#train rides and late nights chapter two

[winterarmyy]

Plot Twist | Part II

An arranged marriage with mafia!bucky. 

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III* (end) | Extra

Words: 2.5k++ (whoops, this one’s longer)

Pairing: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: only soft things most of the time. bucky's 'innocent' seduction, and reader is a bit extreme when she's angry. a bit of attempted murder but we can turn a blind eye on that. otherwise, safe to read.

A/N: Thank you so much for the incredible support from the previous chapter! I thought this gonna be a flop tbh. I’m still gonna do either way, it’s for my own indulgence after all. But, now that I know lots of you are on board, I’m thrilled to take y’all along for the ride! Enjoy!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

“Where is she?” Bucky had been searching for his wife in the crowd, but he was left disappointed when he wasn’t able to catch not even a glimpse of her.

Steve leaned closer, “Clint said they’re on the way a few minutes ago. They should be here any second now.” He informed.

Bucky seemed dissatisfied with his answer; maybe he should’ve come home first and come this gala with her. But Steve insisted that he was already late due to the flight delay, and he should just go straight from the airport. His wife would come later her own, should be fine.

“Fine my ass.” He thought. For some reason Bucky had been restless lately. Maybe he had been away from his wife for too long. He was thinking of taking some time off from this business, perhaps finally bringing Y/N to a trip somewhere.

They didn’t spend much time together, but when they did it was well-spent. At least that’s what Bucky think. After the reception ceremony, he brought Y/N straight home. He had to catch a flight later that night. Something about having “Some contract to settle at in Italy. I’ll be back in two weeks or so.”

Y/N was still in her wedding dress when he tell her the news. He remembered her looking sombre but she didn’t complaint at all; instead she looked up to him as said, “Have a safe trip, please.” Bucky didn’t expect her to look at him so yearningly. He wondered what was she thinking when she said that.

For a moment, he thought of cancelling everything and stay in New York. Spend time with her, get to know her. But thinking back about the piles of workload he had on his back, he quickly snapped back to reality.

As Bucky was walking out, about to leave his newly wedded wife at the door; he hesitated. He paused as his gaze trained on her, what should he do? Kiss her goodbye? Hug her?

Y/N looked up with eyes filled with confusion. Did he forget something? Is there something he wanted to tell her?

Bucky himself doesn’t know what to do. “Fuck it.” So, he simply turn around and left her internal questions unanswered. Trailing closely behind Steve greeted Y/N goodbye before jogging up to Bucky.

“Who’s in charge of her?” Bucky asked as him and Steve walked towards the car. “Clint.” Steve answered right when they meet up with Clint himself at the car door. Bucky sharpen his stare as Clint opened the door for him, “Keep me posted.” He ordered.

Turning back, Bucky took one last look at her; she was still standing stood at the entrance. Gloom seemed to surround her, but he could see she was trying to put up a strong face. His eyes soften for a second as he thought, “She does look gorgeous in that dress.”

He felt bad during the trip. He doesn’t particularly know why, but his heart aches whenever he thought of his wife was standing there when the car drove farther away from the mansion. Maybe it was the look she gave him before he left. Or maybe he was just getting mellow, as Steve said.

So, he did everything he could to make it up for his absence. Jewelleries, clothes, shoes; anything expensive that he set his eyes on when he was away. That was the only thing he can do; at least the only thing he knew women liked. Prettiest things for the prettiest lady.

Alas, none of the gifts he gave her ever really made her happy. Clint said she accepted it but always in a reluctant manner.

“He didn't have to give me this...”

“I can't possibly accept this...”

“Do I really have to…”

Her behavior left Bucky beyond puzzled. He didn’t know what to do; he barely knew her. So, he went with the most generic way to make a woman happy. Though it didn't completely backfire, but he wasn’t satisfied with her response.

Until one day, a ‘revelation’ he called. A ‘sign from God’ for those who believe. He found the answer when he was in Paris, two months after he was declared as a married man. On the way to his meeting, he drove by a cute café. Its’ surrounding layout was adorned mixture of white, pink, and peach roses. A thought came up to him as he remembered a moment during his wedding reception.

  ~Flashback~

“Do you think it's possible to keep my bouquet?” Bucky heard Y/N whispered to one of the wedding planners that attend the reception. The man nodded as he explained that he can arrange the request for her. She smiled brightly and thanked the man.

Bucky watched her with a spark of curiosity in his eyes. He had to ask, “You like roses?” it was short, straight to point. The question seemed to take her by surprise, Bucky never asked useless question like this.

“I love this particular type of rose.” She answered. A soft smile brightened her pretty face. A sincere expression that Bucky rarely sees in a person anymore.

He liked that.

He wanted to see more.

Wanting to continue the innocent conversation, he asked, “There's a difference?” He quirked an eyebrow.

It seems there was a silly thought that came across her mind as she giggled, “If I tell, it will only bore you.” she said.

There was glimmer in her eyes, purposely luring him to provoke her; a powerful seduction it was indeed, he leaned closer towards her, "Prove it."

~End Flashback~

“Steve, tell Clint to arrange a bouquet for her.” Bucky said, something in his eyes lifted his expression. There was no special occasion this time. It just reminds him of her.

Steve looked over him, “The usual red roses?” he asked, as if Bucky had done it was a daily occurrence.

“No…” an unconscious smile creeped up on him, "…white majolica spray roses." He said as he recalled the way she said it.

Turns out that was the best gift amongst all he gave so far. His chest seemed to tighten and soared at the time whenever he recalled how Clint explained her reaction to it.

“The widest smile he ever saw.” Clint said.

Too bad Bucky wasn't there to see it for himself.

Bucky was woken from his daydream when he heard a commission at the other side of the hall. When he turned to his left, he didn’t see Steve anywhere, he was supposed to be there. But it didn’t take long until Steve popped up in his view.

Steve walked up to the group of where Bucky was hanging around since he arrived. He faked the sincerest smile at them, “Gentlemen.” He nodded once, before leaning closer to Bucky, “It’s Y/N.”

Upon hearing her name, Bucky didn’t waste any more of his time with the meaningless small talk and left the group. Unlikely of him to leave without a proper greeting but it’s his wife for fuck’s sake.

Bucky nearly printed, “She arrived a few minutes ago and went to grab a drink.” Steve said. His brows quirked into a deeper frown, “Unsupervised? In here?” Bucky growled. Steve knew better to leave his wife in this ‘battlefield’ alone. “No, Clint was...”

The first thought that came to him was she was in danger and that pumped a rush of adrenaline through him. But it was far from the truth. In fact, quite the opposite. When Bucky managed to slither through the crowd he ended up stopping at his track.

His wife was the center of attention; two feet in front of her was a woman, tall and blonde. An empty glass in Y/N’s hand. Red wine soaked into the silk of her dress; leaving an eye-sore of a stain on her beautiful lilac dress.

“Do you think this is funny?” there was a grit in Y/N’s voice, nothing like the gentle tone she used around Bucky.

Foolish woman she was, that blonde, believing what she did was amusing. Purposely stepping on Y/N’s dress, and when she was left unguarded the woman lifted the bottom of the glass that Y/N was holding spilling the deep red drink on her dress.

“It’s a little bit funny.” The blonde giggled gleefully. And she was out there thinking that ridiculing Y/N Barnes was a humorous joke. Unaware of how petrified the people surrounding them. No one messes with Barnes. No one.

Y/N stood tall and proud; she tried to remain unfazed by childish tricks as this. A smile curved on her lips; with a wave of her hand, a waiter came to her side and take away the empty glass from her hand before quickly retreated.

She walked gracefully towards the woman; surely the blonde was taller than her but somehow Y/N managed to make her feel like she was being looked down upon, “Oh dear…” Y/N chuckled.

Despite the light laughter from Y/N, there was a sudden change in the thickness of the atmosphere. It was much heavier, sturdier, quieter. Standing face to face, eye to eye, the dumb blonde finally realized the trouble she was in, especially with wordless superiority that Y/N was exuding.

Very much resembling Bucky’s, or perhaps the very opposite.

If Bucky’s was winter cold, hers was searing fire.

“Go ahead, laugh again. Best believe that I will shove this knife down your throat when you do.”, what a menacing gaze in those coffee-stained eyes of hers.

The woman was caught of guard when she saw a blade in Y/N’s hand. When did she got her hands on one of those? Perhaps if she was vigilant enough, she would’ve seen when Y/N pulled the knife from her thigh strap from the hidden side of her leg.

Alas she was stupidly brave to counter Y/N’s threat. “I-in front of these p-people? You wouldn’t dare.” She stumbled upon her own words.

Amused, Y/N simply smiled, “You think they would care? Look around, you fool.”

The crowd was split into two categories; those who was scared for their own life and those who wanted to see blood. But both of them doesn’t give enough of a care about the life of another foolish woman who doesn’t know her place.

Y/N was right. And the woman was deemed to meet her doom.

“Come on now, ‘it’s a little bit funny’ right?” Y/N taunted her with a wickedly innocent giggle, before charging the knife to the woman’s throat.

Y/N was expecting to feel the blade sunk into her flesh, thrilling to see blood spilled from the wound but instead, she was stopped by a grip on her wrist, pulling her away from her target, “Woah there, tiger.” She recognized this voice anywhere.

“Bucky…” she whispered his name as he pulled her closer; her back flushed against his sturdy chest, muscular arms around her waist. “Okay, okay. Easy now...” His hand grazed along her wrist up to her palm, taking away the weapon from her hand.

“That’s it. Calm down, honey. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would we?” Bucky dipped his face to the side of her neck, whispering sweet nothings in her ear; his thumb rubbing her waist, coaxing her to submit. Y/N does not know what kind of sorcery was involved, but he managed to calm her down. She leaned further into his embrace as she place her hand top of Bucky’s.

Bucky eyed Steve, giving a signal to take care of the rest of the mess, as he gracefully lead his wife away, towards the balcony for some privacy. As soon as they step outside, the cold air breezed on the surface of her exposed skin, waking her up from the lavender haze Bucky lured her into.

Having her back facing towards Bucky, she could hear him closing the door and walking up to her. She was still pissed off about the whole ordeal, but somehow her husband still managed to sway her around to face him, “It’s just a dress, we can buy more it you want.” He coaxed with a gentle caress on her arms.

“That’s not the point.” She spat, an upset frown decorating her pretty face.

But that only soften Bucky even more, “Then?”

However, she remained silence. In fact, she doesn’t know how to say it. She just looks down at the stain on her dress, “It was a gift from you.” and yet the words left unsaid.

Bucky followed her gaze; the stain was surely prominent on the pastel dress. Dragging his eyes lower, he can see the wine dripping on exposed thighs through the slit of dress, bit by bit flowing lower towards her ankle.

He lightly push her back against the railing before going down on his knees. Wordlessly, he lifted her leg and place it on his thigh; he could feel the thin heel of her shoes digging into his skin, but he didn’t care. Y/N didn’t question any of his action, especially when he pull out a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and gently wipe the excess fluid from her skin.

“Why are you mad, doll? Tell me.” His tone was honeyed as if he was pleading, as his hands keep dapping the wetness away.

There was a few seconds of stillness before Y/N finally confessed, “It was a gift from you.”

Bucky looked up at her, “What is?” As if he didn’t notice the first time he saw it.

She sighed an exhausted breath, “This dress. It was the very first gift you’ve given me.” She sounded genuinely upset. A tiny pout was starting to form on her lips.

Deciding to play dumb, Bucky asked, “Oh, is it?” he grinned a foolish smile.

Y/N wanted to wipe that smug from his face, “I’m being serious, Buck! I—” her words were cut short as she felt Bucky’s lips on her thighs. His gaze dragged slowly from her eyes and downwards to where was planting his invisible marks. Litters of feather-like kisses, as he hands gently grip on the back of thigh and calve.

“Bucky… What are you doing?” her brain was unable to render a full thought, while he lungs seemed to forgot how process air for her to breathe.

He lifted his head up for a second, “You’re just so precious, doll...” He smiled, dipping back and planted another kiss, “…that’s all.” He mumbled against her skin.

His stubble felt too good she almost melted where she stood, “I—I’m still pissed off.” She faked her anger, hoping it will stop him from doing such intimate thing in a public place like this.

Bucky willed himself to stop, as he knew if this kept going, he might go all the way regardless of where they are, “Then, let’s get out of here. What do you think?” He placed her leg down as he stood on his feet.

The offer seemed tempting, Y/N was feeling a little bit hungry and everything in the gala was bite-sized. That’s not food. At least not in her book. Her eyes brighten to the thought of having proper meal, “Can we? But aren’t you like, an important person?” she peeked at the glass door ahead, the silhouettes of people moving around, laughing; seemed like they were enjoying the gala.

“Compared to you? Never.” There was a hint of flirtatiousness in his tone. Playful, yet flirty.

Y/N rolled her eyes, “That’s not what I meant.”

Bucky chuckled as he held out his hand, silently inviting her to an unplanned rendezvous, “Come on, sweets. Anywhere you want to go.”

<< Part I || Part III >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Feel free to share your thoughts 🤍

[dojunie]

MISDIAL; LJN [CH5] VOICEMAIL REDUX

[★]; [MISDIAL MASTERLIST] [PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

info;

lee jeno x fem!reader

college au

chaptered

very slow burn

genre; not-quite-friends to lovers, older brother mark lee, brothers best friend lee jeno, light angst, yn is a menace to society, story/character driven

warnings for this chapter; kys mention in joking manner

chapter wc: ...13K

a/n: i couldn't decide between posting this monster whole or cutting it into two parts, but two parts kind of makes the pacing weird, so here she is in all her glory! been editing this so long that i've gotten sick of looking at it so im just going to release it into the world now LOL, pls pls pls give me feedback on this chapter, im not 100% satisfied w it but i cant tell if its because it sucks or i've just been rereading it too much 🥸

current tl: @hibernatinghamster / @jenoxygen / @eaglesnotravens / @donutswithjaminthemiddle / @jvjsssnaa / @huangrenhyucks / @luvenshiti / @shiningdery / @jaeminsbebu / @aliceinwhateverland / @bebsky / @gem-gem / @jkjkseo / @jenosbliss / @pewpewpwe00 / @ti–red / @philanarose / @softbbyg0rl / @aaasteroidsky / @carelessshootanonymous / @en-boyz / @jlsavyy / @roseymerrie / @bangchanisemo / @skuezk / @jaehyuns-adorable-dimples / @ourbeautifulaffair / @jeonnyread / @jvjsssnaa / @episkeyjeno / @bockhyun / @jenojammin / @zarastrawberry / @peachie-bear / @itadaramaterasu / @alymii / @cuteejeno / @episkeyjeno / @nohunlee / @ooojisoo / @luv4jeno / @jydivrs / @pinkysinnerbaby / @jenojenoyes / @maeyoung / @axmdocs / @nctzennikki09

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FORGET WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT NEVER BEING ABLE TO GET MAD AT SOMI, BECAUSE THIS TIME, YOU’RE REALLY GOING TO KILL HER.

At this exact moment in time, the Aegon Showcase is set to begin in about fifteen minutes. You’ve got half of a chocolate muffin stuffed into your mouth (courtesy of Somi sneaking a few snacks from the audience lounge, since the dancers technically weren’t supposed to be eating any of the guest refreshments), and you were about halfway through swallowing this chunk of bread when Somi said something that made you nearly choke.

For context: six and a half days have passed since you’ve last spoken to Jeno.

And you haven’t been counting, either. It just so happens that it is surprisingly easy to recall every passing minute when each one feels like it’s been put there specifically to test you.

The afternoon after the Balcony Incident, for example— a few fresh hours after you left Lee Jeno behind on that overlook with the full intention of never looking him in the eyes ever again. After a late breakfast with Somi you’d told her you weren’t feeling too well, that you’d be leaving a little earlier than planned (which, even though you’d said your pain was of the intestinal variety, wasn’t untrue; you didn’t feel well, if the widening pit in your stomach caused by that morning was anything to go by) and departed her penthouse a little after one. 

You’d foolishly hoped that Jeno and his entourage would have plans literally anywhere other than Mark’s place for once, wanting to do nothing but silently mope around the apartment for a few hours once you'd gotten home, but you’d been naive.

You’d been so, so naive.

“Oh!” you’d heard. Renjun. Brown hair, big dark eyes peeking at you around the doorframe as you cradled your now-aching nose bridge. You opened the front door and crashed face first into something solid. “Hey, you. Perfect timing. Do you wanna come grocery shopping with us? Jaemin’s cooking tonight!”

“We’ll even let you ride in the cart,” Chenle chimed in from further into the hallway, grinning wickedly, but you couldn’t focus on either of them because they were both half-hidden behind what you’d smashed into with your haste to get inside. No gray flannel this time, but the same unreadable expression on his face as he, much like he did at the party last night, instinctively grabbed you to keep you from falling on your ass.

(Or his expression was unreadable. Until his eyes trained on something about your face that he didn’t like and his dark eyebrows furrowed with something akin to concern. Then you remembered you’d been crying all morning and surely looked like some sort of dried-out blowfish, eyelids puffy and swollen, so you averted your eyes and jumped out of his grip like he’d stung you.)

“Busy,” you told them quickly, “Sorry. Not today.”

Renjun pouted. Chenle squinted at you, obviously doubtful. And when Jeno finally moved out of the way, you didn’t even thank him for keeping you upright. You just kept your attention on the ground and beelined into the apartment.

Little did you know, that one word would become your mantra. Busy, busy, busy. But it wasn’t like you were completely lying, because you were busy. The Aegon showcase was in a week which meant you had practice every free hour with Somi and the others, and the last thing you needed was to get distracted by circling Jeno like some kind of sad, miserable shark. The good thing about being out of the house so often was that most of the week passed with no more Jeno-related incidents.

Thursday night ended up being the first time you’d seen him with your own eyes since you face-planted into him the previous Saturday.

You’d returned home at 10PM, sweaty and exhausted from a last minute choreo change that had, apparently, also wiped clean the memory of what Thursday nights meant in the Mark Lee household. Movie night. The tiredness you felt was so all-encompassing that upon the discovery of all seven of them sitting around the couch staring at you as you entered, there wasn’t even enough energy to feel awkward. Even then, you must not have looked as ghastly as you felt because Jaemin smiled at you like nothing was amiss, gesturing towards the dining table and the mountain of brown bags atop it.

“You’re late, Rockstar. Take-out’s gone cold.”

Jeno was sitting right next to him. Your muscles were like jelly. All of your bones hurt. Your brain felt like it was operating on nothing but fumes. (And this is what you blamed for your cowardice— the fact that you couldn’t even hold your head up to look in his direction in fear of catching his eye.)

After everyone had gone home and you had free reign of the kitchen once again, Mark hit you with a few more questions about the Aegon Comp; seemingly insignificant inquiries like how the parking situation was (which you didn’t understand the importance of, since he said he’d probably ride his bike there), and if he could sit wherever he wanted (which again, confused you, because the ticke you’d gotten him was one of the best in house). But in your state of fatigue you didn’t think to question it. All you wanted to do was eat something and go to bed, and that’s exactly what you did.

(If you’d had your wits about you maybe you’d have put two and two together. Maybe Somi’s words wouldn’t have caught you with the surprise they did. But as it stands…)

As it stands it’s Friday afternoon, the day of the Aegon Showcase, and half a chocolate muffin is stuffed into your face (technically now stuffed into your airway) as you come to the realization that your friend might secretly be trying to ruin your life.

“You really need to stop eating your food so fast,” Jiara murmurs, clapping you on the back with a little more force than necessary. “No one is going to take it from you. Smaller bites will go a long way.”

You gasp a breath when the chunk finally unsticks. Then, “You saw who in the audience lounge?”

Somi is nonplussed by your horror.

“I saw your brother out there trying to throw a skittle over a lighting fixture and still catch it in his mouth. When I was leaving with our food I think I heard a bunch of people cheer so I’d bet he managed to do it, which, when you think about how high these ceilings are, is actually pretty impressive—”

You fight the urge to grab her by her shoulders and shake her. “I’m not asking about the goddamn skittles!” you hiss. “Somi, you said you saw ‘them’ when you went out there. Them as in plural. Who is them?”

She makes a face like you should already know who. “Who else? Mark and the rest of his crew. And Donghyuck asked to bring a few more, so I guess those are who the other guys out there are. Why are you acting like you didn’t already know this? You were sitting right next to me when Donghyuck was practically begging to come!”

Your life flashes before your eyes.

Jeno’s car. The rain, pounding against the windows. Catching him looking at you in the mirror after Somi told them about the showcase, how it felt like the world outside faded away a little as some little message passed between you— when you felt like he was telling you something without saying a single word.

Then you remember it. In your distant, distant periphery, even though she’d been sitting not even a millimeter to your left when these alleged plans were discussed.

‘Yeah! I mean, I reserved like, a bajillion seats in advance because I knew I’d want to invite everyone who would even consider coming— I’ll definitely get the best row for you guys!’

“However,” she says after a beat, voice finally starting to show the tiniest bit of caution. You realize that your face has begun to contort on its own. “I am starting… to get vibes. That I maybe should have run that by you first? Would now be a bad time to let you know that I told them about the afterparty, too?”

Utter disbelief. The only reason you don’t leap on her once you fully comprehend what she’s said is because Gawon, who’d been watching this entire exchange with quiet brown eyes, puts a hand on your shoulder. She must be able to tell that you’re about to start freaking out, because her therapist-voice is fully activated when she clears her throat.

“Can I ask what's so surprising about this?” she asks carefully. “When we were telling Aegon about how many tickets we each wanted, you said you only needed one. For your brother, right?”

You thought of the ticket, the little envelope you’d held under your pillow for weeks as you fought with the idea of actually giving it to Mark. In the end, a few days ago, when you handed it to him and told him he could come watch you perform if he wanted to, he smiled so big that you felt bad for waiting so long in the first place. But you’d then quickly explained the caveat: that he was not to tell any of the others about it, because there was only one ticket and you didn’t want them hassling you about getting more. And Mark agreed.

Which is why you’d dared to assume that tonight would be safe.

“Yes,” you mutter. “The ticket was for him.”

“Which means you’re not surprised he’s here. So are his friends the problem?”

“The problem?”

You pause. That word makes it seem like their appearance here is actually detrimental to you in some way, like they’re just here to hassle or bully you or something, but that’s not really it at all. Your annoyance at them being here is rooted in the exact opposite. They’re not going to joke around and take it easy, or pat you on the back and tell you that you did well, like how they would if they’d come to watch one of their friends dance. They’re going to swarm you and coo and treat you like a five year old that just stumbled through their first ballet recital.

And as if that isn't bad enough, you realize with a start that you've actually got more to worry about than just being embarrassed by their innate need to baby you.

They, you remember yet again. Plural.

You quickly fix your doomsday-esque expression. "Uh. No, no problem, just... I'm over-exaggerating, forget it, Somi, when you said they, how many are we talking exactly?"

"Seven," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and you fight to keep your shoulders from sagging. "The three from the car, your brother, and three others I don't really know as well, but who're all just as cute."

Seven. Which means Lee Jeno will be in the audience as well. You should've already known that, fully aware that wherever Mark goes Jeno will follow, but you'd been so startled by the change in attendance that you'd momentarily forgotten that you were pointedly avoiding one of that seven.

Great.

A click echoes over the announcement system. You recognize the voice that follows as the organizer of the showcase, the cheerful woman from the promotional video, happily informing all the performers to head to their greenrooms for final warm-ups before the show.

Well. Even if you wanted to mope for longer about your predicament, your mind switches lanes to the task at hand. Somi and Gawon both titter excitedly at the update, but make sure to quickly give their final reassurances about not worrying too much about the people in the audience and using that energy to give your all on stage. They’re right of course, and you probably would have come to this conclusion on your own once you swallowed your knee-jerk reaction to gripe about everything involving your brother and his friends, but you can’t say that their enthusiasm doesn't do the heavy lifting of bringing you back to earth.

You've got a competition to rock, after all. You could worry about everything else after.

Adrenaline made the hour-long showcase go by in what seemed like fifteen seconds. 

Just like that, a short chapter of your life closed with a bang; seven minutes on the stage, deafening cheers, Jiara and Guyeon pulling everyone into one big sweaty hug as soon as you were all out of the spotlight— then you blink and you’re in Gawon’s car with the windows down blasting down Gangnam on the way to Somi’s house, the girls in the seats around you singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs. The sun is setting, you’re heading to your celebratory afterparty, and what should be a picture-perfect moment is completely ruined by the fact that your mind has been in shambles for the last hour and a half. Why?

Because as you inch closer and closer to Somi’s penthouse, all you can think about is the fact that Lee Jeno is sitting up there biding his time before he can stomp your heart into a million more microscopic pieces.

What you didn’t mention about the moments after the performance was that, after rushing through changing out of your performance outfit to find your friends and get the hell out of there, you stumbled out of the greenroom to find a person. A person who was frowning out in the corridor like some sort of mopey ghost, Jeno in all his annoyingly perfect glory, caught mid-pace.

Upon seeing him your body rebooted, a hundred different emotions flashing through your system from the shock of him appearing in front of you at that moment. The only thing you had time to notice before his words ruined the rest of your afternoon was how… fidgety he was; Running his hand through his hair, rocking from foot to foot, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. You’d always taken note of how still Jeno could be sometimes, not moving an inch for seemingly hours at a time, which was the main reason his current inability to stay still even caught your eye— but it was quickly overtaken by the utter despair you felt not soon after he caught sight of you and opened his mouth.

“Can we talk?” he’d asked. And he’d sounded so unsure of himself that you almost instantly crumbled to the puppy-dog eyes, before reality grabbed you by the neck and you remembered that talking to him was actually the last thing you wanted to be doing right now. 

“Busy,” you’d forced out. “My friends are waiting for me outside.”

But he must’ve seen this coming because he looked nonplussed as you took a step back, his own feet matching yours stride for stride, hands coming out almost as if to calm you like one might a spooked horse.

“It won’t take longer than a few minutes,” he tried, “Five minutes, just five. I just— I really, really want to clarify a few things from Saturday. What I said on the balcony.”

He said it like there was a chance you might’ve forgotten what happened, which almost made you laugh in disbelief. Like it was possible to forget that shitshow, your first love telling you that he was kind of interested in you once upon a time, but did nothing about it because your brother came first. Though, once you fully realized that he meant he wanted to talk about that right now, the moment lost its humor.

Now? Here? You glanced up and down the hallway. Your friends weren’t around, nor were his, but you were hardly alone.

“I wasn’t being entirely—”

“You're going to the party, aren’t you?” You cut Jeno off. Very unlike you when it came to him, and with the way he blinked you had a feeling he knew that too.

“The party?” 

“Somi said she invited you guys.”

“I— I wasn't sure you wanted me to come.”

“Somi invited you, Lee. Is that any way to treat your hostess? We can—” You swallowed. “Come by, and we can find a minute to talk then, but for now I really—”

“Have to go,” he finished with a small wince. “Got it.”

And once he’d metaphorically let you go, taking a step back to slip his hands in his pockets, you’d all but run away; finding Guyeon and Gawon waiting for you like they said they’d be, ready to leave and head to Alice’s house to pretty-up for the party in her gigantic flat. You were trying your best to keep up the energy when you got into the car with them, laughing along to their jokes and dancing along to the music, but you couldn’t stop thinking of what type of curbstomp Jeno was about to release on the suffering remains of your sixteen year-old feelings. 

Even up until the final touches of your make-up, you were commiserating. What the hell could he possibly want to clarify? 

Was he going to tell you to stop being weird around him and the others, because your mood was fucking up their vibe? To stop avoiding him so obviously, that it was as noticeable for everyone as it felt for you, that it was making it awkward for him?

Or could he mean that he was going to tell you he’d… misspoken? That he’d never really liked you the way you liked him, and didn’t want you to misunderstand— by interested in you he meant in the way all guys were interested in all girls, some lowly, surface level thing that he quickly got over when he realized his friendship with your brother could be jeopardized by it?

The last thought had stung a little more than the others, and you’d accidentally frowned so hard about it that it creased your still-setting concealer and had to wipe it all off.

After angrily redoing your base you’d forced it from your mind and got dressed, stealing a simple henley dress from Gawon’s closet upon realizing that you were not in the mood for sexy-cute like Somi had said the dress code was. Instead you opted for ‘hey, you can see my legs and that's good enough,’ and huffed your old leather jacket on top of it; the latter was sure to piss her off but she still owed you from the Mosquito Boy Incident, so she could kick rocks about it for all you cared. 

You had a feeling that no matter what you wore, tonight wasn’t going to be very sexy-cute at all.

The party is just getting into the swing of things when you make it upstairs. It’s like the explosion of a birthday surprise when you and the girls walk through the door. This party is technically a celebration, and you guess a lot of these people must’ve been in the Aegon audience without you knowing it, because you’re getting congratulations and kudos and pats on the back like you’ve just won an olympic medal.

But your pride is short lived, tainted by a bolt of nerves when you think you spot someone that looks like Donghyuck in your periphery. Where Hyuck is, Jeno will be.

It turns out to only be a very tall girl with a pixie cut who winks at you when you whirl your head to her, but the stress of it doesn't ebb away. God. Is the whole night going to be like this? Walking on pins and needles until he finds you?

“You know, new girl,” A voice starts at your side, startling you further, “Your ice breaker back at that my party could’ve been that you’re a kick-ass dancer, instead of that bullshit with the mosquitos.”

Wooyoung. Your friends are suddenly nowhere to be seen when your turn to him, clearly having fucked off into the mass the second alcohol became available, so it’s just the both of you hovering over by this snack table. Though this is only the second or third time you’ve interacted with him past a greeting (you see him sometimes on campus, and he always waves at you like you’re best friends when you pass each other), you’re actually rather soothed by his presence. 

“You wanted to know juicy secrets, not secret hobbies. If you asked me for an ice breaker and I told you I could dance, you would’ve kicked me out of that house.”

He laughs, a snickering sound, before eyeing two jello-shots a girl walks by with in her hands.

“Do a shot with me?” he pouts. “My friends are running late and I’m still painfully sober.”

A shot?  

...Hm. A shot. Inebriation. You’re not one to like straight liquor because the burn in your throat is often more than you think the gag is worth. But if you’re looking to relax sooner rather than later… the pain might not be without its merit. 

Liquid courage. Something you could definitely use right now, as skittish as you’re being. Maybe he’s onto something.

“Just one?” you pique, turning to survey the options. “Thought you were more hardcore than that, VP.”

One jello-shot quickly turns into four with Wooyoung involved, and your mouth is sweet with the taste of artificial dye by the time you actually spot Donghyuck, over by Somi’s balcony doors chatting up some pretty girl you recognize from your physical education class. The volleyball player. Xiaoting or something close, and you almost snort at the sight because she seems way out of his league. But he has a way with words that you guess you could be attractive when he wields it with flirtation in mind, instead of the intent to piss off like he always does with you.

The Smirnoff burning in your stomach must already be settling in because you only mildly bristle when you see him. Like you thought earlier: Hyuck is here, which means Jeno is here. And… and the Smirnoff must’ve already hit your brain, actually, because all of a sudden you’re feeling agitated and confrontational.

You don’t want to spend all night worrying about when he’s going to find you and drop the bomb. So what if he doesn’t like you! So what if he probably wants to forget the moment that happened out on that balcony never occurred at all? You lived your life without yearning over Jeno for years before you moved back here, so it won’t even be that hard to go cold-turkey when he says what he needs to and inevitably squashes the remainder of your heart in his fist. It’s fine. You’ll live.

You just need to rip it off like a bandaid first. And to do that?

“Hey, Woo, I think I need to go and look for somebody. You’re still down for that dance battle later?”

