your body feels heavy. Your neck hurts as you turn it, gritting your teeth, and a groan leaves your throat. Simon seems to hear you straight away, opening his eyes and leaning forward in the chair.

You don’t know what to say.

"How are you feeling?” he asks. You don't say anything. He lets out a long sigh.

“Is she really dead?” you ask. Maybe it was just a dream and you made it all up. You know Simon will be straight with you. He looks at you right in your eyes. He looks sad. You don’t think you have ever seen him sad. He just nods. Tears come and you turn away.

It’s not a dream, it's a horrible reality. You’ve been here before, but this time it's different.

Your alpha did this. He promised he would save her. He lied. The one person who is supposed to protect you and be there for you through everything. He let her die.

“I can get John,” he says. You hear him shuffle in the chair.

“No,” you sob. “I don’t want to see him.”

He promised you he would save her. Now she’s dead. You squeeze your eyes closed.

You can’t believe she’s dead.

…

The next time you wake you hear quiet mumbles. You look up seeing John talking to what looks like a doctor. You turn your head. Johnny’s holding your hand.

“Hey, how ya feeling, lass?” he asks with a smile on his face. You don’t know how you feel. Numb? Pain, you know you’re in pain, you feel it. Your stomach hurts but you bring your hand up to your neck. There’s no bandage anymore. The wound is healed. You can feel the small raised scar.

You take your hand from Johnny pulling the blanket down. You’re in another hospital gown, you don’t care, you pull it to the side. There’s a scar just above your hip. You sit up, looking at John who’s stopped his conversation to look over at you.

Johnny’s hand is on your back, the doctor—nurse—you don’t care is looking at you with sympathy in her eyes. The pain is dulled. They’ve been giving you pain killers. Your wounds are healing. You look at Johnny. You can smell him trying to comfort you. Your lip quivers. You know what’s happened. They don’t need to explain it.

“I'm sorry,” Johnny says, standing up and wrapping his arms around you. You let him pull you into his arms as you sob.

You failed. Your only job is to have babies and you can’t even do that. Your body throbs. You feel sick but Johnny doesn’t let you go, holding you tight and shushing you through the sobs. You hear the room door close and you break from his arms.

John is standing at the end of the bed. You don’t want to see him, you don’t want him to even be in the same room as you. Johnny seems to sense the tension in the air as he looks between you both. He picks your hand up again.

“I’m so sorry—” You put your hand up stopping him. You don’t want to hear his apologies. He lets out a sigh hanging his head. You force yourself to look up at him, you force yourself to hold back the tears. You look at him until you can’t hold back anymore, and you hang your head.

He let you down. He let Dr. Piper die. Now you’ve let him down. Maybe it’s what you deserve. Karma or something.

You lay back in the bed looking at the ceiling. Tears run down your face. You’re so sick of crying. Johnny squeezes your hand. You turn your head looking over at him. He looks at you with those wide blue eyes. You hear the room door open and close again. Johnny’s hand comes up to stroke your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear.

You close your eyes again. You try to imagine the house on the hill, the pies, the warm summer evening, the lake. You can’t, your mind goes blank. There’s no safe space anymore. No place you can go in your mind anymore.

It’s just empty.

There is no light, only darkness. There’s nothing. It’s like being back in the bunker.

There’s no time anymore. You don’t move, you can barely think. What do you think about? The fact that you had a miscarriage or the fact that Dr. Piper is dead.

There’s pain, dull throbbing, the methodical thump of your broken heart. The pain down your spine you get from each turn of your head. The deep ache in your abdomen.

You don't remember much from the hospital. You do remember never being alone. You would wake up to someone always by your side. The bewildered doctor tried to explain what happened on the day you were discharged.

Ectopic pregnancy. You had never heard about it before. The working theory is that your forced heat caused the embryo to implant near your cervix. You didn't understand much but you listened as she did her best to comfort you.

She was blonde too, like Dr. Piper, soft spoken with cool hands. She kept telling you it wasn't your fault. You didn't believe her. Who else’s fault would it be? You failed as an omega, and now you have to endure the pain.

At least with the pain it's something physical, reminding you that you’re still alive. Not like the dreams, nightmares, the blood, so much blood. You didn’t think it was possible to lose that much blood. Dr. Piper covered in blood, you covered in blood. You can smell it. When you wake up thick with sweat you could swear for a few seconds it’s real and you’re dripping in blood.

You don’t remember the miscarriage, you only remember the pain. When you think of the blood you remember the images of Dr. Piper, tied up and beaten bloody.

