#the last chapter is going to be a lot less heavy than this one and the first is mostly a comedic bait and switch introduction

[lucky-clover-gazette]

Arceus Forbid Women Do Anything

Chapter 2/3 | 7,558 words | Rated T

Commandment II: Gatekeep

The self-indulgent Volo Wins AU fic has turned into non-diagetic game mechanics timeloop existential struggle with failure fic. Who's surprised

When the champion watched him during their battles, she often tried to imagine him in a different state of mind. She analyzed what she understood of his plans, was reluctantly impressed by his enduring commitment to his own aspirations. She got the best impression she could of the real Volo, a friend and a stranger and her only companion in this endless cycle of failure. She never spoke to him. The idea of conversation felt wrong, as if disturbing a scripted play or painting over a work of art. And besides, even if she managed to change the narrative through speech, her inevitable failure would render the results meaningless. She would, always, try again. Until she won, she would try again. As she approached the Temple of Sinnoh once again, the champion thought that she might be going insane. It made no sense, that she had not yet used her knowledge and practice to end this cycle. But every time she had the chance, she just… couldn’t. She would lose, retreat to the cave, call Arceus, and receive the same answer each time. Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

Read the full chapter on AO3 or under the cut:

BEFORE

The Champion of Hisui knew that something was wrong when she reached the temple’s remains.

Volo had been acting more strangely than usual in the past few weeks, as their search for the plates of Arceus drew closer to its end. Restless, lapsing into bouts of discomforting behavior that she’d struggled to explain. She’d always known there was something ironic about his friendly mercantile persona, and appreciated his genuine nature whenever it showed. Having worked retail herself in the previous world, she could never blame Volo for avoiding his job at the Ginkgo Guild, exploring ruins and attaching himself to her adventures instead. With time she had come to genuinely enjoy his company, smiling despite herself whenever he emerged to congratulate her for quelling yet another frenzied noble. And after her banishment, when he’d been the only person to truly care for her, she hadn’t hesitated to accept his comfort.

She didn’t know what exactly to call their relationship now, in the wake of her victory against Palkia and Dialga. By all intents and purposes, it felt like they were a partnership—officially as seekers of the plates of Arceus, but also as friends. He was the closest companion she had found in this world, and she’d grown to trust him near-implicitly. Volo had put himself at risk on her behalf far too many times for her to doubt his intentions now.

But, still. He was being weird. His lecture about Giratina had been pretty normal (for Volo), but the deranged laughter interrupting it? Definitely harder to explain—even for the champion, who usually delighted in Volo’s bizarre behaviors.

Of course, part of that was due to Volo himself, who was easily one of the most attractive people she had ever met. If someone else did half of the weird shit he did, she was pretty sure she’d find it annoying or even creepy. But with Volo, it was endearing. Not just because he was beautiful, or because he had a pleasant voice, or because he held himself with exceptional confidence. She was endeared because he was brilliant, and passionate about his interests, and clever in his humor, and so very sweet towards his pokémon. And he was hot.

She sometimes wondered if he felt the same way about her. But he was so focused on his studies, on the plates of Arceus, that she assumed that any kind of latent attraction would not be made a priority. Occasionally she felt the urge to just straight-up ask ‘what are we?’, but that seemed far too modern an approach. And besides, did she even want her relationship with Volo to be physical, or even explicitly romantic, outside the realm of fantasy?

She didn’t know if she could stand to lose his friendship. Volo, more than anyone else in Hisui, felt real. He was more than a sycophant, a worshiper, someone who idolized her unquestioningly for her gifts. He’d praised her successes, of course, but she’d never been ignorant to the double meanings in his words, the slight contempt of someone who wished for a life they could not have. A life she did have, thanks to the Almighty Arceus plucking her from her original time and place.

From others, praise felt shallow and meaningless. She’d saved them from misfortune, and they’d thanked her because they could continue living as they always had. But from the lonely and mysterious Volo, praise felt meaningful and true. Through his resentment he saw the many facets of her—she was not a flawless hero—and as a result, hadn’t rejected her when she appeared to have failed. He hadn’t abandoned her after she’d saved the region, either, once she’d served her great purpose. And while he was absolutely using her to find the plates, she knew that she was using him too. And that, somehow, was a greater comfort than any other connection she’d forged in this unfamiliar world.

Of course, things weren’t entirely cynical between them. Volo had shown the champion genuine moments of support, even when it had served him no purpose to do so. He’d comforted her during her banishment, blaming the people of Jubilife for their cruelty rather than telling her what she could have done differently to appease them. He had never once encouraged her to apologize. He’d given her a safe haven with Cogita and dedicated himself to assisting her with the Red Chain. All the while, he’d shown no shame about his continued association with the traitor who supposedly doomed them all.

Arceus, meanwhile, had transported its champion to Hisui with only a smartphone as a tether, offering little support beyond a mission and a vague promise upon its completion. At least when Volo was negging her, he did it to her face. With effort. While being hot about it. When he’d asked the champion for her help with the plates, taking her away from the village so they could travel the world together, it had been a no-brainer to say yes. She didn’t even really know what the plates did—just that Volo cared about finding them, and so she did too.

But, still. Something felt wrong. Something had felt wrong, ever since their last conversation with Cogita. Volo was lying to her, and after everything they’d been through she had no idea why he would. She already knew that he was more misanthropic than he acted and negligent in his merchant duties, which were the things he seemed most invested in concealing. He obviously had secrets—she knew very little of his past, for example—but those missing truths had never threatened the dynamic they’d created together. This truth, whatever it was, just felt wrong. She would not be able to proceed until it was revealed.

The champion took a deep breath, more nervous about this confrontation than any that had come before, and entered the temple ruins.

─────────────────

NOW

The challenger returned to Mount Coronet for what would surely be their final attempt at victory.

They only knew what Arceus had told them: they’d returned countless times throughout their life to battle the Champion of Hisui, and each time they had lost. Lost the battle and their memory, returning to the wilds to train the pokémon they wielded. They knew that they were nearing the end of their life, and soon enough would not be able to ascend Mount Coronet at all—yet the voice of Arceus still urged them forwards, and so they climbed.

They understood now that the Champion of Hisui was a faithless traitor, who they would need to defeat in order to earn an audience with the detested false Lord. In their younger years Arceus had not provided this information, simply requesting that she be dispatched. After several losses, though, Arceus had eventually disclosed the entire truth. Ever since that disclosure, the challenger’s mood approaching Spear Pillar was always the same: overwhelming anger towards the fallen hero who had enabled the old world’s destruction.

The challenger reached the temple again.

“Welcome back,” greeted the Champion of Hisui, motioning to a bench at the edge of Spear Pillar. “Please, take a seat.”

─────────────────

BEFORE

She thought it was rather dramatic, the way he stood at the edge of the ruins. The sky around them was vast and pink, dotted by Hisui’s seemingly eternal clouds as the sun slowly set. Volo did not face the champion and the feeling of wrongness only increased.

“The temple lies in ruins now,” said Volo, still refusing to turn around. His voice was light, distant, a kind of detached calm that she had rarely heard from the passionate researcher. “Columns cracked and broken... like pillars now turned into spears, stabbing into the heavens.”

The champion raised an eyebrow, stopping just before the stairs leading up to the viewing platform. But she said nothing.

Volo turned around then, wearing his winning merchant’s smile. “Well,” he sighed, “I detect a distinct lack of Giratina.”

The champion couldn’t help but smirk at that. It had always amused her, the way he acted like life was a comedy of errors and they had no choice but to play along. The way he’d spoken in the Celestica Ruins had been different, though—he’d been dead-serious about his own suffering and the suffering of others, deranged laughter aside.

And here was that humor again. It should have been a comforting return to form. But this time, the champion could not shake the chilling feeling that Volo was in on the joke.

“Hm?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand. His tone was unmistakably condescending. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in months, not since they’d grown to understand each other as more than merchant and hero. “Is something bothering you?”

The champion nodded stiffly. For all of her trust and confidence in their friendship, she couldn’t help but wonder—

“Ah, I do beg your pardon,” said Volo, having traded his smile for a chillingly neutral expression. “I suppose I must seem to be behaving strangely!”

He didn’t sound like himself. He put a hand on his hip.

“I daresay you deserve to know what I’m really after by now,” he told the champion, and her heart sunk.

She found herself stepping backwards, filled with incomprehensible dread. It didn’t matter what it was, it only mattered that she hadn’t possessed the sense to avoid this situation altogether. And now she had no choice but to accept that she was wrong about the only person in this world who’d ever felt right.

Volo chuckled darkly, his one visible eye noticeably changed. He looked… manic, was the only word for it. She’d seen hints of this before, but had chalked it up to passion. It had even been sweet, in small doses. But this was concerning. She wanted to reach out to him, and she wanted to leave this place before she learned exactly how foolish she had been.

The conflict left her rooted where she stood. The conflict, and the fear.

He seemed to sense that fear, his expression shifting back to an easy smile. He spoke clearly, thoughtfully, just as he had during countless discussions of history and ruins and oh, Arceus, this man might actually be insane.

“Ever since I became convinced that Arceus really does exist,” said Volo, “there has been one question that consumed my thoughts: How can I meet such a being myself?”

The champion struggled to understand the implications of his words. All things considered, that was a perfectly normal Volo thing to say, so why did everything feel so—

"It was in an attempt to answer this question that I originally sought out Giratina and had it tear open that rift in space and time,” Volo told the champion. “After all, Giratina wished to stand against Arceus.”

She blinked.

He…

He’d brought her here.

She was here, because of him.

And when she’d been banished…

“But that didn't do the trick,” Volo continued, still smiling. “So then I had you gather the fragments of the all-encompassing deity, just as the murals of the ruins directed.”

He had her.

He’d had her.

Volo closed his eyes and lifted his head to the heavens, eerily peaceful in his confession. “Eighteen plates said to be the fragments of the all-encompassing deity. You hold in your hands seventeen of them. So, you must be wondering: Where is the last one?“

He opened his eyes and removed something from his apron. A purple plate, shaped exactly like the others. “Why, it’s right here!”

That was not a customer service smile, it was a smirk. She’d seen it last when he’d playfully challenged her to battle, but nothing was playful about this challenge.

The champion stood, slack-jawed, as Volo reached for the shoulder of his Ginkgo Guild uniform. In one smooth motion he removed the jumpsuit and his hat, revealing…

Oh, he was definitely insane.

"Now hand over the plates you gathered!” Volo commanded, dressed in the most bizarre outfit the champion had ever seen in her life. He wore a chiton-shirt with a cold shoulder, a pendant with a teardrop-shaped stone, gladiator sandals, and green capri pants. Had he assembled this look in the dark?

And the hair. He had done something with his hair. His beautiful hair that the champion had always longed to see at its full length, gelled up in a deranged imitation of God itself.

It was too much. All of this was too much.

Volo’s gaze burned into her, his visible pupil having grown noticeably smaller. “I will be the one to bring them all together!"

The champion gripped the strap of her satchel. How dare he make commands, when he was the reason Arceus had brought her here? He should be begging for her forgiveness!

Volo was ranting now, seemingly to himself more than the person he’d just betrayed. "My desire to meet Arceus cannot be contained any longer! I need to know what it is! I must know what it is!"

When the champion was banished for Volo’s actions, he had comforted her. He had cared for her. Why would he have done that? Why would he have done any of this?

He stopped smiling. He spoke to her now, although part of her wished he wouldn’t. "If I can meet Arceus myself, then I may also be able to subjugate its power. And using that, I will attempt to create a new, better world!"

His words at the Celestica Ruins echoed through the champion’s head:

Ever since I was young, whenever I met with something painful or heartbreaking, I couldn't help but wonder why life was so unfair. Why I was cursed to live through such things. Of course, I imagine we all go through something like that.

The champion was pretty sure she was currently going through something like that.

“Of course,” Volo continued, “if I create a brand-new world, then the Hisui region that we currently exist in will be undone and returned to nothing. You, everyone you know, and all the Pokémon living here will vanish in an instant, as if you'd never been."

He’d brought her to this world, and now he wanted to destroy it.

Destroy her.

The champion wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pound at Volo’s chest and demand that he admit that their connection was real, that she wasn’t a fool, that he regretted what he’d done to put her in harm’s way. She wanted him to be cured of this divine madness and come to his senses. She wanted him to be the person she’d grown to love—because of course she’d grown to love him, of all the people in this stupid world, instead of someone normal and unremarkable and disinterested in becoming a god.

Because that was what Volo wanted, right? To become a god? To subjugate God, and take its place?

And then he would destroy everything. This entire reality, gone. The people and pokémon within it, gone. Her, gone.

Did he really care for her so little, that he would erase her along with the rest of them?

And how deranged was she, to be more upset by the loss of his friendship than the loss of everything and everyone else?

Volo crossed his arms over his chest, looking at the champion as if he saw right through her. As if she wasn’t a person at all, but an obstacle in his way. The final barrier between him and Arceus, between his destiny and desires, in which she would have no part to play.

She would have given him the damn plates, if he had just apologized and explained. After all, it had been Arceus—not Volo—to bring her to this godforsaken place.

"If you want to keep this world from disappearing,” challenged Volo, “then face me in battle!”

She would not be giving him the plates. He didn’t deserve them, didn’t deserve to be God any more than God itself deserved to be God. Arceus and Volo—a deity and its unfashionable imitation. Honestly, in that moment, the champion despised them both.

“Not that you have a choice,” Volo taunted, grinning widely because he was insane. “Even if you don't wish to battle me, I'm not above using force to take those plates from you."

He held up a pokéball and stared down at the champion. With the slightest of nods, she removed her samurott from her satchel.

She had Arceus’s blessing and Volo clearly did not. She was going to defeat him, just as she’d defeated every other enemy in her path. Only once she’d sufficiently humiliated him in front of his god would she allow herself to process everything she’d learned.

Volo tossed out his first pokémon with a knowing smirk, his form surprisingly confident and precise. For all of his intellectual strengths, the champion had never known him to be a particularly skilled trainer.

A spiritomb emerged from his pokéball.

Clearly there were many things the champion did not know about Volo.

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NOW

“Please,” the champion repeated, motioning to the bench beneath the heavens. “I really think you should sit down.”

The challenger scowled at her, crossing their arms over their chest. “You know why I’m here.”

She rolled her eyes. The outsider had no memory of meeting her before, but her behaviors felt familiar all the same. “Yes,” the champion sighed, “I know that you’re here to fight me.”

“And then Lord Volo.”

She smirked at that. “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

Her attitude enraged the challenger. A wicked traitor to the god that had chosen her—unfathomable, really, in her irreverence.

“Seriously,” said the champion, looking the challenger up and down. “Sit down.”

“Why?” the challenger said, suspecting a trap.

“You look exhausted from your climb.”

She was uncomfortably earnest in her explanation. And she was correct.

“How old are you now, anyway?” the champion asked as the challenger sat. To their surprise, she sat down beside them immediately.

“Old enough to finally defeat you,” said the challenger, avoiding her searching gaze.

She chuckled. “Fair enough.” And then, thoughtfully: “It’s been quite some time since we last met. I was beginning to wonder if Arceus had decided against sending a senior citizen in its stead.”

The challenger, naturally, took offense at the insult. “How old are you, then? I assume that your lack of humanity implies a lack of mortality as well.”

She nodded with a face that appeared far too young for the person wearing it. “I do not age conventionally, that is true.”

“Can you die at all?”

“Not by natural means,” the champion said. “Although I suppose I am still flesh and blood, just like you. But you are old and frail, while my youth has been preserved. Your remaining time in this world is incredibly limited, and yet you’ve come here again—do you not have other things to do? Interests, passions? Family? Does your entire life revolve around your mission from God?”

“Does your life not revolve around your Lord?” the challenger deflected. “According to Arceus, you chose him over the entire world.”

“In a manner of speaking, I did,” admitted the champion. “Though I don’t expect Arceus to ever fully understand my decision.”

“Decision? You lost.”

Something flashed behind the champion’s eyes. It felt good to drag her down from the heavens.

“It was once said,” she told the challenger through gritted teeth, “that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.”

It was an odd response. The challenger did not care to understand its purpose. They were indeed old and frail, and this was their final chance.

“Today,” they told the champion, “I will win.”

“Very well,” the champion said, withdrawing an ancient-looking pokéball from her fine silks. She stood up and offered her challenger a hand. They glared at it. The champion sighed, withdrew her hand, and watched as the challenger struggled to their feet.

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BEFORE

Her final pokémon was on low health when she finally defeated Volo’s Togekiss. She had refused to speak a word during the fight, despite his taunting smiles and various confident poses. In addition to being insane, Volo was apparently also an incredibly skilled trainer. Not quite as skilled as the champion, though, as his final and most beloved pokémon returned to her ball.

Volo shook his head, still wearing that deranged smile, as he returned the pokéball to some unseen pocket in his ridiculous Arceus outfit. The champion sighed with relief, grateful that this would be over soon. He’d abandon the temple in defeat, and she would mourn his betrayal in peace. Short of physically attacking her, he had no other way to take the plates by force—and she still could not believe that Volo was capable of such brutality, when his entire goal was to create a better, fairer world.

(Honestly, if he hadn’t hurt her so profoundly in the process of achieving that goal, she thought she might admire him for his idealism.)

She shook her head. He was a hypocrite and out of his right mind. The last thing he deserved was admiration, or even an attempt at understanding. She would return to the village and forget all about him, and try her best to find someone else in this world who made sense. Maybe if Arceus saw her success, it would even return her to her world. Defeating Volo had been her ultimate mission, right?

Which…

If Arceus had sent her to correct Volo’s disturbance of the natural order, it had always known about Volo’s hidden intentions. This entire time, it had watched its chosen champion find comfort in her destined enemy, without so much as a word of caution.

It must have been intentional, then, for Arceus to keep her in the dark. But why?

“Why?” Volo demanded, now despondent in his defeat. “Why you?! Why do you have the blessing of Arceus?”

She didn’t know. He knew that she didn’t know.

“I’ve devoted myself to Arceus beyond any other!” Volo ranted, seemingly towards the heavens themselves. “I worshiped it as the creator of our entire world! I bent all of my passion and interest and study! All the time I’ve spent poring over the legends.. Everything that I’ve done—!”

The champion had served Arceus’s mission dutifully since her arrival in Hisui. Although reluctant at times, she had quelled the nobles and assembled the Red Chain. She had immediately opposed Volo, who sought to destroy the world Arceus created. This mission was her entire life—her job, her hobby, her singular purpose upon being transported to Hisui without her consent.

“You outsider!” Volo hissed, now glaring directly at the champion. “It’s almost as if you were spat out of the space-time rift just to get in my way!”

She felt a lump rise in her throat.

Volo had been the one thing, here, that she’d chosen for herself. To her, their friendship had been disconnected from her holy mission or crushing responsibilities—in fact, it had been a much-needed relief.

But the entire time, he had only viewed her as Arceus’s chosen hero. And he despised her for it.

Silent tears ran down the champion’s cheeks. He seemed not to notice, or not to care.

“No,” Volo told himself, “no, this isn’t finished yet.”

Please, she almost begged, but didn’t. She didn’t know how much more of this she could stand. But she couldn’t leave, either, not when he still posed a threat, not when she deserved answers but couldn’t yet bring herself to ask—

Volo grinned again, his derangement reaching its apparent peak. “Can’t you feel it? The chill creeping through your veins—the eldritch presence icing your heart?”

She felt something, as dark shadows began to appear behind Volo. A massive void, from which a large creature began to emerge. It screeched as Volo began to laugh, its wings unfolding and its body taking material form. The champion recognized Giratina at once, well-primed by Volo’s lecture in the Celestica Ruins.

Volo regarded her in the throes of his mania, unwilling and unable to recognize her as anything but his enemy. Perhaps that was too charitable an interpretation, but—

“GIRATINA!” Volo shouted, clenching his hands as if they already held the plates of Arceus. “STRIKE HER DOWN!”

He laughed again, his eyes wide and his body hunched, as Giratina roared.

The champion released her final available pokémon, which only possessed a quarter of its health. She then turned on her heel, summoned Wyrdeer, and headed for the temple exit, using the ill-fated battle as a brief distraction. She ignored the sound of her fainting pokémon and Volo’s confused yelling as she pulled her Arcphone from her satchel and held it to her ear.

“You have to stop him,” the champion demanded as she entered the passageway beneath the peak of Mount Coronet. The cave was cool and blessedly quiet, and she only stopped moving when she received her response.

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

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NOW

As always, the challenger had put up a very good fight.

“Will this be the last time I see you?” the champion asked, almost bored in her victory. The challenger just glared at her, returning their fainted pokémon to their pocket.

“One can hope,” they said, and revealed their knife. If repetition with the expectation of different result was insanity, then they were no longer insane. Because this approach, this last-ditch effort, was entirely unprecedented—even to Arceus itself.

Using their last reserves of energy and strength, the challenger seized the woman. Short of stature and physically softened by ages of casual godhood, she could show little resistance to even the oldest of heroes. And, of course, there was the matter of the blade held to her throat.

“He will lower himself from the heavens and face me,” the challenger said between gritted teeth. The champion swallowed.

“Arceus has driven you to this,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Lord Volo has driven me to this. Arceus has only ever encouraged me to be better.”

“Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.”

The challenger’s eyed widened. “How do you…?”

The champion sighed. “I heard it too. Every single time.” She was infuriatingly unfazed by the threat to her life. “How relieving it must be,” she said, “to lose the memory of each of your losses.”

“I find it rather inconvenient, actually,” shot back the challenger, holding the blade closer to her throat.

The champion smiled sadly and shook her head.

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BEFORE

Eventually, she found herself trying to lose.

The fight with Volo had become like second nature to the champion, who since her first attempt had assembled the ideal team to counter his specific pokémon and fighting habits. Arceus knew she had been given enough attempts to observe him, some of which ended before Giratina even appeared. Volo was undeniably skilled, and dedicated to his own victory in a way that consistently astounded the champion. But while each new battle seemed to be Volo’s first, his memory struck of previous victories and defeats, the champion remembered everything.

At this point, she knew Volo almost entirely as the man she’d truly met atop Mount Coronet. Memories of their previous friendship lingered in small instances, but she had lost much of her attachment to his formerly comforting presence. This made it easier for her, as Arceus’s champion, to study and practice and try again and again and again.

She was confident, now, that she could defeat him. Him and Giratina, and then she would finally witness the world after such events transpired. Would he give up immediately, or try to harm her further? Would they finally speak as their true selves, or would he just disappear? If he did disappear, would he be gone forever?

The champion was still far from completing the the Pokédex and meeting Arceus, who only potentially could send her home. In the meantime, she would still be stuck in Hisui, alone. Almost certainly without him.

The outfit was not… irredeemably ill-conceived. With some modifications, she could understand the vision. And it would be easy for Volo to take down the Arceus style, allowing his hair to flow naturally. When the champion watched him during their battles, she often tried to imagine him in a different state of mind. She analyzed what she understood of his plans, was reluctantly impressed by his enduring commitment to his own aspirations. She got the best impression she could of the real Volo, a friend and a stranger and her only companion in this endless cycle of failure.

She never spoke to him. The idea of conversation felt wrong, as if disturbing a scripted play or painting over a work of art. And besides, even if she managed to change the narrative through speech, her inevitable failure would render the results meaningless. She would, always, try again. Until she won, she would try again.

As she approach the Temple of Sinnoh once again, the champion thought that she might be going insane. It made no sense, that she had not yet used her knowledge and practice to end this cycle. But every time she had the chance, she just… couldn’t. She would lose, retreat to the cave, call Arceus, and receive the same answer each time.

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

There had been a few close calls, where she’d almost won. Especially against Giratina, she often stood a very good chance. But then she would remind herself that this was not fair in the slightest, because she had been given infinite chances to practice and strategize. Yes, Volo had technically cheated as well, but abusing Arceus’s blessing in such a manner simply felt cheap.

That was what she told herself. Eventually, someday, she would see an opportunity for victory that she could truly call fair, and she would take it. But until then, she would just have to lose.

And he would still be here. Insane, but here.

Insane.

She was going insane.

“I think I’m going insane,” she told Arceus after yet another loss.

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

“I know I’m going insane.”

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

“Why don’t you try, for once?” the champion challenged, gripping the phone tightly.

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

And then, she thought it. For the first time in what felt like an eternity of repetition, she finally thought something new:

“Why can’t I lose?” the champion asked, her voice shaking as tears ran down her cheeks. She did not understand what she was asking, exactly—she could not lose because Arceus had blessed her, that much was already obvious. The world, this world, worked in her favor in some unearned and unwanted way. Yes, she could retreat from the mountain at any time to train her team, but that still left Volo up in the temple, nearly indistinguishable from the person she had grown to love. He would not follow her, would not attempt to seize the plates by any other means, seemingly frozen in time and place by divine circumstance. She would never have her former friend back, and if she moved forward, Arceus would never allow her to befriend him as he was now.

And she—

She would just keep going, in Volo’s absence. If not this battle, she would be fighting another. Again and again and again, until Arceus deemed her worthy. Arceus, who had lied to her, manipulated her, taken her from her home without her knowledge or consent. Who had created this world and its mysterious mechanics, blessing—no, cursing—her to endure.

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

God’s champion hung up the phone.

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NOW

Much to the challenger’s surprise, Lord Volo had not immediately arrived to save his champion.

“He can see this, right?” they demanded, as their arms grew increasingly tired around her.

She scoffed. “Of course he can.”

“So why isn’t he coming? Perhaps he cares less for you than you believed.”

The champion met the challenger’s gaze. “He knows that you would never actually murder me. That is not becoming of the world he designed.”

The challenger narrowed their eyes. This had always been a possibility. “Fine,” they said. “But would your Lord stand by while you are in pain?”

For the first time, the champion looked afraid. “I—”

The challenger plunged their knife into her fine white silks.

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BEFORE

The champion surrendered.

It was not a victory, nor was it any sort of defeat she had experienced before. Instead of intentionally losing the fight, she had refused to even allow its commencement. She had approached Volo where he stood, suspended in space and time, and offered him her satchel containing the plates of Arceus.

He stared at it, pupils shrunken and hungry. A smile crept onto his face. “How precious,” he said, almost tenderly. “You only needed a moment to think, before deciding to see things my way.”

The champion scowled. To him, it had been only a moment.

“You’re insane,” she said, showing no resistance when he began to take the satchel from her. He paused, though, upon hearing her first words towards his true self.

“Did you not listen in the ruins?” he asked, slight irritability piercing through his mania. “My reasoning is entirely rational. If God did not want to run the risk of its power falling into our hands, it should not have created its plates on our mortal plane. It is my right to seize them, and use that power to create a better world.”

“You could make this world a better place.”

Volo shook his head, smiling sadly. “Can’t be done. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“You made it better for me.”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. She was so, so tired.

Volo narrowed his eyes, pupils still tiny but slightly more focused. “Whatever could you mean by that, hero?”

“You know my name,” said the champion, cursing her voice for cracking at the last word.

Volo looked properly confused, now. Especially as the champion began to shake. “What are you—”

“Just take it,” the champion said, feeling that lump in her throat again. She had felt so strong, when she’d hung up the ArcPhone in the cave. Self-assured, energized by the notion of ending this vicious cycle. It had seemed, if only for a moment, that she had found a way to truly win.

This did not feel like winning.

“Just fucking take it,” the champion repeated, shoving the satchel towards Volo. He did without further comment, but did not immediately dig inside. He only watched her, still far from sane but seemingly calmer at least.

Volo furrowed his brow. “You said I made the world better, for you. But I was using you. I am the reason for your existence here. You should hate me.”

The champion shook her head as a tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t hate you.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

She winced.

Volo studied her carefully. “What,” he said, “do you think your god would say of this?”

The champion shut her eyes. “Arceus doesn’t care about me.”

“Of course it does. It has chosen you to receive its blessings. It loves you, as it will never love—” Volo cut himself off, though of course she understood how the sentence would have ended.

The champion felt pathetic as she met his eyes. “I love you.”

He blinked. “How?”

“I just do.”

Volo began to pace, shifting into a paranoid state. “A trick from Arceus,” he muttered to himself, clutching the satchel close to his chest. “A test? No, a safeguard—a temptation…”

A temptation?

“This is all by design,” Volo continued to ramble, “If I allow for this endearment, for this enduring desire—”

Enduring desire?

“I must be strong. There must be a better world. I must not allow myself to—”

“Was any of it real?” the champion asked, point-blank.

“Yes,” Volo said at once.

“Which parts were fake?”

“The parts that mattered.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to understand. Volo sighed.

“The parts vital to my mission,” he clarified, “were false. The merchant charade, the search for the plates.”

“And that’s what mattered?”

Volo avoided her eyes. “Nothing else can matter in this world,” he told the champion. “Nothing else will remain.”

He looked haggard, as if this was a truth he’d refused to admit to himself before having it forced from his lips.

“It has never been my intention to carry over unwilling parties,” Volo reluctantly explained. “Involuntary acquiescence has no place in my better world.”

“What about lying and manipulation?” the champion asked. “And erasing everyone and everything that came before it?”

Exhausted, Volo gave his response: “I said ‘better.’ Not perfect.”

After a moment, the champion replied. “It mattered,” she said quietly. “To me.”

“Your mission?”

“Us.”

Volo regarded her as if for the very first time. “Us.”

She stepped forward slightly, reaching for his hand. He allowed her to take it, using the other to clutch her satchel.

“Do you want them to remain, in your new world?” the champion asked, looking into Volo’s wide exposed eye. “The parts that were real?”

He gave the slightest of nods.

She could not have him in this world. She could either continue this endless loop of suffering, or defeat him and likely never see him again. And it wasn’t just Volo who mattered, but the champion herself—with Arceus as her god, she knew that she would never truly be free.

“Is this the right decision?” she asked Volo, squeezing his hand tightly. He gently leaned down to place her satchel on the temple floor, then used his other hand to stroke her face.

“Must there always be a right decision and a wrong decision?”

“I should be ashamed.”

“I disagree.”

“What if I’m insane?”

“I would say that you are just as sane as I am,” Volo reasoned, “if you wish to remain by my side.”

The champion frowned. “That is not a reassuring statement.”

“It is all I can offer,” Volo said, holding her hand to his heart. Then, with a small smile: “That, and—”

He kissed her on the lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were almost back to normal.

“So?” Volo asked, eager and curious just as the champion had remembered him. Her heart ached with the comfort of familiarity—lost in the cycle of repetition, she hadn’t even realized how much she missed her former friend.

“It’s not perfect,” she said, “but it’s better.” She allowed herself to finally relax as Volo held her close.

Keeping one arm around his champion’s waist, Volo leaned down to retrieve the satchel once again. Despite her divine mission, the champion did not intervene.

“Very good,” Volo praised. His voice was warm and earnest, lacking the condescension one would usually associate with such a statement. “Now, rest. You’ve done more than enough already.”

And with that, at least, the champion could wholeheartedly agree.

─────────────────

NOW

Lord Volo appeared at once.

The challenger stepped away from the champion, their hands shaking as the knife clattered to the temple floor. Violence was a rare occurrence in this world, and murder was almost entirely unheard of—yet here they were, resorting to the former and possibly the latter as a desperate final effort.

“This was my mission,” the challenger prayed to Arceus as a figure descended from a shimmery stairway to the heavens. “Now please, give me strength...”

Thou hast been defeated in battle. Thou shalt try again.

“No, I haven’t! I’ve won—look, he’s coming now!”

Lord Volo was a tall man, appearing much as he’d been depicted in historical records and famous works of art: blonde, pale, draped in white silks resembling those of his champion. He reached the bottom stair and stepped onto the world he had created, barely giving the challenger a glance as he walked right by.

Thou hast been defeated in battle, the voice of Arceus said. Thou shalt try again.

But the challenger was not beaten yet.

They reached for the knife, even as their joints ached. Lord Volo disappeared the weapon with a flick of his wrist. He then took his champion in his arms and placed her onto the bench, speaking words that the challenger could not hear.

She seemed to be speaking, as well. Alive. Despite everything, the challenger felt relief at that.

There was a sort of peace, in knowing that this was the challenger’s final try. Their pokémon were fainted, their god had seemingly abandoned them, they had compromised their own values out of desperation after a lifetime of repeated failures. Now, Lord Volo would disappear them just as he had the knife.

At least in oblivion, the challenger would finally be able to rest.

The champion muttered something more to her god, who then turned to face the challenger. He did not look happy, but seemed to be exercising some kind of restraint.

He looked back at the champion, who nodded. Lord Volo sighed.

“Very well,” he said, and flicked his wrist again. The challenger inhaled sharply, and then they

─────────────────

In the heavens, he saw to her healing.

“I’m sorry,” Volo said for what felt like the millionth time, although it would never truly be enough. He held a hand over his champion’s wound, glowing gold with healing light. “I’m sorry, and I love you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the champion said, kissing the side of his other hand. “The rosiness had begun to return to her skin, her deific attire now clean of the blood that had stained it. “I understood the risks of going down there undisguised.”

“That isn’t supposed to happen, though,” Volo said, trying to mind his temper as he channelled healing towards the champion’s wound. “Violence and murder, they’re not—not a part of our world.”

“Neither is the voice of Arceus,” the champion countered. “But even from within its containment, it still finds a way to haunt its champion.”

She glanced pointedly towards the pokéball on Volo’s hip. He had wielded its power to destroy the old world and create this one anew, to grant himself and his partner endless life and a home in the heavens above. He supposed it made sense that if Arceus’s power still existed in this world, its voice could never truly disappear.

“What will happen now?” Volo asked, shifting slightly against the headboard of their bed. “Will there be another challenger?”

“Probably,” said the champion. “Eventually.”

“But the one who…?

“I think they’re safe. An infant without memory of their past life, reborn free of Arceus’s influence. Of all the people in this world, why would it choose them again?”

Volo frowned, thinking of the recent confrontation. “I wanted to destroy them, for what they did.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here,” teased the champion, “to make sure you don’t repeat old patterns.”

He smiled fondly, thinking of the many way they’d helped each other create this new world from the ashes of its predecessor. Not only was his champion beautiful, but she was also brilliant—always had been, although he’d been rather slow on the uptake. In Volo’s defense, he’d very much written her off as a loss before her surrender on Mount Coronet. It had been a matter of strategy, to avoid considering her inner life.

“Can I ask you something?” said Volo, watching his champion with endless interest. She nodded. “What changed your mind, in the cave?”

She looked surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“On the day that the old world fell, you initially ran away,” Volo recalled. “Disappeared into the passageway for only a moment, then emerged again to hand over the plates. Why?”

The champion appeared conflicted, which was not the desired outcome of Volo’s questioning. He had his suspicions, based on previous reactions around the subject, that this was not a memory she often wished to revisit.

“I felt defeated,” the champion said, “so I tried something new.”

Volo couldn’t help but think of the challenger, who his champion had always seemed to care for despite the annoyance they caused. Even after their unfathomable act of violence, she had insisted that Volo reincarnate them rather than destroy them entirely.

“Something new?” he asked the champion, as he felt her pain ease beneath his fingertips. “Had there been… something before?”

She nodded. “Over and over again. And I remembered everything.”

A chill ran down Volo’s spine. With this revelation, the champion’s requests to borrow his spiritomb while facing Arceus’s challenger made an entirely new sort of sense.

“You never told me,” he said.

“In a way, I did,” she replied with a soft smile. “When you suggested that we were both insane, I didn’t disagree.”

Still so very cryptic. Volo kissed the champion’s forehead, vowing to someday learn every secret within it.

“And how do you feel now?” he asked as the stab wound faded entirely from her skin. Good as new.

His champion regarded him knowingly, lovingly, shamelessly.

“I feel better.”

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.6

Chapter Six: I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, On-Set Accident, Blood, Stitches, Medic

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: GOOD MORNING CHICKENS 🙂‍↕️ Lowkey, I ran into a wall writing this chapter LOL. Anyways, almost murdered the reader cause why not HEHE. If we’re doing hallmark tropes— I’M GOING ALL THE WAY, BABY.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Guilty As Sin? By Taylor Swift

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CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

Sunlight filters softly through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The air feels calm, almost too calm, as if it knows that something is about to shift.  

“You know we’ll still see each other at work, right?” you say with a soft laugh, zipping up your suitcase and trying to keep things light.  

Despite your tone, there’s a strange ache in your chest—a heaviness that lingers just beneath the surface. You keep your focus on the zipper, avoiding his gaze for a moment too long.  

Pedro stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his shoulder resting casually against the frame as he watches you with that familiar ease. But there’s something different in his expression this morning, something quieter. “Doesn’t mean I’ll miss you any less,” he replies, his voice warm but tinged with a softness that makes your heart stumble.  

Then his lips curl into a teasing pout. “Especially the cuddles.”  

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks as flashes of last night fill your mind—the two of you curled up together on the couch, your head on his chest, his arm draped around you. You’d fallen asleep like that, wrapped in warmth and comfort, his steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Neither of you had moved until morning.  

You clear your throat, trying to play it off. “I’m sure you’ll survive without a cuddle buddy for one night.”  

“Survive, yes.” Pedro sighs dramatically. “But thrive? Highly questionable.”  

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his antics. The knot in your chest loosens just a little. Stepping closer, you reach out and gently take his hand. Your fingers brush against his palm, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.  

“Walk me to my new room?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost shy.  

Pedro’s eyes soften as he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Of course,” he says, his voice steady, reassuring. “Lead the way.”  

The hallway is peaceful in the early morning light, the soft hum of the hotel’s quiet routine filling the air. Pedro stays close, his shoulder brushing yours with every step. It feels effortless, this closeness, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

When you reach your new room, you pause, staring at the door as your grip tightens around the keycard. Suddenly, you’re not so sure you’re ready to walk in and let the bubble of the past week burst.  

Pedro notices, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You okay?”  

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. Just… feels a little weird, that’s all.”  

He steps closer, his hand resting gently on your arm. “Weird how?”  

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Like… we’ve been in this little bubble all week,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “And now it’s about to pop.”  

Pedro’s brow furrows for a second before his expression shifts into something reassuring. His thumb traces a soothing line against your sleeve. “It doesn’t have to pop,” he says softly. “It can stretch—change shape a little. But it doesn’t have to go away.”  

You blink up at him, caught off guard by how easily his words settle the swirling uncertainty inside you.  

“You’re right,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”  

Pedro grins, stepping back just enough to give you space while still keeping his hand on your arm. “It’s one of my many talents,” he teases.  

You swipe the keycard and push the door open, the soft click of the lock breaking the moment. “Well, thanks for the walk,” you say softly, standing just inside the doorway.  

He lingers for a moment, his eyes lingering on yours like he’s not quite ready to leave. “Anytime.”  

There’s a beat of silence, charged but gentle, before he takes a step back.  

“Pedro?” you call after him, your voice instinctive and soft.  

He turns back, one brow raised. “Yeah?”  

You hesitate for just a second, then smile. “See you tomorrow?”  

His face lights up in that easy, familiar way that feels like home. “You can count on it.”  

You watch him disappear down the hall, the warmth of his presence lingering in the air long after he’s gone. The ache in your chest eases, replaced by something lighter—something that feels suspiciously like hope.  

With a soft sigh, you close the door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. It feels strange not having Pedro right there, filling the space with his warmth and playful banter. The silence feels heavier now, but you shake it off and turn toward your suitcase.  

Unpacking is slow and deliberate, each item placed carefully, like it might somehow ground you in this new room. Eventually, you unzip the side pocket and spot the little polaroid photobooth strip you’d tucked away.  

You pull it out, your fingers brushing gently over the glossy surface. The photo was taken just yesterday, but it feels like a lifetime ago—a perfect little slice of happiness frozen in time. Pedro’s grinning wide in the picture, his arm slung around your shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You’re laughing, caught mid-giggle, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from too much teasing.  

Your lips curve into a small smile at the memory. That day… it’s up there in your top three moments in life, one of those days you pray you’ll never forget—if you’re lucky.  

It had started with a spontaneous coffee run that turned into hours of wandering through the streets, popping into bookshops and vintage stores, taking goofy photos at every opportunity. Pedro had insisted on the photobooth, dragging you inside with that mischievous glint in his eyes.  

You’d rolled your eyes but followed him in, unable to resist the way his excitement was so contagious. The tiny booth had been cramped, your shoulders pressed together as you both tried to fit into the frame. Pedro had leaned closer, his head nearly resting against yours, and flashed a ridiculous grin just as the camera clicked.  

The memory warms you now, a soft glow that spreads through your chest. You can still hear his voice, still feel the weight of his arm around you, still see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

You carefully set the photo on the nightstand, propping it up against the lamp. It feels like a little piece of him is here with you, anchoring you in a way that nothing else can.  

The rest of your unpacking is a blur, your thoughts drifting back to him over and over. It’s ridiculous, really, how much space he takes up in your mind.  

Stop it, you tell yourself. You’ll see him tomorrow. It’s no big deal.  

But deep down, you know it’s a little more complicated than that. You’ve been in this bubble with him for days—wrapped up in late-night conversations, shared coffee runs, and the kind of closeness that feels far too easy. Now that you’re on the edge of something new, something that feels like it could change everything, you don’t quite know how to navigate it.  

Your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your thoughts.  

Pedro: Miss me yet?  

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the grin that’s already forming. He’s impossible.  

You: I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet.  

There’s a pause, and then:  

Pedro: Liar. You miss me.  

You roll your eyes, warmth blooming in your chest.  

You: Maybe a little.  

Pedro: Thought so. Meet me for coffee in the morning?  

Your heart flutters at the thought, the ache in your chest completely forgotten.  

You: It’s a date.  

You set your phone down, the smile lingering on your lips.

SOHO HOUSE – AFTERNOON 

The café is buzzing with the low hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with something warm and buttery from the kitchen. You slide into a booth where Daisy and Omar are already waiting, their plates half-finished, because of course, you’re the late one.  

“There she is,” Daisy grins, sipping her iced latte. “Surprised you could make time for little old us.”  

Omar smirks, leaning back against the booth. “Figured you’d be too busy playing house with Pedro.”  

You nearly choke on your water. “Oh my god, shut up.”  

Daisy gasps dramatically. “So defensive. We’re just saying—you two have been… spending a lot of time together.”  

“Yeah,” Omar adds, raising an eyebrow. “Like, a lot.”  

You roll your eyes, setting your napkin in your lap. “We were literally just sharing a suite until my room was ready. That’s it.”  

Daisy exchanges a knowing glance with Omar before turning back to you. “Sure. And is ‘just sharing a suite’ why you’re glowing like you’ve been in a rom-com montage?”  

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I hate you both.”  

Omar laughs. “That’s fine, but tell me I’m wrong.”  

You hesitate a second too long, and that’s all Daisy needs to pounce.  

“She’s not denying it.”  

You huff, taking a pointed bite of your food. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”  

Daisy leans in, dropping her voice. “Fine. Let’s talk about how Cecilia is a raging bitch.”  

Omar sighs. “Finally.”  

Your stomach twists. You’ve been dealing with it all week—Cecilia’s passive-aggressive comments, her cutting looks, the way she talks over you during meetings like you don’t even exist. You thought maybe you were imagining it at first, but then Daisy started noticing. Then Omar. And now it’s become impossible to ignore.  

“She’s been awful to you,” Omar says, frowning. “Like, openly awful.”  

“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Daisy adds. “It’s like she’s got some weird grudge against you. She’s only nice when Pedro’s around.”  

You exhale slowly, pushing your food around with your fork. “I don’t know what her problem is.”  

“She’s threatened by you,” Daisy says matter-of-factly. “You’re good at your job, and Pedro actually, you know, likes you.”  

You shoot her a look. “Daisy.”  

“What? I’m just saying. She’s been trying to sink her claws into him forever, and now she’s watching him give you all his attention. You think that’s a coincidence?”  

Omar nods. “She’s not even subtle about it.”  

You groan, rubbing your temple. “It’s just exhausting. I don’t want drama, I just want to do my job.”  

Daisy softens. “I know, babe. But you should bring it up to the first AD. This isn’t just personal—it’s affecting your work.”  

Omar nods. “Exactly. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”  

You chew on your lip, debating. The idea of escalating it makes your stomach knot, but at the same time… they’re right. You shouldn’t have to just deal with it.  

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally.  

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “You better.”  

Omar smirks. “Now, back to Pedro—”  

You groan.  

Daisy grins, nudging you. “What? Just curious—how’s the cuddling?”  

You hide your face in your hands again.  

They’re never going to let this go.  

OXFORD STREET – AFTERNOON  

The city hums around you, the air thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café, the distant chatter of tourists mixing with the occasional honk of a taxi. The sky is an endless stretch of soft blue, and the warmth of the sun against your skin makes the day feel lighter, easier.  

Daisy swings her shopping bag dramatically as she walks beside you. “Alright, so we’ve got the essentials—skincare, snacks, some clothes. Anything else?”  

“I could use some new art supplies,” you muse, adjusting your tote bag on your shoulder. “I ran out of markers.”  

Omar gasps. “Tragic. We must fix this.”  

Daisy nods solemnly. “Immediately.”  

You laugh as they steer you toward the next store, their enthusiasm contagious. The three of you weave through shelves of neatly stacked notebooks, sketchpads, and rows upon rows of colorful markers. You let your fingers trail over the different shades, your mind already picturing what you could create.  

“Should I be concerned that you look this excited over pens?” Omar teases, peering over your shoulder.  

You roll your eyes, tossing a pack of markers into your shopping basket. “Not everyone can be an influencer like some people. Some of us need hobbies.”  

Daisy cackles. “Wow. Drag him.”  

Omar clutches his chest. “I am wounded.”  

You smirk, grabbing a sketchbook before leading them back into the bustle of the street.  

A few stores later, as you browse through a boutique filled with delicate jewelry, something catches your eye—a simple but elegant bracelet, a thin gold chain with a tiny, shimmering star charm. You pause, tilting your head as you trace a fingertip over it.  

It’s beautiful. Understated but meaningful.  

You hesitate, then shake your head, gently setting it back down. You’ve already bought enough today.  

Daisy, pretending to check her phone, subtly snaps a picture of the bracelet the moment you turn away. She shares a quick glance with Omar, who smirks knowingly, before tucking her phone back into her pocket like nothing happened.  

“Alright,” Omar announces. “Time for the grand finale.”  

You raise a brow. “Which is?”  

He gestures dramatically toward a shop just a few doors down—a musical instrument store. Through the large glass window, you can see rows of guitars hanging on the walls, keyboards set up near the back, and a few people testing out instruments.  

You take a step back. “Oh, no.”  

“Oh, yes,” Daisy says, grabbing your arm.  

“I just wanted art supplies,” you protest, even as they start dragging you toward the entrance.  

“And now you get music,” Omar grins. “A full creative experience.”  

The bell above the door chimes as you step inside. The scent of polished wood and old sheet music fills the air, and soft acoustic strumming floats from the back where someone is testing a guitar.  

Daisy and Omar immediately start messing around—Omar taps on a few piano keys while Daisy picks up a tambourine and shakes it dramatically.  

You, however, find yourself drawn to the guitars.  

Your fingers brush against the smooth neck of one, its warm, honey-colored wood gleaming under the soft lighting. Without thinking, you pick it up, settling it onto your lap as you sit on a nearby stool.  

The weight of it is familiar, grounding.  

You give the strings a tentative strum. The sound vibrates through your fingertips, sending a shiver up your spine.  

Omar and Daisy go quiet, watching as you idly pluck a few chords, your fingers moving almost instinctively.  

And then, without meaning to, you start playing something real.  

The opening chords of Risk by Gracie Abrams fill the air, delicate and wistful.  

Your voice follows, soft at first, barely above a hum.  

“And I wake up

In the middle of the night

With the light on

And I feel like I could die

'Cause you're not here

And it don't feel right

'Cause you're not here”

The melody flows effortlessly from your lips, your fingers moving with muscle memory, like the song has always been resting just beneath your skin.  

Daisy and Omar exchange a look, their teasing smiles replaced with something quieter, something fonder.  

You don’t even notice the way the store quiets, how a few people glance in your direction.  

“God, I'm actually invested

Haven't even met him

Watch this be the wrong thing, classic

God, I'm jumpin' in the deep end

It's more fun to swim in

Heard the risk is drownin', but I'm gonna take it”

Your voice is steady but gentle, carrying the weight of the lyrics, the quiet ache of them.  

For a moment, it’s just you and the music.  

When you finish the last chord, letting it ring softly into the still air, you finally glance up.  

Omar and Daisy are staring.  

“…What?” you ask, suddenly shy.  

Daisy blinks. “So you’re just gonna casually have the voice of an angel and not tell us?”  

You huff a laugh, setting the guitar down. “I just… like playing sometimes.”  

Omar shakes his head in disbelief. “Unacceptable. We need to form a band immediately.”  

You roll your eyes, standing up. “You’re being ridiculous.”  

Daisy loops an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you. “No, we just love you and think you’re unfairly talented.”  

Your cheeks warm, but you let yourself smile.  

Maybe today really was a good day.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

The ride back is filled with laughter, the kind that lingers even after the jokes have faded, warmth curling around the edges of your chest. The three of you are crammed into the backseat of a cab, shopping bags piled between you, the city blurring past in a wash of golden streetlights and neon signs.  

“I still cannot believe you didn’t tell us you could sing like that,” Daisy says for what has to be the fifth time.  

Omar sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I feel betrayed. I thought we were close.”  

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “It wasn’t a secret—I just never thought to mention it.”  

Omar clutches his chest. “Oh, so we’re just chopped liver then?”  

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes. Exactly.”  

Daisy cackles, and Omar glares at both of you before shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “This is the worst day of my life.”  

The driver chuckles quietly, clearly entertained by the three of you.  

The cab slows in front of the Chiltern Firehouse, the warm glow of the entrance lights spilling onto the pavement. You reach for your bags, shifting them into your arms as Daisy nudges you lightly.  

“Alright, superstar. We’ll see you tomorrow?”  

You nod. “Breakfast?”  

“Obviously,” Omar says. “We can’t function without an unhealthy amount of caffeine and gossip.”  

Daisy smirks. “And don’t think we forgot about her.”  

You groan, knowing exactly who she means. “Cecilia?”  

Omar scoffs. “Yeah, Cecilia.” His expression darkens slightly, annoyance flickering across his face. “You have to say something, babe. She’s been unbearable this entire week.”  

Daisy nods in agreement. “Seriously. If you don’t, we will.”  

You sigh, adjusting your grip on your shopping bags. It’s not that you haven’t noticed Cecilia’s behavior—how she seems to have made it her personal mission to be as dismissive, condescending, and outright rude as possible. You just…haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet.  

“I’ll think about it,” you say, because that’s all you can promise right now.  

Daisy eyes you like she wants to push the subject, but instead, she reaches out and squeezes your arm. “Alright. Just don’t let her get to you, okay?”  

You nod, giving her a small smile. “I won’t.”  

Omar tilts his head. “Liar.”  

You snort. “Goodnight, Omar.”  

“Goodnight, secret singer,” he teases.  

Daisy gives you a quick hug before stepping back into the cab, and with one last wave, you turn and head into the hotel.  

The warmth of the lobby greets you as you step inside, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filling the air. The quiet hum of conversation drifts from the bar, a few guests lounging in the plush chairs near the fireplace.  

You shift your bags onto one arm, your fingers brushing over the handles of the shopping bags as you make your way toward the elevators. The day’s events settle over you like a soft blanket—the shopping, the music, the laughter.  

You feel good.  

Better than you have in days.  

The elevator dings softly as the doors open, and as you step inside, you can’t help but let a small, satisfied smile slip onto your lips.  

Maybe tomorrow will be even better.

You make your way to your room, tap your keycard on the lock and enter. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the hallway. You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your shopping bags down near the dresser. The room is quiet, save for the faint city sounds filtering in through the window—London still alive and buzzing outside, even as exhaustion begins to settle into your bones.  

You flick on the bedside lamp, the soft golden glow washing over the space. Kicking off your shoes, you make your way to the vanity, catching your reflection in the mirror. There’s a tired sort of happiness in your face, a contentment that lingers in your eyes despite the long day.  

You start unpacking your shopping bags, sorting through the few essentials you picked up. The art supplies make you smile—new markers, sketchbooks, things you didn’t necessarily need but wanted anyway. Your fingers brush over a particular bag, and you pause, pulling out the Polaroid photobooth strip you’d nearly forgotten about.  

Pedro’s face grins up at you from the tiny squares—one shot of him making a ridiculous expression, another where you’re both mid-laugh, and the last…  

The last one makes your stomach flutter.  

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t posed—it was just the two of you, caught in a quiet moment, his face turned toward you, his expression soft in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.  

You let out a breath, carefully tucking the photo into your nightstand drawer before shaking your head at yourself.  

It’s fine. It’s just Pedro.  

You brush your fingers over the bracelet you liked—the one you didn’t buy. For some reason, it lingers in your mind longer than it should, but you push the thought aside and continue getting ready for bed.  

By the time you’ve showered and slipped into an oversized t-shirt, exhaustion has fully caught up with you. You slide beneath the cool sheets, letting out a sigh as your body finally relaxes.  

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.  

You reach for it, blinking at the screen.  

Pedro: Made it back okay?  

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips.  

You: Yeah, just got into bed.  

There’s a brief pause before his reply comes through.  

Pedro: Get some sleep, cariño. Big day tomorrow.  

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest at the nickname.  

You: Goodnight, Pedro. 

You don’t wait for his response, setting your phone down and rolling onto your side. The weight of the day settles over you, but it’s lighter now, easier to carry.  

And as you drift off, the last thing on your mind isn’t Cecilia, or the long production days ahead.  

It’s a bracelet you didn’t buy.  

And a Polaroid you won’t forget.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — MORNING  

Your alarm blares, dragging you out of sleep far earlier than you’d like. With a groan, you fumble for your phone on the nightstand, blindly swiping at the screen until the sound finally stops. The room is still dim, the soft glow of early morning creeping through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls.  

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your bleary eyes before forcing yourself out of bed. The floor is cool against your feet as you shuffle toward the bathroom, yawning through the motions of your morning routine.  

The second your toothbrush is in your mouth, you grab your phone, squinting at the screen as you scroll through your notifications.  

Pedro: Morning, sleepyhead. Still up for coffee?  

You smile around your toothbrush, quickly typing back.  

You: Morning! Yes, definitely. Meet you in the lobby?  

His reply is almost instant.  

Pedro: I’ll be the one looking devastatingly handsome and in desperate need of caffeine.  

You roll your eyes but feel warmth creep up your neck as you set your phone down and step into the shower. The water is warm, waking you up as you let your playlist play softly in the background. You don’t linger too long—just enough to wash away the remnants of sleep before stepping out and wrapping yourself in a towel.  

As you get dressed, you glance at the Polaroid on your nightstand. The memory makes your stomach flutter, but you shake your head, pushing the thought away.  

It’s just Pedro. 

You grab your bag, double-check that you have everything for the long production day ahead, and head downstairs. 

Pedro is already there when you step into the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He’s dressed comfortably, a hoodie pulled over his curls, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the early hour.  

His head lifts when he spots you, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Well, look who’s alive.”  

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”  

He chuckles, pushing off the wall. “Coffee. Stat.”  

You nod in agreement as you both step outside, the crisp morning air waking you up a little more. The streets of London are still sleepy, only a few people out at this hour, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you exist in a quiet little pocket of the city.  

Pedro falls into step beside you, close but not overbearing, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. “Did you sleep okay?”  

You hum, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.”  

He smirks. “Tired from all that shopping?”  

You side-eye him, but your lips twitch. “Maybe. It was a productive day.”  

“You have fun?”  

You nod. “Yeah. Daisy and Omar were great. We just wandered, picked up a few things, nothing crazy.”  

Pedro hums, glancing over at you. “Get anything good?”  

“Some art supplies,” you say. “Markers, sketchbooks. Stuff to keep my hands busy.”  

Pedro’s brows lift slightly, though his expression softens into something knowing. “Still adding to your collection, huh?”  

You glance at him, a little shy under the weight of his gaze. “You say that like I have a problem.”  

He smirks. “I’ve seen your stash.”  

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “It’s not that bad.”  

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but before you can argue your case, you both step into the small café near the hotel. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wraps around you instantly, sinking into your bones like comfort.  

As you approach the counter, Pedro turns to you with a look of exaggerated concentration. “Alright, let me guess your order.”  

You snort, crossing your arms. “You know my order.”  

“Do I?” He taps a finger against his chin, drawing out the moment. “Let’s see… you’re obviously an iced salted caramel latte girl.”  

You blink at him, half-impressed, half-annoyed. “You’re just showing off.”  

Pedro grins, triumphant. “I knew it.” He turns to the barista, ordering for both of you before you can protest.  

As you wait for your drinks, you lean against the counter, watching him. He looks relaxed, the usual weight of the long days ahead not quite settling on him yet.  

“You always this perceptive?” you ask, tilting your head.  

He glances at you, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Only when it matters.”  

Your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you quickly look away as the barista calls your names.  

Pedro grabs both cups, handing you yours with an easy smile. “Alright, let’s get to set before they start sending search parties.”  

You take a sip, the sweet caramel mixing with the bitter espresso, and let the warmth settle in—not just from the coffee, but from the way Pedro falls into step beside you again, his presence easy, familiar.  

Maybe today will be even better.

The car ride to set is comfortable, the early morning haze still lingering outside the windows. You and Pedro are seated next to each other, the quiet hum of the car filling the spaces between conversation.  

Joseph, Ebon, and Vanessa are preoccupied—chatting, answering messages, scrolling through their phones. But you and Pedro? You exist in the quieter moments, where words don’t have to fill the silence for it to feel full.  

You glance at Pedro from the corner of your eye. He’s leaning back against the seat, fingers wrapped loosely around his coffee cup, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. There’s something about him like this—relaxed, unreadable, but somehow still entirely present.  

“You’re quiet,” he muses, breaking the silence.  

You blink, caught. “I’m just… waking up.”  

Pedro smirks, tilting his head toward you. “It’s been half an hour.”  

You hum, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “Some of us don’t bounce out of bed with full energy at the crack of dawn.”  