“I don’t play around with my challenges,” he says, grinning much too wide, “I’ll find you later, and then it’s on. Knock em’ dead, new girl.”

As bold as you suddenly are, you actually don’t want to go and interrupt whatever Donghyuck has going on just to ask him where Jeno is. So you’re on your own for a little, scanning the walls for him and the stupid clavicles poking out of his button-up, hair all windswept and eyes so dark. It’s nearly a minute of searching before you see something familiar— but it’s not exactly what you’re looking for.

Close enough, though. 

It seems like Na Jaemin has actually spotted you first, since he’s already heading towards you when you spot his head of pink darting through the crowd. You don’t fuss when he musses your hair and gasps over the competition, applauding you in that sickeningly earnest way he always has, since you’re used to his preening and compliments. Not to say you’re not appreciative. It always makes your face hot when he coos over you like this. But you’ve got a mission in mind, and fretting at him over the pouting and cheek-squeezing will get you nowhere.

“Yes, thank you, I did hear you cheering over everyone else at the end, no I wasn’t hiding my swag from you on purpose, thank you, you can stop pretending to cry now. Where is Jeno?”

The idea of you looking for Lee Jeno on purpose must startle him, because there’s a second after his clear offense at you brushing him off where he registers what you’re asking for and actually looks a little concerned. “Jeno? No-Jam? Why? Did he say something to you?”

“What? No, I just need to talk to him about something. Thought he’d be hanging around you.”

Imperceptibly, Jaemin lightens. 

“Oh. He’s downstairs hefting handles out of Somi’s car, because blondie forgot half the drinks in her trunk. He got volunteered by Chenle as Mr. Muscles and left with her like five minutes ago, so he should be back any minute.”

Damn it. Forlornly, you glance at the door, but there's nothing. No movement. Nada. There goes all your building bravado.

“But before he returns, young lady, should we talk about how that red tinge to your lips better be from the non-alcoholic jello-shots?”

Ah. Whoops. Not only no movement, but now you’ve gotten yourself trapped in the sights of Na Jaemin, who likes to pretend to be staunch on things like laws and teenage innocence and waiting to do things until the government says you’re allowed to. You constantly forget that you’re not yet the drinking age, because no college student handing out drinks at a party ever gives a fuck about the fact that you’re legally not quite legal yet. No other college student besides the one standing in front of you.

“You’ll stunt your growth if you drink before you’re supposed to!”

To this you glance at the cup he’s holding, clearly half full of something, and nearly go to laugh and ask him what his excuse is since he’s barely 21 himself, but then you think of something funnier. Without really thinking about it you snatch the cup from his hand and hork it down. Your eyes are locked with his the entire time so you get to see his surprise grow into shock, then expand into disbelief as you chug, and chug, and chug.

There’s a lot of… some peach flavored crap in here, burning like murder all the way down, to the point that you’re more bewildered than smug when the cup is finally drained because, “Fuck, Na, what is that shit? Are you trying to black out?” 

“Language!” he hisses, genuinely startled for the first time you’ve seen in a long time, which makes you laugh, “And of course not because that wasn’t mine, you little brat! I was holding that for Somi!"

“Oh,” you reply, only mildly shifted by this news. Sorry, Som. Now you know it must be peach Schnapps. She loves Schnapps. “What, so you’re not drinking tonight at all? Are you DD?”

“No! I’m not drinking, and I’m offended that you don’t already know I hate the taste of alcohol. Mark, who may I remind you is in this room and would’ve just shit himself if he’d seen what you just did, is playing designated driver tonight! He’s…”

And as he glances towards the kitchen you follow his gaze. You’re expecting to see your brother, most likely laughing over something his friends are saying, maybe even trying to dance-battle someone if he's having a particularly good time. Instead you see your brother chatting up Jeon Soyeon. 

Jeon… Soyeon. Nabi Bar, Jeon Soyeon. Who you haven’t spoken to or even seen since that awful night in Gangnam.

And you nearly gasp in terror at the sight.

Jaemin doesn't finish his sentence, and you dart your eyes to him when you realize this. He doesn’t look very pleased by what he’s seeing either, though you’re guessing for an entirely different reason than the one that’s just made you go cold.

“What?” you ask a little too quickly. The front door opens, which should be your cue to look for who’s just come in, but you can’t tear your eyes from the sight of Soyeon and Mark. What the fuck? What the fuck? “Do they know each other?” 

“Know each other?” Jaemin scoffs. “Hard to quantify.”

It would be very, very bad for you if they knew each other. Very bad. If not already clear, Mark still had no clue you weren’t where you said you were on the night of Nabi Bar. If she happened to mention your involvement in that shity, shitty idea, you had no doubt that Mark would go all holier-than-thou on you in front of all these people, and that you’d probably have to dive off of the balcony to escape the reaming.

He doesn’t look particularly comfortable, near pressed up against kitchen island because Soyeon is so close to him, hand rubbing at the back of his neck in that way you’re well aware means he’s getting flustered; but you see him laugh at something she says in the next second, and it doesn’t seem like his fake laugh. Mark’s fake laugh is terrible, and even from a distance you can spot it like the flashing lights on an ambulance, a beacon of distress just the same. So he’s laughing for real, at something… Soyeon is saying?

But you hardly recall her being very funny. 

“What does that mean, hard to quantify? Do they have history?”

“Something like that,” he murmurs. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about. Anyway, I think Jeno is—”

“You never look at anyone with any kind of attitude, and just now you rolled your eyes at her.”

“I didn’t roll my eyes. I blinked. For a long time. Something in my eye. Dusty in here.”

“Somi has this place deep cleaned twice a week.”

He stares at you like he’s begging you to drop it. You stare back, unwilling. “You know, Na, the longer you stall, the more time that all this illegal alcohol in my blood has to make me more bold and reckless and unruly. If I don’t get an answer from you I might just go over there and ask her myself. How do they know each other?”

You’re bluffing, of course— there’s no way you’re about to go over there just to see what they’re talking about when you could safely squeeze that information out of Jaemin instead. In reality, you were only pressing because you wanted to know if they were close enough for Soyeon to know you and Mark were related. If not? Then perfect! You’d forget it all and be on your merry way, reverting back to your original plan of finding Jeno, because there’d be no chance Soyeon could spill the beans. 

But if Soyeon does know? You might have to leave this party a little earlier than scheduled. 

“You want the whole, grown-up truth?” Jaemin finally relents.

“Might I remind you for the hundredth time that I’m only a year younger than you?”

“A year and a half,” he acquiesces with a sigh, “And Jeon Soyeon may or may not have slept with your brother to get him to do their midterm project last year.”

It comes out like he’s reading the headline from a newspaper and you made the mistake of swallowing right before he opens his mouth, choking violently on your own spit. He pats you on the back as you hack and cough before continuing.

“None of us are really sure about exactly what really happened because Mark kind of shut down after, wouldn’t tell us anything. But it was pretty clear he liked her before. She’s kinda his type, you know?” 

Edgy, pretty, and fucking evil, yeah, after having to chase a few of them away in high school you’re well aware of his type! This was not what you wanted to know about when you asked if they were close! What the hell?

“He told us they’d gone all the way right before she asked him to do their entire music production project because she was too busy caring for her sick little sister. He, being the bleeding heart he is, pretty much refused to listen to us about how convenient the timing was; he even got mad when Chenle did some sleuthing and found out that Soyeon’s parents facebook, which was filled to the brim of photos of their family, didn’t have any trace of another kid in their midst besides her. Wouldn’t believe us until after the project was turned in, when he tried to meet up with her for weeks and she ghosted him every time.”

He frowns. “At the end of it, he wasn’t… It wasn’t good. He was pretty crushed.”

Now you regret chugging his drink for fun. Even before it you’d been feeling further than chill, pleasant and buzzing from your shots, well prepared for whatever hell was to arise with Jeno. Now you felt loose; too loose, fingertips tingling at your sides because of this news, heart pounding in your chest, body so warm from the alcohol that you felt like Jaemin would hiss if he’d laid a finger on your skin.

To play games with you, that’s one thing. But Soyeon has laid her hands on your brother?

“And, knowing all of that,” you say slowly, clearly, “You’re still letting him sit there and talk to her?”

“I want to kick her away,” Jaemin says flatly. “I’d be lying if I said I trust that girl as far as I can throw her. But it’s not really up to us to get involved.”

“Who is us?”

“His friends? I mean he was pretty clear when it happened that he did not want to talk about it—”

You bark a laugh, but there’s no humor to it at all. “So he can pout and gripe about the sanctity of discussing your problems with people, the embarrassing, the horrifying, but when it comes to him he gets to keep secrets? Forget how hypocritical that is, you guys are listening?”

Jaemin, finally, seems to catch the heat in your words. “Uh. He told… I mean, before you get all up in arms, she may be over there apologizing for all we know. Maybe she’s repenting.”

You both stare at her as she tips her head back in laughter, the salacious flirty kind where you’re more focused on being attractive than actually enjoying the joke, before she puts her hand on his chest in a, ‘Wow, you’re so funny, take me now,’ kind of way, leaning in to say something to him that she clearly doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Every hair on your body stands up when Mark doesn’t push her away.

He’s not seriously buying her shit again, is he? 

“Jaemin, are you willing to bet your life on that?”

“What?”

“Everything you just said about Soyeon. You know that for fact?”

“Well, no, Mark didn’t actually tell us about it so I can never be sure, but… but with what we could gather, it was pretty cut and dry. Chenle actually also found out she had a boyfriend at the same time she did all that stuff with Mark. We just couldn’t bear to tell him that after the fact, so we never… Hey, where—”

You’re sober enough to make it through the throng of people without stumbling, but not sober enough to fully anticipate what you’re really about to do. The goal is just to separate them, somehow, to get that harlot away from your brother, and then you’ll go and deal with Jeno. If people greet you as you pass you don’t hear or see it; all you can grasp is her, touching him, laughing with him, cheating, lying, people-using—

“Mark,” you nearly hiss, “I need to talk to you. Now.”

Mark jumps a foot in the air when you grab him but Soyeon, for some reason, doesn’t look surprised to see you in the slightest. She does, however, raise a sharp blonde eyebrow at your tone.

“What,” Mark splutters, “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Soyeon sighs, continuing to trail her eyes up and down Mark’s face instead of looking at you, “The grown-ups are talking, sweetheart. Can’t you give us a second?”

Mark turns back to the sensual softness of her voice like a moth to a flame, and you want to smack him. “No. Not a second now, not a second later, not a second tomorrow or forever. Now, Mark.”

And that was where you made the mistake that turned this whole night sour. Only when Soyeon realizes it’s her you have a problem with, catching on from the agitation in your tone that you’re not just here to bother Mark for fun, does she slide her unreadable gaze to you. 

“You know I haven’t seen you in a while, Little Lee.”

“For the better,” you mutter. “Seriously—”

“I was so surprised when Yuqi told me you two were related.” 

She’s talking to Mark but looking at you, eyes squinted a little, like someone analyzing a germ under a microscope. So she does know. Great. “I couldn’t believe that this girl was the same little star you used to tell me about when I met her. She’s grown up a lot, you know? Doesn’t take after you at all, Markie.”

“Soyeon,” you say again, “Let him go.”

“Why? So you can keep throwing your tantrum? Every time you open your mouth it gets harder and harder to see the resemblance. When you’re so…”

She doesn’t need to say it, and it’s honestly probably better that she didn’t, because you would’ve leapt at her if she’d gone as far as she’d been intending to dig with that comment. You’re aware you don’t resemble Mark, physically or otherwise— in accomplishment, in talent, in patience, in perfect unmarred reputation. You’re well fucking aware. 

“Soyeon,” Mark finally says, thankfully lurching a little in your direction like her evil witch's spell is finally wearing off, “I don’t think there’s any need for that, what the hell is going on? Do you two know each other?”

Soyeon opens her eyes comically wide. “You don’t know?”

And you feel Mark stop. What the hell are you doing, you want to scream. Why are you even pausing for this bullshit? Come on! But he doesn’t. He stands there and he stares at her, as if searching her face for any sign of truth, and Soyeon takes this as her cue.

“Little star is a big girl now! Her own fake ID, clinging along with her baby bottle to any club the adults want to go to, even catching her own ride home with any wasted guy that smiles in her direction! Don’t you live together? What a handful she must be if she can sneak out under your nose, Markie.”

The blood rushing in your ears makes it hard to tell if it’s only you that’s losing your hearing or if the rest of the people hanging around in the kitchen really have quieted to watch the rising altercation, but you don’t dare move your eyes from the girl to check. The baby bottle comment, outing your fake ID, all of that is rage inducing on its own— but it’s a cold, stomach twisting madness that grabs you when you latch on to the last part of what she’s just said. Catching your own ride home?

Was she referring to Yoobin?

Your fingers unfurl from Mark’s jacket.

“What do you mean, catch my own ride?”

Soyeon laughs. Under normal circumstances, it would be a pretty sound. “Did you think we didn’t see you leave? Blowing up our phones like there was some big emergency— We sent that guy out there to keep you the company you wanted so much, God, we got tired of babysitting you. You stopped calling and neither of you came back inside. What, cause your brother is here you’re going to try and soften it up now, huh? Tell us all you didn’t go home with that drunkard, when you love to tell people you’re no stranger to a bar?”

Yoobin, who grabbed you, touched you, tried to drive you home in his wasted state with clear intentions on what he wanted in return.

Yoobin, who Soyeon and Yuqi and their friends had sent, knowing you were panicked, knowing he made you uncomfortable, knowing you were looking for them.

Soyeon who stopped hearing from you and laughed it off. Soyeon who stopped hearing from you for days and didn’t bat an eye, knowing what she’d left you alone with.

Soyeon, who’s straight, pretty nose cracks under your fist in the same way Yoobin’s did, except this time you don’t run away when she screams and collapses and you realize what you’ve done. Except this time you hit her again— or you try to at least, lunging for her with your eyes ablaze, unsure what you’ll do when you get there but 100% sure it’ll hurt worse than a bloody fucking nose— but don’t quite get there, because someone has lifted you off the ground, two iron-bar arms wrapped like vices around your ribs, the worlds tightest back hug.

In your right mind you might’ve placed the sandalwood and the bergamot, or recognized the rolled up sleeves of his oversized button up, ivory and forest green, but as it stood—

As it stood, as you shouted and thrashed and fought, you only made out one thing.

Mark Lee, your own brother, helping Jeon Soyeon to her feet, two hands firm on her arms to hold her up; his surprised voice the last thing you hear before Lee Jeno hauls you out of that house.

“Wow, Soyeon. Is that true?”

(”Rockstar is going to wallop that girl,” Donghyuck mutters, staring at you like they all are from behind the pillar separating the kitchen from the living room, alerted to the worsening confrontation by a sheepish Jaemin.

“No she won’t," Jaemin tries, clearly feeling guilty, "She knows better than that.”

“She’s gone still. And I’ve never, ever seen her eyes that wide before.”

“That’s control. It’s restraint. She’s not going to hit her.”

Renjun, then, “If you really believe that then why do you look so nervous?”

“Her fist is balled up,” Jisung comments quietly.

“It’s restraint!”

“You weren’t there the day that she knocked the socks off of Park Gyubin, right? When he tried lifting her friend’s skirt up in the cafeteria?”

“She…” Jaemin glances at Donghyuck, “She’s tried to fight men before?”

“Tried to? I thought she was going to kill him. Y/N hit him so hard he had to get his retainer refitted. She’s got a right hook like her brothers. I bruise when she hits me, you know.”

Renjun again, “Why do you sound so proud of that?”

“She… Well, no, look, look! She let go of Mark. They have to be deescalating, she—”

“Does deescalating usually involve getting closer to the object of your anger?” Jisung asks.

“She—”

“Here it comes,” Chenle announces excitedly.

And then Jeno is across the room.)

Jeno realizes before you do that you’re not going back home tonight.

His apartment looks the same. Obviously. It’s only been three weeks since you were last here. Like before, Jeno doesn’t bother with the lights, kicking his shoes off in the entryway the same way, except this time you have two shoes of your own to place next to them instead of the sad and lonely single. Three weeks ago, but it feels like it’s only been a day or two since you did this whole song and dance; following him to the bathroom, sitting on the counter as he stoops under to rummage through his first-aid bin, gritting your teeth when he rubs your knuckles with the antiseptic, smiling weakly when he apologizes for the sting.

You’d cried in his car.

When Jeno carried you out of Somi’s apartment you thought the stinging in your eyes was just discombobulated rage. But when he set you down on your feet in the elevator and you began to come down from the adrenaline high, the burning just intensified as you understood what just happened. You’d only been able to keep the tears at bay until he told you to put your seatbelt on in his passenger seat and it all became too real. 

Though you’re not sober enough right now for it to feel like a problem yet, you know you’ll want to kill yourself tomorrow for allowing yourself to devolve in front of him like that no matter the circumstance. In the moment, you weren’t even entirely sure what you were crying about. Was it the craze of fury wearing off after punching Soyeon, and the jitters it left behind? Or the fact that even when Jeno was tugging you towards the elevator up there, you’d stood and waited for Mark to follow for nearly an entire minute, just for him to never come out? 

You’d like to chalk it up to adrenaline and inebriation, but deep down you knew exactly what it was that had your eyes brimming with those tears. 

He’d chosen Soyeon. The girl who’d lied to him, cheated with him, fucked him over for a grade and left you for dead on the streets of Gangnam, and he’d stayed in that house with her instead of coming out to check on you. And you weren’t really one to catastrophize, but how couldn’t that signal the definitive end of Mark putting up with your shit? The nail in the coffin of his patience with you?

You knew things had been rough lately with you moving in, the thread of butting heads over little things like curfews and the people you hung out with, but you hadn’t thought your relationship had deteriorated to the point that he’d ever… that he’d ever choose someone else. You’re his sister. No matter how mad he is, he’s supposed to choose you. 

But he didn't. And in Lee Jeno’s passenger seat, like a giant baby, you cried about it. 

In proper Y/N fashion the only thing that had chuffed you into sucking it all up and swallowing it into the depths of your soul never to be seen again, was Jeno’s building appearing on the horizon. The threat of him asking you if you’re alright and actually having to confront those feelings was terrifying enough to jar you out of your self pity.

But he hadn’t asked you about your red eyes. He hadn’t said anything, actually. He just tugged you out of the car and into the elevator. Herded you into his apartment. And tipped his head towards his bathroom just like before, except this time he was smiling. In the soft, polite kind of way that let you know he was well aware of what just transpired in his car, but was simply... letting it be.

(And you always knew Jeno was rather observant. But man, the thought behind that smile could’ve made you burst into tears all over again.)

On the counter, holding out your hand for the steps that would never come, you blinked back to the present when Jeno stopped at the healing salve. You’d been waiting for him to bust out the gauze again, already lamenting the next week of your life with the itchy fabric tight around your wrist, but all Jeno does is raise an eyebrow at you when you don’t hop off of the sink after he puts the kit away.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks.

You blink down at your hand, shiny with the balm, and then back up at him. “The rest of it.”

“The wrap? I didn’t think you needed it.”

“But that’s what you did last time I was here.”

“Because the last time you were here you didn’t know how to punch someone properly. It looked like you got her the right way this time. When I was tugging at that wrist in the elevator just now you hardly seemed to notice, when you could barely close your fist a few weeks ago.”

…Oh. Only as he mentions it do you roll your hand around in its socket, flexing your fingers under the bathroom light. Your knuckles look like shit, the newly forming bruises and angry skin, but it doesn’t actually ache like it did that night with Yoobin.

Well you’ll be damned. So straightening your wrist really does work.

“Oh,” you mumble. “I guess I don’t. Wasn’t really thinking about it.”

“Of course you weren’t. Probably thinking about what you wanted to eat, right?”

“What I— What?”

What you wanted to eat? When did you discuss that you were hungry?

“Heard your stomach grumbling in the car, so I’m assuming you haven’t eaten since before the competition. There’s a pizza place down the street that I think you’d like, a jajangmyeon shop too, but their delivery takes ages. It’s up to you.”

You stare at him, clearly not following. Jeno is relaying this to you like tonight was planned, as if it was always in the cards for you to be hanging out at his place tonight like a couple of pals, leaning against the door with his arms crossed, the perfect picture of normalcy. He thinks you’re going to be here long enough to eat? He’s not planning to have you shipped out of here in the next half hour?

But then you realize that there isn’t really another place for you to be shipped to. Mark’s apartment is… not really an option. The idea of going back there tonight almost makes your stomach roll, actually.

But if you don’t go back, that doesn’t leave much in the realm of locations to hide out at. Somi’s brother is coming home tonight, she’d squealed as much this morning, and considering how rare it is that he’s not busy in other countries you abhor the idea of intruding on their reunification. You don’t have many other friends here that you’re close enough with to just show up at their place at 10PM unannounced, not that you’d want to given that your little spat with Soyeon is probably all over everyones instagram stories right now, and is surely the only thing they’ll want to talk about.

You don’t have very many options right now. And Jeno probably knew that from the moment he decided to bring you here. 

“Thinking pretty hard over there,” Jeno hums, “for what is supposed to be a two choice question. Unless you don’t want either?”

“Pizza is… fine.”

“Just fine, or actually good? I can check to see if there’s any—”

“It’s good, Lee.”

He smiles like he’s got you in the bag, and then stands up straight. “I’ll order it then.”

You nod emptily and make moves to follow him out of the bathroom, right on his tail, which is why you nearly crash into him when he whirls back around to stop you. “Oh. Almost forgot.”

“What? Forgot what?"

But you only grow more confused when Jeno speeds off towards his room without replying. There’s a creak and a shuffle, doors opening and closing before Jeno returns with a bundle of fabric bunched up in his arms.

“Can’t imagine it’ll be very comfortable to hang out in that dress all night.” 

He holds out the mass; what appears to be a heather gray hoodie and black sweatpants that, even bunched up like this, still look miles too long for you. He sees you eyeing it and you fear he’s going to do something awful, like politely offer to go and get you something else as if he hasn’t already done a hundred other things for you tonight, so you quickly oblige. Once you relieve him of the pile he laughs, tells you he’s going to put the order in for the pizza, and closes the door on the way out.

You stand there unmoving for much too long, the heap of fabric clutched to your chest.

There’s so much to unpack. Being here again. The fact that he was supposed to break your heart today instead of doing all of... this. How casual he’s being about it all. The brother-slash-bestfriend shaped elephant in the room. The clothes.

But, for the sake of not collapsing under the weight of all of that turmoil, you decide to just focus on the latter; the most immediate and least heart wrenching of the bunch. His clothes. You’re going to wear his clothes. 

Yet another of your old dreams coming to fruition in this apartment. Lucky you.

Jeno is laying across the long part of the couch when you exit the bathroom, footsteps making no noise because you’re padding along on top of the ankle hems. He’s dressed differently too; gone is the jeans and the ivory button up, in its place a black long sleeve and navy blue sweatpants just like yours, except his actually fit. He’s texting furiously on his phone when you round the corner, eyebrows furrowed with something like irritation before he sees your looming figure in the corner of his eye and looks up.

"I put an X-Men movie into the DVD player," he announces, squinting back down to his screen, "Couldn't think of a better time than now to finally get into it, since you'll be here to explain all the things I don't understand..."

But he trails off as he stares at his phone, eyebrows furrowing at something before he frowns and stands up. The look is gone when you shuffle towards the couch and he looks up again, smiling at you like you like nothing is wrong, before he says, "I need to make a call though. Start the movie, yeah? I'll be back before things get interesting."

You stare at him. Probably shouldn't miss the opening scene if you really want to 'get into it', you nearly say. But you've been on this earth for long enough to recognize when someone wants a little privacy.

You want to ask if it's Mark. If he's the one Jeno had been messaging back so agitatedly just now. But the fear of it not being him, Jeno instead just trying to sort something out with like, a truant project partner or something, makes you stuff it down again. It'll just make you look even more pitiful.

"Sure. Most of the intro is fan service anyway."

He opens his mouth like he's about to say something else but then his phone starts to ring and he only smiles tightly at you instead. Then he's gone down the corridor, into his bedroom, and when the ringtone finally stops you can barely hear his voice much less make out what he's saying. Hm.

A different day and you might've snuck off after him to eavesdrop just to see for yourself. But after tonight?

You simply watch him go, and then tumble onto his couch with the exhaustion of someone who's just run up and down the building a dozen times.

You don't even have the strength to reach over for the TV remote; you just lay there and revel in the softness of the cushions, and at how tired you suddenly feel. Rehearsal all morning, giving it your all on stage, the energy-leeching atmosphere of a house party, the alcohol sagging through your veins. Not to mention the emotional confusion. Crying always takes it out of you.

So it's no wonder that you forgo turning the movie on to just take a moment to breathe in the pleasantly dark living room, closing your eyes for what you intended to be a brief second, just to gather the last bits of your patience and sanity for the night ahead... only to fall victim to what happens to most people when they say they're just resting their eyes.

You fall asleep. 

At least for a little while, you do. A brief, dreamless, blissful unconsciousness.

It’s so blissful in fact, that when you’re startled back to life by a knock at the front door a few minutes later— blinking the haze out of your eyes and seeing Jeno’s ceiling instead of your own, understanding with a sinking hopelessness that you’re not waking from a nightmare, that all of tonight has really happened— the dread is almost crushing when it all comes back.

But there isn't even any time to mourn. Because you realize that if someone's just knocked on the door, like the good homeowner he is, Jeno will be out here any second now to open it. He'll come out here and he'll see you and you'll be sucked right back into that nightmare, pretending like everything is fine when you both know that tonight was supposed to go so, so differently. Sitting next to each other and eating next to each other and attempting small talk for the sake of keeping things civil until you can escape this place in ten hours.

The idea almost gives you hives. You can't do it. You can't. There has to be another way. What if you make something up? A sore throat? A sudden headache?

But there's no time to think of anything fancy because in the next second Jeno's bedroom door clicks open down the hall, and panic flies up in your throat.

So you do the only think you can fathom. Before he can come around the corner and see you freaking out, you fling yourself back over and pretend to still be dead asleep.

As foolish as you immediately feel, it must work at least a little bit; you hear him come into the living room, hesitate, and then continue on past the couch on lighter steps as if worried about making too much noise. You even steady your breathing when he’s opening the door for the pizza guy— smooth inhale, smooth exhale, spaced just far enough to replicate what someone sounds like when they’ve been out for a while.

Shit. Will this actually work?

When he closes the door and the room falls to silence your heart picks up a little bit. What is he doing? Is he staring at you, trying to see if you’re faking?

Is he wondering if he should wake you up to eat? Oh, God! What if—

“Are you up?” he whispers. And you almost choke trying to swallow down the instinctual response that rises in your throat.

With surprisingly great effort, you do nothing. Say nothing. You don’t even stir. You just pray to whatever God is out there that Jeno will take the hint, eat his pizza at the kitchen island, leave you out here and go to bed. You get excited when you hear his steps again and think he’s going to pass the couch straight, but of course a second later you feel the couch dip somewhere off behind your back and you nearly curse.

“Guess not,” Jeno mumbles. "I forgot that you knock out so easily."

A few more seconds of what feels like an endless quiet, only his shuffling making sound; through your squeezed-shut eyes you see the light of the TV flicker like he’s just changed the channel, and with it you hear what must be the intro to a gameshow or something— excited chatter, ringing bells, audience cheers. But the volume is turned down so low that it feels like the show is playing in another room. Is he keeping the volume low because of you?

Is he… going to stay out here? 

“So you won’t mind if I think out loud,” he says suddenly, and your eyes nearly fly open in surprise. What? 

But he sounds serious. “Like a test run, almost. For what I wanted to talk about earlier at Aegon. Since I still don’t really know what the hell I’m going to say even after losing sleep over it all week, and I know you’ll try to stop me if you’re awake. I should just try it now, right?”

Try it... now?

Your fake deep-breathing almost hitches in panic when you realize what he’s getting at. Sweet God, please, no. What he wanted to talk about earlier? He wants to get into that now?

“Jaemin scolded me for springing it on you like that after your showcase, by the way. I didn’t realize that I might’ve cornered you until later and I’m sorry about that. I just really, really wanted to talk. Because I didn’t before, and everything got all…” he sighs, heavily. “I’m thankful that you told me to get lost earlier, because I think I can explain it better, like this. I can start from the beginning. I know how thorough you are about things like this.”

You hear the beep of a digital watch somewhere in his house as your face scrunches up in confusion. It's officially midnight, if the watch is making noise to denote the hour, but the realization of the time only comes second to the slow bewilderment slipping through your gloom.

From the beginning? The beginning of what? What the hell does any of that have to do with firmly rejecting you?

“Before we met, because of the way Mark talked about you, I had this idea in my head that you’d be some sort of perfect, flawless angel. That you’d be a little version of him; neat and proper and just a little bit naive, too nice for your own good. A rule follower.”

He laughs at this, a genuine laugh at the memory, and your frown deepens in embarrassment. “Then I actually laid my own eyes on you for the first time, and I realized I couldn’t have been more off.”

You remember it clearly, the first time you’d made a fool out of yourself in front of him and the rest of Mark’s friends. Fourteen years old, running inside the house after walking home from class with your own crew; you’d completely forgotten that you were supposed to bring your skateboard and a change of clothes to school because you all planned to ride around the park that day, the first warm afternoon after a mushy spring, and they said if you didn’t come back out in sixty seconds or less they’d leave you in the dust. So you stormed into the house, past the living room with all of them in it without even a glance or greeting since you hadn’t realized it wasn’t just your brother in there, hurled off your uniform in favor of your outfit staples at the time— an oversized tee that you stole from Mark, hand-me-down cargo shorts that also came from your brother’s closet, and your most cherished possessions: a Yankees baseball cap and your beat-up blue Nikes. 

But you couldn’t find your skateboard and the clock was running out, so you howled down the staircase, “If you moved my skateboard again from where I put it I’m going to kill you in your sleep!” only for Mark to shout back up, “It’s a tripping hazard! It’s in the hallway closet! And aren’t you grounded right now? Where are you even going? Does mom know?”

You hadn’t replied. Just snatched the board from where he said he’d stashed it, barreled back down the stairs, and was fully preparing to toss your brother some half-assed explanation, but then you’d seen him. Seen them. Mark’s new school friends, all lounging on your living room couch, staring at you as if you’d come into the room with a bomb. Lee Jeno (who’s name you’d only later find out) appeared the most stunned by your tornado-like appearance. 

You could only imagine what they were seeing. Some rowdy tomboy, technically on house arrest but running out to wreak havoc on the town regardless, threatening to kill people in their sleep for tidying up. Exaggerated, obviously, but you remember being mortified halfway to Sunday by how cute they all were and that this was their first introduction to you— and in that mortification, sprinting out of the house without telling your brother anything at all.

You’d gotten a good scolding for that later.

“And it’s going to sound kind of stupid,” Jeno continues, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think you heard the smile in his voice, “But because of that, I got this idea in my head that Mark must’ve only been seeing you through those rose-tinted glasses. The type every older brother has for every younger sister, the ones that make everything they do look cute and miraculous and perfect even if they’re clearly evil to everyone else. Not saying I thought you were secretly some sort of demon or anything either, ‘cause I know you’d roll your eyes at me right now if you could. Just that the girl I saw that day was nowhere near the delicate little thing he’d described. And I got... curious. I started wondering what you were actually like.”

Your face is getting hot again. You’ve never, ever heard him speak this much in one sitting, and the idea of him ever paying this much attention to you is mind boggling. But you don’t let yourself lean into whatever feeling of hope is whistling through your head. 