You remember John let her die.

You don’t know where you are exactly. In a safehouse in Canada is what John said when you all arrived there. Kate is not here. She stayed in the US. You hope she’s okay. Johnny told you she has a wife, and she wanted to stay for her. If she had run with you, she’d be a fugitive.

You haven’t left the bed you’ve been in since you got here. You sneak out to use the bathroom when everyone is fast asleep. You feel numb. Numb to everything. The only thing that reminds you that you’re still alive is the burn in your chest. Your wounds healed almost immediately after the miscarriage. You still ache though, your body heavy, throbbing in pain.

Johnny or Kyle will be in soon. They’ll try to get you to take pain medication. You’ll refuse; you want to feel the pain. You deserve to feel the pain. They’ll try to get you to eat or at least drink. You try. You take in as much as you can stomach.

Johnny likes to talk about what’s going on outside and how everyone is. Kyle keeps quiet. He just gives encouragement to keep you eating. You prefer Kyle. At night, sometimes Simon is with you. You don’t sleep, you can’t sleep. It’s like you’re there watching her die over and over again.

You wake screaming covered in sweat. He’s there gripping your shoulders almost trying to shake you awake. The betas rush into the room soon after. You hate their scent. It reminds you of Dr. Piper. You would rather smell beta than alpha though.

Alpha makes you think of John and you hate John right now.

You see him sometimes, his head poking through the door, especially after you’ve woken screaming. You can smell him. His scent lingers through the apartment. It lingers on you and it always will since he claimed you. He tried to talk to you when you were more aware. Every word he said made you sob.

Dr. Piper said pack threads are fragile things. It’s your job as an omega to keep them together. It’s almost like you can see them laid out in front of you. It’s like strings coming from you and out to each person. They’re intertwined too, connected to each other. It always comes back to you though. You keep the strings tight, keep the pack together.

Johnny opens the door to your room. He used to knock, but they’ve stopped caring as much. They leave the door cracked open, never fully letting it close. Maybe they care too much. He’s always smiling, he never seems upset about anything. It makes you jealous. You prop yourself up on your arm as he comes over placing the tray on the bedside table and turning on the light.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks. You don’t say anything, sitting up against the pillows. You feel tired. From the small amount of energy you don’t spend on crying, you use it to force food down your throat. He hands you a bottle of water picking up the bottle of pills. He rolls the bottle round in his hand like he does every time.

“You don’t have to be in pain,” he says. You can hear the sadness in his voice. You open the bottle of water.

“I’m fine,” you say before taking a drink. He smiles and puts the bottle back down on the tray. You wish they would stop asking, at least they’ve stopped hovering or asking how you are every 30 seconds. Johnny sits on the bed, and you move your legs for him.

“Simon and Kyle are going to the store tomorrow. Anything you fancy?” He brings the bowl of what looks like pasta on his knee. Guess you’re staying here for longer than you thought. Last you heard from Johnny you were still laying low until John could get a flight to the UK.

You shake your head. You don’t want to leave. It’s going to make you feel further away from Dr. Piper than you already feel. You still feel close to Johnny and Kyle. The threads are strong with them, they’re good betas. They’re good people.

Johnny spoons some pasta up bringing it to your mouth. You can do it yourself but you think Johnny likes playing caretaker. That makes him a good beta. Besides, you’re not going to complain, it's nice to have their company sometimes. The pasta tastes good. If there is one thing you have come to look forward to, it’s the food.

Kyle’s been cooking. You can sometimes smell the food before someone brings it to you and it’s never disappointing. Today is no different, pasta and meatballs, ‘spag bol’ as Johnny calls it. You listen to him as he talks about what’s been going on. It’s Wednesday. The weather is nice. He offers to open the curtains and window, but you shake your head.

Simon’s going a bit stir crazy which is why they’re going shopping tomorrow. By your fourth or fifth spoon of food you’re feeling full. You hold your hand up to stop Johnny but he bullies you into a few more spoonfuls. You lay back in the bed. Eating always makes you tired. Johnny sighs, giving up.

At least you’re eating something, and something is better than nothing. You lay back down as you watch Johnny leave the room. The door is almost fully closed, it’s just a crack left. You reach over, turning the light off. Now the only light is coming in, through the crack in the door.

The next time you see anyone will be if Simon inevitably wakes you from your night terrors. He’s got into the habit of sleeping in the recliner conveniently placed in your room. He doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to sleep quite comfortably anywhere.