“I do not ‘bounce,’” he protests, dramatically offended. “I drag myself out of bed like the sleep-deprived, overworked adult that I am.”  

You snort. “That’s not what I saw yesterday. You were practically bouncing into set.”  

Pedro shakes his head. “I think you hallucinated that.”  

“Sure,” you say, amused. “Maybe I should sketch it next time.”  

His lips curl at the mention of your sketching, but he doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips, quieter now. “Do you still draw at the end of the day? Or are they keeping you too busy?”  

You hesitate, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “I try to. Helps clear my head.”  

Pedro watches you for a beat, then nods. “Good. You should keep at it.”  

Something about the way he says it, like it actually matters to him, makes warmth spread through your chest. You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just sip your coffee and hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers tighten around the cup.  

The car slows as it pulls up to the studio lot, and everyone starts gathering their things, stretching, shaking off the sluggishness of the morning. Pedro slides his sunglasses to the top of his head, glancing at you as he opens the door.  

“Ready for another day of pretending we know what we’re doing?” he asks, grin lopsided.  

You laugh, stepping out of the car. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”  

The driver bids you all a good day, and you offer a small wave, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. The familiar buzz of set life fills the air—crew members moving equipment, voices overlapping, the faint sound of someone running lines in the distance.  

Pedro falls into step beside you, and despite the chaos around you, you feel oddly settled. Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it’s the warmth of the morning.  

Or maybe it’s just him.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — DAY 

The day stretches long and demanding, filled with the constant hum of movement, orders being called out, and the steady rhythm of set life unfolding around you.  

You and Daisy barely have a moment to breathe, running between departments, making sure everything is where it needs to be. The production schedule is tight, which means there’s no room for mistakes, no time to slow down.  

“Okay, okay, hold up,” Daisy pants, stopping next to you behind the set, hands braced on her knees. “If I have to run across this lot one more time to deliver another prop, I’m throwing myself into the fog machine and disappearing.”  

You huff out a tired laugh, adjusting your headset as you check the call sheet in your hand. “I hate to break it to you, but we still need to get the next set of dailies to the editing bay and make sure wardrobe has the updated continuity notes.”  

Daisy groans dramatically. “How did we get roped into this again?”  

“You volunteered to take extra PA shifts,” you remind her, smirking.  

She scowls. “And you agreed to do it with me, so who’s the real fool here?”  

You nudge her with your elbow before checking your watch. There’s a brief window before the next setup, and you both know better than to waste it. Without another word, you split up—Daisy heads toward the props department, while you weave through the maze of trailers and equipment toward wardrobe.  

The moment you step inside the wardrobe tent, you’re met with the sharp scent of fabric steam and the controlled chaos of stylists making last-minute adjustments.  

“Hey, got the continuity notes from this morning’s shoot,” you say, handing over the folder to one of the assistants.  

They glance up, looking relieved. “Oh, thank God. We were just about to send someone to chase these down.”  

You flash a tired smile. “Happy to save you the trouble.”  

Before you can leave, someone’s headset crackles with an urgent call from set, and you hear your name being mentioned.  

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, already moving.  

By the time you get back to set, Daisy is already there, headset tilted as she listens to the first AD barking orders. She shoots you a look when she sees you approach, her expression somewhere between we’re so screwed and why is everyone like this?  

“What now?” you whisper.  

“They need another PA to help reset the stunt rigging for the next take,” she mutters back. “Guess who gets to be that PA?”  

“Us?”  

“Ding, ding, ding.”  

You sigh, but there’s no use complaining. Instead, you follow Daisy toward the main soundstage, where the crew is resetting for another action sequence. The rigging team waves you over, already handing you harnesses to help secure the area.  

You’ve barely finished clipping things into place when Pedro appears nearby, already in costume, watching the controlled chaos of set. His gaze catches on you, a flicker of recognition in his eyes before amusement settles in.  

“Didn’t realize this was part of your job description,” he teases, arms crossing over his chest.  

You roll your eyes, adjusting the straps on your harness. “I do everything around here.”  

“Clearly,” he says, grinning. “I should start calling you the real MVP of this production.”  

Daisy, overhearing, snorts. “Oh, don’t encourage her. She’s already got enough of a complex.”  

Pedro laughs, and you glare at Daisy, but it’s all in good fun. The truth is, despite the exhaustion, despite the constant running around, there’s something oddly satisfying about the work. It’s not glamorous, not in the way people think movies are made, but it’s real. And you love it.  

Even if, by the time lunch rolls around, you feel like you’ve run a marathon.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON 

You slump onto the nearest empty bench, your limbs aching from the nonstop running around since the crack of dawn. With a tired groan, you twist open a bottle of water and down it in several long gulps, the cool relief barely making up for how drained you feel.  

“I’m so glad I brought an extra change of clothes because holy shit,” you gasp, wiping at the sweat on your forehead.  

Daisy collapses beside you with an equally exhausted sigh, her head lolling back against the table. “If I don’t sit down for the next hour, I might actually pass out standing up.”  

Omar drops into the seat on your other side, groaning dramatically as he takes a long swig from his water bottle. “No, because fuck this,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Why does it feel like production’s been testing our stamina like we’re training for the fucking Olympics?”  

You huff a tired laugh. “Because we are.”  

Nearby, a group of other PAs are in similar states of exhaustion, scarfing down sandwiches like they’ve been starved for days. The entire crew has been running on fumes all morning, juggling stunts, continuity notes, and last-minute script changes.  

You dig into the lunch Daisy had brought back for you—a sandwich and a bag of chips, simple but satisfying. The three of you eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the occasional sighs of relief from getting off your feet for even a few minutes.  

Eventually, Daisy leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… have you thought about saying something to the first AD about Cecilia?”  

You nearly choke on your bite of sandwich. "Oh my God, not now.”  

“Yes, now,” Daisy insists. “She’s been a bitch all week, and it’s only getting worse. I swear, if she snaps at you one more time, I’ll throw my walkie at her.”  

Omar nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s actually getting kinda unbearable.”  

You sigh, pushing your food around with your fork. You know they’re right. Cecilia—one of the senior production assistants—has been making your life hell lately. Every little thing you do is apparently wrong, and her constant nitpicking has started to feel personal.  

“I just…” you hesitate, rubbing at your temples. “I don’t want to make it a bigger deal than it already is. Maybe she’s just stressed?”  

Daisy gives you an unimpressed look. “Stressed my ass. We’re all stressed, babe, and we’re not out here making everyone miserable just because we can.”  

Omar points his fork at you. “Exactly. And look, I get not wanting to stir the pot, but if she keeps treating you like shit, it’s gonna start affecting your work. You need to say something.”  

You bite your lip, mulling it over. You’re not the type to cause a scene, especially when it comes to work—you’ve always just kept your head down and powered through. But this… this has been eating at you for days.  

“I’ll think about it,” you murmur, still unsure.  

Daisy narrows her eyes. “You better do more than think.”  

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps makes you glance up—only to find Pedro making his way toward your table, two cups of iced coffee in hand.  

“Oh, look who’s finally gracing us with his presence,” Omar teases, smirking.  

Pedro grins, unfazed, before setting one of the iced coffees in front of you. “Thought you could use this.”  

You blink, surprised. “You—” You glance down at the drink, recognizing it immediately. Iced salted caramel latte. Your go-to. “How did you—”  

Pedro shrugs, casual as ever. “You think I don’t pay attention?”  

Your stomach flips, heat creeping up your neck. Daisy and Omar exchange a look before Daisy not-so-subtly nudges you under the table.  

“I—uh, thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the cup and focusing very hard on the condensation forming on the plastic.  

Pedro watches you with a knowing smile before he turns to the rest of the group. “So, what’s the gossip? What’s got everyone whispering like high schoolers?”  

Daisy doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, just Cecilia being Cecilia.”  

Pedro’s smile fades slightly, his gaze flicking to you. “She still giving you a hard time?”  

You shift uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Just—”  

“It’s not nothing,” Daisy interjects. “She’s been riding her ass all week, and it’s getting ridiculous.”  

Pedro frowns, leaning against the table. “You talked to the AD about it?”  

You sigh. “No, because it’s not that serious—”  

“It is,” Omar cuts in. “You’re working twice as hard as half the people on this set, and she’s still treating you like shit.”  

Pedro’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to say something—something firm, something protective—but instead, he exhales, rolling his shoulders back.  

“Well,” he says finally, voice measured, “if you don’t want to bring it up, at least let me know if she crosses the line again.”  

You glance up at him, the warmth in his gaze soft but serious. There’s something reassuring about it, like he’s quietly telling you that he’s in your corner, no matter what.  

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.  

Daisy, of course, fills the silence for you. “Damn, maybe you should just let Pedro handle it,” she jokes, wiggling her brows. “Bet she’d shut up real quick if he just—”  

“Daisy,” you hiss, mortified.  

Pedro chuckles, but there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I mean… I could have a word with her.”  

“Oh my God, no.” You shake your head rapidly. “That would just make it worse.”  

“Debatable.”  

“I swear to God—”  

He laughs, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay out of it.” A pause. “For now.”  

You groan, but there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.  

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON 

The day isn’t over yet.  

After lunch, you’re right back at it, running around set, checking call sheets, adjusting rigging equipment, and making sure everything is in place for the next round of stunt rehearsals. You, Daisy, and Omar move like a well-oiled machine, setting up wires and double-checking safety protocols.  

Matt Shakman, ever the observant director, watches from a distance, arms crossed and a satisfied nod of approval on his face. “You three are killing it today,” he says, passing by as you finish tightening a harness.  

“Thanks, Matt,” Daisy beams, nudging you playfully. “We try.”  

Jess Hall, the first assistant director, chimes in, “Seriously, you guys have been on top of everything. Keep this up, and I might actually sleep well tonight.”  

You let out a small, shy laugh, ducking your head. “Just doing our job.”  

“Yeah, but you’re doing it well,” Jess points out, before heading off to oversee the final checks.  

As you straighten up, rolling out the tension in your shoulders, you spot Pedro, Vanessa, Ebon, and Joseph arriving on set. Pedro catches your eye first, grinning as he waves. The others follow suit, greeting you and the crew with casual waves and easy smiles.  

You lift a hand in return, a small but warm flutter in your chest.  

And then there’s Cecilia.  

Standing off to the side, arms crossed, face like thunder.  

You don’t even have to look directly at her to feel the glare she’s boring into you. The barely contained resentment. It’s been like this all day—every time you do something right, every time you get even a sliver of recognition, she seems to grow more and more pissed.  

But you push it out of your mind.  

You have a job to do.  

And right now, that means making sure this next stunt goes off without a hitch.  

The rigging for the next scene is extensive—multiple actors wired up, intricate movements choreographed down to the second. You’re double-checking the setup, securing a final carabiner when someone calls for places.  

“Alright, let’s lock it up!” Jess shouts. “Rolling in five!”  

You step back, joining Daisy and Omar off to the side, scanning the setup one last time. Everything looks solid. No loose wires. No unsecured equipment.  

At least, that’s what you think.  

Then—  

A blur. A crack. A scream.  

It happens too fast.  

Something above shifts—maybe a light, maybe part of the set structure—but it’s falling, fast and heavy, right where Pedro is standing.  

Your body moves before your brain does.  

“Move!”  

You shove Pedro with both hands, hard, sending him stumbling out of the way just as the metal rig comes crashing down.  

The impact never comes.  

Not for him, at least.  

Pain explodes across your shoulder, sharp and jarring, but adrenaline surges through you, numbing everything as chaos erupts around you.  

“Jesus Christ—”  

“Someone get a medic—”  

Voices blur together. There’s movement, hands reaching for you, but you’re not even thinking about yourself.  

You blink up at Pedro, his face inches from yours, panic written in every crease of his expression.  

"Are you good?" you ask, voice tight, breath coming faster now.  

Pedro just stares at you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to process what just happened.  

Then he swallows, hard. “Am I—?” His voice is strained. “You’re the one who—”  

He doesn’t finish, just reaches for you, steadying you as a medic pushes through the small crowd that’s formed around you.  

It’s only then that you notice—  

The blood.  

Your sleeve is torn. There’s a gash on your arm, deep and angry-looking, but you barely feel it.  

Pedro does.  

His grip on you tightens, like he’s just realizing how close that was. Like he’s just realizing you took the hit for him.

You don’t register the pain at first. The adrenaline drowns it out, buzzing through your veins like white noise, making everything feel strangely detached—like you’re floating just outside your body, watching everything unfold in slow motion.  

But Pedro’s grip on you is very real.  

“Shit, shit, shit—” His voice is low, strained, hands hovering over you like he doesn’t know where to touch, afraid he’ll make it worse. His eyes flicker between your face and your arm, widening at the sight of the torn fabric, the deep gash beneath it.  

“I’m fine,” you mumble, blinking rapidly as the world tilts slightly. “You’re fine. That’s what matters.”  

Pedro exhales sharply, jaw tightening. He looks anything but reassured.  

The medic finally pushes through the crowd, dropping to his knees beside you. “Let me see,” he says, already reaching for your arm.  

“I’m good—” you try to insist, but Pedro gives you a look. A look that immediately shuts you up.  

A storm of emotion brews behind his eyes—concern, anger, something else you can’t quite name yet. He’s tense, his entire body coiled like a spring.  

You feel a little dizzy. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s the fact that Pedro is looking at you like that, like he cares too much.  

“Alright, this is gonna sting,” the medic warns before pressing gauze against the wound.  

It does more than sting. A sharp, searing pain shoots through your arm, and you hiss through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second.  

Pedro flinches. Actually flinches, like he felt it too.  

“Fucking hell,” Daisy breathes from behind him. She’s pale, wide-eyed. “That thing could’ve crushed you.”  

Omar nods, face just as grim. “Yeah, what the hell even happened?”  

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other crew members gathered around, voices overlapping in hushed confusion. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.  

The rig had been checked. The lights had been secured.  

So why did it fall?  

You glance toward the area where the rigging had come loose. Something gnaws at the back of your mind—an unease you can’t quite name. Your gaze flickers briefly toward Cecilia, who stands a little too still, a little too composed.  

She doesn’t look shocked.  

She looks… interested.  

Like she’s watching.  

And then, as if she senses you looking, she tilts her head slightly—just a fraction—before turning away.  

A chill snakes down your spine.  

“Hey.” Pedro’s voice pulls you back. He’s crouched next to you, closer now, his hand still hovering near yours but not quite touching. His knee almost brushes against yours. “You with me?”  

Your breath hitches.  

You hate how he does that—how he sees you so easily, how he pulls you back from the edges of your own mind with nothing but a word, a glance.  

“I’m good,” you say, voice quieter than before.  

Pedro’s expression darkens, like he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he turns his attention back to the medic. “She needs stitches, right?”  

The medic nods. “Yeah. We’ll need to get her patched up properly.”  

Pedro exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looks like he wants to hit something.  

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.  

“Like what?”  

“Like I just died in front of you or something.”  

Pedro does not laugh. In fact, he looks even more tense, if that’s possible.  

“You could have,” he says, voice low. “If you hadn’t moved so fast, that thing—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”  

“I shouldn’t have saved you?” you arch a brow. “I didn’t realize that was a bad thing.”  

Pedro levels you with a look, one that sends heat crawling up your spine. “You know what I mean.”  

There’s something charged in the air between you. A tension neither of you acknowledge, but it’s there, lingering like the static before a storm.  

Jess Hall calls for a short break while the crew inspects the rigging failure. People start to disperse, murmuring about safety protocols and near-misses.  

But Pedro doesn’t move.  

Neither do you.  

The medic finishes wrapping your arm in temporary bandages. “She should get properly stitched up in the medical tent.”  

Pedro stands before you can even process that. “I’ll take her.”  

You blink. “That’s not necessary—”  

“Not asking,” Pedro says, holding out a hand to help you up.  

You hesitate, but the moment your fingers brush against his, the warmth of his palm against yours, you stop thinking.  

He pulls you up carefully, keeping you steady when you sway slightly on your feet. His grip lingers—just a little too long.  

And when you finally look up at him, there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach twist.  

Something unspoken. Something more.  

Something you don’t have the words for yet.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MEDICAL TENT 

The walk to the medical tent is quiet.  

Pedro hasn’t let go of you. His hand hovers near your lower back, not quite touching but close enough that you feel him there—like a tether, grounding you.  

You should say something, maybe make a joke, lighten the mood. But the words don’t come. Your arm is starting to throb now, the sharp edge of pain creeping in as the adrenaline fades. You exhale slowly, focusing on each step forward.  

Pedro doesn’t rush you. He matches your pace, his brows drawn tight, his jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle tick.  

You swallow.  

“I mean,” you start, forcing out a breathy laugh, “at least I’m lucky insurance covers this.”  

Pedro stops.  

Just—stops.  

You nearly stumble, caught off guard, but when you turn to look at him, the expression on his face roots you to the spot.  

His eyes flicker over you, frustration darkening his gaze. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s an edge to it. “Insurance?”  

You blink. “I mean… yeah?”  

Pedro exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he presses his lips into a firm line, nostrils flaring.  

You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.  

And suddenly, you get it.  

He’s mad.  

Not at you. Not really.  

He’s mad that you got hurt. Mad that you shoved him out of the way instead of letting him take the hit. Mad that he almost lost you—over a fucking light rig.  

Your chest tightens.  

“Pedro—”  

“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He looks away, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”  

Your throat feels thick. “I—”  

“I saw that thing falling, and I couldn’t move—I couldn’t do anything. And then you—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ.”  

Your fingers twitch at your side. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him. The one unraveling right in front of you.  

“I didn’t think,” you admit, voice small. “I just—moved.”  

Pedro lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You did.”  

There’s a beat of silence. A moment where the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you standing there in the dimly lit corridor just outside the medical tent.  

Then—  

Pedro takes a step closer.  

And another.  

Your breath catches.  

His eyes search yours, something raw flickering beneath the surface. He looks at you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to commit this exact moment to something permanent.  

You don’t move. You can’t.  

Then, barely above a whisper—  

“Don’t do that again.”  

You part your lips to respond, but before you can say anything—  

Pedro cups your face.  

And then—  

He doesn’t kiss you.  

He hesitates. His breath is warm against your lips, his fingers trembling slightly where they rest against your jaw. He’s so close you can count every fleck of gold in his eyes, so close you can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours.  

You exhale, something between relief and longing tightening in your stomach.  

Then—a sharp ahem cuts through the moment.  

You jolt, heart still racing, as Pedro pulls back slightly—just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. His hands remain where they are, warm and steady against your skin.  

The medic staff is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched like they’ve seen this kind of thing play out before.  

“Hate to break up the moment,” they say, voice dry, “but I have some stitches to put in.”  

You blink.  

Right.  

The pain in your arm, dulled by adrenaline and—well, Pedro—suddenly makes itself known again, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You wince, shifting slightly, and Pedro’s hands immediately fall away.  

But he doesn’t step back.  

If anything, he lingers, his fingers ghosting over your wrist like he’s reluctant to break contact entirely. His brows furrow as he glances down at your injury. “She’s not gonna need the ER, right?”  

The medic shakes their head. “Nah. She’s lucky. It’s a clean cut—deep, but nothing life-threatening. We’ll get her stitched up, give her some pain meds, and she’ll live to tell the tale.”  

Pedro exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. But not all of it.  

You try to make a joke. “Told you I had good insurance.”  

Pedro doesn’t laugh.  

Instead, he just looks at you.  

The kind of look that makes your breath catch, that makes your chest feel too tight, that makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with your injury.  

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds yours again, his fingers curling around yours. He squeezes, just once, before letting go.  

“Come on,” the medic says, gesturing toward the exam table. “Let’s get this over with.”  

You try really hard to be tough about the whole thing.  

You really do.  

But the moment the needle pierces your skin, you can’t help it—your breath stutters, your body tensing so hard it actually hurts.  

“Hey,” Pedro’s voice is right there, warm and grounding. His hand finds your knee, rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your pants. “Breathe, cariño.”  

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, blinking rapidly against the sting behind your eyes.  

God, this is so stupid. You literally work on a film set—you’ve seen worse injuries, watched stunt performers brush off things ten times more intense. But the sensation of the needle threading through your skin, pulling tight with every stitch, is enough to make your stomach turn.  

Pedro must see it written all over your face, because before you can spiral too much, he shifts, crouching beside you so you’re eye level. His voice drops lower, softer.  

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs. “Just a little more.”  

You nod, swallowing against the lump in your throat.  

The medic works quickly, but it still feels like forever. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to think of something else. Anything else.  

Pedro.  

The way he looked at you before he almost kissed you.  

The way he held you.  

The way he’s still here, watching over you like he has no intention of going anywhere.  

“Almost done,” the medic announces, tying off the last stitch. “You’re a champ. Didn’t even cry.”  

Barely.  

Pedro doesn’t let go of you. His thumb brushes over your knee one last time before he finally stands, watching as the medic cleans up and starts giving you aftercare instructions.  

“No lifting anything heavy for a few days. Keep it clean, change the dressing daily. Try not to move your arm too much—don’t want to pull the stitches.” The medic pauses, glancing between you and Pedro with something suspiciously close to amusement. “And get some rest. I mean actual rest. No overworking yourself.”  

Pedro snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”  

You glare at him, but the effect is ruined by how utterly exhausted you feel. The medic finishes up, giving you some painkillers and a fresh bandage before stepping back.  

“You’re good to go,” they say. “But seriously—take it easy.”  

Pedro notices.  

Before you can protest, he’s already there, an arm sliding around your waist to steady you. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one day,” he mutters. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

End Notes:

I’m a sucker for having character A get injured and character B absolutely losing their shit and realizing they could lose them SO FAST and they haven’t even had a chance to love each other yet LOL

YAHHH I KEEP TEASING YA’LL WITH THE KISS IM SORRY— But I swear it’ll probably happen in the next chapter... maybe... 👀

There’s something wonderful about delayed gratification idk why

Pedro probably didn’t want to kiss you in such a situation like that– he’s probs the type to want to do it right.

Also OOoooOOOoo I almost killed the reader lol. How fun.

Again, my apologies for taking so long with this chapter, school is a bitch and I had to lock tf in for a little bit.

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove

[ichorai]

i'm not made by design ; jaime lannister ; part three.

part one | part two

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 11.9k

themes ; heavy angst, action, sort of barely-there fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a dance with dragons, politicking, foul language, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, emotional constipation on bw's end, complicated-ish dynamics

a/n ; oh god i'm so sorry this took so long </3 it's so hard figuring out what to write now that i've run out of source material man !!! so i'm rlly sorry if this doesn't live up to the last two parts, i tried my best :( i'm honestly not entirely happy w this chapter but i rlly hope you guys enjoy it regardless! i love these two so much i rlly do :(

main masterlist. read on ao3!

Summers in the north meant many rainy nights. Snow was not foreign during the season either, though it was more of a cold, icy sludge than the usual thick blankets one would expect in winter. Ned wondered how long this summer would last—he’d have to check the granaries and consult the maesters to make sure they were well prepared for a sudden winter, even if it would likely be years until then.

“It’s hot,” came a voice beside him. Ned turned his head to see you making your way towards him, a frown etched across your features. “I can hardly wear my furs without boiling myself.”

A touch of a smile graced his usually-solemn face. “You’re being dramatic.”

You shot your brother a glare. “Perhaps. But it is undeniable that this summer is hotter than the previous ones. We’ve hardly gotten any snow.” You toed at the melting sludge beneath your boots.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he told you, not unkindly. “It won’t be like this for long, I’m certain. Winter is coming.”

Now at eight-and-ten, you were practically a woman grown. You were no summer child, Ned knew. In fact, you had been born amidst a harsh and blistering three-year winter. Regardless, in his eyes, you would always be the young girl he had left in Winterfell when departing for the Eyrie all those years ago. 

“I hope it comes sooner,” you grumbled, fanning at your face, which Ned found amusing, considering there was a semi-chilly breeze whistling through the two of you. Then, you casted a sidelong glance at him.

It had only been a handful of weeks since he returned from the south to suppress the Greyjoy Rebellion. The young boy he had brought back as a ward-hostage, Theon, was a frightened, green-eared thing—but little Robb seemed to take a liking to him.

“Theon and Robb were playing at the kennels,” you told him, voice softer. “Tossing bones at the hounds.”

Ned made a noise of disapproval, but said nothing.

“Ned… Theon is the second child you’ve brought home unannounced. You scared Cat half to death.”

Ned’s eyes grew pained. He remembered the way she looked at him once she saw the little boy by his side. “I know. I need no reminder.” 

“At least you bear no resemblance to Theon. But Jon—he looks much like you,” you said. The sludgy snow you were toeing had now completely melted into a shallow puddle. 

“He looks like you, too,” Ned pointed out. He wasn’t quite sure what you were dancing around. 

“No, I’m saying…” You winced at yourself. It was an awkward topic to discuss, knowing Ned was so adamant on keeping his secrets close to his chest, despite your and Benjen’s prodding. “Does he resemble his mother at all?”

Pursing his lips, Ned simply bowed his head and sighed as he always did when it came to matters of Jon. “I don’t want to speak of his mother.”

“Alright,” you relented. But another second passed, and, unable to help yourself, you blurted, “He has the dark hair of Ashara Dayne.”

Ned’s dark grey eyes swung to you. Anger crossed his features, which he had never looked at you with before, not once. His soldiers oft spread rumors of Ashara and him, he knew, but you? He hadn’t expected this to come from you, of all people.

Quickly, you began to stumble over your words. “I just—I remember how you danced with her. And you went to Starfall to return Dawn, didn’t you? And she died, Ashara, so I thought—It was only logical that Jon—”

“What does it matter?” Ned brusquely snapped. “Jon is my blood. He’s your nephew, and that’s all that matters.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said, guilt seizing you. You shouldn’t have pried. It was a sensitive subject, and perhaps there was a reason why Ned didn’t want to tell you. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you looked ten years younger at that moment. Ned softened. 

“He does look like her,” said Ned after many minutes of silence. “His mother. I thank the Gods for that.”

You leaned against the balcony ledge. “He has Stark eyes, though. Our eyes.” 

“Aye.” 

A strike of guilt warmed your insides as you gestured about vaguely. “He’s my nephew, just as Robb is. But I treat neither of them as such. It’s hard being… affectionate. I wish I had it in me. Lyanna would have been a much better aunt than I. I suspect she would have loved Jon where Cat could not.” 

There was something about Ned’s expression that struck you as odd. His features hardened considerably, and your stomach turned with guilt yet again in fear that you’d said something out of turn.

Finally, Ned squared his shoulders and turned to face you. “You’re a fine aunt. Jon and Robb love you well enough.” Ned shook his head, deciding to change the subject. “The boy, Theon. I can only pray he won’t become a trouble in the years to come. He’s a good lad. But I do hope I won’t have to keep him for long.”

“Robb will be heartbroken once he leaves,” you said. 

Ned’s reluctant smile returned at that. “He’ll live.” One of Ned’s hands landed on your shoulder. “If things were different, Robert would be on the throne with Lyanna as his Queen. Maybe then the Rebellions would never have happened. Balon Greyjoy thought Robert lacked noble support. Perhaps with Lyanna by his side, it would have been different.”

That made you bark out a harsh laugh. “That’s not true,” you told him. “Lyanna would have found a way not to come to her own wedding. She would have rather run off to Yi Ti than marry Robert. And even so… if she had been forced into the marriage, the rebellions would likely still have happened. Balon Greyjoy is a power-hungry man. He would’ve sought another reason to claim independence.”

Ned frowned at that, but did not disagree with you. “And you? Would you do the same if you were betrothed? Run off to Yi Ti never to be found again?”

You shrugged. “It depends on who I would be bound to.”

“Jory Cassel?” Ned lightly suggested, more as a jest than anything. Though, come to think of it, he was a good, loyal fighter, and would treat you well enough. “It would be a fine match.”

The thoughts were quickly dashed, however, when you scoffed and batted his hand away from your shoulder. “Jory would be more suitable for Benjen than I. The two tussle about with their swords all the time.”

“How about—?”

“I don’t think anybody you offer would be any good for me, Ned.”

“Do you plan to just sit in the castle all your life?”

“Yes. If I were to marry a man, would I not be doing the very same, just in a different castle?” At that moment, it looked like you were sulking, as you often did when you were a very young child. 

Ned smiled fondly. “A fair point, sister-mine. Alright, then. As long as you’re happy.”

“You’re my family, Ned,” you told him. “I do not need a husband or children of my own to replace who I’ve lost.”

Going further north was not an option for you, not anymore. It was crawling with Freys and westermen alike. Westward from the Vale was the only viable pathway now. 

The Inn of the Kneeling Man was a famous little establishment—notorious for its location, where your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, first knelt to Aegon the Conqueror. You stared at the old, flaking painting depicting the kneeling figure, his hands bound together. If not for his submission, you likely wouldn’t be standing here at this very spot. 

With a grimace, you made your way into the inn. It was a far cry nicer than any other inn you’d been to the past few moons, and consequently far more crowded. After a quick glance around, you observed no enemy banners or insignia anywhere, and deemed it safe to stay for a bit. The air smelled of fresh bread and crisp ale. You sat down at one of the common room’s tables, your hood pulled up over your hair, which was freshly cropped and dyed as of the previous night. 

“What can I get for you today?” a rotund serving boy asked, smiling at you wide and genuine. All the commotion and bustling made him damp with sweat and rosy-cheeked, but he was happier than ever.

“What do you have?” you asked. 

“We have meat stew, we do. Horse or lamb or rabbit, you can take your pick. Fried onions and eggs and beans, if it please you. We’ve got plenty of ale for you to wash it all down, as well. There are sweetcakes in the pantry, last I checked, but I’d have to look again to make sure. Food goes quickly here!” He laughed good-naturedly, but abruptly paused when he caught a glimpse of your eyes. “Say—I knew a girl who had eyes just like yours.”

You arched a brow. You were sure there were many girls out there that had eyes like yours. “Did you?”

He lowered his voice and glanced about, as if he wasn’t sure of what he could say. “I was traveling with her from King’s Landing, you see. We’ve parted ways since then. I do hope to see her again, once the war is over.”

Wishful thinking, you thought with a sad hum. 

“Who was this girl?” you asked.

“Nobody,” he replied hastily. “A friend.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Hot Pie, ser.”

“Don’t call me ser.”

“Sorry. Er—what should I call you?”

“You can call me Ned. That’s a funny name you’ve got, Hot Pie.”

“My mother was a baker.”

The past tense in the sentence was not lost on you. You regarded him in a more sympathetic light.

“My mother was a lady,” you told him in a lowered voice, and his brows raised. 

“Would that make you a lord, then?”

You sucked at your teeth. “Not quite, Hot Pie.” There was a familiar cinch of hunger that took hold of your stomach. “Could I have some of that rabbit stew? And a bit of bread to mop it up with, please. That’s a good lad.”

Hot Pie brightened and nodded several times. “Yes, of course! I’ll bring you the freshest bread we’ve got! I bake them all myself—it didn’t taste that great before I got here, but it’s much better now, I promise.”

The chubby boy hustled away, stopping by a few other tables to take orders and pluck up empty chalices. It took only a few minutes for him to return with the warm stew and bread, and you were quick to start wolfing it down. 

“Sit, Hot Pie. Have some of the bread,” you told the boy. You supposed the best way to get information was talking to someone who worked here rather than a passerby. Hot Pie seemed reluctant to take a break, eager to get back to serving customers, but it was clear that your request was an order, not a offer. The dangerous glint in your gaze made a shiver run down his spine and he didn’t wait to sit down across from you. You wiped a bit of stew from your lips with the back of your hand and asked, “What’s been happening in the Riverlands? I’ve heard talk of sieges during my travels.”

 Hot Pie shifted his weight this way and that. He reached over to tear off a chunk of the fresh bread he brought. As he chewed, he hummed in thought. “You’d be right in that. From what I heard, the Lannisters have come to bring peace to the Riverlands. There have been sieges, but it’s all been resolved now, if I recall. There is still much to be wary of, though. The brotherhood without banners are at large and there are many thieves and crooks out alike. Bad men roam these lands. I’m lucky the cooks in this establishment had the space to take in a boy like me, even if they’ve got me scurrying around until it feels like my feet’re about to fall off.”

You spooned some more stew into your mouth and swallowed heavily. “Yes, I’ve heard of this brotherhood. That’s not what I’m worried about, really. Who’s heading the Lannister sieges? Lord Kevan?”

The young boy shook his head. “It’s the Kingslayer at the head of it all. Jaime Lannister. He just had Raventree surrender to him, I’ve heard.”

There was a brief pause. You could feel your heart seize in your chest, almost painful in its stutter. 

“Ned? Ned, are you alright?”

You hadn’t realized you’d went quiet for that long. Hot Pie was leaning forward in concern, waving his hand a short distance from your face. 

After another moment, you washed the food down with a swig of ale. “I’ll be taking a room for the night, Hot Pie. Will you let the inn owner know for me?” You slipped the boy enough money to cover both the food and the room.

“Oh—yes, of course. Yeah, I’ll get right to that. Just tonight, you say?”

“Just tonight,” you confirmed with a grim nod. “I’ll be off first thing in the morning.”

Pennytree was slowly but surely rebuilding itself. It was larger than Jaime had expected, with its stretches of burned fruit orchards, blackened, crumbling houses, and scorched rubble. But new houses and buildings were being erected, and plenty of them to come, judging by all the wood and raw material he could see stacked in neat, orderly piles.

Despite the obvious signs of life, there was not a single soul to be in sight. Hiding, he presumed. Afraid of me. Perhaps rightfully so.

They set up camp for the night right outside the village. Jaime first sent out half a dozen scouts to make sure no enemies prowled about, then meandered about the wreck of a village, eyeing all the burnt homes and destroyed livelihoods. King’s men had done this, one of the sentries told him. His men.

Not too long after, one of the scouts came back with someone accompanying him. 

“My lord,” the young boy addressed him, pulling Jaime’s attention away from the rubble. “She rode up to the camp, bold as ever, demanding to speak with you.” 

When Jaime’s eyes fell upon the newcomer, his back straightened like a rod. “My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon.” Her face… What had happened to her? “You’ve been wounded,” he said, feeling like a fool for pointing out the obvious. Of course she’s been wounded, half her face has been torn off. 

“I was bitten,” Brienne told him. Her blue eyes swam with pain from more than just her flesh wound. Her hand was wound tight around Oathkeeper. “My lord, I have a request to ask of you. It’s—”

Before she could finish, another scout that he’d sent off at the same time as the first, grizzled and worn by age and war, came riding up to him with a cloaked figure behind his back.

“Apologies for the interruption, my lord,” he said, scowl deep and voice strained. Jaime could sense something was off. “Found this’un trying to creep into camp. When I tried to shackle the lad, he put a blade to my throat and forced me onto the horse to get to you.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for his own sword’s hilt. “I would be ever so grateful if you could release my scout—unless you’d prefer to be gutted like a pig. I would be happy to arrange it.”

“You wouldn’t do that. But I do need to be promised I won’t be pierced with arrows once I let go,” said the figure. 

That voice. Jaime knew that voice—he’d recognize it anywhere. That was no man. Before he could think, your name slipped from his throat, more of a question than anything.

You pulled back the cowl and he could see the flash of the blade pressing deeper into the scout’s throat. Jaime stared at you with eyes as large as the moon. It was you—unmistakably so—with harsh eyes of winter and lips drawn back into a familiar snarl. Your hair was different, he quickly noticed—short and coppery-red. Like Robb Stark’s had been… 

But it was you. You, who he had never expected to see for many years to come. You, who he had willingly given up, even if he never wanted to let you go. What the hell were you doing here? 

Two arm’s lengths away from him, Brienne watched you with utter relief in her eyes, clearly having been at her wit’s end trying to find you the past fortnight. 

“Jaime,” you sharply said, snapping the knight out of his reverie. “Tell them to put their weapons down.”

He glanced behind him to see a few knights with their swords and bows at the ready. Immediately, he waved his hand and told them to leave. They glanced at each other, unsure.

“Put your damn weapons down!” Jaime barked, voice now raised. Almost immediately, the knights reluctantly lowered their arms. Satisfied but still wary, you slid down from the horse and pulled the blade away from the scout. 

“Leave us,” Jaime told the two scouts and all his loitering squires. 

“But—” the grizzled scout began to say.

“Leave us.”

They all scampered off into nearby pitched pavilions, pace quickened by the tone of finality in Jaime’s order.

Jaime then said your name again, and he could see your chest rise and fall rapidly. Calming your nerves or quelling your anger, he wasn’t sure. Instead of saying a word to him, you looked to Brienne. 

“Gods, Brienne, I am very glad to see you. I thought you died,” you said, so soft and unsure. One of your hands reached up to hover just above her flesh wound, but you did not touch it, knowing it must’ve hurt like all hells. “I’m so sorry I left. If I’d known—”

“No, my lady,” she placated. “I’m glad you left. They would have killed you if you hadn’t. I only barely escaped with my life. I apologize—I wasn’t able to protect you.”

“Would someone care to fill me in?” Jaime impatiently asked, gaze flitting back and forth between the two of you. 

Immediately, your head snapped to him, and he had to resist the urge to shrink away. Monstrous knights and beasts aplenty he’d faced, but none were as frightening as you were in that very moment. In the blink of an eye, you darted forward and your palm struck across the side of his face. Jaime staggered a step back in shock, his one hand cradling his now-throbbing cheek. Many seconds of silence passed, thick with tension. 

Then he smiled. All sharp and prideful.

“I’m sure I deserve that,” he said, voice clipped.

The way you regarded him was not hostile, but rather akin to a wounded feral animal of sorts. “You deserve more than that. Burning down the Riverlands. Taking their castles. Have you no shame?”

“No, but I have a duty,” came his dry response.

You reared back with an incredulous look. “Duty? You wouldn’t know duty even if it spat you in the face!”

“Is that what you’re going to do to me?” Jaime taunted, his infuriating smile only widening. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.” 

Your face flushed with heat. With a frustrated huff, you shook your head, knowing it was futile to argue with him. He had kissed you the last time you saw one another, but that felt like centuries ago. Time had weathered the two of you. Was he even the same Jaime that had set you off on Varys’ ship?

“There is much you need to tell me, but I should tell you this first,” Jaime said, eyeing you curiously, mind still reeling. His voice lowered, making sure only you and Brienne could hear him. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, since you’ve left but it’s best you hear this from me than some fishwives’ gossip mill. There is a girl posing as your niece, Arya in Winterfell. She’s just been married to Ramsay Snow. Bolton now, actually. Roose’s bastard has been legitimized.”

Your brows creased at the news. “What? Who’s the girl?” You glanced at Brienne, who’d told you that Arya had been traveling with the Hound a while back, but you decided now was not the best time to share such rumors with Jaime. 

A shrug lifted his shoulders. “Some girl. She’s young and scrawny. It’s close enough to what people are expecting of her. And of the small population that actually remembers what little Arya looked like, who would dare to defy the Warden of the North?”

Anger seized your chest. “Who did this? You?” 

“Of course not,” snorted Jaime. “My dear father did. He’s dead now, so don’t go traipsing off trying to kill him. Tyrion already did that honor for us.”

You swallowed heavily. How haven’t you heard that the mighty Tywin Lannister has fallen? With hesitant hands, you reached out to take his golden one. You knew what it was like to lose a father. Jaime could feel his heart palpitate beneath his chest.

“Jaime…”

Whatever you wanted to say—an offering of condolence, perhaps—died on your tongue. You let the golden hand drop back to his side, and folded your arms across your chest, glaring off elsewhere. Tywin Lannister was no man to mourn—he didn’t deserve your grief.

“I do have good news,” he said, desperate to rekindle whatever good nature the two of you once had.

“I doubt it.”

Jaime could only smile at that. “Bitter Wolf,” he said, almost affectionately. “Your nephew at the Wall—Jon Snow, if I remember?”

At the mention of Jon, your head turned back towards him. “What? What about him? Is he alright?”

The knight let the seconds draw out—he liked the way your eyes widened with anticipation. “I cannot attest to his well being. But I can tell you he’s now Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He hung his head and laughed a dry, chesty sound. “Bastards are climbing high these days.”

There’s one on the Iron Throne as we speak, he thought to himself. 

“Jon…” you whispered, eyes now distant.

“Stannis is there, as well. Planning on taking Winterfell, perhaps finding another little lordling to plant there. Hells, if he got his hands on you, he’d rejoice…”

Jaime narrowed his eyes in thought. 

“You aren’t planning on keeping me prisoner, are you?” you asked Jaime. If you were to get to Stannis, things would certainly look up for you.

“I promised you I would never, didn’t I?” he replied. “All those moons ago, in Harrenhal. You’re so forgetful.”

You chose to ignore his airy, nonchalant manner. “Could I have a moment to speak to Brienne privately?”

This surprised Jaime. “What could you say to her that you can’t say to me? I thought you trusted me.”

Both you and Brienne stared at him in silence for a few long seconds. Finally, Jaime nodded his defeat. “Fine. I’ll bring the two of you some hot food to fill your bellies. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so keen on biting my head off.”

“Unlikely,” he heard Brienne mutter as he moved away.

He could just as easily have asked a squire to fetch the food for him, but Jaime thought it wise to let the two of you have a moment to yourselves. He wasn’t keen on being slapped another time.

“My lady,” Brienne said once Jaime left, her voice now strained with urgency. “There’s been—I know this may sound deranged, but I need you to trust me. Lady Catelyn is back. Only, it’s not really her, not as you remember her, she is—angry and torn.”

You reared back at her words. What the hell was she on about?

“Cat?” You tilted your head in befuddlement. “I don’t understand.”

“Her body is cut up and her hair is white and her eyes have been scratched to ribbons. She is a living corpse,” Brienne told you, quick and hushed. Her blue eyes shone with a film of unshed tears. “They call her the Lady Stoneheart. She leads the brotherhood without banners—a group of misfits and bandits and thieves alike, but they rally to her, exacting revenge on everybody involved with the Red Wedding. I tried to tell her of my search for Sansa, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She wanted me to bring her Jaime’s head. And…” Brienne paused for a brief moment to suck in a breath. “She has Podrick. She was about to hang me—asked me to choose between the sword or the noose. And I couldn’t sentence Podrick to his death with me so I…”

“You chose the sword,” you whispered in horror. “I cannot bring Jaime to his death.”

“They’ll kill the boy if we don’t,” Brienne replied, almost pleading.

You gestured about aimlessly. “So what’s your plan? March him right out of his own camp and murder him the second we’re a league away?” You shook your head vehemently. “No. I could not—I will not—kill Jaime. Is she sound of mind, Cat? Will she be willing to hear me speak?”

“I cannot say, my lady. She would not listen to me.”

There came noises from outside the tent and the two of you went silent for many moments before continuing in an even lower volume. “Do not tell Jaime of this. He won’t come if he knows of the truth. We will tell him Sansa is with the Hound holding her hostage—and we need him to come along to pay her ransom with that wretched golden hand of his.”

Brienne nodded. “He must come alone. Lady Stoneheart is not likely to listen to us if he brings a squadron of soldiers with him.”

“We’ll tell him he must come away with no company or Sansa will be killed,” you said, grimacing at the idea of lying to Jaime. “Once we get to Cat, I will try to reason with her. She wouldn’t murder an innocent boy. Seeing Jaime would, hopefully, convince her to release Podrick. And if not… well… I’m sure I could make some sort of bargain with her. She’s my sister.”

This made the tall woman hesitate. Was Lady Stoneheart still Lady Catelyn deep down? “What if she forces you to choose?”

Your expression grew stony. “I would save the innocent squire over the man who fights alongside the monsters that murdered my nephew. But it won’t come to that.”

Brienne’s torn expression was skeptical. You had not yet seen the ruthlessness of Stoneheart; your mind’s image was still picturesque and soft with hope of a distant past. “My lady, I do not know if this is wise.”

“What other choice do we have?”

Once Jaime returned with warm bowls of meat stew, both you and Brienne scarfed down the food at a concerning speed. Jaime watched you with a twisted sense of wonder—part of him thought that he was going to wake up any moment now, and you’d still be gone, off sailing somewhere with the little birds. But you were here—eyeing him intensely over your bowl of stew. It made him feel his chest feel warm and hazy, which was ridiculous, considering the night was frigid. Jaime found himself thinking that he found you frustratingly complex—he was never one for puzzles.

“There’s more if you’d like—” Jaime began to say by the time you had your last spoonful, but you shook your head.

“No time. We have to go.”

Jaime pretended not to be affected when you gave his shoulder a little shove. 

Jaime put up little argument when the both of you told him of Sansa. 

“I’ll come,” he had said, amused at the surprise in your eyes. “I swore an oath. Not that that means much anymore. But I swore, and I intend to see it through.”

“Really?” you asked, disbelief evident in the singular word. “No questions asked, you would follow me just like that?”

“I would follow you off the edge of a cliff if you asked,” Jaime said, so calm it disturbed you. Being away from the tension and stress of King’s Landing really had changed him, it seemed. Distance from his family was, likely, also a contributing factor. “I jumped into a bear cage for the two of you, remember? This isn’t new territory.”

The three of you left Pennytree almost immediately after the meal—Jaime made sure to tell the few men who you passed that he would return in haste. He gave them no explanation as to where he was going. 

Brienne had told you “Sansa” was about a day’s ride away. After many hours on horseback, trying to put as much distance between you and the camp, the three of you stopped by a grove of shady trees for a brief rest to recover the numbness in your legs. The sun was just beginning to rise, and Brienne rode off to do a quick scout of the perimeter.

“Do you still feel the same as when you left?” he asked once the two of you were alone. The green of his sharp eyes seemed to glow in the warm, dim light. “You told me I was a good man. Was that real, or were your words just wind?”

You had been tightening the saddle on the horse, but stiffened at his sudden question, turning to face him. “That was before you aligned yourself with my nephew’s murderers.”

A frown creased the space between his brows. “I was sent away by Cersei’s command. I never wanted to leave Tommen. Do you really think I have a say on who fights who in this five-faced war?”

No longer did the war have five faces—not if your Robb was dead. Anger crossed your expression, and you pushed closer to him in a blaze of fury. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? You always have a choice, and you’re always choosing the wrong one.”

Jaime’s one hand reached out to brush over your arm, but you shoved him away. His expression crumpled. “I chose you, didn’t I?”

You felt tears touch the corner of your eyes, but you willed them away. He had chosen you, to your simultaneous dismay and relief. Why?

Jaime turned his head to the side and breathed out a heavy sigh when you spared him no response. “I avoided as much bloodshed as possible in this war. I kept Edmure Tully alive thinking of you and your family.”

“What, you want me to thank you for not brutally murdering an innocent man?” Your hands twitched at your sides, and Jaime wondered if you were going to slap him again. If you were, he was not going to pull away.

But you didn’t, and he ignored your question to continue his dramatics. “And now I’m leaving it all—the battles, the fighting, my duty—because I want to be with you. You are more important to me than this war. I want to help you find your niece.”

Guilt stroked its heavy hand over your chest. You took no pleasure in lying to Jaime. Especially not when he’s been so honest with you in the past, even when he shouldn’t have been. The wretched knight seemed to notice the conflict warring over your features, and reached out to gently cup your face with his one remaining hand. 

“My Bitter Wolf,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “I’m choosing you. Does that mean nothing?”

You wrenched yourself away from him, causing him to stumble back a few paces, and your eyes stung with salt. I’m not choosing you, you thought miserably. But you spoke no words, spared Jaime a hurtful glare, and whisked away from him, back to Brienne. 

When Brienne led you into the thicket where the brotherhood had set up their makeshift camp, a swarm of men crawled out from the forest like ants to honey. They nodded to Brienne, grabbing a hold of her. She relented with no fight. They took you and Jaime—while you stared at the ground, Jaime erupted in incredulous commands and angry queries to unhand him. He said your name many times, demanding some sort of explanation, but you ignored him. Jaime thrashed and bucked under the grasp of half a dozen men, breaking the nose of two before a blade was slotted beneath his throat. If it had not been for your calm manner, he would have done much worse damage—and he would have easily bested all six with hardly any effort.

“I suppose this is my fault,” Jaime said, voice low, stilling his motions. “My punishment for choosing you, Wolf? What have you done?”

You shut your eyes for a brief moment. After sucking in a breath, you craned your head back to look at the man binding your wrists together. “Take us to her.”

Behind screens of brambles and by the babbling brook, what looked to be the main area of the camp came into view. A large fire crackled greedily within the center. The brotherhood was much larger than you imagined.

Lady Stoneheart was a sight to behold. Her skin was grey, gnarled, and scarred. Her hair was a mess of ashen-white clumps and tangles. Her eyes were a menacing, angry red. Across her throat was a deep gash wound. But beneath all the blood and decay, you could see her—you could see your sister.

“Cat,” you murmured, taking a step towards her. The man holding you tugged you back forcefully. Again, you said her name, this time a sob bubbling forth. It suddenly felt as if you were seven-and-ten again, with your head resting upon her shoulder, listening to her hum as she embroidered Tully fishes onto baby Sansa’s dress. “Cat!”

You cried, heartbroken that the Cat you had known for so many years was now—

She croaked something unintelligible. Her voice was rough, akin to the sound of steel against stone. Beside her stood a thin, bearded man in an oily jerkin. It took you a few moments to recognize him through your bleary gaze. 

“Harwin,” you said, remembering the son of Hullen, the master of horse at Winterfell. The knight had once been a stable-boy when you were no more than a child. He used to ride with Arya, Jon, and Robb during quintains. One of the few chosen to travel down south with Ned after he was appointed to be Hand. What was he doing here?

The man stared at you with only slight sympathy, but made no attempts to help you. “Lady Stoneheart says you have brought him the Oathbreaker.”

“What?” You looked to Jaime, who was staring at you with an indecipherable expression, then turned your eyes back to Catelyn and Harwin. “No, I—Cat, I didn’t come here for that. It’s me. It’s your good-sister. Please, please hear my words.”

Another gruelling noise fell from her torn lips. 

“She does not want to listen to you. She wants justice,” said Harwin. “Bitter Wolf, I believe it best if—”

Rage began to spill over your expression. You could feel the anger that haunted you throughout your youth begin to resurface upon seeing a reminder of your past, of Winterfell. “I’m not speaking to you!” you just about snarled at him, lips curled. You looked back to Catelyn’s desecrated corpse. “Cat, please. It’s your sister—Ned’s sister. Remember?”

Cat grated out a sound.

“She remembers,” Harwin translated. “She remembers everything.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Then you must remember the oath Jaime swore before you released us. He is no oathbreaker, Cat. I was there. I saw Sansa—hells, if we could have left we would have. She disappeared, and I know where she is.” You hoped your lie sounded more believable than it sounded; you misliked the way your voice trembled with uncertainty. “She’s in the Eyrie. Littlefinger has taken her there.”

There was a cascade of murmurs across the brotherhood. Stoneheart, however, stared at you with her cruel, torn eyes.

“Let him redeem himself,” you pleaded. “Cat, let him fulfill his oath.”

The sound that left Stoneheart was sharp and angry. Harwin, solemn, said seconds after she fell silent, “‘Not an oathbreaker?’ she asks. Jaime Lannister is the reason why her son was murdered.”

“Robb?” you whispered. “That’s not true, Cat. We were still traveling together to King’s Landing when it happened. I miss him, too. More than anything, more than life itself—but it’s not right to blame him for a crime he has not committed.” Finally, you tore your eyes away from Catelyn to look over at Jaime. For once, he was silent, watching you with creased, heavy brows. 

Stoneheart gestured to a man nearby, wielding a sword. An executioner? You felt your blood run cold.

“Jaime Lannister will not be leaving alive,” said Harwin. 

Having been quiet for longer than usual, Jaime finally decided to speak. “I demand a trial by combat,” he announced, voice clear and devoid of fear, a stark contrast to you. “Clearly I won’t be getting a fair trial otherwise, no matter how many testimonies I receive in my favor.”

Stoneheart twitched with mute fury. Her shredded eyes honed in on Jaime as she garbled out more nonsense.

“Very well,” Harwin translated, expression distinctly Northern in his grimness. “Her champion will be Brienne of Tarth.”

You could feel your heart attack the inside of your ribcage, akin to a panicked bird in a cage. “Unhand me,” you snarled, turning to the man still holding you. 

The man said nothing, but with one look at Stoneheart’s expressionless nod, released his grip. Immediately, you sprang away from your captor and made to stand between your former good-sister and Jaime.

“I know you must think him a monster. Trust me, I did, as well. But he’s not a monster—he’s just a man. A better one than most.” Your voice cracked as you spoke. You didn’t dare look back at Jaime, keeping your eyes fixed on Cat. “I’ll extend you a deal. A promise. I will personally bring him back to you if he fails to find Sansa within a year, and you’ll be able to do what you want with him. Please, Cat. I was your kin by law. You were my sister. Please let him help me find your daughters. Just give him some time to fulfill his oath.”

Lady Stoneheart seemed to consider your words seriously for the first time since you were brought out in front of her. She said something then, cold and emotionless, and you could already tell this was another denial before Harwin could even begin to translate.

“She asks if you have decided to betray your family for the Lannisters,” said Harwin.

Your expression soured in incredulity. “I am a Stark of the North,” you whispered. “I will never turn my back on my family. Sansa is not too far, I’m sure. We’ll be able to find her. She’s suspected for the murder of the bastard king, Cat. If Cersei finds her before us, your daughter will be dead. And Arya—Arya is in the North. In… in Winterfell. She’s to marry the Bolton bastard and will be at the mercy of the Lannisters.”

It was a lie, you knew. Jaime told you it was some girl posing as Arya, not Arya herself. Would Stoneheart know? You could only pray she didn’t.

The name Bolton seemed to stir something in her. Her torn eyelids closed open and shut, open and shut, open and—

“Ahh…ya?” her ragged voice strained. That was the first word she’d uttered that you understood. 

“Yes,” you said, eyes misting over once more. “Arya. The Boltons serve the Lannisters now. With Jaime by my side… he may be the only bartering tool powerful enough to sway Roose, now that Tywin and Joffrey are both dead.”

After another lengthy pause, Stoneheart straightened her crooked spine (which still remained considerably bent), and nodded once, then twice. She rasped out some things to Harwin.

Even Harwin looked mildly surprised when he translated. “She accepts this deal. However, she has one condition.”

“Name your price,” you said.

“Bring back Jaime Lannister in a year. If you don’t have at least one of the girls with you, he will die, and you will die with him.”

Behind you, you could hear Jaime suck in a breath, as you knew without even sparing him a glance that he was about to say something rash. You took a step back closer to him and immediately said before he could get a single offensive word in: “Alright. Yes.”

Finally, you turned to look at Jaime. To your surprise, his eyes were wide and—was that fear you could see? Anxious flecks of gold amidst the arrogant calm of his green? You hadn’t even realized that Stoneheart had said something more until Harwin cleared his throat. 

“You will be given a warm meal to fill your belly, and you and the Kingslayer will be sent off.”

“What of Podrick and Brienne?” you asked, looking towards the large knight—your friend. Your only friend.

“They will be kept prisoners—to make sure you hold up your end of the bargain. We cannot trust your word alone. If Jaime Lannister is not brought back for execution within a year, the woman and the squire will both be met with noose. Bring back the girls, and they will be spared.”

“My word alone?” you parroted in offense. “I am Stark. These are my nieces we are talking about.”

Harwin merely shrugged at this. “The Boltons were one of your family’s bannermen. They are not the paradigm of honor you once thought, either.” With that, he gestured towards a few watching men standing further away from the fire. “Bring them food. They will set off in the morn.”

The brotherhood had given you meager rations for your journey. A handful of salted meat (you hadn’t had the heart to ask exactly what kind of meat), a few chunks of crusty bread, and two leather pitchers full of water that tasted distinctly of old metal. You decided not to think of it too much and accepted what was given to you without complaint. They allowed for you to keep your weapons—they knew better than anyone the two of you would hardly survive a fortnight without a form of defense. 

When the two of you left, you bid Brienne a solemn goodbye and a promise to return. The look she gave you was equally somber, but she nodded in understanding. Jaime made a snarky remark about missing seeing her brutish face first thing in the morning, and Brienne simply pretended not to hear him. 

The plan was to move north, avoiding the Twins crossing, for obvious reasons… and head eastward towards Greywater Watch, the seat of House Reed. Howland Reed was a close friend of Ned’s, a small, kind man from what little you remembered of him… you were sure he was more likely to be friend than foe—though Jaime Lannister in your company made the situation a tad more complicated. You weren’t entirely sure how Howland would react to a Lannister in his halls. Many moons ago, Robb had sent orders to Howland to defend the North by not allowing Tywin Lannister’s army through. But Jaime was not Tywin, and the two of you were no army. Greywater Watch was the most promising place to go. 

Your journey the first few days consisted of many questions from Jaime. How was the trip? What happened to Varys’ ship? Where did you go? Why did you come back? Where are we going now? Why aren’t you eating? Has anyone ever told you you’re terrible at making conversation? So on and so forth. For every ten questions, Jaime counted you bothering to answer only one, and it was often curt, single-worded replies. At least this time he was not shackled with a big brute of a woman prodding his back every five seconds, so he supposed he had less to complain about. 

“I could leave you here now,” Jaime had said. “I could abandon you while you sleep and alert my men of your whereabouts.”

“Do it,” you said airily. “I’ll go back to Stoneheart and ask her to hunt you down.”

Jaime’s sharp face soured. “I wouldn’t leave you. Even though you make things incredibly difficult.”

“Oh, I know,” was all you said in return, and the conversation ended with that.

On the third night of traveling north, the two of you decided to settle down by a bubbling creek. The water was greenish and looked rather terrible to drink, but water was water. Jaime watched you build a small fire. He asked who had taught you to build fires, and, expectedly, was received with silence. To his small delight, you sat beside him instead of across from him. 

It was only a few minutes later when you spoke. “She’ll kill you,” you whispered, just loud enough so that he would hear over the howling wind and crackling fire. It was obvious to Jaime that you’d been thinking about her the entire journey so far. Your eyes flickered upwards to search his face. His beard seemed to give him a scruffy, wild spirit that you rather appreciated. “Even if you bring Sansa back to her, she’ll kill you.”