So what if he made a game out of trying to separate your real traits from the things Mark got wrong about you six years ago? Sometimes you liked to make up season-long dramas about strangers you saw on campus. It doesn’t mean anything now. 

You want to scrunch into a ball. You aren’t sure how much more of this monologue you can handle, even despite the consequences of rolling over and breaking the facade just to get him to stop. The heat in your face is spreading to your neck, your stomach, every inch of your skin, it’s making your stomach churn with discomfort. 

“But then the next year you came to our school,” Jeno says with finality, like this is supposed to be some important distinction. “And it stopped being as casual of an interest. The months went by and at some point I stopped looking for you just to see if you were doing something Mark didn’t know about, and started looking for you just because I wanted to know what you were doing. We’d come over for movie night and while Hyuck and Jae argued for hours about what they did and didn’t want to watch, I’d be wondering if I’d get to see you. You probably won’t remember this, but one of those nights I even ordered an extra curry bowl just so I’d have an excuse to knock on your door to tell you about it. And I thought that was a normal thing to do.” 

Jesus Christ. Do you remember? Of course you remember! You’d been reading at your desk with your headphones in, which meant Jeno had to come all the way into your room to get your attention— tapping the side of your earbud with two gentle fingers, laughing all crescent-eyed at you when you yelped in surprise. The sight of him in your room for the first time was like a grenade going off in your tweenaged mind; you’d had to calm down for nearly an entire minute before going downstairs to get your food.

“I thought it was just Mark rubbing off on me. He cared so much about you that I thought my sudden interest was simply overprotection by relation— that he was the reason why I couldn’t stop looking for you. ‘Cause in my mind it couldn't be anything else but brotherly. Mark was pretty clear about what he thought of the people that liked you so I knew it couldn’t be that; I wasn’t stupid enough to let myself be interested in you like that. Right?” 

He laughs again, but it doesn’t sound nearly as sweet this time. “I’m rambling, huh?”

Yes, you are. You are. 

“I’ll cut to the ending then,” he replies like he’s read your mind. “I realized I did in fact ‘like you like that’, at our graduation.”

And your eyes pop open. It’s completely involuntary, and if you’d been facing him you would have been screwed. But you’re still looking deep into the cushions of the black couch; wide eyes staring into a deep, dark, nothing.

“I hid behind that brotherly excuse for three years. My eyes followed you in the hallway because I wanted to make sure you were okay like Mark would’ve wanted me to. I offered to drive you home from school when he was busy because that’s what Mark would’ve asked me to do anyway. Everything I wanted to do I told myself I was doing because I was just a good friend. You know?” A beat passes before he hums to himself. “But I guess you don’t, actually. Because you liked me authentically, like you do with everything. The night of our graduation, the backyard barbecue your parents threw for us. You remember that, right?”

Duh. You’d bawled your eyes out on the front porch halfway through because only then did it fully sink in that they’d all be leaving you behind, these losers you swore you didn’t even like, before wiping your face and moodily rejoining the celebration.

“Jaemin and Donghyuck were having fun like it was their last day on earth. Even Mark didn’t seem too worried about the fact that we’d be leaving our whole lives behind in a few weeks when we drove off to SNU. I asked him if he was going to miss anything and he listed a dozen things, the friends of ours that were going to different colleges, his parents cooking, his backyard, his bedroom, his electric keyboard. And I remember feeling frozen when he didn’t mention you. In hindsight I know that it was probably because he’d still be coming back home every break, and you had a whole year of high school to finish so it wasn’t like you were going anywhere, but at the moment I felt like someone just yanked the blanket off of me. Three years of pretending and it only took one conversation for it to smash through all of that and hit me like a truck. If Mark isn’t worried about it, why the hell has the idea of leaving you here been haunting me for the last week and a half?”

Oh.

“It was then, I think. That I went, ‘Ah. So this hasn’t all been because of Mark, then,’ and everything I’d ever done under the guise of brotherly obligation popped into context all at once. And as if it wasn’t enough being in my own head, I was still in the middle of talking to Mark as I realized that not only did I like you more than I’d ever liked anyone— I was looking directly at the person who would surely strangle me to death if he ever found out that I liked you more than I’d ever liked anyone. So I pretended it never happened. I said ‘yeah, me too,’ the party ended, I went home, the summer went on, and before I knew it I was on campus and had a million other things to worry about. I saw how well you seemed to be doing when Mark would show me your Instagram posts, how much fun you were having, and I let that make me feel better about being such a coward. Over time, without you around, I convinced myself that things were better like this. That it never would have worked out anyway.”

There’s a moment of silence so utterly long that for a moment you genuinely think that this is going to be it. That he’s going to have said all of that and just… sighed, gotten up, and gone to sleep, leaving you alone to be in misery over what you’ve just heard until morning.

But that’s not it. He’s got a few more words for you. The worst of them all. A string of syllables at first, ones that instantly shatter every bit of emotional resistance you’ve built for yourself these last few days— and then a sentence that has your blood turning to ice in your veins when you realize what it means.

“But then you came back to Seoul,” Jeno started simply, “And a lot of things I thought I knew for sure don’t feel quite as concrete anymore.”

You inhaled. 

You exhaled. 

And tried to understand what the fuck that last part was supposed to mean.

But then before you could he continued on, his voice soft, casual, innocent. Too innocent. “Like how I used to be sure that you snored when you were sleeping,” he murmured. “Has it been so long that I've forgotten? Or are you not actually asleep, Rockstar?”

[♥︎]: and there it is, folks! please leave a like if you enjoyed! it REALLY gives me the motivation to work on this faster!

[causesciencethatswhy]

When AYS started out there was question on mind which my more delulu side wanted an answer to but didn't want to get my hopes up on receiving.

How did jikook come to the realisation that the needed to enlist as companion soldiers ?

I honestly didn't expect them to broach the topic until Sapporo so when they begun talking about going together in Jeju, to say I was surprised, was an understatement.

They openly talked about what they're hoping their experience will be like and how they'll be glad to support one another while joking about getting to see the other comforting bald heads each morning. It was all really sweet but it felt like edging, almost?? Like they were almost on the brink of telling us why they decided to go together cause it is obviously a decision they've carefully thought about and is something none of the other members had even considered so naturally a simple explanation should go along with it right?

Yet instead we're left with jikook just casually displaying how confident they are in their bond to know they'll be fine no matter what the military throws at them.

And then comes Sapporo and it's like the undercurrent melancholy of their impending enlistment is attached to every experience they're having in Sapporo. The soft, gentle moments like the train rides or the late night snacks or the long drives all feel heavier even when it's light hearted fun.

And you feel.... surely now ? Surely now they'll finally divulge why it was so important for them to enlist together?

Except the series ends on the bittersweet note of us, quiet literally, sending off the two of the them to the military after spending the latter half of the last episode watching them try and fail to lift their spirits up, knowing their trip was coming to an end.

It was definitely the bluest episode yet.

Yet my annoying brain wouldn't shut up? Cause narratively it didn’t make sense right? They've somehow broached the subject of military enlistment without giving us a solid explanation of how that decision came to be ??

And then as the credits rolled and I sat there rolling in melancholy too it hits me.

AYS is the answer.

Watching the two of them co exist around one another in perfect haphazard harmony for the past 8 episodes is all the reasonable explanations one would need to know to come to a conclusion on how buddy enlistment came into the picture.

Because it was a given.

Connecticut was a reaffirmation for themselves and also perhaps army's who'd gotten too comfortable dismissing their bond in chapter 2 that jimin and jungkook are well,, jimin and jungkook.

Jeju and Sapporo were a display of just how well the duo embodied 'the you are me, I am you' they've claimed for themselves years ago.

If you're still asking why jikook would enlist together when there were 20 other better alternatives, you've not been paying attention.

Cause once jikook were back in tandem, they were never not going to enlist together.

[vivwritesfics]

Waiting For The Sun

Chapter Two

Rhett Abbott has been hearing his soulmate in his head for ten years. She's the sweetest thing, nicknamed Muffin after her love of baking. Rhett doesn't know who Muffin is, doesn't know where she is, but hearing her voice always makes his day better. But then Trevor Tillerson is killed and Rhett's life is thrown into chaos. Through it all, Muffin in there for her soulmate. She wants nothing more than to find him, even through the chaos.

Soulmate AU

a/n: timeline might be out of canon order but fuck it

Series Masterlist

Fifteen year old Rhett Abbott hated Shakespeare. He sat in his room, his usually messy room, and attempted to write this essay. But his handwriting was chicken scratch and his soulmate wasn't responding to him.

He swore, if she'd gone to bed...

Well, Rhett couldn't blame her. It had gone midnight and, after near a year of being in each others heads, he knew her routine. But he also knew how much she loved Shakespeare.

Come on, wake up, he thought. But, if he woke her up, he never would have forgiven himself.

Without her there to keep him company while he struggled through his homework, Rhett gave up. He capped his pen, dropped it onto his paper, and stood from his desk. That was a problem for Tomorrow Rhett to deal with, even if the thought of getting detention terrified him. Well, not getting detention, but he knew his mom would never let him go to the rodeo if he got detention.

Are you okay?

He hadn't expected her voice in his head. What're you doing awake? Rhett asked his soulmate as he crawled beneath his bedsheets. They needed changing, he knew, but he was a gross teenaged boy. They always needed changing.

There was a pause before she responded, so long that Rhett thought she had gone back to sleep. Are you okay? She asked again. Even in his head, she sounded so damn tired. Guilt hit Rhett at all angles, but he couldn't deny how warm hearing her voice made him feel.

I'm okay, he answered, and her sigh filled his head. It wasn't of annoyance, though. No, she was relieved. Just doin' homework.

Do you need help with it? She asked, voice sweet in his head.

That was the thing about his soulmate. Ever since her voice had entered his head a year ago, she'd been so damn sweet. She'd helped him with so much homework over the past year. Now, Rhett wasn't stupid, but working on the ranch and training with his dad to be a future bull riding champion took up most of his time.

Tomorrow, if you can, he replied. Get some sleep, darlin'.

That woke her up slightly. The first time her soulmate had ever given her some sort of nickname. Riddled with exhaustion, Rhett didn't even noticed that the nickname had slipped. She didn't mind, though, not in the slightest.

Somehow, Rhett knew she hadn't yet gone back to sleep. Something in him could just feel that she was still awake. What were you dreamin' about? He asked, hands behind his head as he stared up at the popcorn ceiling. On the few instances that they spoke late into the night, Rhett stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine what she looked like. The sound of her voice gave him no indicators, but it didn't stop him from trying.

I dreamt that the sky opened up and the stars were raining down on us, she said in his head.

Rhett could see it, laying in the south pasture with a faceless girl as vibrant stairs began shooting across the sky, falling down around them and illuminating the Abbott Ranch. Sounds beautiful, he said to her, a yawn leaving his lips.

'm getting tired. In his head, her voice came out as groggy, and Rhett let the scene in his head change. A faceless girl, struggling to stay awake as she spoke to him.

Sleep, Rhett said to her.

Are you gonna sleep, too? She asked and Rhett gave a hum. Before you go, what's your homework? I can think about it while I'm waiting for you to wake up.

Rhett told her. Not long after that, the two of them were asleep. Rhett couldn't help but dream of himself as a young Leonardo DiCaprio in the nineties, falling for a faceless girl he couldn't have, a facless girl that kissed the poison from his lips and took a knife to his own chest before collapsing on top of him.

***

Twenty four year old Rhett woke up to the smell of bacon filling his nose. He opened his eyes and shut them immediately. Trust him to be too drunk to close his curtains. Mornin' Muffin, he said in his mind, praying he didn't sound too much like he was hanging out of his ass.

Her melodic giggle filled his mind. Almost immediately his day brightened up and he pushed himself out of bed. Well, good morning, she said to him. How does that head feel?

Suddenly, dread filled him. He had gotten pretty good at playing sober on the instances that she was still awake while he was out drinking. But, not last night, apparently. Ah, fuck. What did I say?

You were trying to tell me things about yourself and then getting frustrated when it working work. Even in his head, he could hear the amusement in her voice. You're cute when you're drunk and frustrated.

He groaned, audibly, as he walked out of his bedroom. How do you put up with me? He asked, somewhat rhetorically, as he wandered into the kitchen and greeted his family.

Believe it or not, you were made for me, bucko, she replied as he stole the bacon from Amy's plate. She complained, but Rhett didn't hear it as he took his own plate from his mother and sat down at the table.

Me? Made for you? How do you know you weren't made for me?

She laughed as his family found out just how hungover he was. But with that laugh filling his head, all was right in the world.

She was there through the morning as Rhett worked. She kept him company as he fed the cattle and tacked up for the morning. All the while she was making bread or reading a book. When the Tillerson boys showed up at the fence that separated them from the Abbott's, she was quiet, let him do what he needed to do. But, the moment he was grumbling, her soothing voice filled his head, calming him down.

I'm riding tonight, he said as he untacked his horse for the night. He brushed over her back, brushing away any loose and uncomfortable hairs.

Oh.

It was no secret to Rhett how much his bull riding worried her. For the first two years of his career to had listened as he fell off and hurt himself. It had taken Rhett those two years to learn how to quiet his mind when he was riding, for the soul purpose of not making her panic.

Tell me where you place, she said to him.

Of course, Muffin, he replied and headed back to the house for dinner.

Rhett loved it when his family watched him ride, of course he did. But he always felt like something was missing. He knew exactly what was missing, and couldn't wait for the day she was sitting there, between his mom and Perry. He'd ride better with her watching, he knew.

I'm going out with my friends tonight, she told him as he waited for his turn to ride.

Rhett couldn't help but grin to himself. She always had fun when she went out, always got drunk rather quickly. Every time she would ramble about their future together and he didn't mind that one bit.

Gonna celebrate my win?

You know it, cowboy.

Those were the words that played in his head as he sat on Twister. Fucking Twister. Everybody knew that the bull hadn't ridden well in weeks. But Rhett tried. With all of his might, he tried. But that bull tossed him around like a ragdoll, until he was pushing himself up from the sand and picking up his hat.

Muffin, you there? He asked as he walked over to the fence, footsteps sluggish.

Rhett waited a moment before she answered him. Yeah, I'm here. How did it go?

Rhett could have lied, could have told her everything was hunky dory, that he'd placed well and made it through to the next round. But she always seemed to know when he was lying to her. Maybe he sounded different when he lied. No matter what it was, she knew.

He sucked in a breath. I didn't place.

Oh, baby. He couldn't help but grimace at the sympathy. Bad bull?

He breathed through his nose as his father approached the fence. Maybe, he answered. I don't know Muffin. I just... But, as his dad started speaking, the words died in his mind.

When his dad and the rest of his family stepped back from the fence, gave him some space, his eyes met those of Maria Olivares.

Maria Olivares. There was a time that Rhett thought Maria was his soulmate. He was sixteen and connected the dots in his head to make it so. It didn't matter that the pieces didn't entirely fit or that she didn't look his way. Sixteen year old Rhett made it work.

But seeing her now, something inside of him sparked to life. He raised his hand towards her slightly. She was his Muffin, even if she didn't realise it. Maria smiled back and his heart seemingly skipped a beat.

It didn't much help that his Muffin had disappeared. But he'd seen that Maria was busy, and it made sense in his mind. She turned away from him and Rhett climbed out of the ring. Fuck, he needed a drink after that ride. Have fun, Muffin, he said as he climbed into his truck and began driving home.

It was a sucky night for Rhett. He didn't make it through and his girl was too busy to talk to him. He'd never fault her for it, though. She was having fun, and that was all that mattered.

Perry was having a night as shitty as his own. After Joy had stopped by earlier with the news about the FBI dropping Rebecca's case, he'd been in an understandably sour mood. That was why Rhett invited him out to the Pit Bar. That was how he found himself slamming back tequila shots in the Pit Bar with Perry.

Drunk Rhett was a rambler. He'd been drunk enough to now and Perry had seen him drunk often enough to know it, too. The topic of Rhett's drunken ramblings were almost always his bull riding career and his soulmate. Now, sober Rhett would never speak to Perry about his soulmate, not after Perry had gone ahead and married a woman that wasn't his soulmate.

But drunk Rhett couldn't help himself as he told Perry all about the last ten years with her. And then Maria Olivares walked into the Pit Bar.

She was out with her friends and his Muffin was out with her friends. It made so much sense to Rhett that this woman was his soulmate, but then why was she hanging onto Trevor Tillerson?

Perry saw the way Rhett looked at Maria. "You've been convinced this girl is your soulmate since you were sixteen years old," he said. "Go speak to her," he insisted.

When she approached the bar, Rhett did. But there so no opportunity to speak to her that time. The next time, their conversation was shirt, but that conversation was enough to reaffirm it to Rhett that Maria really was his soulmate. But then she went back to Trevor, and Perry joined him at the bar.

Drunk Rhett said whatever he wanted. Drunk Rhett made his big brother cry. He knew he shouldn't have said it the second the words left his lips. "I'm sorry, man," he said as he caught Maria's eye. "Go on, go get some air."

You look really pretty tonight, he said to no response. Maria still looked at him, though. And, with no Trevor Tillerson holding his arm around her shoulders, Maria joined him.

"Hey," she said to him for the second time that night.

Rhett tapped his fingers against the green neck of his beer bottle. "Hey," he repeated, but then that single word was slurred. There was so much he wanted to say, stuff about how she couldn't swear until she was fourteen or that, at sixteen, he had to teach her what a handjob was. All things Rhett had been through with his soulmate.

But enough doubt lingered in the back of his mind that he said nothing. What if Maria wasn't his soulmate and he blurted all of that out? They were memories between him, his soulmate, and nobody else.

Maria led the conversation, but Rhett didn't much mind. He sipped his beer and listened, his usual polite but somewhat shy smile playing on his lips. For a split second he turned to the door, tried to catch a glimpse of Perry through glass pane.

"Ah shit," he said as he stood. Maria said nothing. Certainly didn't scold him for his language as he headed outside. But Rhett wasn't thinking about that. As soon as he stepped into the cool night air, he was pushing Trevor Tillerson away from his brother.

He didn't know that Maria was watching the scuffle, didn't know she was there when Rhett put Trevor on the ground. Not without coming away with his own scrapes and bruises, of course. His hand fucking killed from where it had connected with Trevor's face.

As soon as Trevor was on the ground, Rhett turned back to the bar, back towards Maria. "That guy is the biggest asshole you're ever gonna meet," he said and headed back inside.

Muffin? He tried, but there was no response. Either she'd heard everything he'd been thinking through the fight and was disgusted, or she'd fallen asleep hours ago. But she wasn't Maria, Rhett knew that much.

He didn't know what happened between Perry and Trevor while he was pulling the truck around. But Rhett didn't need to know as he helped Perry load the body of Trevor Tillerson into his truck. Perry had fucking killed someone, and his finger prints were now on the body.

Fuck.

But he knew for a fact that he'd never been this panicked before. This was the kind of panic that would have her waking up to check on him, if she was even asleep. The breaths Rhett took in were deep and calming. He kept his emotions in check as he drove himself, Perry, and the body back to the Abbott ranch.

Fuck, he hoped his Muffin was sleeping.

Rhett Taglist: @finnydraws

@writtingrose

@nurse-sainz

@xoxabs88xox

@afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff

Series Taglist: @nessjo

@butterflykale1doscope

@eternallyvenus

[illiterateaffairs]

DISTRACTIONS I | LONDON CALLING

pairing: jamie tartt x f!reader (ted lasso)

rating: T (language) 

word count: 4,772

summary: you arrive in richmond anxious about starting your new life, but quickly feel at home among this new cast of characters. one of them is of particular interest to you for some reason. 

A/N: thank you to everyone who read the prologue, sent messages, and left nice comments in the reblogs and tags!! would love to continue to hear your thoughts. 💕

distractions masterlist | previous chapter

The next two weeks are somehow the slowest and quickest two weeks of your life. You put your notice in at work the second you can. The coworkers you mingled with the most are sad to see you go, especially Kara. On your last day, she surprises you with flowers and candy, and you wish you’d spent more time with her. You make a mental note to reach out to her from time to time. 

Your landlord lets you leave most of the furniture behind since you won’t be needing it all at your new place. Rebecca promised the flat she had for you was both homey and chic. Despite being eager to get out of there, you feel a sense of loss as you say goodbye to your apartment before heading to the airport. Even though your relationship was far from perfect and ended tumultuously, you and Mason made some good memories there. You watched your first Richmond game there, even though you had no idea what was going on. And now here you are on an eight hour flight to London, getting ready to work for Richmond. 

You thankfully sleep most of the trip, having opted for a late night flight, so by the time you land, it's the afternoon in local time. You have no idea how you’ll manage to sleep at a reasonable time tonight, but that’s later-you’s problem. 

The butterflies that have taken up home in your stomach since you left finally take a break from aggressively fluttering around when you see Ted and Beard waiting for you outside. You break into a huge grin before jogging over to the duo. You instantly feel at home when Ted is engulfing you into one of his signature hugs, and you come to the realization you haven’t seen him since he started coaching over here. Same with Beard, and while the two of you wouldn’t normally go for a hug, you find yourself wrapping your arms around him briefly anyway, and you can tell he doesn’t mind at all. 

“How was your flight, Kiddo?” Ted asks as they lead you to a fancy black car parked nearby with an even fancier-dressed man. 

“It was good,” you respond distractedly, “I’m sorry, do you have a driver?” 

Ted smiles as he pulls out the back door for the two of you, Beard rounding the other side, loading your bags into the trunk. “Courtesy of Rebecca. She wanted to make sure you arrived in style.” 

In the back of the car, you fit snugly between the two coaches and you couldn’t be happier. 

“And don’t worry,” Ted continues, “We came over here as soon as training ended, so most of the team should be out for the day. And as far as everyone else knows, we’re just two generous colleagues who offered to pick up the newly-minted foreigner from the airport. No one will know we’re secretly two of your favorite people in the world.”

You chuckle, but you appreciate his words. Turning to glance at Beard, he mimics zipping his lips shut and you mirror him with a giggle. 

The car ride back is filled with loud chatter as the three of you- mostly you and Ted- catch up, while you try not to be alarmed by the fact you’re driving on the left side of the road. When you pull into the parking lot of Nelson Road Stadium, you feel the butterflies start to return. Here we go. 

The driver follows you, promising to wait in the lobby until you’re ready to head home for the night. Beard heads to the coach’s quarters while Ted introduces you to everyone you pass on the way to Rebecca’s office. You try not to seem overeager to meet her in person - which you are. You cautiously follow Ted into the room, overhearing the familiar sound of Rebecca’s voice mixing with someone else’s. When their attention is drawn to where you and Ted are standing, Rebecca enthusiastically stands from her couch to greet you and you’re instantly taken with her presence- she’s even more beautiful and tall in person. 

You go to shake her hand but she opts for a warm hug as she tells you how excited she is for you to join the team. She and Ted introduce you to Leslie Higgins, Richmond’s Director of Communications. He shakes your hand with a kind smile, but you can tell he’s surprised when he hears your American accent for the first time. The three of you don’t give him a chance to question it as Ted drags you back on your welcome tour. But not before Rebecca demands you text her later that night to tell her what you think of the flat she readied for you.

Ted takes you back downstairs to where the locker rooms and coaches offices are. To Ted’s earlier point, not many players are around but you can’t help but be intimidated by the few you meet briefly. You’ve never been around famous athletes before. You try to remember their names - Colin and Isaac are the two that have stuck so far. You smile at Beard’s familiar face when Ted takes you to their office, knocking on the window to grab another man’s attention. Ted informs you that the man is Roy Kent, a name you recognize from the handful of games you’ve watched over the years. He’s another coach for the team now. Roy grunts out a ‘nice to meet you’ without bothering to turn around, but Ted lets you know that's a pretty nice gesture when it comes to Roy, so you take it. 

As you leave the locker room, you meet the team’s kitman, Will, who immediately seems like the sweetest person in the world and you hope to get to know him better during your time here. 

Finally you make it to what Ted describes at the main event - the pitch - and he was right, it was glorious. You’ve never been in an arena of this size, and despite not being too big of a sports person, you feel excitement engulfing you. You’re only pulled out of your trance as Ted calls out to one lone straggler who seems to be getting in some last minute practice on the field. 

“Hey Jamie!” Ted yells across the field, “Practice ended over an hour ago bud! Grab a shower and go home and get some rest.”

Jamie jogs over to you two with the soccer ball under his arm, “Aye aye, Coach.” Out of breath, the not-unattractive footballer looks you up and down. “Who’s this?”

You introduce yourself and Jamie shakes your hand once before dropping it.

“She’s Rebecca’s new PA we told y’all about earlier this week. She’s going to be helping out with some social media posts and what not.” Ted reminds him and Jamie seems to nod in recognition.

“Guess I’ll be seeing ya around then.” he smiles politely and then heads back inside. 

You and Ted spend a few more minutes admiring the stadium but your interest shifts to Jamie. He looked familiar, but not from the football matches you’ve watched, you don’t think. But where else would you have seen him?

Eventually Ted leads you back inside, finally showing you where you’ll be spending most of your time. He explains that your office used to belong to the team’s PR person, Keeley Jones, before she left to start her own firm. He says the club is still one of her top clients, so you’d be working closely with her from time to time, and that he couldn’t wait for you to meet her, claiming you’d absolutely adore her. You believed him. So far you were taken with everyone you’ve met. Rebecca was incredible, Higgins seemed great, Colin and Isaac a fun pair, Will a sweetheart, and Roy an interesting man you looked forward to learning more about. Even Jamie - who you couldn’t get a read on just yet - still intrigued you. 

You plop down in the desk chair now belonging to you and can’t help but spin around a few times. Ted chuckles and tells you he’ll leave you to get comfortable for a bit while he finishes up some things for the night, promising not to be long before he comes back to take you home. 

Finally having a moment to yourself after almost 12 hours, you let out a long breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Distracted by the excitement of being in a new city, catching up with Beard and Ted, and meeting your new coworkers, you hadn’t had a chance to process that you did it. You uprooted your life and successfully made it halfway across the world to start a new one.

Before you let complete panic sink in, you open the laptop sitting neatly on your desk. There’s not much on the computer, but there’s a folder with information about AFC Richmond and the players. You decide maybe you should start learning everyone’s names since you’re going to be responsible for curating their social media presence and such soon. Looking at the team roster, your eyes immediately find Isaac and Colin’s pictures, feeling proud that you at least know a couple players' names. Same with Jamie, but then you scan the rest of the roster and realize there are a lot more names and faces you don’t recognize. Your mind scrambles to come up with some mnemonic device to help you remember everyone, but before you can come up with a comically long sentence, there’s a knock on your office door. 

Looking up, you expect to see Ted, but instead find a younger man with a bright smile. You feel a burst of recognition and glance down at the roster on your computer, matching the face of your visitor with one on the screen.

“Oh, hi! Are you…Sam Obi…”

His smile doesn’t falter as he steps into your office. “Sam Obisanya,” he pronounces smoothly, and then says your name just as eloquently. “I just saw Ted, and he told me you’d just arrived and I wanted to take the chance to say hello and welcome to the team.”

Warmth spreads across your chest as you smile back at him, “That’s so kind, thank you.”

“Of course! I know you haven’t been here for long, but how are you liking things so far?”

“Oh it's been good,” you trail off, finding yourself unable to lie to his sweet face, “A bit intimidating.” 

He frowns, “Why’s that? If Jan Maas said something strange to you, he’s just blunt because he’s Dutch.”

You chuckle, briefly glancing back down at the roster to put a face to that name. “Noted. But no, I think I’m just realizing how much I don’t know about soccer, or football, I guess. And that there are a lot of you to remember.”

Sam laughs, “We are a large team. Anything I could do to help?”

Part of you wants to be nice and tell him he doesn’t have to stick around any longer, but the anxious part of you grabs onto the life line, “Actually, yes, could you help me get to know all the players’ names- like, tell me things about everyone so it's easier for me to remember?” You lean back and tilt your computer towards him so he knows he’s welcome to stay, and he immediately gets settled in one of the chairs on the other side of your desk. 

You spend the next thirty minutes getting to know Sam as well as the rest of the team, and you already feel more at ease. Sam proves to be even more wonderful than his first impression gave off. He shares hilarious anecdotes about every footballer on the team, and before you know it you’re able to recall who people like Dani and Zoreuaux and Bumbercatch all were. 

Sam and you also exchange some personal stories. You tell him about your life in Chicago and how you were looking for a fresh start, albeit leaving out a few details you don’t want to burden him with on the first meeting. Sam shares that he'd moved to England a few years ago from Nigeria, and that he was going to open a Nigerian restaurant here soon for a little taste of home. You told him you couldn’t wait to try it. By the end of your conversation, you feel like you have someone you can call a friend in Richmond, and Sam even offers to show you around the city during some off time later this week. 

As Sam gives you one last quiz about AFC Richmond’s player’s and your eyes linger on Jamie’s picture again, your brain finally remembers how you know him. You flashback to a memory of Kara practically giving a full PowerPoint presentation to your office back home on the drama going down on her favorite British reality show. 

“Oh, my God,” you yelp, scaring the hell out of your potential new friend who rests his hand over his chest, “Sorry, I just realized how I know Jamie.” 

“You’ve met him before?” Sam questions, surprised. 

“No, I’ve just seen him on that one show, Lust something…”

Before you have the words out, Sam is cackling, “Yes, Lust Conquers All! Not Jamie’s finest moment but definitely a memorable one.” 

“God, he was such an asshole,” you comment, recalling the way he acted in the few clips Kara showed you. 

“Oh, he was,” Sam nods, “He used to be a total prick. He still is sometimes, but more in a loveable way.” At your unsure expression, Sam elaborates, “Jamie’s been through a lot. And yes, he used to be very self centered. But since Ted’s been around, he’s become a better teammate, and a better friend.”

You can’t help but smile at the nod to Ted’s impact. It doesn’t surprise you in the least; he’s always bettered the lives of the people he’s met. Still, your heart swells with pride. 

“Well, either way, I look forward to seeing what he’s like off the screen.”

Sam heads out a little after that, with another promise of being your tour guide this weekend and another to have lunch tomorrow. Then Ted’s coming back to collect you to take you home for the night. You bid a farewell to Rebecca in the parking lot before you’re driving off. After making sure you can get into your apartment building, you say goodnight to Ted, who promises to walk with you back to the stadium for your first official day tomorrow. 

When you enter your new flat, you’re taken back by how much you love it already. The furniture is feminine but not overly posh. The décor and colors are bright without being over the top. It feels more like you than your old apartment, even though you picked out that place and the furniture yourself. You quickly remind yourself of Mason inserting his opinions over yours when it came to those choices, before you push all thoughts of him away for the night. 

You spend the rest of the night unpacking your clothes and other small belongings. You’re pleasantly surprised that you're eager to sleep as it gets close to an appropriate time for bed. You quickly change into the first set of comfy clothes you find and climb into your very large and very comfortable bed. You text Rebecca to express how much you adore the flat and how grateful you are for everything. She responds pretty quickly, telling you that you never have to thank her but she’s glad you’re settling in. 

You bury yourself under your covers, trying to coax your thoughts away for a good night’s sleep. But your mind runs rampant with thoughts of working with Rebecca tomorrow and hanging out with Sam. A new country, new job, and (hopefully) new friends. It’s only been one day but you were already feeling reassured about your decision to move here. Which is good because you only bought a one way ticket. 