He does such a good job at hiding his scent. He never smells of alpha, he never smells of anything. There are times where you crave John’s comfort, where you crave his touch. Then you remember why you’re mad at him and it makes you upset.

Your dreams are almost always the same. You’re running through the bunker looking for Dr. Piper. The only thing that changes is what happens when you find her. Sometimes she’s already dead, sometimes you have to break into a room slowly filling with water. Sometimes you get there and John is already in the room standing over her body as he does nothing to try and stop her from bleeding out.

The Professor is always there too. He creeps in the background, always just out of view, as if he’s stalking you. You can always hear him though, his voice echoing in the barren bunker. Then he grabs you, pulling you back from Dr. Piper so you’re always just out of her reach. You never save her. She always dies either in the room she’s been held in or at the bottom of the steps to the exit.

So close but she never sees sunlight again.

It’s always your fault. You can never save her.

You hear your own scream as you shoot up in bed. There are hands on you, gripping your shoulders tight. It’s always Simon, he’s holding your body as you try to calm down. It’s not long before Johnny and Kyle are running into the room. Johnny gets to you first and Simon steps back as he comes over, wrapping his arms around you. You hold him tight as he tells you everything is going to be okay and it’s all just dreams.

It’s not though because she really did die, and she really was tortured. Just like you had been, you knew what she was feeling. You hate the fact she died suffering. You hate the fact that you didn’t get to say goodbye. You hate John for making that choice.

Johnny stays with you for the rest of the night, holding you in his arms. You never really get back to sleep. You watch the sun come up through the closed curtains. Maybe you want to go outside, although from what you’ve heard you’re in a city and not the countryside. You close your eyes letting Johnny squeeze you in his arms.

Beta will always remind you of Dr. Piper but for now you breathe Johnny’s scent in letting it lull you back to sleep.

When you wake the bed is empty. You sit up swinging your legs out. You’re hungry, and you’re craving tea. The wooden floors are cold on your feet. You walk out of the room slowly. The apartment is an open floor plan and from your room you walk straight into the kitchen. Simon and Kyle are sitting at the table. Their eyes lock onto you as soon as your door is open.

You look around, but you can’t see John or Johnny anywhere. You swallow the lump in your throat away. Maybe you’re not ready yet. Maybe you can’t talk to them yet. They sit up straight watching you as you take a step out the room. You wrap your arms around your chest. It’s cold; there’s a chill in the air.

“You okay?” Kyle asks. You take a step over to the table.

“Can I have a cup of tea?” you ask. Your voice is quiet, and you feel a lump rise in your throat. You swallow it away as you watch Kyle get up off his chair. He walks round the table to you, his hand resting on your back.

“Want me to bring it into your room or…?”

“Here,” you say, reaching out and pulling the chair in front of you out. He smiles as you sit down and he goes into the kitchen. You look over at Simon. He’s not wearing his mask. You realised a few days ago but you were too upset to pay attention.

He’s handsome just like the rest of them. Not what you were expecting but you’re not sure what you were expecting. He has fluffy blonde hair, and you can see stubble coming through on his face. They’re all looking a bit rough. It feels like that’s your fault. You’re not sure what's going to happen. Maybe you’ll be staying here for longer than you think.

“Why do you wear a mask?” you ask Simon, looking over at him. You don’t know if he’s going to answer you honestly—you don’t expect him to. You keep eye contact watching his face. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked. Maybe he’ll get mad at you.

“I like to keep anonymity in the field,” he says. You smile at him as Kyle puts a mug in front of you. You breathe in the steam letting the mug warm your hands. Kyle sits down next to you.

“Where are John and Johnny?” you ask no one in particular.

“Securing a plane for us, they’ll be back later,” Kyle says. You nod. Kyle’s hand comes up to rub your back. You like feeling the betas near you. Maybe you’re healing. Maybe this is what healing feels like. You can’t help it though, your mind goes back to Dr. Piper and tears well up in your eyes.

You know they can smell your sadness in the air as you bring the mug of tea up to your lips. You don’t care that it’s still scalding hot, taking a sip and letting it burn your tongue.

“Are we going to the UK?” you ask, putting the tea down.

“Yeah, Scotland,” Kyle says.

“You’ll like it there. Lots of greenery, and a loch by the house,” Simon says. You look past him out the open window in the living room. You can see buildings across what you assume is the road. You look back at Simon and nod, bringing your hand up to wipe the tears away. You keep sipping the tea sitting in silence as Kyle and Simon pick their conversation back up.