“What makes you so sure?”

You were so tired of crying. You’d spent your entire life doing so, and it seemed you weren’t stopping any time soon—you felt the tears slip down your face regardless of your contempt for them. Jaime swiped the wetness away for you with a soft touch for a calloused thumb, but you shifted away from his touch. 

“Because she will never forgive you. As Lady Catelyn, perhaps she once would have. But she is no longer my good-sister Cat. Not anymore. I do not blame her.”

There was a long silence. Jaime regarded you with a look that you could only read as warm. “If she kills me once I’ve fulfilled my oath, I would gladly welcome the prospect of dying after doing something honorable for a change. I do not fear death.”

“I do,” you told him. “I’ve seen it everywhere I go. And to see you dead… it would ruin me. You ruin me.” Another pause, then— “I loathe you, I really do.” It sounded as if you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Jaime made a gruff, chuckling noise, even though it was no laughing matter. Your hands curled into tight fists. “I think if there existed a world where I never met you… I would’ve been far happier. How does the saying go? Never meet your idols.”

Jaime stopped laughing and reared back a small distance with quirked brows. “I’m your idol?”

“That’s not the point,” you said, rolling your eyes away from him to the dark sky. “I just think you were much more appealing as an idea in my head. That’s all.”

Jaime thought it very pretty, the way your nose wrinkled and your cheeks warmed the more flustered you got. “No, no, I would really like it if you elaborated on this ‘idol’ matter. Missing a hand, wronged you a dozen different times, and brought shame to everything I’ve ever been named to? That is who your idol would be?”

“I don’t mind the missing hand. How it went missing is a different story. And yes, you’ve wronged me, but I’ve wronged you, as well. I lied to you. Granted, it’s not of the same caliber.” 

“You lied to me, but then you lied for me. I would call it even. Who’s keeping score?” Jaime then regarded you with a queer look. “You’re chatty today. I like you with a loose tongue.” 

You ignored his statement, stoking the fire by tossing more broken branches that Jaime had collected before into the licking flames. “You shouldn’t be so proud of being my idol. From childhood it was because of your infamously worst deed. I used to think you heard my prayers from all the way down south and killed the king just for me. I was no older than one-and-ten. Don’t let it get to you.”

It was already getting to Jaime. He couldn’t seem to wipe the smug grin from his sharp lips. 

“You honor me,” he said, sounding genuine; a rare feat. “I am glad to be your idol.”

That brought a touch of fondness to your wintry countenance. If Jaime wasn’t careful, he would find himself lost in those tired, sad eyes of yours. There was a quiet beauty to them.

“Your eyes,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Your father had the very same eyes.”

At first, he thought you would bite his head right off, with the way you stared at him in that same wounded-animal expression you often wore. Then you quickly looked away, sucking in a small breath. “Do I? He told me I had my mother’s eyes.”

Jaime softened. “I never met your mother.”

“Neither did I. Not really.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Apologies were foreign on his tongue. 

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “After all, how can you miss something that never really existed for you?”

There was more silence before Jaime said, “I miss many things that never existed for me.” He could feel your curious glance roam over his features, so he decided to change the subject. “Would you like to hear a story?” Before you could say anything—not that you were going to—Jaime said, “My brother was married once before he was wed to Sansa.”

You tilted your head, suddenly interested. “He was?”

“When I was twenty years of age and Tyrion three-and-ten, we were traveling together between Lannisport and Casterly Rock. We came across a maiden. A crofter’s daughter. Tysha, her name was. She was being robbed by a group of outlaws. I chased them off and Tyrion looked after Tysha. He was madly in love with her, you see. He took her maidenhead and the two were later married by a septon drunk off Dornish red. I wasn’t there for the occasion… I had returned to King’s Landing to attend Robert Baratheon at the time. The duties of a Kingsguard.” Jaime smiled at that, sharp as a fox. “A fortnight later, the septon felt awfully guilty and confessed to my father what he’d done. Of course, Tywin Lannister wasn’t happy about his son marrying a common girl. So he had me lie and say that she was a whore I paid for Tyrion to have a few nights with.”

“That’s terrible,” you said, voice quiet. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Jaime could only shrug at that. Whatever residual guilt he had harbored over the girl was still there, though the many years had softened the blow. “I have no proper excuse. I was young. Father was convinced she only wanted Tyrion’s money and not Tyrion. He convinced me to lie that I had set everything up, outlaws and all—and I thought it best at the time, considering Tyrion was so miserable all the time. He missed her.”

“What of the girl?” you whispered, stomach knotted, knowing no story like this had a happy end.

Jaime drew in a shallow breath. “She was brought to Casterly Rock. My father had her raped by the guards to put her in her place. A silver for each guard. Then he had Tyrion rape her, too. Left a gold coin for her because Lannisters are worth more. The marriage was undone, and now hardly a living soul knows.”

There was horror written plain as day across your features. “Your father was a monster. It was no wonder Tyrion killed him.”

To that, Jaime nodded. “It was at times like that I considered myself fortunate to be a Kingsguard, far from him. Either way, I would have been an Oathbreaker from the start. Betray my king or betray my blood?”

“Would you really have defied your father’s orders?” you asked. 

Without needing to think about it, Jaime said, “Yes. If I needed to.”

The wind howled cold whispers into your ears as you pondered on his story. You drew further into your cloak’s hood. “I’ll tell you a story.”

This pleasantly surprised Jaime. “That’s a first,” he said. “Out with it.”

“The first time a boy kissed me, I was seven and he was one-and-ten, if I recall correctly. Perhaps two-and-ten. It was only a moon before the tourney at Harrenhal. He was the son of a blacksmith living in the castle. He would bring me arrowheads he made—they were terrible, blunt little pieces, but I accepted his gifts nonetheless. He kissed me as he handed me another arrowhead. I shoved him away as fast as I could—I was afraid I’d done something wrong, and Father would be cross with me. I was so angry with him… and he was so afraid of me. He asked for my forgiveness—begged for it, even.”

Jaime leaned forward. “And?”

To his bemusement, your expression grew rather embarrassed. “I kicked him.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not too ba—”

“In the face.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, it was not my finest moment. Two of his teeth came out in bloody stumps. I felt sorry for him, but I told him never to touch me again and I ran off. Brandon had to take care of the mess while Lyanna and Ned comforted me. I was sobbing in his arms, afraid the stableboy had gotten me with child. Lyanna had to explain why she was sure I wasn’t with child.” You used the cowl of your cloak to shield your burning features.

As if sensing your thoughts, Jaime flicked the hood back just enough so he could meet your eyes. “And? What came of him? Did your father lop his tiny cock off? Became a eunuch and was sent off to the Wall?”

“No,” you hotly replied, swatting away his hand. “It was just a warning and a slap on the wrist, was all. He actually became a distinguished rider in Winterfell. I hardly ever spoke to him after that—he kept a respectful distance. If I recall, he’s even gotten himself a wife and children.”

A silence stretched thin between the two of you. Then, to your shock, Jaime began cackling up a storm, even bending at the stomach and slapping at his thigh in hilarity. His ribs ached with how much he was laughing.

“It wasn’t a funny story,” you said, almost stern. “I feel bad for him.”

This made Jaime pause. “He forced himself on you, and you feel bad for him? If anything, he deserved a worse fate.” 

“We were children. Things are much simpler when you’re children.” You tilted your head, recalling another memory. “When I was an even younger child, perhaps Rickon’s age now, I told my siblings I was afraid of doors.”

The knight beside you scoffed at that, stifling the remnants of his laughter. “Doors?”

“Well—not the physical wooden slab itself, but… the idea of not knowing what was behind it. It terrified me. But that was all too much and too hard to explain to my brothers and sister at such a young age, so I simply told them I was afraid of doors.” 

Jaime regarded you with narrowed eyes. “Hm. I can’t even picture it.”

“Brandon and Ned never let me sit closest to a door from then on. Benjen always teased me and would sling me over his shoulder and stand the both of us by the doorway, and then he’d ask if I was scared. He was cruel the way brothers are cruel. The way you were to Tyrion, I suppose.”

A discontent noise fell from Jaime’s lips, but he did not disagree with you. 

“And Lyanna… Lyanna tried to help me face this fear by telling me to open a closed door to check what’s behind it.”

Jaime hummed. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing ever,” you said, shaking your head. “Except one time, Benjen was hiding behind. But he never scared me, not ever.”

“And are you now?”

“Hm?”

“Are you afraid of what could be behind a door?”

There was a pause as you thought. You picked up some more branches to toss into the fire, watching the fire shift and pop with the new food. “Would you think less of me if I told you yes?” you whispered.

How Jaime saw you then was how he was sure a moth saw light. “No,” he said, feeling as if something had caught in his throat. “I do admire your fear, Wolf. It’s something I can learn from.”

Jaime was asleep. One thing you noticed was that he always left you to sleep past the agreed time he should’ve woken you up to swap watches. 

“You need your sleep,” he had said with an easy shrug and a grin once you confronted him about the matter. “You look terrible, you know.”

As irritating as he was, you found yourself grateful for the extra hours of rest. The journey certainly hadn’t been kind on your body; your feet were aching with the grueling pace you had set for yourself. While Jaime was catching up on a few hours of sleep, you would watch the treeline in the distance, listening to the leaves rustle with the breeze and the owls hooting to their hatchlings. The stars were bright that night, pale amongst the sky. You wondered how many there were, and if you could manage to count them all before having to rouse Jaime.

You only managed to get to twenty before you heard a swishing noise from a thicket in the distance. You tensed, immediately reaching for your dagger. The two of you were somewhat protected by a brambled hedge of shrubbery, but that did not mean you were entirely safe. 

A four-legged figure nosed its way out of the green. Your muscles relaxed, but only slightly. An animal was far less dangerous than a man. It would likely scurry off in a moment or two.

You stared at it for a while longer, and the animal drew nearer. A wolf, you realized, noting its bushy, swishing tail. Then, your brows knitted together. It was far larger than a regular wolf, near monstrous in size, looking to be taller than you, even in the distance. It had a glossy grey pelt and glowing, amber eyes. 

This was no normal wolf. It was a direwolf. 

You breathed out a shaking breath. Direwolves hardly wandered as far south as Winterfell, much less down to the Riverlands. It couldn’t have wandered here all on its own. Lady was dead, you knew that to be true. Grey Wind murdered by the Freys. Shaggydog and Summer were likely killed by Theon Greyjoy, or thrown into a cage somewhere in Winterfell. Little Ghost was on the Wall with Jon. That left—

“Nymeria,” you murmured in shock. 

You stood up. Would she recognize you? Or worse—would she hurt you?

It was probably a good idea to shake Jaime awake. You casted a brief glance over at him, curled up by the sack of food rations, his sharp, handsome face softened with slumber. Deciding against it, you began to creep nearer to the direwolf. She stood with her ears pricked, unblinking, not taking her eyes off you.

“Hello, sweet one,” you said, voice low and level, despite the rushed blood coursing through your veins. Nymeria’s ears twitched. “It’s been a long time.”

The wolf lifted one paw, swayed her tail against the grass twice. Then her sharp teeth bared in a snarl, glowing beneath the starlight.

You stepped back, sensing her growing hostility. It felt ridiculous speaking to a direwolf, but you knew how intelligent they were. If there was even a shred of a possibility, it was worth pursuing. 

“Do you know where Arya is? Arya.” 

At the name, Nymeria put her paw back down. Her head tilted, much like she used to do when she was a confused pup learning how to spin for food. Abruptly, she turned and bounded back into the trees. A deep howl echoed through the forest, sounding ghostly in its timbre. Other howls echoed after her—Nymeria clearly wasn’t alone. You were grateful the other wolves hadn’t approached. Just a day ago, Jaime was telling you about many squadrons of Lannister bannermen being mauled by a pack of wolves, led by a large she-wolf. Perhaps that was Nymeria. She certainly fit the description.

You returned to the bramble barrier, finding Jaime still sound asleep. He had turned whilst you were gone, now facing away from the sack. You sat down beside him, and, strangely, found yourself excited for him to wake up so you could tell him what had happened.

There was, you waged, about an hour before the sun would rise. You would wake Jaime then, and the two of you would continue northward to Howland Reed’s castle. If the pace the two of you had set was consistent, you should be there in no more than a fortnight. 

It was quiet for a long while. You thought you could hear someone humming a familiar tune, and after waiting with your ears pricked for a moment, you realized you were imagining it—after all, you knew nobody but Benjen that used to hum that melody. Your heart ached at the thought of your youngest older brother. 

There came a rustle, a step, and the snap of a branch somewhere off to your left. You turned, hand curled around the handle of the dagger, muscles coiled at the ready. Perhaps Nymeria had come back, you pondered, unsure if that was something you would even want to happen. Probably not. 

Another snap. A shuffle. A thud. You narrowed your eyes—wolves familiar with this forest would be far more sure-footed than that. 

After a tense second, you were proved right. Before you knew it, half a dozen men swarmed out of the trees, silent despite their clumsy feet, eyes wide and pale with the moonlight. They all carried weapons—though they were rather unconventional ones; pitchforks, shovels, garden pick-axes. Their tattered clothing told you that they were likely farmers who had turned to the life of thievery in times of desperation. So much for Jaime bringing peace to the Riverlands.

Hurriedly, you managed to kick at Jaime’s leg just as one man was already advancing on you with a snarl, barreling forward and pinning you down onto the foliage underneath. All the air slipped out of your lungs. You were no good at close-hand combat, and hadn’t had time to properly train in many moons—but you relied on your instincts, which told you to claw at any part of his skin you could reach, and lift your feet as high as he could possibly allow, kicking him in the chest. 

By now, Jaime had been hauled off by a bigger, burlier man that stood so tall that Jaime only came up to his chest. There was another going straight for him—but you had more pressing matters to focus on. The man that had been on top of you was drawing back with wounded, ragged gasps, and you pounced forward, brandishing your dagger.

He had time to let slip one plea for his life—but you were quick to plunge the sharp end straight down his sternum with as much force possible, piercing his heart swiftly. Out it came—and down again. And again. Again. Once more. There was blood all over your forearms, some flecks landing wetly on your face. With a clenched jaw, you slashed his throat. Rubies dribbled from the cut, glittering under the moonlight. You abandoned his body, briefly wondering if Nymeria and her pack would come back and feast.

When you turned, there were two more thieves hesitating. They looked on the younger end—just boys. You scowled at them, made a motion as if you were going to attack them next, and they promptly turned on their heels and fled. When you looked over to Jaime, he had managed to grab his sword and had pierced his two assailants swiftly. They fell to the ground with bloodied noises of pain. Jaime flicked the excess blood off of the blade with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. Then, he looked at you, taking in your gore-soaked appearance. His brows raised when he looked over at the corpse you’d stabbed and slashed.

“What happened to being so concerned over innocent men?” Jaime questioned, half-genuine and half-provoking. 

“I told you before,” you hissed. “There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard. I would have been fine helping the men find food—pinning me to the ground with the intent of robbing us, or worse, revokes them of any right to my pleasantries.”

Jaime smiled at that. “Right—because you’re well renowned for your pleasantries. Is it concerning that I find you even more attractive covered in blood?” he asked as he drew nearer, blunt as always. “I do think I’m falling for you like this.”

“Oh, be quiet,” you snapped. You turned to look at the treeline, where Nymeria had come out. 

“Are you alright?” he queried, expression shifting into one of concern, single hand reaching out to touch your arm, tender from when you slammed into the ground. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine. Most of the blood isn’t mine. I just have to wash it off.”

Jaime nodded, looking strangely prideful. He offered his hand out for you to take. You stared at him for a moment, then brushed past him and made your way to the river. He trailed after you with a barely-repressed smile.

“What were you looking for?” he asked as you began to scrub the blood off you. Thankfully, it came off quite easily since it hadn’t had time to set and dry on you. 

“I think I saw someone I knew,” you muttered. The excitement of telling him the news had worn off with the attack. The water was frigid, and though you were well acquainted with the cold, you were going to catch your death if you loitered longer than you needed to.

With furrowed brows, Jaime regarded you as if you had grown a second head. “Who?” His hand was already falling to the pommel of the longsword. 

You shook your head. “Not a person. A direwolf.”

After you had washed up, dripping with river water but now void of grime, you and Jaime were quick to pack up what little you were carrying with you, to start off northward once again. When you had asked if Jaime wanted to wash himself before leaving, he only laughed at your face. “I’ll freeze my balls off if I do that. I’d rather keep them for now. I can bathe once we get to Greywater Watch.” Where there was one gang of thieves, there were likely a dozen others—it was better to keep moving.

“Only if Howland Reed doesn’t skin your balls off himself,” you remarked.

Jaime didn’t say anything to that, but he glanced over at you with a grin. That was likely the closest thing to a jest he’d ever heard you say.

As you walked, Jaime noticed you were favoring your left side, trying not to put too much weight on your right foot. “Did he knock you there?” he asked, gesturing downward to your ankles.

You scowled at him, as if irritated that he was observing the smallest of your actions. It made you feel terribly intruded upon. “I’m fine,” you repeated. 

Jaime shrugged. “If you say so.” But he stepped closer, occasionally bumping into your right side as if to help you keep your weight off. Arse.

About an hour after the skirmish, Jaime decided he had enough of the silence. He was keen on hearing your voice again, even if it was going to tell him to fuck right off. 

“You can reclaim the North as yours now,” he said. “If you gathered enough loyal men… you could.”

You sucked in a breath. “I have more pressing matters before sitting on a throne.” You didn’t bother to list them, but you thought them glaringly obvious.

Sansa. Arya. Brienne. Pod. Ca—Stoneheart.

“Everyone in my family is scattered and alone and I need to be there for them. What good would it be wasting all my energy battling the Boltons?” 

Jaime wasn’t used to being the smarter of the two. He felt that it was the most logical decision at the moment, considering the two of you would practically be wandering about aimlessly if not for going after your rightful seat. “Perhaps you can be there for your family by retaking your home.” With a softer tone, he added on, “Might I remind you… you have nothing right now. No castle, no money, no weapons, nothing. Only me to watch you.”

This seemed to struck a nerve in you, much to Jaime’s simultaneous dismay and elation. 

“I don’t need you to watch me,” you scathingly said. “You’re just with me because you’re an important political figure that could be of use. And I didn’t want to have to watch my good-sister lop your head off.”

Jaime briefly wondered why, but instead arrogantly retorted, “Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t have let it come to—”

“But I suppose you’re right,” you admitted, interrupting him with a melancholic puff of an exhale, words weighing heavy.

Jaime barked out a laugh. “Say that again. I want to savor it this time.”

“You are insufferable,” you said, though it lacked any true bite. “To save my family, I must leave them. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“You’re not leaving,” Jaime reminded. “You’re just taking… a short detour.”

“Short,” you snorted. “It would be a miracle if we can take Winterfell back before the year’s mark.”

Jaime squared his jaw, now thinking back to Brienne. “Alright. After Greywater Watch, what then? Where would you like to go? I would…” He stopped walking, and grabbed hold of your wrist. Your eyes flashed dangerously as they met his. “I would follow you wherever you go.”

For once, you had no harsh retort for him.

Instead, you asked, almost as if searching for a reason for him to rescind his statement, “Even if I keep telling you to leave?”

Jaime nodded. “Even then.”

“And when I put a knife to your throat, deciding that I want to take revenge for my nephews?”

Again, there was no hesitation on his end. Jaime hardly thought before he spoke, but it was the truth nonetheless. “I would let you cut me open until you’re satisfied with me, if that’s what you wish. Are you done asking me needless questions or shall we start playing a drinking game with our muddy river water?”

Your features, which had softened considerably, now fell back into their naturally irritated state. You nodded with solemn determination. Jaime thought you looked much like your brother Ned right then. 

“Right. I think that settles it.” You started off walking again, shaking your wrist free of his hold. “We’ll go north, as we have. But—it’s time I stop hiding.”

In the distance, a single wolf howled. 

“It’s time I returned home.”

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (12/20)

Here I am again! Last chapter of the week, I promise!

Enjoy it <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst, tension, semi public sex and fingering.

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha tries to win over young voters.

Knight

noun

1. a piece represented by a stylized horse's head. It moves in an "L" shape, two squares in one direction (either horizontally or vertically). Each player starts with two knights, and they are considered minor pieces, valued at three points.

One day until Monday.

Twenty-four hours until you walked into the office and saw the beautiful face of your insufferable boss. 1,440 minutes until you could talk to her after waking up beside her. 86,400 seconds to pretend none of it had ever happened.

Your head felt heavy on the pillow. Your mind crowded with memories of the two of you, her body and all the things she’d said.

Some of those words had warmed your heart; others had made you come and some had rejected you without mercy, without hesitation.

Over lunch, Natasha mentioned the possibility that Thanos had been murdered.

God… That meant Agatha would be investigated, right?

That would be disastrous for her image.

Her son. Nicholas, right? You didn’t know him, not really. Just a few pictures. But you knew what it was like to lose a father.

You had to warn her. Agatha needed to be ready. Call in legal. Talk to Jennifer. Prep the entire image team.

You needed to get to the office as early as possible.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Each step down the hallway echoed in your head like a metronome of nerves.

The words kept repeating in your mind like a half-rehearsed monologue.

“Sonya,” you called out, eyes locked on Agatha’s glass office door. “Is she in yet?”

The assistant, typing furiously, glanced up for barely a second before returning to her screen.

“She got in about ten minutes ago. She’s actually waiting for you.”

Your heart skipped.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to look less like you were falling apart inside.

Then, feigning confidence, you stepped into the room.

Agatha stood by the window. The morning light traced the outline of her silhouette, and her shoulders were visibly tense.

When you entered, she turned to face you with that gaze that missed nothing.

In silence, she took two steps toward the door behind you and locked it with a sharp click.

The air grew heavier.

You were about to speak, to bring up Thanos. The way she had stirred things inside you no one else ever had. But then she turned back to her desk, opened a drawer, and held out a yellow envelope to you.

“Here." She said, avoiding eye contact.

You frowned.

“What is this?”

“It’s... a way to make sure you feel comfortable and safe.”

Her voice was calm, rehearsed. Cold. Colder than yelling.

You took the envelope and opened it slowly. The contents made your eyes go wide.

Money. A lot of it.

You didn’t bother to count, but you could swear there was at least $2,500 inside.

"You're paying me?"

Agatha sighed, crossing her arms.

"It's not payment, it's a gift. So you can keep studying. So you can have freedom, without any... complications."

You felt your face burn.

"A gift?" Your voice came out low, but sharp. "Is this so I keep pleasing you in bed? Or to keep my mouth shut out here?"

She narrowed her eyes, like she was holding something back inside her.

"You don’t understand. I’m trying to protect you and myself. I’m a public figure. A powerful woman. It’s campaign season and if this gets out…”

Oh, God…

Okay. Now you were pissed.

This wasn’t good at all

"So you'd rather pay me to pretend it never happened?"

Silence.

You gripped the envelope tightly. You wanted to throw it in her face. Tear it to pieces right in front of her.

For a moment, you even wanted to accept it and pretend nothing had happened.

Pretend you hadn’t felt anything. Pretend it was just wild, incredible sex. Pretend it didn’t hurt when she kicked you out the next morning.

"I… I'm not good at this," Agatha said, her eyes locked on yours now. "I just… I can't let this spiral out of control."

You gave a hollow smile, the kind you wore when everything hurt too much.

"Control, control, control. That’s all it is with you, isn’t it, Agatha?" You said, biting the inside of your cheek. "But it’s too late for that."

You placed the envelope on the desk with deliberate calm, like returning an unwanted gift.

She exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"You don’t understand! Can’t you see I’m trying to protect my entire life?” she snapped, her voice rising. “You think it’s easy? That I can just fall into your arms and ignore everything I’ve built?”

Her eyes had a greener hue now, glistening like fresh water.

You looked at her.

And you could saw the broken woman that Agatha Harkness really was.

It hurt.

It hurt even more that, despite the way she was treating you, you still wanted to understand her.

To comfort her.

"I didn’t ask you to want me!" You shouted. "I didn’t ask for you to look at me like that, to touch me like that! And now that it’s happened... you try to buy my silence like I’m just another political mistake to manage?!"

She stepped back and stopped behind the desk, gripping the edge like it could somehow keep her upright.

"You’re being unfair."

Her voice was too soft, cracked.

"And you are a coward, Agatha Harkness."

You stared at each other.

Everything unsaid hanging between you like thunder in the air.

Until a knock at the door broke the spell.

Daniel stepped in, and you looked at him, desperate for the tension to break.

“Ladies! Everything’s ready. Barkley’s waiting for you both.”

Right.

Tacoma. The speech. The plan to win over the youth.

You still had a country to convince.

You nodded and walked out of the room, swallowing hard. You had to get your breath back before you could breathe the same air as her again.

[...]

The campaign committee was pure chaos, buzzing with electric energy. Posts with the hashtag #MotherHark were already going viral.

Quick-cut videos of her speaking to young people about politics were flooding TikTok and Instagram; impactful quotes captioned with modern typography, intercut with clips of her staring directly into the camera while the campaign slogan pulsed in purple and white:

"Politics is everything, and everything is politics."

You were sitting in one of the chairs in the conference room, waiting for the campaign bus to arrive, silently watching the latest video on your phone. In it, Agatha spoke with a steady voice:

"From the moment you choose what to wear, what to eat, or even which movie to watch, politics is there. Invisible, but always present. And it's time for you, young people, to start seeing it."

“They’re commenting like she’s some kind of communist MILF.” Sharon murmured from across the room, chuckling.

“She is a MILF.” Billy replied with a crooked grin, leaning on the production table.

You rolled your eyes.

You hated that term and the way it sexualized older women.

So typical of teen, clueless boys.

Jennifer walked in right on time, followed by Sonya and three interns holding clipboards.

She looked flawless wearing a charcoal turtleneck, tailored pants and a navy blue trench coat with a slight satin sheen.

Even at seven in the morning, she looked like she’d already had three coffees and absorbed the soul of a wartime general.

“Team,” she began, wasting no time. “We have thirty minutes before we head out to Tacoma. The school is prepped, the students are already in the auditorium, and the media crew left earlier to set up the cameras.”

She tapped a small stack of cards against the table.

“What I want from you: focus. No unnecessary improvising, no drama en route. We're going to show these teenagers that their opinions matter. I want them to feel like political agents and if they leave with only one idea in mind. They have power.”

You and a few others boarded the bus.

It was massive. The biggest tour bus you'd ever stepped into.

Agatha was sitting by the window.

Dark sunglasses, a tired expression.

That sculpted jawline. The same one that made you ache to trace it with your fingertips, was tense. She wore a purple T-shirt, and damn, that color looked perfect on her.

God…

You two had fought.

But all you wanted was to kneel in front of her and make her feel good, right there and then.

Hesitating, like someone jumping off a cliff, you sat down beside her.

Silence.

The bus began to move, a gentle rumble under your feet. Voices around you talked about equipment, schedules and image strategy.

But between the two of you, there was only silence.

“Thank you for not taking the money.” She said softly after a few minutes.

Her voice barely sounded like hers. It was quiet, almost human.

You kept your gaze forward, fixed on some imaginary point on the back of the seat in front of you.

“It wasn’t hard to refuse,” you replied. “What’s hard is forgetting that you thought I’d betray you.”

She turned her face slightly toward you, like she was about to say something. But she held back and looked back out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the diamond ring.

"If I had met you in another life," she murmured. "Maybe everything would’ve been different."

You turned now, facing her. The shadow cast by her hair, the sharp line of her lips. There was a kind of tiredness there. Not the kind that comes from a bad night’s sleep, but from a whole life.

Her words hit you differently. You hadn’t expected to hear that from her, and something sparked in your chest.

What did she think about when the lights were off and she was alone in her massive bed at night?

You had never wanted to find out so badly.

"If you had met me in another life," you echoed. "You would’ve done the same thing. Because this isn’t about me, it’s about what you don’t allow yourself to feel."

Her head turned slowly, like your words had a physical weight.

The sunglasses couldn’t hide everything. Since the tight curve of her brow, the subtle twitch in the corner of her mouth.

Agatha was trembling slightly or maybe that was just your desire for her to be.

"You’re too young to understand." She said. Not with anger, but with something more like quiet desperation.

"And you’re too old to keep hiding."

Her jaw clenched.

"Don’t say it like it’s that simple. It’s never occurred to me like that."

"What? The fact that you’re a lesbian?"

Agatha froze, like you'd touched something forbidden inside her.

"I’m not..." she tried, but the word felt too heavy in her mouth. "...that."

"Lesbian. Saying it won’t kill you, you know?" You said. "That’s what I’m talking about. Even if we had met in another life, you still wouldn’t let yourself feel it."

"I just like to keep a reserved image." She leaned back into the white leather seat like a sulky child.

"You can be reserved and still be comfortable with your sexuality at the same time." You said casually, rummaging through your bag for your earbuds.

She flailed her hands silently, and it made you want to laugh. It was funny how expressive she was when no one was watching.

"Excuse me?! I’m very comfortable with my sexuality!"

You couldn’t help it, you let out a little laugh.

"Oh, sure you are," you said, rolling your eyes with a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. "But let me tell you something..."

You leaned in just close enough to catch the ocean-color glint behind her sunglasses.

"No straight woman kisses the way you kiss. No straight woman fucks the way you fuck."

You whispered the words onto her warm lips.

Agatha let out a soft breath, her tongue slipping between her lips in an attempt to hold herself together.

You knew she wouldn’t make a move here, but still…

Watching her hesitate because of you?

Delicious.

Before she could reply, the bus came to a halt and one of the assistants stepped in.

"We’re here."

The school auditorium was full. Teenagers between 15 and 18 filled the rows of wooden chairs, buzzing with curiosity.

You stood near the exit with other team members, trying to focus.

Which was hard, because Agatha was wearing a purple jacket—the kind that made her look like she’d been on the varsity basketball team in high school—and you couldn’t help imagining it.

She looked younger, and hotter.

It was all part of the game, you knew that.

And Christ, you were feeling so stupid for falling for a political strategy you had written yourself.

Agatha walked up to the stage with no fuss and cleared her throat lightly into the mic.

"Good morning," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly. "I know. Ten-thirty in the morning already feels like punishment."

Soft laughter rippled through the room. She let the silence breathe, her timing impeccable.

"But I’m here today because... someone told me young people don’t care about politics."

She paused dramatically, raising an eyebrow.

"And I thought that was so ridiculous… I had to come check for myself."

More laughter now. Genuine and warm.

"I want to talk to you the same way I talk to my 17-year-old son, who’s convinced I’m the definition of boring. Spoiler: he’s absolutely right."

Even more laughter.

Suddenly, the auditorium felt like the audience at a stand-up comedy show.

"Come on, don’t be shy! I want to hear from you!"

A girl in the second row raised her hand. Agatha pointed at her with a nod of her chin.

"You. Name and question."

"Jade," the girl said. "Have you ever thought about quitting? I mean… being a politician seems kinda dangerous sometimes."

Agatha looked at her for a moment, as if really digesting the question.

The room went quiet.

"Every single day," she answered. Honest, razor-sharp. "But the secret is remembering why you started. And for me, it’s remembering who’s watching me."

She looked over the crowd. Her gaze landed on you for just a second.

It was quick, but enough to burn.

"My son. You. People who think the future’s screwed. My job is to prove it can be different, but it only works if you are part of it."

Another student raised his hand. A scrawny boy in an X-Men hoodie.

"Did you always want to be governor?"

"No," she said. "When I was young, I wanted to be a dancer. Eventually I found out you actually need talent for that."

Louder laughter this time.

"So I went with the more dramatic option, is true. Changing the world through action and speech. And honestly? Sometimes I think I should’ve risked Broadway instead."

A real laugh formed on her lips, and it was like she was born for that stage.

She leaned in slightly.

"But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can be many things. I was a daughter. A wife. I became a mother. Today I’m a candidate, and tomorrow? Who knows... Maybe I’ll just want to be a good example for someone who hasn’t even been born yet."

You held your breath.

Because it wasn’t just the content, it was the tone. The quiet vulnerability. The way she allowed little cracks to show.

Just enough for you to fall in love with her.

Fuck…

You were so screwed.

When a shy student asked how to get involved in politics without knowing where to start, Agatha answered:

"You start like you start anything: by messing up. A lot. Getting into things you weren’t invited to. Yelling before you even know how to argue, but you learn. Because when you speak, someone listens. And one day, you look back and realize that the first time you raised your hand... changed everything."

Then she reached out her hand, symbolically, to the students.

"Raise your hands. Make noise. The world won’t give you space if you ask politely. So scream!"

And they did. The auditorium exploded with wild, living shouts, and the vibrations climbed up through your feet.

Her presence up there, it was so grounded, so human, so powerful and stirred everything inside you.

And worse: she knew it.

You saw how she looked every student in the eye. How she treated every question like a mission. The way she moved her hands. Always authoritative, but warm. That low tone of voice. The almost automatic gestures.

She was... everyone’s mother.

And for a moment, you wanted to be back in that hotel room.

You wanted to kneel between her legs and say it again, through tears and desire.

Mommy.

Your face burned.

You clutched your notebooks to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.

Jennifer appeared at your side, cutting through the electric current.

"She’s doing very well," she said in a neutral tone. "See that? That’s what I call winning."

You could only nod.

But the truth was, in that moment, you weren’t thinking about votes.

You were thinking about how much you wanted to rip off that purple jacket and call her Mommy again and again.

[...]

The bus buzzed with praise. Excited comments, laughter, applause. Jennifer could barely hide her excitement as she said, “That’s three major headlines right there.” Even poor Sonya smiled, and she never smiled.

But all you wanted was Agatha.

She climbed the bus steps slower this time. Her posture still upright, still in control. But her eyes even behind those dark sunglasses were searching.

For you.

She hesitated, walking to the back and sat beside you.

The same seat as earlier.

Your heart skipped.

"You were amazing." You said, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Thank you," she replied, still looking out the window. Then she turned her head slightly. "You were right, the younger audience is the key."

You nodded.

The silence that followed was both comforting and torturous. It cracked beneath the surface like static, like the whole world was waiting for something to happen.

Then Agatha discreetly reached out and took your hand.

Almost like an accidental brush, but your entire body lit up, because you knew nothing Agatha did was accidental.

"I think I’m tired," she said. Her voice low, intimate. "Really tired."

Her fingers began to stroke the back of your hand. Slowly, and almost absentmindedly.

But you knew better.

There was nothing absentminded about her. Every movement was calculated. Every touch whispered that it was anything but innocent.

Because Agatha was a control freak bitch.

"And you..." she continued, leaning in just a little. "Should make me feel good."

Your breath stuttered. You turned to face her, catching the shadowed gleam of her eyes behind her glasses.

And still, you felt her cutting through you.

"Yes," your voice came out as a needy whimper. "Anything."

You whispered, because that was all you could manage.

Fuck. You’d go to the ends of the earth if she asked. You’d give your soul to the cruelest devil and fight the strongest god if it meant pleasing her.

"Anything?" She repeated with a smirk, just a hint of irony. The corner of her mouth curling like a comma full of meaning.

She looked around the bus. Everyone was quiet, resting before the ride back to the office.

Then she leaned in, her shoulder brushing against yours.

"Unbutton your pants and spread your legs." She said. Her voice already hoarse, already pulsing.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as her words cut through the air between you, low enough that only you could hear them, but loud enough to make your body react instantly.

You hesitated for a second. Not out of fear, but because of the risk. Then, under Agatha’s watchful gaze, you slid your fingers down to the button of your pants, undoing it with an almost inaudible click.

She watched every movement. The sunglasses hid her eyes, but not the hunger in her expression.

When you spread your legs just enough, she let out a quiet sound of approval and then… with a casualness that could’ve fooled anyone into thinking she was just reaching for something in her pocket, she slipped her hand between your thighs.

The first touch was electric.

Her steady and controlled fingers found you already wet, and she inhaled sharply, like even she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing.

"You filthy little tease," she murmured, her lips grazing your ear as her fingers slid over you, exploring, gauging your response. "But you’re so damn pretty…"

You bit your lip hard to keep from moaning, your hips moving involuntarily against her hand, chasing more pressure.

Agatha smiled slowly, predatorily, then pressed her fingers firmly against your clit, making you choke on a wave of pleasure.

"Quiet," she ordered, voice like a ribbon of silk and steel. "Or everyone’s going to know you’re grinding into my hand like a needy little kitten in heat."

Blood rushed to your face, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t stop.

Your muscles were tight, your stomach coiled, every flick of her fingers dragging you closer to the edge.

She noticed—of course she did—and slowed her pace, fingers now circling torturously slow, watching every microexpression flicker across your face.

"You gonna come for me right here? In front of everyone?" she whispered, her lips brushing your temple. "Gonna be a good girl and stay quiet while I make you fall apart?"

You shook your head, desperate, but she already knew the answer.

"Mommy…"

"Oh. You really like that, don’t you, baby girl?"

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes rolled back under your lashes.

And then, she sped up.

Her fingers worked you with cruel precision, and you grabbed the seat hard, your knuckles white, your whole body trembling with raw tension.

"Please," you mouthed, voice gone, lips just forming the word. "Mommy."

She understood.

And with one final perfect circle right where you needed it most, she brought you to the brink… and stopped.

Her fingers pressed down firmly, holding you there—no movement—leaving you suspended in the abyss.

She watched your desperation, the corners of her mouth curling upward, before she began again.

Slower. More torturous.

"You make me ravenous," she confessed, her voice trembling, like she hated every syllable she had to admit. "No one’s ever… ever made me want to lose control like this."

Your pulse spiked at the crack in her voice.

She was unraveling.

You dared to touch her free hand, lacing your fingers with hers, and she gripped your hand tightly just like she needed an anchor.

"Not yet," she rasped. "You come when I say. Only when Mommy says."

When release finally came, it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

You arched, muscles clenching around her fingers, body shaking like a leaf and she covered your mouth with her palm, muffling your cries in a gesture that was both domination and protection.

"Shhh… quiet now," she breathed against your neck, licking the salty sweat there as she dragged out every wave of your pleasure. "All of this… all your filth… belongs to me."

When she finally withdrew, you were wrecked. Breath ragged, kegs weak, makeup totally smudged.

Agatha wiped her fingers slowly on your pants. Her eyes hidden, but her jaw tight with tension.

Two tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them, and you smiled.

"Feeling better now, Governor?"

She swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths, trying to reel herself back in.

Then she looked at you, serious. Hard.

"Would you… want to continue this somewhere else?"

She whispered it like even she couldn’t believe she was saying it.

"Y-yes."

She shook her head and stood up, disappearing into the bathroom stall.

You let out a shaky breath, barely believing what had just happened.

And then, your special phone vibrated.

Wait for me at your dorm door. 10pm.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.

You returned to the office on trembling legs, panties damp, head on fire.

Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

Jennifer was talking about a press conference with local reporters next week, but your brain absorbed nothing. Only a silent, impatient countdown ticked at the back of your mind.

Five hours until your shift ended.

Then eight more until Agatha would show up at your dorm and take you… somewhere unknown.

But honestly?

Fuck it.

You wanted this.

You wanted her.

And you’d do anything.

So when the clock finally struck, you left the building like you were on fire.

You crossed campus with the afternoon warmth brushing your face.

You entered the dorm, dropped your backpack on the couch without a second thought, and went straight to the shower.

A cold one, of course.

Not because you wanted to, but because you had to.

The freezing water hit your skin like a jolt. You leaned against the shower tiles, breathing deeply.

That woman.

She made you come with an intensity you didn’t even know was possible, on that damn bus.

God… she made you come so fast and so well.

All you wanted now was to return the favor, but the water didn’t wash it away.

Her touch remained on your skin like embers, still burning.

You stepped out with wet hair dripping down your back. The towel dropped to the floor in a hurr, wearing nothing but the thinnest pair of shorts, you lay on your bed.

Your eyes stared at the ceiling, but your mind was miles away.

On her blue-green eyes. On the taste you could still feel on your lips. On the command and the plea.

Your hand slid down your damp stomach, a distracted caress that quickly turned to raw desire.

You tried to stop.

Tried to be good.

But the truth?

Agatha had branded her fingerprints into your body, and every fiber of you ached for more.

Your hand moved lower, trembling.

But just before your fingers could go any further, your phone buzzed again.

The special one.

You grabbed it quickly, heart pounding.

Agatha.

Behave.

You closed your eyes, bit your lip, and smiled, utterly defeated.

She knew.

That fall was wrong, elegant, and inevitable.

You tried to think of the campaign, your job, even Carol.

But you weren’t playing it safe.

You were playing to be tamed by the queen with iron hands.

~*~

See you on Thursday!!

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqlz @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos @lowlyjelly @xblinkx2 @rmaximoff @loveshineslikethesky

[kkochigomi]

the ultimate guide to f***ing nomin

part one | part two

PAIRING: reader x jeno + jaemin

GENRE: smut, angst

SERIES WC: 35k

PART ONE WC: 13.7k

SYNOPSIS: DJ Juliette is over just being a DJ. She misses being a producer and working with artists but no one is biting anymore. She's living from paycheck to paycheck, so when MC receives a pink business card from that company, she should take it. But her fellow SHAWOLs are screaming at her and she knows better. So they send in the heavy arsenal wrapped in head-to-toe Chanel. This woman, named Lindsay Liu, knows she can talk her into it.

WARNINGS: dom!Jeno, switch!Jaemin & mc, PIV, DVP, cunnilingus, thigh humping, spit play, pussyjob, lots of sloppy kissing, deepthroating, rough sex, large... sizes, bisex, very strong language, threesomes, one reference to slight racism/xenophobia (very small inclusion, that character sucks, doesn't go into detail), CONVOLUTED AND CONFUSING AS SHIT, slight language barriers, hella campy/maybe even bad, mc is described as American and having a midsized body, explicit language and descriptions of sex, working at SM Entertainment, mc has a "stage name", Juliette isn't her actual name, let me know what I missed! (had to split this into two parts or Tumblr wouldn't let me post it)

+ dialogue and text messages italicized in their entirety means MC is translating them from Korean!

CHAPTER SIXˋ°•*⁀➷

You couldn’t sleep at all. You wanted desperately to hump your hand, but it seemed too inappropriate and pitiful. So you sulk and stare at the wall, making it so that all three of you are faced away from each other. 

You weren’t seeing things. They definitely left on worse terms than they came. You peaked through your cracked eyelids to avoid an awkward goodbye as they gathered their things at 4 am. They didn’t speak a word to each other, and Jeno left out the door first and closed it behind him. Jaemin stumbles back a bit before sighing in annoyance, rubbing his brow aggressively and swinging the door open.

The door shuts softly as you sit up from your bed. 

What the fuck were you going to do? What were you going to prioritize? All you know for certain is that you have work tomorrow, and that’s not even confirmed. You reflect over everything the guys told you, recalling what you said right after grabbing beer from your fridge. 

“I think I’m gonna quit, this is just too much.” You don’t even try to conceal your exhaustion. You felt less bad about exposing your true thoughts after all three of you took turns trauma dumping. “I don’t care if I have to sue or who I have to sue… I just can’t do it anymore.”

“Absolutely not. I just met you and I can already tell you’re reckless. You’re choosing to possibly lose a lot of money when you can just stay and save up.” Jeno gestured at you with the beer before cracking it open and tipping it back.

Your grip tightened around your can as you resist the urge to glare at Jeno. “You say that as if you weren’t the one to push him to the ground. And money isn’t worth this. This… this is gross. And Lindsay is just making things worse.”

“I’ve had to deal with that asshole for a lot longer than you. If that’s how easily you’ll crack, you’ll have a hard time in this industry. There are a million Mr. Myeongs.” He said after wincing and recovering from chugging the beer. “No… you gotta keep that contract intact and rebel. Smartly.” It sounded pointed, that last part. You rolled your eyes. 

“That’s how you get back at them and stop yourself from losing your mind. You have to play the game and get the money and pursue your dreams– er…” Jeno stopped and shrugged. “Pursue a mangled, disfigured version of your dream.” He tipped the beer back again and your eyes flitted away as your mind drifted. You supposed if you were a singer or a dancer, being an idol wouldn’t be your first choice.

Even the next day, heading to work at five-thirty a.m., his words permeate in your mind. Rebel. Smartly.

No manager or Chris messaged you, so you assumed you weren’t fired. You were still on the schedule as well. That doesn’t settle your stomach, though. You take a deep breath, taking a brief moment as you tap your badge against the sensor. You open the door. 

As you make your way down the hall you notice everyone seems to be staring at you. It makes sense, but it doesn’t make you feel any better. You prepare to decompress in the staff room. Take extra long to put your things away. Is that smart enough for you, Jeno?

However, that wasn’t going to happen because there was a huddle in there. As soon as you walk in, everyone stops talking and stares at you. However, what follows isn’t scowls. They are big smiles. 

“Hey! Jeno and Jaemin took you home on Saturday, right?” A female coworker asks. Before you could deny, a male coworker answered for you. 

“I told you they did. I saw them when I went out the back.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Were they nice?”

“Did you get their numbers?”

“What happened at the party?”

“Guys shut up! Are you and Jeno dating?”

“I’m guessing you’re following the guide.” Another female coworker stops the onslaught with that contribution. You gape at her, thinking she can’t be referring to what you think she is. But you look down and notice your cropped graphic tee and jeans. You bristle, wanting to give her a piece of your mind, but you can’t when you’re not 100% sure if you’re doing it organically. You shut your eyes tight, forcing that entire thought process away. 

“You saw wrong.” You say to the male coworker. “I didn’t leave with them. I took the bus home like I do every day.” You shove your stuff in your locker before slamming the door and turning on your heels to leave, but you stop. You turn back around with one last bit of input. 

“And I’m aware that even people who claim to hate gossip do so anyway, but there’s a limit before you become destructive.”

You let out a long exhale as you make your way to your first session. Before you even get halfway there, someone calls your name. You tighten your fists at your side before you force a smile and turn around. You aren’t surprised to see Chris, but you are a little fearful.

What is surprising is that Chris offers to take you away from the building to a nearby bistro during your break. He picks something from the menu for you, insisting that you need to try it. You push past the gall of this man to just get through whatever this is. You sit at a small table with him, watching impatiently as he immediately digs in. Once he gets his craving quelled, he finally gets on with it. 

“So we spoke with Myeong Dongkyu…”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. Are you really dreading this? This is what you wanted, right? Images of Saturday night flash through your mind. You’re by no means a virgin, but you’ve never felt this way about any man. It’s like being a teenager again times ten. More than that, you dread not being able to hang out with Yizhuo in person anymore. 

And it pains you to say it, but the money is nice. Even if you’re not being paid as much as Rouge or any other experienced producer. You’re playing right into their hand. 

“And we came to a decision after much deliberation. Myeong Dongkyu apologizes and has decided to retire.”

Your eyes widen before you look up from your sandwich. Chris seems to pat his own back in response to your shock. 

“Yup! If you ever have problems with any A&R Managers, please never hesitate to speak with me about it.” Chris smiles. You smile back.

As if. 

🥀 𐮙 🐻ˋ°•*⁀➷

Any off time you have is spent on your phone. Smartly. 

Liu Betting. 

Just as Jeno said, there was a company none of the articles on Lindsay mentioned. Maybe it was too new or too sneaky.

“Sports betting is incredibly regulated and you get taxed. Plus, Lindsay hates sports. What she loves, though, are idols. Though I doubt she’s ever even listened to the music, she knew idols more than anyone else. So not only could she do music betting, she could barter off her intel for money or something else she wants from them. Then she got the website made and got any rich person that would listen to buy in.”

What Jeno didn’t mention was the sheer amount of categories. Streams, album sales, photocard rarity (whatever that means), member popularity, the list goes on. 

Under streams and album sales, you see that dearALICE is doing fine. But you assume not good enough to win Lindsay her bet. So she tinkered with things behind the scenes. Convinced SM to consider cheap, desperate labor. That’s what you assume. You know it’s stupid to ask, but did she ever even think your production was good?

You close the site, feeling sick from the grossness of it all. You immediately click on one of Lindsay many messages, planning to go do what you should have done a long time ago. Before you can click on her contact to block her, a message stops you in your tracks. 

Lindsay I see you’ve started seeking Nomin out ;) I know they can be a little difficult, so I gave you a few more tips

Lindsay you guys*

Something else that is overdue is showing Jeno and Jaemin these dehumanizing ‘tips’. You go straight to the app to do just that. You screenshot the initial tips before searching for the new ones.

Lindsay Liu꒰੭

Tip Four: - I’m hearing you guys I’m hearing you! I never said it would be easy! You can’t force them, and I don’t condone any of you guys being aggressive. But I’m hearing the same thing from all of you. Jaemin is an angel and Jeno is his guard dog. Well, that’s my fourth tip. You have to get through Jeno to get anything started. He’s all bark, no bite. Trust me, I know.

That ending boils your blood. You can’t believe it took you this long to see how horrible she is when she’s this brazen.

Tip Five: - Reveal your freaky side organically. Don’t come out immediately talking about your porn addiction or how often you flick the bean. Maybe wait ‘til all three of you are drunk and make out with someone else. Maybe… another girl? Make them think their attraction to you is their idea. Tip Six: - Getting to first base with Jaemin is easy. Doesn’t really mean anything. If you kiss Jeno? You’re in. But you’re not entirely done. Push and pull, guys. Make sure they miss you. Nothing wrong with being easy, that’s just going after what you want. But you want them to be loyal to you. This is a race and a competition. The first to get Nomin to find you irresistible, wins! :D

While you’re grimacing at the screen, a text from NingNing appears at the top of your screen. 

NingNing okay yeah she’s really weird.

yeah…. we have a lot to catch up on lol

NingNing oh??? Are you down to post it in the 00-04z gc?

not yet…

Unfortunately you don’t trust telling anything to that group chat after seeing yet another text Lindsay sent. 

Lindsay You’re going on vacation this Dec? I might come! Also it seems like Jaemin likes you >_>

There’s a mole.

🥀 𐮙 🐻ˋ°•*⁀➷

Jaemin Can we come over at 4pm?

You were initially confused why they were coming to your cramped apartment again, but then you realize it’s one of the few places they can go to get away. You don’t know why they don’t have other idol friends who they can turn to, but you don’t pry.

When you invite them in, you notice that Jeno is still cagey. He barely greets you as he comes in. Jaemin, however, pulls you into a tight hug that has a smile tugging at your lips. He gives you one last squeeze before he makes his way in. The two of them seemed to have resolved whatever they were going through last time. Both of them settle onto the folded up futon, waiting for you to shut the door and settle back in. 

As you sit on your bed, Jeno immediately gets into it. 

“Why didn’t you tell us about this on Saturday?” Jeno wastes no time grilling you, not that you’re surprised. 

“I was thinking about a lot of other things that day. To be honest I don’t go into that app often. You guys know this. Well,” you nod your head at Jeno, “I guess you wouldn’t know, but Jaemin does. If you’re worried about me changing things about myself to match the tips, I suspect she made these just to send a message to me. I already dressed like this. I never intended to…”

The fact that you’re talking about this directly to their faces and that everyone in this room remembers the drunken make out session makes this conversation unbearable.

“Hm. I don’t know. But um… thanks for showing us anyway.” He mumbles the last part. You would be annoyed if one thing wasn’t true. 

“You shouldn’t be thanking me.”

You hear Jaemin chuckle, and you suppose the sight of you and Jeno mirroring each other’s mild annoyance was a bit funny.

“Anyway, we’re here to celebrate–” There’s a knock at the door and Jaemin reacts to it much too fast for comfort. Jeno backs out of the eyeshot from the door and Jaemin thinks fast and conceals his face with an envelope on your counter. Jaemin fumbles blindly for the door and accepts a food delivery for “Kwangseok”.

As soon as the door closes, it’s like nothing confusing had happened. Jeno peels away from the wall and Jaemin puts the envelope back. He presents the bag of hot food with unadulterated glee on his face, like the food will answer every question your expression raises.

Jeno hums amusedly to your left and you look at him. He grins to himself before glancing at you and raising his eyebrows.

“Mr. Myeong was fired.” He reveals as he grins wider. Your confusion increases before excitement takes its place and stretches your own lips into a smile. 

“No way…” You say, dumbfounded as you let yourself be seated by Jaemin as Jeno takes the bag and unpacks the food.

“Yes way!” Jaemin answers enthusiastically before settling next to you on the folded up futon. “Our manager decided he wasn’t angry after the outcome and told us all about the spectacle.”

You only had a measly fold out table, so the three of you had to eat each dish in shifts. It felt like fine dining with the news you were learning. 

“He said Mr. Myeong was shouting at everyone in the room, throwing things, cursing up a storm and then Chris walked in.” Jaemin takes another bite of his veggie tempura as he and Jeno look at each other mischievously. 

“And then the CEOs walked in.” They announce at the same time before falling into hysterics. You frantically look between them in excitement. 

“What?!”

“H… He started apologizing and got on his knees. Mr. Jang didn’t even curse him out, he just laughed at him–” Jeno can barely catch his breath. 

“– And Mr. Jang just said–” Jaemin starts, excited to get to what seems to be their favorite part. 

“‘You’re not even that high up at the company, why are you acting like this?’” They speak in unison again, Jaemin petering out sooner than Jeno as the laughter overtakes him. You can’t help laughing, yourself, tears pricking at your eyes and stomach aching. Jaemin’s legs spread wide until they’re firm against yours. Jeno’s hand on your shoulder as he tries to recover allows you no time to recover. The lust is numbing, the amusement is long gone as your mind is locked in to imagining them touching you more.

Unfortunately, the two couldn’t get drunk this time, and you didn’t want to drink alone. That means you wouldn’t have the courage to try. Especially after showing them what Lindsay’s been up to. 

Long after the three of you had settled down, Jeno is laser focused on your attire. 

“... You sure you’re not following the guide?”

You can’t help it. Every time your clothes are mentioned, you look at them as if anything other than what you put on would be there. You look at him incredulously, unable to immediately defend yourself with cheeks full of rice cakes. Jeno pops one in his own mouth before pointing at you with his chopsticks, not even bothering to look at your face. 

“Now that I think about it… it makes too much sense.”

“Bro, she said Lindsay made it like that to target her specifically.” Jaemin moves you back with his arm to look directly at Jeno. You tilt your head up to speak but it ends up gargled. You frustratedly try to get your mouth clear faster. 

“So you don’t want to fuck us?” Jeno is looking at you now. You expect to see annoyance or disdain on his face, but he’s instead looking at you like he’s anticipating an answer. An answer he already knows. You finally swallow the food as you stare back, dumbly. 

“She never said that.” Jaemin says, pulling the arm away that you forgot was there. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you tear your eyes away. 

“Me not answering isn’t confirming or denying, I just refuse to play your games.” You start, shooting him a glare. “But why are you focusing on me? I just came here to produce and get paid well. That’s all! I didn’t know Lindsay would be this screwed up!”

Jeno holds your gaze for an agonizing amount of time before finally relenting. “I guess you’re right. We should be focusing on Lindsay.” Jeno is very reluctant to agree with you.

“Or we could just forget about it.” Jaemin interjects. 

“Are you saying that because you don’t want us to waste anymore time on a nut job or because you want to protect her from consequences?” The way Jaemin tensed at the phrase ‘nut job’ was all Jeno needed to see. Jeno stands abruptly from the futon. 

“Whatever, man. She’s gonna get what's coming to her sooner or later. It’s not a matter of who, it’s a matter of when. Besides, I bet she wants to get her revenge as well.”

There’s only one she that would make sense here. You attempt to simultaneously scold Jeno and comfort Jaemin with your eyes as you look between them. 

“I…” You begin cautiously, pausing longer than you intended. What do you want? Your life previously was saccharine without substance. You were out of school, you didn’t have a schedule, and you did whatever you wanted most of the time. But you couldn’t do much with how little you made. You found yourself feeling numb most days. Not happy, but not upset. Maybe that’s why you signed that stupid contract.

Here, you have a lot to be upset about. And the turbulence has been overwhelming. Life here would be perfectly fine in normal circumstances, though.

“I just want to be left alone, okay?” You’re not just saying it to them. You say it with the intention of sending a ripple through the universe to fix all this. The worst part is that Lindsay somehow caught on to the degenerate you are. Was it a guess based off of your favorite otome game, or did she sniff that out somehow as well?

You never joined any kink-positive or BDSM communities because it was too much of a slog to find one. The truth is that you yearn to let your freak flag fly but only attract the most vanilla, self serving men on Earth. But these two, the one whose leg is pressed against yours and the one with that expression that makes your blood boil… if they constantly have threesomes–

“You have to get through to me to “get anything started”, right?”

Jeno pipes up with infuriating timing. Just when you’re imagining being pressed between them, he asks you this? You want to get angry at him but you’re more focused on what’s wrong with you.

“So then help me with Lindsay.”

“I’m not following the guide!” You stand and shout immediately after he speaks, more distressed than angry. “I would never do it, it’s dehumanizing and icky and– just stop saying it!”

You stomp to your bathroom, not caring that you bump his shoulder on the way. You immediately turn on the cold water and put your hands under it. Your body temperature is soaring, the water feels glacial. It’s almost uncomfortable, but it’s working. 

You hear a knock at the door. 

“WHAT?!” You snap unexpectedly. You hear him chuckle behind the door and start to seethe further. 

“Lindsay is breaking the law.”

CHAPTER SEVENˋ°•*⁀➷

As the weather gets colder, your excitement for the ski trip grows. You haven’t been on vacation since you were a child. And you’ve never gone skiing. You’re going to eat shit but you don’t even care. You’re more focused on the luxury ski chalet and a motherfucking break. One of the A&R managers tried to subtly talk you out of calling off for two weeks. If you’re not allowed to break the terms of your contract, you won’t let them do it either. Not even for a second. You’re starting to get what Jeno means. 

He has only emphasized his advice more after you finally caved. 

“I don’t want this to blow up in my face.” You told him the first time the two of you met up at your place. You took the chance to ask why your house and if the paparazzi would start following them at a certain point. He pointed out the obvious, that they can’t get past the gate to get near these complexes. You also learned that there are a lot of producers with home studios here, so celebrities can record in peace. The paparazzi do follow them here, and did publish a story about him and Jaemin releasing a project separate from NCT. Still not ideal, but better.