Your first few weeks with AFC Richmond could not have been more of a dream. You didn’t expect to enjoy working for a football club as much as you do. Where your old job was drab and had you focused on making boring food and clothes sound appealing, with this job you got to spend time with the players who were actually interesting people you got to promote. On most days, you got to hang out with the team and film content while they practiced or played. Sometimes events occurred after training or games so that’s when you’d gotten to know a lot of them. You were closest with Sam, who you’d begun to spend more time with when neither of you were working. On other days, you’d work more closely with Rebecca, assisting her with more mundane tasks, but still more enjoyable than any of the grunt work you did back in America. And Rebecca had quickly become one of your favorite people to be around. You didn’t think you’d meet a more remarkable woman until a week in when she introduced you to Keeley, who you’d already heard so much about. No surprise she lived up to the hype. 

Keeley is the friendliest and most talkative person you ever met, and you hope her and Rebecca’s energy rubs off on you even just a little. The pair of them quickly included you in their girl talks and invited you to sit with them during games when you’re not busy capturing content. They also quickly caught you up on the gossip around the club, first and foremost that Keeley is still getting over a breakup with Roy, and apparently she doesn’t quite understand why they had parted ways. While she seems to be mostly handling it alright- meaning not taking a job an ocean away from home to run away from him- it gives the two of you something to bond over.

When you have time to yourself, you try to sit down and write. Sometimes you’re able to get a few sentences typed out in a Word document, before you’re furiously smashing the back-space button because you hate every word. One day, you share your writer’s block struggle with Trent Crimm, a former journalist who Ted is letting shadow the club for a novel he’s writing. Roy and the team had been pretty bothered at first, but everyone is on better terms these days. Despite your respective preferences for non-fiction and fiction, Trent gives you the advice to not force anything. You’ll write when you’re ready. And while you appreciate and try to take the advice, you wish you were ready now. With a job that doesn’t make you want to rip your hair out and a beautiful city you’ve been exploring, you should be more inspired than ever. But so far no such inspiration has struck. So you try to be patient. 

Instead you focus your energy on helping Keeley with the new Bantr campaign she has AFC Richmond collaborating on. Most of the team is staying past practice to get new promotional pictures shot and in a few weeks you’ll be helping Keeley shoot video footage for the ads. You couldn’t help but feel excited to be on this side of the advertising world, and actually be a part of the team that's being advertised.  

You're squatting on the ground, off to the side so you’re not blocking any shots. Your phone is unlocked and ready to capture some BTS of the photoshoot as Isaac is the first team member to get his picture taken. As you're about to press record when the photographer begins to shoot, you can’t help but giggle at how serious Isaac is taking this. He stands stick straight with his hands clasped behind his back and lips in a straight line. 

“Something funny, new girl?” he asks without breaking eye contact with the camera. He’s been calling you that since you arrived despite now having been around for a month. You think he means it affectionately, though he probably wouldn’t admit it. 

“No, it's just you look so…stern?” you chuckle as you start recording a clip, “If this is for a dating app, shouldn’t you try to look more appealing to any potential suitors?”

“I thought they were blurring our faces?” he asks with furrowed brows, referring to the fact that the app was anonymous and this ad campaign would be following suit.

“Yeah, but don’t you want to be a sexy blur?” 

This makes Isaac crack a smile as he lets out a surprised laugh. You snap your fingers at the photographer, “There, get that!” 

Satisfied with your first piece of content for the night, you stand up and join Keeley where she’s observing everything from behind the monitor displaying the photos as the photographer takes them. 

Keeley smiles at you, “That was pretty good! They could all stand to loosen up a bit - they’re not taking mugshots.”

“That’s literally what all of their football headshots look like,” you joke, “Is there no smiling in football?” You laugh together as another idea strikes, “Hey, what if we play some music? That might relax everyone and loosen them up?”

Keeley’s light up. “That’s a great idea,” she turns to face the other players waiting for their turn, “Oi, does anyone have a speaker?”

Colin raises his hand, “I’ve got one in my locker.”

Moments later, the locker room is filled with upbeat music from a playlist Keeley curated on the fly. The team’s energy instantly escalates, and so do the pictures of them. As Dani takes over Isaac’s spot in front of the camera, you hear someone whispering your name from outside the locker room. You find Sam waving to you from the doorway. You smile and jog over to meet him.

“Looks like a party in here,” he comments amusedly. 

“Yeah, why aren’t you participating by the way? Got a secret girlfriend you’re not telling me about?” 

Sam flushes, “Not quite. I just don’t want to appear too…available.” 

You quirk your eyebrow, “Suspicious but I’ll allow it. So what's up?”

“I wanted to know if you were free Friday night? We end practice early that day and I was wondering if I could take you to that museum I told you about if you still haven’t been?”

“No, that sounds perfect, I would love that!” 

You share excited smiles. “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

“Bright and early.”

As you bid good night to Sam and return your focus back to the shoot, you note that Jamie is getting his photo taken now. You accidentally catch his gaze and successfully fight the urge to break eye contact. You offer a smile as you go to get more footage for Richmond’s Instagram, but Jamie returns the smile seemingly half heartedly. You try not to take it personally since you haven’t really had the chance to get to know the guy since you’ve been here. You wonder why that is. While you weren’t very close with many members of the team, aside from Sam, most of them have taken opportunities to get to know you a bit. Except for Jamie.

You try not to dwell, knowing enough about his reputation to know not being close might not be a bad thing. 

The rest of the photoshoot goes extremely well. The Instagram stories you post of the guys are already gaining a lot of attention, and the photos look incredible. You ask Keeley to see if you can get Bantr to let the club use the photos as some of their new imagery online, knowing it would be a shame to just blur them and not have the world see the player’s personalities. As the team files out for the night, you stick around to help Keeley and the photographer pack up, wishing them a good night as you need a few things from your office before you head home. You think you’re the last one there until you hear a voice coming from the parking lot as you exit. Once you’re outside, you recognize the voice as Jamie’s with his distinct Mancunian accent. He appears to be on the phone but you can't make out anything he’s saying on the other side of the parking lot. Even from afar, you get the sense that it's not a pleasant conversation, so you linger by the door to give him some space. Luckily, Jamie’s hanging up with whoever it is a few seconds later, giving you the chance to resume your journey home. You try not to startle him as you get closer but you do anyway. You immediately apologize, letting him know you’re just passing by and you didn’t mean to sneak up on him.

“It's alright,” he assures, though he still seems a bit off, “Didn’t know anyone else was still here.”

“Just me,” you shrug. You know you shouldn’t say anything and just continue walking home, but you have to ask. “Is everything okay? I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping, but that phone call sounded tense and you look…unwell?”

Jamie eyes you like he’s trying to figure out what your angle is. You hurry to reassure him.

“I know we hardly know each other, so in no way do you owe me an explanation, but just figured I’d check in.” 

Jamie nods slowly. For a second you think he might share something with you, but instead he just lets out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You accept his answer and nod. You’re unsure of what to say next, or if you should say anything. You’re about to turn around and wish him a good night when he’s the one that speaks up. 

“So you and Sam seem quite close.” 

You turn back to him and narrow your eyes at him, “Yeah? He’s been showing me around the city.”

Jamie nods thoughtfully, “Are you two…,” your eyes narrow in a full squint as you cross your arms to egg him on, “Seeing each other?”

You can’t help but laugh. In no way were you expecting him to ask that. “Why do you care? Do you have a crush on Sam or something?”

Jamie’s face scrunches up, “No!”

“What then? You gonna tell me Sam’s nice-boy persona is actually an act and he’s secretly been plotting to murder me?”

“No, Sam really is that nice.” 

“Then why are you asking if I’m dating him?” 

“I’m just curious,” he spits out defensively, “Wasn’t sure if it was alright for players to hook up with the club’s employees or whatever.”

“Oh,” you lower your defenses for a second, “...So you have a crush on Beard then?”

Jamie’s defensive resolve melts away as he actually lets out a laugh at your teasing. “No he aint my type. Beard’s too scratchy.” 

You laugh along with him and enjoy that he played along. 

“Well then to answer your question, no Sam and I are not dating, we’re just friends. And no, I don’t think there’s technically any rule against any consensual mingling between the staff and you footballers.

“Hmm,” Jamie nods, his lip pouting a bit, “Good to know.”

“I’m glad to be of help, but I should get going,” you start walking backwards towards the parking lot’s exit, “But I’ll see you tomorrow I guess?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jamie steps towards you, “You’re just going to walk home alone? At night?” Jamie glances around and answers his own question when he doesn’t see another car in the lot besides his own. “Can I drive you?”

You shake your head assuredly, “Don’t worry about it. I walk home everyday. My place isn’t far.”

You can tell he wants to respect your answer, but asks one more time, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you smile, “Have a good night, Jamie.” 

He gives you a small smile back, “You too.” 

You wave before shoving your hands in your coat pockets and take off down the road. When Jamie’s sports car drives past you, he honks the horn twice and you chuckle. 

During your short commute to your flat, you replay your interaction with Jamie. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to be like. While your conversation was brief, it seemed like he was a decent guy and that he had a sense of humor. The way his hair fell messily on either side of his face was nice, but that was neither here nor there. Maybe Sam was right. Jamie Tartt wasn’t so bad. 

A/N: mwahahahaha

[sokkigarden]

dancing with our hands tied (part iv)

jamie tartt x female reader // nsfw 18+ // fwb

masterlist // read on ao3

summary: an emotional spiral sends you to jamie's doorstep… again

word count: 3k

this chapter took it OUT of me but i actually think this might be my fav chapter so far?? eeeee excited to share w you guys :) thanks to @hopefulromances for challenging me to write and trade feedback last night! sometimes u just need a lil extra motivation 😩🫶

༻✧✧✧༺

“Hey, you’re friends with Jamie, right?”

You looked up from where you were sitting at your desk to find Zach in the doorway. You were startled by his appearance. 

After getting drinks last week, you’d gone back to his place and fell into bed. He was fun and flirty and you both had a good time, but once it was late, he asked if you needed a ride home. You’d left after calling a ride, trying not to overthink it. It was just the beginning after all.

But it had been a week since then. Zach had been keeping his distance at work and hadn’t been responding to your texts that much. You figured he was busy with the new job, so you kept yourself busy as well. But that didn’t resolve the sinking feeling in your gut.

And now Zach was standing in front of you. Asking about Jamie Tartt of all things.

“Huh?” You knew you sounded dumb but you weren’t sure why Zach was asking if you were friends with Jamie.

“Did I do something to upset him?”

“What?” you sputtered. “Um, I don’t think so.”

Despite your confusion, you had also noticed Jamie’s coldness toward the new nutritionist. Richmond had a big facility and a lot of people employed, but after Ted Lasso brought his camaraderie and positivity to the entire club, it was easy to see when someone was being off-putting. 

Since last week, you hadn’t spoken to Jamie outside of your scheduled physio treatments. You weren’t typically alone during your appointments, and it was always after his ludicrous amount of training which left him tired, so you hadn’t had the chance to talk to him much.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things?” you suggested. “He’s always been kinda rocky– you’ve heard the stories.”

You didn’t mention that those stories were from more than two years ago. You didn’t mention that he had been much better in recent months. 

“Maybe….” Zach replied, scratching the back of his head. 

You clearly didn’t have the answer he wanted, and the room fell into silence. You looked back at the work you had open on your computer screen, before taking a deep breath and being brave.

“Hey, so I had a fun time last week,” you started with a smile. “Would you, maybe, want to go out again?”

Zach suddenly looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the treatment room with you. You tried not to let the feeling in your gut sink even further, but you could feel the smile falling off your face.

“Oh, um, I’m gonna be busy for the next few weeks, so….” he trailed off.

You pressed your lips into a firm line, nodding once. You didn’t need to hear anything else; he was clearly not interested in pursuing you further. 

The insecurities that had lingered for a week resurfaced from the corners of your mind. You’d gotten your hopes up again, and he clearly wasn’t on the same page. It was fine. You were getting the brush off. Nothing you hadn’t experienced before.

You just wished you’d known this wasn’t going to be anything when you went into it. It had taken time, with each heartbreak, but you thought you had built up walls to prevent yourself from getting hurt again. 

“Okay, yeah,” you said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Zach gave you a smile that looked more like a grimace before leaving you alone.

How had everything gone to such shit?

There’s a reason you’d made it clear with Jamie that your relationship was just sex. If it was explicitly just sex, then you wouldn’t let yourself form an emotional attachment. No point in letting your brain drift into romantic feelings. It never worked out anyways.

Thinking of Jamie brought you back to the first thing Zach said. Was there a reason Jamie was being a dick to him? You hadn’t seen them interact much other than at the bar last week. While you had wanted to bite Jamie’s head off at first, by the time you had a chance to say something, he had left. There was a lot left unsaid.

And if here was anything that would get your mind off things, it would be bickering with Jamie. 

You checked your watch, realizing most of the players were gone by this time of evening. You finished up the report you were working on. It was probably time for you to head home too. 

And maybe you’d pay Jamie a visit on the way home, too.

༻✧✧✧༺

Not even twenty minutes later, you were knocking on Jamie’s door unannounced. You hadn’t been there since last week, but there were no cars except his parked outside, so you assumed he was the only one home. 

When he opened the door, he seemed surprised to see you, his face going through about half a dozen different expressions before settling on raising his eyebrow in question.

“Stop being a dick to Zach,” you said in lieu of greeting, walking into his home. 

Jamie shut the door and pursed his lips. He clearly hadn’t expected to be instantly berated, but it was easier to act mad at Jamie than deal with being upset with yourself.

“Aren’t I a dick to everyone?” he asked.

“No, you aren’t,” you rolled your eyes, and said in a smaller voice, “Not anymore.”

You crossed your arms. “But you are acting like an asshole to Zach. Everyone sees it.”

Jamie scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Sorry,” he said, with a defeated tone, “You can tell your boyfriend I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Now it was your turn to sound defeated, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Jamie’s face perked up at that.

“Oh yeah? Thought you two were gettin’ cozy. Gettin’ drinks at Bones and Honey.” 

If it was anyone else, you’d think he sounded jealous, but there was no reason for Jamie to be jealous over you. He was just poking your open wound at this point.

You huffed out a breath of air, letting your arms fall to their sides. 

“He brushed me off,” you said, “If we didn’t work together, he probably would’ve ghosted me by now.”

All the frustration from the past few hours, the past few days, the past week, felt like it was bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t even like this was a new thing. You were just tired of the same thing always happening. Even when you tried to protect yourself, you still ended up getting hurt.

You were so focused on blinking rapidly to dispel the tears in your eyes that you didn’t notice Jamie wrapping you in a tight hug. You stood frozen for a moment, before wrapping your arms around his torso and nuzzling your face into his shoulder. 

The hug was so tight and warm and surprising, but it made you feel the best you’d felt in weeks, months. You didn’t even realize you were fully crying until you moved slightly and felt the wet patch of fabric on his shoulder. 

You pulled away a bit and tried taking some deep breaths, while Jamie brushed his fingers through your hair. As soon as he whispered your name, you pulled back further, still enveloped in his arms. 

“Sorry, sorry, I know this isn’t what we normally do,” you said. Your relationship consisted of arguments and sex, not tears and warm hugs. 

He shook his head, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “What’s wrong?” 

The tender tone, the soft look in his eyes, the delicate physical contact, made you start crying all over again. He gently led the two of you over to the couch, sitting down with you in his lap. 

“I just–” you sniffled, and it all came spilling out. “I just don't know what I'm doing ever. Everything I do seems wrong. I try to go after the things I want and it's never enough. I give too much, and yet not enough, and- and it's all shit.” 

Jamie’s brows furrowed together as you stared at his face. You focused on the line of his jaw and the grooves of his nose instead of his eyes. You didn’t want to meet his eyes. His hand gently grasped your chin to direct your gaze.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, as you held eye contact. “Things are hard, but they’ve always been hard, and you’ve made it through. You deserve good things. You’ll get them. You have them.” 

Those words were tender and sweet and all you wanted to hear, but a part of you refused to let yourself believe them.

“Yeah, okay,” you rolled your eyes lightly. “I guess.”

He let out a huff of frustration, before rearranging you to straddle his thighs. His arms squeezed your shoulders, but not in a domineering way; it felt soft, comforting. 

His hands were warm as they ran across your skin to your cheeks, holding your face to keep your eyes connected. He wiped the tears from your cheeks. His face held a hundred emotions and you weren’t sure what to make of any of it. 

“You have me,” he said.

You took a sharp intake of breath at his words. The words burned into your mind.

It was true. You did have Jamie. And he had you. In some sort of way. And for now, it would be enough.

He placed a soft kiss to your forehead, and then to both of your cheeks, lingering so close you could feel his exhales and swore you could hear your heartbeats in the space between. 

Then, he seized your mouth in a kiss, and it was like no other kiss you’d shared with him. While others were passionate and full of angry emotions, this was full of something raw, something untethered to your pre-existing idea of Jamie.

As you explored each other's mouths, you found yourself grinding against his lap, letting a moan out as you felt overcome with emotion. His hands ran through your hair, and you flexed your fingers under the fabric of his shirt, feeling the expanse of warm skin on his stomach. 

You tugged his shirt over his head, which broke the kiss, but you took the moment to take a breath. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your neck, as he moved to remove your shirt as well. 

“Fuck, angel,” he said, and it felt like you were seeing each other for the first time.

It didn’t take long to remove more clothes, explore more of each other, before you finally sat down, feeling his dick slide into you. 

For a brief minute, you were frozen, breathing in each other’s air, staring at each other, taking in the moment. Then, he’s rocking into you and you’re meeting his thrusts, but it's slow, it's choppy in a heavenly way that you didn’t realize could exist between the two of you. 

“This feel good, yeah?” he asked, and you replied with a whimper of an affirmation. “Tell me this dick makes you feel good.”

“It does,” you managed to say, “You make me feel…”

He moved his hips in a way that made you see stars, leaving the last of your sentence unfinished. You scraped your nails through his hair, hearing something like a growl at the back of his throat. The sound spurred you on, rocking your hips with more determination.

“That’s it, baby, that’s a good girl,” he panted, reaching to connect your lips once more. 

You wanted to swallow him whole, wanted this moment to never end. His words were hot, but also flooded you with a different kind of warmth. You wondered if he even knew what he was saying. 

He tore his lips away after a moment and while you tried to gasp for breath, his next words made you nearly come on the spot.

“My good girl,” he whispered across your ear, before gripping your hips and focusing on where the two of you were connected.

The possessiveness in his voice tracked fire through your veins. 

You were close. You had to be. Despite how much you wanted to make this last forever, the heightened emotions were making things too much. You were feeling everything so intensely. 

He knew you were close, as he said, “Hey, look at me.”

You caught his eyes, watching each other’s faces as you finally came. Your jaw hung open, gripping his shoulders. You clenched around him as you rode out your high, and he came soon after. 

You sat there for a few moments, listening to your breathing and heartbeats mixing together. 

His hands drifted across your back in lazy motions as you nuzzled your cheek into the crook between his shoulder and neck. Jamie’s heartbeat was in his throat, his pulse racing. You could barely process everything you were feeling. What must he be feeling?

You had definitely calmed down after your spiral earlier this evening. Being with Jamie seemed to make everything else melt away. 

He readjusted you on his lap and pulled up his underwear. He grabbed his shirt from earlier and slipped it over your head. He cleared his throat, but didn’t fully pull away from you.

“I know you usually leave but,” he picked you up as he stood from the couch, “Not lettin’ you go home and spiral more. You’re staying tonight. Come on.”

He led you upstairs to his room, grabbing some new clothes from the dresser before guiding you into the bathroom. 

You didn’t do anything as you watched him turn on the shower and wait until the temperature was hot. It had been a while since you’d been in a shower with someone else, but you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be like those times. 

As soon as the shower was a good temperature, he stepped in, beckoning you to join him. He was offering without forcing you. You fought the smile creeping onto your face at his gentle expression. 

He guided you under the stream of water, combing his hands through your hair and lathering it with shampoo. The entire bathroom filled with the familiar smell of his hair products, and you felt a sense of satisfaction at knowing your own hair would smell like his soon. 

You took turns washing each other, nearly silent the entire time. It was an intimate act, and you found yourself clinging to Jamie maybe even more than earlier. 

You could feel the trails of tears across your cheeks from earlier wash away, but you could now barely remember why you’d been crying. Over some boy at work? You were all wrapped up in Jamie in the present moment. 

But this is what you’d been afraid of all along. This thing with Jamie was no longer just sex to you. And you’d known from the beginning, that if you let yourself fall for Jamie, it was over. He would ruin everyone else for you. 

What, with his silly outfits, and funny yet frustrating conversations, and the way he seemed to know your body even better than you did. 

You doubted this was anything else for him, you didn’t fit the profile of people he dated, you told yourself not to get your hopes up. You had shoved those feelings in a drawer at the back of your mind and hoped if you told yourself it was just sex, you wouldn’t fall for him.

But somewhere between the arguments and the sex, you held real conversations with him, confided in him, looked forward to seeing him each day.

Maybe it was already too late. The thought had your eyes welling up with more tears, but luckily you were facing the shower wall, as he rinsed the conditioner out of your hair. 

By the time the both of you were done, the tears had subsided, and you turned around to give him a watery smile. 

When you stepped out of the shower, Jamie wrapped you in a fluffy towel and your heart squeezed at the domesticity of it all. 

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. You were feeling a lot better. Even if you were finally acknowledging the romantic feelings wedged deep inside of you. Even if those romantic feelings ended up being your downfall.

He grabbed the clothes he’d brought into the bathroom and divided them between you both. Two pairs of sweat shorts and two t-shirts. You knew you were going to drown in the fabric before you even put them on. You were proven right as he slid the shorts up your legs and tied off the drawstring to keep them up. You both chuckled at the sight.

After brushing your teeth, stealing some of Jamie’s skincare, and drying your hair, you didn’t have any objections as you both got into bed. He pulled you halfway across the mattress, to wrap his arms around you in the middle of the bed. 

“I’ve got training with Roy at four a.m., but I’ll be back before you wake up. Usually get back for breakfast around seven.” Jamie mumbled as he turned off the bedside lamp and wrapped his arms around you.

“Four in the morning?” you asked, “What are you going to do, bury a body?”

He chuckled, “Wouldn’t put it past Grandad, but no, we usually just go for a run.”

You shook your head at the absurdity. Even though you worked at the football facility, it was easy to forget that Jamie was a professional athlete when it was just the two of you, tucked away beneath his sheets.

As you felt yourself getting sleepy, you traced the tattoos across Jamie’s forearm in the faint light, feeling his breathing deepen as he drifted off to sleep. The lull of his exhales across your earlobe soon brought sleep to you as well.

[laylajeffany]

Intentions are Everything  |  Chaos Universe OneShot for @fridayd13th

Summary: Wednesday and Enid (age 22) reconnect on a rainy night after routine and the season of life they are in keep them apart. WC: 4k exactly (welcome to layla's <5k challenge) Rated: T (I’m at work it would absolutely end best in sex but a Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffie is looking at me in my supply closet and I feel judged.)

Note: As I’m experimenting with some new writing rules for myself to set myself to different standards and expectations for future projects (not even fanfiction); I’m weaponizing my competence and refusing to use my available contract hours assisting others who do not have withitness and follow-through. When I’m at work and not with the children on a break per required of my union contract, I’m locking myself in my supply closet to write! I'm too efficient! Everything is done through April! However, it’s simply not the correct setting to be working on my multi-chapter work; I need at least two hours at a time for that. These one-shots have to be prompted by someone else (I can’t have stewing on the content), under 5K, and I’m not allowed to work on them at home. I'll probably upload these to AO3 once I have a few of them complete.

The prompt "Wenclair/Domestic/Chaos Universe/Rainy Day" was from @fridayd13th - thank you so much for everything you’ve done to support my writing over the last year, and all the other fanfic authors you have impacted by your sharing, comments, and kindness. Thank you! & a Black Menagerie update is in the editing phase and will be up tomorrow sometime!

X

It wasn’t supposed to rain.

And not just because she already had outdoor plans, but there hadn’t been a drop forecasted (Wednesday had been checking obsessively). If there was a way to light the sky on fire, she surely would have…only to have that flame extinguished, immediately – like her carefully structured night out.

That was dramatic. (Wasn’t she always? And to think, Enid was the one at the theater that evening.) With a silent pivot, Wednesday adjusted course without hesitating, not wanting to waste a moment, even if it included one of the heaviest sighs she’d ever released. She couldn’t be taken down by reanimated corpses of bigots, genocidal maniacs, werewolf councils, Hydes, or the weather.

Life had gotten between herself and her fiancée over the last few months, and as she managed to be surprised by a late April rain, it showed. Between her endless lectures, bookwork, and mock trials, Network meetings and Enid’s grueling six-day-a-week performance schedule that only had her off on Mondays (Wednesday’s latest day at law school, naturally), their time together that didn’t involve one of them working on something was rare and precious. After a heated argument the week before, ended by the redhead who lived in the basement unit of their townhouse, Wednesday had stormed off to New Jersey. A train ride and taxi to her family’s home had her barreling into her mother’s study wet (it had been raining then too), upset, and in the foulest of moods.

It had taken Morticia quite some time to put together the fractured pieces of information her daughter was revealing and advise the same thing that the other wise woman in her life already had; Enid and Wednesday just needed to spend meaningful time together. When all of their hours in one another’s space were domestic routines and transitional time trying to catch each other up on the latest without being part of it, they were bound to spat.

Enid had been more than a little bit upset that Wednesday’s solution to their problem was running away and had hotly asked for the night apart when Morticia said that she thought it would be more practical for Lurch to drop her off than deal with the train again. At the notion of spending the night alone in her parents’ house settled in, Wednesday had a meltdown the likes of which they hadn’t seen from her in years. Morticia had slept with her when she finally convinced her to at least lay down, likely in fear that she was going to slip into a meditation and wind up in the wrong side of the ether because of her twisted energy.

The next morning, she’d had a long and overdue chat about romance with both her parents. They spoke from the heart – it was mushy and disgusting. Their own experiences made her want to bury her head in the sand. Yet - Wednesday had desperately needed to hear it. She and Enid were a far cry from the two of them. Though she might’ve possessed some Gomez-like traits every now and again, Wednesday was her own, unique breed and would love her own way, too. But, to her chagrin, hearing their perspective did help – and it put her plan into motion.

Enid wasn’t home when Wednesday arrived – she had a matinee that afternoon and then an evening show as well. With all her focus, Wednesday tidied up their apartment not only in proper order, but also made sure she’d put Enid’s favorite sheets on the bed, started the incense she liked the best, and ordered all her prized snacks for the week when she had groceries delivered. After a long talk with the couple downstairs, about recovering from a blow-out (they were more than familiar with that topic), Wednesday also committed herself to certain actions for the week ahead.

Unfortunately – the experimental medication she was on, after the sleepless night before, forced her to fall asleep when she laid in bed, trying to write a formal apology to her fiancée – afraid of forgetting something if she just tried to speak it all. It would still be from the heart, but scripted so she made sure to make every point.

That was how Enid woke her up with sweet, gentle kisses when she’d gotten home from her show, close to eleven. She had a fresh release of tears, and Wednesday’s notebook in her hand, stroking her cheeks and promising – she was forgiven, and that she was also sorry, for how she’d responded and reacted to everything.

In her grogginess, Wednesday made a promise – that she was going to give Enid a real date; she was going to honor her with something special, not routine, not a drive-by conversation. She wanted to give her a night that Enid could treasure.

And so, with two hours until her show released that Friday, Wednesday cooked, baked, transformed the attic space and prepared the environment with all the heart and ambiance-creating ability she had.

Locating her umbrella and stepping into black Wellies, she took the pink ones by the door into her hands and a jacket when she realized the temperature dipped as well. With a black and white striped snake over her shoulders tucked into her collar to stay dry, she made the familiar trek out of their Upper West Side apartment to Midtown – a journey she used to take when she was committed to making it to Enid’s show at least once a week.

How quickly things changed when novelty wore off. She hadn’t been to the theater in at last four months, she realized – vowing to change that, too.

One metro ride and a few blocks walked in the rain later, she stood outside the theater door, grateful the rain would keep most of the obsessive, obnoxious out-of-towners from lining up for autographs. Her snake poked his head out curiously when the door opened a few times, hoping for Enid, but it was always orchestra first, Wednesday reminded Augustus softly.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Only three other cast members groaned at the rain before heading out themselves before Enid let out a full whine upon opening the door, then a completely delighted gasp. “Wednesday! Ohemgee, you did not have to come all the way here!”

“I didn’t want you caught in this beautiful weather without proper gear,” She said, passing Enid’s rainboots to her. She let out an excited squeak of appreciation, dipping back in and swapping her shoes, then accepting the rain jacket before positioning herself under Wednesday’s umbrella, wrapping an arm around her waist. Holding the handle and depositing a kiss to her lips, ignoring how she still had on her stage makeup and dreadful, bright red lipstick that probably transferred, Wednesday clarified, “There is an obvious change in plans from our rooftop dining experience in Brooklyn. But our evening is not ruined, simply altered.”

“Awe, well – that’s so sweet. I didn’t even know it had started to rain! I’m glad I don’t have to be super bummed out, either. Thanks for taking care of everything! Hey – how was the exam?”

“Grueling. Torture. It took me every available moment to finish. Naturally, I scored a hundred four,” Wednesday said with a little smirk as the sky emptied itself onto the city, hard raindrops rattling the waterproof covering above them as they moved to the subway station. “And the show?”

“The usual,” Enid shrugged. “Friday night crowds are notoriously off – though this one wasn’t so bad. I don’t know. It’s been almost seven months now – there’s rumblings about auditions the Crazy for You revival moving to the US, I’d for sure be auditioning for that – this role has me feeling a little...locked in. I’m not, like, over it – but I’d be up for something different.”

“Insert here a cheesy line about being crazy for you in any show you’re billed in. I also recognized on my way here – I haven’t come out to watch in so long. I’m genuinely sorry for the pacing of our time together and the inadequacies I’ve brought, Enid.”

“Oh, you do not need to apologize for that, Wednesday! This is my job, as much as it’s art. It’s not like I’m going to catch you in the courtroom on any kind of regular basis – that’d probably be sups inappropriate. Well – we know in the future that I’ll see you in the Supreme Court – but that’s like, you coming to opening night of me as a leading lady. It’s different. I don’t expect my partner at a weekly curtain call.”

“Still,” She said as they waited on the platform after taking the slippery stairs down, keeping her umbrella folded low to drip onto the already sopping tile, “I do like watching you perform. Even if this isn’t my favorite show – I’d like to see you soon. I’ll leave father and Em behind, though.”

Enid giggled. “I don’t mind their…enthusiastic reception to my stage presence,” Enid found careful words as the train arrived – packed, of course, for a Friday night on the 1 in Midtown. Finding a place to stand where they wouldn’t be absorbing too much liquid from others who’d been caught in the rainstorm unprepared, they took the short ride back uptown, making it home just as another couple was about to enter their shared foyer.

Emiliana and Josie were soaked to the bone, obviously caught in the storm, and in Emiliana’s case – thrilled about it. Josie looked a little less than enthusiastic and both Wednesday and Enid backed away when her wife tried to embrace them. “It’s their date night, too – leave them alone,” Josie warned, tugging her back by the shoulders with a sigh.

“Well, I do not think they are going to be dining on roofs, bien-aimée!” Emiliana argued, about to go in again when Josie popped the lock on the lower-level unit with a groan, wishing the girls a good night – whatever they ended up doing, before ushering Emiliana downstairs while she spoke rapidly in French about which movie she wanted to watch and why would she need a shower, she was already wet?

Unable to hide her smirk, Wednesday took off her boots, setting them on a rug while Enid popped the umbrella open to dry off (chancing her luck) and shrugged out of her coat, hanging both damp garments on a hook before locking the main door, then opening their own when they entered the kitchen.