You’re not really listening to them as you enjoy feeling Kyle’s hand rubbing your back and letting the cup of tea warm your body. Before you know it the door to the apartment opens. You’re holding your breath as you see Johnny and John walk in.

Johnny smiles when he sees you coming over to the table.

“Hey lass, finally got you out of bed.” You look down at your mug and you can see your reflection in the tea. You don’t want to be out here any more. You want to crawl back into bed and sleep. You let out a sniffle before looking back up at Johnny.

He still has a smile on his face. You see John moving behind him. You don’t want to see him; you can’t see him. The scent of his alpha fills the air. You let go of your mug, Kyle's hand dropping from your back as you push yourself back from the table, getting up.

You walk back into the bedroom. The bed is the only place you want to be. At least when you’re in the room, there’s a barrier between you and John. Your hand rubs the back of your neck. You feel the indents of his teeth. You can’t avoid him forever. He’s your alpha.

You don’t want to see him right now though. You can’t even look at him without imagining Dr. Piper. He should have saved her. She deserved to be saved.

You get into bed pulling the duvet over your head. You��re crying again, you can’t help it. The throbbing comes back deep in your chest. She should be alive. He should have saved her.

It’s after Kyle has been bullying more food into you. Someone else steps into the threshold of your door. The door opens slowly, and you can smell alpha in the air. You know it’s John before he even walks into the room. You don’t move; your body freezes up. You’re reacting like he’s a threat.

He’s not a threat, he's your alpha. You have his mark.

He walks into the room, the door squeaking behind him. He walks over to the recliner Simon sleeps in. Your eyes move up to watch him as he sits down, slow, keeping his distance. It’s the first time you’ve really seen him since coming here.

You swallow the nerves away trying to keep the crying at bay. You don’t want him to see you cry. All you’ve done is cry. You’re sick of crying.

He just sits there like he’s trying to think of what to say or do. He shifts in the chair reaching into his pocket. You watch as he pulls out Piper's silk scarf. Your lip quivers as you see it.

“I should have saved her,” he says eventually. You watch him run the scarf over his palm. He reaches over, putting the scarf on the bedside table. It’s bundled up. You can see all the colours merging together. You want to reach out and grab it.

You look back at John as he leans forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees. You don’t have anything to say to him.

“I know you don’t want me to say sorry. I know you hate me right now. I should have done better. I should have been a better alpha. A better person. You deserve better. I should have acted differently,” he sighs, hanging his head for a second before looking back up at you. “All I want is for you to be safe. You don’t have to forgive me, I don’t expect you to. But I'm going to be here, we all are. We’re going to take care of you.” You look right into his eyes taking all his words in.

Of course they're going to be there for you. They’re your pack. John is your alpha. You can’t avoid him forever but you can be mad at him. You’re going to be mad at him for a long time. He let her die. He sits there as tears leak over your eyes. You blink them away each time.

You wish you weren't mad at him. You wish things could go back to normal, or at least this new normal with your pack and Dr. Piper, outside of the bunker without the Professor. It felt like your chance to start new, your chance to have a new life.

A life without Dr. Piper doesn’t seem possible right now. You want him to leave and leave you alone. You need to mourn, and you don’t need him trying to apologise or tell you everything is going to get better. All you hear is empty promises.

“Go away. Please,” you say, holding the tears back. He hangs his head waiting a few seconds longer, but he doesn’t say anything, he just sits there. You watch him. He’s controlling his scent but you can still smell it heavy in the air. The ground after rain and smoke. Eventually he gets up and moves to leave.

“John,” you choke on the sob. He stops at the door turning back to see you. “If you could choose again. Would you still let her die?”

“She loved you, she knew what she was doing. She did it all for you, to protect you,” he says. He sighs, gripping the door. It’s not the answer you want. You look over at the scarf.

“I should have saved her,” he says. You wipe the tears away and look back over at the door. He’s gone.

You reach out, picking up the scarf and pulling it up to your nose. You close your eyes breathing in her lingering scent.

The house on the hill, the pies, the lake, the summer’s evening. You close your eyes. You let her scent go straight to your head.

The house on the hill, the pies, the lake, the summer’s evening. And Dr. Piper stood in the window of the house, looking over at you smiling. She’s safe, and you're happy. A sob rises inside you. You let it come out but it comes out with a smile. You hug the scarf closer to your chest.

You need to mourn. You can’t do that with the person who killed her.

next Bonus Dividers by Plum98 & gild-ui Beta reader and editor - rememberwren

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