“You want to know more about Lindsay, you want to be left alone, you don’t want this to blow up in your face. I’m sick of hearing about what you want.” Jeno mutters as he pries his laptop open atop your wobbly fold-up. You look at him, waiting for him to see you questioning his audacity but he never looks back at you.

“Her dad is a billionaire. Not a millionaire, a billionaire. We don’t know the extent of his or her connections or if they have the police on their side–”

“Okay, well, Lindsay’s dad hates her. And so does the general public. And a handful of idols, higher ups at SM, et cetera, et cetera. She’s not as well connected as you think. Also, this wouldn’t be her first run in with the police.”

Finding yourself comfortable with whipping your phone out at work now, you take the opportunity to look into Jeno’s claims. Sure enough, this wouldn’t be her first run in. Or second. Or fourth. She’s been arrested for a DUI, a scam, assaulting someone, and petty theft. You had to read it over and over before you believed it. She just stole makeup at Sephora that she could absolutely afford. Went on record saying she ‘just wanted to try it’. You wish you were surprised or blind sighted. But the red flags were there and you ignored them for SHINee.

An A&R manager, Ms. Alice Lee, bursts through the door of the staff room. You nearly drop your phone at the sound. She smiles smugly at you, eyes then focusing on your phone. You exhale frustratedly as you stuff it in your pocket. Ms. Lee was recently promoted after Mr. Myeong’s departure. Previously one of the people scowling at you for your reputation, she now channels all that malice into micro-management.

“How long is your break for?” She asks with her nasally SoCal affect. You mirror her pinched, snotty expression. You flick away your sleeve dramatically before checking the time. 

“I have five more minutes.” You answer carefully, as if speaking to a child. 

“Good! Then we can have a chat.” You watch in horror as she clacks over to the table and pulls a chair. You expected her to be on her way but now she’s going to use your break time to “chat”? God you hate this place. 

“Yes ma’am.” Your tone is short, a little too frustrated for your liking but you couldn’t catch yourself. 

“A little birdie told me that an idol invited you to go on vacation with them?”

Your stomach drops at the same time her light hearted expression does. The fucking mole. 

“Just ignore them. The idols can be very silly sometimes. I mean, isn’t that just hilarious?” She asks, but doesn’t wait for your confirmation to laugh. She slaps the table as she comes down with a sloping sigh. “I’ll give them a stern talking to.”

“They’re not bothering me.” You respond immediately. “I thought it was a nice gesture–”

“Just! Ignore them.” She interrupts with her brows raised and a small smile. You slide your hand off the table to ball it tight. You grit your teeth, the smile struggling to stay on your face. 

“Don’t scold them.” You ask plainly. “I was never going.”

“Good! Even though… the time you requested off– I hope you don’t mind I checked– aligns with the date they’re going.” She slips her phone from her slacks and opens the app with the schedule on it. “Here. December 14th to the 27th.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” You confirm brazenly. That still doesn’t prove anything. 

“And you do know that it’s outlined in your contract that staff and idols are not to engage in any inappropriate relationships, right? Even if it’s a friendly outing, it’s not organized by the company and it will be unmonitored. It’s too risky. You understand, right?”

“So, what? Do you want me to cancel my requested days off?”

“Just to be safe.” She speaks like she’s doing you a huge favor. “Oh! and you can always schedule them to a different date!”

The smile officially dissipates and you have no intention of bringing it back. You glance at your watch, bristling even more at the fact that your break was over. You shoot up from the table, struggling to contain your anger.

“I already uprooted here to help you guys out–”

“Excuse me?” Her true self comes out in the form of complete and utter contempt. She joins you in standing. “Helped us? I’m sorry, was you helping us accepting a job when you were barely getting work.”

Your heart constricts with exasperation as you gape at the woman. For her to say it so plainly feels like a slap in the face.

“No. Me helping you was filling in for DJ Rouge after he realized his worth and left your sorry asses.” You hold your glare, watching her build up to her tantrum before storming past her. 

“Hey! Have you lost your fucking mind.” She shouts after you, screaming and following you halfway to your next session. Everyone looks on in shock and annoyance at you, whispering not-so-quietly about how you’re already bumping heads with Mr. Myeong’s replacement.

Jay Park⓪② Heol…

Yoon Keeho⓪① I’ll say it. She kind of sounds like a cunt. 

She IS a cunt

Lee Donghyuck⓪⓪ Make your own fckn group chat if you’re gonna speak English

Zhou Xinyu⓪② ugh… we should party that stress off, girl! And you should wear something sexy when we do

Yoon Sangah⓪② I’m down. Karaoke?

Oh Haewon⓪③ How about we go to Lindsay’s place? She has a karaoke machine.

Ning Yizhuo⓪② NO!

Lee Jeno⓪⓪ HELL no

we can’t

Oh Haewon⓪③ … Why not?

Your gut is screaming at you. It would be stupid to ignore it after all you’ve put yourself through, but it feels risky to accuse her with so little to go off of.

she’s not even in this country lol

Oh Haewon⓪③ So? I have a key to this mansion.

Oh god…

Nakamura Kazuha⓪③ What?! 

Oh Haewon⓪③ Ya, She said I can go and do whatever I want, the help would cater to us

Nakamura Kazuha⓪③ no way… lucky!

Yoon Sanha⓪⓪ she gave you a key?!?

Han Chowon⓪② you’re lying…

Baek Jiheon⓪③ KYAAAA I’VE NEVER BEEN TO HER MANSION!

Han Jisung⓪⓪ oh I’m am going to get fucked up

You switch to imessage frantically. 

guys, it’s Haewon. She’s got to be the mole, right?

NingNing Lindsay told me herself that she only had one extra key made

NingNing But I guess she is a bit of a liar… you don’t have to explain it again

Jaemin I think it’s very possible

Asshole oh yeah, it’s definitely her

Asshole Lindsay just texted me to get over my grudge. She must have texted her about me saying hell no to going to a crazy person’s mansion

Haewon doesn’t know, but she ignited a fire underneath Jeno. He barely speaks when he comes in now, just chews on the inside of his cheek while setting up. It’s awkward, but only for a moment. 

“D’you want to know what she did?” He snaps as if he’s been resisting the urge. You agree, but his stories usually just make you sad. Why won’t she just go away? Become interested in J-pop or C-pop idols?

“Yeah…” He laughs indignantly. “I’m a guard dog. But I’m not the problem. Jaemin is horny is shit but gets infatuated and trusts too easily. It’s not a good combination. But she noticed she’d get more intel if she pretended to like him.”

Your eyebrows pinch as a new sensation runs through you. Your heart aches for Jaemin, yes, but…

“What did she do?” You have an inkling, but you’re suddenly restless. 

“They would go on dates, kiss, hold hands, everything a couple would do. She would make sure he was separated from me as much as possible so I couldn’t talk sense into him. One day I went to his apartment and he had it decorated with rose petals and candles, had music playing. He told me I needed to leave because Lindsay would be there soon. It was their anniversary or some shit. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the day the article came out.”

You cover your mouth when you look at him, but it’s not for the reasons you usually do. Disbelief was the first thing you felt, but that feeling was intensifying. Like you wanted to scream. Throw up?

“We talked about this, but it’s not like we needed to. It was everywhere, but he was too busy doing all of that to know. I stayed as long as I could. Mostly because I wanted to confront her and make her tell him. But also to finally talk to him myself. It turned into a heated argument. It was my fault, I refused to tell him because I didn’t want to hurt him but I took it too far. I tore down the banner he put up. It felt right at the time, he was embarrassing himself. I still refused to leave and he started throwing things. He kept getting hysterical because time kept passing and Lindsay was nowhere to be seen. He just channeled that anger at me. We fought.”

You run your hands over your jeans, trying to focus on the fabric rubbing against your palms. Why couldn’t you calm down?

“I-I’m sorry– are you guys… together?” It wasn’t meant to be the first thought you vocalized but your brain screamed for the verification. Jeno looks at you, suspicious as always. He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. 

“It’s not like that. We’re… he’s my soulmate but I don’t… have those feelings. Like, at all.” His voice is quiet, it’s been quiet for a while now. The anger has dissipated in favor of something more tender. You guys have officially swapped places. You fist your jeans. 

“Still! Did she really have to get in between you guys for her stupid fucking plan? It’s so stupid! I don’t even know if there’s been a difference!”

“There has.” He says regrettably. “I don’t know if the quality’s better, but I do know that it’s more productive. Songs are being pumped out faster and regardless of that, SM has more creative control without needing to listen to the producer’s input. Less friction equals even faster production.”

You shoot up from the futon, you don’t know why. You can’t listen to this. You ball your shaking hands. Why are you this angry?

“Did she ever come?” You swing around to look at him, stupidly hopeful. He looks up at you, his face all the confirmation you need.

You remember the day that article dropped. You weren’t even in the fandom by then, but you heard about Heechul cheating on his girlfriend of one year with a billionaire heiress with pictures to boot. So many pictures… pictures of those two sucking face, pictures of both Heechul and Momo crying during their activities. And now you’ve learned there was a whole other layer of cruelty. Not only did Lindsay absolutely know about their public relationship, but she broke Jaemin’s heart in the same instance.

That’s all you can think about as you clutch your binder to your chest is how long this has gone on. That was in 2021. How the hell did that relationship last? 

There is another presentation in the theater today, and you brought the bare minimum. You’re prepared to ask one surface level question so they can’t bitch at you in good faith. Ironically, they’re presenting about the SM formula and why their style is so important to their music. You know it’s not pointed at you this time because you relented a long time ago. They win, your dream is theirs now.

You settle in just before the presentation started so you had a choice in who you were sitting next to– nobody. You zone out, catching crumbs of information. They brought a few SM senior idols on stage and played a few songs. 

“Okay, now feel free to ask questions! A staff member will be around with a mic.” 

You sit up, shaking away the drowsiness. You watch as she makes her way up the hall, handing to mic to different try-hards that judge you for not being a proud kiss ass. Kang Seojin cracks open his thousand-page encyclopedia and asks a question that wows the presenter. Wu Zixin submits an entry to the colon-cleaning olympics by framing his adoration for SM in a question. Two men who openly gossip about you with the intention of you hearing it. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, waiting for her to get closer to the back so you can get this over with. Finally, you’re able to flag her down and ask your question that has the presenter stammering. 

“Is that it?” He laughs, igniting laughter all around the room. You feign franticness and flip through your binder. 

“I could ask another if you’d like!” You copy the tone of your coworkers, hoping you sound eager to please. 

“No, no. That’s fine. Key, would you like to answer?” 

Key smiles and kicks his leg over the other before raising the mic. Your heart pulses at the sight of him. It’s your first time seeing him in person.

“Of course.” He says your name to confirm he’s got it right. You stammer, looking around like you’re looking for clarification. Key knows your name? It is such a Lindsay move to lie about everything else but this. You nod before confirming into the mic. He answers your simple question and all of a sudden you’re embarrassed at the simplicity of it. Because of that, the interaction is brief, applause rings out around you and you sit down in shock. 

The rest of the presentation is a blur. You’re focused on it ending so you can flag him down. You have to know if it’s real. Did he really listen to your old demos?

Could he help?

The minute the presenter thanks everyone for listening, you’re up out of your chair. You try to look casual as you speed toward the side of the stage Key is leaving at. 

“Hey!” You say excitedly. He turns around, confused initially before a look of realization washes over him. This is your first time seeing him up close. You clutch your binder to your chest again, except now you probably look like a silly school girl. 

“Hey! I bet you’re confused about why I know your name.” He laughs awkwardly and you nod like an idiot, hoping you’ll get the information you seek. 

“Well, I bet you know who Lindsay is.” Key’s voice is light as he begins his explanation, not knowing your world just tipped off its axis. He’s heard it.

“You listened to Mark My Words?”

The silence that lingers is excruciating as he looks at you blankly. Key gives you a confused look that is warped into a sinister, mocking expression by your mind. He laughs, and it feels like a knife in your gut. 

“To what?”

You stammer again, hoping to clarify and keep your sanity. He did listen to it, he just doesn’t remember the name. 

“Nah… Lindsay just told me you were a big fan. And I hear that you’re… a troublemaker. You made Mr. Myeong quit? He’s been here since I was a trainee.” 

His tone is indisputable. He’s looking down on you. He views you the same as all your coworkers view you.

The switch has been completed. Jeno seems to have gotten what was bothering him off his chest with the borderline therapy sessions, and you’re now silent. But he prods at you, waving his hand in front of your face and calling out to you like you’re blind or deaf. You don’t respond though. 

“Ooookay? Well I just learned a bombshell–”

“We’re going to that bitch’s house.” You snap, breaking your silence. After meeting Key, you checked your texts from Lindsay. She had given up at some point, but you notice she’s gotten less cheery. Her messages are short and curt. Then there’s a gap where she doesn’t text. Then you see it.

Lindsay fine

Lindsay this is ideal, thank GOD

Lindsay I won’t text you anymore, in fact, if you’re reading this you’re blocked. you are one of the most frustrating people I’ve had to deal with. you americans are so fucking lazy and such delicate snowflakes that you can’t handle any sort of conflict or minor critique. you’re gonna quit because your boss hurt your feewings ;((? grow the fuck up. you’re getting paid more than you ever would have without my help. without me, you would have been locked in the lower class, dying before you manage to crawl out like so many of you do. you can keep bitching and crying but just know we’re all laughing at you. ALL of us. but just know that if you try to fuck around you will learn the hard way to keep your fucking head down and work.

Hot tears gush from your eyes from sheer frustration and awe. You ball your fist tight until they start to ache. 

“We’re going to that bitches house and we’re going to fuck shit up.” You grit your teeth in an attempt to contain the unbridled anger about to overcome you. Your lip quivers.

“What? What are you saying? Are you okay?”

… delicate snowflakes…

… so many of you do…

… can’t handle…

… without me…

…ALL of us.

keep your 

fucking head down 

and 

work.

Your legs move on their own as you march over to your cabinet and swing it open. You swipe out its contents onto the counter and floor, a cacophony of glass crashing fills the room. Jeno shoots to his feet, the sound like a trigger. You grab more glasses and launch them at the wall with a shriek. Jeno hurriedly gathers your arms and you thrash to get away from him. He doesn’t know why he says it, he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Stop! What is your problem?!”

“If you’re just going to scold me like everyone else, get the fuck out!” The words deflate along with the anger as exhaustion overtakes it. What is your problem? 

“You did more! You shoved him to the ground, I…” Your head droops, your attempts to tear away from him dwindling in power as you pathetically flail. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?” You say it to everyone. Why couldn’t they have found another failing, pathetic producer to torture. Why did Lindsay have to wring out every drop of fight you had in you.

 “Let me go!” You look up, revealing your face wrecked with tears. 

Jeno doesn’t know why this happens. He always thought he was broken. He was surrounded by so many beautiful people for so much of his life, but he never felt how his peers did. When said beautiful people would confess to him, he doesn’t know why he didn’t feel anything. When he caved and finally accepted one, he didn’t understand why everyone else was distraught by her cheating instead of him. He jokes that the wires got crossed somehow, and now he does stupid shit like this. The stupid shit that kept Lindsay in his bed for so long.

“Let me go!” You scream and he does. But only in favor of grabbing your face and mashing his lips to yours. It’s finally peaceful for a moment. Neither of you even react to a neighbor banging on your door. Your eyes flutter closed. You grab both his wrists, your lips moving on their own. You’re both sucking in large gusts of air through your nose as you intensify the kiss. Your legs stumble backward until your back hits the cabinet. The knob smacked against your back, a hollow ache spreading throughout. But you ignore it as his hands push up toward your hair. His palms cup your ears as his fingers tangle in the messy nest atop your head. Your head swims as the muffled sounds of panting and gasping fills the serene air. 

His tongue pushing past your lips earns him a salacious moan as you move your hands to his neck to pull him closer. You had every intention to get drunk when you got home, but this is so much better. The delicious head rush you feel as his lips meld against yours is heavenly. For a moment this feels like heaven. The sickly lights are more like a heavenly glow in the moment, his retrained moans are a chorus of angels.

When he shoves his knee between your legs you gasp and pull away. The sensation is so strong it scares you. You watch each other carefully with hooded eyes as you cautiously grind on his thigh. Your legs tingle so intensely you release a shuddering breath. You fist his shirt as you begin humping his legs feverishly, a bomb of pleasure exploding all over you. You throw your head back, unabashed moans spilling from your swollen lips. Your legs shake so violently, the only thing keeping you upright is his leg shoved into your cunt. Jeno leans forward and cages you in with his arms. His eyes are hungry as he watches your face intently. You roll your hips over his leg desperately. Jolts of pleasure shoot up your legs. The sensation is too strong but too perfect. You want this to never end. The urge to edge yourself and prolong the pleasure and to get to your climax already are waging war in your mind.

He shoves his leg further, watching you unravel as lust tints his puppy-like dark brown eyes black. The look on his face is so intense it sends shock waves through you. His black hair hangs forward, allowing you to see his thick brows knitted together in utter focus. The trembling hits a crescendo and you can barely keep your eyes on him or your head straight. You tug him forward by his shirt as your moans get more whiny. 

He leans forward with his lips coasting your ear and making your shiver. 

“Do it.” He says encouragingly, almost as if to challenge you. You gasp sharply and let go of his shirt. You almost fall back but grasp his face. You both look each other in the eyes as you come undone. Your vision whites out as you toss your head back, a guttural moan erupting from your chest. You unintentionally claw at the skin on his neck and jaw as the orgasm leaves your ears ringing. When you finally come to, your breathing is reduced to brief huffs. The pleasure is still burning hot as your hips jerk against his thigh. 

Minutes go by with you slack-jawed with your head against his chest. He moves his leg away finally and you whimper, still craving the friction. The two of you finally pull away and you feel the uncomfortable wetness against your core and upper thighs. You look first at the wet spot on your khakis, then the wet spot on his jeans where you had been humping him like a dog. Lastly, you see the angry red scratches on his face and neck. All you can do is gape, humiliated at how much you lost control. You look away and swallow, failing to placate your dry throat. 

“I’m sorry.”

You both say at the same time. One looks at the other in confusion, asking what they could be sorry for. You watch as a tiny bead of blood forms at one of the scratches. 

“I-I’ll get something for your neck.” You say before rushing toward the bathroom. Jeno grabs your arm and pulls you back to face him. The look on his face is gravely serious, and you feel a pit in your stomach. 

“Don’t ever let her get you like that.” He says weakly before looking away.

CHAPTER EIGHTˋ°•*⁀➷

“I see you still haven’t changed your vacation days.”

You swirl the punch in your cup as you watch the chaos unfold before you. The music is deafening, groups of guys are standing on Lindsay’s dining room table and shouting. There’s an orgy waiting to happen moving to a bedroom. Someone broke her glass coffee table and someone else managed to swing from the chandelier. 

Haewon is pacing, looking around in horror as she phones someone. You smile to yourself.

Yesterday, Ms. Lee was tapping her foot impatiently waiting to hear why your vacation days were still the same. 

“My mother is sick.” You lie, picking at your salad. 

“Oh yeah? Did she schedule her sickness for December 14th?”

“No but her surgery is scheduled for December 18th and no one will be there to help her recover. Would you like to speak on the phone with her and grill her on why her surgery date is so convenient?” You slam the lid over your food and openly challenge your superior. She grits her teeth. 

“If I find out you went on that goddamn trip you’ll have hell to pay.” She spins and stomps away. 

“You have a nice day as well! Thanks for wishing my mom well, too!”

She slams the door and you feel the bitterness fester.

It’s Saturday, the day you all agreed to go to Lindsay’s. Lindsay, who claimed to block you, texted you to remind you not to fuck around. It was too late. 

Your eyes follow Haewon as she spots something and marches toward it. The wall half obscures her laying into someone. Curious, you follow her until Jeno is unobscured, yelling back at Haewon. Haewon reaches toward him and you rush over to pull her away. 

“What the hell is going on?!” You scream, looking solely at her. 

“Of course you’re defending him! You two are ungrateful assholes!” She cries out, eyes welling with tears. 

“Ungrateful?” Jeno immediately clocks your body language after you say that and moves to holding you back. “Ungrateful how?”

“You wouldn’t even be here without her! You would still be broke and miserable!” She shouts, clenching her eyes shut. You slip from Jeno’s grasp for a split second and your hand thunders against Haewon’s cheek. Jeno pulls you back even further, screaming at you to cut it out. You shout obscenities at her that you’re not even sure she understands as Jeno hauls you, kicking and screaming, into a bedroom. He slams the door shut and immediately shushes your protests.

“What’re you doing? You’re gonna ruin it!” Jeno urges, restraining your flailing arms to your sides. You calm a little, realizing what he means. 

“Whatever. She’ll be alright.” You brush him off and he pinches his nose bridge. “It was just a little slap! She’ll shake it off.”

“I’m gonna go back out there, you stay here since you can’t be trusted.” He mutters, keeping his eye on you as he walks back out the door. You curse him and make faces as soon as he leaves. You sit on the bed, not entirely upset that you’ve been banned from leaving. The music was starting to give you a headache, and though it was your doing, the amount of people there was overwhelming. You lie back, relishing in the softness of the bed. Maybe you should steal the mattress or something. 

You quickly lean forward as the door opens, a shocked Jaemin in the doorway. 

“Oh, sorry. I’m looking for the bathroom but I’ve never been here before.” Jaemin remarks bitterly. You immediately stand up, sensing something is wrong. 

“No, it’s okay. I can show you to the bathroom.” You cup his shoulder, your delicate tone ruined by the volume you have to speak at with the door open. He shakes his head and closes the door. 

“No, I just wanted a moment to think.”

“I feel you, come sit down.” You guide him to the bed, noting the weary look in his eyes. “This was a bad idea to come here, wasn’t it.”

“No. I actually just got done talking to Heechul outside. He lifted the screenshot detection and I got the pics. So that’s one objective down.” Jaemin takes out your phone from his pocket, showing you what he got as evidence.

The “bombshell” that Jeno didn’t get the chance to tell you was that Heechul, the creator of SCR, was fucked over by Lindsay during that debacle. In an attempt to save face after being called a homewrecker all around the world and to make good with Jaemin, she lied. She spoke to the press dressed in black and crying saying that she was drunk that night and that she’s always been a big Super Junior fan. Told them she wasn’t thinking straight and just adored him as an idol so much. Insinuating that she was taken advantage of one or two ways that night. It wasn’t as big as the initial scandal, but it was enough to do damage to Heechul.

Jeno reached out to Heechul, assuming he wanted to either clear that blemish on his reputation or get back at her at the very least. It turns out neither party was drunk. He also doubles as another testimonial. The screenshots are damning, most of them from the Gossip Girls group chat. Her full name being assigned to each message wasn’t enough, but good thing she would constantly send pictures of herself you couldn’t find anywhere else.

Jeno comes back in, eyes wide. That means he also has something to show for. He shuts the door and locks it.

“Haewon already called Lindsay about what was happening and Lindsay barely cared. She was just annoyed with Haewon and told her to fix it somehow. She of course blamed it on me, but that didn’t help since she had the key. So I was able to convince her to lie to save face. It worked.” A smile spreads on Jeno’s face so wide, wider than you’ve ever seen him smile.

“Lindsay put in a police report. She’s flying back to Korea.”

You feel Jaemin stiffen beside you and you rub his back. Jeno rushes over and pulls Jaemin up off the bed and into a bear hug. He reaches for you and you hesitantly stand to join them. You give a bewildered look to Jeno as he pulls you in. 

“Be careful.” Jaemin says, voice strained by the strength of Jeno’s hold. “Whenever he feels a really strong emotion he–”

“Hey!” Jeno pulls away, almost looking betrayed as he gawks at Jaemin. Jaemin just smirks back mischievously.

“He might kiss and/or fuck you.” Jaemin rushes out and Jeno shoves him playfully. 

“I do n…” He trails off when he realizes he can’t lie. Not after he proved this to be true that night. Then you both lock eyes. He wants you not to connect the dots and you don’t want Jaemin to know. The silence, however, is too long. 

“What is going on? Why are you two looking at each other like that?”

But you can’t tear your eyes away from the lust slowly consuming his. He feels his groin start to ache and he wants to stop himself. It’s not too late! He can leave the room and prevent this from happening. Jaemin is the first one to move, though. 

“Ah. It’s happening. Just get it over with.” He places his hands on your backs and pushes you closer. He tells the two of you to kiss like he’s playing with dolls. “Go ahead. Kissy kissy.”

“W-what!” You squeak, peering over at Jaemin while moving as little as possible. You can smell Jeno from this distance. His cologne is utterly intoxicating. The moment you turn back, nearly brushing his nose with yours, Jeno closes the distance. Losing the fight. 

You moan in surprise, hips bucking into his. His slutty tongue licks into your mouth right away, muffling your pitiful moans. You feel a hand on your ass and you flinch slightly. How such a small touch feels so good, you’ll never understand. You felt like you were in heat while kissing them individually, but with Jeno’s lips commingling with yours and Jaemin’s ghosting behind your ear, you feel like a shaken up soda can. 

“We can finally finish what we started.” Jaemin whispers into your ear before pressing his lips against it, softly. Both their lips are cushiony soft as they glide over different parts of your body. Jeno grabs a handful of your breast and squeezes harshly. Your jaw drops open and he takes the opportunity to suck on your tongue. Jaemin finds your sweet spot and you tell him by reaching over to cup his waist with a gasp. You feel him smile against your skin before sucking against the spot.

You’re useless at this point, craning your head back as moans leap from your throat. Jeno’s lips move lower, trailing down your jaw to your neck to your chest. You thread your fingers through his hair, urging him lower. He pulls your hands away, a scolding gaze thrown your way. Jaemin tsks to your right. 

“Be a good girl, hm?” His hot breath fans against your cheek. “Be patient.” He whispers. His hand snakes up to your neck, giving it a light squeeze. Your eyes roll back and he squeezes harder with a chuckle. 

“You like that?”

“She likes that.” Jeno growls, watching you closely. His tongue lulls out of his mouth, running over your clothed nipple. You attempt to throw your head back but you can’t in Jaemin’s grip. Jeno flicks the hardened, sensitive bud, his eyes intense. Jaemin’s hand slips up further to cup your jaw, forcing you to face him. He makes quick work of kissing you sloppily. Licking your bottom lip into his mouth and sucking on it. Your lips roll over each other, wet tongues laving messily. Jaemin is much nastier and looser than Jeno, who feels more controlled. Even as his tongue creates a wet spot over both your nipples. Each time he nips at you, you moan into Jaemin’s mouth. Jaemin mirrors every moan, like he’s feeling just as much pleasure.

You squeeze your thighs together desperately, whimpering in need. Jeno hums against your nipple. He reaches down and cruelly spreads them apart. You squeeze Jeno’s shoulder in frustration. He rises, hand on your throat.

“Can’t be patient, huh?” His eyes are fierce as he squeezes until your brain feels fuzzy. “Open your fucking mouth.” 

Your mouth drops open, your tongue lolling forward with drool dripping from the tip. He leans in, spitting onto your tongue. Before you can react, Jaemin wraps his hand around Jeno’s. Your face feels hotter, you blink slowly. Jaemin dives forward and sucks the spit off your tongue. You let out a strangled moan, going to kiss back until he pulls away again and spits on your tongue. This time Jeno dives in, kissing you feverishly. When he pulls away, there are thick strings of saliva drooping between you two. They take turns spitting into your mouth and on your face, Jeno keeping his other hand on your thigh to keep you from any semblance of friction. Jeno finally releases you and you gasp for air, only for Jaemin to steal it. He tugs your head back by your hair and initiates the filthiest kiss of the night. 

Jeno watches your tongues fight as he unbuckles his jeans. He frees himself and strokes lazily, biting his lip when Jaemin tongue kisses your chin. He looks down at your now ruined shirt with your poor nipples poking through. You don’t even notice him approaching, not when Jaemin is squeezing your upper thigh. He squeezes again and again until he reaches your soaked mound under your skirt. You hum pleasantly at the sensation. The serenity is brief when Jeno slips his hand under your shirt and cups your breast. You inhale shakily, eyes wide open as you grip Jaemin’s forearm for dear life. The dream that has been the source of your pleasure every night is suddenly so vivid. You go still, legs locking up around Jaemin’s hand. It’s all too sudden, the speed at which it hits you. Your orgasm crashes over you and it’s debilitating. You lock your thighs around Jaemin’s hand. The sensation just started and it’s already about to end. 

“N-no!” You yelp, cut short by a downright despondent moan as you gush through your underwear. You don’t want it to end, you really don’t, but the waves of fire subside against your will. Left in its wake, your legs turn to jelly and you collapse to your knees. You clench your eyes shut, wanting to relive the dream being so vivid after so long. Jeno cupping your chin makes you open them. A long, stiff rod hangs over your face, sticking straight out with heat radiating from it. 

“Happy you got to cum early? Open up.” Jeno pushes your cheeks in with his fingers, forcing your mouth open. Jaemin grabs your hair to crane your head back while Jeno lines his cock up with your mouth. 

As soon as his smooth tip hits your tongue, Jaemin is shoving you forward with a “good girl.”

Jaemin bobs your head over Jeno's cock. If you had a gag reflex, you’d be in big trouble. Jaemin has your face shoved against Jeno’s firm torso, pressed flat and making it hard to breathe. You wouldn’t have it any other way. The moment you saw his cock, you knew it was all you wanted to taste and smell until your body gave out. Jeno’s slutty moans harmonize with Jaemin’s praise and it has arousal dripping down your thigh.

“Fuck you suck good cock.” Jaemin coos as he pulls you back so you can gasp for air.

“She was fucking made to suck cock.” Jeno adds, adding his own hand to your hair and pulling you back on. Long and thick. Your lips are stretched wide to compensate him. Jeno’s moans are poorly restrained, breaking free each time your tongue stretches lower and laves over his ball sack. Jaemin leans forward to capture his lips and swallow his moans.

His hands move from your hair to Jaemin’s, forcing him to his knees. Jaemin’s hand falls away from your hair and you take the break to breathe and observe the shifted dynamic. The occasional flash of lightning from the window mixes with the warm light seeping under the door. It illuminates his wide, glassy eyes. So wide, you’ve never seen him look like this. It’s his turn to be used like a fleshlight as Jeno’s fist tightens in his hair and shoves his forward. Poor Jaemin has a gag reflex, gagging and gargling around Jeno’s cock. Jeno ignores his struggles, relentless as he keeps his cock shoved deep down his throat. Jaemin never lets his big eyes leave Jeno. 

You can’t help but stroke his head and coo. He’s focused and damn is he hardworking. You’re impressed and proud, and suddenly you understand how he felt earlier. 

“Good boy.” You coo before kissing and licking at his jaw and ear. You’re hyper focused on him until Jeno takes you by the hair and shoves your head into his crotch. Your lips squish against his balls and your cheek is pressed into Jaemin who’s finally had enough. He breaks away, sputtering and coughing. Jeno leans over slightly to slap Jaemin across the face. He slaps and slaps until Jaemin’s slobber-ridden face is splotched with red. He takes you by the throat next, giving you the same treatment. 

“Who told either of you to stop?” Slap. “Hm?” He switches back to Jaemin. The sensation stings so good, you wish he’d spank you all over your body. You arch your body forward, craning your head higher to better receive it. Jeno laughs dryly. “You even like this?”

You nod emphatically and he laughs again, tickled and pleased. “Good, now get back.”

Jeno moves Jaemin back on to his cock, leaving room for you to lick and suck at the side of his shaft. You wrap your lips around the base of his shaft, moaning in delight each time Jaemin’s lips brush yours. The teamwork means Jaemin is no longer struggling around Jeno’s dick, just slurping and sucking. Jeno’s mouth hangs open, his husky groans plentiful. He can barely keep his eyes on both of you slobbering all over his dick. Your obedient eyes watch him and it makes it harder for him to look away. He desperately fists both of your now messy hair for dear life. His eyes flit to you and his stomach caves. Your blissed-out eyes are sparkling so innocently as you suck at his shaft. The sheer amount of joy in your eyes to taste his cock brings him close.

He shoves the two of you away and you both immediately scramble back to your knees. Jaemin waits patiently for the next instruction while you caress his muscular thighs, eyeing his cock intently.

“Get her clothes off.”

Within seconds, Jaemin is grabbing your shirt and peeling it off of you. You barely get your arms up in time before it’s pulled over your head. He goes for your skirt next, pulling it to your knees in short yanks. Your hands drop to the floor as he lifts your legs up to get it off. It feels so fast, your head is spinning, but it must not be fast enough. Jeno grabs you by the arm to pull you to your feet. He grabs the front of your panties and rips them off your hips. He tosses the tattered fabric before delivering his next instruction. 

“Bend her over the bed.”

Jaemin’s body presses firmly to your back as he urges you to the bed, folding over it with you. You can feel his bulge prodding at your bare ass as he grinds into you. His lips litter kisses all over your neck and shoulder before he makes his way down. The closer he gets to your core, the more your lower abdomen clenches with excitement and need. You’ve never been eaten out before. His nose prods against your anus, his breath hot against your lips. You squirm, trying to push closely, but you feel two pairs of hands hold your hips still. 

“Patience.” Jaemin warns, voice muffled against your mound. He inhales a hissing breath before parting his lips and laying his tongue flat against your mound. You flinch, adjusting to the peculiar sensation. His wet, hot tongue prods at your clit. Liquid pleasure pools in your lower abdomen the more he flicks and circles his tongue. Light moans float from your lips at the feeling. Wet and hot… you never thought it would feel like this, or that those two sensations could feel this good. You can’t help it, you wiggle against them. The urge to shove his face deeper is so great. 

His firm and slimy muscle slides up your slit, parting you open. He pushes it deeper, teasing your hole. Every movement causes a deep ache in your gut. A cloying need that is met when he gets more passionate. He begins slurping at your clit. 

“Oh~” You breathe, pleasantly surprised by how good it feels. He switches between slurping and flicking and the liquid pools more and more in your gut, feeling like molten lava. You hear soft moans from both of them behind you, especially when Jeno’s searing cock starts pressing against your ass. His hips roll slow, gently working his member against you. Jaemin hums questioningly against you, the vibrations go straight to your core.

“I-I don’t know what’s come over me man.”

Jaemin hums again, this time like he’s come to understand something. Jaemin rubs your stiff bud back and forth until your moans gain more body. By now your moans have transitioned to desperate sobs as you try and fail to reach back for him. You should’ve enjoyed it while it lasted, because you feel a sudden coldness as Jaemin is pulled away. You push up onto your forearms, attempting to look back and protest when you’re pushed back onto your stomach. Jeno stands behind you as he says something to Jaemin. You whimper and whine, hoping a tongue will go back to pleasuring you. 

You hear a zipper when Jeno prods his tip against you. You gasp, trying to keep still so he’ll fill you up faster. 

“Please, please, please…” You chant under your breath. 

“Sit up.” Jaemin commands as he positions himself next to you on the bed. You lean back, slowly positioning yourself onto your knees. Jaemin slips under you, placing his legs on either side of you. He opens his arms, raising his brows at you with a smile. You blink slowly, trying to piece together what’s about to happen. Your desperation cancels that out, and you just opt for leaning forward. From behind, Jeno grabs Jaemin’s cock– to which Jaemin groans– and positions it between your legs. It nestles perfectly into your slit, especially when Jaemin presses your legs together with his thighs. Your eyes flutter closed as you press your face into his chest. 

You feel a second cock slide between your slick upper thighs. You push up, whimpering in fear as you look back at Jeno. Jaemin shushes you and pets your hair. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. We’ll take it slow.”

“I-It’s been almost a year since I had sex last. I don’t know if I can take it.”

Jaemin reaches up and caresses your waist. He gives you a reassuring look and you sigh, attempting to relax.

“We’ll use a safe word.” Jeno snakes his hands over your shoulders, giving them an earnest squeeze. You relax further. “If we’re gonna… you know. Do this more often, I wanna make sure you’re completely comfortable.” 

His hands are firm and confident on your shoulders, but when you turn to look at him, he looks nervous. His eyes carefully inch up your face until they meet yours. You can see that he’s pushing away all the teasing and snarky comments to let you know he means it. Something potent swells in your heart and you can tell he feels the same when he grabs your face and kisses you with new intensity. 

You all settle on a safe word but it doesn’t matter what it is in the moment. Jaemin’s hands fist your ass, pushing you closer as his dick slides between your lips. Jeno’s cock slides right next to his, his knees now on the bed. His weight pushes you further into Jaemin and all you can think about is wanting to be cocooned in their heat and scent forever. You have one hand in Jaemin’s hair and the other reaching back to grip Jeno’s forearm. It escapes you that this can go further, that you could feel even better. With their cocks slick with your juices and slipping between your legs and against your clit, it’s all you care about. 

Jeno draws his hips back until his tip catches on your entrance. He sinks in slowly, the stretch creating a deep ache. Every ridge his cock brushes over as he spreads you open fuels the fire in your gut. It burns hotter and hotter until you're biting Jaemin’s shoulder to muffle your mewls. He settles there for a moment, grinding his hips in until you’ve adjusted. Then he pulls all the way out, leaving your cunt to slowly shrink and clench around nothing only for him to shove it back in. You let out a harsh yelp, your body propelling forward with each thrust. Jaemin holds you steady so you’re not inching up the bed. 

Jeno has one foot on the bed now, delivering punishing thrust after punishing thrust. You can tell they’re both getting worked up. Jaemin keeps praising you and Jeno. Variations of him telling you you take his cock so well and telling him how good he’s fucking you. Jeno’s even getting a little verbal. Little curses here and there, slapping your ass. 

“Take this fucking cock.” Jeno grunts. His skin slapping against yours is so loud you’re convinced the people outside can hear it through the music. Jaemin lifts you up and lets his cock slap against his stomach. He lowers you back down, your clit landing right on his shaft. Jeno’s thrusts jostle your body back and forth, rubbing your throbbing clit on Jaemin’s cock. Your jaw drops open as a strong sensation overtakes you. Salacious moans unleash from your throat against your will. 

“O-oh my– god!” You cry out, the fire in your stomach raging. You hear Jeno laugh behind you and Jaemin laugh against your shoulder. 

“So cute.” Jaemin says with fondness dripping from his voice. 

“Oh my god?” Jeno mocks, smacking your ass again. “Just like in porn.” Him and Jaemin laugh harder and you can’t bring yourself to sass them. Not with the raging inferno overtaking your body. You push up from Jaemin right into Jeno, arms shaking in the process. Your eyes roll back as you let the pleasure overtake you. It’s so strong it’s startling as it hits its peak. Fluid shoots out from your cunt as a keen moan is ripped from your body. You slam back into Jaemin, humping his cock as your orgasm subsides. 

“Goood girl.” Jaemin grabs his cock from under you to slap against your sensitive pussy. You jump from the sensitivity. “Get it nice and wet.”

“You first.” Jeno says. You can hear him stroking his cock soaked with your cum. Jaemin slips in easily to your pussy, all the way in so you can feel what you hadn’t noticed until now. Jaemin is thin, but he is long. Extremely long. A sharp gasp is drawn from you. 

“You okay? Do you need a minute?” Jaemin asks, full of worry. Probably well aware of what effect his cock has on people. A minute won’t fix the way his tip is prodding against your cervix. So you shake your head, opting to take it like the good girl he’s been counting on you to be. His thrusting is slow and deep, punctuated each time with a kiss from his tip to your cervix. It’s painful, but you don’t want it to stop. The more it happens, the more you crave the feeling. You cup his thigh and he grabs your face, lifting it so you face him. 

“Are you sure?”

You run your tongue over your bottom lip. 

“Fuck me harder.”

Jaemin’s hips buck involuntarily at that, sending your eyes to the back of your skull. He does just that, showing that there’s no shift in dynamic from being fucked by Jeno. If anything, Jaemin’s thrusts are more wild and aggressive. He lifts your ass slightly to fuck you more efficiently. Each pound deep into your cunt has you seeing stars. It hurts so good. The pain is addictive. 

“So much fucking dick.” Your voice is fragmented, each word cut short by a damning thrust. 

“Holy fuck.” Jeno growls, slapping your ass and adding to that delicious pain. You can’t stop the sounds from pouring out of you. “Stop, stop.” Jeno taps Jaemin’s leg. Jaemin pauses, lowering you back down. Though the thrusting has stopped, him being nestled so deep within you is still so overwhelming. However, you didn’t understand what overwhelming could mean until Jeno’s tip breaches your hole and joins Jaemin’s monster. 

The stretch is unfathomable, you almost think you can’t compensate. But you do, and Jeno is nestled deep within you as well. You muffle your sounds in the pit of Jaemin’s neck, lifting only to say ‘more’ to their check-ins. Only Jeno can pound into you with Jaemin pressed flat to the bed, but it’s more than enough. Jeno grips your ass with both his hands and he pounds into you with renewed vigor. Even Jaemin’s restricted thrusts still hit deep. Your senses are clouded with varied euphoria from all angles. 

You’re rendered speechless, noises coming to a halt with the debilitating assault to your cunt. Every time you try you’re reduced to syllables and squeaks. Jeno checks in one more time, asking if he should go slower or stop altogether. You finally find your voice. 

“Fuck me!” You shout.

Jeno replies with a harsh slap to your ass. You can hear his balls slapping against Jaemin’s cock as he delivers his fierce thrusts. He slaps your ass over and over, backhand and forehand until it’s hot and raw. Jaemin lifts you slightly by your throat. It’s clear on his face that he’s also being overtaken by pleasure. 

“You like it like that, huh?” He slaps you across the face. “You like it hard and rough?”

“I fucking love it.” You grit, earning you another slap. They both continue their slapping until your tongue is hanging out, drool dripping from it so you look like the dirty slut they’re making you out to be.

“Good fucking girl.” Jaemin grunts, running his nails up your back. 

“Best fucking girl.” Jeno corrects. An onslaught of slaps punctuate their praise.

Jeno’s thrusts don’t stop when you feel yourself gush with no warning. You throw your head back, moaning in shock as an orgasm overtakes you. 

“Did you cum? Hm? You came again?” Jeno snatches you by your hair and you clench around them as much as you can manage. 

“Oh… oh fuck!” Jaemin digs his nails into your sides as he bucks brutally into you, giving your cervix one final beating as his cum spurts into you. 

You’re completely limp atop Jaemin as Jeno chases his own high. Stuttering thrusts signal his eventual orgasm, filling you to the brim with each of their cum. 

The next time your eyes blink open, your core is being wiped clean. After that, it’s Jeno carrying you and sitting you on the toilet after you mutter about having to pee. You’re awake by then, showering as you stare blankly at the wall. An impish smile slowly spreads on your face. You turn your face up, letting the water from Lindsay’s infinity shower pour over you. 

Jeno and Jaemin are dressed and outside the room by the time you’re finished. When you go out into the hall, no one is left at the party except the core players in your plan. They're bloody and bruised, smiling like idiots. 

“Okay, so what do we do next?”

“Take pictures of your injuries. I’ll text Haewon and make sure she has her story straight. Make sure you have yours straight too. Haewon invited you because you trained together when someone broke into the very calm! Party.” Jeno explains slowly.

“Right! And then we tell them that they fucked us up and were yelling about some gambling thing?”

“Right.” Jeno confirms, nodding his head and crossing his arms. Their eyes moving to you makes both Jeno and Jaemin look back at you. They sport the same wolfish smile as you move closer. Once stood next to him, Jaemin immediately goes to grab your ass, checking under your skirt to confirm that yes, you couldn’t be wearing panties right now. You swat him away, not wanting to get dirty all over again. 

EPILOGUEˋ°•*⁀➷

The backlash was swift. First everyone was sympathetic in reaction to the news of the break in, then more of the details came to light. Lindsay being a celebrity all over East and Southeast Asia bit her in the ass. Everyone was talking about the break in and the gambling. All eyes were on her and all keyboards were typing her name into search engines. It was the perfect time to drop the second bomb.

“Ten accusers, six being anonymous, come out against the heiress. They state that she had scammed them, caused them mental or emotional harm and even made bets on their success..”

You shake your head at the TV, tsking to yourself and NingNing who was on speaker phone. 

“Omg, look!” NingNing shouts. Footage of Lindsay Liu being detained appears on screen. She is thrashing and screaming at the police and the reporters.

“Oh here it comes.” You wince, recoiling from the screen. Lindsay rattles off some less than savory words, revealing her true self to the world for the first time. She curses everyone, naming specific ethnicities and nationalities while doing so. Mostly the ones belonging to her core fanbase. If the allegations and prison time don’t end her, this certainly will. 

“Liu has been arrested on several accounts of tax fraud and general fraud. She could earn up to fifteen years in prison. Liu’s father, Liu Jian, publicly renounced his daughter. Saying that he doesn’t agree with his daughter’s actions, and that he’s appalled by her behavior. Liu Jian retired early this winter, passing Orchid Oasis on to the former COO.”

The newscaster switches to a new story and you shut the TV off.

“Well… after seeing that, any pity for her is completely gone.” NingNing announces. The two of you eagerly discuss what just transpired. You still feel a bit unsettled, as if Lindsay’s shadow hasn’t stopped looming over you yet. Will everything be better after this? Would people find out what you all planned?

You pick at your cuticles, checking your group chat with only Jeno and Jaemin and wondering why they haven’t texted you yet. Is Jaemin okay? An hour would pass before you got your answer. You hear the beeps of someone entering a code into your door and snap your head toward it. 

“I’llCallYouBackBye.” You rush out before hanging up on NingNing. You shoot up from your bed, standing before the door. The minute Jeno’s face peeks through the door, he throws it open and rushes toward you. You giggle with anticipation as he grabs your face and mashes his lips to yours. You both collapse onto the bed. Only then does it hit you that you guys did it.

As for Jaemin, her rant as she was detained immediately turned him off to her. He was honest, stating it hurt a bit that everyone was right about her but it was telegraphed pretty explicitly. Heechul shut down Gossip Girls and even considered taking the whole app down, claiming that he feels like Lindsay tainted it. And in a way, she did. People keep rallying for her release, mostly people with a financial incentive. Then Heechul just realized he could boot them from the app. More people came out against Lindsay, something none of you had any part of. 

You feel somewhat vindicated, like you weren’t as sensitive as you thought in regards to Lindsay.

🥀 𐮙 🐻ˋ°•*⁀➷

You’ve never experienced that new car smell, especially not while being served expensive wine. This trip to Switzerland in the Global 7500 was sponsored mostly by the members in the group from Stray Kids and NCT. Reddish brown lacquered wood accented the beige walls of the private jet. You settle into one of the cream-white seats between Jaemin and Jeno, across from NingNing and her members. You didn’t mind the thirteen hour flight with these seats and great alcohol and food. And Jaemin’s hand on your thigh.

It’s Jeno, though, that carts you off to the surprisingly spacious bathroom. It looks more luxurious than any bathroom from places you’ve lived. The sloppiness of the kiss alerts you to how strongly he’s feeling right now. You’ll admit that the luxurious nature of this plane has you all hot and bothered as well. You try to be as quiet as you can while sitting on the counter with Jeno pounding into you. 

You all pull on your coats, hats, and gloves as the jet lands, extremely groggy. Most of you head right to bed as soon as you get into the high-end ski chalet. You do the same, mostly excited to see how soft the beds are. You plop backward onto the bed, pleasantly surprised. It might even be better than Lindsay’s. Before you could even think of getting undressed and ready to sleep, Jaemin is grabbing your legs and pulling you to the edge of the bed. You want to protest, but sex before sleeping in this bed sounds like a dream.

Even more of a dream is both Jeno and Jaemin lapping at your slit while peering up at you. You clench their hair, watching in awe as they get utterly pussy drunk. Licking each other’s cheeks and chins by accident here and there. You’re disappointed by how quickly you cum, wanting to prolong this moment forever. 

However, you hate to admit that snuggling up with them under the warm covers is slightly better. Only slightly. After discussing, the three of you decided not to put a label on whatever this was. Especially since talking to Jeno and realizing a lot of what he feels makes too much sense. It isn’t romance, it’s secure co-existence. 

Members of the now defunct Gossip Girls message you after some pictures of you, Jeno, and Jaemin drunkenly kissing during the trip are posted to SCR. You usually send a shrug emoji, but you briefly entertain the thought of your own guide. You don’t think what you wore or how you acted really mattered. Just that you had a common enemy.

LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED! `⎚⩊⎚´ -✧

◉ proofread cycle 1 ⃝ proofread cycle 2

[sunlightmurdock]

Ashes, Ashes | One | Bradley Bradshaw

masterlist | prologue | next chapter

Synopsis: In which Maverick didn’t make it home after the Uranium mission. He’s missing, presumed dead. There are things that have to be done — someone has to take care of the house, the bills.

So, Maverick’s daughter is back in Fightertown for the first time since she was in elementary school. There’s a gaping hole in both of their lives now, and somehow, the world’s supposed to just keep on turning without him.

Warnings: bradley bradshaw x minimally descriptive oc avery mitchell, age gap (23/33), smut, angst, hurt / comfort, mentions of character death, mourning, military inaccuracies. This entire fic and my blog is an 18+ space, minors do not interact. Do not repost.

…

Crossing the threshold into Maverick’s home doesn’t come naturally to either one of them. This place is something that they had both left behind. Outgrown. It’s solely his. It’s not their home and it has never been, until now. Now, Avery, at least, is stuck here until things are figured out.

On that fourteen hour drive down to San Diego, she’d had a lot of time to think. How long is a person supposed to wait for a body to turn up before they go ahead and throw the funeral without it?

Three paces into the hallway, brown wood floors and white walls, she is met with a smiling family picture. Only, she’s not in it. 

Because, it’s not a picture of Pete’s family. Pete doesn’t have a family. Pete Mitchell has a daughter from a one night stand with a married woman.

This picture is of a real family. Hung on the wall opposite the front door is a picture of Nick and Carole Bradshaw holding their infant son. He’s bald and gummy. They’re grinning and showing him off like a prize trophy — so proud of him even though all he did in those days was drool and pee himself. 

These days, their infant son is up to more important things. Their infant son grew to an upsettingly grand height and is carrying two of her bags in one hand behind her today.

“C’mon, Mitchell — these are heavy.” Bradley huffs softly from behind her, reminding her that she’s standing stationary and blocking his path. 

The nickname stings. Avery’s last name isn’t Mitchell because her biological father had wanted it to be. It’s Mitchell solely because her mother’s husband knew she wasn’t his and would rather die before letting her take his name.

She shrugs her duffel bag closer to her body and turns left. Bradley huffs under the weight of her luggage, watching her walk her cute butt in completely the wrong direction. “Wait, where are you going?”

Not struggling at all under the weight of her single duffel bag, she turns slowly to face him and frowns slightly. “My room.” 

Avery doesn’t remember Bradley. Not in her own memories, anyway. She knows he was around, she’s seen him in pictures but the image in her head doesn’t match. Not quite right. Like puzzle pieces bent and forced together.

He’s taller than he looked at his high school graduation, which sits pictured and framed above Mav’s mantle. Older, but that’s to be expected. Up close, he looks more like his mother than his father. A slight bump in his nose and scars, nicely healed, but jagged and raised nonetheless dusted his cheek and his throat. 

Even with all those differences, there’s a very slight familiarity to him that makes this all feel a little bit less suffocating.

Bradley’s brows draw together. He gives a small nod in the direction of the spare room. “That’s… I usually stayed in that room.”

“Oh.” Avery realises with a hum. With Bradley being ten years your senior, the room was his long before it was hers. With him growing up so close by, it was probably his much more frequently than it was hers, too. It’s not like she had ever kept anything here anyway. It’s just a guest room that she would occupy every now and again.

There’s a brief quiet between the two of them. 

“I just figured you could take the big room. ‘Til you get settled. I’ll go home once your car is fixed, if that’s what you want.” Bradley adds on. That sad little look on her face, right in front of him, is killing him. 

The big room. The loft room upstairs. Avery thinks about it and finds herself pretty sure that she’s never even been upstairs in this house.

“You’re staying too?” 

Oh. Yeah. He hadn’t addressed that point yet. Truthfully, he hadn’t even been planning to stay. He hasn’t even packed an overnight bag. But, from the second that she had stepped out of the car and looked up at the house with that look on her face, he hadn’t even considered leaving her here alone.

“Just ‘til we get your car fixed,” He offers with a small shrug. “I’ll be here to run you around until then.”

Like he’s doing this for her sake. Natasha has her own life to get back to and Bradley can’t stand the thought of going back to his apartment alone. 

“Okay,” Avery agrees, turning to peer down the hall towards the spare room. It’s nothing special — it really never felt like hers, anyway. “Alright, I’ll take Pete’s room.”

Pete. She calls Maverick ‘Pete’ now. 

Bradley just nods, shifting the weight of her bags and nodding for her to head for the stairs. All the floors in this house are tan oak. The entryway is now herringbone. With the help of a friend, Pete had done the entire thing himself. 

Of course, as they walk silently across it, neither one of them would know that. Neither one of them was speaking to him last May, which was why he had needed a project in the first place.

Natasha’s outside on the phone. Bradley’s footsteps thud on the wood of the stairs behind her, following her up. She stops at the top, leaving just enough room for Bradley to stand there behind her.

The door to Maverick’s room is open. His bed is made. There’s a book thrown on top of it, the spine cracked and used, the pages yellow from years out in the sun.

“No way is he still trying to fucking finish War and Peace.” Bradley steps around her and heads straight for the book. Pete started this book before Bradley finished elementary school. Bradley twists and looks back at her. “He always gets bored and stops reading, then forgets his page and starts again.”

Another slow nod. One foot in front of the other, her shoes along the tan oak floors. Her fingers trail the white walls. Maverick wouldn’t have minded. This place was always messy before. It’s not now. 

This house is vacant and quiet, but it’s far from empty. It’s filled to the brim, practically pulling apart at the seams with everything that Maverick was and planned to be. He was finishing War and Peace — he made it to chapter 253 this time; further than he had ever made it before. 

Suddenly, Avery’s throat is thick with the knowledge that all she knew Maverick to be, is now all that he’ll ever be. An absent father, a fantastic pilot, a lousy cook. A thousand more things that she’ll never know.

Four days of knowing, a fourteen hour drive down here, and it’s a book that stings like a cold slap to the face, reminding her of why exactly it is that she’s here.

Fire burns behind her eyes, blistering and stinging as Bradley sets her bags on the floor with a soft thud.

He turns with his attention completely on the book, his fingers extending towards the peeling cover of the paperback. His fingers curl around its weathered pages and he lifts it tenderly, examining the front at first.

It’s too early to start this process bawling her eyes out, and Avery refuses to let Russian Literature be your downfall, again.

That thick feeling sits in her throat like a stack of weights as she sits down on the end of Maverick’s bed. The mattress is soft, taking her weight without a squeak of complaint. Maybe he finally listened to her and got a bed that wasn’t so harsh on his back.

It’s been almost two years since she had even set foot in this house last. If she had known that Maverick was going to be gone this soon… she sits and thinks to herself about if she would have maybe visited more. Probably not.

“I’ll change the sheets and stuff, then I’ll get out of your hair for a bit.”

Lifting her head, she blinks at him. He has already started to pull back the comforter and strip the bottom sheet from the bed, awkwardly forcing her onto her feet again. 

Mobile once more, Avery turns slowly to take in her surroundings. This is Maverick’s room. It’s his house, she was prepared for that much — but this is his room. The last thing she wants is to be alone in it all night.

“Oh. Sure,” She nods, setting into motion to help take the sheets off.

He’s so methodical about it, like none of this phases him at all. But then, she hasn’t seen how he has been for the past few days.

“I was thinking of just ordering food tonight, since I’m kinda tired — and Pete never had groceries. Would you want… to maybe join?”

“Sure.” Bradley nods, tugging the pillows out of the cases. He glances up to her with a strictly polite, neutral smile. Quiet settles between the two of them until the bed is just a bare mattress and uncovered pillows. 

Then, there’s a moment of total stillness between the two of them. Her gaze flickers up, meeting his, and the realization settles between the two of them.

Maverick’s favourite cologne was a French thing that some woman in the eighties had liked. Citrus in the shade of cypress wood. The scent fills the room like he’s standing between the two of them.

Bradley glances down at the white sheets in his hands. The snowy white peaks of those mountains, Maverick’s aircraft spiralling into them, engulfed in flames. In a sick way, Bradley hopes that he didn’t manage to eject. At least then, it would have been instant. Maverick wouldn’t have felt anything.

Avery watches his adam’s apple bob in his throat from the other side of the bed. The last you had heard, Mav and Bradley weren’t on speaking terms. She wonders if this is as weird for him as it is for you.

“I’ll put these in the washer. You can… unpack, or whatever.” He decides finally, already taking one step backwards, headed for the door. She stands there, blinking at him. Even with those steeped, broad shoulders, he makes it through the doorframe unscathed before he turns to check where he’s going.

He probably knows this house inside and out, just like he knew her dad. Once. 

When it comes to wracking her brain and trying to remember Bradley Bradshaw, Avery can’t ever come up with anything. Maybe a glimpse, here and there. A blue t-shirt with green stripes. His school backpack accidentally left in the backseat of Maverick’s convertible beside her shoddily installed car seat. 

Truthfully, her experience with Bradley Bradshaw is limited. He’s just as real to her as any of the other guys in the stories she grew up hearing about. Her very own Peter Pan is downstairs right now, trying to figure out Maverick’s ancient washing machine, just so that he doesn’t have to stand up here and stare across at her.

He can’t hide from her forever, though. Evening comes, and so does hunger. 

He stares down at the pizza between the two of them as he chews through a bite, brows drawn together slightly. He hates thin crust pizza — it’s the worst kind of pizza. But, when she had suggested it, he had agreed with a tight-lipped smile.

Natasha has gone home. It’s just the two of them, now. Sitting in this unchanged, all too familiar kitchen. Avery has barely unpacked. She set up a couple of things in Maverick’s bathroom, but it doesn’t feel right to be in the big room upstairs. That wasn’t ever her space to claim.