Enid’s enhanced smell must’ve picked up right away what Wednesday had baked for her. She looked at her with a little gasp, a near twinkle in her eye. “You didn’t? You did! Oh, Wednesday!”

“Snickerdoodles are upstairs already,” She said quietly – hating the way that ridiculous word rolled off her tongue; but if they were Enid’s favorite, easy-to-prepare desert – of course. “As is everything else that I could prepare in advance, there are a few things I need to finish now. Everything you need for your favorite bath is out and ready for you.”

“Awe, not possible,” Enid said with a little pout. Wednesday crossed her arms, suspicious about that – Enid’s preferences had hardly changed since she was seventeen and they first started their innocent soaks together. “You won’t be in it!”

Almost snorting, she rolled her eyes and kissed Enid’s cheek. “I cannot be two places at once. Yet. I’m still working on that spell. Go on – I’ll meet you upstairs in thirty minutes.”

“Alright. Thank you, Wednesday.” She returned the sweet little kiss before shaking her head and planting a long one on her lips, despite the lipstick. Wednesday refused to cringe, merely returned it before Enid pulled away with a laugh, wiping the red off her with her thumb. “I frickin’ love you.” With that she winked and headed up the stairs of the narrow unit.

Putting the rest of her plan into motion, Wednesday poured her attention into finishing the meal that she’d started, heading up to the attic to light the candles with a wave of her hand to complete the ambiance she’d started to set up.

Bringing up the last of the food on a butler’s tray she’d stolen from home ages before, Wednesday glanced at the time, hearing the sound of a drain circling. Taking her place up near the small, circular window that was pattered in rain. She lifted the bow of her cello, starting to play a melody of their favorite songs.

Enid took a familiar place on the bench in front of the window, watching Wednesday with a look of love she could see out of the corner of her eye. Her snake traveled from Wednesday’s neck to Enid’s pink, loungewear covered shoulders, licking her cheek, making her smile.

Finally finishing, she stood up, taking Enid’s hands, kissing her fingers before tucking her at the low table of the attic in front of the futon. Plating her a favorite rare beef dish, Wednesday started the small record player on an entertainment unit before taking a seat beside her.

They ate with comfortable conversation flowing – Enid brought up the show she was interested in again, Wednesday asked her to describe the plot – and stared at her with hearts in her eyes as she animatedly detailed the storyline and the roles she’d want to play within it. As she stacked the dirty dishes, moving the tray to the stairs, Wednesday put the cookies on the table, then flushed a little as she began to remove materials out of a basket. Giving a shrug, she hoped that she was matching the energy the moment called for as she explained, “We were going to go to that gallery…but – I…maybe you want to make something to add to ours up here?”

She gestured to the various crafts that Enid had hung up above the futon – a few embroidery pieces she’d experimented with, paintings, collages…

Enid nodded brightly. “I’d love to make something with you.”

The next forty minutes were spent painting on a canvas, the two working together to come up with an inspired design – an interpretation of their snake in the springtime – Augustus looking at it and offering his feedback, requesting more pale pink cherry blossom petals all around him.

As they finished, Wednesday took the dirty brushes and palette along with the dishes, hurrying them down to the sink before returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Enid had moved to the cushions, her expression of dopy desire a bit contagious as Wednesday poured her a glass and took a seat. She indicated her own intentions by sitting as close to fiancée as possible, a stacking her legs on top of Enid’s thighs as she twisted into the corner of the couch – just a touch obnoxiously. Enid giggled before taking a sip, drawing an arm just above her knees. She pressed a kiss to Wednesday’s lips, letting out a sigh. “You probably feel like the need to reconcile was largely on you, given how you ran…but it wasn’t, Wednesday. I’ve been just as distracted, and every bit as much to blame for us not spending the time we need together, too.”

Augustus appeared from her collar again and Wednesday smiled at the snake with the gentle sort of parent-like love she’d had for him since the start. “Hey, buddy…do you think you could take yourself to your enclosure for a little while? There’ll be a pinky for you in the morning.”

He let out a small hiss and twisted down her arm, leaving the two in full privacy. Wednesday had another long drink of wine and made a hopeful suggestion. “I have two more exams next week, but then the summer term doesn’t begin until mid-May. Is there any time over the next few weeks that you’d be able to get away from the show for a few days?”

Enid laughed. “I haven’t used an understudy yet! Our swings would be thrilled – I’m sure I could take some time, for us.”

The way she said it made Wednesday chug the rest of the wine in her glass before taking Enid’s from her, sweetly, and placing both on the table. She adjusted her position, sitting fully on her lap. Enid’s arms fell around her waist, pulling her close for a kiss. Wednesday sighed into it, lazily dropping her arms around her shoulders, drawing herself closer, chests touching – even if they were just in comfortable sweatshirts – she loved the feeling. Enid let out a little sound of contentment as her tongue dipped into her mouth, pushing them even closer.

Enid pulled away with a sudden gasp – their teeth almost colliding as a bolt of lightning and crackle of thunder turned the nighttime rain shower into a thunderstorm. She giggled and groaned, sighing into Wednesday’s shoulder as Wednesday felt her heartrate skyrocket and decrease. Tangling her fingers into Enid’s hair, Wednesday just held her close, there, resting her head just on top of hers. “I love you,” She muttered quietly. “I’m really glad we spent tonight together, not just in routine, even if it wasn’t what we planned.”

“Me too,” Enid squeezed her middle, looking up with a sweet gaze. “I love you. I can’t believe how we let time get away from us. Hey – let me send a quick text to let my manager know I’m going to be out of the show – then I’m getting my laptop and my planner – we are so booking a trip for after your exams!”

Letting her go – even if she might’ve rather extended that time together physically, Wednesday figured she could get her fiancée all worked up and excited about time off together and then spend the time together in bed. Enid returned just moments later, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she gave herself a week off without asking – but expecting. Loving that for her self-confidence, Wednesday stretched out on the futon while she started to ramble excitedly, opening a glittery pink date book, actually blathering about what to fill in it. Her excited ramble went on for almost two straight minutes before she paused, mid-sentence, blushing as she glanced back at Wednesday. As she opened her mouth, Wednesday reminded her, “If you dare apologize for looking forward to spending time together…” She snapped her lips together and Wednesday smirked, putting her chin on Enid’s shoulder as she leaned over her. “There’s a full moon next week, too. We could maybe go somewhere that has a forest nearby if you’d like to wolf out. It’s been months, Enid. The Solstice was the last time…it just happened to be on a Monday, otherwise you probably would’ve taken your potion then, too.”

“You really want to spend time off chasing me through the trees?” Enid asked skeptically.

Dropping into a sit beside her, Wednesday took her hand into her own, letting her thumb rub a circle over the ring on her left. “I want to spend my time off with you. That’s all, Enid. I don’t care, particularly, what we do. I would like you to make sure you’re not disconnecting with the wolf part of you…we know the consequences of that. But if you don’t think you need to wolf out to stay connected, that’s fine, too.”

“Hm,” Enid laced the fingers that were playing with hers between them and kissed Wednesday’s cheek. “You know – we could really disconnect from the world, and only connect to each other – which always helps. Go to the Zypher property, be surrounded by mountains? We haven’t been in…what, two and a half years now?”

Liking the sound of that, Wednesday nuzzled her neck, also liking that it wouldn’t involve her traveling by plane, but the thought of being without running water and electricity for an entire week wasn’t quite what she wanted to deal with. Who would’ve thought – Wednesday Addams, a woman of the modern world?

“Or – we go to the Addams house in Jericho? We’d be able to bathe far more conveniently – but still have the woods.”

Enid chuckled into her lips with a kiss. “Fair, fair,” She spoke, pulling back. “Promise me you won’t get tangled up in a Network conspiracy while we’re there?”

With a single nod, Wednesday leaned in for another kiss. “I won’t even tell them we’re in town.”

“Well, that’s not nice. Aunt Larissa would ream you if we bumped into her at the store picking up stuff for dinner and hadn’t told her we were coming.”

“Grocery delivery,” Wednesday refuted.  Enid shot her a look. “We can have one dinner with them. One. I’m very serious. This is going to be our time, Enid. We…we need it. It’s going to be a long summer – I’m so close to done, and the last two semesters are going to be grueling. Remember, I will be hospitalized at some point because I’m going to be so in over my head and taking horrible care of myself and refusing to let you do it for me,” She sighed – wishing she’d never had that vision, years ago. “But until then – we have this time together. I want it to be meaningful – just us.” Thunder made the entire place rumble and Enid nodded, then let out a little sound of sympathy as a slithering snake hurried himself up the steps and into Wednesday’s lap, trembling. “It’s okay, buddy,” She whispered, kissing his cheek as she held him close, letting him circle back around her neck. “Well, just us and the boy.”

Enid acknowledged what she’d said before, “Meaningful. It sucks to think that a lot of the time we do have together isn’t meaningful – and I guess I didn’t really understand that until this all blew up,” She sighed. “It’s hard to think that just because you spend every night sleeping next to the love of your life, it can get routine, so fast. I hate that. I don’t want that for us.” She thumbed her planner. “Do you think – we could pen in some more date nights? This was really nice. Not just dinner because we both happen to be home…which; has been rare for us – but intentional dates. I think we need to make sure we have at least one a month? Once a week would be better – but until you’re finished with school, I think we should be a little more realistic -”

Wednesday tilted her head in a bit of good news. “Actually, we can. Every Monday. My evening course was moved to Tuesdays and Thursdays for the summer class.”

Letting out a little gasp, Enid tossed her arms around her fiancée. “That’s amazing! OhEmGee, this is perfect! Hey – how about we put our first Monday after vacation at that Brooklynn rooftop and gallery, hm? I mean, truthfully – I think I preferred this, just us doing our own thing up here -”

“Then, let’s plan to do our own thing up here,” Wednesday argued gently. “Why go out and force ourselves to do something that neither of us really want to do? Just because it’s what is expected of a couple on a date? You know I would always rather be in with you. We can make it special, so long as we intend to.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Of course. I’ve long ago learned, intentions are everything, didn’t I? I suppose I just never applied it to our long-term romance.”

Enid kissed each cheek, then the tip of her nose. “I do believe I have some intentions for how I’d like to close out this night.”

Wednesday dropped her hands to her hips. “Hm. Funny, so did I. What if our intentions don’t align?”

She gave a playful growl, then nipped her lip playfully, making Wednesday close her eyes and give a little groan. “Yeah,” Enid pulled away, “I’m pretty sure – we both want the same thing. Come on. GusGus, bedtime, buddy. This date night continues for another hour!”

“Oh, that’s all?” Wednesday teased, earning a playful push as she smirked, fully intending on making meaning out of every moment of the rest of their night together.

[pinkkittysaw]

CHAPTER II

- MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

← chapter one

series master-list can be found here!

summary: the night of your brother’s annual birthday ball takes an unexpected turn

paring: knight! clive rosfield x princess! reader

word count: 9,613

content: NSFW (minors + ageless blogs DNI! you will be BLOCKED!) heavy plot, oral (f! receiving), fingering (f! receiving) handjob, power imbalance, dirty talk, spit, slight humiliation kink, parental loss.

disclaimer(s): although this series is inspired by the medieval and regency time periods, they are not 1:1 representations. although i will always do my best to represent both as accurately as possible, there may be some minor changes.

some of the plot points in the original game story have been altered or taken out to fit this au better. there are no eikons

a/n: i want to dedicate this chapter to my AMAZING friend, and fellow writer, jordy (@cryptictongues) who not only let me bounce ideas off her constantly, but also beta read some of this chapter as well. thank you for everything!!!!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

dividers by @/saradika-graphics and art is by edmund blair leighton

A month or so passed since your last tryst with Clive, leaving the relationship between the two of you to be strained with pent-up tension. In light of the momentary heat of passion, you both agreed that such conduct would be better kept private, in places where no wandering eyes could intrude, so as to not arouse any more suspicion. There were to be absolutely no dubious behaviors in public, which proved to be undoubtedly difficult.

With every promenade you'd take around the castle grounds, you'd see him training, all sweaty and flush in his fit form, and all you'd be able to think about was mounting him then and there, riding him until you were both run ragged.

Your confidants and lady's maid have caught your prolonged glances during your strolls in the sunshine, but you've always met their accusations with a dismissive flap of your hand fan, stating that you were "simply curious about the training regiment that the knights were conducting," even if your eyes always lingered on one knight in particular. Baddies

There was talk around the palace for a while about the sudden disappearance of a certain scullery maid, but seeing as the crown had more pressing matters to deal with than the loss of a single maid, one who could easily be replaced, any investigation resulted in the conclusion that she had simply "fleed her duties," and it was left at that.

In reality, though, you had visited her late in the night after your passionate affair with Clive many moons ago, offering to pay off her debts and then some if she swore to secrecy that nothing she saw that night would make its way into the ears of the public.

The amount of gil being offered was unlike anything she could have ever imagined. Seeing as your father amassed insurmountable fortunes during his reign, idle gossip wasn't worth the consequences if she were to be found out as the source of the rumor, so she took the small fortune and fled the palace walls that very same night.

Now you find yourself sitting in another store room, one that's presumed to be in less use than the previous one, perched upon an old barrel.

A royal ball was in attendance, and all nobility within the realm were invited. The occasion? Your younger brother and future heir to the throne's birthday. He reached the tender age of one and twenty, which just so happens to be the legal age of marriage in your country, so, of course, your father invited all the reputable debutantes in the realm in hopes that your brother would secure a future queen, though he'd never admit to such schemes out loud.

You were hoping that tonight would be another secret rendezvous with your lover, but you haven't so much as gotten a single word with him all evening.

All you had thought about during the preparation was how you were going to tease him throughout the night. The gown you had selected to wear was chosen with him in mind. The silhouette hugged your figure to perfection, and your cleavage was heavily accentuated in the lavender muslin. The hem was detailed with a layer of tulle tulips, and crystals of various sizes decorated the bustline. Put simply, you looked ravishing—the epitome of the most elegantly cut diamond.

Your father would spare no expense when it came to his son's birthday ball, so you were in luck to some degree, but the only man whose eyes you wanted on you was nowhere to be found.

The ball was supposed to provide perfect cover. All the orderly staff would be at your father's beck and call all evening, and he'd be too busy showing off your brother like a prized chocobo to notice your disappearance, leaving you to your own devices after a certain amount of time.

You and Clive would be able to sneak off without a trace or care in the world, but for some reason, every man of nobility just happened to be extremely insistent upon getting in at least one dance with you, all whilst having meaningless conversations regarding topics you couldn't bother yourself with caring about.

The ball started off well enough. You knew you couldn't immediately disappear into the shadows; you owed both your father and brother a dance to start the evening, as was tradition for the royal balls in your country.

The three of you walked out into the ballroom together. Your father went first, then you and your brother in succession.

The room was lavish, as it often was whenever such events were hosted in your kingdom. Multiple chandeliers holding long wax candles filled the ceiling, and the light reflecting off the gems on your gown made you shine beautifully. A golden hue encapsulates the entire room, casting wispy shadows and twinkling shapes on the hardwood floor. Your family emblem was painted in stark white chalk at the center of it. Various flowers from the royal gardens hung in sconces around the perimeter of the room, with vines filling out the empty space in between. Fine fabric in your kingdom's colors was draped over the windows in high arch shapes.

Scanning the room, you look for where to make your grand escape. After a few dances and perhaps some intermingling at the refreshments table, you'd be skittering along the ballroom walls, hiding in the shadows, before making your exit.

There was still a short amount of time before the guests started to file in, so after the final touches were made to the decorations, you took your place on the dais next to your family, with your father in the center and your brother to your right.

The royal knights line up in front of the small stage, and though Clive is always the pinnacle of orderliness while on duty—excellent posture and great form—you swear that you catch his eye as he files inside the room. He's not so careless as to let his emotions wear on his face while in the presence of others, especially your father and the Lord Commander, but you're certain that the slightest tinge of pink floods his cheeks at the sight of you.

As the knights continue to get into position, your gaze falls upon Clive's shaggy hair, reminiscing about how the thick yet soft tendrils felt between the length of your fingers as he made his presence known between your legs moons prior.

Your father's voice reels you back from your fantasies as you clear your throat slightly and hope that the bright lights of the chandelier won't give way to your previous thoughts.

Nobles from all across the realm begin to file in and make their greetings, some familiar and some new. A part of you is surprised that all these people traveled from their home countries just to visit your brother, but you supposed that none of the nations wanted bad blood between your kingdom and theirs.

After all the introductions were made, your father began his long-winded speech about your brother, the future of the country, and how proud he is of how far his children have come. The smile plastered on your face feels stiff, and your thighs feel as though they're about to collapse from the amount of curtsying you've been forced to do.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you're granted some relief from the spotlight while the band sets up on the stage where you and your family previously resided.

You make your way over to the refreshment table, nodding and curtseying to the fellow noble ladies as you make your way over to procure yourself a glass of iced lemonade.

It was not even three seconds later that your father was introducing you to some nobleman.

"Dearest daughter," he starts. You take a deep breath and settle your princessly smile on your face once more before turning around.

"I'd be pleased to introduce you to the Archduke of Rosaria and his mother." You gaze upon the both of them; this is the first meeting you've had with the current Archduke of Rosaria. You met the previous archduke, Elwin, when you were still of tender age, before your brother was born. You scantly recall the details of the meeting, only that he gifted both you and your mother bouquets of Rosarian wildflowers and that he had a penchant for making you laugh (as later on confirmed by your mother).

It's clear, though, that the man standing before you bears no resemblance to his father, sharing the same icy eyes and pale hair as his mother.

"His Imperial and Royal Highness, Joshua, the Archduke of Rosaria, and her Imperial and Royal Highness, Annabella, the Dowager Archduchess of Rosaria," your father continues, giving you room to make your formal introductions.

"It is an honor, your Highness," you state, giving a swift curtsey to the both of them, and although Annabella merely nods to you in acknowledgment, her son gives a full bow in return.

"Come now, Joshua. There's no need for that," she chastises, as if her son were still a child and not a grown man.

"But mother, how could I not marvel at the beauty bestowed upon me?" He responds in full. At your astonishment at his bold declaration, he takes your gloved hand into his own and presses a delicate kiss to the back of your knuckles.

"Might I say that your gown looks exquisite tonight, my lady? You shine bright like a diamond." Both you and the Dowager Archduchess share a similar look of shock on your faces, and even though you can't see your father's expression from behind you, you're sure that he mirrors both of yours.

Heat floods your face as your eyes meet Joshua's, then his mother's, and although their eyes bear the same shade of cerulean, her gaze pierces through you like daggers of ice, whereas the strawberry blonde beside her carries a lot more warmth.

Time stands still, and you wonder if such flirtations were a product of his father, seeing as his mother held very little kindness or regard in her heart.

You feel your father's hands on your shoulders and realize you've spent the last minute or so gawking at Joshua and his display.

"Please forgive my daughter; she isn't used to such blatant declarations of affection from esteemed gentlemen." It's at your father's statement that your brain kicks back into gear. Your hand is withdrawn, and an immediate curtsey follows in its place.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Highness." As you raise your head, your eyes meet Clive's just across the way from behind Joshua, but he's quick to refocus and march forward in front of him.

"No apology is necessary," the Archduke smiles, "though if you truly wish to win my forgiveness, you'll allow me your hand in a dance."

Before you even get the chance to respond, Annabella interrupts, "Joshua, you mustn't. Think of your health."

"Mother," a domineering smile plasters itself on Joshua's face, "certainly I have enough energy to last me at least one dance with the most elegant princess in all of Valisthea."

Annabella sends another harsh glance toward her son before muttering, "Of course," and  taking her leave elsewhere.

Joshua heaves a heavy sigh before extending his hand, silently asking for your dance card. You raise your wrist and allow him to pencil himself in before he gives one final bow, and retreats toward his inconsolable mother.

Your father exhales the breath you were unaware he was holding when the band gets in position for their first song. Both you and your father take place in the center of the ballroom as the first dance of the evening.

You couldn't help but notice as you scanned the faces in the surrounding audience that someone was missing. As the starting notes boomed from the instruments, you whisper to your father, "Papa, where's Dion?"

Prince Dion, next in line to be the Emperor of Sanbreque, had grown to be one of your close friends—well, as close of a friend as a princess could have when confined to castle walls for most of her life. You were close in age, and given that there weren't as many young heirs throughout the realm at the time of your childhood, it was only natural that the two of you would become fast friends.

Rumors quickly spread that you and Dion would become betrothed when you were older, securing an indisputable alliance between both nations, but as the years trickled on and both of you came of age, no such proposals were made. After he became leader of the dragoons, it was apparent that one such proposal would never come, but you weren't deterred; if anything, you were relieved.

You held love for Dion in your heart; you'd known each other since you were children, but the love you held wasn't the type of love fostered between two individuals who were passionate about each other romantically.

Your father's face held a quick grimace before lowering his voice as the two of you prepared to take your first steps in tune together. "Dion is busy preparing for a war effort; he sends his regards."

"What?" You mutter, trying to keep the look of shock from developing on your face.

Though you and Dion couldn't frequently meet in person, the two of you penned missives back and forth. In none of your most recent correspondence with each other, had he mentioned anything in regards to an oncoming war.

Your father wasn't a gossip, but being the ruler of an entire kingdom, one must be well knowledgeable about the state of other nations.

He lowers his voice even further: "It seems that the King of Waloed is insistent on reclaiming his territory from Sanbreque."

"Dion never mentioned anything of the sort in his letters."

Your father gives you a lopsided smile in an attempt to reassure you: "He probably didn't want to worry you unnecessarily, especially with the ball coming up."

Your father was more than likely correct in his assumptions, but you couldn't shake the sinking feeling in your stomach.

"I'm sure Dion will be alright," he adds, brushing his thumb over your hand after noticing the newfound stiffness in your movements.

You nod. Dion was and is strong; he turned the tides for Sanbreque in battle many a time before. This was a fact, but something about him having to go against Waloed's army shakes you to your core.

Your father and the king of Waloed, Barnabas Tharmr, were amiable allies for the most part, but you've heard stories, many in particular when he visited your kingdom after the death of your mother. You were still young then, so you couldn't quite grasp the weight and meaning of the whispers your handmaidens had shared in secrecy upon his arrival.

He visited annually for some years after his initial visit before they died down altogether, though you could never ascertain what the meetings were for besides the first one.

Barnabas was kind enough, as one of his nature could be on his trip, but you could never help the feeling that something more sinister lingered beneath the surface when your young eyes met his.

You did your best to quell the unease in your heart and continued to dance with your father. Although he had gotten up there in years, he still moved swiftly across the ballroom floor, even if you had to slow your steps a bit.

It seemed that just as soon as the dance with your father began, it was over, and you were anxiously anticipating the next dance with your brother. You go hand in hand with him while the band begins to play.

"So, Crown Prince," you begin, filling the air in an attempt to quell your nerves. "Future heir to the throne, how does it feel to be Papa's favorite?" You smile, albeit teasingly.

"Surely you jest, dear sister. For without you, I'd be hopeless."

"Now who's jesting?" Your grin graces your face once more as the two of you glide across the ballroom before a somber expression soon replaces your previous jubilant one. "It pains me to think that this ball may be the last time we see each other like this."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Look at all the people here," you whisper to him, "surely you don't think Father is just merely celebrating your birthday. You're twenty-one years of age now, dear brother; officially legal to be wed."

"You don't truly think he'd see to it that I'd be married right away, do you?

You both twirl around, and your father comes into view, standing next to the royal guard.

"Maybe not right away, but you know how he is. Ever since Mama died, all he's wanted is to see our futures secured, and in your case, our bloodline. If that means marrying us off early, then so be it, I suppose. At least you have the luxury of choices in who you'll marry."

"Then how come you weren't married off as soon as you came of age?"

"Because you still needed me. You had no mother to set an example, so I needed to be in your life to show you how proper noble ladies should act," you snirk as he rolls his eyes. "If I'm speaking honestly, I feel the answer is more sentimental than logical. I don't think Father wanted to lose another member of our family before we were both of breeding age."

"I suppose you're right. It's more than what most fathers would do. Now that I'm able to be wed, do you suppose that'll hasten his plans for your marriage?"

You sigh, the thought has lingered in the back of your mind since your brother grew out of being a child. "I'm not sure, but who knows?"

"Don't look so down," he smirks. "If you reach spinsterdom, you'll always have a place here with me."

You smile kindly. "Thank you."

As the instruments die down, signaling the dance coming to a close, you once again find yourself on the outskirts of the ballroom. You snag a look at your dance card to check where Joshua has penciled himself in. A waltz, of course. He'd undoubtedly use this opportunity of close quarters to flirt with you some more.

His name was listed far enough down the line that you could make a break for the storeroom now, and...

"Your Royal Highness!"

The next hour and a half was filled with nothing but dancing, with only a few minutes of rest provided in between.

You had been skirting along the edges of the ballroom when you just so happened to catch the eyes of an old presiding duke who resides in your kingdom, and it was all downhill from there.

What was supposed to have been a "romantic" evening was turning into a disaster. At every turn, you were swept into the arms of yet another elderly gentleman looking for a younger and more agreeable wife.

As you twirled and spun around the hardwood flooring, you were afforded only mere glances at your lover from afar. Every time you laid your eyes on him, he always appeared to be preoccupied with something else. Not that any of your concurrent dance partners would've noticed your wandering eye, as theirs were doing much of the same.

If there was one thing that all these men had in common, it was the ogling. Some of them "tried" to be more polite about it than others, going for glances at your cleavage in between the minimal required time they had to actually look you in the eye instead of blatantly staring at your chest the whole time.

It was clear, though, that all of them were oblivious to just how obvious they were being with their gaping looks, not realizing that you could tell when people were talking to your chest instead of your face.

Though you're certain that a drink limit was set for this ball, it was becoming quite clear that a majority of the "gentlemen" had imbibed to their pleasure, the smell of port lingering on their breath whenever they'd lean in close. 

After a while, you had managed to escape all your suitors and camouflage yourself in a nearby group of gossiping noble ladies, the majority of them being mothers, who were well-equipped with an onslaught of questions about your brother and the future of the kingdom.

After quelling their curiosity, you nestled yourself in a corner, facing the wall of the ballroom, and let out an exasperated sigh, taking a few moments to collect yourself.

You were beyond frustrated, both sexually and mentally. All you desired was to climb between the sheets with your lover and have him pleasure your body until your thoughts were reduced to a mindless fog. To say you were having intense urges was an understatement.

It'd be easier to deal with if Clive wasn't a member of staff that you saw often, like a cook or a coachman, but being your sworn shield, he was in your presence a majority of the time. So close, yet so far.

His touch was often the source of your fantasies at night. Your mind wanders, flitting between thoughts of his scruff against your neck, his breath on your skin, and how his strong hands would grip your body.

You were never able to help but wonder what your first time together would be like. What does he look like when he comes? What does he sound like? Does he moan, grunt, or whimper? Would he be gentle with you? Similar to how he grasps your hand when helping you step down from a carriage, slow, languid thrusts into your heat as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, both of your bodies clinging onto each other for purchase. Or would he be rough? Similar to how he fights: powerful, unrelenting thrusts into your cunt, overwhelming as he batters into you, stealing the breath from your lungs. You were often unable to decide which scenario you liked better as you reached your climax, whispering his name as you came down.

You know you shouldn't have such intense lust for someone who's working in your service, but knowing that just excites you more.

"Princess!"

You release another deep exhale as you turn around. You're really starting to get irritated at the word "princess."

"Your Highness!" you exclaim with a half gasp. Apparently, Joshua was set on keeping his promise of a dance.

"My sincerest apologies," you curtsey.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand before extending it toward you. "You owe me no such things, my lady. Are you still willing to accept my dance proposal?"

"Of course, Your Highness," you place your gloved hand in his as he walks you to the dance floor, and you can't help the smile that rises on your face as you take your place together.

"I know it's against propriety for you to deny me a dance, but I'm not so cruel to force a lady when she doesn't want to."

"It's a pleasure, Your Highness. I assure you. You're perhaps the most polite man I've danced with thus far, besides my father and brother, of course."

His hand makes its way to the small of your back as more couples fall in toe behind you and the Archduke. Your conversation lulls until the music picks up, your hand delicately resting on his shoulder.

"Although I am most disappointed to hear that these gentlemen would treat a beautiful woman such as yourself with little regard, I can't deny that I'm pleased to be the only one who's seemed to win your affections."

This man.

As much as you try not to fawn over the attention, his words are like silk in your ears, as if they're the most natural sound you've ever heard.

It doesn't register that you're smiling so brightly until he comments on it: "You have one of the most radiant smiles, my lady."

You shake your head from side to side as if trying to regain your composure. Despite all the time you shared with Clive over a month ago, you weren't used to such blatant flirtations in front of so many people at once. Even if they couldn't hear your conversation, the smiles on both your faces single you out from the other couples on the floor. It leaves you feeling exposed, as if a bright light has been shone on both of you.

"Forgive me if I speak out of line, Your Highness," you inhale, "but where on Valisthea did you learn to become so charming?"

He offers a chuckle and a swoop of his strawberry-blonde hair. "I'm quite a fan of the written word. It was often one of the few escapes I truly had as a child, so I may have picked up a few techniques after reading a romance or two."

"Perhaps you could lend your novels to some of the other gentlemen here so they can learn how to properly woo a lady."

"And risk losing being the sole recipient of your affections?"

"Feeling insecure over your abilities?" You cock your head to the side, a small smirk appearing on your lips.

Joshua ponders the question for a moment, putting on a good face of deep thought as if he's truly rolling the question around in his head before responding, "More so like...I don't want to give the poor blokes false hope when I'm sure to come out on top anyway."

"It seems that you're very confident indeed."

The two of you chuckle as he twirls you around, only to be met with the scorn of Annabella's icy gaze after locking eyes with her from the other side of the ballroom. The joy in your expression quickly dies off, and the figurative noose tightens itself around your neck, suffocating the life from your lungs.

With your newfound stillness, Joshua has to guide you back into his arms. He looks off in the direction of your eye line and sighs before speaking once more, "I apologize on behalf of my mother."

"You needn't do so for my sake," you're quick to respond, attempting to reassure him that you were unaffected by Annabella's glare.

"Do you think I can't sense the dread in your eyes?" He smirks, and you offer a strained half-laugh in response while waiting for him to continue.

"I was frequently ill as a child, thus it was very rare to step foot outside the archduchy," he clears his throat, "after my father had passed, it seems that her protective nature only grew."

"I'm sorry about the loss of your father. I've only met him a handful of times, but he was always very kind. My mother once told me that I frequently laughed in his presence." You understood Joshua's pain well, having lost your mother during the birth of your brother years before the former Archduke passed. 

A solemn look graces his features before he relaxes once more. "He was a good man, from what I can recall from my memories of him," he pauses, "I can only hope that I can be half the man he was when it comes to ruling the archduchy."

You take a moment to mull over your words before voicing them. "It seems like you've managed to capture his kind and generous spirit. I'm sure you're already well on your way to living up to his name."

"You're very kind," he nods, and a genuine smile fixes itself on his face, unlike the charming one he's graced you with before.

The music slows to a stop, indicating the end of the waltz, and Joshua walks you back to the fray of the ballroom as slowly as possible. "Perhaps this is inappropriate to say given the present company, but I'd love to call upon you some time."

A part of you is surprised, not expecting a courting proposal from someone you could actually tolerate. Being thoroughly charmed, you agree.

"There's a jousting tournament within the next fortnight. It's always an invigorating time. You should attend if you're able."

He takes your gloved hand in his, raising it until your knuckles graze his lips. "I'd be most delighted to attend. Until then, my lady." He releases your hand and turns off in the direction of his mother, who looks all too unhappy with him, and you, by extension.

You sigh, ready to be completely done with the evening. You move toward your father, ready to meander around where he sits near the dais, hoping that any lingering suitors would see him situated nearby and turn the other direction.

Once you've raised your head and made your way toward your father, Clive comes into view. He's moving toward you at a fast pace, and before you can stop yourself, your feet turn to guide you in his direction instead. Momentarily forgetting your place, you call out his name, though it's difficult to hear over the chatter of the ballroom.

At the same time, two overlapping voices call out to you. One is Clive's; the sound of his voice is more familiar to you, but there's another that cuts through the air.

A gruff "princess" is all you're afforded in terms of a greeting.

Both you and Clive come to a halt and turn in the direction of the unknown voice.

The man has a familiar face, though you can't exactly place from where you know him. He's around your father's age, with wrinkles lining his eyes and forehead as well as dashes of grey in his facial hair, so you conclude that your father must be how you've made his acquaintance before.

The man is decently handsome, more so than the other creeps you've had the displeasure of dancing with. He has stark eyes, almost crystalline in nature, which are a sharp contrast to his raven-colored hair.

These traits prove to be startlingly similar to those of your current lover, but you decide it's best to dissect that later.

Clive is the one who breaks the silence. "My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty."

Your majesty?

You offer the man a curtsey in apology while Clive bows, but the stranger pays you no mind, choosing to focus on the knight instead. 

"Is something the matter?" Though it's merely a question, his voice carries a wealth of command behind it.

"Nothing that can't wait," Clive begins, his eyes flitting between you and the unknown—at least unknown to you. "Please pardon my intrusion." He bows to the both of you before stalking off toward your father.

You suppose you'll be informed later if it's truly so important.

The silence fills between you and the man again before he asks, "May I have this dance?" His mouth quirks up in a smirk.

“It's only a country dance; nothing too intimate,” you think to yourself.

If you were being honest, the last thing you wanted to do was begrudgingly endure a dance with this gentleman after having more than your fair share of imbeciles indulge themselves in your assets, but propriety comes first. So instead of telling this man to kindly fuck off, you put on your best princessly smile and place your hand in his.

"Of course," you reply, and he leads you toward the floor.

You stand next to each other in between other couples before the band begins to pick up once again. The melody starts slow enough, so you take this time to ask the man exactly who he is, keeping your tone light and polite.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty; it seems that I remember the face but not the name.”

He must've made his entrance later on in the evening after the formal introductions, because you certainly would've remembered him during the greetings.

He offers a light chuckle before muttering, "Barnabas, King of Waloed."

King of Waloed. The very same king who's planning to go toe to toe with one of your closest confidants. He's aged quite a bit in the fifteen-odd years it's been since you've seen him last; it's no wonder you didn't recognize him. 

Your body language gives you away despite your best efforts, and his laugh pierces through you. "It seems my reputation proceeds me."

The disdain is thinly veiled in your voice. "Don't you have a battle to prepare for?" you grit, and he laughs again as if the prospect were beneath him.

"I'm not worried," is all he offers in response. His presence must've been what Clive was trying to warn you about.

You take a deep breath, seeing it best not to stir anything up in the public eye.

You get a better look at him when the succession of people in the line with you turns around. He certainly doesn't dress like a king—definitely not one like your father. There are no bells and whistles to his outfit, no ornate capes lined with exotic furs, or gilded crowns.

If anything, it seemed like he'd dressed down for this event, and you can't tell what pisses you off more: his pompous attitude toward heading into battle that may surely send Dion to an all too early grave or his nonchalance in showing up to a royal ball in only a blue tunic and black leathers. It felt like a jab. Though his pompousness in battle may be deserved, this blatant display of disrespect was not.

He gave the impression of a venomous snake, intriguing to look at but ultimately best viewed from a faraway distance.

It takes everything in you not to grind your teeth together and overemphasize the stiffness in your movements.

As if sensing your irritation with him, Barnabas probes, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

No, you're quite simply NOT!

"I've gotten to the age where these sorts of gatherings lose their luster."

It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't a lie either. As you got older and balls became more about finding matches, you started to dread them. You were hoping that it being your brother's birthday would be enough to spare you from marriage prospects, but alas, you were clearly wrong.

"A shame," he mutters, his words lacking enthusiasm.

The group moves along to the beat of the tune when Clive comes into your view, talking to your father.

"Who's that brooding fellow you're staring at?" Barnabas asks, trying to cut off whatever is taking your attention away from him.

The two of you move in succession toward the back of the group when it registers just how much you've been gawking at Clive in Barnabas' presence.

"Him? He's my first shield," you answer nonchalantly, letting no indication of fondness slip into your voice.

Barnabas snickers, "I had no idea noble ladies were so heavily invested in the lives of their shields."

"I know naught of what you mean," you scoff, acting like the princess you are.

His voice rises in volume as he declares, "Why don't you let a real man take care of you?"

Heat floods your body at his words, and you do little to hide your disgust.

"Excuse me?"

"He's nothing but filth," he continues to say, and the rage inside you reaches a boiling point.

"You speak of him as if he's nothing but a lowly street rat."

"He might as well be, compared to us. You could have an entire kingdom of knights protecting you as well as one of the most powerful men in the realm, instead of just one lowly feeble knight."

"Are you always so incorrigible toward those who are beneath you? It's a miracle that your kingdom still stands."

He laughs out loud, beside himself. You were sure he'd have your head. Instead, his volume just gets louder, so those dancing alongside you can hear.

"I've heard rumors that your precious first shield is actually a royal bastard, but from whom he's a descendant, I've no idea. A man of his standing is simply not fit to be in the position of protecting a princess. I'm just looking out for you."

If you were feeling rage before, now you're furious. As much as the people in your dance group tried to be respectful, heads couldn't help but turn at Barnabas' accusations.

Whether Clive being a bastard was true or not didn't matter; you refused for someone who valiantly defended your life to be made a mockery of over such trivial matters in your eyes.

"I was the one who held the sword that knighted Clive!" You start off loud, similar to him, but your voice gets lower as you draw near.

"My father gave him a title under his tutelage. Clive's been protecting me since I was the tender age of twelve years old and is the only man I'd trust with my life outside of my father and brother."

There's a pause before you continue.

"If you wish to win my favor, it'd be wise to watch what you say in regards to him," you grit.

You're not sure when the rest of the group stopped dancing alongside you, but by the time you realize it, all their eyes are on you. Though the people outside of the circle couldn't hear your conversation, the crowd caused those on the fray of the ballroom to turn their attention toward you.

Barnabas only snirks, scanning your face plainly when you turn back to face him. Your glare is prominent as he escorts you back off the dance floor once  the music dies down.

He speaks in a low voice, right in your ear, "You're a feisty one, but don't worry, I enjoy a challenge." He smiles menacingly before releasing you.

All the wandering heads seem to return to their original activities upon the group's dispersal. You don't want to cause any more disturbance, something you're sure you'll get a lecture for later on, so you give a curtsey to Barnabas, lowering your head.

"I shall bid you adieu, Your Majesty." The words are choked out, and not a moment later you're turning on your heels and making your exit out of the ballroom.

Which is how you ended up in an old store room, with nothing but your various frustrations and the ebbs n flows of silence to keep you company.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting there, but by the time you hear the door open, you're convinced that it was a servant sent to escort you back to the ballroom, but instead, it's Clive.

There's no hesitation in his movements as he steps toward you, catching your face in his gloved hands as he reads your expression.

"Are you alright?" He asks. Even if there's no threat of physical danger, that doesn't mean emotional scars weren't left after your interaction with the king.

"I tried to warn you...I tried to-"

You cut him off, "I'm okay, Clive. A little embarrassed, but it's nothing I couldn't handle." You smiled softly at him, which he returned in full.

"What were you two talking about?"

Warmth flows throughout your body once more, and you don't want to admit that the cause of the outburst you had was because of him, so you act nonchalant.

"Nothing of importance."

He raises his eyebrows like he doesn't believe what you're saying at all, but he doesn't press you on it, not now at least, and you won't give him the chance to when you ask, "Jealous?"

He smirks, shaking his head back and forth slightly. "Do you enjoy tormenting me, my lady?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Do you enjoy watching my torment? Does it give you pleasure?"

"I'm afraid I know naught of what you mean. Have you perhaps forgotten your place, knight?" You put extra emphasis on the word as you toss a smirk his way.

He backs up from where you're sitting on the barrel. "All those men, dancing with you, ogling you. All the while, I'm forced to stand by and watch them all make a pass at you."

You offer a faux pout. "Aw, come on. They're not all bad."

"Enough of them are."

"Are you truly so jealous of those who're above your peerage?" You can't help but snirk in amusement. This was the first time you'd seen him act like this.

"Yes, no!" He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts: "The Archduke and that bastard king."

Your eyebrows rise at his declaration. "You hate them so much that you've forgone proper titles?"

He rolls his eyes at your statement, and you're unable to hold back your giggles. You hop off the barrel and take his face into your hands.

"There is absolutely no affection for that king in my heart, I assure you. As for the Archduke, though he is roguishly charming, I happen to prefer meaner mugs to delicate pretty features like his," you move to press a kiss to his cheek.

His head hangs low in shame. "I cannot deny that jealousy and resentment burn in my heart at the thought of you with another."

"Believe me," you say, stroking his cheek, "I'd much rather spend my time with you than with stiff men who smell of port. I've been looking for an escape practically all evening.“

"They don’t deserve you at all, my lady. Those men don’t deserve to know the softness of your skin,” he lowers his mouth to place delicate kisses on your neck, then moves toward the exposed flesh of your bosom above your gown.

"Clive," you gasp, tangling your fingers in his thick locks.

“They don't deserve to know the sweetness in your voice when you cry out in pleasure," he whispers, pulling away from your skin to trace his thumb along the frame of your face.

“I’ve missed you," he states.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He pulls you into him for a kiss, one full of hunger and desperation, eager to taste each other once more. The kiss is sticky; the clear gloss painted on your lips transfers onto his. He’s licking into your mouth as your lips brush against each other, tongues wrestling each other for dominance.

You're moved backward until you're pressed against the storeroom wall. Clive reaches down, grazing your bum with his palms over the fabric of your skirts before lifting your legs in the air. The back wall holds you steady as he wraps your legs around his waist.

Desperate to get close to him once more, not even wanting to separate for a second, you pull him back into you and kiss him fervently, not wanting to be parted from each other. He angles his hips toward you, teasingly grinding himself into your heat, causing you to whine into the kiss.

“Looks like you did miss me, hm?” He separates from your lips, moving to kiss down your neck once more.

“Let me make it up to you for being so neglectful of your needs.” He continues kissing down your neck, moving over to your décolleté, and then finally down the swell of your breasts.

“Founder, how I wish I could mark these tits,” he murmurs, dropping your legs back down onto the floor so that he can skim your torso and squeeze at your chest through the fabric of your gown.

“You have an intense infatuation with my breasts, don't you?” You giggle, laughing at his awestruck countenance while he continues to knead the fat in his hands.

“You've no idea." He smirks at you, then suddenly kneels before you.

“What are you doing?” You pet his hair softly as he looks up at you.

“I’m just being a good knight, my lady. On my knees for you, like I should be.”

"Oh, really now?"

"Mhm," he mumbles, taking your gloved hand in his. “I truly did miss you, and I plan on showing you just how much.” He reaches towards the hem of your gown, bunching it up over your navel.

"If you'd be so kind as to help hold up your skirts, my lady."

"I suppose I should be so kind." You lift the hem of your dress over your hips as Clive places your leg over his shoulder.

“Now this is how I shall swear fealty to you,” he leans towards your bare mound, planting a few kisses upon your mons before blowing cool air onto your cunt.

“I’ve missed your taste. I dreamt about it for so many nights." His thumbs trace slow circles into the skin near your pelvis as he continues teasing. He trails his tongue where your thigh meets the stark white stocking covering the majority of your leg.

"Fuck." He leans his face into your pussy once more, inhaling the rich scent before finally dipping his tongue into your wetness. He groans into your cunt.

Holding up the skirts of your gown the best you can in one hand, you snake the other into his shaggy locks, taking hold of his roots. Your chest heaves in anticipation.

“Please, please, Clive, don’t tease me," you whine, "it’s been too long.”

“Aw, did my sweet princess miss me?” He goads, sticking his tongue in your entrance and greedily sucking up your arousal on his wet muscle.

“Did her princess pussy miss how good I made her feel?” He kisses up the seam of your cunt until he reaches your clit.

"Did she miss how I made love to her with my mouth?” He spits on your pussy, the glob of saliva sticking to the hairs that cover your mound, some of it dripping to the ground.

He's quick to remove his gloves, tossing them aside before he takes his thumbs and spreads your folds apart, watching as your quivering hole twitches in anticipation.

“She must have missed me, with how much she’s leaking just for me."

All you're able to do is bite your lip and nod, feeling embarrassed as his words generate heat in both your cheeks and core.

He plugs your warm hole with his tongue, not wanting a single morsel of your essence to be wasted.

“It’s alright, princess; I’m right here.” He speaks directly into your cunt, looking at you with a deeply enamored gaze.

"I’ve missed her too, you know," he says, sliding his tongue all around your sopping pussy.

“I’ve missed her wetness, her sweetness, and her warmth. I missed how she clenched around me as I gave her pleasure," he groans.

Making his way to your clit, he gives it sweet kisses and drags the length of his tongue along the entirety of the bundle of nerves before pulling it into his mouth. His teeth graze the nub, causing your hips to jump forward, pressing more of yourself into his face.

Your fingers curl into his shaggy locks, struggling to keep your dress in your hold as you lose yourself in the feeling of pleasure, his pretty face proving to be useful for more than just gazing upon.

His teeth nip at your inner thigh, “getting greedy now, aren’t we princess?” He traces the divots of your thighs with his fingers, enjoying the feeling of your skin.

You don’t say anything, choosing to instead respond with an angry huff and pull his face back into your cunt by his hair.

“Point taken,” he smirks against you before pulling your clit back into his mouth again.

He moves his hand from your thigh and down to your pussy, sliding his middle finger back and forth between your folds, coating it in your slick. He slips to your entrance, circling the quivering hole and waiting, drawing out a whine from you.

“Please,” you exhale, your head rolling back against the wall, desperate to have him deep inside you. Though you’d much prefer squeezing down on his cock, that’d have to wait for another day.

He chuckles, the vibration from his voice moving through you, causing you to keel over slightly. Clive breeches your warm hole, slowly, letting you enjoy the feeling of his thick finger stretching you out.

“Fuck yes,” you whimper.

“That’s it, princess; you’re so wound up. Just take what you need," he coos, murmuring against you, his breath hot on your skin.

He curls his finger into you, the pad of his digit hitting the spongey spot along your walls.

“Looking for another audience? Was the poor maid not enough the first time?” He’s smirking against you now as he begins to pump his finger in and out of your cunt.

“What if your father were to catch you with me, hm? How do you think he’d react to his little girl stuffing her cunt in the face of someone he deigned worthy enough to protect her?"

Your breath is ragged, unable to form words due to the sound of his voice, deep and gravelly as he spews more filth at you.

“Keep moaning like that, and we’ll soon know the answer yet.”

He moves to your clit once more, slurping and sucking at your swollen pussy, desperate to push you over the edge. He fucks his finger into you at a rapid pace now, and his tongue is quick to catch whatever dribbles out onto his fingers, dining on your essence like it’s the finest ambrosia known to man, and to him, it might as well be.

Your head is lulled back against the wall as heat creeps onto your face and into your core. You don’t dare look down at Clive, who's nestling his face further in the hair that covers your cunt, knowing that you’ll surely come undone at the sight.

After the night you’ve had, you more than deserve this a thousand times over, and if it were up to him, he would happily oblige in all your desires.

The tips of your fingers cinch into his scalp, tugging him impossibly closer to your core, your orgasm building rapidly.

Clive pulls no punches, suctioning his lips around your clit and sucking it like a piece of hard candy. His index finger has joined the middle digit, fucking in and out of your cunt.

With practiced strokes, he contorts his fingers until your climax is upon you. Your lips part with a silent scream as your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

Your thighs shake as they try to close around his head, and his steady palms hold them apart as he removes his fingers from your pussy. Every drop of arousal that leaks from your womanhood is lapped up by his tongue til your hands are pushing his face away.

Clive gets the hint, removing your thigh from his shoulder and setting it back down on the floor. You attempt to move away from the wall, but he holds you in position until the jitter in your leg ceases.

He wipes the remnants of your spend from his face onto your inner thighs, and the roughness of his facial hair sends a shiver up your spine.

Once you've settled, he moves to help with fixing the skirts of your gown.

"Do you like it?" You smile brightly. "I wore it with you in mind."

You twirl slowly, your dress billowing slightly, wanting to show off all the detailing. His face warms at the gesture, and he presses a soft kiss on your forehead.

"I think lavender may be my new favorite color."

You allow yourself a moment to indulge in the blissful feeling before Clive speaks up once more.

"We should get moving. The break for supper will be happening soon, and we don't want any whispers of our whereabouts if we're not in attendance."

He moves to make a break for the storeroom door when you grab his forearm.

"Surely you're not going to go out there with your... predisposition," you flit your eyes down to the front of his trousers, where a prominent erection has made itself known.

"I'll take care of it myself, later."

"Let me help you..." There wasn't much time for you to return the favor with your mouth, and any other activities would leave you disheveled in a way that everyone would know of what happened between the two of you, but you could provide relief with your hand.

Despite the time restraint, you wanted to tease Clive a little, putting the tips of your silk gloves into your mouth and pulling them off of each hand slowly with your teeth before setting them aside nearby, so as to not be sullied with bodily fluids.

You wanted to get a good look at what you'd be working with, so you sink to your knees and pull his trousers down to his thighs. You give him a wide-eyed expression as the appendage bobs free, hitting his stomach gently.

His cock looked a lot different than those pictured in the medical texts that you've snuck from the royal library. He had extra skin and hair and garnered a much bigger girth as well.  

As tempted as you are to swallow the whole of him into your mouth, you settle for a simple kiss right on the tip, and his cock twitches back at you cutely in appreciation.

You rise to your feet once more with his aid and grasp him in your hand. His fingers are quick to cover your own, the size of them dwarfing yours.

"Are you positive that you want to go through with this? I truly don't mind taking care of myself," he asks.

"And not return the favor?" You chuckle. "I promise, I am doing this out of my own desire." You move to the column of his throat, placing soft and delicate kisses on the skin before moving toward the junction of his jaw.

"Now just relax," you coo, running your fingers delicately up and down his shaft.

He's so pent-up that it won't take long for him to climax, but you do your best to be as teasing as possible. His head lulls back as muffled sounds are delivered from his throat, and you can't help but admire how pretty he looks like this.

Not only does he have an impressive amount of girth, but his length is nothing to scoff at either, with a protruding vein running along the underside of him. The sheer size of him fills up your entire palm as you continue to pump slowly, the softness of your skin akin to silk upon his cock.

"So tell me, Clive, how many nights have you been fucking your fist to the thought of me?" You whisper in his ear, and his eyes shoot wide open as he takes in a gulp of air.

His hips buck lightly against you in response, giving you all the permission you need to continue your questioning.

"Come on, tell me. It can't be that bad." Your kisses continue on his neck as his hips continue to rock.

He takes in another gulp of air before answering.

"E-every night.”

"Every night? How cute," you tease, speeding up your movements on his cock. He bites his lip in an attempt to hide his noises while the rhythm of his hips meets your hand every time.

"I touch myself thinking of you too. Except my fingers are nowhere near as filling as yours," you chuckle to yourself as he groans out.

"Founder, above."

His cock is fully slick now, and at any moment, he looks like he's ready to burst, taking to wrapping his fist around yours and creating a vice-like grip with your fingers. All his movements are hurried and rushed as he chases his release.

For the final blow, you mutter to him, "Fuck my fist like you would fuck my pussy."

Clive full body shudders, tightening his grip once more before thrusting wildly. It's only a few short moments later that he's removing your hand from himself and laying his seed on the floor below, groaning your name in the process.

Afterward, the two of you take a few moments to collect yourselves and tidy your appearance. Old rags were used to wipe off the remnants of Clive from the floor, and you were just about to make your exit when the melody from one of your favorite songs played through the door.

"Clive, may I have this dance?" You extend your hand toward him, giggling to yourself.

From looking at your dance card earlier, this song was the second-to-last song to be played before the break for supper.

"And don't give me the excuse of not having enough time. We'll make it back to the ballroom before everyone's filed out for the evening."

"Even if that is true, my lady, I assure you that I know nothing of ballroom dancing."

"Did I ask you if you knew how?"

There's a momentary pause, one that he fills with a shake of his head. You nod in return.

"No, I did not. I simply asked you to dance with me. I'd still wish to so even if you had two left feet."

There's another pause as you extend your hand toward him again.

"I even saved you a spot on my dance card," you smile, shaking the parchment in front of his face, where the line for this dance is indeed left blank.

In his indecisiveness, you take his hand in your own and press yourselves close together.

"It's just you and me," you whisper, resting your head against his frame, the sound of the music filling the silence. His opposite hand moves to the small of your back, and the two of you end the evening in each other's arms, swaying to the sound of muffled music. 

[actuallysaiyan]

Pictures Of You(Chapter Two: The Fishing Docks)

warnings: slight fluff, jealousy, mentions of Boy(Tomie chapter), fainting, crossover pairings: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader x Gojo Satoru summary: you three settle in the village. everyone seems distrustful. despite this, you still get some good moments with your company. it's only when one of the old fishermen shows you a picture are you pulled back into reality.

MASTERLIST

Dividers by: @/benkeibeartaglist: @beneathstarryskies @an-ever-angry-bi @seireiteihellbutterfly

@namikyento @adharadotcom @heyitsd1yaa

@darkstarlight82 @melisuh123 @galactict3a

@erebus-et-eigengrau @aomi04 @isabelzoldyck

@cinnamon-girl-writes @felixmr

@typicalemo @entirelysein-e @urfavmars24 @animediplomat

@menag-etroix @shycoconutt @_thecoochirgirls

@emmaiscool22 @ambiguouslady42 @gloryhole93

The train ride to the seaside village wasn’t the most pleasant. You knew what you were getting yourself into, but you never realized just how expressive and energetic the Special Grade sorcerer could be. He loves to talk your ear off, and he definitely enjoys annoying Nanami more than anything.

You begin to wonder if maybe there is something else going on between those two. Despite Nanami acting like he couldn’t take another second of Gojo bothering him, you keep seeing a little bit of a smile on his face. The kind of smile he hides every time you look at him.

When there is peace and quiet, you decide to sleep. It is not a restful sleep, but you know that you will all arrive at the village quite late at night. You want to have at least a few hours of rest before entering the village where Tomie was last seen.

It’s Nanami who wakes you up. You notice his blazer draped over you in an attempt to keep you warm as you sleep. You blink a few times, yawning and stretching as you slowly come to. Then you sit up, handing Nanami his blazer once more.

“Thank you,” you say as you take his hand.

He smiles. “It’s my pleasure. Gojo already went ahead to find our accommodations for the next couple of days.”

You look out the window before you allow Nanami to guide you out of the train. It’s such a dreary little town. You don’t have to guess why someone like Tomie ended up in this little place. You wonder if she’s still here or maybe it’s going to lead to nothing to come here.

Nanami’s hand is warm as he leads you towards where your luggage sits. He picks up his own bag, throwing it over his shoulder. For a moment, you feel like you’re looking at the young teenager with his blade holder on his back. You smile when you see just how much he’s changed. The young man has turned into a big, strong adult now.

“What?” Nanami inquires.

You smirk, “You really just reminded me of yourself when you were a teen.”

He blushes and looks away, then begins to chastise you for not being more serious. You know he isn’t being super serious when you see that shy smile on his face. It’s a shy smile you’ve seen time and time again and the kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

The smell of the salty air is what hits you first when you exit the station with Nanami. Not only is he carrying his own bag, but he’s got yours and Gojo’s as well. You know he’s strong, but you can’t help but tug on his sleeve.

“Do you want help with that?” you ask him, motioning to the bags.

He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

You two walk towards the hotel you’d be staying in. The village is quaint but it’s cute despite the initial dreary vibes. You look around at the shops that are very clearly tourist traps. Not much is open here at this time of night; a convenience store with a bored looking clerk at the cash register, a somewhat bustling bar playing some loud rock music and the hotel you’d be staying in.

A bell rings from the top of the door as you open the door. Nanami follows you inside. You spot Gojo waiting for the both of you; his long legs splay out as he barely sits on a chair in the lobby. He hops up, smiling happily.

“Finally! Took you two long enough!” Gojo complains.

Nanami sighs, “She was sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

Your heart flutters at the words that come from him. You always admired Nanami, especially since you two grew up together in your own way. He had been the one you clung to when you first arrived at Jujutsu Tech. He has just lost his best friend and you were a lost little thing trying to find your way. Nanami had been the one to train you for the most part when it wasn’t Masamichi or Gojo.

You roll your eyes and grab Gojo by the hand, leading him down the hall and asking him to bring you to your room. You don’t notice the jealous look that befalls the broad blond behind you.

The room is a tight squeeze for the three of you. There are only two beds, but thankfully there is a pull-out couch. You decide to make peace with the fact that you won’t quite be able to have a good sleep, considering you’ll be the one to take the couch.

“I’ll take the couch,” Nanami offers, sitting down on it.

Your eyes widen. “No, no, no…” you place your hand on his shoulder. “You’re a big man, you won’t fit. Let me take the couch.”

It’s Gojo that approaches you. He smiles softly and gestures towards one of the beds. He places his hand on your shoulder.

“Why not share with me?” 

Your cheeks burn as you fully take in what he has to say. You see a jealous look flash over Nanami’s striking features. Gojo tilts his head, lifting his blindfold just a little bit to look at you with his jewel colored eyes.

“A-are you sure?” You ask, your hands fidgeting.

Gojo nods, placing his blindfold back down. “Yes, it’s fine.”

So you take your bag over and place it on the bed. You’ve decided not to argue with any of them anymore. You’ll just sleep in one of the beds with Gojo. It’s fine, you two have been close since you were a teen. It’s not like anything romantic is going to happen.

You take out your toiletries bag and a change of clothes. The two men observe you as you make your way to the bathroom. You turn to face them once more.

“I’m going for a shower. Then we should get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day.”

Nanami was the first one awake the next morning. He knew that getting an early start. He has some notes to look through for more information. A few people were listed on the notes. People of interest. 

His eyes flickered over the pages as he drank coffee from a can. It was from the vending machine down the hall, and while not his favorite, it still did the trick.

It’s only when you begin to rouse from your sleep that Nanami finally looks over at the bed. Gojo had been cuddled up practically on you, which caused Nanami to glare. There’s this deep, fiery jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach and he’s hating it every single time he feels it.

You look over at him with a sleepy smile and your bedhead. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a while. You pull back the blankets and you pad over to him. As you sit next to him, Nanami gets a whiff of your sandalwood and jasmine body wash. It’s a very comforting scent.

“Did you sleep okay?” He asks, handing you one of the cans of coffee.

You open it up and take a sip, a small grimace on your face. “Not too bad. Gojo is warm.”

This causes that funny feeling deep inside of him to resurface. It has to be one of his least favorite feelings. He smiles tenderly at you and he shows you the notes he’s going over.

You two lean in closer to read the notes. Your heads are almost touching. It’s a very quiet moment. The coffee isn’t great but it’s perking you up. Nanami places his arm around you, but doesn’t pull you in. It’s more to steady you as you two read the notes.

“Morning!” Gojo shouts from the bed, nearly jumping out of the sheets. “What are you two lovebirds doing?”

Nanami sighs and grips the notes a little tighter. He knows having Gojo with you is important for the mission. This Special Grade curse might prove to be too much even for two Grade One sorcerers. So having Satoru as a backup plan was the smartest thing all three of you could do.

“Getting ready to go out. I’m going to get dressed.” You say quickly, getting up to find your suitcase.

Gojo smirks as he sees just how flustered you are. This mission was going to be very difficult for you, so if he can show just a little kindness or even make you feel flustered over nothing, it could make sure that your emotional crash won’t be too devastating.

It takes little time for all three of you to be ready to head out. Nanami suggests getting some breakfast and briefing about the mission. Gojo agrees, tugging on your sleeve towards the cute little cafe.

The three of you sit at a booth near the window. You get to really see the village through the big bay window. Lots of people are walking around. Most of them look nervous and sad. There’s almost a look of distrust on their faces. You know exactly that sentiment. The feeling of never being able to trust the next person because of the things that Tomie does.

Gojo and Nanami are briefing while you’re observing. You barely touch your breakfast, which has both men worried about you. Gojo is about to start feeding you when you finally continue to eat. You’re thinking about what angle to take all of this at.

The morning is spent interviewing and asking questions. Most of the people don’t want to bother answering your questions. Some people seem downright scared. Others just don’t trust you. Even with Nanami carrying the conversations with most people.

You’re on the main docks with all the fishermen trying to outsell one another. You walk down the dock until you notice one of the fishermen looking at you. He beckons you over.

“I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, miss.” He says. “You know her.”

From the front pocket of his fishing bib, he pulls out a crumpled old photograph. You’ve seen the face time and time before, but this was a new angle. She’s lying in the ocean, only it’s just her head this time. You wonder how this could possibly be.

“She was here not too long ago. I think she’s left us now. Right about the time that young boy lost his mind.” He explains. 

“The young boy?” You inquire.

“Yes, he was so young and healthy. His mind just snapped after spending some time with her.” The fisherman explains. “They never found his father either.”

Gojo and Nanami make their way towards you. You hold onto the photograph. It’s almost like she’s staring at you through the photograph. You can’t peel your eyes away from it. Suddenly, she winks at you.

The photo slowly flutters to the ground as you fall back, fainting. Gojo and Nanami are quick to scoop you up, preventing you from hitting your head on the cold, hard dock.

She winked at me!!!! She winked at me!!! Tomie. Winked. At. Me!!!

[scarlettromanov]

Business as Unusual - Chapter 2: The Contract

pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanov x Reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings(18+only): brief mentioning of Steve Rogers; eventual kate bishop; CEO! Wanda Maximoff; Brief mentioning of Stephen strange; Jealousy; Dom/sub; Domestic Fluff; Eventual Smut; Hurt/Comfort; Childhood Trauma; Mob Boss Natasha Romanov; Smoking; Food; Caffeine Addiction; mention of drugs; Alcohol; Mentions of Violence; mob wife Wanda Maximoff; Angst; NO CHEATING!; all parties communicate; brief Stephen strange slander

Chapter Two: The Contract

The afternoon sun drapes across you as you lay in bed. Absent-mindedly you flip through a copy of the newspaper. The driver said you could take it. You needed to prove to Wanda that you had read something right? The material is dry though. After flipping past the sports section you quickly look over the business section.

A picture of Natasha and Wanda stares up at you. Natasha’s arm wrapped around Wanda’s waist. Wanda wearing a red turtleneck sweater underneath a black blazer. Her hair is curled perfectly. Natasha wears a black jumpsuit, a deep v extenuating her figure. Their wedding bands are clearly visible. Wanda is staring lovingly at Natasha, and Natasha is staring straight at the camera with a small smirk. As if to say “don’t you wish you were me?”

Maybe- yes you would like to be Natasha, or Maybe you’d like to be Wanda. Both women clearly had an effect on you, but you couldn’t deny the small twang of jealousy as you stared at Natasha's hand wrapped around Wanda’s waist. You wished that she would hold you like that.