She chews absentmindedly at the bite she had taken. The TV in the living room is off. The record player is coated in a layer of thin dust already. It’s dead quiet. The kitchen light is dim above their heads.

There’s a chip in the corner of the table on Bradley’s side. It’s there because Bradley was running through this kitchen when he was four years old and had tripped and knocked his front tooth out right here. His thumb trails the tiny mark, wondering how his teeth had ever been that small.

Wondering why she isn’t angry with him, too.

Maverick had picked him up that day, turned him around and held Bradley while he cried, stemming the blood and quickly introducing the concept of the tooth fairy. He had done all that he could, and Bradley still found a way to resent him for what had happened to his own father.

Bradley hasn’t ever done a thing for Avery. Except maybe pay for this pizza. And here she is, calm as can be. 

The sauce base feels tangy and coppery, and the cheese makes him want to puke. He sets the slice down on his plate and wipes his hands on the paper towel beside him.

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at her. Her hair is up differently now, tucked out of your way after an afternoon of manual labour upstairs, tidier than it had been earlier. She’s wearing a stretched out old t-shirt. Bradley assumes she got it from a boyfriend.

Really, he doesn’t think she looks that much like her old man. He would really have to search for the resemblance. But, briefly, when she offers him a polite smile across the table, he knows that you’re Mav’s kid.

“I’m sorry.” Bradley blurts out. They both look across at each other, equally surprised that he has spoken.

“…For what?” Avery asks quietly, lips tugging into a small frown.

“I’m sorry that I’m here and he’s not.” He’s just got to say it. He knows she probably wouldn’t bring it up on your own, but there’s a big elephant in this room. Bradley knows what it’s like to sit in her spot, and not know how to talk about it.

It’s his fault that Maverick didn’t make it home.

She stops chewing. That last bite sits in her mouth, doughy and dry all of a sudden. She stares across at him, awkwardly making herself swallow down the last of her bite of pizza and picking up the paper towel to wipe at her mouth.

“We weren’t that close.” She tells him, like that’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. It’s like a blow to the chest. She’ll never get the opportunity to fix things, because of him.

But, he knows what it’s like to be told how to grieve. He just dips his head and nods awkwardly. “Right.” 

“I got a call from an admiral the other day,” She picks up the slice of pizza and pick at its toppings. There’s no one here now to tell her not to play with your food. Mav never really cared anyway. Bradley watches her, unhungry. “Invited me down to Miramar. He said he was a friend of Mav’s and that he could talk me through… this whole thing. How it works.”

Bradley rubs a hand over the neatly trimmed hair above his lip. It feels like he has swallowed a golf ball, sitting here like it’s normal to be discussing the measures.

He knows how it works. It won’t be as simple as it was with his own father. At least Maverick had afforded him something to bury. For her, there’s nothing.

“I’ll have to be there around eleven.” 

“Sure,” Bradley nods, scratching at the back of his neck. His legs tingle with stiffness. Clearing his throat, he shifts in the little wooden chair and stretches, knocking his foot into hers under the table. “Oh. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her teeth press into the inside of your cheek. Maverick hadn’t ever described Bradley as this nervous.

“It’s fine.” She hums, pushing back in her chair and standing up from the table. “Well, I’ve been up since like… four, so I might just hit the hay.”

“Sure.” Bradley breathes out, hands braced on his thighs, eyes focussed on that tiny chip in the corner of the table. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

The downstairs bedroom seemed bigger when he was a kid. The twin-sized bunks on the carrier feel bigger than the wooden-framed bed that Maverick put in here. Bradley’s shoulder is practically hanging off the side, and the old frame creaks with each movement he makes.

It’s not like he would be sleeping much anyway. When he closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is the fireball Maverick’s plane had turned into as it fell.

Bradley’s hunched over the coffee pot by the time that Avery wakes up. He hears her coming down the stairs and straightens up like he wasn’t three seconds from throwing the stupid thing at the wall, clearing his throat and turning around.

It occurs to him that he should have put a shirt on. This isn’t his place. It’s hers, now, he guesses — either way, he hadn’t considered making her uncomfortable. He folds his arms over his naked torso as she strolls into the kitchen, hair mussed and rubbing at her eyes.

She’s wearing big socks and the same big t-shirt she had worn to eat the pizza last night. He can’t tell if she’s wearing shorts or not.

“Morning,” He offers up, making her lift her gaze from busily tapping at her phone. Her gaze lands squarely on his navel — more so, how low his shorts sit on his hips and the way a soft trail of brown hair ventures from there to his bellybutton. 

Blinking, she finds his face.

“Coffee machine’s broken, we can stop somewhere on the way to base if you like.” He leans down a little bit, like an awkward teenager shrinking away from a family picture. She locks her gaze on his, trying not to glance back down at his muscles. 

“Oh. That’s not broken — if you hit it hard enough, it’ll work.” She heads right for him, fuzzy socks padding across the floor so softly that it really does startle him when she grabs the copy of War and Peace that now sits on the kitchen counter, and slam the book right into the side of the coffee machine.

He whips around as the machine whirs to life. Avery the book back down gently, and look up at him. He sets his jaw, brows knitted together, searching her face.

Maverick never taught Bradley anything like that. In fact — Bradley always, always was taught the opposite. You never take the easy way out; if something’s worth fixing, then you fix it right.

Then you, you on the other hand, beat the thing with the heaviest book you can find? He just doesn’t get it.

“Well. Thanks.” He guesses, turning his bemused expression back to the brewing coffee. 

He hadn’t been expecting you to do that. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, given the way he’s still glaring at the machine. That coffee pot is older than you are, and Mav never taught him that trick?

“So this guy, the one who called me,” Avery skims her fingers along the cool granite countertop, just to have something to do, “He was the guy calling the shots up there?”

Bradley blinks. He doesn’t know how much she knows about the way all of this works. He knew everything there is to know long before he ever enlisted, but that was because he wanted to know.

“Um,” Bradley grabs his mug and takes a step back for her to get herself one.  “He was our mission command so, kind of. He gives orders — but, y’know, everything happens fast, it’s… it’s hard to call the shots from back on the boat.” 

“Did he like Mav much?” She asks, head tucked inside the fridge door as you scan for anything to make her coffee a little less black. Nothing. A couple of beers and a block of good German cheese. She swings it shut with a resigned sigh, wondering if she’ll be here long enough to need groceries.

The thought flashes across her mind — what’ll happen to this place when she leaves it behind?

“Uh... No, not really.” After a routine training presentation at the very beginning of their attachment, Admiral Simpson had once become so agitated by Maverick that he snapped his own reading glasses in half. Mav got a good laugh out of it, at least.

“Great.” Agitation creeps into her tone as she curls her fingers around a plain white coffee mug. All of his kitchenware is plain white. 

“What?” Bradley tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse at the look on her face, stuck between whether she’s sad or pissed off.

It’s an easy answer, rolling off of her tongue with a shrug of her shoulders and a deflated sigh. “People usually put us in the same boat — if they don’t like him, they don’t like me.”

That’s something that he thinks he can understand. There’s not an instant dislike, but there’s a pity that he finds in the eyes of people who once knew his father. 

He screws his mouth up, shaking his head and reaching for her without thought. His palm claps against her shoulder, platonic and soothing, but the first time he has touched you nonetheless. “I’ll be there. He won’t say a thing.”

Glancing upward, while his palm lingers on her shoulder, her eyes flit across his features. He doesn’t know quite what she’s searching for, or whether she finds it. His fingers squeeze softly against her skin before the touch is gone all together.

They drink their coffees in parallel, both subtly miserable in their silence but comfortable in it anyway. It’s difficult to prepare for a meeting like this — she doesn’t have a clue of what to expect. 

Bradley wears black jeans and boots with a plain white t-shirt, which convinces her not to wear the more formal dress she had thought she’d have to wear. She slips into his passenger seat in a skirt and Mary Janes.

He drives a loud, blue vintage Bronco. It sparkles inside and out, and makes her dusty old car look even worse. 

Bradley settles behind the wheel to the sound of chilled seventies music, the radio turned low. He drives with three fingers curled around the bottom of the wheel and the other hand resting absently on the stick shift.

Even though he seems calm enough behind the wheel, she watches him chew at the inside of his cheek for the duration of the drive. Gears tick away inside his head. His knee only stops bouncing nervously when it’s time to press his foot against the pedal.

He’s not as good at pretending as he thinks he is; she silently appreciates that he tries, either way.

Bradley, truthfully, spends the entire drive thinking about the last time he was face to face with Admiral Simpson. ‘Son, I’m doing this for you.’ He had sworn, face sullen, uttering the exact same words Pete Mitchell once had when delivering the words that had torn Bradley from him the first time.

Only, Admiral Simpson wasn’t pulling Bradley’s papers — he was just putting him on a month long bereavement leave. His protests had fallen on deaf ears once again, as they had fifteen years ago. He’s now a week into that leave, but it feels like longer.

It turns out that when sleep is cut from the equation, everything feels a lot longer. In his own apartment, his routine has been getting up at 2am after hours of tossing and turning, going for a run all the way down to the docks, coming back and showering, then waiting for the sun to rise.

Last night, he’d been awake in that creaky old twin bed, struck by the realisation that if he spent all night tossing and turning — one, he might actually break the old bed frame, and two, the squeaking of it would definitely keep Avery up. 

All it had taken was the focus of trying to sit still for so long to finally knock him out. It was the best that he’d slept since the mission.

He kind of hopes that it’ll take him a while to figure out something to do with her car; at least that way he’ll be able to sleep at night. 

“You ready?” His voice startles Avery from her daydream, the engine cutting out with a jingle of the keys as he stretches forwards in his seat to shove them into his pocket. “We’re headed just over there.”

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” She’s stepping down and swinging the heavy door shut before she’s taking her next breath, leaving him to catch up to her. 

His long strides have him at her side before long, reaching ahead of her to pull open the glass door to the post headquarters. 

This process has already been easier with him at her side. He’d coolly handed over his service ID and greeted the guard at the gate by name, and he stops her from turning sharply down the wrong hallway with a soft bump of his shoulder against hers.

He catches her forearm as she tries to blow right past the front desk, his grip loose but firm. 

“Rooster.” The woman behind the desk stands up sharply, looking sharp in her service khakis, her entire face creased with a deep worry. She’s older, maybe around Mav’s age. “I heard, I’m so sorry.”

Rooster loosens his hold on her forearm, his lips flattening into a line. He stands up straight, his interaction with the woman nothing if not totally polite. His thumb trails across the bend of her wrist as he nods his head towards her.

“Thank you,” He says softly, seemingly unaware of the way Avery has stiffened in the presence of this woman. “We’re, uh… we’re just here to see Cyclone, Lynn.”

Her warm, brown eyes whip towards Avery, widening. Recognition floods her features as she pieces together who the girl at Bradley's side must be. 

Her boots hit the ground, Avery's lips parting slightly as she realises that this stranger is headed right for her. Bradley feels Avery's arm tug in his grip and turns his head, taking note of the way she's trying to shrink behind him.

Lynn is a hugger by nature, and she was a good friend of Mav’s for a long time. She means well, but Bradley isn’t going to let her touch Avery when he can see how unnerved it makes her.

“We’re a little late. I’ll catch you at the O-Bar this weekend?” His fingers uncurl from her forearm and his palm falls flat between her shoulder blades, giving her a gentle nudge and silent permission to avoid Lynn's hug.

The woman stops and there’s another polite, departing exchange between the two of them while Avery continues down the hall.

Bradley catches up to her as she raps her knuckles against the doorframe, fingers trembling when they come to settle back against her thighs.

“Miss Mitchell.” A chair scrapes along the tiled floor, Cyclone’s signature rumbling voice carrying out into the hallway. His boots tap across the ground, his face creased with sincerity and his hand outstretched when he notices Bradley standing behind the young woman he had arranged this meeting with. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

Avery checks back over her shoulder, glancing briefly at the man behind her, who has assumed his best bodyguard impression. 

Standing tall, his uniform crisp and his greying black hair combed neatly, Admiral Beau Simpson slips his palm into hers and shakes her hand curtly. The sunlight catches on his shining name badge, his face heavy with lines and sharp angles.

Letting her hand go, he then reaches to her right to shake Bradley’s. Bradley’s chest bumps her back as he leans into the handshake.

Avery steps away from him, angling yourself closer to the doorframe. “He just gave me a ride here. Is it okay if he comes in?”

“Of course,” Cyclone is far more polite to her than he has ever been to Bradley. “Anything you need. Please, take a seat.”

It feels a little bit wrong standing before his boss in jeans, and sitting before him. Everything about this feels a little bit wrong. Bradley rests his chin against his fist.

Avery sits in the chair beside him, shoving your trembling hands under your thighs, straightening up and trying to look as brave as you can. 

It shouldn’t be this stranger sitting beside you in this meeting — your mother should have come with you.

“Miss Mitchell,” The admiral takes his seat on the other side of his desk once again. “I want to first express my deepest condolences. Your father was a good man, and a… extremely skilled pilot.”

Bradley almost scoffs. Even now, Cyclone can’t manage to compliment him, not really.

“We are forever grateful for his service, and the sacrifices he made on behalf of our country. I understand that this is an extremely difficult time, and I’d just like to say that I’m going to personally make sure that this process is as easy as it can possibly be.”

Avery blinks at him. Jet engines rumble on outside of the window. People bustle on outside of the closed office door.

Cyclone glances towards Bradley. 

“When a man is lost in action, our resolve is to initiate a search and rescue effort as soon as possible,” The admiral explains, leaving out the part where that search and rescue effort had been delayed by seventy-two hours after Mav disappeared. “We’ve been working tirelessly, and our efforts to locate your father are ongoing.”

Her brows knit together, lips pursed, unimpressed.

“But— he’s dead.” She frowns abruptly, rendering Cyclone suddenly quiet. “He’s got to be. It’s been a week. No food, no water, sub-zero temperature. What’s the point in looking?”

Bradley grits his teeth. He looks across at her, her words like a jolt of ice-cold water, the muscle in his jaw ticking. There’s nothing in her expression, no fear or sadness. Pete deserved more than that.

“The point is to bring him home.” He bites from her side, staring straight ahead at Cyclone.

She shoots him a look. When it’s clear that she isn’t going to say anything else, Cyclone clears his throat to continue. 

“Miss Mitchell, we do have to prepare ourselves for the other outcome. If recovery efforts are unsuccessful, in two weeks time, he will be listed as formally ‘Missing in Action’. If that’s the case, we will honor him with a memorial service and all of his service records and personal effects are delivered to you.”

She drags her teeth across her plush bottom lip, swallowing hard and giving a small nod of her head. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pictures the moment that this is all over. She can get out of here and pretend it never happened.

“Okay. Two weeks?”

“This is going to be a longer process,” Cyclone warns her. He’d heard that she had come down specially for this, and he doesn’t want to mislead her about the time frame. “The recovery mission, if unsuccessful, will be suspended in two weeks’ time. After that, we’d like you to be local for the investigation.”

“Investigation?”

“Of ourselves. To ensure that the Navy had performed its due diligence, that kind of thing… I’d expect us to be here for a good few months.” He explains.

After that, it’s like Bradley can see a switch flip for her. 

She’s biting at the inside of her cheek so hard that she must be tasting copper, picking at the seam of her skirt and breathing like she’s trying not to cry.

He’s still confused when he’s all but chasing her across the parking lot, listening to her try to control her breathing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” He tries, approaching her cautiously as she crowds herself against the passenger side of his car. “It’s alright. We’ll get through it, it’s just a couple of months.”

“I— fuck. I don’t want to be here. I-I— I’m going to have to find a job, and I’ll have to call my mom, and— and my friends, and—“

“Hey,” Bradley mumbles, resisting the instinct to throw his arms around her. His brows draw together as he reaches out and squeezes her bicep, bending his knees so he can catch her eye. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

Avery knows that he’s just trying to be nice, but really, she’s sick of nice. It’s all that Maverick ever was and it left her with no idea of who he really is. “Of what? There’s so much that I have to—“

He nods, closing his mouth, swallowing dryly. Thinking of what he can, feasibly, take off of her plate for her. The idea sparks in him.

“You need a job. I can get you a job. Um, your friends, we can call them and bring them down for a weekend?” He squeezes again at her bicep, nodding his way through his plans, trying to will the tears in her eyes not to spill over.

She sniffs, turning her gaze towards the ground. The lump in Avery’s throat burns and bobs as she tries to swallow it away. 

Mav really is never coming back.

“I don’t want to go back to his house.” It comes out as a whimper, and really just reminds Bradley that she is in the same position that he was when he was just a little younger than her. It’s a scared kid type of feeling, being all alone in the world. Being in an empty house had made it even worse.

He licks his lips and glances towards the skies, watching the sun pass behind a cloud. 

“You could stay at my place, for a night or two.” 

…

[ssahotchnerr]

Hey love, could you pretty please do an Aaron x reader where it’s there wedding day and she starts getting real bad anxiety about marrying him. Not because she doesn’t want to but because she feels like he is surrounded by so many amazing people who uplift him that she could never compare. Just in the mood for fluffy comfort Aaron 🥹

enough

cw; fem!reader, a LOT of angst but it's comforting??, heavy 5x9 references (i'm sobbing actually), anxiety descriptions, aaron cries 😭, comfort and a happy ending don't worry!!!! wc; 2.4k

"nervous jitters?"

"you could say that." you replied - while staring off into space, while bouncing your crossed leg, while kicking your slipper on and off your heel. your head moved downward as your fingers clutched onto the seat of the chair you were sat in, harshly enough for your knuckles to turn white.

jj pulled the curling wand away from your face an inch, "careful, try not to move."

"sorry."

yet another wave of guilt rippled through you, as this wasn't how you should feel on your wedding day.

last night, you were surrounded by the people you now consider family, celebrating a new chapter. or rather, a beginning. aaron's permanent grin was engraved in your mind; you've never seen him so carefree, happily conversing with his colleagues, gazing at you as if he'd won the lottery (to him, he had). you were positive there wasn't a second where his arms hadn't been wrapped around you.

before parting ways for the night, he had pulled you to the side, to a more secluded area. he gave you long, sweet, deep kisses, holding your body close to his, as you weren't going to see each other until the two of you officially, and finally, became one.

just as him, you had been on a similar high, more than ready for this next adventure, in pure disbelief that in less than twenty-four hours, you'd be a hotchner. so now, whatever this was, had quite literally come out of absolutely nowhere.

when you awoke this morning, rather than the excitement you had expected, you were greeted with an empty, terrifying pit in your stomach.

as the day carried on, pre-wedding activities in full motion, it followed, and the void within only grew and grew. it was gravely unsettling; you were more fidgety, on edge, you hadn't been your usual talkative self. and despite being surrounded by your newfound family - jj, penelope, and emily more specifically - you couldn't help but choose to remain alone in your thoughts.

jj studied your face through the mirror, before securing your hairpiece in place. "there." her hands found your shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. "sit tight, i'll be right back."

you nodded, blinking your eyes to prevent the budding tears from slipping - and to not ruin penelope's handiwork, mascara sure to stain your cheeks. she left, leaving you alone.

but as promised jj returned no more than five minutes later, only she remained at the doorway, her head peeking in. "someone's here to see you."

after giving you a consoling smile, as if she knew - profilers - she vanished, leaving door slightly ajar.

your hand had only just touched the knob when the door moved a centimeter back, slight pressure holding it still to refrain from opening fully.

"don't open it all the way."

"aaron?" at the sound of his voice, you fought the instant urge to sob. but the utmost amount of comfort filled you too. it took a second, but you found your voice, "you're not supposed to be here."

"well technically, i just can't see you."

"still." you insisted. your tone was flat, rather than being full of giddiness due to your future husband sneakily paying you a forbidden visit - like it should've. "they're going to be looking for you."

"then let them." aaron answered simply, not concerned about that in the slightest. "are you alright?"

you immediately fell silent, and aaron patiently waited a minute, but still - nothing. the extended period of quietness, scared him, given the day's event.

please, not cold feet.

and given the current circumstances, there was only so much he could do. aaron dropped his hand to his side, weaving through the small gap. "here, give me your hand."

your hand quickly found his, the promptness allowing aaron to breathe. the familiar weight felt like home; your hand always fitting perfectly within his. your hands always cold, his warm. yours soft, his rough.

his thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, an invitation to open up. "what's on your mind?"

you bit your lip in thought, taking a heavy enough breath aaron could hear it without straining his ears.

"honey?"

"first, i want to preface this that i do want to marry you. i don't want you thinking otherwise." your voice was firm, meaning every word.

"okay..." here was a brief hesitancy in his voice despite your promise; a tinge of worry, some question. however, he managed to keep his voice steady, for the most part. you, however, still recognized the waver of uncertainty.

"just," you released a breath, your voice small. "i envy you."

aaron was quiet for a moment, and when he did speak, the confusion was obvious in his voice. "you envy me?"

"you have," you took a breath, gripping onto his hand. "so many wonderful amazing people around you... i don't even know where to start. they've been with you, stuck with you, for far longer than i have. how do i compare to that? god, dave's practically paying for this whole thing. because of you, for you. no matter who you would've married, he would've done exactly the same. i'm not special."

"sweethear-"

"i want to be enough for you." tears pinched at your eyes, your hold on his hand lessening - which frighteningly felt like you were letting go completely. "you deserve," you took another breath, and this one rattled through you. "everything. and i'm afraid i never will be."

aaron only clutched onto your hand tighter, refusing to part. his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, taking a silent, deep breath. "are you wearing your dress yet?"

after all that, you weren't too sure of how he would respond, but you certainly hadn't expected that. "no? once-"

aaron released your hand. and after looking in both directions of the hall to be certain he was in the clear, he swiftly entered, the door clicking shut behind him.

"aaron." you stared at him, your eyes wide in alarm. you barely had the time to process him in his tuxedo, or have the thought to push him out. "you can't be-"

"enough?" aaron looked at you, baffled. exasperation, pain, and love all present in his eyes. "how can you say that?"

"i-"

"you... are everything. my everything." he moved to your left, pacing away for a moment, quickly internalizing a way to get it across solidly, so you wouldn't dare question otherwise again. he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "did i ever tell you, what haley told me before she died?"

you blinked in surprise, but shook your head. while you knew the story, offered reassurances after nightmares and the topic of haley had never been off limits, aaron had never gone into detail over... the final moments. you never pushed, never asked - if it was something he chose to keep to himself, to have that part of haley close to him and only him - of course you respected that. they were vulnerable, painful memories, not easy to relive.

he sobered, his posture and expression changing before you, alight with a ghost of the past. a tender, solemn fondness was in his tone as he recalled the line. "'love is the most important thing.'"

your eyes studied his face, silently urging him to continue.

"and while our relationship had it's hardships, she wanted jack to believe in it - love - and had me promise her that i'd show him."

"aaron..."

"he believes, because of you."

"i-"

"i believe," his eyes found yours, full of a sincereness you've never seen from him. "because of you."

you opened your mouth to speak again, but no words came out.

"haley was right." he chuckled softly, with a small shake of his head, "honestly, and while i understand why now, for a long time i was furious she made me promise that. because i wouldn't be able to keep my word. before that... day, i'd already given up. lost hope that i could find it again, that it was even possible, or whether i deserved it. haley and i were together for a long time, you know that. being with her was all i knew, what i was used to, and part of me thought maybe someday, we'd manage to work things out. and suddenly, she was gone. it was too late - i was too late. i failed her, and i'd continue to fail her."

"and then you came into my life, and turned my world around completely. never did i think i would love again, let alone get on one knee and ask someone to marry me. but here we are. here you are."

aaron took your face into his hands, as delicately as he possibly could - as if he feared he would break you.

"because of you, i kept my promise to haley. jack knows, he sees the love i have for you every day. and although he 'ew's' at the sight of us kissing here and there, he'll grow up understanding. he'll know the importance, as promised."

"and you saved me. you saved from a looming downward spiral. i saw it happen to gideon, it's happened to countless others within the bureau, and i could've been the next. i told someone once; it's consuming, this job will eat you up if you let it. but instead of letting it, instead of ruining my relationship with jack, you managed to pull me from that impending darkness i was headed toward."

tears were continuously trickling down your cheeks, utterly speechless.

"you're enough. god you're more than enough. and if that doesn't... i'll prove it to you everyday if i have to. if you'll let me." a broken exhale left his lips, choked up. "i promise."

still unable to find the words, and actions speaking louder, your fingers grabbed onto his tux, pulling his body to yours and wrapping your arms around his middle, burying your face into his chest. in the back of your mind, you made a mental apology to penelope, and hoped you weren't soiling aaron's dress shirt too badly.

aaron's shoulders dropped at the contact, in relief. he pressed his lips to the top of your head, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and holding you close. next, he's the one who took a shaky breath.

"so, i'm the one who should be afraid."

"what?" your voice cracked, peering up at him, your chin on his torso.

"baggage." aaron sighed, tearing his eyes away from yours, his hands running along your back soothingly - or rather, to soothe himself. "i'm the widowed father. i'm the one who's never around. i'm the one who's scarred, in more ways than one. i don't want to limit you, to keep you from a life you've always imagined for yourself. like i did with haley."

"don't say that."

"every day, i wonder why i'm the one you chose to be with. wonder why you love me. i think that it's too good to be true, that i'll wake up. or someday, you will."

"aaron."

he sighed, tears sliding down his cheek.

"you are not scarred, aaron hotchner." you cupped his face and angled him so he was looking at you, wiping the droplets away with the pads of your thumb. "far from it. the life i imagine, is with you. this is it." you found it in you to let out a small laugh, refreshing after the morning you've had. "that's why i was so worried."

he also couldn't help but laugh gently through his tears. "you shouldn't be."

your hand slid to the back of his neck, winding your fingers through the nape of his hair. "you've, very unfairly, dealt with the unfathomable. the unimaginable. but that doesn't make you broken. i find it admirable actually, and it's one of the things i love about you. you're strong aaron. to go through something like that, and come out on the other side of it, both the tragedy and the recovery part of it. a lot of people wouldn't be able to do the same."

aaron looked at you, listening, his head tilting as he leaned into your touch.

"despite what you think, you're a good father. i adore you with jack. and with the horrors you see, every day, you still come home with a calm face. you never fail to give us your all - your sweet loving self. you're always present, even if you're physically aren't here. because you're out there making this world a safer place for so many others. for jack, for me. you really don't give yourself enough credit."

aaron remained silent, his gaze beginning to tear away from yours. but you stopped him, with a finger under his chin to direct his focus back to you.

"you may have scars, but they aren't you. they may contribute, but they aren't you."

"are you sure?" his voice fell to a whisper, eyes desperately searching yours, his own dampened.

you nodded earnestly, your bottom lip quivering a small amount. "i've never been more sure of anything. i promise."

and with that, aaron's lips found yours, kissing you even more deeply than he had the previous night. from the urgency that soon developed, it was clear just how needed this conversation was, on both ends. providing closure, clarity. the kiss sent a buzz right through you, instantaneously making up for the all the lost time you had spent brooding.

you forced yourself to pull away - only when air was needed, and to simply stop. you would've gladly kissed him longer, and aaron likewise, but the two of you were on a schedule.

his forehead fell against yours, a rather boyish, adorable smile on his face. "so, are we good?"

you nodded, your lips pulling into a smile as well, the giddiness you've been missing finally present. you reached up, gently blotting away any lingering tears of his. "we've always been."

"wedding still on?"

you rolled your eyes, gently smacking his chest and making him laugh. "duh."

"okay." he grinned, pecking your lips gently. "i better go. if someone catches me in here-"

"-you'll be in trouble."

"big trouble." he grinned, pulling your hands forward to bring you in for yet another kiss. "i love you. you never saw me."

you chased his lips - just one more. "never did."

aaron laughed, his brown eyes just sparkling. "i'll see you soon. you know where to find me, i'll be waiting."

[hannahbisssssss]

Dinner and Diatribes (Nandor the Relentless x fem!Reader)

Author's Note: When asked to write this piece, I wanted to make it special for those waiting so long for its arrival. This will be split into two parts. I currently have part one (the majority of the work) done. However, chapter two is strictly NSFW and I'm separating both parts in case that doesn't interest you. I should be done with part two by tonight, so keep an eye out for it.

Warnings: Overprotective brother Guillermo, horny Nandor (duh), and an innocent reader. Take that as you will. Blood and violence (also duh)

Word count: 11,000+

Requested by @binks1004

This will also be posted on AO3 by tonight!

I sigh softly as I finish putting the last touches on my homework. Another assignment done. I look at the clock that resides next to my desk. 12:30 in the morning: shit… I should have been out of the dorms ages ago. I promised Guillermo that I would go to sleep earlier tonight because I wanted to make my way over to his house in the morning. Well, it’s not like I haven’t gotten less sleep before and still survived. 

Suddenly, my phone rings, and I jump in surprise. I check the caller ID… Guillermo. Shit. I hesitantly pick up the phone after letting it ring a couple times.

“Hello?” My tentative voice rings out.

“You should be asleep.” Guillermo’s voice sounds disappointed but not surprised. I almost hear the eye roll in his voice.

“Why would you call me if you didn’t know I was asleep or not? Who knows, maybe you just woke me up.” There’s a hint of snarkiness in my voice. As Guillermo’s younger sister, I felt occasionally obligated to annoy him.

“You were last active on Instagram 15 minutes ago.” Guillermo’s ‘I gotcha’ voice is laid on thick.

“…Whoops?” He laughs on the other line.

“Whoops is right. You need to go to bed, Y/N.” I feel the exasperation start to rise within me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I had homework to get done before winter break. Is that so wrong of me to want to spend my full time and attention with you when I’m there at your house?” I decide to guilt trip him. I hear Guillermo sigh before I hear heavy footsteps on the line.

“Guillermo? Who are you speaking to?” The voice is distant, but I can swear I hear the essence of a Middle Eastern accent. The phone is clearly covered by one of Guillermo’s sweaters, as I can’t hear much of the conversation after that. I think I pick up the words ‘master,’ ‘sister,’ and ‘visiting.’ By the time Guillermo uncovers the phone, he responds almost sheepishly.

“Sorry. My roommate.” I am hit with the remembrance that Guillermo has four other housemates that he lives with.

“Oh, right… who was that?” My curiosity is piqued now.

“Nandor.” Guillermo says curtly.

“Nandor.” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. “Is he nice?” Guillermo sighs.

“Sometimes.” I laugh. 

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, then.” I try to assure him. 

“Sure. Y/N, please go to sleep before you end up driving over here like an exhausted zombie.” 

“Alright, alright. I’ll go to sleep, but don’t be shocked when you see I’m active on Instagram for the next 15 minutes: I have a routine, you know?” I hear Guillermo stifle a chuckle.

“Yeah, okay.”

“You know you love me.” I tease.

“Of course I do. That doesn’t mean you can’t be insufferable.” He teases back.

“That’s the fun of having a sibling, I think.” Guillermo doesn’t hide his laughter this time.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” I can hear the chiding in his voice.

“Goodnight, Guillermo.” I hang up the phone and make my way over to my bed. I’m a lot more tired than I previously thought, as I plug in my phone within five minutes of my nightly doom scroll routine. 

The drive over to Guillermo’s house is nothing special. It’s cold, with some snow falling, but nothing I can’t handle. As I made my way over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, I feel myself getting a little nervous. What if Guillermo’s roommates don’t like me? What if I end up biting off more than I can chew with this trip? I mean, I’m staying for an entire month. Certainly his roommates would get annoyed with me after staying with them for so long. 

Before I can panic myself any longer, I realize that I’m already at his doorstep. I raise my hand to knock on the door, but Guillermo is already there. 

“Y/N.” He says fondly. I smile and let my hand drop.

“Hi, Guillermo.” We smile and hug and get all the niceties out of the way. 

“Did you end up sleeping well?”

“After scrolling on Instagram for approximately five minutes, yeah.”

“I noticed you weren’t active super long. I was hoping that meant you were asleep and not on that one website I don’t know about.”

“Character.AI?” I say with a laugh. He laughs too. 

“Yeah, that one. Who’s your current fictional character of choice?”

“I’m embarrassed to say…” I fidget with my hands for a moment. 

“Now you have to tell me.” 

“I most certainly do not.”

As I walk in the house, I am met with an ornately-decorated foyer. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling looks quite beautiful, and I can’t help but stare in awe.

“Like it?” Guillermo looks at me taking in the scenery. 

“Holy crap, you must spend a fortune living here.” He laughs at this response. 

“If only you knew…” I give him an odd look but decide to drop it. 

“Well, it’s 9:30 in the morning… What would you like to do?” I ask him with a pleasant smile.

“Did you eat breakfast?” I shake my head.

“Let’s do that first, that way you’ll be prepared for any activities I have set up for you today.” Guillermo says with a smile.

“Ooh, what kind of activities are we talking?”

“I’ll show you around Staten Island, and that’ll give me time to debrief you on each of my roommates.”

“Yeah, where are they? You’d think they’d be up by now.” Guillermo suddenly starts to fidget with his hands.

“They’re kind of nocturnal.” I look bewildered at this statement. “They work at the railroad, so they have weird hours.”

“But I thought… I thought you also worked at the railroad.” Guillermo looks stunned and a little frightened by my statement. “I-I do…” Guillermo looks down at his hands.

“Guillermo. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re telling a lie. Did you get fired or something?” He perks up at my statement. 

“Fired, yup! I’m just trying to look for new work, so I’ve been keeping busy with the upkeep of this house. Please, don’t tell mom.” I nod in solidarity.

“Of course I won’t. Your secret’s safe with me.” Guillermo smiles and visibly relaxes. Suddenly, another figure walks in the room. He’s bald, wearing a vest, and carrying a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Who’s this?” I perk up as he makes his way out of the kitchen. Guillermo shoots him a warning look. For what reason, I can’t be too sure.

“That’s Colin Robinson.” Colin raises his cup as a friendly gesture.

“Hello… You must be Y/N. Guillermo told us you were coming. You’re in for a lot of fun.” I smile at Colin, as he seems friendly enough. 

“Yes! I’m Y/N, nice to meet you. I sure hope I don’t become a nuisance too quickly.” He smirks at my statement. 

“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem.” Guillermo shoots Colin another warning glare and for a moment, I could swear that Colin’s eyes brightened. Guillermo quickly takes my hand and leads me out of the house. 

“We’ll be back later, Colin.” I look at Guillermo, confused.

“What about breakfast?” He tugs at my arm again. 

“I’ll buy you breakfast, okay?” Guillermo closes and locks the door behind him, rolling his eyes at the thought of Colin. 

“He seemed nice.” I try to give him a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, well ‘seeming’ isn’t everything. Colin Robinson is one of the most annoying creatures on this planet.” I laugh a little at this statement.

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. Breakfast?” Guillermo smiles back at me.

“Breakfast.”

The two of us take Guillermo’s car throughout Staten Island. A diner, a mall, a work building, everything that sees me throughout the day sees a smile on my face. The minutes turned to hours and I suddenly feel the sisterly urge to connect with Guillermo. 

“I’ve missed seeing you.” I break the silence with my voice, knowing the words would ring true. Guillermo nearly trips in the shoe store we’re currently walking through.

“I’ve missed you, too.” Is his simple reply.

“I just don’t think you’d be able to understand the depth of my statement. I really fucked things up.” Guillermo stops this time, looking at me as I speak, as if seeing me for the first time in his life.

I don’t come from a functional family. I grew up Catholic, fatherless, and forced to grow up fast. The weight I bear is not something easily shaken. My mother loved me dearly, but was always worried about Guillermo. He was 7 years older than me. He didn’t have many friends growing up on account of his rather odd hobbies. By association, when I finally reached the age he was when he first started getting bullied, I was left friendless and alone. 

Life as an emotionally-mature person in an emotionally-immature body often led to grief beyond the imaginable. I knew as I grew up that there were things I would never experience. Teenage romance, of course, was the least-established of my facilities. The days boys would hit on me were over… Nobody wanted to be friends with the girl whose brother believed in vampires. What if it runs in the family? 

“I really messed up. I should have been reaching out more. College fucked me up and I think I was still holding a–” The words spill forth before I can even think. I only recently got in touch with Guillermo a few months back.

“You were never supposed to be taking care of me. I was supposed to be doing that for you. I should have listened to your feelings; spoken about your hurt.” Guillermo’s words nearly tear at my heart. There are moments like these with one’s family members that help one realize just how connected blood really makes us. Seconds turn to minutes turn to us sitting on the floor and crying together while a Shoe Carnival employee checks in on us. 

The day passes a lot more calmly than earlier. I’m not sure exactly how many times I am warned about each of his roommates. 

“It really sounds like you don’t enjoy living with them.” Guillermo grimaces at my words as if struck.

“I do enjoy living with them, but they are a particular bunch. I know you can be, too. I just don’t want anyone butting heads with you; they’d do that even if I were to specifically ask.” My face softens at my brother’s words. 

“It’s only one month. It’ll be alright.”

When we make our way back to Guillermo’s house, the lights are on and I can see shadow figures moving around inside, albeit with some paper in the way.

“Guillermo?” I ask quietly.

“Yes?” He follows my gaze before going silent.

“What’s the paper for?”

“They’re very private people. Who would I be to judge?” Guillermo nearly chokes on his answer.

“Do you think it was a good idea to invite me to spend my winter break with you?” I feel Guillermo’s warm hands clasp around my freezing left one.

“I would do anything to ensure your comfortability here. They’ll behave, I promise.” He shuts the car off and makes his way out of the vehicle, motioning for me to do the same. We make our way to the porch and Guillermo takes the jingling keys out of his pocket. As he opens the door, I peek into the foyer. Nothing. Nobody. 

“Where did they go?” My voice asks softly. Guillermo gives me a smile that could be perceived as tentative. 

“Probably the fancy room. The curtain is shut.” I immediately shrink into myself at his words. 

“They know I’m here. I should leave–” I begin frantically.

“No, Y/N, please stay. We can go and introduce you.”

“Memo, please. I know you’ve lived with them longer than since we lost contact with one another. I don’t want them to think to ask you why we stopped speaking.” There’s a rustling heard behind the curtain as it’s pulled aside. Standing on the other side of the curtain is a black-haired woman with green highlights. She is dressed in Victorian garb and looks superb. 

“I take it you are Y/N.” She says in her Greecian lilt. I give her a bright smile; years of acting makes switching from emotions a thing to do with ease.

“Yes, I am. Hi! Are you Nadja?” She smiles at me and I immediately take notice of her sharp canine teeth. Odd.

“The one and only. Come, come, you must meet the others since Gizmo won’t be introducing you himself.” Guillermo rolls his eyes and makes his way to the fancy room with a huff. Inside the room are two men. One sits on the couch with a pipe in his mouth, occasionally blowing out puffs of smoke. He shoots me a suave smile and I recognize his sharpened canines as well. I mentally take note of that as I look at him.

“My darling, who did you bring for us to meet?” His voice is strained and clearly fake. He knows exactly who I am. “This is Y/N, Gizmo’s beautiful sister who he never speaks of.” My face flushes a deep red and I feel Guillermo preen behind me. There is a throat clearing heard from the corner of the room. Out steps a figure that dwarfs the others. He is tall and imposing and every bit of the name I know him to have: Nandor. 

“Be nice to Guillermo, Nadja. You do not want to scare off his sister.” He steps closer and I feel his steps, both graceful and lumbering, get closer and closer. He is wearing a furred cape with some other cultural garb that does not seem from the United States in the slightest. He makes his way over to me with his broad chest leading the rest of his body. I almost pass out as I look up at him, feeling the air in my throat constrict. 

“Nandor.” He says in his baritone, holding a hand out for me. “Nandor the Relentless.” My mouth opens and closes like a fish before I spit out my own name.

“Relentless? Why’s that.” He doesn’t need to answer, as I’m sure I’d believe any answer he gives me. 

“Y/N. You have a very lovely name, as well as a lovely curiosity about you.” He replies. 

“Thank you, that’s quite kind of you.” I recognize now that I still haven’t taken his hand and I do, trying to shake it frantically before realizing how immovable he is. His steady hand lifts my hand to his lips as he keeps eye-contact with me. Normally, I’d explode from the attention, but I immediately clock his fangs.

“Is something wrong?” Guillermo’s voice chimes in and I realize I must have been staring. I blink a couple of times and come back to reality, noticing Nandor’s lips are still on my hand. Guillermo takes notice as well and swats at my arm. I pull it back in surprise and Nandor’s deep voice chuckles behind me. 

“Careful with this one. She’s fragile.” Nandor’s voice is both teasing and deadly serious, as if sending a warning to his roommates. Guillermo tugs my arm and leads me out of the room. I wave at Nandor and he gives me a smirk I can only describe as fond yet… hungry. After Guillermo drags me out of the room, I immediately round on him.

“You live with a bunch of cosplayers?” Guillermo shrinks from my anger. 

“They’re quite eccentric people when they’re not working at the railroad.”

“Speaking of, why the fuck are they here playing dress-up when they should be at work?”

“It’s a Saturday evening.” I deflate with Guillermo’s response. He’s right, of course.

“Okay. I’m off to bed.” Guillermo gives me an apologetic smile and as I turn away, I realize I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.

“Upstairs to the right.”

“Thank you.” I respond curtly before making my way up the stairs. When I make it to the top of the stairs and take the first right, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. After my brain runs silent for a few moments, I decide to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Of course, that meant exiting my bedroom, and I did not want to do that just yet. I wanted to take everything in. I look at my bed frame, an ornate metal one with a stained glass lamp on the nightstand next to it. Jesus, they took this whole cosplaying thing very seriously.

Guillermo’s POV

“Are you fucking kidding me? I asked you guys to do one thing: act normal! How hard is that? You were humans once, too!” Guillermo’s whisper shouting is quieted by Nandor, who places his hand on Guillermo’s shoulder.

“Laszlo, Nadja, leave us.” Nandor waves a dismissive hand at them.

“Fuck off.” Nadja’s voice is the first to pipe in. Laszlo is quick to recover as he stands and grabs his wife’s shoulders.

“Nadja, how about you and I go to our room and… discuss this new development in the house.” Both Guillermo and Nandor bristle at his statement for the very same reason. Laszlo drags Nadja out of the room before either of them could chide the married couple. When they finally leave, Nandor looks down at Guillermo.

“I would like to court her.” He says blatantly. Guillermo feels as if he had just been electrocuted. 

“Fuck no.” Guillermo is quick to recover from his immediate shock.

“Guillermo, she is a beautiful, unwed woman of childbearing age. Would you enjoy watching your sister turn into a spinster?” 

“Not any more than I’d enjoy watching her turn into your concubine.” Nandor looks as if he could snap his bodyguard’s neck. “You will not be courting my sister, and I’m so fucking serious. She’s a Van Helsing as well – she could kill you without a second thought.” Nandor perks up at this statement.

“I do enjoy a challenge.” Nandor’s voice is smug and steady. Guillermo storms out of the room, making his way to his room under the stairs. 

Y/N's POV

The house is cold and quiet. The fire in the living room does not create enough heat to reach where I am. Guillermo set up the room nicely, with a few extra blankets that will not go unused. I smile to myself as I make my way out of the room to head to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I smack into the chest of the person waiting outside my door. Nandor. He gives me a smirk, one of the fangs popping out of his lip.

“Hello, little Y/N.” I nearly shiver at his voice, but maintain my composure. 

“Hi Nandor. Sorry, I should have been paying more attention.” He gives me a friendly smile.

“You are quite alright. Do not feel bad. I was standing right outside your door, so I should be the one apologizing.” Nandor’s hands are clasped behind his back, making him look quite serious and almost otherworldly. 

“Yes. What were you doing outside my door anyway?” I look skeptical of him. 

“I wanted to apologize for causing any strife between your brother and you.” Now that was an answer I was not expecting. I swallow and try my best to not look phased. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nandor chuckles at my words, a deep and smooth sound. 

“Guillermo clearly cares deeply for you. I wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression.” Nandor’s voice is genuine, without a hint of any of the confident bravado he carried earlier. 

“I know he cares for me. Sorry, I’m incredibly tired and have to get ready for bed.” I gently scoot him out of the way and make it to the bathroom without looking back. I lock the door behind me, standing before the mirror in front of me. It is a humbling sight: I look as though the exhaustion I’ve felt since I was 12 was surfacing all at once. Realizing my face was getting red with that discovery, I covered my face to cry. 

What I could not see beyond the door was a stunned Nandor, able to hear my soft cries. He did nothing, and yet here I am, angrier than ever. I stayed in the bathroom for a long while, knowing I could not go out and face him again.

Nandor’s POV

As he stares at the bathroom door, all he can feel is completely helpless about the situation. Had he said something wrong? What did he do? All he said was that your brother cared about you. Was that so wrong? Nandor awkwardly shuffles to his bedroom, closing the door to drown out your cries. He could hear them slow and eventually stop, listening to your feet shuffle back to the room across his. He wants to try again, to reach out and tap your door; to ask you what’s wrong. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He tries to ignore the feelings your emotions stirred within him as he listens to your breathing even out as you fall asleep.

Next Morning - Y/N’s POV

I wake up the next morning feeling completely out of it. As I opened my eyes, I felt all the emotions slam into me as they did last night. Fuck. Had I really gotten that emotional around Nandor? I knew that my emotions had gotten the better of me, and I wanted to apologize to him. He couldn’t have known that my and Guillermo’s relationship was a sore spot. Of course he wouldn’t have known that: Guillermo has always liked to keep his shame hidden. I sit up in my bed and groan, trying to catch my bearings. His door is right across from mine… Maybe I could sneak over and speak with him. 

Why I felt so drawn to Nandor, I couldn’t explain. Maybe it’s because he’s incredibly handsome, or maybe it’s due to the fact that he has no clue about me. A clean slate. That’s certainly what I felt I deserved at this moment.

I stand and make my way over to my door, opening it and running into someone for the second time in under 12 hours. I’m surprised to see that it’s Guillermo. 

“I’m so sorry,” are the first words that leave his mouth. I look at him skeptically. “Nandor told me you were upset last night. I should have known.” My face heats up in embarrassment. 

“It’s no big deal, really. I was just upset–”

“Stop. Please stop lying on my behalf. I’m your older brother, and I fucked up. I haven’t told you the whole truth.” That stops me dead in my tracks.

“What are you talking about?” Guillermo takes my hand and looks at me with an emotion on his face I can’t quite read. 

“I know I’ve been obsessed with vampires since I was a kid, and I hoped above hope that they were real. So real that I went looking to find them. I found a job application when I was 19 that seemed suspicious enough, so I showed up here: to this house,” I shake my head in confusion as Guillermo continues. “I was met by Nandor at the front door, who took me in for an interview. The job detailed the upkeep of the house and what being a servant–a familiar would be like.”

“A familiar? What the hell are you talking about?” Guillermo takes my hand and continues.

“I haven’t been working at the railroad for all of these years… I’ve been working for Nandor, Nadja, Laszlo, and Colin Robinson. I’m a familiar. They’re vampires.” My face turns blank for the first few seconds after he said the words I desperately did not want to hear. 

“Are you serious?” I can see Guillermo’s face fall. “After all these years, you still don’t care about how your actions affect other people. Do you know what it was like? Taking care of mom when all she wanted to do was see her son. Getting bullied at school for being your sister?” I wrench my hand from Guillermo’s grasp. “I get that us getting back on speaking terms is new and exciting because I’ve missed you, but don’t fuck with me about this,” Guillermo quickly grabs my hand again and drags me to Nandor’s room.

“I can prove it. Look,” Guillermo opens the door to Nandor’s room and there, laying in the middle of the room, is a large coffin made from some of the finest wood I’d ever seen. 

“What the actual hell,” my voice is quiet but certainly not calm. “What is this?”

“This is where Nandor sleeps. He sleeps during the day because he’s a vampire, not because he works night shifts. If he touches the sunlight, it hurts him. And if he steps fully into the sun, it will kill him. That’s why the windows are boarded up; that’s why this house looks so haunted: because it is. It’s haunted by the vampires who have lived in it for over 100 years,” I cover my face again and pull my hand from Guillermo’s grasp. 

“You’ve actually been galavanting around with vampires for over a decade?” I am dangerously calm. 

“I don’t know if ‘galavanting’ is the right word, but–”

“Well, what would you call it? Leaving your family behind to live with vampires. Some fantastical fucking dream you got to have,” I turn away from Nandor’s coffin, feeling scorned. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I can’t take back those years that I left you and mamá, but I want to make up for it.”

“You left us! For years, you left us! And what am I supposed to do? Be fine that you were gone for so long, only to be living your dream,” I sit against the wall, sliding to the floor. “While I was stuck taking care of mamá, who wanted nothing more than to have her son back. Do you know what that’s like?” Guillermo takes a step closer to me, slowly sitting next to me. 

“No. I don’t. But I want to. It’s not fair that I was gone, but I want to have you back in my life–”

“Did you tell mamá?” Guillermo looks ashamed and it’s all the answer I need. “Why would you ever trust me with this secret?” 

“Because I can’t try to satisfy you with lies. I’ve done that for long enough,” Guillermo looks at me with such sincerity it almost hurts. I sigh, feeling a headache coming on.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I look at him from between my fingers.

“...We are descendants of the Van Helsing family,” I immediately groan and put my head back in my hands. 

“What does that entail?” Guillermo takes a breath as he prepares to explain.

“It means that you’re probably unnaturally good at spotting vampires. I noticed you noticing their teeth last night,” I look up at Guillermo again.

“You did?” Guillermo laughs at my question. 

“Maybe it’s why I was so good and seeking vampires out in the first place,” a small smile appears on my face at his statement. 

“Guillermo De La Cruz: always alone, traversing between two worlds,” I give him a smile as I take my hands off my face.

“Not alone anymore,” he replies with an openness I had not yet seen from him. 

“Not anymore, no,” Guillermo wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him.

“Yes, yes, that’s nice. Now Guillermo, please flee from my room with your sister so I may slumber,” comes a voice from the coffin. I almost forgot we were in Nandor’s room. I laugh at his words. 

“Shit, sorry Nandor,” Guillermo says as he stands, pulling me to my feet. 

“Yeah, we’ll go,” I say as I start to leave the room. Guillermo closes the door behind him and looks at me a moment before we both start laughing. 

“Whoops,” Guillermo says first. 

“I guess I didn’t think vampires could be light sleepers,” I reply. 

“They most certainly can. Breakfast?” Guillermo asks. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to do my morning routine. I need to brush the heart-to-heart out of my teeth,” Guillermo laughs and makes his way down the stairs. 

“See you in a few!”

After taking the time to do my morning routine, I make my way down the staircase to the kitchen. Before I can get there, I’m intercepted by Colin Robinson, who is, once again, holding a cup of coffee and wearing another vest. I shuffle nervously on my feet, now come to the realization that I am surrounded by vampires.

“What makes you so different?” I blurt before I can stop myself. Colin looks bewildered. “Good morning to you, too,” he mutters. 

“I’m sorry. Good morning. What I meant was, if you’re a vampire like everyone else, why can you be awake in the daytime?” Colin takes a sip of his coffee. 

“Your first assumption was incorrect: I am not like everyone else. I’m an energy vampire: a daywalker,” I nod at his explanation, though I’m still confused. “I feed off of people’s negative energy. Energy vampires are the most common of vampires, and I’m sure you’ve met some before meeting me.”

“Are you draining me right now?” I ask cautiously. Colin seems to find this amusing.

“No, no. I do it when you least expect it.” His words hang in the air for a moment before Guillermo peaks out of the kitchen. 

“Leave her alone, Colin,” Colin’s eyes glow blue at Guillermo’s words. So his eyes were glowing yesterday. 

“Go and enjoy breakfast. I sure have enjoyed mine,” Colin smirks before walking away. I make my way to the kitchen and prepare for the rest of the day. 

The rest of the day is rather mundane. Guillermo told me I should start getting used to taking naps in the daytime if I wanted to spend time with the vampires. When asking him if he was going to take a nap, he merely laughed. 

“The job of a vampire’s bodyguard is never-ending,” he responded.

“I thought you were a familiar,” I eye him.

“I was, until the vampires got attacked by other vampires,” Guillermo responds as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I guess, for him, it has been his normal.

“Should I be worried?”

“Not with that Van Helsing blood in you,” Guillermo nudged me. “Now get some rest.” So I did. The day was spent in a mostly-dreamless slumber as I tried to preserve my energy for the nighttime. Being a college student, changing my sleep schedule was certainly not hard. I woke up to my alarm and checked the time, seven o’clock. I rub my eyes and sit up, seeing the sun had already set below the sky. Being wintertime, it gets dark a lot earlier than I’d like. Maybe vampires enjoyed the winter more for that same reason. 

While pondering existential questions about vampirism, I peek out my door to make sure I won’t run into anyone else. As I look across the hallway, I see Nandor’s door is already open. I make my way over to his room, trying to be as quiet as possible, as if sneaking into somewhere I shouldn’t be.

I look inside his door and see his coffin opened. As I survey the rest of the room, I do not find him anywhere. 

“It is rude to try and sneak up on a vampire such as myself,” I jump in surprise and turn around. Nandor stares at me, a smirk playing at his lips. 

“I wasn’t–I didn’t–” He chuckles in that same deep baritone. 

“You’re not too sneaky for a Van Helsing,” I stand a little taller and cross my arms.

“Van Helsing or not, I’m still a De La Cruz,” Nandor raises an eyebrow at me. 

“I can see the resemblance between your brother and you. Come, would you like to sit?” Nandor gestures to a couple of chairs in his room. “The others are probably out hunting for the night,” I feel my blood go cold at his words. Nandor chuckles again before speaking, “Don’t worry – I ate yesterday in preparation for your arrival,” I feel his eyes on me as I sit in the chair. He moves to sit next to me. 

“Do you… kill people?”

“Yes,” his response is quick and almost cold.

“Do you enjoy it?” Nandor sighs.

“Only sometimes. Those are boring questions. I hear them too often. Let’s talk about something more interesting,” Nandor feigns a yawn which elicits a smile from me. 

“How old are you?” Nandor peers down at me from the corner of his eye, smiling. 

“I am over seven hundred years old. How old are you?” I suddenly feel much more shy and self-conscious. “Oh, come now, don’t tell me you don’t want to answer any of my questions.”

“I’m 23,” I respond quickly, as if challenging his words. 

“But a sprout amongst the trees,” Nandor’s words flow from him. “Y/N, I like your name.”

“Thank you… It’s a family name. Where does ‘Nandor’ originate?” Nandor smiles proudly. 

“From Hungary. It’s a version of ‘Ferdinand,’” Nandor says the name with a hint of distaste. 

“You’re Hungarian?” Nandor immediately shakes his head.

“No. I’m from Al Quolnidar. It used to be part of the Ottoman Empire, but now would be southern Iran.”

“I feel like I’m getting a history lesson,” I say with a laugh.

“Do you enjoy learning?” Nandor asks, blinking slowly at me. I pause for a moment, wondering how to respond.

“Yes, I think I do,” Nandor’s chest seems to puff up proudly, like a bird showing off his feathers. 

“Then I shall give you history lessons whenever you please.”

And he does. Days pass in the house and I always await Nandor’s rising in the night. I spend some of my time getting to know everyone in the house, but Nandor, of course, steals my attention most of the time. We spend long evenings and nights getting to know one another. Yet, it feels as though my life is not as exciting as his. No matter how many times I state this fear, Nandor is quick to respond.

“Just because I’m ancient doesn’t mean I’m more interesting.” We agree to disagree on this front. During the nights we are not speaking to one another, Guillermo catches us stealing glances at one another in the kitchen or the library. He, of course, knows we both have feelings for one another, but tries to inform me of how stupid and dangerous that is. I hush him up every time, telling him to let me have my fun, as there’s no possible way Nandor feels the same way about me. Guillermo shuts up every time, going back to whatever he’s doing. During one of our nightly talks, Nandor begins to open up a bit more about his love life.

“I had 37 husbands and wives,” I nearly spit out my drink at the number. 

“Shit, I realize this is probably insensitive, but how did you keep up with all of them?” Nandor laughs and waves off my question.

“I loved 35 of them, so it was relatively easy. The other two were political marriages: women meant to bear my children to carry on my name,” I try not to blush at the thought. 

“That must have been nice–having so many partners to spend time with,” I try to spin the situation.

“Oh no, I spent most of my time with my concubines when I was on the battlefield,” I, once again, try not to choke on my drink. 

“Did you ever think it was enough?” The words fall from my lips before I can reign them in. Nandor looks at me, surprised by my question.

“No… I suppose I didn’t,” I frown at his response.

“Do you ever think about settling down?” The dam has opened. 

“I’m a vampire. All I ever think about is settling down for eternity. I lived enough lives by being a conqueror as a human,” Nandor looks at his glass, half-empty with AB+ blood.

“Seven hundred years is a long time to be alive. I feel like I’ve lived through enough as a 23-year-old,” Nandor gives me a look.

“You’re still young,” he says as a matter-of-fact statement. “Let the world open up to you.”

“I think I have had enough of the world opening up to me,” I begin to swirl the wine in my glass. 

“What do you mean?” Nandor’s curiosity is piqued.

“Helping out a single mom since you were 12 is not exactly a job for sheltered individuals,” I say with a sigh. “My mom needed someone to help out around the house after Guillermo left. I was that someone. It wasn’t all that bad, but it was hard.”

Nandor is suddenly hit with the crushing realization that he inadvertently did this to you. He took away Guillermo, he made it nearly impossible for Guillermo to reach out and speak to his family. Nandor takes a sip from his glass. If his face could blush, it would certainly be burning from his shame right now. 

“I’m sorry,” is his only reply. I give him a smile, one that he recognizes as a friendly but tired look.

“Don’t be. It shaped me into who I am. I like me,” I say simply.

“I hope you don’t mind if I were to ask you about your father?” Nandor immediately wishes he could take back his words once he watches my face fall. 

“I don’t remember much. He was a piece of crap who bullied our mother for a living. When he finally decided to get lost, I couldn’t help but feel abandoned. My mom loved me as best as she could, but that doesn’t mean it was what I needed,” I say before taking another sip of my wine. “Blood is thick, though. I am forever appreciative that I got this opportunity to reunite with Guillermo, even if that means having my worldview shattered,” I say with a laugh. 