You sigh, and briefly skim the article. Sales were up 75% from the last year. You knew this. You crunched numbers for Steve all day. Although your salary was subpar, you felt a sense of pride knowing you worked for a successful company. After perusing a few more articles you flip to the funnies, and laugh at the latest Garfield comics. Truthfully, you wanted to look at the comics first, but you couldn’t report to your boss that you read The Song of Achilles for the fifth time. The business section seemed like the next best option.

The rest of the day goes by slowly. Your nap is cut short since you are unable to stop replaying the events of the morning in your head.  Tossing and turning, you day dream about the way her fingers brushed against your cheeks. Running clumsy fingers over the bandage on your chin. It’s not until you wince from the residual pain that the daydream ends.

After failing to sleep you take a walk in the park, like Wanda told you to. The feeling of the sun hitting your cheeks has you feeling light on your feet. You really can’t remember the last time you took a leisurely stroll. If you were being honest with yourself, your life had become train ride after train ride between work and the city. Ever since your breakup six months prior, the weekends felt like long gaps of time filled with binge watching shows, and going to the laundromat. Speaking of which, you desperately need to do a load of laundry this weekend. You finish up the day with a good old fashion bowl of Ramen Noodles, and then settle into bed. The small dragonfly night light in the corner of your bedroom helps calm your nerves, as you drift to sleep.

The next morning you are dressed, and about to head out the door when the buzzer to your apartment goes off. You wonder if you should answer it, but decide against it. Absolutely not wanting to be late to see Wanda this morning. The elevator is out again, so you take the stairs two at a time down the 8 flights.

Stopping dead in your tracts you notice the very expensive Rolls Royce parked outside.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” A man in a suit asks as you attempt to sneak your way past him. Skidding to a halt, you turn and look at him. He wears a pair of ray bans that hide his eyes. His expression is unreadable.

“Depends on who’s asking?” You ask giving him the side eye. The dark haired man is about six feet tall, but you gazed up at him unafraid to back down.

“Ms. Maximoff ordered the car.” He says shrugging, jerking his thumb back at the Rolls Royce Phantom behind him. You peer around him at the sleek black car. Not comprehending what exactly was going on here.

“Wanda what?” The words falling from your lips in disbelief.

Just then your phone buzzes in your pocket. Instinctively you reach for it.

From: Unknown

Public transportation is unsafe for a good girl like you.

See you soon. Let me know what to have MJ pick you up from Russo’s.  - W.M.

Your mouth falls open as you look up from your phone at wannabe Men In Black. Wanda ordered a driver to get you to work this morning? Swallowing, you try to find your voice, attempting to muster up some kind of confidence.

“Tell me your name.” You tap your phone against his chest lightly. He doesn’t seem phased by your nosiness. His medium length brown hair is scraggly at his shoulders. It doesn’t quite fit the rest of his persona at the moment.

“James.” He quirks a half smirk.

“James, thank you. Cars make me nervous, please get me to Wanda safe.” He fully smirks at you now, looking over the tops of his sunglasses. Revealing a set of sparkling blue eyes.

“You got it, Ms. Y/L/N”

He opens the door for you, and you slide in with ease. The smell of leather fills your nostrils. James ignites the engine, and pulls away from your apartment. Staring at Wanda’s message. You type one reply. Delete it. Type another reply. Delete it. Finally you hit send.

Not even a minute later your phone buzzes again. Your heart does a kick flip in your chest. Wanda sent another message.

You let her last message sit out in limbo. It wasn’t that you didn’t like breakfast. It was the fact that eating with Wanda made you feel like there were golf balls in your stomach. Resting your head back, you just hope that Wanda didn’t have pancake breakfast waiting for you.

Half an hour later, James pulls up outside of the office, and turns to look at you. He removes his sunglasses and gives you a smile. He’s pretty handsome.

“Have a good day, Y/N. Have Wanda call me if anything comes up.” You thank him, and open the door. You had to admit that you sort of felt cool rolling up to work on time in a fancy car. Co-workers probably thought you were ubering to work.

If only your clothes matched your little fantasy. Quickly you make your way into the building. Ignoring the anxiety that you felt knowing you were working directly with Wanda. You let the giddiness wash over you. Without hesitating you hit the elevator button and take the ride up to Wanda’s office. The doors of the elevator open, and you step out with more pep in your step than you felt in months. Absent-mindedly you chew on your lip from the subtle anticipation.

MJ was already at her desk, her brow furrowed as she squinted to read her computer screen. Her glasses sit perched on her head, and you wonder for a moment if you should tell her. She looks up at you, and her smile lights up.

“Good Morning, Y/N,” Her voice sounds chipper enough for 8:45 a.m. on a Thursday. Either way you are glad to see your potential new friend.

“Morning, MJ,” You smile back at her as you approach Wanda’s door.

“You take bright and early very literally,” She giggles, and you nod your head giving her a sheepish smile.

“I am a very dedicated employee,” You mumble, followed by a small laugh, before reaching up to give Wanda’s door 3 small knocks. Your skin is buzzing in anticipation. Heart sitting in your throat as you hear the clicks of Wanda’s Heels heading straight towards you. The door swings open, and her green eyes meet yours.

“Good Morning, Y/N. Come in,” She’s pleased with you being early. She gestures for you to enter. From behind you Wanda lifts the straps of your backpack from off of your shoulders, and lowers it to the floor next to her desk. Before you sit down at the desk, you hear Wanda’s heels retreating towards the coffee table and sofa. So you turn to follow her. She sits in the armchair opposite of you, and you eye up the array of fruit and croissants. Silently, you thank her for not getting pancakes. Attop of of a small black and red coaster you see it. Your black coffee. You lick your lips as you can smell its aroma in the air. Was it obvious to Wanda that you were a caffeine addict?

“How was your ride into town? Cozy?” Wanda asks with a smile. Her red lipstick looks fresh, and you wonder what brand she uses. The drugstore brand that you used on special occasions rubbed off almost immediately.

“Yes! Thank you again. You definitely did not have to do that,” You blush as her actions mean more to you than you think she realizes.

“Like I said, public transport isn’t safe. It gives me peace of mind knowing you’ll arrive here every day.” She crosses her legs, flipping her hair over her shoulder again. You notice that she does this whenever she wants to come across as nonchalant. You ignore her attempt to set you at ease. You desperately want to know why she cares this much about your well-being. For now though, you nod your head, and grab a few pieces of sliced kiwi from the tray. Wanda’s eyes light up seeing you attempt to eat.

“Is this alright? I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat in the mornings.” She gestures to the trays of food.

“Oh. Y-yeah. I’m not much of a breakfast person. I love fruit though,” You pause, and grab a croissant from the tray, placing it onto your plate, “And croissants actually are my favorite pastry. ” You smile, breaking open the pastry to reveal the dozens of layers of butter and pastry. They were fresh, and you could tell. Wanda eyes you with a warm smile. She reaches for her drink, and takes a sip. She closes her eyes, and you can tell that she’s enjoying this moment of bliss.

“What kind of drink did you get?” You ask when she opens her eyes again. To your surprise her cheeks turn the slightest tinge pink. Wanda Maximoff, embarrassed? You silently bask in how cute she looks when she blushes.

“Would you judge me if I said a lavender oat milk latte?” Wanda says, looking away from you. You giggle, it should have been obvious to you that she was drinking a beverage so queer coded.

“So you are judging me.” She quirks an eyebrow at you, and you try to stifle your laughter.

“No! No! I just should’ve known,” You wave your hands trying to let her know that you’re being playful.

“I’m confused,” Wanda’s Sokovian accent bleeds through for a moment, and you notice. Ignoring how adorable she’s being, you attempt to explain,

“It’s… you know… queer.” You do a little flick of your wrist. Hoping she understands the gesture, and that the age gap between you two isn’t going to ruin the moment. You take a sip of your coffee now feeling just how dry your mouth felt from the nerves.

“Well that would explain why I've had people slip me their number after I’ve ordered this drink.” You inhale suddenly from the way her words throw you off. Unfortunately you had been in the middle of sipping your coffee. Immediately you choke on the liquid. Wincing at the burning sensation in your throat. This is what you get for attempting to drink a scalding hot drink without waiting for it to cool. Wanda jumps to her feet to help you. You hold up a hand.

“I’m fine- I’m fine!” You assure her, but the look of worry doesn’t leave her eyes. Clearing your throat a few times, still trying to push down the giggles

“Is it that funny to believe that someone would hit on me?” Her voice is completely serious. Heart sinking into your ass and you fall silent. Giggles long forgotten. With burning cheeks you look down at your hands again. This is it, she’s going to fire you for being an asshole. You think to yourself. Shame filling your thoughts.

You bite your bottom lip, and then reply, “No, I can believe it.” Meaning it since you know you would hit on her if you had an ounce of confidence (and obviously weren’t already her employee).

“I’m screwing with you, Y/N.” Wanda’s replies, a smile in her voice. When your eyes meet she winks at you. Of course she’s screwing with you. Wanda always found a way to make you squirm. A small part of you knows that she loves to see you flustered. Your brain couldn’t help but short circuit when she would wink at you; make a joke at the copier, or by making faces at you during staff meetings ( when you both were clearly not listening ).

“Relax, Sweetheart.” Taking a few deep breaths you feel the blush disappear from your cheeks.

“So now that we’ve established that my drink is extremely gay. Let’s get to business.”

You nod, and stand to grab a piece of paper and a pen. Wanda reaches down to her bag, and pulls out a stack of documents. She leans forward, and places the document gingerly into your hands. It’s a nondisclosure agreement . Your eyebrows knit together, and you absentmindedly sit back down on the couch.

“Wanda, why am I signing an NDA?” Wanda places a few pieces of fruit onto her plate, and plucks a grape in between her thumb and forefinger. She eyes you with a look that you can’t quite understand. Her tone is serious when she replies,

“Do you trust me?”

You don’t hesitate before replying, “Absolutely.”

“Sign the document,”

You stare down at the stack of papers, and flip through it. Once, and then again for good measure.

“Always crossing your t’s and dotting your i’s. Very thorough,”

You didn’t know how to tell Wanda that your dad is an attorney. Growing up, despite his general dislike of you, your Father made sure to stress the importance of reading a document before signing it. Right now though, you push his words out of your head. Clicking your pen, you sign on the line above your name.

“Thank you,” Wanda says before taking the document to her desk. You can feel the questions dancing behind your lips, and she notices.

“You are my personal assistant, and data analyst for Natasha and I’s affairs.”

You raise your eyebrows. If you were Wanda’s personal assistant, what did that make MJ? That poor girl probably needs this job more than you do.

“What about MJ?” Your voice is full of worry.

“MJ is my company secretary, you will be filling in the gaps for any other needs Natasha and I have.”

Natasha? Your heart rate speeds up at the thought of Natasha telling you what to do, and when to do it. You mull over her words, honing in on her choice of words. MJ was her company secretary, does that mean your work was outside of company limits?

“What are my hours?” You ask, running a sweaty hand through your hair. Your palms are clammy, but you don’t want to jump to conclusions.

“You will be on call for me and Natasha. When we call, you answer. This isn't a company position, Y/N. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Does this mean you were fired from your old position? Picking at your cuticles, You cross your legs, squeezing them together. Feeling hot tears well in your eyes. You blink them away. No, not here, not in front of the one person you so desperately wanted to impress. She could not see you like this.

“I can’t believe I got fired.” Your voice is full of emotion. Self Deprecation setting in quickly.  Wanda shifts in the arm chair across from you. You refuse to look up at her sudden movement. Your cuticle begins to bleed as you pull on a hangnail. The world grows smaller as you retreat into yourself. Wanda moves to the seat next to you. She places a reassuring arm over your shoulders. She smells of vanilla and honey. Her closeness comforts you.

“You’re not being fired. You have a choice. You can continue to work for Steve,” Wanda pauses, giving your shoulder a squeeze,  “or you can quit and work for me and Nat. The choice is yours, dear.” You lean into her with a bit of your body weight. She doesn’t shy away from contact. If anything, the grip on your shoulders tightens. A choice between crunching numbers all day for Steve Rogers, possibly never moving up in the company. Stuck under someone else's thumb. This offer from Wanda felt like a step up somehow. And despite not being much of a materialistic person, you cannot deny that a chance of a raise sent a thrill through you. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, feeling the slow rush of excitement setting in.

“I choose you and Natasha.”

“Good choice, honey.” She winks at you again before turning to wrap her arms around you. Your head rests briefly on her shoulder. Wanda pulls away, her  hands resting on your upper arms, thumbs stroking back and forth. Your eyes lock for a brief moment, as you smile at each other. Wanda’s mouth hangs open the slightest bit with a smile.

Wanda’s office door opens, and you jump in your seat. It breaks you out of your trace, but Wanda doesn’t move. Her fingers are still stroking your arm.

“Good Morning, my love,” Wanda’s voice is full of love as you both look over to see Natasha. She is breathtaking in high waisted black trousers, and a low cut satin white blouse. The clicks of her stilettos barely audible as she moved. Her curly red hair pulled in a braid down her back. For a moment you felt like the world stopped as you took her in. Sure, Natasha had hired you. But if you were being honest, when you knew she was going to be in the office you would purposely stay glued to your desk. Steve would have meetings with her in his office, and she would always be sure to say hello to you.

“Good Morning,” Natasha’s voice is always throaty and low. She pauses before making her way over to you and Wanda, “I see that you’ve already started, I’m sorry for being late.” She leans down, and kisses Wanda. You divert your eyes, not wanting to seem like a pervert.

Wanda said nothing to you about Natasha being here this morning. Natasha settles herself in Wanda’s arm chair. Carefully she takes a manicured hand and picks up a strawberry from the fruit platter. Her cherry red lips wrap around the berry, and she hums in delight. Your hands, which are still on Wanda’s arms, tighten as you watch Natasha. She pats your arms with her hands, and releases you.

“Let’s get the paperwork together, and then we’ll get you settled.” Natasha sets the leaf of the strawberry on a napkin. Before sitting back in the chair. Her arms resting lazily on the arm rests, as she looks at you. Meanwhile you have a death grip on your thighs. Wanda holds up the signed NDA, making it clear to her wife that your lips were legally sealed. Natasha nods her head with a smile.

“So Y/N, how does it feel to be free of grandpa Steve?” Wanda stands,  and passes by Natasha. Wanda ran a love hand up Natasha’s extended arm. You stare at Natasha, convinced that your face is the color of a cherry tomato. Her eyes clearly amused at your flustered state.

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to have to teach either of you how to work Excel. So it’s definitely a step up.” You mutter.

Natasha lets out a low chuckle. She is the picture of ease sitting in her chair. Her confidence radiates off of her, and part of you feels a bit envious.

“You’re right, Wands,” she says before taking a sip of her own coffee, “she is funny,” Wanda hums in response, as she carries another stack of documents over to you. She sits down next to you. Your legs brushing up against each other lightly. To your surprise it’s Natasha who speaks next. Your eyes lifting to meet her green orbs. Her features have gone completely neutral. So different from the playful woman who sat before you just moments before. Wanda lays the contract on the coffee table at your knees.

“Read the contact over, carefully,” Natasha waits for you to nod your head before continuing, “Your salary, living arrangements, days off, are your decision. However, I will not pay you over $150,000 a year, and you cannot take more than 3 months off a year. Your choice of apartment must be within two blocks of Wanda and I.” Natasha’s voice hangs heavy in the air. Has the room always been this humid?

You think you’re going to be sick from the rush of adrenalin. $150,000 a year and moving? You were barely making $40,000 in your current position, and your lease wasn’t up for another six months. Wanda notices the shift in your body language, and places a gentle hand on your back. Her thumb rubs circles into a knot in your lower back, and you fight the urge to squirm under her touch.

“Read it over, dear,” Wanda’s voice is soft in your ears, and obediently you pick up the contract.

This agreement establishes The Terms of Employment between the following parties:

Wanda Maximoff-Romanov and Natasha Romanov (Referred to as Party 1)

And

Y/N   Y/L/N (Referred to as Party 2)

Party 2 is herein referred to as a “The Assistant’’ and is set forth to be available to Party 1 on a 24 hour; 365 day basis.

The parties hereby agree to the following provisions as the terms and conditions of The Assistants Employment :

The Assistant must live within walking distance of Party 1’s home apartment;

Party 1 is to help The Assistant settle into her live quarters under the terms  of the contract;

Neither party may discuss the contents of the contract with any unapproved persons;

The Assistant is to keep all personal matters which involve Party 1 confidential unless Party 1 approves of the individual ;

Clothing

Food

Material Indulgences

Affection

Open Communication

You continue to flip through the Agreement, digesting that you will have to move in order to fill this position. What will your father think? You wonder briefly before you remind yourself that if your father wanted to have an opinion on your life then he would have to be an active participant. Rather than a judgmental asshole who swoops in to kick you when you’re already down. The reminder of his very existence has you grappling for a pen.

“Where do I sign?” You say with an air of confidence looking up at Natasha. Her red lips pull into a smirk. Her eyes darken, and she leans forward in her seat. Her elbow resting on her knee, and a hand holding her face. Wanda's thumb stills on your back, fingers tightening. You fight the urge to lean further back into her touch.

“Last page, sweetheart,” Natasha’s tone is warm, and you feel your insides fuel with excitement  as you sign your name above the dotted line. The details could be sorted through later. Right now, all you could think about was the thrill you felt under Natasha’s gaze, and Wanda’s hand on your back.

TAG LIST: @Whitewidowsbite @Marvelcnt @Cherlenovix @Blackwidow-3 @Santana1437 @Madelineleong @tbpandtswiftfan

[thenerdykneazle]

The Nerdy Kneazle's Masterlist

Hogwarts Legacy fics featuring:

Ominis Gaunt Sebastian Sallow Garreth Weasley

Mostly x F!MC but a few others mixed in (M, GN, and silver trio).

Legend:

📈 = most popular fic for the character

Ominis Gaunt

The Scriptorium Omi x GN!MC | read on AO3

After a harrowing journey through Slytherin's Scriptorium, Ominis helps MC recover from being subjected to the torture curse. After all, he has personal experience dealing with its effects.

Amorous Tension Omi x F!MC | read on AO3

collab with @darch7995 Audios: Part 1 & Part 2 Two idiots in love brew amortentia together.

📈 Her Touch Omi x F!MC | read on AO3

Ominis had never been fond of being touched. Or, at least, he had few positive experiences with it. That changed with the arrival of the new fifth-year.

Left Behind Omi x F!MC x Seb | read on AO3

collab with @darch7995 | listen to the audio here Ominis is feeling forgotten when he discovers his partners have run off on yet another adventure without him. Can Sebastian and MC make amends with him when they return to the castle?

Sebastian Sallow

A Win Seb x F!MC | read on AO3

Sebastian has a creative interpretation of who won your last duel.

Slytherin Green Seb x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

Sebastian is none too pleased to discover you've borrowed Garreth's jumper after his experimental potion ruined your usual uniform. Your duelling practice threatens to turn into a falling out.

Fast Asleep Seb x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

(TW: non-consensual somnophilia) Sebastian finds himself unable to resist his curiosity when late nights fighting baddies cause the two of you to repeatedly spend the night in the Room of Requirement together.

Kindred Spirits Seb x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

32.8k words | Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 On the cusp of a promotion to Senior Auror, MC is sent by the DMLE to train with the most efficient law enforcement team in Europe. She’s quite excited until she discovers that the auror hosting her is none other than her ex, Sebastian Sallow. Modern wizarding world AU.

Sallow Soul Seb x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4 , 5, 6 (additional epilogues likely) Seb's POV for Kindred Spirits. Starts earlier with Anne's funeral and goes past where KS left off. Makes more sense if you've read Kindred Spirits, but the first chapter (The Funeral, 3k) works as a stand-alone. AKA fate gives a heartbroken Sebastian a third chance (hopefully) with the witch he's loved since he was 15.

📈 Wild Ride Seb x M!MC | read on AO3

collab with @darch7995 Audios: Part 1 & Part 2 Seb is desperate to get you to let him back into your life. When he invites himself on your ingredient run, the simple errand turns out to be much more dangerous than either of you anticipated.

Garreth Weasley

Dear Diary Gar x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

You stumble across Garreth's rather scandalizing diary while waiting for him to meet up with you.

Sweet Dreams Gar x F!MC NSFW | read on AO3

Garreth wakes up painfully hard after spicy dreams about MC. Unfortunately, he's neither alone nor in his own bed when he instinctively tries to 'take care of it' himself.

📈 Marry You Gar x F!MC | read on AO3

Garreth proclaims to anyone and everyone, including you, that he is going to marry you one day – despite the fact that you haven’t even agreed to court him (not that he's asked). Pure fluff.

Yule Ball Gar x F!MC NSFW | Read on AO3

You realise last-minute that your boyfriend isn't planning on taking you to the Yule Ball. A simple misunderstanding leads to hurt feelings, but talking it out (and the makeup sex) is worth it.

[sixhours]

i know you by heart - chapter 5

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Prospect, Joel Miller x Ezra, Joel & Ellie, Ezra & Cee, Joel is bad at feelings and relationships, Ellie is a little shit (affectionate), mostly follows canon after season 1, SMUT, gay sex, bisexual!Joel, period-typical homophobia, light angst, angst with a happy ending, romance, age gap (~10ish years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

Chapter notes: You guessed it, there's more smut here! It's easy to skip.

You may have noticed the number of chapters has decreased, but the word count continues to go up. I'm not as verbose as our dear Ezra, but I think this will be around 35k when all is said and done.

“Hey, kiddo. Can we talk?”

He’s sitting at the kitchen table when she comes downstairs at a run. He’s going to tell her, he’s decided. It’s been months of sneaking around. He’s gotta do it.

“I’m late, I’ve got patrol training,” she says, grabbing an apple off the bowl on the counter and holding it in her mouth while trying to shoulder her pack and put on her shoes at the same time. “Mermer?”

“Whats’at?”

“Remember?” she says, pulling the apple from her teeth, taking a big bite in the process. “I told you last–”

“Yeah, last night. It can wait. Y’all be back for dinner?”

“Uh-huh sure. But I really gotta go, dude, Jesse’ll have my head if I’m not at the stables, like, ten minutes ago.”

“Alright, I’ll see you tonight,” he says, and then she’s out the door with a wave and a muffled “bye”.

She’d been on him to start patrol training the day after her birthday and he’d obliged despite a million reservations. But Tommy reassured him it was safe; they took the kids on training exercises through areas recently cleared by regular patrols and she’d be partnered with an older, more experienced patroller. She’d been more than capable on the road, and that was before she’d known how to shoot a rifle or ride a horse.

But that was also before he’d cared enough to worry about her like his own.

She’ll be fine , he reminds himself, finishing his coffee. And tonight he’ll tell her about Ezra.

Today he’s at a construction site on the west side of Jackson, working alongside Tommy and a handful of others to repair and restore a cluster of homes for the expanding community. It’s familiar work, the kind that keeps his hands occupied and his mind quiet–just what he needs.

They’re wrapping up leveling the front porch on one of the houses when he spots Maria lingering on the sidewalk. Something in the gravity of her expression has Joel’s hackles up before she can open her mouth.

“There was a…situation.”

He catches fragments of what happened through a haze of barely contained panic.

Patrol training came back with one less kid. The last group had swept the area, believing it to be clear. Trainees were sent out in pairs. A stray infected caught two of the boys by surprise.

One was bit.

“Ellie’s fine, Joel, she’s–”

“Where is she?” he barks.

“She went home, but–”

Joel storms off without waiting for her to finish, without gathering his tools, heart beating Ellie’s name in his throat.

He finds her in her room, whole and unharmed, but his relief is short-lived.

She sits on her bed in a t-shirt, holding out her right arm and staring at her scar. It’s unbandaged, unwrapped, on display. She’s normally meticulous about keeping it covered; the sight of her bare skin and the vining, twisting threads underneath sets a pit of dread to root in his stomach.

“Ellie…?”

She looks up at him, eyes two dark pools of hurt. She doesn’t have to speak the words for him to know that’s what she’s thinking.

I could have prevented this.

It should have been me.

“Hey…”

He steps into the room on tentative feet. She barely acknowledges his presence when he sits beside her, puts an arm around her shoulders, and pulls her to his side. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t say a word, just presses herself against his ribs and lets him hold on.

The town holds a funeral and she insists on attending, watching as they lower the boy’s roughshod wood casket down. Joel puts a heavy hand on Ellie’s shoulder in sympathy, feels only a flicker of shame when all he can think is that he’s glad it’s not her body going into the ground.

She’s withdrawn in the days following, and it feels like the aftermath of Silver Lake all over again. Instead of stomping around the house in a huff, the place is eerily quiet. There’s no loud music, no swearing, no questions or conversations beyond a simple yes or no, or telling him where she’ll be during the day. Her new guitar gathers dust in the corner of her room, never played.

She goes back to patrol training after four short days. They have a big fight about it, but in the end, Joel doesn’t have the strength to tell her no. She seems determined to make herself useful, though he suspects it’s more a self-imposed penance.

This is the world you wanted , she seems to say with every look, every stilted word. This is the choice you made.

More than once, he catches her staring at her scar.

Now it’s he who can’t sleep at night. He stays awake in a vain effort to keep the bad dreams at bay. He paces the halls of their home and lingers in her bedroom doorway. He takes solace in her sleeping form, her face relaxed, no longer pinched and drawn by the weight of their secrets.

He dreams he’s in a hospital holding Ellie’s bloody corpse, the back of her head cut open and gleaming and horribly empty. It thunks hollowly, sickeningly against his shoulder as he runs through endless hallways from a faceless, nameless thing. He’s never fast enough, never strong enough, never has enough time. Sometimes Sarah is there, mocking him, shaming him, and sometimes he just runs until he wakes, breathing hard, sweating through his bedsheets.

If she has nightmares, she doesn’t tell him.

It’s been over a week since the boy’s death. Ellie is stony and withdrawn, and Joel is running out of ideas, sleep-deprived and desperate.

He’s headed to see Ezra, surprised to see her coming down the porch steps with her head hung low and hands stuffed in her pockets. She jumps a little when she sees him coming.

“Hey, what’re you–”

“Hey,” she mumbles.

“Thought you had kitchen duty.”

“I do. And I’m gonna be late, so…I’ll see you tonight,” she says, bypassing him and veering up the street toward the caf.

“Ellie, wait–”

She doesn’t answer. He catches motion out of the corner of his eye; Ezra, watching from the door. 

“What was that about?” Joel asks. It comes out accusatory, almost mean.

Ezra bites his lip. “I believe we have what we in the profession call a conflict of interest. I…can’t in good conscience tell you.”

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or angry as he watches the back of Ellie’s hoodie disappear around the corner.

“Guess I should be grateful,” he sighs finally. “‘Cause she sure as hell ain’t talkin’ to me.”

Ezra bites his lip, steps aside wordlessly and gestures him inside.

“I’m fuckin’ this up, Ez,” he whispers as the door closes behind him, surprised to find his throat thick with tears. “I’m…I dunno what to do.”

A pause, and then Ezra’s arm comes around him wordlessly. Joel ducks his head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of him, oaky and warm like his favorite whiskey.

He places a chaste kiss on the edge of his collarbone as Ezra’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head. He mouths at the skin there, drags his lips against the stubble under his jaw, feeling a desperate need to sate something, seeking a kind of comfort he’s only recently become reacquainted with.

“Songbird,” Ezra whispers hesitantly.

“Please,” Joel growls low in his throat.

Ezra takes him by the hand and leads them upstairs.

+++++++++++++++++++++SMUT+CUT++++++++++++++++++++++

Minutes later and he’s buried in Ezra to the hilt, dragging his cock slowly in and out as the shower pelts them with lukewarm water. Ezra braces himself on the tile with his forearm as Joel tries to control his pace, hands on his hips with an iron-tight grip.

“Take what you…need, cher . I like my pleasure…with a little…pain.”

That whittles down the last of Joel’s resolve. He leans forward, braces one hand on the wall while the other grabs at Ezra’s ass, driving his hips again and again, rutting hard until they’re both panting with the effort. Ezra’s grunts and moans reverberate throughout the tiny bathroom, and Joel hopes like hell Cee isn’t home, or at least wearing her headphones, because there’s no way they’re being quiet enough.

His hand finds Ezra’s on the cool tile wall, interlacing their fingers as he hurtles toward his release, pleasure already gathering, licking tendrils of heat up the base of his spine. His other hand slides around to stroke Ezra, to try to bring him along, but he’s too far gone now. The angle and the sweet slick clench around him has him toppling over the edge, spilling into him with a sharp cry.

He wraps one arm around Ezra’s shoulders and hauls him up, front flush to his back, sagging sideways against the wall for support when his legs threaten to give out. He presses a kiss to Ezra’s nape as he comes down, licks the dappled water from the base of his neck.

“Bed, mon cœur ,” Ezra pants, still rock hard in Joel’s palm.

Ezra lies down and Joel crawls over him, settling on top with one thigh nestled firmly between both of his. He’s entranced by the slick slide of Ezra’s tongue between his lips, focused on slow, tender kisses that have Ezra arching his back, rutting his unsatisfied length against Joel’s thick, muscled thigh, seeking friction.

“Alright, alright,” he soothes, nipping at his plush lower lip, swallowing his moans as he grinds down, adding pressure as Ezra’s cock slicks his thigh with precome. If he were fifteen years younger he’d probably be ready to go again, but he’ll settle for taking his time, drawing out every meeting of their lips until Ezra’s wriggling beneath him becomes too insistent.

“ Cher , please, for the love of all that is good and holy, this is torture and I must insist you–ah–give me something more to work–ohhh fuck–work with.”

“Behave,” Joel growls, and he feels the kick of Ezra’s arousal against him in response, the sound of a whimper that makes him feel heady and drunk with power.

He slides down his body, feels the clench of Ezra’s fist in his hair as he takes him in. Watches the other man’s expression, all heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips, when his tongue traces his frenulum, dragging it flat along the head before enveloping his cock completely.

Ezra’s eyes roll back and his head drops to the pillow, the elegant arch of his throat bared with a vulnerability that makes Joel’s heart clench with something like love.

“Songbird, I–Christ, man–“

“I got you,” Joel whispers, taking him as deep as he can, clenching his throat around him until Ezra’s fist tightens its grip. Joel lets out an involuntary moan at the sensation, feels Ezra’s cock throb against his lips, the hot rush of come at the back of his throat.

+++++++++++++++++++END+SMUT+CUT++++++++++++++++++++

In the aftermath, he’s exhausted. The release and the physical exertion coupled with lack of sleep has his eyes threatening to slip shut with his head pillowed on Ezra’s thigh. He feels a hand come around his back, urging him up, and his limbs cooperate long enough for him to settle in the crook of Ezra’s good arm.

He must drift off for a while because the light has changed when he opens his eyes; it’s warmer, richer. Ezra is still there, absently twirling his fingers in the damp curls at the base of Joel’s neck.

Really should cut my hair , he thinks groggily. Gettin’ worse than Tommy.

“Hello, songbird.”

Ezra’s voice is soft.

“Hey,” he rasps. “Sorry. Haven’t…been sleepin’ much.”

“It’s no trouble,” he murmurs. 

“You got any more, uh, clients today?”

“Not a one,” his voice is low and smooth. “I’m all yours.”

Joel is too blurry around the edges to consider the deeper implications there.

He doesn’t know what prompts him to speak, but skin-to-skin in the soft light of the dwindling afternoon, the words come easier.

“Ellie’s immune.”

Ezra raises an eyebrow, but there’s no surprise in his expression.

Joel considers him, makes the connection. “But she told you that already, huh.”