“How do you do it?” Nandor asks as he studies my face.

“How do I do what?”

“How do you speak about such things with a smile on your face? You should be crying.”

“I weep when I’m alone,” I tell him as I look into my glass again. “It’s not very becoming of me to cry in front of people I don’t know that well, now is it?” Nandor also looks into his glass before looking back up at me.

“I would like to know you,” Nandor says those words simply, as if it wasn’t a declaration.

“I don’t think you would. I’m broken–” I start.

“I don’t know why you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth knowing. You’re allowed to be angry with me, you know? I took your brother away for years, causing you to have to raise yourself. I would understand completely if you chose to hate me,” Nandor’s words spill forth like a waterfall. 

“I don’t hate you,” my face is burning.

“Why?” Nandor’s question is exasperated. 

“I’m not sure, but I don’t. You’ve given me every chance in the world to speak freely, but I don’t feel like hating you. It does not change the past, nor does it heal the future. I think just being in your presence now is a comfort. One I should not take for granted,” Nandor is stunned into silence. 

“Can I kiss you?” I am stunned by this question. I stand abruptly before getting ready to leave. 

“I should get going,” I close the door before he has the chance to respond.

Nandor’s POV

By the end of the night, Nandor’s room looks as if a tornado blew through it. Once he heard you leave the house, he began to destroy everything within it. He threw his glass of blood at the wall, watching it shatter with a cruel satisfaction. Of course you would not reciprocate. You’re too full of life, too wonderful, too good for him. Nandor roars in anger at each of these thoughts, destroying some of the furniture in his room. All that remains untouched are his coffin and the paintings of himself on the wall: all a cruel reminder of the warlord he was. The violent, cruel, evil dictator who took lives without care. Of course you felt the need to run away for the night. He made you uncomfortable, and he couldn’t blame you for feeling that way.

At some point in the night, there is a knock at his door. Nandor rounds on Guillermo, hissing as he stares at his bodyguard. 

“Leave me,” Nandor’s words are cold and angry. But Guillermo does not leave.

“What happened?” His question brings forth a thousand more thoughts in Nandor’s head, who clutches it as if it is going to explode.

“She left. I scared her away,” Nandor’s voice cracks from emotion, and he curses himself for it, finding a book on his nightstand and ripping it apart.

“What? How?” Nandor storms over to Guillermo, towering above him intimidatingly. 

“Leave. Me.”

“This is my sister we’re talking about. My sister, who is alone in the streets of Staten Island because of you. Now, tell me what happened,” Guillermo’s temper almost matches Nandor’s. Nandor lets out a frustrated huff before explaining what happened. 

“She was never angry with me. Never angry at me, the monster who kept her brother away from her for 14 years. She held no bitterness towards me about it,” Nandor turns around to hide his shame. “None, until of course, when I ruined it by asking to kiss her,” Guillermo falls silent with these words. 

“We have to go find her. She couldn’t have gotten far–” Guillermo begins, trying to ignore the feelings stirring within him.

“We don’t have to do anything. You will go and find her. I have done enough for tonight,” Nandor hisses, throwing a glare at Guillermo over his shoulder. There’s a pause between them before Guillermo glares back at Nandor. 

“Fine. Next time, stay away from my sister,” the door slams behind him and Nandor jumps, quickly returning to destroying his room. 

Guillermo’s POV

She couldn’t have gotten far. That’s the only thing he can think as he goes out to look for you. You couldn’t have gone too far. Guillermo, met with constant lefts and rights, decides to follow a path he had taken you on during one of your many daily adventures through Staten Island. Left, left, right, straight for a few miles… You couldn’t have gone far. He tries to think of all the possible places you could have gone. 

You took your car, of course. You left in your car to do whatever you wanted, and he had no chance to stop it. Suddenly, he remembers the pang of disappointment he felt in his stomach when you said you enjoyed going to bars. He took you to a bar a couple days ago. It had food, greasy food, but it also had drinks. That’s probably where you went. He tries to stuff down the thought of you drunk driving. You wouldn’t. 

Guillermo feels an immense sense of relief when he sees your car outside the bar. He opens the doors, a sense of peace washing over him. That is, until he realizes you aren’t there. Guillermo’s panic rises within him again as he looks around. He asks the bartender if he saw you – he hadn’t. You were sending him on a wild goose chase. Guillermo clutches his head in frustration, trying to think of where else you could be. That is, of course, until he hears you scream.

Y/N’s POV

I wanted to go to the bar for the shitty food. I knew it would make me feel much better after running away from Nandor. I had been mentally kicking myself the entire night over Nandor’s question. Why did I leave? I cover my face as I sit at the front sidewalk of the bar.

Commitment issues. It was always commitment issues. I felt so embarrassed for leaving Nandor hanging, but I was terrified when he asked to kiss me. I wanted to, of course, but I had never… I mean, what would come next? Marriage? Sex? The last thought sends a shiver through me. He’s a vampire. I’m just a blip in his long existence: an impermanent thing. I cover my face and groan to get myself free of those thoughts. Standing up to go into the bar, I reach the front door before I feel my arm grabbed by some stranger, dragging me away with a hand over my mouth.

I’m dragged into an alley, a knife pressed against my back. Yeah, this would happen to me.

“Don’t scream,” the voice is scarily calm. “I’m just robbing you. This will go as easily as you want it to,” he speaks the words as if they’re molasses stuck in his teeth. As he removes his hand from my mouth, I take a deep breath. 

“I don’t have a lot of money on me,” I responded brokenly. 

“Well, it seems we have a problem, don’t we?”

“Please. Let me go. I’ll give you the keys to my car,” I am pleading now.

“You think I want some busted car from a college student?” The knife begins to dig into my skin. I gasp and the man shushes me before whispering in my ear.

“I told you this would go as easily as you wanted it to. It seems you don’t care too much,” I shake my head and try to reason with him. 

“Please, I won’t tell anyone about this. I’ll go quietly. I’ll give you everything I have, it’s just not much,” the man removes the knife from my back and brings it to my cheek. He slowly drags it down the side of my face, certainly drawing blood. I cry out, beginning to scream for help. After a brief moment, I feel the weight lifted from behind me as the man is dragged off of me. 

“Don’t touch her,” I hear a familiar voice hiss behind me. I scoot away from Nandor and the man he is now holding off the ground. His eyes are a deep red; red as blood. With that thought, I raise a hand to my cheek, feeling the warm liquid running down my face. I catch Nandor watching me touch the blood on my cheek. He hisses at the man, and it’s a deep and menacing sound. “Look away,” his voice is deep and commanding. 

I tuck my head and cover my face. The moment I do, I hear a disgusting squelching sound, followed by a gasp from the man. I’m sure he would have screamed if he could, but I would guess Nandor went for the throat.

“Y/N, we have to go,” I uncover my face to find Guillermo staring at me, frantically trying to pull me to my feet. In a split-second decision, I turn to look at Nandor, who is crouched on the ground like a predator, face deep into the man’s skin. His eyes are on mine the moment I look upon him, and I can feel his relief as he looks at me. Guillermo drags me out of the alley, holding my hand the entire way. 

“Stop looking!” Guillermo commands as he pulls me out of Nandor’s view.

“He’s not going to hurt me–” 

“You’re bleeding,” Guillermo interrupts me. “I don’t want to tempt an apex predator, thank you very much.” He opens the passenger door and helps me sit down before going to the driver’s side. Guillermo speeds off in his car, headed back in the direction of the house. When I looked behind the car, all I could see was Nandor standing in the middle of the road, blood covering his face.

We got back home after driving for a few minutes in silence. When Guillermo parks the car, he looks over at me.

“Are you okay?” I cover my face and look away.

“Yes,” I responded curtly.

“No you’re not,” Guillermo puts a hand on my shoulder to comfort me, rubbing it softly. “It’s okay to not feel okay after something like that. I remember the first time I saw a human die at the hands of vampires. It’s scary. You shouldn’t have had to see that,” he speaks so gently.

“I’m okay, really. I mean, yes it was scary… I guess I’m just glad Nandor got there in time.” Guillermo nods.

“Me too. You can thank him when he’s not all bloodlusted,” Guillermo almost reads my mind. 

“I’ll just clean up and it’ll be alright–” I begin.

“No. He’s already got the scent of your blood. He’s going to be touchy for the rest of the night. We need to get you patched up and to bed,” Guillermo cuts me off. “That is a talk that can happen another day.” I finally relent, nodding in agreement.

“Okay… Can I go get cleaned up now?” Guillermo turns the car off and walks beside me the entire way, keeping an eye out for Nandor. “I’ll be fine, you know?” He scoffs at my words.

“You’re as stubborn as him – I’ll give you that,” he mutters under his breath. When we make it in the house, Guillermo helps clean me up. Luckily, the other vampires were nowhere to be seen, though Guillermo was sure they could smell my blood. “I’m going to put a cross on your door tonight. Give you a couple stakes…” 

“Would that really be necessary?” Guillermo shoots me a look. 

“I’m not taking any risks. He’s dangerous and I will not have my sister getting bitten by a vampire,” he continued to dab a washcloth on the wound on my cheek. 

“It’s going to be a huge, ugly scar, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of despair in my voice. Guillermo sighs.

“I don’t know… Probably… But not ugly! Let’s… not worry about that right now,” he tries to filter his words, but it’s really no use. He begins to use alcohol prep pads on my skin, causing me to hiss through my teeth. 

“Ow, that really hurts,” Guillermo’s face turns sympathetic.

“You’re very strong. I don’t think it needs stitches: it wasn’t that deep. Can I put gauze on your cheek?” I nod.

“Here we go. It’ll be okay. You will be staying in your room tonight,” Guillermo’s words leave no room for argument. I groan at him, rolling my eyes.

“Fine,” Guillermo nods as he finishes disinfecting my face and putting gauze over it. 

“You’ll bounce back quickly. Something tells me you always do,” he gives me a wink and helps me stand before pushing me into my room. Guillermo places a stake on my bedside table, then goes to hang a cross on the front of the door. 

“Is all of this really necessary?” My question is exasperated. Guillermo shoots me a glare. 

“Is keeping you safe from a deadly vampire necessary? Oh geez, let’s think about that,” I roll my eyes again at his words. 

“Okay, thank you. Good night, Guillermo,” I sigh and place the hand over my gauze. Guillermo’s eyes soften and he makes his way to sit on my bed next to me. 

“You’ll be okay, I promise. I just want to be careful, you know?” I nod along to Guillermo’s words. 

“Thanks. I know you’re just looking out for me. I appreciate it,” I say to him sincerely. 

“Just rest. The morning will be here before you know it,” he leans over and gives me a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too… Good night,” I say to him. Guillermo smiles and makes his way to my door, closing it behind him. 

I wish I could say that I tried falling asleep, but I did not. I stayed awake for what felt like hours, tossing and turning in my bed. All I could think about was Nandor standing in the middle of the road, watching me drive away with Guillermo. There’s a level of guilt that falls on my shoulders as I think about that look he gave me. I hold my cheek, beginning to cry softly at the thought of my face being marred for the rest of my life. 

After crying for a long enough time to feel dehydrated afterwards, I hear the loud flapping of wings and a squeak outside my door. There’s a poof sound, followed shortly by a hissing as Nandor approaches my door. 

“Fucking guy,” Nandor hissed at the cross on my door. I stand, tiptoeing over to the door before cracking it open. Before me was Nandor, cleaned up and in the same outfit I saw him in earlier. His face immediately softened once he saw me. “Y/N… Are you okay?” He reaches a hand out and I flinch, a little afraid from what I saw earlier. 

“I’m alright, I promise. You… shouldn’t be here,” Nandor scoffs at my words.

“What did your brother tell you?” He spits the words. 

“He said you would be… touchy. I don’t want to irritate you,” I whisper, trying to make sure Guillermo wouldn’t hear us. Nandor���s face widens into a smirk.

“Oh no, my dear, wrong touchy,” I blush in surprise and he takes this as an opportunity to push past me, closing the door swiftly behind him as he carries me towards my bed. 

“Nandor! Please,” I protest as he lays me down on my bed, quickly following to curl up behind me.

“Please what, darling? Use your words,” he nuzzles against my face, nose rubbing against the gauze on my cheek. 

“I don’t– I can’t…” The words are lost on my lips and Nandor shushes me. 

“I know, darling. I can smell it on you,” he nuzzles against my cheek again, pressing a kiss to the gauze on my face. “A virgin, are we? I smelled it in your blood,” Nandor whispers as he puts an arm around me. I blush deeply in surprise that he was able to guess so easily. 

“I grew up very Catholic,” are the only words that leave my mouth. Nandor chuckles darkly.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter why, it matters that you are,” he kisses my cheek again. I shake my head again, trying in futility to deny.

“I ran away after you asked to kiss me,” Nandor stops suddenly, his grip loosening. 

“I will leave you if you wish it,” he continues to pull away. 

“No! I mean… you don’t have to,” I try to cover the desperation in my voice. Nandor chuckles again and leans in against me.

“You smell amazing,” Nandor continues to nuzzle against my cheek. 

“I shouldn’t have run away. I’m sorry,” I feel the remorse surge within me.

“Don’t be. I got a free meal of it,” he teases gently before nosing against the pulse point on my neck. 

“But I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. I should have told you that I’m afraid to get close to people, that it was never your fault–” Nandor nips my neck gently, causing the words to die in my throat.

“Hush, Y/N. Stop apologizing. I don’t want you wasting your breath on something I already understand,” he leans down and kisses my head. I flip to my other side, facing Nandor and getting a good look at him for the first time since the attack. His eyes are still a faint red, pupils blown wide with some primal feeling deep within him. I reach a hand up and push a strand of his hair behind his ear. I hear a low groan rise from his throat.

“What does it feel like?” I ask suddenly. Nandor pulls away to look at me.

“What does what feel like?”

“Drinking blood. Is it… I don’t know… enjoyable?” Nandor smirks as he looks at me. 

“I wouldn’t be able to explain it. Drinking blood is like nothing I ever did when I was a human. It feels so powerful, like something out of a movie,” Nandor gets lost in thought, staring out of the paper-covered window.

“What does it feel like for a human?” Nandor looks at me a moment, before answering.

“When I was turned, it was not a pleasant experience. I’m assuming that was due to the violence of the one turning me, but I’ve heard some humans find it to be a pleasant experience. Why?” Nandor asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“I… would you drink from me?” I look up at him shyly. Nandor’s breath hitches as he looks at me. 

“You would want that?” I nod, the words dying in my chest.

“Would you remember me?” Nandor looks perplexed by the question.

“I would know you through the rain and the snow, through every storm that appears in the night. Just because your blood calls to me doesn’t mean I will answer in violence,” Nandor leans down and presses a kiss to my undamaged cheek. 

“You make it sound so easy,” I whisper to him.

“For some, it really is.”

“Is it for you?” Nandor hesitates.

“No, but I will not forget you,” I lean forward and hug Nandor against me. 

“You saved my life once. I owe you, at the very least,” Nandor leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss. It is a deep and passionate kiss that conveys the days of yearning between us. I could imagine myself getting lost in that kind of yearning forever. The kind of yearning that leaves one seeking answers from the beginning of the first interaction. 

Nandor’s tongue presses against my lips, licking off any balm I put on there a few hours before. I open my mouth to him, breath getting stolen as he takes a greedy gulp of my air. 

“The second you view this as a transactionary agreement,” he starts as he pulls away from my lips, “you’ll forget how much I want to get to know you. I don’t want you to forget that,” he says as he presses a kiss to my nose. He pushes my head to the side gently, sniffing my pulse point and taking a moment to just sit there. 

“You’re so sweet,” I whisper to him.

“Sweet. That’s not a word that’s been used to address me before,” He laughs and presses a kiss to my neck. I giggle softly as he continues to press kisses to my neck. “I like those noises. You sound happy. I only want to hear you happy,” Nandor mutters against my neck.

“I hope that not always being happy is not a let-down,” Nandor chuckles again, nipping my neck softly. 

“Don’t speak as if you’re some consolation prize. I don’t care. I like you,” he mumbles against my skin. 

“Are you going to bite me now?” I ask, trying to deflect some of the attention he was putting towards me. Nandor nuzzles against my neck again, dragging his teeth along my neck. 

“The second you say it back, I will. I like you,” Nandor says, pulling away to look me in my eyes. I blush deeply, trying to maintain eye-contact with him.

“I like you, too,” I say as Nandor leans down and captures my lips in another kiss.

“That’s more like it,” he says, bending down and pressing a kiss to my jaw. He leans down and kisses against my neck, growling against my skin. “So warm, so soft, so sweet,” he sinks his fangs into my skin. It feels like a short needle prick and I jump a little in surprise. As I jump, Nandor’s hold on me tightens to keep me in place. I whimper a little as I feel him begin to take pulls of my blood. 

“That… feels really nice,” I mutter to myself, feeling as if I had entered a trance. Nandor groans as he continues to drink deeply from my neck. The sounds are lewd and wanton as my body curls into him. It feels as though a thousand hands are holding me against him, making me feel safe and protected in his arms.

He takes a couple more pulls of my blood before pulling away, licking the puncture wounds on my neck. He kisses the marks gently, groaning from deep in the back of his throat. 

“You taste divine,” he breathes the words as if they are keeping him alive. 

“That felt really nice,” I mutter, still in a daze. Nandor chuckles and holds my face in his hand.

“I’m sure it did. I made sure to be gentle with you,” he says as he kisses the spot where he bit again. There are moments like these that help one realize just how connected blood really makes us. It feels as if we are bonded in some way, and I can tell Nandor is feeling it, too. “I’m sure you can feel how intense things are right now. Just take a deep breath, okay?” He holds eye-contact with me and takes a deep breath, trying to get me to follow suit. When I do, he smiles and kisses my cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers. My eyebrows knit together with his nickname.

“Oh, you liked that, did you, darling?” He kisses my lips quickly before saying, “my good girl,” once again.

4am - Nandor’s POV

Nandor woke up with you in his arms, feeling the weight and security you offered him. However, after a moment of peace, he feels something pressed against his back. 

“Get up,” Guillermo’s voice is a deep warning. 

“Guillermo–” Nandor tries to speak.

“Get up. I will not ask again,” he hisses again, holding the stake against Nandor’s back. Nandor looks over as you begin to stir. 

“You wouldn’t want to wake her up, would you?” Nandor’s voice is a deep purr. 

“Did you bite her?” Guillermo already knows the answer.

“Only because she asked,” Nandor nearly taunts Guillermo, who grabs Nandor and pulls him out of the bed. 

“I told you to leave my sister alone,” Guillermo growls at Nandor, who holds his hands up in defense. 

“She invited me in,” Guillermo frowns at Nandor’s words. When you stir, they both look over in surprise.

“Did anyone think about asking me what I wanted?” You stare at the two of them, glaring at Guillermo. “Yes, I invited him in. Yes, I realize that may sound dumb to you. No, I do not regret it,” Guillermo bristles at your words.

“I’m just making sure you’re safe,” his voice is a strangled mix of frustrated and calm. 

“Unhand Nandor, dude,” you say to your brother, who begrudgingly lets him go. Guillermo storms out of the room, causing you to want to go after him. 

“Don’t. He needs a minute alone,” Nandor starts.

“You don’t know what he needs. I need to apologize to him.” You get up and make your way out of the room, heading down the stairs to find Guillermo fuming in the kitchen. 

Guillermo’s POV

“I’m sorry,” are all the words you can muster. He hears you from behind him and he turns around, glaring.

“I told you to leave it alone for the night, and what did you do? Not that. Certainly not what your brother asks you to do,” you frown.

“It’s fine, he was fine! Nothing happened,” at your words, Guillermo’s eyes flicker to the puncture wounds on your neck. She flushes in embarrassment and quickly covers up the marks. “Nothing beyond that.”

“I don’t care what happened between the two of you, I want Nandor to be good to my sister. I don’t want him to lose interest the second you lose your novelty to him.”

“I don’t think I’m some novelty to him. I think he likes me–” Guillermo holds a hand up to quiet his sister. 

“I need to speak with Nandor,” he says with a biting edge to his tone. 

“Not with that stake, you don’t,” Y/N says with a glare thrown his way. Guillermo huffs, standing up from the table and walking out of the kitchen without his stake. As he stomps his way up the stairs, he sees Nandor peer from out of his room. 

“You, me, talk. Now,” Nandor opens the door for him, allowing him entry. 

“Guillermo!” Nandor says with a friendly lilt in his voice, trying to appeal to Guillermo’s normally good-natured attitude. “What is cracking, friend? How has your day been going?” Guillermo looks at Nandor’s room, still in complete disarray from the night before. He turns at Nandor and looks up at him. 

“When you said you wanted to court my sister, I could have killed you. When I saw you holding my sister this morning, I almost killed you,” Nandor shrinks from Guillermo’s words. But, he sighs. “Be good to her. That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?” Nandor immediately shakes his head. 

“I will be the best to her. Only the best she deserves,” Guillermo nods, thinking over Nandor’s words. He huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If you so much as break her heart, I’ll put a stake through yours,” Guillermo threatens. Nandor crosses his fingers over his heart.

“Scout’s honor,” he bares his teeth in a little smile at his bodyguard. Nandor nearly jumps for joy as he makes his way out of the room to find you. When he sees you at the bottom of the stairs, Nandor grabs you around your waist and spins you around, kissing your bandaged cheek again. 

Y/N's POV

“Well, that went well…” I say with a laugh as Nandor brings me closer to kiss my cheek. 

“It did. Better than I could have ever imagined, my morning star,” I blush at his nickname, which elicits a satisfied noise from Nandor. “You like my little nicknames?” Nandor leans in and kisses my lips once again with a surprising amount of gentle energy. He dips me once my feet touch the floor, breaking apart only to look at me with the same reverence as yesterday. 

“Yes, I could get used to the nicknames,” Nandor smiles brightly, his fangs bared. 

“Anything for you, little one,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss me again.

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

CYOA 69 sneak peak

Since I'm not going to manage to finish the chapter before I go on vacation, rather than gif hints, I've decided to post the opening scene of the chapter beneath the cut. Surprise?

Private WhatsApp Chat Resumed: Monday 28th March, 2022, 00:00 Members: Lily Evans, James Potter

================================

Lily Evans: You're still out, right? For the rest of the day?

James Potter: yeah we got out of the first room early, so i say we, sirius did most of the heavy lifting because i've been completely out of it just waiting for the next one to be ready they said it would take about 25 minutes

Lily Evans: So I suppose I don't have much time to talk to you?

James Potter: that seems to be today's recurring theme

Lily Evans: I KNOW And I'd wanted SO much to have a properly long conversation with you earlier.

James Potter: so did i, but it's alright hey, lily?

Lily Evans: Yeah?

James Potter: are we okay?

Lily Evans: What?

James Potter: it's just that i feel like we might not be, so i wanted to check

Lily Evans: Wait, what? Why wouldn't we be okay?

James Potter: because of what happened earlier

Lily Evans: You're upset about that?

James Potter: no, but i mean, sort of not because it wasn't the best thing that's ever happened to me, because it was but we had an agreement, you made it really clear that you had this boundary in place and that we shouldn't move too fast, except then we did, and i'm worried that i've made you do something that you weren't ready for which i'm so sorry about, if i have

Lily Evans: Have you been worrying about this since we hung up?

James Potter: yeah well not initially because i was still, y'know heaven

Lily Evans: Right

James Potter: but then i started to really think about what it meant and i feel like i got carried away and cocked up, and i owe you an apology

Lily Evans: No you don't!

James Potter: but i do though, we said we weren't going to do this and now we have because i brought up your friend's brother and asked you to tell me you wanted me when i could have not done those things so i don't want you to feel like this is something you have to keep up just for my sake if you need to take a few steps back now, please tell me and we can do that

Lily Evans: JAMES

James Potter: i just don't want to lose you, i don't want to fuck this up Lily Evans: You're NOT going to lose me, okay?? And I really need you to know that I don't want to lose you, either. Yes, I freaked out earlier when you brought up Aaron because I'd been so sure that you KNEW there wasn't a chance I'd be interested in somebody else and then suddenly it dawned on me that things from your end must have seemed more one-sided than they were, so I told you all of that stuff in a rush, but if the trains hadn't been cancelled and I hadn't gotten home so late I would have said it all anyway, James. I would have said it earlier. Only I'd have said it in the way I'd planned to last night, and it would have made me sound a lot less like a maniac. So PLEASE, don't worry about me and my boundaries right now, because I feel really good about what happened.

James Potter: you'd planned to say that stuff today?

Lily Evans: Yes.

James Potter: because of my birthday??

Lily Evans: Not because it was your birthday, obviously it BEING your birthday made it more of an ideal time, but no. I wanted to say it to you because honestly, James, I think we should just go for it.

James Potter: what do you mean?

Lily Evans: I mean IT As in you and me. As in us. I think we should actually BE an us.

James Potter: you mean be a couple?

Lily Evans: Yes, a couple. Let's be a couple. That's what I want. Is that what you want?

James Potter: lily are you sure? are you REALLY sure?

Lily Evans: Yes, I'm sure.

James Potter: because i don't want you to rush into anything you're not ready for i meant it when i said i was happy to wait

Lily Evans: I know, and I appreciate you so much for that but I promise you, I'm ready. I'm there. I am. I am mad about you, I want us to be together, and I'm SO sick of only being able to half-acknowledge it when all I want to do every minute of every day is let you know it. I said I was frightened and I wasn't lying, but I'm also sick of letting my life be dictated by a bunch of fears and insecurities that aren't going to go away if I wait patiently for them to leave. I have to actually DO something to confront them. So I want us to go for it. I can't be just friends anymore.

James Potter: right

Lily Evans: Unless this isn't sounding good to you and I've completely misread the situation?

James Potter: GOD NO LILY you haven't misread AT ALL i'm just stunned

Lily Evans: Oh. Okay.

James Potter: because i wasn't expecting this i was expecting the opposite after this morning, honestly i thought i'd fucked up somehow i'd thought you were going to want to take a step back

Lily Evans: No, I don't, I really don't, I'm so tired of taking steps back, James. I want to move forward. I want to move forward with you, because I trust you and I know how much you care about me, and I care SO much about you, and I think we could be really great together, you know? I think we could make each other really happy.

James Potter: lily we ARE great together

Lily Evans: WE ARE

James Potter: I KNOW

Lily Evans: WE ALWAYS HAVE BEEN

James Potter: from day one i've always said it i mean, not to you, i was terrified to say it to you but remus and sirius have heard a LOT about it

Lily Evans: Well, I want you to say it to me now, please. Because, you know, if there's a full James Potter experience that I've been missing out on while we've been just friends for the past year and a bit, I want in as soon as possible.

James Potter: oh, there's an experience

Lily Evans: I thought so.

James Potter: very exclusive though

Lily Evans: I should bloody well hope it is, I'm not sharing you with anyone else.

James Potter: there's a single entrant limit, what do you take me for?

Lily Evans: There's not a dress code, is there?

James Potter: dress code is wear whatever you want or wear nothing

Lily Evans: And I can alternate between both?

James Potter: don't let my personal preferences dissuade you from putting on clothes

Lily Evans: I kind of have to if I want to keep my job, right?

James Potter: right so we're together then? properly together? you and me?

Lily Evans: That's what I want, more than anything. I mean that. So if that's what you want too, then yes. Please.

James Potter: OF COURSE THAT'S WHAT I WANT

Lily Evans: Unless you'd rather not share our anniversary with your birthday?? I don't know how you feel about that. Although it is after midnight HERE.

James Potter: you're talking about anniversaries you're talking about OUR anniversary lily LILY

Lily Evans: I mean, yeah? I just assumed. Are you okay with that?

James Potter: AM I OKAY WITH IT LILY LILY EVANS

Lily Evans: ????

James Potter: i'm sitting here in a waiting room trying to look like i'm not having a heart attack while you tell me that all my dreams are coming true and you're wondering if i'm OKAY with it?

Lily Evans: You have dreams that are unrelated to me!

James Potter: ALL MY DREAMS, LILY i can't believe this is happening this isn't real i'm going to wake up any second, aren't i? i passed out on my bed or something. this can't be real it can't be you're SURE?

Lily Evans: YES I'M SURE

James Potter: you're not worried about rushing into anything??

Lily Evans: No, honestly, I've been thinking about that, and would it even BE rushing into anything when you're still travelling until July and we'll have already been together for a solid three months, long distance, by the time you get back?

James Potter: right yeah so you're cool with that? with the distance?

Lily Evans: Yes, of course, we've been apart this whole time and it hasn't done a thing to get in the way of us becoming as close as we have. And I trust you. I trust you SO much. I just don't want to keep holding things back.

James Potter: you mean everything to me, lil everything in the world you're it for me, you always have been if i tell you that i would do anything for you, i'm not exaggerating, because i really really would i'm sorry if that's too much, it's true though, that's how i feel

Lily Evans: It's not. It's not too much at all, I feel the exact same way. You're it for me too. You really are.

James Potter: and i'm going to do everything in my power to make you happy, alright? i promise i promise that i'm never going to take you for granted for fuck's SAKE they want us in the room now i literally just went and hid in the toilet twenty seconds ago but now sirius is banging on the door one sec, i'm going to tell them that something's come up and i can't do it

Lily Evans: No, it's okay! Do it, it's fine! Sirius has a bunch of genuinely cool plans for your birthday that you deserve to enjoy and I really need to go to bed anyway, hell week starts in the morning and I'm going to need SOME sleep to get through it.

James Potter: lily i will tell everyone in this building to fuck off right now if you want me to, it's fine

Lily Evans: No really, don't! Last night I was convinced that I wanted to have this perfect, planned, lengthy conversation about us, but honestly it really doesn't matter how it happened, I'm just so happy that it did.

James Potter: i'm crazy about you, do you know that?

Lily Evans: I'm crazy about you! You're all I bloody think about!

James Potter: YOU'RE ALL I THINK ABOUT TOO HENCE THE CAPS FOR EMPHASIS

Lily Evans: Okay so GO HAVE FUN and I'm going to go to bed and try to sleep and I'll text you in the morning and we'll sort out a time to talk PROPERLY and figure all this out, okay?

James Potter: okay okay okay jesus, my heart's beating so fast i might collapse

Lily Evans: Lol mine too, I'm going to need the blue Nytol to sleep tonight.

James Potter: i'm going to need a mallet to the head

Lily Evans: Tire yourself out having THE BEST time tonight and you'll be alright. Now get out of the loo and escape the room, I adore you.

James Potter: i adore you too, you goddess of a woman

Lily Evans: Okay I'm GOING TO BED or else you're never going to leave that bathroom and I'm going to be a zombie with eye bags at work tomorrow.

James Potter: you could not sleep for a week and still be beautiful

Lily Evans: STOP

James Potter: NO I WILL NOT STOP, IT'S LITERALLY MY JOB TO TELL YOU THAT NOW

Lily Evans: OKAY DON'T STOP BUT LEAVE THE LOO, OKAY?

James Potter: I'M LEAVING NOW

Lily Evans: Okay GOODNIGHT, I miss you already x

James Potter: GOODNIGHT i miss you too x

[back2bluesidex]

Slide - The Reconciliation - MYG (18+)

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 1.2k+

Summary: 

"I can see the pain in your eyes I don't wanna say that I'm God, but I'll take you to heaven if you die" 

Alternatively, 

“There was never a time when I wasn’t yours.”

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Warnings: therapy, tiny angst.

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

Taglist requests are closed for now

A/N: This is a feel-good chapter I swear! we are at the end almost. next chapter will be more of an epilogue than an actual chapter.

“Why did you choose to keep the baby? From our conversations and assessments before, what I have understood is that you are not a turbulent person. You tend to think logically before taking any step, then despite knowing the baby is not a good idea why did you keep it?” one of the doctors once asked you while you were at the retreat. 

“I wanted to keep a trace of Yoongi in my life. I know it was not a valid reason to keep a baby but for him I challenged my rationality.” You replied without fumbling. You were feeling a lot better already. You accepted your mistakes, your bad decision of keeping the baby as a replacement of Yoongi, you also accepted the fact that when you go back to Korea, Yoongi might not wait for you. 

You accepted that life needs to go on. 

You accepted that everything becomes alright when it’s time. 

“How do you feel about him now? If I ask you to describe him with an emotion, what would you use?” the doctor questioned further. 

“Love.” a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. 

“So, your feelings towards him remain unchanged despite the pain he had made you go through?” 

“Yes. I think it was tough for me because a part of me wanted more from him, be it his attention, his validation - I wanted more, which was simply unnecessary. I don’t want anything from him any longer. I can love him for as long as it lasts and it’s okay if he doesn’t feel the same this time too.” 

“Are you sure you will be okay?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

Even amid the busy cacophony of the airport, your ears register Yoongi’s voice crystal clear - as if your brain has curved out a side of it to fit his essence perfectly. 

When your eyes fall on him, waving at you slightly, you see how different he looks. 

His hair has grown longer, cheeks have sunken a bit, his eyes are tired with heavy bags underneath those. 

But he looks jovial. His eyes have a shine you have hardly ever witnessed, his gummy smile is small but real, his face is shining what you could name as prosperity. 

And all of these are for you. 

Or at least.. You think so. 

“You came.” you whispered as you reach close to him. The woody fragrance of his skin makes you feel like you are finally home. 

“I had to.” Yoongi smiles at you. And then you see him inhaling a sharp breath as if he is preparing himself for a war. 

“Y/N..” he utters your name again and this time the vibration of his voice sends a spark through every inch of your body, “I am in love with you. I think I have been in love with you for a long time now. I know I have made you go through hell all alone. But if you give me a chance - I will.. I will be the best for you. I will try to give you back everything you have lost because of me.” 

Your heart thumps inside your chest. 

This. You have waited for a lifetime to hear this. You have imagined how elated you would feel when you finally hear these words from the man that you love. But no imagination prepares you the way your heart finds itself at peace. The way you feel less excited but more content. 

So, this is how it feels to be loved by the person you love? 

It feels like a warm ray of sunshine in the cold dark winter. It feels like the first shower that cuts through the scorching summer heat. It feels like finding an oasis after wandering aimlessly in a desert. 

It feels like finding a home amid the maze of glass and concrete. 

“Are you sure you are not misjudging your feelings?” you find yourself saying. 

Yoongi smiles a little, “I have never been surer.” 

“I guess you already know that I feel the same for you. But still I think we should take it slow. We should take some time before labeling our relationship.” you place your suggestion. No matter how sure both of you are, you don’t want to jump into anything. You did once and the results weren’t in favor of any of you. 

Yoongi nods with glassy eyes, “You’re right. Let’s take it slow.” 

“What do you think?” You read Yoongi’s lips as hearing anything overpowering the sound of music is almost impossible with these headphones on. 

Putting your thumb up, you nod with satisfaction and with a smile playing on your lips. 

Min Yoongi is not only the man you love, he is also the best music producer you have ever known. 

The name of his studio is justified - this is indeed a lab of a musical genius who doesn't even need lyrics to make you feel a thousand emotions. Only the tune is enough for him. 

“Who is this for?” you ask while detaching the bulky headphone from your ears. 

“No one. This is a personal project. For me…. And you.” Yoongi smiles sheepishly. 

He looks so young under the dim and artificial light of the studio. He looks so fresh - so pretty. You want to reach out for his hair like all those times before, when you had no right on him. 

But this time you do, so you spread your fingers to touch his hair. 

Running your fingers through his long dark locks and tugging those behind his ear you say, “what about the lyrics? Have any?” 

“Not yet.” he replies, reaching for your fingers and intertwining those with his. He pulls your hand towards his mouth, places a sweet kiss on the top of it. 

“Wait then.” you leave your chair to access your bag.

Yoongi looks at you in awe when you place your notebook on his lap, lyrics written all over the pages. He takes it up and reads what you have given him. 

“Somebody does love. But I'm thinking 'bout you?” he reads quietly but his voice has dipped down an octave lower. 

“When did you write it?” he places his question. 

"Who do you love?

Who else do you think?

Who else do you remember?

Who else do you hate?

Who do you live for?

Who else are you smiling for?

Who do you cry for?

Could this be love?"

“At the retreat.” 

“Is it.. Is it for me?” 

You nod in affirmation. The back of your neck feels hot. 

“When you left, I thought you were going to kick me out of your life. I.. I thought you hated me.” Yoongi’s voice trembles. So does your heart. 

“I would never.” you reach for his lips, place a sweet kiss on those pink muscles. 

He kisses you back. Grabbing the back of your head, he pushes your entire weight on his body. 

“I.. I love you, Y/N. I love you so fucking much. Will you- will you be mine?” Yoongi speaks with fear and hesitation in his voice. 

“There was never a time when I wasn’t yours.” you connect your forehead with his. 

After a month of taking things slow with him, you think it’s finally the time you dive head first in the vast ocean called Min Yoongi. 

And the way Yoongi wraps himself around you, you know he is just as eager to dive into you too. 

You have never wanted anything more. 

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[bumpkinspice0]

Know One Knows the Trouble, Honey, That We've Been Through 2/3

Logan Howlett/ Wolverine x Mutant!FemReader

Chapter Rating: Mature

Word Count: 5.6k

Summary: Your emotions start to settle and you get to know Logan a little more Warnings: Hangover? Negative self-talk, SEXUAL TENSION, pg-13 dirty talk, talk of past trauma/abuse

Series Masterlist

Part 1 Part 3

AO3 if you prefer to read there

_______

You always found it wasn’t the hangover that was the worst part after a night of drinking— it was the shame. A heavy groan rolls out of your lips, your achy shoulders leaning over the third cup of coffee that was forced on you. You’re still surprised you had the courage to leave your room at all. This isn’t the first time the X-men nursed you back to the land of living after a night of less-than-savory decisions, but you do hope it’s the last.

Thankfully, you hadn’t seen Logan all morning.

He drove you both home. He carried you to bed. You called him a fucking calendar boy. God, you had to be here for at least another week. How on earth are you going to get through this? Could you possibly avoid him for days? With enough dedication… Maybe. 

“You and Logan seem to have made up then?” Storm muses, taking a seat next to you at the kitchen counter. 

“We… went to Stevie’s,” You grumble into your coffee. 

“Of course you did,” She tries and fails to hide her smile. You’d drug Storm there plenty of times back in the day.

“I thought I’d be nice. Be The bigger person, ya know. Make peace. It was supposed to be one drink, Ororo,” You slump down to the counter, burying your face in your arms, “He carried me to my goddamn bed.”

“Did he now?” You hear the intrigue in her voice. 

“I called him a lumberjack. Or a firefighter or something. Scream-sang half the way home too I think.”

“Mmm,” she hums into her mug before taking a generous sip of coffee, “And did… anything else happen last night?”

You immediately shoot up, cheeks heating in an instant. Storm always loved the juicier gossip. 

“Nope!” you blurt just a little too loudly, “Just shamefully being tucked in, unfortunately.” 

“Shame. I think he likes you.”

“Yeah… right,” You wheeze, “The professor made him my chaperone to the greenhouse yesterday, I got drunk on his dime, and on top of that I think I scratched up his bike when I knocked it over… with him on it.”

“Details, darling. Details.” She gets up to round the kitchen island, pulling out a cereal box and two bowls. “More importantly, what do you think of him?”

“Well, he wrecked the flowers you got me.” you bluntly point out. 

“A fact that I’m sure Jean is scolding him for this very moment,” she pours two bowls of Honeycombs, one heftier than the other, “He’s a difficult person, yes, but he’s trying to get better too. It took a lot of convincing from all of us when he first came here.”

Sounds like someone else that used to come here. You want to say it but the double meaning in her tone is clear.

You recall trying to run away at least twice when you first came to the X Mansion. It was scary, and you’d been in fight or flight mode for so long that you didn’t know how to react. Everything was always a matter of time at that point in your life. It seemed like everyone became an enemy, eventually. Every home was abandoned, eventually.  You would have run out of time eventually— if it wasn’t for Charles. 

“He’s not so bad on the eyes either though, is he?” Storm slides a near overflowing bowl to you, milk splashing over the sides. 

“Ro,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to hide your smile more than anything. She was always so forward, “I think I said he could be in a calendar last night. Like the sexy calendars.”

“Ah, so the drunken confessions have gotten the ball rolling,” Storm slides back in next to you, “Other than his leg buckling good looks, what else do you think of him?” 

It’s still too early in this relationship to form a concrete opinion about him. He ruined your flowers and you got drunk with him. It’s not the best start to a friendship— but you’ve had worse. 

You think back to the hastily taken-off shoes next to your bed. An untouched glass of water on your nightstand you immediately downed. The crinkles around his eyes that deepened when he laughed at whatever you were rambling about back at the bar. An abandoned red flannel left around your shoulders when you woke up this morning…

He didn’t talk much, but he listened. He cared in his own tough guy way.

“I think… he’s nice.”

______________

You choose to work on the tunnels today, not ready to face the blinding sunlight outside. The max dose of ibuprofen and a steady supply of Gatorade were working overtime as you blast further into the rock. There was still at least half a mile to clear out and Hank wanted to get started on the wiring for the lights and ventilation as soon as possible. 

Ideally, you wouldn't be doing anything today. Drinking always took it out of you, but you couldn’t just loaf around the mansion nursing a hangover when you were hired to do a job. You didn’t even get in the tunnel until noon and after an hour of punching through bedrock, you’re already exhausted. 

You emerge from the tunnel back into the basement for a small break, soot already covering you despite your less-than-enthusiastic work effort. For once you didn’t want to bury yourself in your work— metaphorically at least. For the first time since you got here, you give yourself a chance to breathe. 

The sleek lower halls of the X-men haven’t changed. It looks the same, but it feels completely different— just like fucking everything lately. Nothing changed here, but you have. A place you were once so proud to be. Now… now you don’t know. 

But maybe you’re starting to come to terms with it— feeling comfortable, even. It’s okay that things change, literally everything does. That’s what moving forward is all about. 

Is that what you were doing? Moving forward?

You come to the display cases, everyone’s suits standing proudly on faceless mannequins. Suits of the current X-Men and the past. They still had yours, of course. A plaque that read ‘(Bull)Dozer’ rested at its feet. You wonder if it would still fit you. 

“Always wondered who wore that one.” A now familiar gruff voice pulls you out of your reminiscing. You turn and there he is, leaning against the adjacent wall, that blasted smirk on his face. 

He’s suited up, a fresh sheen of sweat marking his forehead and a faint smell of smoke lingering around him. He must have just come from the danger room.

You give your own smirk and give him a quick once-over, taking in the garish yellow that covered him from head to toe, “I didn’t expect yours to be so… Bright.”

“Goes with my eyes,” He teases, coming to stand next to you. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how filthy you surely must be. You resist the urge to dust yourself off. There was no use, you were covered in dirt. “How you feeling today, darlin’?” 

The pet name shoots butterflies straight to your stomach. Either from embarrassment or… something else.

“Just fine.” You say as confidently as you can. 

“Didn’t expect you to be so… productive today.” He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Oh, I’ve been around the block a few times. I’m tough.”

“I’m sure you are.”

The air is suddenly suffocating and you’re not sure how much of it is in your head. You don’t dare bring up whatever you could have possibly said last night. You couldn’t just ignore it either. 

“I wanted to say… thanks… for last night,” you break the silence, “But also I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry you had to play babysitter.”

“Ya know you’ve got a nasty habit of apologizing for things you shouldn’t be apologizing for.”

“Logan–”

“I had a good time last night,”  He cuts you off, going from a teasing tone to a more serious one. He means it. He wants you to know he means it, “Wasn’t the first time I had to carry someone to bed and it won’t be the last. I didn’t mind. You were pretty fun before that too. Play a mean game of pool.”

You’re not sure but you swear you see him wink.

You feel the rush to your cheeks again. Since when did you get so shy around shit like this? Maybe it was just him. Something about him had this effect on you. 

You goddamn teenager. 

“Doing the Danger Room solo, huh?” you quickly change the subject. 

“Not a very good team player,” he shrugs, “Not that anyone here would be much of a challenge if they wanted to join.”

“Cocky prick,” you scoff, “I bet I could take you.”

Something in his demeanor changes. His eyes darken and a playful grin pulls at his lips. All the pet names, sneaking up on you, making you blush. He’s been flirting…  might as well flirt back. 

“That so, princess?”

You want to backstep. You should backstep— but damn, playing with fire never seemed so fun. 

“Yeah, I do think so.” You cross your arms, a playful challenge. 

“And what makes you say that?” He steps closer, you don’t back down. 

“I’ve met a lot of men that think they’re hot shit. Men that need to be knocked down a peg. I don’t mind being the one to do it. They always walk away with their tail between their legs.”

Something in his eyes darkens as he crowds you against the wall. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. He leans down.

“Sounds like a lot of boys to me.” he nearly growls. “You’ve put a lot of boys in their place, princess?”

“Only when they deserve it.” 

A deep hum of approval rumbles in his throat. The feralness of his tone awakens something inside of you. It stirs in your belly and shoots between your legs. 

You’re playing a very dangerous game but can’t seem to help yourself— not with Logan.

Suddenly, he pulls away, all of the air you were holding in your lungs going with him. 

“Hank.” He grumbles under his breath as he steps away.

Sure enough, the big blue man himself rounds the corner, several scattered papers and blueprints in hand. 

“My dear, there you are!” Beast walks directly between you and Logan, completely unaware of the tension he’s breaking. “I wanted to discuss some foundational plans with you for the new win,” he places a hand on your back and gently starts guiding you down the hallway. “If you’ll excuse us, Logan.”

“Sure, bub,” you catch a glimpse of Logan scowling over your shoulder, “Do whatcha gotta do.”

________________ 

Days. It’s been days since you’ve seen him. It’s been days since you’ve seen much of anyone, really. 

Scott had everyone on high alert since the evening of your hangover. More activity was detected around the Trask extremist's now not-so-hidden hideout. Charles has been on the phone with any government official he can and the rest of the gang has been on around-the-clock reconnaissance. Thank god the only thing the US government hates more than mutants is domestic terrorism. If they can solve this amicably and quietly, they will.  

And you just keep digging your holes in the ground. 

You finished the tunnels yesterday, both far longer than the previous ones were. One exiting over half a mile to the West and another to the East. All that was left were the gardens now. 

It was the work that would take the longest anyway. They had to be sculpted meticulously, level, and somewhat aesthetic looking. Much harder than just boring a hole into the ground. Things that looked beautiful required more focus and time, that’s true with anything. You had a little less than a week to finish the job. Then… you’re not sure. Just go back to your regular life, you suppose. 

Do you really want to go back?

The question continuously repeats in your head as you try your best to focus on leveling the dirt beneath your palms. This job back at your school did not go as planned— at all. You thought you could do this quickly without drawing in the guilt. Quick in and out then back to your mediocre career and lackluster social life. In hindsight, you feel like a fool for thinking you could do this without old feelings stirring up. Feelings that weren’t nearly as bitter as you thought they were. Charles mentioned in passing how he’d like to start a new environmental science course, they’re just having trouble finding someone who has time. A trap, surely. Jean did say your thoughts are very loud lately, the professor’s no doubt overheard your inner conflict.

This thing with Logan wasn’t helping either. 

Nothing more than lust, you think. Carnal desires stirring for someone mysterious. A bad boy. A rogue. If you were younger you would have already found him late one night and jumped his bones. For some reason that felt… trashy. That and Scott’s had the man on call constantly. Even though he’s made it clear the feeling is mutual, you don’t want to necessarily piss where you lay. But that would only matter if you stayed.

You want him. You want him bad and you're being skittish about it because you don’t want to fuck up the dynamics of the team… because you want to stay. 

You want to stay. 

The roar of the Blackbird coming into land sends your ears ringing. They’re back from their latest reconnaissance mission. The sun was going to set within the hour. Your work would be done for the day and everyone would be home—everyone including him. 

You have no idea what you’ll do but… something. Tell Charles and Scott you want to stay? Finally pounce on Logan? Or just hide away in your room— that seems most likely. 

Unfortunately, the choice is made for you. 

“Still no flowers planted yet?” the sweet rumble of Logan’s voice pricks the hairs on the back of your neck. 

“Tomorrow maybe. Almost done with the beds,” you say as casually as possible. He comes to stand at the top tier of the garden several feet above you. He’s changed out of his uniform and you’re still in your 2 day old work clothes. Why does he keep finding you when you’re completely covered in dirt?

“Nice shirt,” he nods towards you. 

You look down at your grime-covered torso. You’d put on his flannel this morning. Why in God's name did you do that?

“Yeah some fella from the bar left it in my room,” you joke as you make your way up to him. “Sorry, musta just grabbed it without thinking.”

“I don’t mind. Suits you,” he reaches out, helping you up the final step. He pauses, just for a moment. “Hi.”

“Hi.” 

And there’s that awkward little silence brewing again you're both so good at. He’s desperately the person you want to see and the last person you want to talk to at the same time. Still, he sought you out first— and that meant something. 

You both decide to break the silence at once. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been—”

“Would you wanna get you another—”

Were you always this bad at this or is it just him? 

He chuckles, scratching the back of his head, “Got a little break in the action. Was wondering if I… could get you another drink?”

Your entire body screams no but your stupid heart is pounding yes. Maybe if you take it easy this time you’ll be fine. You actually remembered to eat today so that’s working in your favor. 

“I’m not sure I can show my face at Stevie’s again.” You joke. 

“Nah, not that dump. " He turns and starts walking back to the mansion, “somewhere much more local this time.”

_______________

The sun is just starting to kiss the treeline when you settle into your seat. You promised to start a fire in the pit and Logan promised to bring the beer. It at least gave you a little time to get rid of all the dirt that was caking you head to toe. Sharing a drink while watching the sunset on the back porch with a bonfire. You don’t think he intended for it to be as romantic as it was, but you can’t say you really mind. 

Logan comes through the sliding door, six-pack in hand. You don’t even get a word out before he’s already offering an opened bottle.

“Maybe take it easy this time,” he smirks.

“Mm, maybe you should have got me a juice box instead if you’re so worried.” 

“Oh, and here I thought you were a tough girl.”

Jesus fucking christ. 

You accept the beer and dare not make eye contact.

“Cheeky ass,” you attempt to shoot back, taking a heavy swig from the bottle. 

He takes a seat next to you on the bench with a heavy groan. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt it. You were calling him worse barely a week ago. Now you’re sharing a drink at sunset with him? Well, another drink. 

“How was the mission?” 

He just grunts in response, leaning over his knees to peer into the fire, “Fucking annoying.”

“The bad guys or Scott?”

“Both,” He huffed a laugh, taking a swig from his bottle. “Just gettin’ impatient is all. Summers has us all waitin’ for the right moment. Can’t let them know we’re watching. Probably the right call with guys like these. Don’t tell him I said that though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, tough guy.”

Your heart isn’t racing as much now. The air between you is getting lighter by the second. This wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t so bad. Not entirely the gruff and tough guy you made him out to be. 

He could have marched right up to you and asked you to come up to his room, and you would have said yes. You could have come banging on his door one night for a quick fuck, but you didn’t. There was that desire here, but there was something else building too. You wanted to know him. He seemed to want to know you too. 

You want to stay. 

“You miss it?”

“What?” the question catches you off guard. 

“The X-Men. Being an X-man.” Logan clarifies, “Do you miss it?”

It's a loaded question, one you might have answered differently a few weeks ago. 

“Yes.”

He’s just as surprised by your bluntness as you are. 

“Why leave then?” he prods a little further. 

You want to know him, he wants to know you.

“I wanted to see if I could do it. Just… be a person. Free to just exist in the world, ya know?” you instinctively curl your legs into your chest. “And I guess I did it, in a way. I’m not struggling, a business owner with steady work, but that doesn’t change the way they look at me. They want what I can do. I’m a one-man construction crew. Cheaper and faster, but still just a mutant, someone you pay under the table. I guess I forgot I couldn’t really change anyone's mind either.”

He lets your little confession linger for a moment before speaking again. 

“Fuck ‘em.” 

You raise a brow.

“Fuck ‘em. Never thought it was much worth being part of anyway.”

Guess you’re not the only blunt one here.

You unfurl your legs, stretching your feet out to the edge of the fire. You wish you’d kicked off your work boots earlier. 

“What about you, Wolverine? Do you like being an X-man?”

“Tch, now ain’t that a big question.” He raises the bottle to his lips.

“So you don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” the bottle lowers. 

“You don’t seem to say much about yourself.” You’re baiting him, just a little.

“Fair enough,” he concedes with a sigh, “I do. I like bein’ here, bein’ part of something, but it's got its own challenges. I’ve got my own challenges. Demons like everyone else. Guess that’s how we all ended up here, isn’t it? Fucked up as that is.”

He’s a man of few words, but each of them is spot on. You’re only here because you were running, just like everyone else. 

“So is that a yes—” you tease. 

His knee knocks against yours with a chuckle, “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

His thigh doesn’t move away, resting lazily against yours. You swear you can feel his body heat radiating up your whole leg. 

“Would you come back?” He turns the conversation back to you again.

“I… I don’t know yet,” you admit. 

“Yet?”

“I don’t know if they’d take me. If Charles would—I’ve been—”

“They would.” his blunt candor cuts through your insecurity like a knife. Logan is a man who only seems to say what he means, and that’s comforting, strangely enough. “I don’t know much about it, but family is family. All you gotta do is ask with this crowd.”

A reassuring heat creeps into your cheeks at his words. You know he’s right. The only one you need to convince is yourself now.

“Yeah,” you thumb at the neck of your beer, long forgotten and surely completely warmed through by now. You set it on the ground, “I might…I might just ask.”

You feel him shift, leaning in closer to you. You finally turn your eyes from the dancing fire and face him. His normally hardened face is so… soft. 

“I wouldn’t mind keepin’ you around if you did.”

The kiss is gentle at first, to your surprise. Both of you lean into it almost nervously, as if asking permission. When neither of you pulls away he’s the first to go deeper, cradling your head in his freehand. You melt into him. His mouth opens against yours, tongue seeking your own. You let him in gladly. The sensation of his stubble against your cheeks makes your hair stand on end. A deep moan growls up from his throat and sends shockwaves through your whole body. Your thighs clench together almost on instinct.

He’s the first to pull away, but still hovering close enough for your noses to brush. 

“Come to my room tonight.” You find yourself asking through heated breath. 

“Why not right now?” his hand roams down from your neck to your hip. You want this, god you really want this. But…

“Please grant me the decency of a shower, Logan,” You worry for a split second your stupid mouth has ruined the moment, but he huffs out a small laugh with that unmistakable smirk.

“Me or you?” he leans to the side, nose grazing your neck. 

“B-both.” 

“Smell pretty good to me, darlin’.” You feel his breath dancing on your skin, a few small pecks left along your shoulder. 

“Logan…”

“I like that,” He comes back up to face you, eyes blown wide with desire, “I like the way you say my name.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” You can’t help but rake your free hand through his hair. It’s softer than you expected. 

“Can’t have that. Not when you just decided to come back,” He gives your hip a final squeeze and steals another quick kiss before leaning back. “You wanna wait, we’ll wait.” 

Suddenly you regret your shower request.

You sigh, dropping your head to his shoulder “It’s been a long day… few days.”

“I can relate,” his hand rakes over your back. “Probably gonna be called out again in 10 minutes anyway.”

“Any progress?”

“We’re close, whatever that means,” you can hear the irritation in his voice. You can’t blame him, the whole team was constantly coming and going the last week.

 They’d have a lead and it’d fizzle out. Even Ceribro was having trouble tracking them. You overheard Jean and Charles discussing the possibility of them possessing physic-blocking technology. Enemies had gotten their hands on weirder things. 

“What was it like… when you were on the team?” he asks. Well, if you weren’t going to jump into each other’s pants right away, might as well keep up with the fireside pleasantries— not that you minded.

“Smaller. Much smaller.” You snort, “We didn’t have a direct line to the president, that’s for sure. Mostly breaking up small-time mutant-related gang violence. Saving kids. Erik would show up every once in a while with some new lackeys. Nothing like what he tried on Liberty Island.”

“You heard about Liberty Island?” 

“Jean told me,” It was all over the news too, some important details left out, of course. “She told me it was your first mission with the team too.”

“Hell of a first mission.” he takes a heavy swig of his mostly untouched beer. “What was yours?”

“Child rescue,” You don’t even have to think about it, the night is still imprinted on your mind, “A dozen mutant kids were being held in some dirty warehouse in Long Island. They were gonna be sold off to some private warlords or some shit, I don’t like to think about what could have happened. We got them out, that’s what matters.”

You pull away from him, your previously warm mood now soured by no fault of your own. Thankfully, Logan doesn’t seem offended. 

“Why do I feel like that’s not the whole story?” He takes a cautious sip, raising his brow.

He’s right. 

“Do you actually wanna hear it?” You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He nods.

“I told you I was an angry kid. I was an angry X-Man too,” you remember the close calls that night, “Seeing those kids like that… it reminded me of… it was too much. If I get too mad, buildings fall down. Foundations crack. We got the kids out while the roof was coming down.”

You thought you were so ready for the field. What a mistake that was. Charles and the team never shamed you but there was always this look in their eyes. Like they were waiting for you to go off again. You kept a tighter hold on it after that night. You let yourself lose control before, you don’t want to do it again. Keeping it in keeps people safe.

“You don’t seem so angry to me, sweetheart.”

“Years of practice.” you give a faux smile, a pit of regret forming in your stomach for oversharing— again. 

“You’ll have to give me lessons sometime,” he nudges at your shoulder. Despite it all, he’s still smiling at you. 

“You’re a good listener, Logan.” you smile back. 

“Gotta be when you don’t have much of your own story to tell.” he shrugs off the small compliment. 

“What happens in your story, bub?” you joke, praying he might share just a little.

He leans forward over his knees. His deep brown eyes stare blankly into the fire like he’s searching for something. He said there’s missing parts. He said he doesn’t remember much.

“I don’t know it all yet.” is his disappointing answer, “It was… taken from me. Charles is helping me find the missing pieces. I want to tell you, I do, but I want all the pieces back first.”

You desperately want to ask him to elaborate. Memories taken from him? Missing time the Professor was helping him get back. That had to be part of the reason he stayed here. To get back who he was. 

Still, you won’t push.

“All good stories are worth waiting for, I hear,” you give him an assuring smile. He thankfully smiles back, placing a warm hand on your thigh. Something about him, something about Logan just made this all so… easy. 

“You could tell me yours while we wait?” He asks, orange lights dancing over his soft expression. “How did Dozer become an X-Man?”

“It’s… not a happy story.” You bite your lip.

“Neither is mine.”

You look back at the fire, his warm eyes suddenly too much to bear looking at. Were you really going to do this? You barely know him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

But you do want to, and that’s the surprising part. You don’t know why, but you want to tell him about the darkest part of your life. It’s been so long since you’ve said any of it out loud, maybe you need to get it out. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe you’ll scare him away. Maybe you just want him to know what the fuck he’s getting into.

You take a deep breath.

“My powers manifested when I was ten. Was playing in the backyard with my brothers and suddenly we had a new sinkhole. Broke one of their ankles. I don’t think they ever stopped being afraid of me after that. My father was afraid at first too. Tried to cover it up, told me not to make any new friends, to keep to myself in school. It went on like that for a few months until… until everything changed.”

You’ve tried so hard to forget these few years of your life. At the same time, they seem to be all you can think of late at night. It’s what you’ve been running away from your whole life. 

You’ve told so few people this story, and now you’re telling Logan. He sits there quietly, a supportive heavy hand on your thigh and kindness in his stern eyes. 

He wanted to know you. 

“Like I said before, my father was a career army man. I think he loved it more than us. I know he loved it more than me. I don’t know how he heard about it but the military wanted mutants. Secret programs within secret programs. A once in a lifetime opportunity for him. I was his ticket in.”

You feel Logan’s grip tighten. 

“He didn’t give me to them completely at first. Made me do tryouts I guess. Took me to some base and made me show a bunch of old men in nice suits what I could do. Did that a few times. It was slow at first. Taken out of school. Brothers stopped talking to me. Told to practice more. At first, it was once a week, then it was more, then he just left me there.

“I was scared the first night. I was only twelve but I was smart enough to know where this would all lead. I knew my father didn’t love me anymore. I knew they’d do horrible things to me. I broke out. They caught me within 24 hours and scrambled to find a prison I couldn’t break out of again. Where do you keep a child that can move bricks and concrete like toys? One day, I just woke up in a room of metal. They hid me away in some deployed battleship. Never learned where or what the name was. There were others there too I think, but I can’t be sure. They couldn’t trust me, but maybe they thought they could train me. Make me a soldier. Break me.”

Funny how these words come out so easily. You recite them in an almost sterile way. Maybe you needed to say them again. Needed someone else to know. You feel Logan’s eyes boring into you, but you don’t dare meet his gaze. Not while there’s more to say.

“I think I was on that ship for almost a year. When they started talking about taking me to another facility ‘with the others’ I knew I had to get out somehow. I played along, became docile, whatever they wanted so long as they would let their guard down. I’d be shipped out to the mountains in Canada, they said. When we docked I could finally feel earth again for the first time in months. Even from inside my little cell, I was close enough to summon something… anything. 

“I put a hole in the ship with a few bricks from the pier. One hole became dozens. I didn’t stop until the hull was more air than metal. The boat sank at port and I was able to escape in the commotion. We were in New Jersey. In 6 months I got to Chicago and that’s where Charles found me.”

The sun has completely set but for a few stray ribbons of orange in the sky. The crackling of the dying fire was deafening between you two. You finally look back to Logan. You can’t read his face. It’s not blank or shocked like most people were after your sad story. 

His next words shock you. 

“The Weapon X program,” it comes out so quietly, “You were… oh my God, you were in the Weapon X program.”

It’d been so long since you’d heard that goddamn name. 

You draw away from him immediately, betrayal muting over all of your other feelings. He knew. 

“Charles told you, didn’t he? You let me drone on while—.”

“No! No, he—” Logan bites out, hands closing into fists. The knuckles whiten instantly. “Chuck never told me.”

“Then how do you know that name? How do you know what Weapon X is?” You spit the words with venom, your defenses are immediately put back into place. He knew something. He knew something about you this whole damn time. 

Yet, he looks so small. Shoulders slouched down, defenseless. Eyes wide with what almost felt like compassion.

“Logan… were you… were you in Weapon X?”

He looks down at his hands resting on his lap, squeezing his fists one last time before releasing them. As his fingers unfurl his claws slowly unsheath, lazily crossing over each other on his lap. It could almost be perceived as a threat, but that’s not what he’s doing. It’s like he’s showing you something. 

“Darlin’... I am Weapon X.”  

__________

[sp4ceboo]

CHAPTER 7 ~ ROTTING FLOORBOARDS

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: as i have said before, this chapter is my baby and i love her. sorry she took so long to arrive 😅 (you could say i was in labour for a couple months)

chapter warnings: creepy mind control/possession stuff, lots off arguing, near death experiences, blood, swearing, shit is finally getting GOOD

chapter word count: 4.2k

You’ve run out of water.

Well, not completely. There’s one bottle left, but one bottle between nine is about two sips each, and all of you are going to be needing more than that in the near future. Normally, Chan and Changbin wouldn’t hesitate to organise a supply run, but War is here, and has been all week.

Sometimes, gunshots and explosions echo through the city, shattering the silence like brittle glass. Changbin says there’s a military base a few days’ walk away, and that that’s where they must have gotten their munitions. You try not to think about the people who are getting shot at. You don’t tell anyone else about your dreams, even though they keep coming back every night, even though you can tell that there’s a haunted look on your face that causes Jeongin to frown and Minho to stare.

Nowadays, it seems all Minho does is stare.

Sometimes furtive, sometimes blatant, always pensive, he stares when he sits across from you while everyone eats their cold tinned soup, face unreadable apart from what could be a hint of suspicion. He stares when you spar Hyunjin and win (to your surprise), then spar Felix and lose. You’re half certain he stares in the night too, his eyes boring into the back of your head.

In fact, he’s staring at you right now, as you’re arguing with Chan, but you barely notice - you’ve become used to the prickle that rolls over your skin when someone’s watching, because he’s almost always watching. When he isn’t, it’s the shadows, cackling at you from the corners of your mind.

“Chan, you can’t do everything yourself,” you sigh, rubbing your temples.

“I don’t like it,” he snaps. “You’ve barely recovered.”

You cross your arms. “I’m fine. I’ve been cooped up for too long, if anything.”

“I should come with you guys. You’ll be vulnerable out there.”

“We’re vulnerable anyways, even here,” you reply evenly. “We’ll stick to apartments and won’t visit any grocery stores. Less people means we’ll be quieter. We’ll be fine without you.”

“She’s right,” Changbin interjects, squeezing Chan’s shoulder. “Plus, you’re tired. You’ve gone on all the last supply runs and you need a rest.”

Surprised, Chan glances up at him, looking a little less certain of himself now that Changbin’s supporting your argument too. It only takes Felix to agree with the two of you for Chan to sigh and shake his head, resigned, looking between you, Minho and Seungmin, all with empty bags slung over your shoulders.

“Be safe,” is all he says at last.

You salute. “Yes, captain.”

That at least cracks a smile from him, but when you look back as you leave, he seems impossibly small, his broad shoulders hunched inward, his face strained, like it pains him to release even this small piece of responsibility. You guess it must be hard to let go when he’s used to the weight pressing heavy on his back.

Seungmin waits for you as you linger by the doorway, thoughts still stuck on Chan and his self imposed burden, but Minho strides forward into the street. He looks in his element. There are two rucksacks slung carelessly over his back and a sharp, alert kind of awareness on his face as he scans the street, a knife in his hands - hands that you know are skilled and precise at everything they do.

The crimson sky reflects in his blade, making it seem like it’s already coated in blood. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was completely relaxed, but his fingers are clenched a little too hard around the hilt of his knife and the set of his jaw is a little too strong. You don’t blame him for being on edge.

Alongside Seungmin, you jog to catch up with him. None of you speak while you walk: you trust Minho has evaluated the safest area to go, and there’s a tautness in the air that makes you hesitant to interrupt it for fear something might snap.

A rat scampers by, disturbing the quiet, and all of you jump, clustering together in the middle of the road. Your heart lurches in your chest. Scanning the area, you suck in a shaky breath, fingers creeping to your knife, half expecting to hear the hoofbeats of War’s warhorse approaching like a harbinger of all that is worse to come.

Silence reigns. Then, nearby, a bird starts singing.

Minho shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

You walk closer to each other when you set off again, the three of you skittish and uneasy; you take your knife in your hand to repress the urge to grab Seungmin’s hand and cling to it for comfort. No doubt your palms would be unpleasantly clammy, anyway.

When you glance over, of course Minho is staring, a furrow in his brow, but this time he quickly looks away, acting as if he was keeping an eye out for any stray armies that might jump out at you.

Slowly, you begin to notice it’s not completely silent. Birdsong cuts through the air, louder than you ever remember it being, and a few squirrels and a tabby cat all cut across your path, scaring you. Weeds sprout between the cracks in the pavement and the asphalt of the road.

It seems that Pestilence has only affected humanity, and now the city is being reclaimed by its rightful owners.

Ivy winds around the doorway of the high rise that Minho stops in front. Craning your neck, you shield your eyes and squint upwards. The front face of the middle floors is completely gone, as if a huge beast tore out wide gashes with its claws, gutting it and exposing its insides - this must be the aftermath of the army sending fighter jets that Felix told you about all those weeks ago.

Hesitantly, Minho kicks at the door. It swings open, revealing a murky foyer with floors that probably once looked like marble, but now the thin layer of vinyl that created that impression is peeling, submerged under a shallow puddle of rainwater. The three of you skirt around it and head for the stairwell.

Despite the tight feeling in your chest, everything goes well. You collect bottled water from long dead fridges, shoving them in your bags and moving onwards and upwards by the stairwell. You share a hushed debate with Seungmin about collecting rainwater, but you both conclude that unless you find purification tablets or a way of boiling it, it’s not worth the risk.

And then you reach the seventh floor apartments.

There’s nothing distinctive about the one you enter. The layout is the same as all the others, the decor too, and there are a few magnets on the fridge, including an upside down one of the Eiffel Tower that you twist the right way up again. Beneath your feet, the carpet is a little soggy, waterlogged from the rain.

Carefully, you pick your way through the living room, Seungmin close behind you; this is the second floor that has had the side walls ripped out, and a fluttering breeze gusts in, ruffling your hair and caressing your cheeks. The reddened sky paints the whole apartment with a sickly glow.

You’re about to peer out across the city, but it occurs to you that Minho is still in the kitchen area, and you turn to look at him. He looks a little paler than normal, you note, and he’s hanging back, holding onto the counter and determinedly glaring out at the blood red sky past you.

Turning back to Seungmin, you lower your voice. “Is Minho afraid of heights?”

Abruptly, he spins to look at him. “Shit, I thought he’d be fine. I guess he can see all the way down from here.”

He begins to make his way back to Minho, whose grip on the counter has become tight enough that bright, bloodless stars are blooming at the top of each of his knuckles. Quickly, Seungmin circles around the coffee table, and then the sofa.

His foot sinks into the sodden carpet by the armchair, and a crunch sounds.

The floor caves beneath him.

You scream as the armchair punches right into the rotting wooden floorboards and crashes down through the storeys below. Seungmin loses his feet and you lunge forward, stretching out your hand.

Your fingers connect with his wrist, and you grab it, just as the remaining floorboards beneath him give and he dangles above a seven storey drop. Agony sears up to your shoulder, tearing at your back as you take his whole weight, and you feel yourself begin to slide forward.

Your grip on Seungmin begins to slip. Frantically, you search his face, desperate to memorise him because you know you’re not strong enough to pull him up. The whites of his eyes seem so bright, the anguish on his face as he fights to hold on sending bolt after bolt of pure terror through you. He tries to pull himself up, but it only yanks you further forward.

Past him, you can see all the way down to the murky foyer and its shallow puddle. If you don’t let go, you’ll fall too, and that will be your last resting place, half submerged in water that you’d gone out to get.

A sharp sob tears from your chest. Tremors seize your hands. You don’t want to let him go. 

You can’t hold on.

But suddenly, strong hands are hooking under your arms and beginning to haul you up. You cry out, relief washing through you as a warm chest hits your back and you feel muscles straining behind you to pull you both back from the brink, a voice harsh and strained as he talks in your ear.

“Don’t you fucking dare let go of him,” he growls. “Just hold on, okay? You hear me? Fucking hold on.”

“Minho,” you sob nonsensically, fingers tightening so hard on Seungmin’s skin your nails shed blood.

Scrabbling against the floor, you dig your heels in and help to pull Seungmin up, still sobbing. The three of you fall into a pile on top of each other, in the middle of the wreckage of somebody else’s living room, and you find that your fingers have locked around Seungmin’s wrist, and that you neither want to or can release him. Someone’s arms wrap around you from behind, and even though it doesn’t make much sense with how guarded he’s seemed around you, you know they’re Minho’s.

Your heart begins to pound slower, and carefully, you release Seungmin’s wrist, patting at his shirt in a useless attempt to dry where your tears have soaked it. Sighing, you wipe at your face and wiggle yourself out of the pile enough to sit upright.

“I think we’ve got enough water,” you say when Seungmin looks up at you.

He nods. “Let’s head back.”

Humming in agreement, Minho scrambles to his feet. Seungmin stands too and offers you his hand. You take it and let him pull you up, wincing when you glimpse the crescent shaped cuts your nails left in his skin.

You remain silent as you collect your two bags. Minho talks quietly to Seungmin, but you find your mind is still stuck on the way the floor fell away under his feet, the way the fabric of your shirt caught on the floorboards beneath you as you held onto him. He’d looked so scared. Absently, you pick a splinter out of your shirt, worrying at your lip.

“ - hear that?” Seungmin asks.

“What?” You mumble.

“Can you hear that?” He repeats.

You pause, cocking your head. There is something, a sort of rhythmic sound that echoes through the air, and you turn your head to look outside, dreading what you’ll see when you do, dreading that it might be familiar. Your heart stops.

There’s an army out there. They march in sync, not in a way that is coordinated or organised, but in a way that makes you know their minds are not their own. Creeping horror curls around your bones, and you desperately scan their ranks for their leader, but they’re too far away to pick out faces - just rows and rows of little dots, headed right towards the lab.

“We need to get back,” Minho urges, even though you’re all rooted to the floor. “We need to warn the others.”

For a moment, it feels like the shadows from your visions are back, their laughter echoing in your ears and their cruel hands pinning you in place. Your eyes are fixed on the stiff movements of two soldiers as they drag a struggling figure over to a man at the head of the group; he clasps the head of the prisoner between his hands and looks right into their face.

Your heart sinks as the captive relaxes. The moment he releases them, they turn and melt into the ranks, finding their position in the formation, footsteps mirroring those of the soldiers beside them, and the ones beside them, and the ones beside them, on and on and on. Ice slithers down your spine. You’re certain that if you looked into their eyes, you’d find the same darkness bleeding from their irises that you saw in your fever dreams.

“How - how did he do that?” Seungmin mutters.

You jump at the sound of his voice. “It doesn’t matter. We need to get to the others before they do.”

“I agree,” Minho breathes out.

And suddenly you’re all hurtling down the stairs, jumping the last few before a landing, the bags full of bottles bumping against your backs and bruising, yet none of you pay them any mind. Your hands are trembling, and wild panic clenches like a fist around your heart, spurring you onwards.

You’re not sure where the energy to run comes from. You blunder right through the puddle in the foyer and trip over pieces of rubble, grazing the skin of your palms. You get up immediately, sprinting as fast as you can. Again, though, you stumble, and Minho grabs you by the elbow to prevent you from falling.

Any extra second you might take to slow and catch your breath could be a second used to escape or hide or something. You know there is no stopping that army - you cannot let yourselves be found.

Ahead, Seungmin trips too, but rights himself and presses on. You’re all seized by a type of animal panic, adrenaline pumping through your systems with each thumping beat of your hearts. Every thought has been swept clean from your head: all you can think of is the army, marching closer and closer, and War’s fiery horse.

With those numbers, there’s no way to fight it. You must hide, lest you be killed - or worse, you will become soldiers in that army of death, your minds stolen from you as if your autonomy is nothing but a feather in the wind. The shadows will reign. You fear it’s already too late.

By the time you crash through the front door, the stitch in your side is so acute you fold right in half, gasping, the air whistling in and out of your lungs fast enough to make you dizzy. Changbin appears at your side, reaching out to take the bags from you, and for a wild second, you whirl on him, instinct bringing your knife up.

You force yourself to lower your hand. It feels like you’re being torn apart by every breath you take, and you fight to get your words out, chest heaving as the others gather around the three of you, worried. Someone hands you a bottle of water, one they must have retrieved from one of your rucksacks, and you gulp it down gratefully.

“Army,” you wheeze.

“They’re close,” Minho adds, sagging against the doorframe.

“An army?” Chan presses. “How?”

“Some sort of mind control,” gasps Seungmin.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and you glance over to find Felix and Hyunjin’s worried eyes on you. Hyunjin raises an eyebrow in question, and imperceptibly, you lift a shoulder, as if to say how would I know?

“We saw them from the seventh storey,” you say in vague explanation.

There’s a chance it could just be a horrible, horrible coincidence. You cling to that possibility. If your dreams prove to be far more than just dreams, you do not want to think about what awaits. For now, you don’t know for sure if they are true - for now, there is still the prospect that they are nothing but products of a troubled, scarred mind.

A silence falls over you. Your heart thunders in your ears, your laboured breathing cutting through the quiet, jarring and noisy enough to seem almost rude. There’s a tightness in Chan’s features, his eyes unfocused as he processes the information, and Changbin yanks at a tear in the edge of his top, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he glares at his shirt hem.

“What do we do?” Hyunjin asks softly.

“We need to hide,” you suggest, just as Minho says:

“We should run.”

You turn to him. “There’s a high chance they won’t find us in here.”

“Yeah, but if they do, we’re not going to be able to fight off a whole army,” Minho replies.

There’s an odd look on his face, one you’ve never seen before. It makes him look different - crueller. He seemed wary before, or maybe just shy, but now fear has turned him desperate. You can feel the camaraderie you had before, the mutual respect, the reason that he wrapped his arms around you after pulling you and Seungmin back to safety, all dissolving away, leaving something ugly and spiteful beneath.

“If we run, they’ll see us or hear us almost immediately,” you point out coolly.

“Oh, come on,” he snaps, taking a step towards you, jabbing an accusatory finger in your face. “You saw them too, I can’t believe you’re saying - ”

“Hey,” Chan interjects, grabbing Minho’s arm. “Stop it, man. Watch the way you’re speaking to her.”

Minho whirls around. There’s a blur and a sharp crack and suddenly a bright red mark blossoms high on Chan’s cheekbone, stark against his skin in the shape of a palm. Fire burns in your veins, outrage rising fast in your chest as you grab a balled up handful of Minho’s shirt, eyes ablaze, shaking him a little like you might be able to knock some sense into him.

“What the fuck?” You shout, a note of panicked incredulity seeping into your voice. Felix lays a hand on your arm but you shrug him off. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Minho throws up his hands. “Can’t you see we’ll just be sitting ducks in here?”

“Can’t you see you just slapped Chan across his fucking face?” You retort hotly.

“He’s going to end up hurt a lot more if we don’t run!” Minho shouts.

You realise that you’re arguing over the noise of everyone else yelling too. Hyunjin and Jeongin are the only ones not involved, the former standing silently with a strange look on his face and the latter frowning, his eyes narrowed like he’s turning something over and over in his mind. Below the din of the other’s raised voices, you can hear something of lower pitch, a deep, thumping noise - marching. Another stab of fear runs you through.

“We can’t delay any longer,” you hiss. “We’ve got to hide.”

“No,” he seethes, getting dangerously close to you. “We’ve got to run.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you don’t trust my judgement,” you spit. “You’re always staring, like you expect the worst from me. It’s almost as if you don’t trust me.”

The blazing fury set deep in his eyes abruptly disappears behind shutters, replaced by a coldness so frigid it sets your teeth on edge. His face twists into something savage. He’s close enough that when he speaks, his voice low, you can hear his silky soft words crisply, even above the noise.

“Why should I trust you?” He questions. “We barely know you.”

You hear the truth of the words beneath those he spoke: you don’t belong with us. The warmth of his breath is as soft as a lover’s touch against your cheek, and within you, something buckles and breaks, the flame of hope you’d sheltered for so long against the storm beginning to gutter and die out. The air fizzles between you, taut with undelivered blows.

Minho’s eyes, you notice, seem duller than their normal warm brown, more detached, eternally frosty, and blurry around the edges of his irises - strange. You look closer.

The darkness is bleeding into the whites of his eyes.

You blink, and it’s gone. He’s still on the knife’s edge, jaw set, yet all the fight leaves you: you’d agree with him, just to get out of here, to stop the conflict, the War. It feels like you’ve been dunked under water, thrown overboard. The floor has vanished from under your feet, the rotting floorboards have splintered. You’re in freefall. A ringing begins to whine in your ears, louder than the sounds of arguing. That wasn’t Minho speaking, was it?

“Everyone, shut up!”

Just as fast as it left, the silence falls again. Jeongin stands in the centre of it all, his hands outstretched, chest heaving, eyes blazing - though not with the dirty, insidious anger that does not belong but festers in your chest anyways, but a righteous sort of fury.

“Whatever this - ” He gestures at you all, a wide sweep of his arm. “ - is, it’s not right, and it’s not getting us anywhere. We need to make up our minds now.”

Just the sound of his voice convicts you, filling you with guilt.

Jisung crosses over to the window and peeks out. With bated breath, you wait, dread tugging low in your stomach when he turns, face white, tremors running down his hands as he carefully replaces the blind. You know what he’s going to say before he says it, his voice small and crammed full of fear.

“They’re almost here,” he whispers. “They’re right down the road.”

Changbin scrubs a hand over his face. “If we run now, we’ll be in plain sight. We’ll have to hope they might pass us by, but if they don’t, we’re going to have to take our chances at running.”

No one disagrees. Hurriedly, Chan begins to stuff things into empty bags, rolling up the blankets and scooping cans and bottles into rucksacks. Shame gnaws at you, sobering you. You’re certain that Minho was under some sort of mind control, but you weren’t, yet you took the bait anyway, arguing with him like some dog skirmishing over scraps of food.

You glance over. He avoids your eyes.

Gritting your teeth, you help Hyunjin load a box of masks into a plastic bag. Your shoulder brushes against his, and he flinches away but you barely notice, chalking it down to general skittishness - you wouldn’t blame him for being a little jumpy. You’ve let yourselves get backed into a very uncomfortable corner.

And then everything is packed, and you have nothing else to busy your hands with. The silence in the lab becomes smothering, and you fidget with your fingers as you sit down next to the window beside Changbin. You can hear the marching clearly now, pounding in time with your heart, as if your body wants to join them too. It sounds closer and closer, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing them to pass on by.

You bite your lip. Blood wells in your mouth, filling it with a metallic taste, as if you’d licked a rusty blade. Wide eyed, you look over at Felix, who returns your gaze; he’s got his knees curled up to his chest, and you notice his nails are digging into his upper arms so hard that they’re leaving marks.

Haltingly, Hyunjin stands.

Your heart lurches. Your gaze darts upwards, searching for his eyes, needing to see that they’re clear, to see that his irises are clean cut around the edges, but his hair falls over his forehead and shadows obscure his face. It looks like there’s blackness pouring from his eye sockets.

“Hyunjin?” Changbin hisses, bewildered.

Aghast, you watch as he takes lurching strides towards the door. The hollow sound of his footsteps is exactly in time with the marching outside, and his face is slack, limp, as if he’s not in there any more, as if he’s been possessed. You begin to get to your feet - he’s going to give you away.

“Join the army,” Hyunjin intones. “Join the War.”

You freeze, horror closing over your head and filling your lungs. His voice is all wrong, his inflection listless, and beneath his words is a whisper, an echo of an army speaking with him in unison. Your heart pounds, and for barely a second, you see the second horseman, poised behind Hyunjin, his huge sword buried right into your friend’s back.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Hyunjin’s head jerks in your direction.

There’s barely anything left of the whites of his eyes.

taglist: @estella-novella @0bticeo @lixies-favorite-cookie @smashleywow @realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 @rxlvvrz @iris-iiridescent @brbwritingfanfic @missseoulite @juliettejwnewinesa @fr34k4c1dr41n @velvetmoonlght @ot8girlfie (let me know if you want to be added)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 15 - Wait For It

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Bucky about to take the gold in his favorite sport (glaring).

Chapter title from Amsterdam by Imagine Dragons

Word Count: 7.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bucky worries, and you have a meeting. Usual warnings.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 14 - Chapter 16

Read on A03!

There were a lot of things about this situation that Bucky hated.

To start, traffic had been shit. He hadn’t gotten the chance to eat, because he usually ate with Her. The day was too damn sunny, but Bucky would sound like an asshole if he said that out loud. Finally, his phone was almost dead, and Sam’s waiting room didn’t have one fucking outlet.

If She called him, he needed to be able to respond. He shouldn’t even be taking a day off anyway. Bucky could think of a hundred damn reasons he should be with Her, not halfway across the city. But every time he’d thrown one at Her, she’d shot it down with sharp accuracy and a flat tone. 

“You could have another Hydra run in-“

“I’m not going to leave my apartment.” She’d shrugged, not looking away from Her computer. “And Happy upgraded my security. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky had scoffed, leaning further over the desk. “Thing is, you’re sayin’ you’re not going to leave your apartment, but the last time you did that, you left your apartment-“

“I won’t this time.”

“I don’t believe you-“

“James.” She’d finally turned to face him, and there had been a heavy exhaustion on Her face that hadn’t made Bucky more eager to leave Her.

It had really been sinking into Her features, lately. A sort of gauntness that made Bucky’s jaw clench and his gut turn. The Moon was shrouded in Her eyes, Her hair had flyaway strands, and several of Her nails had chipped.

It was all that, combined with a million small things that told Bucky She wasn’t okay. Whenever She’d smile at a suit it was all overdone sweetness, but without the usual, slight hint of teeth. She seemed to be floating through the day rather than carving at it. Bucky had passed Her a coffee in the car that morning, and She’d just held it. 

Completely still in the passenger’s seat. Answering Bucky with Her usual jokes, but all of them too soft. When they’d parked, and Bucky had let the song playing run all the way to the end, She’d just stared ahead with a blank expression. 

Whatever this was looked like more than the sickness. That always made Her colorless, but not dead. And some part of Her always seemed a little more tired than Bucky liked—if it were up to him, She’d rest every single night, maybe next to him, with his arm around Her shoulders and Her voice smooth in his ear—but all Her movements seemed to be animated. When She walked it wasn’t the purposeful, well-designed strut She seemed to have mastered, but a mechanical movement that only Bucky seemed to see the difference in. Less hips, and the same rhythm a beat behind, with no ease. 

Her voice was missing something, too. As She’d looked at Bucky with tight features and all that exhaustion, he’d really fucking heard it. There was nothing musical in the tone. It was just goddamn flat.

“I’m not going to leave my apartment.” She’d said, holding his gaze. “And if you don’t meet with Sam, we won’t know if he’s onto us.”

Bucky had sighed. “He’s not onto us, Butterfly-“

“We don’t know that.”

“Maybe, but I know Sam-“

“I know him too.” She’d raised Her brows in a silent challenge. “And we need to be sure he doesn’t know. We’re fucked if he does.”

“Yeah, I know that, but he might be okay with it-“

“No, he won’t be.”

“Fine, he’ll be pissed at me, but not you-“

“He’ll take you off my detail.” She’d snapped, and Bucky had stilled. “If Sam finds out you’ve been encouraging me to deal with this, he’ll move you to work on the case because you’ve got the info, and separate us.” She’d taken a long, slow breath, and the venom in Her voice had made Bucky sit a little too tall in his chair. 

He’d muttered Her name, and She’d shaken her head.

“Please just go to the meeting, Buck. I-“ She’d run a hand through Her hair, Her voice fading into something far too soft. “I’d like to keep you with me.”

She’d sounded like She cared. And She’d wanted to keep him. 

Bucky. 

Of all damn people, Bucky got to be the one She wanted to keep with Her. 

And the heat in his body—dimmed to a flicker, as his gut had been aching as he tried to figure out what the fuck was wrong with Her—had flared back up with a roar. 

He wouldn’t just bend to Her orders. If anything, the annoying feelings had made him more determined to match Her pace for pace, shove for shove, bite for bite. 

But She’d had a damn good point. Bucky couldn’t protect Her, or help Her, or make sure She didn’t eat herself from within if Sam moved him away from Her. He didn’t really want to be anywhere but Her anyway. 

So Bucky had folded.

Mostly.

“You have to promise you’ll rest.” He’d muttered, and She’d sighed.

“Fine.”

Bucky had blinked, the furrow of his brow deep enough for him to feel. He’d expected Her to argue. To negotiate. 

But She hadn’t.

And goddamnit, that was sitting and rotting in his stomach, giving him yet another reason to hate being here. Something was wrong with Her. It had been wrong with Her, since She’d gotten back from that party Miles had dragged her to. She’d apologized to him for letting Miles be rude—which was stupid, that hadn’t been Her fault by a long shot—and then started to shrink back into Herself.

There were moments where She’d seem okay. If Bucky made Her move. If he ordered food and let Her paint on his arm, or sat next to Her and asked her for help with a course on Stark’s stupid program. When he made Her think, or let Her make something that he studied after, to see exactly what She liked enough to create.

But if he let Her sit in Herself for too long, that was when She started to fall apart. So Bucky should be with Her. Making sure She didn’t hurt herself, or something—someone—else got Her. 

Because he had eyes. 

He’d seen the way She’d grown small and nervous the moment Miles had stepped into the apartment. The way She’d obeyed his every word, even when it was something Bucky was certain she wouldn’t actually agree with. Miles had spoken to Her like she was a dog, asked Her to dress up like She was a toy, and it had made Bucky’s fists curl and his attention sharp.

Because he recognized the stance She’d adopted. Eyes down, speaking only when spoken to, with as few words as She could manage.

The Soldat had been scratching at the back of his skull, at the sight of it. 

That was how he had stood. For decades. The slow, careful movements of someone who knew that a foot out of line would result in losing a toe. The words of a person who had said the wrong ones in the past, and paid heavily for it.

And Bucky had a theory. A theory he didn’t know how to ask Her about, or how to test. One he was desperately hoping was wrong—he never saw bruises, but She was also good at hiding things, and Miles didn’t seem like enough of a dumbass to do something obvious—but couldn’t afford to count out. Not with Her.

It was, really, the only reason Bucky was here. He didn’t give a shit about lunch with Sam. He probably could have pushed a little harder, and stayed where he wanted to be. With Her, in Her apartment now that Miles was back out of town, making Her try the new spice he’d found at a market down-town and watching the Princess Bride movie.

Looking at Her, trying to work out if there was anything about Her that wasn’t made like art, and coming up empty-handed. When he’d been there yesterday, She’d given him more coins for laundry and a handful of rocks.

He hadn’t been able to fight his smile. “The hell am I supposed to do with these.”

“They’re for science, James.” She’d sighed. “Geology.”

“I don’t know a single thing about geology.”

“Then you can learn-“

“Or you,” he’d passed than back into Her hands. “Could paint them.”

She’d stared at him for a second, Her voice dropping to something soft. “Do you want me to paint them?”

Bucky had shrugged—although nothing sounded better in the world than Her, painting rocks just for him—and She’d nodded slowly. 

“You have to do one too.”

“Alright. Deal.” He’d held out his hand, She’d shaken it with a worryingly determined expression, and Bucky wanted to be at Her apartment, painting rocks like a goddamn idiot.

Steve had liked to paint rocks. And Bucky had done it with him, when they were kids. And he’d gotten pretty damn good at it, enough to maybe impress Her, and Bucky shouldn’t care about impressing Her, but he did.

He wanted to keep being the person She kept around. Wanted to watch Her eyes get wide, and then have Her ask him a million questions, and maybe hand Her to rock and have Her keep that too. 

He’d been feeling disturbingly like a goddamn kid lately, whenever he was around Her. Falling for the doe-eyed girl sitting across from him, eating Her lunch and talking too fast, wearing a pretty dress and letting Bucky stand between Her and the bullies. 

She’d been less doe-eyed lately. It was just another part of whatever the hell was happening with Her.

So Bucky was here. He didn’t want to be. But it was that damn theory that was making the Soldat scratch up and down his skull. And Sam—who was fucking late, the asshead—might have an answer.

The clock was taunting him again. Ticking and ticking, like a bomb set to go off that Bucky didn’t have the time to clean up. Hydra could be making steps as he just sat there. She could be running around, and fall over a trap—or just Her own feet—and Bucky wouldn’t be able to catch Her. Miles could get back again, while Bucky wasn’t there-

She’d be fine.

He could check the cameras. But She said she was at her apartment. And checking them for worried reasons but not real reasons felt like an invasion. 

She’d call if She needed him.

She would.

She’d been letting Bucky help, so She would call-

Tick. Tick. The gas in Her office had a similar sound. 

Tick. The tap of Her fingers on the keyboard did too. 

Tick. So did the sound of polished shoes on a floor, crossing over to Her and wrapping around her like She was something to be suffocated, rather than the most air Bucky had ever breathed maybe in his whole life-

There was a whine from the wood of Bucky’s chair, and he’d almost snapped the arm clean off. Shit.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. It was going to rain later, because the air had that sticky quality that came with a storm. Sam’s office still had that ugly, gray carpet. 

He liked that Sam at least texted to say he was running late, and would be up in a few minutes. He didn’t like that he wasn’t with Her, but he’d been thinking about that all morning, so he also didn’t like how he couldn’t think of a real reason to text Her.

He needed to yell at Sam later, about replacing that goddamn clock.

He wanted to just ask the question right away, when Sam got off the elevator with a wide grin and open arms. Bucky wanted to cut into it, and make sure he wasn’t right.

God, he really didn’t want to be right.

But he had to do the whole dance. Drop across from Sam in the office with a grimacing smile, settle in best he could, and ask about Sarah like a normal person-

“Man, you don’t care about that.” Sam gave him an amused look, leaning forward. “Sarah’s back home, last time you saw her was the last time I did too. But you know who I do know you care about?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Sam-“

“I heard about how you’ve been bullyin’ Happy Hogan-“

“It’s not bullying.”

“Fine, harassing-“

“I’m doing my damn job, Sam.” Bucky snapped, and Sam snorted.

“You got blocked.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Means you were goin’ way overboard. And if you say for a job, I swear to god, Buck, I’m gonna punch you in the face-“

Bucky scowled. “She’s my friend. You wanted us to be friends, and now we are, so shut up. Didn’t you want to talk to me about something-“

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “Progress report on Hydra, nothing. We’ve got jack shit. And I saw you guys at lunch, you weren’t talking like friends. You were actin’ like you’ve been married ten years-“

“We haven’t.”

“Yeah, but you wanna be, don’t you-“

“Sam.”

“C’mon, Bucky.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Do we gotta do this again? I’m joking about the marriage, but she stayed at your apartment. If you think there’s nothing there-“

“She has a boyfriend.” Bucky muttered, and the word felt sour in his mouth. 

He might have made a face too, because Sam raised his brows. “She does. You got any feelings about that?”

“He’s a dick.” 

Sam snorted. “Yeah, he is. I mean- Jesus, man. You have no idea.”

Bucky sat up taller at that. He didn’t have an idea. 

He really needed to, though.

“How did…” Buck paused, frowning at the air as he searched for the normal, casual, tactical way to bring this up. “That even happen.”

“I wish I knew.” Sam sighed. “She’s never really told me either. When we got blipped I’d been on the run a few years, but I’d still been sending her postcards, and she’d write back about how her siblings were doing. I’d ask if she was going to settle down herself and she’d dodge the question. Then I get back and she’s working for the Stark Foundation and dating the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my life.”

Bucky grunted. “She ever mention how they met?”

“Nope.”

Fuck. “How about-“

“You never answered my question, Bucky.” Sam cut him off with short words, and Bucky swallowed. “You got feelings about her having a boyfriend?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “No. We’re not talking about this.”

“About what, Bucky?” Sam’s grin was shit-eating. This had been a horrible idea. “How that old heart of yours is finally pumping-“

“Sam-“

“I wouldn’t be against it.” Sam said quickly. “Miles is a dickbag.”

Bucky was going to break his teeth. “I know that-“

“I mean, I don’t ever really see him, and she doesn’t talk about him, but- Shit, Buck, he doesn’t even like her cat.”

Bucky frowned. “He doesn’t?”

“Nope. And I’ve never seen her like someone that didn’t like her cat. That thing has been with her as long as I’ve known her.”

Bucky paused. If Sam knew something about his theory, he would’ve said it here. Hell, now that Bucky was thinking about it, there was no way Sam would’ve known and let it continue. Sam did only see Her whenever he was in the city, and She was good at wearing all those masks and dancing through the world like it was all beneath Her, even when Bucky could see it crushing on Her shoulders. 

And the Boy. 

His name. Combined with the fact that—if Bucky’s math was right—he shouldn’t be half as young as he seemed.

There wasn’t a better time to ask.

“You know the Boy’s real name? Behemoth?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“Isn’t that the name of one of the Hydra projects?” Bucky said pointedly, and Sam sighed.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you think she’s fucking Hydra again-“

“No. That was- I don’t.“ Bucky let out a slow breath. “Just odd. Not a common name.”

“She’s not a common person. And I asked her about it, long time ago, and she said he just is the Behemoth.”

Bucky frowned. “The?”

“She was nine, man, I don’t think it’s that serious.”

“But-“

“Bucky. From what we’ve found, the Behemoth project got cancelled. Merged. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll go to her apartment right now and make sure they didn’t put doomsday in a cat-“

Bucky scowled. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Sam grinned, pushing up from his chair. “Let’s go, old man. You owe me a lunch.”

Bucky didn’t owe Sam anything. But he did want to talk to Sam about normal things for maybe twenty minutes—steering the conversation away from Her, all while only ever thinking of Her—and the sooner he finished up here, the sooner he could get back.

To Her.

If Sam pushed him about it—like the asshole tended to do—Bucky would make it real damn clear that he didn’t think She was guilty of anything. He looked at Her too much for that to be true. 

Bucky could recognize a guilty person. A truly guilty person, who didn’t think they were doing a single thing wrong. They had a sort of indifference that Bucky was pretty sure She couldn’t fake if she tried.

Even with that dead-man-walking, tired, heavy air She seemed to carry with Her all the time lately, there was this something in Her. Emotion. Care. 

The Moon, hidden but turning. She was still working Herself into the dust, and going on all Her business trips, no matter how many times Bucky and Sam tried to talk her out of public appearances. 

“Have you tried to-“

“Yes.” Bucky grunted over lunch, glaring down at his sandwich. “She said no.”

Sam sighed. “She always says no, Buck. You gotta push it-“

“I do push it, when I think she’ll listen. But she won’t.”

“You ain’t gonna know that ‘till you push it-“

“Do you want to push it?” Bucky raised his brows, and Sam grimaced.

“Hell, no.”

“So-“

“Yeah, yeah, I get your point. You know better than good ol’ Sam, who’s basically her brother, and it’s not like we’ve known each other longer or something-“

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Is she at least working less?” Sam said, his voice a little softer than before. “I mean, I know she ain’t gonna stop, but Hydra tried to kidnap her and then camped outside her apartment, that’s gotta at least earn her a weekend.”

“She was working less.” Bucky muttered. “Then Miles stopped back in last week, and now it’s all she does.”

Sam made a sour expression, his eyes narrowing at his burger. “He still in town?”

“No.” 

“Good. Fucking dipshit.”

Bucky nodded, but that might be a generous title for Miles. 

He was a hell of a lot more than a dipshit. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to check the cameras or just ask Her to make sure he was wrong. That he wouldn’t have to introduce the man to a crash course of how much a vibranium punch could hurt. How it could—if tested—cleave right through someone’s chest.

And even if he was wrong, Bucky might just do that anyway. 

He’d never seen Her move this little. He’d checked on Her, before he left for Sam’s office, and She’d bene curled up on the couch with Her laptop, loud music blaring from the TV. The only difference when he got back was that the Boy had settled himself near Her feet, and was glaring at Her as she typed away. 

She didn’t even look up when he walked inside and kicked off his shoes.

Bucky grunted Her name, moving to lean over the couch. “You eaten today?”

She hummed, still not looking at him. “Had the sandwich you brought me.”

“It still in you?”

“That’s disgusting, James. I’m not that type of girl.”

He gave Her a flat look, biting the inside of his cheek. This was serious. There was less color in Her face than when he’d left. “You know that’s not what I meant, Butterfly.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.” Bucky reached over Her to grab her laptop, and she let out the highest, most adorably frantic sound Bucky had ever heard, pulling Her laptop right into her chest.

“Bucky, I’m busy-“

“You’ve been busy all fuckin’ morning-“

“Because I have things to do-“

Bucky grunted Her name, not releasing his grip on the computer. “You promised me a movie.”

She blinked up at him with the doe-eyes, and the heat was settling a little deeper than just his skin. Bucky couldn’t grab Her chin and tip it further. Couldn’t keep Her gaze trapped on his and lean down to kiss her, right until she let out another pretty sound and all that life rushed back into Her features. Until She looked more like a bright, loud bird of paradise again, and less like something aimless and half-dead, floating through the air as if She was a ghost.

If Bucky got to have Her, he’d never let Her look like a ghost. He’d keep Her right at his side, and listen to her all the time, and right now he’d distract Her with teasing kisses all over her face until she was letting out that all-consuming and drug-like giggle, and her grip slackened on Her laptop. Then maybe he’d climb over Her and kiss her into the couch, and She’d relax below him because She’d trust Bucky to take care of Her.

Control was slipping too far out of his reach, because She did trust Bucky to take care of Her. More than anyone else, at least. 

And despite what Sam claimed, he would push it.

He gave a slight tug of the laptop again and raised his brows, and She pouted but released it. 

That shouldn’t make him feel like he was glowing. 

It did.

“You suck.” She mumbled, crossing Her arms over her chest, and Bucky laughed. 

“I’ve heard that before. Last time it was cause I wouldn’t let you drive-“

“I’m a good driver-“

“Sure, Butterfly.”

She stuck Her tongue out at him. Bucky wanted to pull it between his teeth. “So smooth, James-“

“Only for you.”

Bucky didn’t flinch when she slapped his shoulder, and this was the only reason he hadn’t grabbed Her face between his hands and demanded to know what was wrong. In these moments—when it was just them, and She didn’t look lost enough that Bucky was worried he’d touch Her and she’d fall apart—She was herself. Still a little soft and quieter than Bucky would like, but Herself. 

And the movie was fine, but Bucky would probably need to rewatch it later, when She wasn’t there. When She was next to him, paying attention to anything else was impossible. It was exactly what he’d wanted—Her settled deep into the couch, their knees brushing and a million bolts of lightning rushing through his blood whenever She smiled—but if She asked him a single question about what was happening, he wouldn’t be able to answer.

That had been true of most things, lately. When the movie finished and they ate dinner, Bucky had to force himself not to stare at Her lips, in a slightly pucker as she ate a noodle. Her knee was bouncing under the table—that was a good sign—and She’d gotten sauce on Her face he wanted to wipe off with his thumb, but that wasn’t a friend thing.

He was pretty sure.

He wouldn’t wipe sauce off Sam’s face, and he wouldn’t have wiped it off Steve’s face, but Sam would punch him and Steve had never gotten sauce on his face, so-

“Bucky?” She was waving a hand in front of his face, and he blinked at Her. “Sargent Bucky Barnes-“

He caught Her hand—it fit pretty damn well in his—and dragged it down to the table. “What?”

“You were ignoring me-“

“I was thinking.”

She hummed. He was still holding Her hand. “About what?”

Her. Kissing Her. Launching himself over the table and trying to find out how loud he could make Her whine his name, and if She’d give him doe-eyes when he was buried inside of Her and worshipping Her like the strange, alien deity she was-

“James.”

Fuck. Control. “Nothin’.”

She frowned. “Liar. What were you thinking about?“

“Noth-“

“Don’t say nothing.” She snapped. “Or I’ll punch you.”

Bucky snorted. “Alright.”

There was a short silence, and She was glowering at him like she really did want to land that punch. Bucky really needed to teach Her how to do that. If not for his own, rotten, selfish, not-very-friend-like reasons—he’d get to touch Her, and stare at Her, and maybe She’d lean into him or leave a bruise on his skin—so for his fucking sanity. If She was going to keep running that smart, pretty mouth of Her’s—which She was, because She was infuriating and magnetic and loud—Bucky needed to know She could back herself up. 

He shifted that somewhere around in his log, as She kept glaring at him. He needed to make sure She could fight.

Maybe not now, though. Given the death-glare he was getting, later seemed like the best course of action. 

“Are you not going to say anything?”

Bucky shrugged, giving her a small grin. “You said you’d punch me, sweetheart, I’m defending myself.”

“We both know you’d be fine-“

“Do we?”

She scowled, and noodle whacked Bucky right in the face. “I hate you.”

“Yep.” He ate the noodle, and just kept grinning at Her. Jesus, She was pretty. “You wanna hear what Sam said?”

Her nose wrinkled, but She nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Such good manners-“

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughed again, and She wasn’t actually mad at him. Bucky could recognize Her real fury from anywhere. Sometimes he could swear he felt it spike over his bones. Right now She was only an angry cat, biting at his ankles to try and make him play.

He’d like to play with Her. However She let him. On the table, or against the wall, or even in a bed he hadn’t slept in for over eighty years-

Focus.

Friends. They were friends. And She a boyfriend Bucky needed to be watching more carefully, because the mission was keep Her safe, not fuck Her.

He cleared his throat. “He doesn’t know anything. Even said they didn’t have any new leads. It’s just us, Butterfly.”

She hummed, still watching him so carefully. “Just us?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” She twirled Her fork, the spaghetti moving into that strange pattern she always made. “Good.”

Bucky grunted an agreement, and the heat seems to be living everywhere. He felt a little like a volcano, and one wrong brush of Her bare skin, one word that wasn’t mocking, but sincere, would set him off.

Just us.

He was torturing himself.

Every goddamn second, Bucky was torturing himself. When he got home and he kept wanting to call Her, just to talk. When he’d walk past his empty bedroom, and fail to not glance in to check on Her, when she wasn’t even there. When he read another book She gave him, and tried to figure out why She liked it. 

He really wanted to know what made Her like something. If Bucky could be something She liked enough to be loud and immovable about. 

If She’d ever want to come back to his apartment, now that he had a carpet and blanket and singular painting of a city skyline on his wall. 

She’d like the painting. He’d bought it because She’d like it. 

It was getting a little pathetic, how Bucky was staring to shift everything around in hopes She’d want to rest at his side. 

But it made him better. Everything looked better, and tasted better, and felt better. Just because of Her.

Even silence was better. Just as long as Bucky was sharing it with Her. 

“Do you like blue or purple more?”

Bucky glanced up from his computer—they’d been sitting in the office for damn near two hours without a word, and he’d been alternating between more classes and watching Her work like a creep—and She was looking at him like his answer would be the most important thing in the world. 

“For napkins,” She added, and he blinked at Her.

“What.”

“I’m making final calls about decoration shit,” She waved a hand to Her computer, frowning slightly at the air. “Apparently everyone can figure out catering and speakers by themselves, but napkins need my opinion.”

Bucky was pretty damn sure everything should need Her opinion, but he also knew that if he told Her that, She’d do something stupid like try to plan the whole thing herself. “Uh- Blue.”

She hummed, nodding slowly. “Good.”

“Good?”

“That was what I would’ve said too.” She shrugged, and Bucky raised his brows.

“Were you testing me, Butterfly?”

“I- No-“ She shook Her head, her words almost frantic. “I just don’t think I should be the only person to make the choice.“

“They’re napkins.” Bucky’s voice was flat, and She shook her head.

“They’re expensive napkins.”

“Then get cheaper napkins.”

“I can’t. If I get cheap napkins, all the donors will somehow smell it, and they’ll all be offended we didn’t respect them enough, and we won’t raise enough money to do the prosthetics and vaccine-“

Bucky muttered Her name, and it shouldn’t feel so good that She snapped her mouth shut. “Deep breathes.”

“I am breathing-“

“Not deeply.”

She glared at him, but took a long, slow breath, and Bucky kept talking.

“I know Wakanda. T’challa’s a good man, if you ask him to help you fund some stuff, he’ll do it-“

“But I don’t want a discount-“

“And,” Bucky kept his voice firm, holding Her gaze. “I was joking. I know you wouldn’t test me like that.”

She paused. “You do?”

“Yeah. You’re not exactly subtle when you do test me.”

She sighed, pouting slightly and mumbling under Her breath. “I don’t mean to-“

“I know. ’S alright.” He liked being tested. It gave him something to do. More chances to show Her that he could keep Her safe. More opportunities to get closer to Her, until he’d earned Her trust. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” She whispered, Her eyes wide on his, and the Moon was glowing. 

Bucky really wished he could figure out what the hell that meant. 

But She slumped into Her seat with an easy, slow breath, and that was enough.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” She grumbled, shredding at one of the papers on her desk. “Thanks.”

He snorted. “Say it like you mean it, sweetheart-“

“Thank you, Sargent Barnes.” She leaned forward, smiling too sweet and speaking too soft. “I’m never going to be able to make it up to you, and I’d fall apart without you. You saved me-“

“Alright.” He pushed the words through his teeth, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Smart mouth, Butterfly.”

She hummed, the smile on Her face wide and toothy and real, and Bucky never wanted to see anything else on Her face again. 

Once this was sorted out—Hydra and, hopefully, Miles—maybe Bucky would get to see nothing else. Maybe he’d prove himself enough that She’d want to keep him as more than a bodyguard or friend. He couldn’t think of a better place to be.

But for now, they had to sort this out.

She’d given them a damn good reason to be calling with Wakanda. Her schedule was marked yellow for vaccine meeting, and Grace had strict orders not to let anyone bother them. The meeting was so late because of the time difference, and they’d be calling Shuri’s lab to cover all remaining tracks. 

They’d stop being careful once they could be. Once they had something that could only be dealt with via guns and muscle, when Bucky would have to pass himself over to Sam with the information. She’d agreed to that. Promised that, once they had some solid ideas, She’d sit back and let them handle it.

This would, hopefully, be a step towards that. Bucky standing awkwardly over Her as they waited for the meeting to start, Her fingers shredding at paper and her leg bouncing under Her desk. Zemo would have information for them, they’d be closer to being out of this mess—closer to Her being safe—and Bucky could focus on Her. 

“Bucky.” She was tipping Her head back in her seat, frowning up at him, and he nodded for Her to continue. “You ready?”

“Course I’m ready.” He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothin’ he can do to me across the ocean.”

She frowned. “Yeah, but-“

Bucky grunted Her name, his hand moving to grab Her by the chin. Keep their eyes connected, so She’d be able to see that he meant every word his was saying. 

It was a stupid move. Little rushes of lightning were shooting up his arm, he was sort of falling into Her beauty, and She wasn’t swatting him away. She should be. Things would be so much easier if She did. 

“Buck?” She whispered—he’d been staring at Her too long—and he coughed. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he muttered, scanning over Her features carefully. She, at least, looked okay. “I’m fine, Butterfly. And they’ll be keepin’ him in line on their end. We’re asking the questions, he’s giving the answers. That’s it.”

She swallowed, Her voice still too soft. “What do I do if he asks me a question?”

“Ignore it.”

“But-“

“Bucky Barnes.” 

Bucky’s gaze shot up to the screen, finding a very amused Shuri looking between Her in the chair, Bucky over Her, and his hand still on Her chin.

She still wasn’t pushing him away.

It felt like he’d been branded on his fingertips, when he let go.

Shuri said Her name with a smile, and She nodded quickly, sitting a little taller.

“Your majesty, it’s an honor-“

“It should not be.” Shuri shrugged, still giving Bucky a shit-eating grin he really didn’t need right now. “If this is an honor, your life sounds quite boring.”

She frowned. “I mean- It kind of is. My life.”

“Ah. Honest.” Shuri grinned at Bucky. “I like her.”

Bucky liked Her too. 

He just grunted, and lowered himself more into the screen. “Good. Shuri, I’m grateful for this, but we’re on a clock-“

“I know. You get an hour, starting when I move your call to his cell. Ayo is with him for immediate action, but we have more of the Dora Milaje on standby if they are needed-“

“They won’t be.” Bucky cut Shuri off with a shake of his head. Zemo was a manipulative shithead, but nothing he said could affect Her and Bucky, and the Dora Milaje weren’t exactly weak-minded women. “Seriously though, Shuri. Thank you.”

Shuri just shrugged. “Do not bother with thanks. You are my friend, and I am bored. I am hoping you’ll have a puzzle for me to solve.”

“We’ll call you if we do.” Bucky gave her a tight nod, and Shuri beamed.

“Lovely, White Wolf. Have fun.”

The screen went dark for a second, and She glance back up. 

“White Wolf?”

Bucky sighed. “I’ll tell you later. You want to do the talking, or-“

“James.” 

He needed to pay more attention to the screen. To drag his gaze away from Her and focus on the actual meeting. 

Maybe then he would have been ready for the chill that rushed his body at that voice. 

He fucking hated that Zemo could still do that to him. It lit some of that useless anger all over his bone and in his gut, made him fists clench and his stomach turn. He’d let go. He was supposed to have let go. Zemo couldn’t hurt him. 

Couldn’t hurt Her.

“Zemo.” He muttered, giving the man a grimacing smile through the camera, and Zemo grinned right back.

“You look healthy. Your hair, it is nice longer. Always was nice longer, though I understand wanting to dodge public attention-“

“Yeah, we’re not here to talk about my hair.” Bucky braced his hands on the back of Her chair. “We’ve got some questions for you. All you gotta do is answer.”

“By we,” Zemo drawled, his gaze falling onto Her, and Bucky’s grip tightened. “I presume you mean the woman between us who you have yet to introduce me to? That is not very polite, James-“

“Thinking I’m going to speak for her isn’t exactly chivalrous either.” Bucky grumbled, and Zemo’s brows raised.

“You are protective of her.”

In and out. Breathe in and out. He couldn’t do the exercise right now, but he had to breathe. 

Zemo wasn’t in his head. He couldn’t be. And Ayo was watching silently in the corner. Everything was fine.

“We’re asking the questions.” She said, before Bucky could respond. “You’re Baron Zemo?”

“I believe I am.” Zemo hummed, and Bucky couldn’t smash the camera to stop him from looking at Her. That would be expensive, and detrimental to the whole process. “Who are you? Forgive me for being curious, but James doesn’t exactly make friends.”

She said Her name, and Bucky didn’t like it. He’d told Her not to answer questions, but he should’ve known better than to think She’d listen. They would’ve had to tell Zemo Her name anyway—Hydra was after Her—but it still made him sick, the way Zemo repeated it back, looking at Her so carefully. Like he was estimating the cost of Her cage. 

“I recognize that name.” Zemo hummed, and Bucky was going to break the fucking chair. It couldn’t be that fucking easy. “I have seen you. On the TV. You had a very familiar face, when Stark presented you. His diamond, found during that horribly named blip.” Zemo tilted his head at Her. “How did you fall into this sort of a company?”

It wasn’t that easy. 

Fuck.

“Bucky’s helping me.” She muttered, Her words slow. She was being careful.

Good.

“He’s my friend.”

“Friend.” Zemo’s eyes glided back to Bucky. “You have been busy, James.”

“You have no idea.” He muttered, before raising his voice back up. “You really don’t recognize her. And don’t lie. It won’t help you.”

Zemo sighed. “I am past helping myself. I know I will be here for the rest of my life, and it is not the worst fate. Wakanda treats their prisoners quite well. I get cable TV. And I have watched you many times.” He nodded to Her. “You are very magnetic. A good speaker. A shame to waste it on a Stark organization.”

She tensed, but Bucky kept pushing. They’d talked about this. They had questions set up, as well as a plan—She’d made questions, and Bucky had decided which ones would be best to ask—and Bucky could do this. Ignore to fury, and how he wanted to wrap around Her and shield her from Zemo’s view. 

They just needed fucking something. 

“You really don’t recognize her from anywhere else.”

Zemo gave Bucky an amused look. “I do not know. Should I?”

“How about old Hydra files.”

“James, I have said this many times. I was never involved with Hydra. Everything I know was released by the Black Widow. It is public knowledge.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”

“It is not my fault others do not share my curiosity.” Zemo shrugged. “If you are looking for a decryption, I am afraid I do charge-“

“What about numbers?” She cut in with soft words. “Would you recognize those? From the files?”

“I may. Am I permitted to ask why-“

“No.” Bucky grunted, nodding for her to continue, and she started to count off on Her fingers as she listed.

“Twenty-seven, twelve- Um, sixteen, nineteen, eighty-four-“

Zemo cleared his throat. “Nineteen eight-four is the date of Howard Stark’s murder. James, I am surprised you would miss that.”

Fuck. It was.

And that just gave him more fucking questions. 

“How about Project Ouroboros.” He muttered. “You heard of it?”

“Project…” Zemo trailed off, frowning at the air. “Interesting. How did you come across that?”

“Just answer the fucking question.” 

Zemo sighed. “I know of project Ouroboros. A hyper-secretive Hydra project, starting in nineteen nintey-nine. Short-lived. Tragic.”

“How did you hear about it?” Bucky kept his voice even, but the Soldat was starting to scratch at the back of his skull. “Your name was on the files, Zemo, so-“

“My name?” Zemo frowned. “My name should not be on any files.”

“Well, it is. So you need to start talking-“

“My first name?”

Bucky blinked. “What.”

“Was it my family name, James, or my name? My name is Helmut Zemo.”

“Uh,” Bucky glanced to Her, and She shook her head. “Family name.”

“Interesting.”

Bucky frowned. “What-“

“You look to the girl.” Zemo hummed. “For orders.”

Not useful anger. “That isn’t what should be interesting. Why is your family name on the files.”

“Oh, that isn’t interesting.” Zemo waved Bucky off with a sigh. “My father. He was often foolish. Liked to sponsor Hydra projects with what he believed to be potential. Ouroboros went under quite dramatically, as I remember. Only half in association with Hydra, mysterious funding, a gamble that did not seem to pay. And their prize, the Leviathan,” Zemo laughed, and it crawled over Bucky’s skin. “I visited with my father, once. I was interested in the science of it, and some strings were pulled for me to see the lab.”

“I thought you weren’t involved with Hydra,” Bucky muttered, and Zemo shrugged.

“It was unwise to not associate with Hydra, at the time. And I was mostly just curious of this project. A world-eater. The ultimate weapon.” Zemo laughed. “It was just as terrifying as promised. Black eyes.”

She tensed. “Eyes?”

“And glowing, white hair. Like biblical angels and demons all at once, come to bring judgement on us all.”

“So they finished the Leviathan.” Bucky could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “It’s done.”

“Yes. For over two decades. And it was all power. You could feel it, in the room. And that was in its infancy. I imagine now, it would be dreadful. Damning.” Zemo gave Bucky a small smile, his voice dropping to something soft. “You should know this, James.”

Bucky scowled, and the Soldat was banging on his skull. “Really.”

Zemo nodded. “You have met it.”

The Soldat roared in the back of his brain. And in the distance, he could sort of hear Her wrapping it up. Thanking Zemo for his cooperation—of course She would—and thanking Ayo as well. 

He’d never met the Leviathan. 

He didn’t think he had.

He had no memory of it. 

But he didn’t have clear memory of… a lot of things.

Fuck.

“White Wolf.” Ayo said, and Bucky shook himself. Focus. “I hope this was as helpful as you wished it to be.”

“It was.” He muttered, and She gave a small nod in agreement. “Could you ask Shuri to send me anything Wakanda has on Hydra or their science? I can, uh- Write an email-“

“I will pass it on.” Ayo said, Bucky grumbled his thanks, and the screen went dark.

“That didn’t go horribly.” She mumbled, and Bucky grunted. “I mean, that’s something, right?”

“Yeah.” He muttered. It wasn’t enough, though. “I’m thinking the numbers might line up with more missions.”

“Right.” She mumbled, poorly hiding a yawn behind Her hand. “Smart.”

Bucky let out a slow breath. 

The Soldat was still scratching at his head. Zemo had been a cryptic asshole, and if Bucky hadn’t been drowning in his own head, he would’ve pushed for more. More information, more leads, more anything.

They had what they had. And Bucky could deal with the itch of the Soldat himself, later. Pounding at the base of his skull, trying to rip a fog away that Bucky wasn’t even sure was real.

But She was real. Looking up at Bucky with a pretty frown, and looking exhausted again. 

He could deal with that now.

“C’mon.” Bucky started to stand, and She frowned at him.

“Buck-“

“It’s late, Butterfly.”

“You’re up too-“

“I’m a super-solider.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s so annoying when you pull that card-“

“Yeah, I know. C’mon.”

“But we need to talk about that-“

His jaw clenched. “Tomorrow.”

“Bucky-“

He muttered Her name, holding Her gaze, and grabbing her chin again. 

She definitely should have pushed him away that time.

She still didn’t.

“Please.” He mumbled. He needed to do something. Everything was out of his hands, and a mess, and he fucking hated messes. He was so good at making them. He’d always tried to be good at cleaning them up. 

He wasn’t, though.

And She was tangible. Warm under his hands. Something he could fix. Could do something about.

She had to understand that. Her, of all people, needed to get that the Soldat was bursting and ripping in his head, and he just couldn’t.

She was scanning over him so carefully, and Bucky tried to make his features as open as possible. It wasn’t easy.

But for Her, he’d try. 

“Okay.” She whispered, and Bucky could feel his shoulders slump, the air is his lungs growing less hot in a split second. “Do you wanna eat dinner at my place?”

Bucky gave Her a small grin. He couldn’t think of a single damn thing in the world that would be better. “I’m buying.”

She scoffed, pushing to Her feet. “No, you’re not.”

“Try me, Butterfly-“

“I will.” She gave him a wide smile, falling right into pace at his side. “I’ll kick your ass.”

Not trying to make him talk about it. Or confront it. Just there, and smiling at him.

Caring.

She cared. 

Bucky knew She cared, because She didn’t waver or balk for a second. She let him drive, but stole his phone so he couldn’t buy the food. She glared at the Boy—strange, luminous eyed creature, looking at Bucky like he could see into his brain—when he jumped onto Bucky’s lap, but it was fake. 

Bucky knew when She was being fake. 

This was real. Her knee against his. Her laugh filling the air. 

And Bucky felt better. 

Good.

She was there, and even after the whole day, even with the Soldat, Bucky felt fucking good.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt good.

But he knew, looking at Her in all Her inhuman beauty and exhaustion, he’d never be able to ask to feel anything better than this. 

End Note: The plot. It thickens. The tension. It's going to snap. They both. Need to kiss.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[johnnysuhbmarine]

Knowing a change of scenery was what your mental health needed, you transferred to where your brother, Mark, goes to college. The good news is, he’s not too cool for his younger sister, so he lets you join his friend group immediately. The bad news is, Haechan is in that friend group, and a brief encounter four years ago was enough for you to understand he does NOT like you. Even worse news, he’s a lot hotter than he was four years ago…

Chapter Fifteen: I'll just ask Mark - four images, 1.5k words - heads up, this chapter deals more with y/n's mental health than previous ones

You were thankful you didn’t have any classes for the rest of the day, because time slipped right by you while at lunch with Haechan. The two of you got sandwiches and coffee from the library café, but when you quickly realized all the tables were taken, you ended up bringing the food back to Haechan’s apartment just a short walk away. This is where time started flying past. The two of you turned on an old cartoon show to watch while you ate, but once you were finished, your own voices quickly overtook the sound of the television.

It was a strange truth to find out - that you and Haechan actually got along swimmingly, taking to each other like a duck to water. Of course, up until the last week or so, the majority of your time knowing each other was spent either ignoring one another or exemplifying passive aggression; so your ability to actually carry a conversation for hours was a very new concept, but one you could hardly take the time to question when you were too busy laughing until you couldn’t breathe.

Haechan was the first to calm down after the last bout of laughter shared in the living room, and he leaned his head against the front of the couch - the two of you opted to sit on the floor as you ate since there was no coffee table to place everything on; not to mention the couch wasn’t that comfortable in the first place.

He rolled his head to the side so he could look at you, your eyes squeezed shut as you bite on your bottom lip to try and stop more laughs from leaving your system. He let a soft grin come across his face as he took in your presence, and the fact that he was happy here with you. “Remind me to thank Mark for convincing you to transfer,” he says gratefully, traces of a laugh still tainting his light voice. Though, all at once, your body stills, and you open your eyes to meet his soft gaze before swiftly bringing your focus to where you had begun messing with your fingers in your lap.

“Oh. It wasn’t really- he didn’t convince me, so to speak. I had to transfer.” You fumble through your words, embarrassment tinging your cheeks a shade of pink.

Haechan furrowed his brows at you. “What do you mean?” He asks curiously, and you can’t help the heavy sigh that escapes you.

You stop fidgeting, but you can’t bring your gaze up from your lap as you respond smoothly. “I was really, badly depressed. Not to mention half the student body at SM used to actually bully me," you recall with a scoff.

“At the end of the day, I just wanted my brother closer than thirty minutes away from me. Helped me feel less alone, or at least helped me not make rash decisions, I mean- I hated myself. Wasn’t sure I was anything but a waste of space, honestly; and the idea of going to my brother to be talked down felt better than going to my friends, cause I always thought they would leave me if all I did was come to them with struggles. My brother can’t leave, he’s stuck with me. Though most of the time, that doesn’t really make it any easier - it’s still putting so much responsibility on Mark, when he’s probably the last person who needs any more added to his plate. Regardless, he does his best - and only partly because he's forced to," you say with a weak laugh before continuing softly.

"In transferring here, my parents made him promise that he wouldn’t allow me to throw myself into oncoming traffic, or maybe it was off a bridge. I don’t know. Something stupid but-”

You cut yourself off when you hear what you think is a sniffle from beside you. You whip your head over to look and get confirmation that he’s actually crying. “Haechan?” You get out worriedly, your brows furrowing as you take in his wide watery eyes and small trembles. You reach out to wipe away at the tears racing down his face, and he just shakes his head against your hold.

“Don’t leave. Don’t you ever dare leave,” he manages to get out somewhat firmly. Your lips form a tight smile at his care and you shake your head, trying to dispel his worries.

“I’m not-” You start, but he cuts you off and you’re sure it’s because he doesn’t quite believe you…not that you could blame him.

He moves from sitting flat on the ground to instead lean over and engulf you in a hug, made awkward by the fact that he was practically just ramming his body into your side. You didn’t care, you wrapped your arms around him the best you could as he gets out choked words. “I need you. Here. I need you here,” he hiccups, and you break.

“Haechan…it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I promise,” you say, trying your best not to cry now, too as you begin to rub a hand up and down his back.

You feel a light poke at your side and glance down to see his pinkie outstretched. You look back up to face him in confusion, but his eyes are still directed towards the floor, not to mention squeezed shut. “P-promise,” he gets out weakly. With the tears staining his face, the shaking of his body, and his choked words, you knew you never wanted to see Haechan like this ever again. So, without truly realizing how much this pinky promise was going to mean to him, you lace your finger with his and watch as the smallest wave of relief crashes over him.

He falls more decidedly against you, and you hold him there tightly, running your fingers gently across his clothes and through his hair. You don’t know how long the two of you stayed like that, but you know you didn’t let up from the hug until he was completely rid of tears. Though, when you lift your arms up and allow him to sit back upright, he doesn’t, and a small smile crosses your face as you gently place your arms back around his figure.

You hadn’t seen him look this small ever before, and the fact that he was being this emotional and vulnerable with you was making warmth spread through your entire body. You only hoped it could transfer through the hug you had him in, figuring he probably needed it more right now - for some reason, it couldn't click that he was crying over you, that he was currently concerned about making sure you felt comforted and cared for...though that quickly changes with his next words.

“I’m sorry I was a dick to you earlier,” he finally says with resolve. You move to shake your head and dismiss it, but he presses on. “I treated you poorly for no reason, and I’m sorry. The last thing I ever want to do is remind you of someone from your old school. I’ll do better. I promise all I’ll ever try to do is put a smile on your face, but if it’s ever not genuine, I need you to know that you can come to me, confide in me, whatever. Your heavy feelings aren’t going to scare me away. You don’t need to ever pretend around me, and if I’m the only person who has made that clear, then so be it, I’ll be your rock.”

He finally moves as he says this so that he can make eye contact with you, unfortunate because you had finally started crying at his words. “It’s so hard,” you squeak out. “With my family, I mean - I just want to be a good daughter- a good sister. They don’t deserve all that stress of my mental health. I- I broke my family’s heart telling them how I thought of myself…the point I was reaching. I don’t ever want to worry them like that again.” As you finish, your attention is turned towards where Haechan lightly grabbed your hand in his.

“You broke mine, too, but you need to understand that I’ll let you break it over and over again if it means you aren’t going through this alone.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone and it sends even more tears racing down your cheeks. He sighs, bringing a hand up to wipe gently under your eyes. “Y/n,” he says, his voice soft but filled with intent.

You nod your head, knowing what he was looking for - any confirmation that you were actually taking in his words. “Thank you,” you say weakly, causing a corner of Haechan’s mouth to perk up in a soft grin.

His hand that was previously at your cheek moves up to eventually run back down through your hair, tucking a piece behind your ear. “Do you wanna watch The Aristocats?” He asks gently.

Your wide eyes meet his. “You’d watch it with me again?” You respond in awe.

Haechan lets out a small laugh, turning his gaze to the floor before shaking his head and looking in your teary eyes again. “You said it’s your comfort movie…I’d watch it a thousand times.”

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[crguang]

wasted with longing, part 4

In the face of such deep hurt, you have no choice but to come to terms with your feelings.

friends with benefits, f!reader, 6k words

A/N: don't really like this chapter cause it feels like a nothingburger but there it is... i swear i didn't mean to end it like that but the next block would have been too long to be in the same chapter so i had to chop it in two, forgive me 😞

also, it’s definitely still the weekend on the west coast so i am not late!!! we’ve officially written like 20k words for this series when it was supposed to be a couple crack fics, what even is going on

part three

Every so often, tremors travel through your legs to reach your twitching fingertips like a hundred tiny earthquakes along your limbs while you sit there, passive and morose. You stare at your open palms and observe the natural disaster occurring beneath your skin. Past the white walls of your apartment, the sun continues its ascent among the clouds but its warmth is fought off by the thick curtains of your living room and the heaviness settling inside of you. The blow of previous revelations has made your organs twice as heavy and has brought an ache to your trembling hands, birthing a sense of lethargy only the lost are familiar with. Not for the first time, you don’t know where you’re heading. For the first time, none of it matters; there is just the weight of your body rooted to the couch and the lines of your palms staring back at you, forming crooked letters that disappear with a blink. Your thoughts are a mess devoid of rationality focused on the sting of betrayal that you can feel at the corner of your eyes. She doesn’t deserve them, your tears. Then again, there is a lot that she didn’t deserve that you still gave willingly: your time, your attention, the flutter deep in your abdomen at the sound of her genuine laughter or the naive hope that you mattered more to her than you believed. Your mind is a whirlwind of possibilities that will never come to be and feed the dejection in your bones until your vision blurs at the edges from tears you refuse to let fall. 

You recall the nonchalance with which she addressed her actions, the excuse of destiny as if you were all merely pawns in the hollow of its cold and detached hands. Some things are inevitable and all possibilities are already written. You wondered once what kind of life she must live to be so carefree, you understand now that it stems from a lack of responsibility and a distance between herself and accountability. Her nihilism reduces her to a footnote in a published novel, a droplet in the raging ocean; it takes away enough of her to make her believe that whatever she does is not a choice she fully makes herself. It feels like an excuse to justify not only her existence but everything she undertakes, blaming consequences on fate will always be easier as it relieves her from the pressure of guilt. In a way, it’s not so much carefreeness as passivity. You swallow to soothe the tightness of your throat. Some part of you pities how she lives and you wish you could choke it out with a pillow. Even now, you can’t snuff out feelings that have taken months to develop and solidify within you, and they feel like stones obstructing your blood vessels. It hurts this much because you unknowingly carved a seat for her inside the walls of your heart with her pocket knife, the same one she used to cut you. You can no longer differentiate then and now, whether you started falling for her the last time she left your bed or the first time she kissed you. However, you can’t deny that you’ve got her under your skin and the realization could not have happened at a less opportune moment.

This sucks. You don’t count the minutes you spend staring at your hands like they hold answers to questions you won’t get to ask in the future. At some point you find yourself laying on the couch again, looking ahead while your phone lies on the coffee table, undisturbed for the time being. Hours pass and your eyelids eventually grow heavy, each blink slower to come than the last. Your mind, perhaps to torture you, replays some moments you didn’t remember before this instant; falling asleep as she lights up a cigarette on the balcony outside your bedroom, moonlight stroking her hair and smoke blurring her face; nimble hands undressing you layer by layer with a patience that borders on reverence. The first time you met, your impression of her was that she took care of appearance and found it very important how she presented herself to the world. It was because of her clothes, partly, but mostly the confidence she radiated. She didn’t say too much or too little, and looked at you with a smile you selfishly wished was just for you. Her attention felt like a treasure not many were deserving of and her taste in fashion matched yours, she helped you pick out some clothes then you exchanged phone numbers in front of the store. You went your separate ways after that, but receiving a text from her an hour later turned you into a schoolgirl with a crush. 

You thought you were making progress yesterday, that her seeking you out meant something more than a refusal to see a medical professional. The look in her eyes when she stared up at you in the bathroom… you wish you understood it, but something screams that it wouldn’t have changed a thing. You reminisce and ruminate until your eyes close and unconsciousness generously gives you a reprieve from the assault of your mind.

It’s almost 11 in the morning when you wake. Your neck is stiff from the armrest and your legs beg to be stretched after staying bent for hours. You rub the drowsiness out of your eyes with one hand and sit up slowly, brows furrowed and lips in a frown. It takes you a moment to do anything else, your phone buzzes with a notification three times in a row but you only look at your lock screen blankly. You don’t feel like doing anything, and after remembering the events of earlier today,  you dread checking up on work. Still, your concern for the colleagues you get along with eventually wins out. You pick up the device and sift through the messages that were left unanswered yesterday, replying to your friends to assure them of your safety. Your thumbs travel across the screen mechanically, like you’re writing a professional email you have no interest in, but you are genuinely relieved to find out that they’re fine. You hesitate over Himeko’s contact name. She surely hasn’t heard of what transpired yesterday unless there was an IPC broadcast about it. You hope she hasn’t. You want the truth to come out of your lips, not some news network. Worry makes you bite the inside of your cheek as you stare at her last text from the evening before. Himeko is one of your best friends, she’s understanding, compassionate and an expert at comforting others. You’re not worried that she’ll put the blame on you, just that your feelings will come to the surface once you start relaying everything that’s happened in detail. 

You steel yourself, swallow once, and press the call button under her contact name. You bring your knees to your chest. The line rings a couple of times in your ears before the call connects and Himeko’s joyful voice sounds through the phone. 

“Hey.” she greets you with a smile you can hear, “are you okay? You hung up on me yesterday.”

Your suspicions are confirmed, Himeko has no idea what went on the previous night.

“Sorry,” your own voice is strained from sleep and you cringe before clearing your throat. “Something… came up.”

“Is everything alright?”

Your stomach churns uncomfortably. You look at the floor and inhale quietly to calm the unease slithering up your trachea. “There was… an incident at work,” you say hesitantly. “A serious one.”

Himeko picks up on your tone and hers softens with her next question. “Are you alright? What happened?”

The words spill from your mouth all at once and Himeko doesn’t interrupt you as you give her a retelling of what you read in that article this morning, Kafka’s identity as both a Stellaron Hunter and the woman you’ve been “seeing”, how she showed up at your door injured yesterday and the moment you found out the truth just hours earlier. The line is silent save for your sometimes faltering sentences. Your eyes fall shut in the middle of your story and your fingers clench the phone in your hand, the knot in your throat tightening near the end of it. Saying it out loud, you realize how stupid you’ve been even if the clues weren’t obvious; you should’ve been more suspicious of her absences and deflections, shouldn't have been blinded by her attention and the way she made you feel, should’ve… You feel like an idiot in the face of Himeko’s silence. She digests the information you dumped on her before it’s even noon, and after a minute of quiet she finally speaks.

“Where are you now?”

“Uh, home,” you stammer, blindsided by the question. You half-expected her to lose her mind at the situation you find yourself in considering she was the one who tried to discourage you to enter a friends-with-benefits relationship, and now people have died by the hands of the woman you have feelings for. You pointedly omit the romantic feelings part for now. 

“You should stay at a friend’s house, to be safe. The Stellaron Hunters are very dangerous and you could easily get wrapped up in their dispute with the law and the IPC. Take precautions and be safe, please.”

“Is that all you have to say…?”

“What do you want me to say, ‘I told you so’? You were manipulated, that’s what Kafka does. She bears all the blame here. And I’m sorry you were caught up in her schemes.”

You pause, staring at the coffee table in front of you. Her reassurances bring you no comfort. Your reply sounds small in your ears, “...A lot of people died.”

“I know…” You can almost picture the soft look in Himeko’s eyes. “But it wasn’t your fault. Whatever they had planned, they planned it long before you were brought into the picture. You couldn’t have stopped anything from happening.”

You nod slowly even though she can’t see you. You do your best to internalize that, but guilt still swirls within you and makes you nauseous. You stand from the couch to make your way to the bedroom, footsteps quiet along the wooden floors. You let the morning light envelop you once you reach the glass doors of your balcony and slide them open so the fresh air can enter your lungs and chase away the unpleasant feeling. 

“No wonder you didn’t know anything about her,” Himeko continues, an edge to her voice, “it’s easier to play mind games when you’re kept in the dark. She’s truly despicable.”

You think of what Kafka said this morning about the source of her injury, how she got it looking for you amidst the chaos. You lean on the railing, observe the circulation of cars and pedestrians down below, but say nothing. 

“I hope she never contacts you again. Did you block her number? Is it even her real one?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should block it anyway.”

She’s right. You put Himeko on speaker and let out a breath as you open your contacts, scrolling through the list and finding Kafka’s contact among it. For a few seconds you feel weak for your hesitation, thumb hovering over the “block caller” button, then you shake your head and press the red letters. You won’t make yourself available for her anymore. 

“I did it,” you tell the woman on the other line and redirect your gaze to the buildings on the horizon. 

“Good. What are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you… eventually work there again?”

“Ha. Not a chance.”

You don’t know what you’ll do, you haven’t planned this far ahead and were still on the fence about quitting your job before everything went down but there’s no way you’re going back to doing office work after today. In a way, the incident gave you the push you needed to do it. The price to pay for it was far too high.

You talk to Himeko for another half hour before she has to bid you goodbye to take care of the Express. She reminds you to pack a bag and go stay with a trusted friend, and she makes sure to be certain that you’ll take care of yourself before hanging up the phone. She’ll call again when she can, but in the meantime, you’re on your own. You don’t tell her that you don’t think Kafka means to put you in harm’s way and that you don’t feel comfortable leaving your apartment now. Knowing that you could have been one of yesterday’s victims if you had simply gone about your daily routine worsens your anxiety, and even if Kafka’s been inside your apartment countless of times before, you still feel safer within familiar walls. 

You spend the day in low spirits, half of it sitting on your balcony with your knees to your chest and the other half laying face down in bed. You tell yourself that your free time will be dedicated to finding out what you want to do with your life. Then another day passes you by and when the third one comes around you still haven’t gotten out of the gray bubble you’ve unconsciously created for yourself. Your thoughts are repetitive and oppressive, so you sleep for hours to escape them. You avoid going out by ordering food or groceries. Your phone is constantly on ‘do not disturb’ because you can’t handle the grating alerts about funerals and financial compensation, you only pick it up to talk to Himeko once a day. She encourages you to see your friends, to not let yourself be swept away by the waves of negative emotions, and you don’t have the heart to tell her that you’re just not in the mood anymore. You make promises you don’t intend to keep in order to alleviate her concern and the guilt nesting in the pit of your stomach grows bigger with each one. You’re not helping yourself, you know, but it feels like all you can do is sit in your feelings as they ripple around you and you stare at the disturbances for hours, crestfallen. 

In the evening, you await the takeout you ordered 30 minutes ago. You’re laying on the couch despite the TV not being on and feel drowsiness creeping up on you from doing absolutely nothing all day. Who knew inactivity could be so exhausting… You reach for your phone on the coffee table and tap the screen to see if your driver is nearby. He’s parked in front of your apartment building, so he should reach your door soon. You close the phone and wait some more until you hear firm footsteps on the other side of your door. You only stand up after a couple of minutes have passed to make sure he’s truly gone and won’t see you bringing your food inside. Opening the door reveals an unexpected find; the takeout bag lies next to a rectangular package that wasn’t there in the morning. You pick up the bag but stare at the box with a crease between your brows. Outside of food, you haven’t ordered anything else from the internet. You wonder if it’s a misplaced item and bend down to check the postal information. There’s no return address, but yours and your full name are written black on white. You decide that you must look like a weirdo, inspecting a package in the hallway with takeout in one hand, and you pick up the box before retreating inside. 

Putting down the brown bag on the kitchen counter, you think perhaps the package is from a colleague or a friend, maybe even from Himeko since her return address is hard to find. You look for scissors to cut the tape holding the box shut and lift the lid. A pair of black velvet gloves lie on a similarly coloured coat, the inside of which is a dark shade of blue. The material is expensive judging by the gentle  sheen on the fabric in the light, and you blink in confusion. It’s beautiful and a piece you would definitely feel compelled to buy if you saw it in a store, which means it must actually be meant for you. You pick up one glove to find that it fits perfectly with the size of your hand. It’s soft to the touch, you bring it to your cheek to feel the material against your skin. You spot a small card sticking out from one of the coat’s front pockets bearing only three words written in curvy letters: ‘Thought of you, K. <3’

The glove falls from your hand like it burns your palm and lands on the floor without a sound. Suddenly, the clothes aren’t a thoughtful gift but a mocking gesture meant to get a rise out of you. You tear the card into pieces. If anything, one could admire her limitless audacity, not you, but someone out there. She’s playing with you, taunting you to see how far she’s allowed to go before you lose your mind completely. That, or she deludes herself into thinking that she can buy your forgiveness with meaningless peace offerings. Either way, her obvious lack of care for your feelings hurts more than it should, and you’re once again reminded of your own weakness. You know that she doesn’t care, there’s no need to twist the knife in your already infected wound. Does she only see you as a toy for her entertainment? Is she incapable of even a bout of empathy or do you simply mean that little to her? The thought rotates in your head endlessly until you put everything back in the box and throw it in the trash. 

Two days later, you find another package on your doorstep; two expensive pairs of slacks and three tops that are all exactly your size and your style. The note has only a handwritten K and a slim heart on it. You donate the clothes to a thrift store in the afternoon. It's the first time you’ve left your house since you learned the truth about Kafka’s identity.

Next Thursday, you accept a friend’s invitation to go out for drinks. Kafka’s stunts made you internalize what you've been telling yourself for weeks; you won’t pull the brakes on your life for a broken heart, certainly not for her. Being hung up on somebody who isn’t thinking of you at all is embarrassing enough, to allow her such a place in your mind after what she’s done is just pathetic. Despite your heart still not being it in, you dress up in clothes that always make you feel pretty and let your friends drag you to a bar where they dance for three hours and flirt with strangers for two more. The loud music makes it impossible to hear any words that aren’t shouted or whispered in your ear, its bass reverberates uncomfortably through your chest like a second heart. The night goes by with a drink in your hand that is replaced by another the instant its last drop lands on your tongue. Inebriated and surrounded by sweaty bodies, you forget all about the world beyond the cheers of your friends as you make out with a woman on the dance floor and the flavored liquor on your lips. The events that occurred between midnight and 3 AM are a haze when you wake up before lunchtime the next morning, body halfway off the couch and head throbbing so intensely you think you might pass out before you reach the bathroom for some aspirin.

You stumble into the room, squinted eyes barely seeing two feet in front of you, and fumble with the small plastic bottle of what you believe to be your magic pills. You swallow a couple of them and bend low to take a few sips of water directly from the running faucet. Your skull feels like it’ll split open with any strong enough stimulus. You sink to the cool floor and close your eyes, breathing as steadily as you can through your mouth to relax a little. You think you fall asleep for a while, leaning against the cabinets while the medicine does its job of reducing your headache to a dull pulse. Three firm knocks on your front door wake you up abruptly and you jerk away from the sink in surprise. You wipe the corner of your mouth. Blinking away remnants of drowsiness, you shakily stand on your bare feet and run a hand over your face as you walk to the entrance of your apartment. You hope you don’t look as bad as you feel, but you know that’s likely the case. Still, you adjust your clothes and your hair before opening the front door. 

A mailman is waiting for you with a package in hand and thrusts a form in yours after a disingenuous greeting. You sign the paper confirming whatever delivery you just received, a little out of it. He leaves once the small square box is given to you. You walk back inside, turning the package over in your hands before tearing it open. A glittering necklace lies inside, nestled in suede. The gems embedded into it easily catch the light and would make a strong statement resting on any person’s collarbones. You stare at the jewelry, puzzled. Checking the package again reveals no return address, and if your mind was less hazy from this hangover, you would have guessed who the gift was from immediately. Your cell phone pings with a text, bringing you out of your confusion long enough to find it on the floor in front of the couch. You press the message to open the private conversation. The recipient has no caller ID and is texting you like you’re supposed to know who they are. You lay the jewelry box on the coffee table and reply quickly.

“Who the fuck is that…?” You slowly ask no one in particular, brows twisting in a frown. 

You type in a text and send it. The reply you receive sobers you up like an ice cold shower. You rub your eyes with one hand and hold your phone a bit farther from your face as if it poses a threat to your safety, disbelieving. The nerve… There’s a familiar flutter in the depths of your belly but the sensation is uncomfortable now, eating at you and forcing you to take a deep breath.

You block the number before another message can pop up. Frustration bubbles up inside your chest, Kafka’s dedication to remaining a part of your life like a coffee stain on a white tablecloth is seriously messing with you. Make amends? She can’t be this dense. The gifts, her promise to send more— is her image of you so shallow that she believes you can be bought with fancy clothes and jewelry? None of these have been thoughtful or paired with a note that contains more than three words. She’s hurt you more than she understands, clearly. Your issues with her behavior are evident, you don’t believe the idea of them not computing in her mind, she’s smarter than that. She’s kept key details of her life from you, lied to you and caused over a dozen scientists to lose their lives for a component that could surely be found elsewhere, not to mention her treatment of you afterwards and her lack of remorse for the emotional damage she’s inflicted on you. Your feelings are more than justified and run deeper than petty grievances. You don’t understand her at all, and at this point, you don’t care to.

An offended scoff escapes your lips and your first reflex is to tell your best friend about the situation, looking to vent your irritation to a person that’ll stand by you no matter what unlike Kafka’s fickle attitude. You video call Himeko’s number and wait until she picks up at the last ring. Her fiery hair is slightly disheveled, held up tightly in a ponytail. She’s not wearing her usual elegant clothing and is instead clad in overalls with a plaid shirt underneath. Motor oil stains her cheek and fingertips as she waves at you through the screen. You think you can see engines and steam behind her, you can definitely hear hissing noises in the background. 

“Uh… Are you busy?” You ask, taking in the dark stains on the front of her overalls. “Are you working on the Express?”

Himeko makes a sound of agreement. “Don’t worry, I always have time for you though. How are you?”

“Hangover. What’s wrong with the train?”

“Nothing as of three minutes ago. I just finished fixing some issues but it wasn’t anything too serious. I’m due for a shower. You said you’re hungover? You do kind of look… disheveled.”

“I appreciate the euphemism,” you sit cross legged on the couch. “I woke up not too long ago and immediately popped some over-the-counter medicine.”

“So you went out last night? Or were you drinking alone?”

“I went to a bar with some friends, took your advice and drank until I passed out.”

“That was not my advice.” Himeko’s frown makes you smile. “At least you left your house and returned safely. I told you it’d be good for you not to stay cooped up in here.”

You hum absentmindedly. “I don’t remember most of the night, honestly. I think I made out with someone for like… twenty minutes, four songs. But that’s not why I called— I got something in the mail today.”

Before Himeko can ask what it is, you reach for the jewelry box on the coffee table and hold it up to the camera so the necklace is in full view. You tilt it this way and that, the outside light reflecting prettily on the clear-cut gems. You watch Himeko’s eyebrows raise as she moves from her spot in the engine room, likely headed to her room for that shower she mentioned a few minutes ago.

“Wow, that’s gorgeous. Did you try it on?”

“No.”

“Is that a treat for yourself? You deserve it, you had a really rough week and it’d look good with that fancy low-cut top you have— the silk one?”

Maybe it would, too bad you’ll never wear it. 

“I didn’t buy it, I got it as a gift,” you put the necklace down next to you and close the small box, making sure to put an emphasis on the last word.

“Oh? It must have cost a small fortune. From who?”

“Kafka.”

The easygoing smile Himeko wears disappears in an instant. She stops moving somewhere in a hallway, near panoramic windows that show the galaxy beyond them. Tiny creases form along her brows and she stares at you intently, worry and affront clear in her gaze.

“Kafka sent that to you?”

You nod. “She’s been sending me stuff all week, clothes mostly, but this one really took the cake because she texted me from an encrypted number afterwards.”

“Why won’t she leave you alone?” Himeko looks vexed on your behalf and you shrug, relieved that your feelings are validated by her anger. “What did she say? Please, tell me you blocked the number immediately.”

You hesitate a couple of seconds too long, Himeko’s shoulders slump and her lips part to reprimand you but you interrupt her readily, “I blocked her! I swear. She said she wanted to ‘make amends’ and it pissed me off so bad, I blocked her number again. Can you believe her ego? Does she think my world revolves around her, that I’m just waiting for her to make it up to me before I take her back with open arms? We didn’t even have anything. We used each other for sex and despite the semblance of good-natured relationship we had, she still chose to betray me!”

Himeko studies the hurt in your eyes at your outburst and pauses, her gaze flitting across your face for a moment. You exhale, willing yourself to calm down. Your heart rate has picked up a few paces and you despise how easily Kafka gets a rise out of you without even being in the room. The redhead leans on a nearby wall.

“You have every right to be as angry as you feel,” she starts, meeting your eyes with a knowing look in her golden ones, “but… You’re this angry because you have feelings for her, don’t you?”

“W-What?” Your stutter sells you out and Himeko tilts her head in a silent gesture to not lie to her. 

“I had my doubts. You talked about her a lot, I don’t even think you noticed. And your word choice just now; ‘betray you’?” You wanted to trust her and hoped she'd let you in, but she manipulated you instead. It’s normal to be hurt, and while I have… opinions about that, you can’t help what you feel.”

You look away from the screen, lowering the camera in resignation. There’s no use in arguing Himeko’s point because you both know the truth already and you’re too out of it to fight the obvious. You don’t say anything so the line is silent for a while, Himeko resumes her walk towards her cabin and gives you a moment to gather your thoughts. You didn’t know you talked about Kafka this often but the information doesn’t surprise you, she made your days exciting and you genuinely liked her for more than sex. You used the latter as an excuse to justify the former countless times. From the beginning, you were attracted to more than her body, and from the beginning, you were more attached to her than she was to you. Even though these are facts that you’re aware of, your throat tightens at the reminder. 

“I hate it,” you say quietly after a while, facing Himeko’s figure in the camera.

“I know, sweetheart. Nothing’s easy about what you’re going through right now, but it’s not the end of everything. I’m here to help you through it and you have your friends that are there for you too, just don’t isolate yourself while we figure out a path forward, okay?”

“What if she contacts me  again?”

“Then you tell me immediately.”

“What, you’ll come to beat her up?”

Himeko laughs softly. “I don’t resort to violence without at least a conversation first, but….”

Her long pause brings a white toothed smile to your face and Himeko’s eyes crinkle at the corners at the sight. 

After assuring you that she’ll text you in the evening, Himeko hangs up the call. You run a hand over your face, chest heavy. You’ll donate the necklace once you feel less like a wet rag that’s been wrung until no moisture is left. Someone will probably be happy to stumble upon a find like this one, and if Kafka’s ill intentioned gesture can bring happiness to one person then perhaps that cancels everything out. 

The next afternoon, you find yourself in a clothing store that resembles the one you first met Kafka in months ago, browsing the racks for whatever catches your eye. Shopping for clothes relaxes you; feeling the different fabrics and textures under your fingertips, finding a piece that resonates with you, admiring the craftsmanship and creation process of the items on display are all things that take your mind off the mundanity of your life. You’re not that well-versed in fashion, not really, even if it interests you. You’re approached by one of the store’s consultants and it’s as you politely decline her help that you realize that this is something you could do. You could take classes about a subject that actually matters to you and work in that domain afterwards— maybe you’ll learn how to make your own clothes and sharpen your personal style. The idea makes you smile among elegant blouses. You can deal with your parents’ expectations of you if it means you won’t spend another day in an office researching mechanical components for projects you don’t care about. 

You pass by your local thrift store to donate the necklace, but they won’t accept it. The employee’s eyes widens after one look and drags her manager to the front, who in turn adamantly refuses to take such a precious item from you. They wouldn’t know how to price it and its value is a few zeros too many to belong in a thrift store. You leave the place a little dejected, you don’t want to make any money out of it or it’ll feel like Kafka did you a favor in the end. You look at the box in your hands for a minute, then make up your mind. You’ll pawn it and give the money from it to the families who lost their loved ones during the incident last week. It won’t bring them back, it might not alleviate their families’ grief at all, but at least they’ll be set for years in the future and that’s something, right? That’s one thing Kafka would have (indirectly) done to make amends. 

You decide to pawn the necklace after doing a bit more research about it to make sure you don’t get ripped off. You put it back in your bag for the time being and make your way back to your home, shopping bags around both of your wrists. By car, it takes less than half an hour to reach your apartment building. You carefully park in the designated spot and struggle to carry all of your bags to the elevator. Maybe splurging on clothes wasn’t the best financial decision when you plan to return to school and are currently unemployed. You repeat the phrase “I deserve it” like a mantra all the way to your floor. Standing in front of your door, you’ve almost completely deluded yourself that you do, indeed, deserve five new pairs of pants, nine pretty tops and two jackets you’ll wear at most three times in the next year. You’re not too sure about the pairs of shoes you bought afterwards… 

You free one hand to turn the key into the hole and push the door open. Picking the shopping bags back up, you step into your apartment with a sigh, wondering how you’ll begin to start this new chapter of your life. The door hasn’t fully closed behind you that you freeze where you stand, assaulted by the various colors and fragrances of flowers resting on every surface of your home, some in bouquets twice as big as the other ones and all of them transforming your apartment into a disorganized greenhouse. Your mouth opens, bewildered. You can’t count the different kinds of flowers that are there, you only recognize a handful of them. You’re so shocked by the sight that you don’t notice the figure stepping out of your kitchen until she speaks and a sharp scream of surprise flies from your lips.

“Hey– It’s just me,” Kafka lifts her gloved hands in a gesture she means peaceful.

Stupefied, the bags in your hands fall to the ground with a soft thud. Your heart races wildy in your chest and you cover your mouth with a palm, eyes closing with the next shaky exhale that you let out. It takes you a minute to slow the drumming of your heart enough to utter words that aren’t strained. 

“How did you get in here?”

“You didn’t change the locks. Seriously, it’s like you wanted me to show up again.” Her joke lands flat and her smile falters an inch at your glare. “Not in the mood for jokes, alright.”

She walks to the couch and picks up an item your eyes previously skimmed over. It’s an intricate hexagonal vase with a soft brown tint, clearly meticulously made. The glass looks very fragile judging by the way she carries it and outstretches her hands towards you, presenting it to you like a gift. 

“For the flowers you want to keep,” she says. 

You’re going to break it over her head. 

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Mental Healing with the Race

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

Hey Guys, I just wanted to say I am still super sorry with every chapter that takes longer than I used to be to get them out. I asm currently in the middle of the last 2 weeks of college, so lots of studying and prep for our huge Final Projects or Tests. On top of that my FSAE team and I are prepping to leave for the Big Competition three weeks from now. However, I do not want any of my chapters to lack in the love and work that I put in to writing them. So I will do my best to try and get them out more regularly, but I will not post anything early or with any less love than the last one. So should they continue to take longer please remember this. No one has said anything about this but I still want to make sure that everyone knows I am not done with this story, just a little busy right now. With that said please enjoy...

The gym lights flicker on just before sunrise, humming low above my head like they’re still waking up, too. My hoodie is heavy with sleep and my shoulder twinges the second I shrug it off, revealing the newer, thinner brace beneath. It’s progress — less restrictive, easier to hide under my clothes — but it also means I’m out of excuses. The world thinks I’m still resting. But rest never made me stronger.

I roll out my mat in the same corner of the performance room as always. Familiar. Quiet. Grounded. Axel lays just a few feet away, head on his paws, eyes tracking my every move like he knows this day is going to be rough.

Because it is.

Today is cardio and strength. And no cast means full-arm weight again. It’s the first real milestone — a make-or-break kind of day.

I sit on the mat for a moment, my back pressed against the cool wall. My fingers find the scar on my forearm, tracing it absentmindedly. A reminder.

The crash didn’t defeat me.

"Alright, warrior,” Diego calls, stepping into the room and clapping his hands once. He’s grinning, but there’s a crease between his brows — the one that always shows up when he’s worried about me. “Scale of 1 to 10. Pain?”

I crack a tired smirk. “About a 4. Maybe a 5 when I raise my arm too fast.”

He raises a brow. “And how much of that are you downplaying to look cool in front of us?” Slightly nodding towards Axel.

I glance over at my dog, who immediately perks up like he knows he’s being talked about. “A solid 60 percent.”

Diego laughs, but he kneels down next to me, softer now. “Y/N, you’ve made insane progress. But we’re still building up. You don’t have to prove anything today.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” I say, even though it’s a lie. “I’m just trying to… feel strong again.”

He doesn’t challenge me. Just gives a nod and offers his hand to help me up. “Okay. Let’s do this. But the moment I see that shoulder falter or your breath get shaky, we’re pausing. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The warm-up is fine. Easy even. Jogging laps around the indoor track with Axel trailing behind me like a shadow. My lungs are steadier than they’ve been in weeks. I feel… almost like myself.

Then we shift to shoulder presses.

“Let’s start light,” Diego says, passing me the small dumbbells — the baby ones, I tease in my head. I hate how small they feel in my hands.

“Come on,” I mutter to myself, planting my feet. “You’ve done this a thousand times before. Hell, you used to double this weight for warm-ups.”

“That was before your bones tried to throw a party and forgot to invite safety,” Nico pipes in from the corner where he’s leaning against a table, flipping through my training notes. “Let’s not reenact the crash scene here, yeah?”

I shoot him a look but secretly, I’m glad he’s here. He grounds me. Keeps me from letting the fire inside burn too hot, too fast.

I managed the first set. My form is shaky on the second. By the third, my shoulder screams. My breath catches.

Diego notices before I say anything. “Stop. Drop ‘em. Right now.”

I obey, lips pressed tight. My pride stings more than my shoulder.

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bench. “Now tell me what your body’s saying.”

I slump onto the bench, sweat trickling down my spine. “It’s saying I’m not ready.”

He kneels again in front of me, tone low and honest. “No. It’s saying you need time. Which isn’t the same thing.”

Nico steps closer now too, crossing his arms. “You’re not failing by resting, Y/N. That’s the bravest thing you could do right now — listen.”

I exhale shakily, brushing my sleeve across my face. “I just… I don’t want them to worry. The boys. They were scared enough. If they knew I was training again, they’d—”

“—They’d be proud,” Diego finishes for me. “Because you're doing this smart. You're building up again. You’re not throwing yourself into a cockpit half-healed. You’re working for it. Quietly. Strongly.”

I don’t respond right away. Just nod and lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes on Axel who’s still watching me with that serious, almost human stare.

“Just… don’t tell them yet,” I finally whisper. “Let this be mine a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico says, his voice softer now. “Your story. Your pace.”

“Besides,” Diego adds, grinning again as he hands me a bottle of water, “when you finally show up at the garage again and toss your helmet on like nothing happened, they’re gonna lose their damn minds.”

I chuckle. “I can’t wait to see their faces.”

I pick the dumbbells back up before they can stop me. Not for another full set — just one more press. One more reminder that I can. I lift them once, clean and steady, before lowering them again.

“That’s enough,” Diego says gently. “Today, that’s enough.”

And for once… I believe him. Because I know I’ll be back again tomorrow. And the day after that. I’m not chasing the old me anymore. I’m building someone stronger.

—

I hadn’t realized how much I missed the scent of race fuel and burnt rubber until I stepped through the paddock gates again.

The buzz. The noise. The heartbeat of a track that never really goes quiet.

The second my shoe hit the pavement inside the circuit, it all came rushing back — that itch in my fingers to feel the steering wheel again, the thrum in my chest that didn’t hurt anymore but still pulsed with memory. I wasn't driving today — still under the "you're technically held together with sports tape and medical optimism" clause — but I was here.

That counted for something.

Nico was walking just to my left, sunglasses on, hands in the pockets of his black team jacket, looking every bit like my silent, slightly too-calm bodyguard. Meanwhile, Paul practically bounced beside me on the right, grinning like a rookie who’d been handed keys to a spaceship.

“I swear, I thought you were just a myth,” Paul said, shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder. “They said ‘Ghost will meet with you before FP1’ and I was like, cool, should I also expect a unicorn and a sentient AI?”

My voice changer cracked slightly as I tilted my helmet toward him. “Sentient AI would be less chaotic than most of this team.”

Paul snorted. “And here I thought you were gonna be mysterious and intimidating. You’re… kind of hilarious.” I shrugged beneath my oversized hoodie. “Don’t get comfortable. I bite.”

“That would explain never taking that helmet off.” he said with an exaggerated look of fear. “Let me just go prep for my debut with the racetrack cryptid watching me from the pit wall.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “Your job today is to not crash my car, Aron. It likes being pampered.”

“Anything else I should know?” he asked, just as we turned down the garage hallway.

I smirked under the helmet, then nudged him with my elbow. “Lots. Don’t downshift too hard into turn six — it’ll get twitchy. There’s a subtle bump on the exit of nine, trust your rear to hold but don’t overcorrect. And if you talk back to Diego during the debriefs, I’ll personally short-sheet your bed for the rest of the season.”

Paul stared at me, eyes wide. I tilted my head playfully. “What?” “That was… disturbingly specific. How do you even know about short-sheeting beds?”

“Because I’m creative and mildly vindictive.” Nico coughed — poorly disguised laughter — and muttered, “He learned it from Oscar.”

I pretended not to hear him and turned my attention back to Paul. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ll be on the pit wall the whole time, headset on, translating Diego’s feedback into ‘Paul Speech.’ He’s been dying to lecture someone other than me.”

“Oh great, I’m the replacement victim,” Paul said, mock sighing. “But really, thanks. This means a lot, Ghost. Being the reserve is weird — you never know when you’ll actually be used. I thought I’d be invisible.”

I reached up and tapped the visor of my helmet, voice softening through the modulator. “Invisibility doesn’t mean unimportant. You’ve got this.” He smiled then, really smiled. That bright, pure grin that reminded me so much of Jack it almost stung.

“Alright, cool,” he said, straightening his posture like he was trying to match the height of his moment. “Let’s go make you proud.”

“Oh, you’re already halfway there,” I replied. “You didn’t trip coming off the shuttle. That’s one more point than I had on my first day.”

“I knew you were a disaster once,” he laughed.

“Once?” Nico muttered beside us. “That implies improvement.”

“Rude,” I said flatly through the voice changer, flipping him off.

We turned into the garage then, the loud hum of tools and chatter dimming the second we stepped through the threshold. The mechanics looked up, a few nodding in recognition as I passed, others just giving me that respectful kind of glance — Ghost’s back. Even if I wasn’t driving, I was here.

Paul peeled off to go suit up. I took a breath, looking over at my car — technically still mine, even if someone else would be behind the wheel for FP1. It gleamed under the overhead lights, waiting.

My fingers twitched. Soon.

Nico said something, but I didn’t hear him — not really. Because just then, the gravity of being back settled in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just this warm, solid weight of home.

And I didn’t even realize how tightly I’d been holding onto that until I let myself feel it again.

—

The hum of the garage had dulled to a low buzz after FP1 wrapped. Tools were put back in drawers, pit boards were stacked, and Paul was somewhere in the back being debriefed, grinning like a kid who’d just aced his first big test.

I stayed where I was on the pit wall, not wanting to really speak to the media or answer questions. I didn’t need to hide here. But, it still gave me that edge of comfort… a thin line between me and the rest of the world. Especially when emotions threatened to press a little too close to the surface.

“You looked good out there,” a voice said behind me — calm, familiar, warm.

I turned slightly, already recognizing Franco’s tone before my eyes landed on him. He gave me a soft nod, leaning his elbows against the barrier beside me, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I wasn’t out there,” I said, the voice changer wrapping my words in static.

He tilted his head, blue eyes sharp and quiet. “Didn’t say you were driving. I said you looked good out there.”

I paused. Then exhaled through my nose and pulled out the mic cord completely, letting it hang from the railing as I leaned forward a bit, matching his posture.

There was a moment of silence before I added, softer, “You know it hurt… at first”

He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“It hurt a lot to sit here and not be the one buckling in. To know that the car — my car — was about to be driven without me. And that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fight it.”

My hands clenched slightly at the memory — the ache in my ribs still faint under the surface, the scar on my arm pulling a little under the hoodie.

“I kept thinking about how many races I might miss… how slow recovery’s felt. How I used to fly in that thing. And now I’m grounded. Watching. Coaching. Like I’m some kind of whisper in the background of my own team. Truly a ghost by name. ”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just reached out and tapped his knuckles lightly against mine — an anchor.

“But…” I said, slowly, breathing in deep. “Then Paul started talking. Asking me questions. Getting excited. Like… full-on spark-in-his-eyes excited. And I realized I could still be part of it. Just from here. From the wall. From the headset.”

I looked down at my gloves, flexing my fingers. “He listens. Like really listens. And seeing him figure things out… watching him light up after his first laps? I don’t know. It felt… right. Not perfect. Not the way I wanted to be here. But right… okay.”

Franco nodded once, voice soft. “You’re still racing. You never stopped.”

I looked at him.

He smiled faintly. “Just because you’re not in the seat doesn’t mean you’re not driving this thing forward. He wouldn’t be out there doing so well without your help. You’re shaping him. You’re shaping this whole team.”

The words hit me harder than I expected.

My throat tightened a little behind the helmet. “I think… for the first time since the crash… I don’t feel broken being here. I feel like I still have a purpose. I want Paul to do well. I want him to prove himself. I want him to have the chances I had. And if I can help him get those… then maybe this isn’t all just pain and waiting.”

Franco reached up then and gently knocked on the side of my helmet. “That’s the champion mindset. And the good teammate mindset.”

He grinned. “Even with the scary voice mod.”

I huffed a laugh. “It’s for dramatic effect.”

“You’re terrifying,” he deadpanned. “Inspiring, but terrifying.”

We both chuckled, the kind of laughter that eases tension like a pressure valve finally letting go.

Then Franco leaned back and said quietly, “It’s okay to feel both, you know. The pain and the pride. You’re allowed to miss it. And you’re allowed to find joy in what you can do right now.”

I swallowed hard, but nodded.

“Thanks,” I said. “For saying that.”

“Always,” he replied, and for the first time that day, I let myself take my helmet off — slowly — and just breathe.

He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t stare. He just offered a genuine smile, no different than the one he gave me when I was Ghost.

“You’ll be back in the car soon,” he said. “But until then? This version of you — the strategist, the leader, the teammate — is just as badass.”

I blinked at him, then smiled.

“Don’t tell Diego or Nico that. It’ll go to their heads, like some mother duckling they might pull me from my seat.”

Franco smirked. “My lips are sealed.”  I smiled back before following him back across the pit towards the garage. 

—

It was race day when the others finally found me.

Sure, they knew I was here. The media had caught glimpses of "Ghost" in the paddock all weekend, whispers and blurry photos circling online. But catching me for a real conversation? Actually pinning me down? That was a whole different challenge to them.

Until a very familiar flash of papaya orange caught me out.

I was tucked away in a quiet corner behind one of the hospitality buildings, sitting on a crate, sipping from a water bottle, my legs stretched out in front of me.

A shadow fell over me, and I looked up — only to see a smirking Oscar Piastri standing there, arms crossed.

“Well, look who I finally found," he said, tilting his head at me with a grin. "Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy during your injury. Yet here you are. Hiding like a delinquent.”

I didn’t get a word in before he stepped closer, peering dramatically at me.

“I hope you at least have your brace on under that hoodie," he teased, tugging playfully at the sleeve. "Would hate to have to carry you back to the medical center and explain to the physios why you’re broken again."

I scoffed behind the voice modulator, batting his hand away. "Relax, Mum," I said dryly. "Brace is on. Doctor's orders. I’m being good."

Oscar chuckled, dropping down onto the crate beside me with a quiet oof, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine.

"I dunno if sitting here in your emo corner counts as being good," he quipped. "But it’s good to see you. Missed you, you know."

I smiled — small, hidden — but it was there.

"Missed you too, mate."

We sat there for a beat, the sounds of the paddock — tools clanging, fans yelling, engines roaring in the distance — fading into a quieter hum around us.

"You look good," Oscar said suddenly, voice softer now. "Healthier. Stronger."

"Feel stronger," I admitted, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. "Still a long way to go. Still can’t race yet. But it’s... better being here. Even if I’m not in the car."

Oscar nodded, watching me with that patient, careful look he only ever used when he dropped the sarcasm.

"I’m proud of you," he said simply.

Before I could say anything back — feeling dangerously close to getting a lump in my throat — another familiar voice floated over to us.

"There you are!"

I turned just in time to see Charles approaching, helmet in one hand, hair a little messy from pulling it off, suit half-zipped down. His face was lit up with relief, though there was a thin line of worry etched between his brows too.

"I have been looking everywhere," Charles said, crouching in front of us, resting his elbows on his knees so we were eye-level. "You are impossible to find sometimes, you know that?"

"Occupational hazard," I joked lightly, voice still crackling with the modulator.

Charles huffed a laugh, but then his gaze softened as he studied me.

"You are really here," he said, almost to himself. "And you are doing well."

"Trying," I said honestly. "It... wasn’t easy at first."

Oscar nodded beside me, nudging my arm. "But she's kicking ass. You should've seen her, Charles. Advising Paul like a damn pro. Ghost engineer era unlocked, I can’t wait to see what they can do during the race together."

Charles smiled — a real, warm smile — and reached out to squeeze my hand where it rested on my knee.

"I am proud of you, mon amie," he said. "More than you know. It takes a lot of strength to be here. To stay when it hurts."

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing gently into my chest — not painful, not overwhelming. Just... steadying.

"I needed to be here," I whispered. "For the team. For myself. Even if it’s just helping from the wall. It feels like... I'm still part of it."

"You never stopped being part of it," Oscar said quietly.

Charles nodded, squeezing my hand once more before letting go. "And you never will."

For a moment, the three of us just sat there in the shade, the chaos of race day spinning on without us. It didn’t matter. It could wait.

Because here, hidden behind the noise, tucked into a small, forgotten corner of the paddock, I was reminded that even when I couldn’t drive, even when my body wasn’t at a hundred percent — I wasn’t alone. And that was enough. For now at least.

—

The race was chaotic.

From the second the lights went out, my heart thundered in my chest, the noise of the engines vibrating through the pit wall. I sat perched on a high stool right beside Diego, headset snug over my helmet, live feed on the monitors in front of me.

Paul's voice crackled through the radio — tight, a little anxious. His first F1 race. His first real chance. He'd qualified P14, and while it was a hell of a debut, he wanted more. We all did.

"Focus up, rookie," I murmured into the radio, voice softened by the modulator but still carrying the firmness I knew he'd hear. "Eyes forward. Breathe. You’re better than half the grid out there."

"Copy," Paul answered, clipped but trying to sound calm. I could hear the nerves anyway, layered under every word.

The first few laps were brutal — midfield battles that could turn ugly fast. Paul held steady, sharp and clean even under pressure. But he hesitated at key moments — lifting just a fraction when he could’ve pressed the attack.

"Car ahead is struggling with rears," I said, low and steady in his ear as Diego fed me data. "Watch him out of Turn 7. You’ll have him on exit."

A beat.

"Okay," Paul breathed. "Okay, Ghost. I trust you."

I smiled behind the visor, chest tight with pride.

And sure enough, two laps later, Paul slipped past in a beautifully patient move, climbing to P13.

The race ebbed and flowed, the pit stop cycle throwing chaos into the midfield. Every time Paul's focus wavered, I was there — guiding without overwhelming, steering him without grabbing the wheel.

"Car in front weaving under braking. He’s nervous. You stay clean. He’ll crack first."

"Brake balance forward two clicks. Save your fronts, we’re gonna need 'em later."

"Trust your exit speed. You’re faster in S2. He can’t stop you if you set it up early."

It was like music, almost — this silent, invisible dance we did together, woven between the roar of the engines and the crackle of the radios.

Lap by lap, Paul clawed his way forward. P12. Then P11.

When we hit the final stint, fresher tires on and the car lighter on fuel, Diego leaned toward me, excitement flashing in his eyes.

"One more position," he said into my private channel. "We get points."

I keyed my mic again, calm even though my heart raced like mad.

"Paul. Eyes up. P10 ahead. You are faster. You are faster. Stay close. Pressure him."

Paul’s breathing was heavier now, the strain of the race wearing on him, but he responded instantly. "Copy, Ghost. I’m on it."

I watched, fists clenched, as he chipped away at the gap — lap after lap, tenth by tenth.

Finally, into Turn 4, he made the move — bold, late on the brakes, perfect.

P9.

Inside the points.

The final few laps were a blur of adrenaline, shouting, encouragement.

When the chequered flag waved, Diego practically threw his headset into the air beside me, and I couldn't hold back the yell that ripped from my throat over the radio.

"YES, PAUL! YES! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!" I screamed, voice cracking with pride and joy.

Over the team radio, Paul whooped, the pure exhilaration pouring out of him.

"OH MY GOD, THANK YOU, GHOST! THANK YOU!" he shouted, breathless. "I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU!"

"You did that," I said, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt under the helmet. "You kept your head, you fought smart — you earned this, Paul. You earned every bit of it."

He was still yelling and laughing as he pulled the car into parc fermé, tires screeching slightly. The mechanics and engineers around us were clapping, cheering, and I stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed.

He did it. We did it.

I pushed through the crowd toward the car, heart hammering.

Paul barely waited for the car to cool down. As soon as he wrestled himself out of the cockpit, he tore off his steering wheel, slammed it into its mount, and sprinted toward me.

"Ghost!" he shouted, voice hoarse with emotion.

I didn't even have time to react before he threw his arms around me, nearly knocking us both off balance.

Our helmets clashed with a loud crack, making both of us stumble a little, but neither of us cared. Paul clung to me like a lifeline, arms tight around my back, helmet pressed to mine.

I wrapped my arms around him in return, gripping him just as hard, laughing breathlessly even as something in my chest squeezed and ached with pride.

"You absolute legend," I said, voice trembling. "I'm so proud of you, Paul. So, so proud."

He pulled back just a little, enough that our visors almost touched.

"Couldn't have done it without you, Ghost," he said again, voice thick. "You believed in me when I wasn’t sure I could do it."

"I knew it from the start," I said quietly. "You just had to see it for yourself."

For a moment, the noise of the world faded away — the shouting, the music, the celebration. It was just the two of us, standing there in the middle of it all, holding onto each other like it mattered.

And maybe it did.

Maybe it mattered more than either of us could say.

Masterlist

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