For a man who loves to hear himself talk, Ezra remains infuriatingly quiet.

Joel nods. “Alright then. She tell you anythin’ else? About Salt Lake City?”

Ezra takes a deep breath, lets it out in a rush. “I wouldn’t betray her trust–”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Joel, as much as I–”

The use of his first name sounds foreign, almost like an admonishment, a warning.

“I know ,” he snaps, then softens. “I get it. I’m just…she’s fadin’, Ez. I don’t know how to get her back.”

An awkward quiet settles between them.

“How ‘bout…I’ll tell you,” Joel sighs finally. “Maybe it’ll help you help her. Like…before.”

Ezra bites his lip. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“I used to do a certain kinda…trading back in the QZ. Mostly pills and cigs, booze, sometimes weapons, ammo. Tommy was part of that for a while, then he left on some dumb crusade with the Fireflies. We lost touch an’ I got worried he’d bit off more than he could spit.

“So my, uh, partner an’ I took a job. We were supposed to take this kid to the Fireflies in exchange for a payment, supplies an’ shit, to get us out here to find Tommy. But everythin’ went wrong. Partner got bit first day out. Shit happened. By the end, it was just me an’ Ellie.

“She was a little shit,” he says, chuckling at the thought. “Kept beggin’ me for a gun, askin’ questions about stuff. Never had a minute’s peace. But she…she was smart, too. Saved my ass more than once. Had my back. We figured it out. An’ I guess…after all those months on the road…she wasn’t just a job.”

He swallows hard, suddenly wishing for a stiff drink.

“I had a kid before, y’know,” he murmurs, looking at his wrist, the tan line where his watch would be if it wasn’t sitting on the nightstand. “Didn’t, uh…didn’t think I’d ever have that again. Ellie…she did for me what Cee did for you, I guess. Made me better. Gave me back my life.”

The thought brings tears to his eyes and he pauses to wipe them away.

“Anyway. I got her to the Fireflies like I promised. But the cure they were lookin’ for came at a price. They were gonna kill her, Ez. They were gonna take out her brain and…I don’t fuckin’ know what they had planned, but she wouldn’t survive it. She was just a fuckin’ kid . I couldn’t let that happen.

“So I killed the lot of ‘em. There’s a fuckin’ river of blood on my hands,” he says drily, tilting his head up to gauge Ezra’s reaction.

A fingertip lightly traces the line of Joel’s jaw and his voice is gentle. “Terrible things have been done for less, songbird.”

“Don’t I know it,” Joel sniffs. “But Ellie…she ate it up. She believed it, all that cure bullshit. Now she’s out there thinkin’ she could have saved the damn world, and I’m the bastard who took that away. I got her out. Told her…told her there was no cure. Broke her fuckin’ heart and brought her here, and now…”

“She suspects?” Ezra prompts.

Joel snorts. “You know how she is, Ez. She knows . She knows…even if she won’t admit it. An’ I’m too much of a coward to tell her.”

“Hmm.”

“What would you do?” he asks, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “If it was Cee?”

Ezra grimaces, creases pooling between his eyebrows. “It’s not a fair comparison. Cee isn’t my daughter, and–”

“Bullshit,” Joel says flatly. “She’s as much your kid as Ellie is mine.”

A sharp look. “In your position…I suppose I would be reticent. But the truth will out.”

Joel goes quiet.

“Do you want my opinion?” he offers more gently.

“Wouldn’t be tellin’ you this if I didn’t.”

“If I may be blunt…your girl has endured far worse than words. The truth can’t hurt her any more than the world already has. It’s time to come clean, gut the fencer. Tell her.”

“Yeah, an’ what then?” he says.

“She makes a choice. Maybe it surprises you.”

“Are you tellin’ me this as her therapist, or as a…a friend?”

A deep sigh. “Both, I suppose.”

He considers him, then. The long line of his nose, the jut of his chin, so familiar, and yet…there’s a distance in his eyes. He wonders how much Ellie has told him, how much he inferred and intuited.

“I can’t lose her, Ez,” he says roughly. “I won’t survive it.”

“I know,” he whispers. Ezra’s hand finds his back, rubbing slow, careful circles.

“Look, I know you can’t talk about it. I know…she needs her space. But can you…can you just promise me…if she’s gonna do somethin’ stupid, you’ll tell me? Can you do that?”

Ezra meets his eyes, then his gaze darts away. It’s a split second, barely perceptible, but Joel recognizes it as a tell. “If I thought she was in particularly dire straits…yes, I would tell you.”

Joel shifts in the bed and the silence draws out. 

“I should…”

Ezra nods, pulls his hand away, lets him go.

Joel reaches for his jeans and tugs them on, then sits on the edge of the bed. The pit of dread he’s carried for the last week has resettled in his stomach.

“Look…maybe we should, uh…back off a little,” he says, throat tight. “‘Til she’s feelin’ alright again. Ain’t fair to her…or you…”

“I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” Ezra says softly. “Truth be told, I don’t want to do so, but…I understand…needs must.”

Joel leans over and kisses him long and slow, pressing his forehead to Ezra’s, letting himself stay in the moment just a little longer.

“She’ll come around,” he whispers, more to himself than to Ezra. “She’ll come around.”

But she doesn’t.

By the start of August, it’s clear she’s lost weight. The dark circles under her eyes grow deeper. She sees Ezra every week, and he and Joel pause their regular trysts. They keep things friendly but chaste, sometimes meeting for lunch or dinner, sometimes conversing on the porch while Joel plays music and Ezra rambles. The physical absence hurts like a splinter, like a persistent low-level itch under his skin, but the ache of Ellie’s slow and deliberate withdrawal cuts deeper.

And then, Joel finds himself in possession of a single can of Chef Boyardee ravioli and a sliver of hope. He trades an obscene amount of precious coffee crystals for the cheap canned pasta without batting an eye, happy to have some kind of leverage, tenuous as it is.

When Ellie comes home after her shift at the stables that evening, he’s ready with a plan.

“Hey, kiddo.”

She eyes him warily. “Hey.”

“Thought we could, uh, do dinner at home tonight.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Even for your favorite?” he says, holding up the can of Chef Boyardee.

Her eyebrows lift with mild interest; it’s not quite the reaction he hoped for, but it’s a hook.

“I dunno,” she sighs. “Think I’m just gonna–”

“It comes with a surprise,” he tries. “Y’don’t have to eat, just…come see?”

She sighs. “Fine.”

She trudges behind him to the backyard, where he’s set up a shallow fire pit with a bunch of old paving stones he found under the porch. An open fire is already crackling and popping and he’s dragged a big log from the edge of the yard over to use as a seat. On top of the ring of stones, he’s settled an old oven rack, upon which he places the open can of ravioli.

Hands on his hips, he turns to gauge her reaction. Her smile is tight-lipped and forced. “A fire, huh?”

“Yeah. Thought we could eat out here tonight. Kinda like old times,” he says. “‘Cept…”

He holds out a large wax bag, watches her eyes light up as she opens it and looks inside.

“Didn’t have these on the road.”

He’d traded Dina’s sister a week’s worth of work on her kitchen for a batch of homemade marshmallow squares.

“Oh, nice,” she breathes, something a little closer to her usual self. She’s already popped one into her mouth when he sits down.

“Don’t spoil your dinner,” he says, all false admonishment as she takes a seat next to him, handing him a marshmallow of his own. It’s sweet and soft and melts like pure sugar on his tongue as they wait for their canned pasta to heat over the flames.

When the food is warm, they pass the can back and forth, sharing bites of ravioli until it’s gone. He’s heartened when she eats her share and more, if not with the same gusto from before.

Then Joel pulls out two sticks he’s whittled to points and uses one to spear a fresh marshmallow, handing it to her. Her treat catches on fire almost immediately, too close to the flames, burning the outside to a blackened crisp. She eats it anyway, traces of charred goo sticking at the corner of her lips, to the tips of her fingers.

He finally hears her laugh a little when he gets some stuck in his beard. Then she starts a jousting match, trying to knock his second marshmallow into the fire and almost succeeds, leaving him with a dangling gooey mess that he smears into the arm of her sweatshirt.

“You asshole!” she says, giggling. “That’s my favorite one!”

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll wash,” he says, too eager to hear her laughter to care about the laundry.

She wrinkles her nose, pokes at him with her bare stick. “It better, old man.”

She doesn’t eat ten marshmallows, but that doesn’t matter. He hasn’t seen her smile this much in weeks. Her laughter feels like cool water poured over the scorched desert earth.

“Fire pit was a good idea,” she says after a while, arms crossed over her knees.

“Still have those occasionally,” he agrees, then gets to his feet. “Not done yet, though. One more thing.”

“I hope it’s a fucking dinosaur,” she calls, and the levity in her voice could sustain him for a month.

He goes to the back porch and pulls out their sleeping bags from under the bench. He tosses hers over.

“Might be meteor showers.”

“Really? How’d you know?”

“Some space almanac thing. Cee was tellin’ us about ‘em, thought maybe we’d try and see what we can see.”

“‘Us’, huh?”

“Oh, uh, I mean Ezra,” he says, shaking out the sleeping bag and spreading it on the ground. “She told him, he told me.”

“Hmm,” she says, lips quirked in a smile. “Sounds cool.”

He eases down, quietly pleased when she spreads her sleeping bag next to his. She plops down and stretches out with a sigh.

“The sky feels so much bigger out here,” she says.

“Reckon it does,” he agrees.

They watch the navy blue backdrop above them grow dark, stars slowly blinking into existence as the sun dips below the horizon. A bat swoops and dips overhead, black wings barely visible against the darkening sky.

“Oh! See that?”

 “What?”

“You missed it,” she huffs, pointing to their right. “Shooting star.”

“Did you make a wish?”

She looks over at him with a mix of exasperation and amusement. “No, because I’m not five, Joel.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Never get your wish with that attitude.”

“Can you even see anything? Don’t you need, like, glasses?”

“Can see just fine, brat. Only need ‘em for reading.”

Another star streaks across the sky; Joel catches it this time and points it out, but she’s already looking elsewhere. She traces and names the constellations she recognizes, more than Joel ever knew. In school, they’re learning how to use the sky and the stars to navigate without a working compass.

After a while he tips his head, subtly trying to watch her, more entranced by Ellie’s expression than the night. Her eyes shine, reflecting all the wonders of space.

On impulse, he inches his hand over to take hers, nudging her arm in the dark. She hisses and jerks away at the contact.

“Whoa, easy…”

“It’s fine,” she says quickly. “Hurt it at the stables.”

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

But now he’s sitting up, a nagging, twisting feeling in his gut. 

“Kiddo, if you’re hurt–”

“C’mon, dude, drop it. It’s not that bad,” she says. He can practically hear her eye roll.

“But–“

“Fucking hell, Joel, it’s fine,” she snaps.

“Kiddo, I’m not tryin’ to–”

She’s on her feet with a growl, kicking the blanket aside. He gets up as fast as his knees will let him and follows her into the house. He reaches out to grab her forearm. It’s a light touch, not meant to hold, just to get her attention, but she hisses again at the contact, gives a little moan.

“Don’t!”

“Hey, if somethin’s wrong–”

“It’s nothing,” she says, but there’s a frantic edge to her words now. Something fearful. “Just don’t touch me!”

“Ellie, baby–”

“No!”

She’s almost crying, he realizes, her voice reedy and threaded with panic. His resolve hardens to a fine point.

“Show me your arm,” he says firmly. “Ellie.”

Defiant, chin trembling, she groans and pulls up her sleeve revealing her usual scar covered by a thick piece of gauze.

“What happened?” he tries again. “Did someone–did someone do this?”

She doesn’t answer. When he reaches out, she flinches away as if in fear, and that hurts worse than any silence or lassitude. He takes her firmly but gently by the wrist and holds her arm steady while he peels back the gauze. The skin where her scar used to be is bright red, blistered, and oozing.

“Jesus,” he breathes, brow furrowed. “How’d this happen?”

No answer.

“C’mon, kid. I’m not mad, but you gotta tell me–”

“Lye,” she says flatly. “From the soap place.”

“Lye,” he repeats. “So…so you did this? But why would you–”

She groans and rolls her eyes, yanking her arm back. “You still don’t fucking get it.”

“No, I don’t,” he says, trying not to raise his voice. “I’m tryin’ to understand, but you won’t…you won’t talk to me. You gotta help me out here.”

“I’m tired of hiding,” she grits out. “I’m tired of…of being a fucking freak.”

“You’re not–”

“Oh, fuck off,” she growls. “You said it yourself; they see this, they shoot me. Now they won’t fucking shoot me, right?”

“Yeah, but…you hurtin’ yourself was never the plan, kid. I never woulda–I mean I wish you’d just–why didn’t you–damnit,” he growls. 

“Well, I did it, so it’s done now, okay? You don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

“Ellie, I will always worry about you,” he snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s my goddamn job.”

She’s fumbling to put the bandage back on, re-sticking the medical tape, tugging her sleeve back down.

Then an idea occurs to him; a horrible thought that latches like a leech, ugly and writhing on his conscience. “Did Ezra know about this?”

Her eyes tell the truth even as she spits at him. “Why the fuck does that matter?”

Joel closes his eyes, clenching his jaw. “Because…he’s supposed to look out for you. The same way I’m supposed to look out for you, and he–”

He promised.

“‘The way you look out for me?’ What, by fucking lying to me? How the fuck is that supposed to help me?”

“I didn’t–“

“Then tell me the truth,” she snarls.

“I…did,” he swallows, tasting the bitter swirl of the lie on his tongue.

“Whatever. I have homework. Going to bed.”

“Ellie–”

She doesn’t give him a chance to answer, just stomps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door.

Ezra is startled from his work when Joel storms into the greenhouse the next morning, door banging harshly against the frame.

“Did you know?” he fires off before Ezra can open his mouth. “Did you know she was goin’ to…to do that to herself?”

A pair of women look up from their conversation, frozen and watching. Ezra eyes them, then Joel, holding up his hand.

“Joel–”

“Answer the fuckin’ question, Ez.”

He doesn’t, and his silence is all the confirmation Joel needs. Red floods his field of vision. His fists clench at his sides.

“Let’s take this conversation somewhere more private shall we?” Ezra grits out, grabbing Joel by the arm and marching them outside, around the corner, until they’re tucked between the two greenhouses and out of sight.

“You were s’posed to tell me,” Joel hisses when they’re alone.

“I tried–”

“You should have said somethin’,” he continues, feeling like a live wire, ready to snap. He pushes in closer, crowding him until he can almost feel the other man’s breath on his face.

Something flashes in Ezra’s eyes, something cold and alien that sends a trickle of unease down Joel’s spine. A subtle reminder that, underneath all the pretense of their domestic lives, they are still two dangerous men.

“Back up, Joel, or I will be forced to make you do so myself,” he says through gritted teeth, calm and cold. His eyes have narrowed to flinty points.

Joel takes a measured step back, jaw working, shame and rage roiling beneath his skin.

“Tell me,” he grits out.

“If I thought she was in any immediate peril…if I had any qualms whatsoever about her intentions…you would have been the first to know. But it was her choice, Joel, made of sound mind and body. And a clever one, too, if I must be frank. She went to the clinic as soon as it was done, saw to it the burn was treated with utmost care.”

“So you were there ?”

“No, but she relayed her plans to me and I simply–”

“So she fuckin’ planned this, is what you’re tellin’ me? An’ you didn’t think I had a right to know my kid was gonna burn off her own fuckin’ arm?”

“She specifically requested I not tell you…for reasons that have just now made themselves apparent,” he grits out.

“Damnit, Ezra,” he spits. “What the fuck kinda therapist are you?”

“The kind that’s trying to keep her safe in a world that would rather see her dead,” he says sharply. “And I believe we share a common goal in that regard, so I’d kindly ask that you refrain from the insinuation that I have anything but her best interests at heart.”

“What about my interests, huh?”

He knows he sounds petty, but he’s no longer fully in control of his mouth. There’s a venomous creature in his chest trying to claw its way out, a panicked thrashing between his ribs that tells him she’s hurt, he needs to protect her, but he can’t, he’s failing again , and Ezra’s found himself in the crossfire.

“The welfare of a child takes precedence over your bruised ego.”

“Fuck you,” he spits out. He means for it to hurt, but the words come out sounding hollow. For his part, Ezra doesn’t fire back, merely glares at him from beneath dark lashes, radiating hurt.

Joel paces like an animal, wipes the back of one shaking hand over his lips. 

“I can’t…this…this ain’t workin’,” he huffs finally, voice breaking. He can’t bring himself to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Then it would appear we’ve reached a certain…conclusion,” Ezra murmurs.

“Yeah,” he whispers, breath hitching in his throat. “Yeah, I guess we have.”

Joel brushes past him none too carefully and stalks off. Ten steps down the road and he wants to take it all back, but Ezra wasn’t wrong about his ego. It keeps him firmly, painfully pointed in the opposite direction.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Wednesdays mean a new chapter of Wídfara and Guthláf!

Part 5 of 8, in which Wíd gets a glimpse of what it’s like to lose Guthláf, and it helps him make a big decision. Thank you to the small but mighty crew who support this story—I deeply appreciate all of you!

Catch up on previous parts here: One. Two. Three. Four.

Wídfara was back in the stables again early the next morning, having spent the hours since his confrontation with Guthláf in tortured sleeplessness. Maybe we just shouldn’t be together. His own words echoed in his ears, so foolish and so hasty. He wanted nothing more than to take them back, to undo everything about the night before. And yet, he wasn’t sure there was any better outcome.

If he did as Guthláf wanted, he was sentencing himself to a life lived in abject fear of a tragedy he felt certain was coming. But if he managed to impose his will on Guthláf instead, their relationship would be forever poisoned by the acrid taste of resentment. Even worse, he ran the risk that the Guthláf who remained would no longer be the same man Wídfara had fallen in love with, that some irreplaceable part of him might die along with his discarded dreams. No matter what he did, he seemed destined to lose Guthláf somehow, and his aching sorrow was mixed with a heavy dose of grievance toward a world that was giving him only impossible choices. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he needed to talk to Guthláf again. Things couldn’t end as they had last night.

As more men arrived to prepare for the day, Wídfara withdrew into himself, taking up menial tasks – changing out bedding, refilling feeders, polishing tack – to keep his hands busy while his mind struggled to work out his thoughts. Ordinarily, these simple barn chores would be his novice’s work, but Freogan seemed to intuit from just a glance at his face that this was not an ordinary day. He gave Wídfara a wide berth and posted himself a short distance down the aisle, where he could quietly discourage others from unnecessary disruptions.

Even Freogan’s dutiful attentions, though, could not stop the eventual inquiries that came when Guthláf’s continuing absence began to draw notice in the stable. Several of the senior men of the éored came to Cypren’s stall to ask Wídfara if he had yet seen his friend that morning, and he was forced to shrug off those inquiries, feigning ignorance as to Guthláf’s doings since leaving the tavern. But amidst his bitter sadness and confusion, a chord of worry now also sounded in the back of his mind. Guthláf was never late and rarely alone, and yet now he seemed to be both at once. Wídfara couldn’t help but worry about what this unusual behavior might mean.

It wasn’t until an hour after the start of training that Guthláf finally appeared, and his arrival did nothing to assuage Wídfara’s concerns. He had never seen Guthláf as he looked that morning — dark circles under his eyes, pale, listless and with none of his usual spark or good-natured easiness. He walked slowly and with an awkward remove from his surroundings, as though his body was present but his spirit was elsewhere. He ignored the teasing innuendo of friends about overindulgence in either drink or women, and he silently accepted a reprimand for tardiness from Déorwine before mounting his horse and taking his place in the ranks. But while others soon went back to business as usual, it remained painfully obvious to Wídfara that Guthláf was not alright. His riding was sloppy, he was frequently out of position, and his reactions to the movements of others were delayed.

Widfara watched him carefully from the periphery of his vision, one eye always on Guthláf even as he followed commands and executed his own drills. When they lined up to practice defensive tactics, with some riders occupying the roles of hypothetical enemies, Wídfara could see right away that Guthláf was out of position again, leaving himself dangerously exposed. Elfhelm saw it, too, and called out for an adjustment as the drill began, but it was too late – Herubrand, in one of the enemy positions, easily knocked Guthláf from his saddle, and his helmet, poorly secured, slid off as well. Far closer than he should have been to the adjoining paddock fence, his head struck a wooden rail with a sickening crack on his way to the ground.

All organized action came to an immediate halt as men rushed toward Guthláf from all directions, but no one got there faster than Wídfara, who was off his horse and across the open distance before much closer men had even been able to dismount. He skidded to his knees at Guthláf’s side and felt his own heart stop at the sight of a halo of bright red blood quickly pooling in the dirt behind Guthláf’s head.

“Guthláf? Can you hear me?” He patted Guthláf’s cheek a few times, but his eyes remained closed and he didn’t stir even as Syndrigan nosed heavily at his shoulder. With trembling fingers, Wídfara reached down to check his pulse and let out a shuddering sigh of relief when he found a faint but steady beat.

“Get on his horse, Wídfara. Now.” Elfhelm had elbowed his way into the tight circle that had formed around Guthláf’s crumpled body and taken in the circumstances in a quick glance.

“What?” Wídfara looked up, wild eyed at the thought of being sent away from Guthláf in this moment.

“Get in the saddle and we’ll hand him up to you. You’ll get over to the healers much faster by horse than trying to carry him yourself.”

Wídfara jumped up and pulled himself onto Syndrigan’s back. She stomped a foot and shook her head in agitation at bearing an unfamiliar rider but calmed as soon as Herubrand, Elfhelm and a few others lifted Guthláf up and set him in front of Wídfara, his limp body leaned back onto Wídfara’s chest and shoulder. He clasped an arm across Guthláf’s middle, gave Syndrigan a nudge and rode off to the healers as fast as she would carry them. A horn was sounded behind him, the notice to the healers of an incoming injury, and by the time he arrived at the right building, several men waited out front, ready to carry Guthláf inside.

The next hours were the longest and most desperate Wídfara had ever known. The healers whisked Guthláf away from him before he could protest, and they blocked him from entering the room where they worked to treat the injury. Once again, Wídfara found himself standing in a hallway, listening to the appalling sounds of distress drift out to him from behind a closed door. Groaning and vomiting as Guthláf regained consciousness. Raised, urgent voices speaking short, barked commands. Cries of pain. He paced a dogged path back and forth in front of the room, certain that he would wear a groove into the stone floor if he was kept outside much longer, and his entire body thrummed with frantic energy, the charged sting of panic. He clung to the very edge of his sanity and felt even that slipping from his grasp when, at last, the door opened and a woman in a bloodstained apron emerged. Wídfara nearly tackled her in his fervor to hear news.

“There is a break in his skull,” the woman said, “but it’s a relatively clean break. The external wound is now sewn closed and we are satisfied that there will be no critical swelling. He needs a lot of rest, but the bone should heal on its own over the next few weeks. You can go in, but he’s been heavily dosed for his pain and won’t wake up for several hours.”

The sudden easing of Wídfara’s fevered anxiety was so strong that he almost lost his balance, and he slumped back against the wall for support. “Thank you,” he managed to rasp out. “Will you please send an update to Marshal Elfhelm as soon as you can?”

“Of course. And someone will be back to check on him regularly.”

Wídfara let himself into the room as the remaining healers went out, and he looked down at Guthláf’s still, fragile form, sleeping curled on his side with drying, rust-colored blood matted through the back of his hair. Out of sight of others at last, he finally allowed himself to cry, the tears that had brimmed his lashes for hours now spilling at last down his cheeks. Through those tears, he took a clean cloth left by a water basin in the corner and tenderly washed away as much smeared blood as he could from Guthláf’s face, throat and hands. When he was finished, he sat quietly in a chair at the side of the bed and gratefully studied all the little signs of life he could discern – the slow rise and fall of Guthláf’s chest, the minute movements of his eyes behind his closed eyelids, the faint pulsing in a vein at his temple as his heart did its work.

Minutes slipped by, and then hours, and Wídfara sat silently, interrupted only by the woman in the apron, who came in every hour to briefly check on Guthláf’s condition.

When it began to grow dark outside, Wídfara rose to light a lamp, and just as he sat back down again, Guthláf stirred at last. His eyes slowly opened, unfocused and with the black of his pupils so large that the light blue surrounding them was almost entirely obscured. The eyes searched around, disoriented, but when they landed on Wídfara, they stayed there.

“What time is it?” The question came out as a hoarse whisper, the words slightly slurred.

“It’s getting late,” answered Wídfara. “But that doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere else you need to be.”

Guthláf’s eyes traveled from Wídfara’s face down to his chest and shoulders, where his shirt was soaked in blood from the ride to the healers. “Did someone hurt you? Whose blood is that?”

“It’s yours,” he said gently. “There’s been an accident. But don’t worry. You’re alright now. You’re going to be alright.” Tears flooded back to his eyes, and he choked down a sob.

One of Guthláf’s hands slid across the bed and grasped Wídfara’s, the grip weak but determined. Wídfara held onto it tightly, so desperately grateful for the gesture that in that moment he didn’t even care if the healer walked back in to discover them this way. He held Guthláf’s hand as his eyes drifted closed again and for long minutes after, but just as he decided that Guthláf had fallen back to sleep, his eyes fluttered open once more.

“Wíd?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too. I should have said that yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. I’m the one who is sorry.” Wídfara raised Guthláf’s hand and pressed it quickly to his lips. “We can talk about it all later, but now you need to rest. I’ll still be right here when you wake up.”

Wídfara was there when Guthláf next woke, but he wasn’t able to maintain his hold on the seat by the bed for long. As they always did when there was a major injury or illness, the éored posted a rotation of men to Guthláf’s sick room, each taking six hour shifts to either watch over him while he rested or, as his strength returned and his head cleared, to keep him company while still confined to bed. After the blur of that first evening, Wídfara had been forced to yield to procedure, allowing Brunloc to take his place early the next morning. What’s more, the presence now of others forced him to stifle any excess emotion or expression that might expose to others the true depth of his feelings. As a result, the most he could manage over the week that Guthláf was in the healers’ care was to drop by for short visits, always in the company of the many others who lined up for the chance to sit with a beloved friend.

The weight of their fight in the stable still sat between them, unresolved. Every hint of Wídfara’s anger and resentment had washed away cleanly in the flood of his panic and then relief after the accident, but his fears were as potent as ever, if not even further heightened now. His frustration at being unable to address them was tempered only by his relief at Guthláf’s continuing improvement, which allowed him to maintain a basic semblance of calm as he went about his daily routines – attending to duties, adding regularly to the pile of small offerings to Béma that sprang up outside of Guthláf’s room, and taking care of Slaga, Guthláf’s dog.

It wasn’t until Guthláf was finally released back to the barracks for another few weeks of general rest and recovery that the opportunity to be alone again returned. On the day of his release, Wídfara went to the central market, buying up all of Guthláf’s favorite things – plums and honey sweets and walnuts and spice cake and anything else he could find that would bring a smile to Guthláf’s face and show him how much he was loved, fight or no fight. It was far more than he could have afforded on his own, but the old women at the market stalls always doted on Guthláf when he came by each weekend and they loaded Wídfara with extras when they found out who he was shopping for.

He stopped off on his way back to pick up Slaga and headed eagerly to Guthláf’s room. He arrived at the door just as Guthláf himself came slowly down the hall from the communal baths, a towel around his waist and a steadying hand on the wall. The sight of him filled Wídfara’s heart with both warm relief and the sharp bite of concern.

“Should you be walking around by yourself?” Wídfara shifted the bag in his arms so that he could put a supporting hand under Guthláf’s elbow.

“Maybe not, but after a solid week trapped in that bed and not even able to take a piss without three people watching, it was nice to get washed on my own for a change.”

“Oh.” A sudden nervousness gripped Wídfara. Maybe it had been presumptuous of him to assume that Guthláf would be ready to talk to him now or would even want to. “I can just drop this off if you’d rather be alone for a while…”

Guthláf glanced quickly around the empty hallway before moving his hand from the wall to Wídfara’s arm. “No. I’ve missed you, and I want you to stay.” He eyed the bag in Wídfara’s other arm and smiled. “And I’m not just saying that because you’ve brought gifts.”

They went inside and Guthláf spent a few happy minutes fussing over Slaga, who was positively vibrating with joy to be back in the crook of his arm, and sorting through the bounty Wídfara had brought him. He tasted a little of everything as he pulled each item from the bag with a delighted exclamation, and he insisted that Wídfara share in his own gift, giving him generous portions of all the best treats. Wídfara was grateful to see that both Guthláf’s appetite and manner seemed normal, though his movements remained slow and hesitant.

After receiving many profuse thanks, Wídfara held Guthláf’s arm again as he stepped gingerly into his trousers, tossing the towel to a corner of the room. Before he picked up a shirt, though, he gestured to his hair and the brush that sat on a small table beside his bed.

“Could you help me with this, too, Wíd? I can’t see the back of my own head, and I don’t want to snag my stitches.”

“Of course.”

Guthláf carefully lowered himself to the ground, sitting between Wídfara’s knees, and leaned back with a sigh as Slaga curled up contentedly in his lap. Wídfara raised the brush to begin his work, but his hand faltered at the first sight of the many small loops of thread that cut across the back of Guthláf’s skull and the inky black bruising, easily visible through the light blonde of his hair, that still spread all across his head and down his neck, where it slowly faded first into dark purple, then blue and finally a greenish-yellow. The sense of calm that Wídfara had worked so hard to maintain over the past week dissolved in an instant, and every word he had planned to say vanished from his mind just as quickly, leaving behind only the bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat.

When he heard Wídfara’s breath hitch, Guthláf reached back to squeeze his leg. “It’s alright. It’s not as bad as I’m sure it looks, and it feels better every day. In a few weeks time, it’ll be fine, and everything will be back to normal again.”

Back to normal. His words were meant to be comforting, but they terrified Wídfara instead. Because he wasn’t sure that he saw a way back to normal. If Guthláf could really put all this behind him – wait for his physical wounds to heal and then just move on – what would happen if Wídfara simply couldn’t? How could they ever be together if Guthláf moved steadily forward and Wídfara languished where he was, an eternal prisoner of his own dread? He dropped the brush to his lap and covered his face with his hand. “But how?” The words came out with a pleading tone that embarrassed him, but he was helpless to control it. “Every time I close my eyes, I see your head hit that rail and my heart is in my throat all over again. I’m not sure that terror will ever leave me, and the idea of maybe living through that again each time you’re out there with the banner, where you’ll be defenseless and exposed and targeted…I can’t face it.”

Guthláf set Slaga aside and hoisted himself up to sit next to Wídfara on the bed. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, pulling Wídfara’s hand from his face to look into his eyes. “I really am. And I understand how you feel. I worry about you, too, you know. That’s what happens when you love someone. Your own happiness gets tied up in their well being, and that’s always going to be risky. Because we don’t get any say in how much time we have with anyone else.”

His hand trailed absently across the scars on his chest, and after a moment’s silence, he looked back to Wídfara with a sad smile. “Trust me on this, Wíd. You can run yourself ragged trying to change the past or control the future. You can even force me out of achieving my dream if you really want to. But sometimes a candle is going to catch on a bedsheet in a neighbor’s house on a windy night, and no amount of fear or precaution will stop everything you’ve ever known and loved from going up in flames. So you’ve just got to make use of the time you’re given before anything like that happens. Enjoy what you have while you have it, and don’t let regrets or worries take it away from you any earlier than necessary.”

Wídfara heard the wisdom of those words, coming from one much better acquainted with tragedy, and he was humbled, as always, to contemplate the strength that Guthláf needed to live his life with optimism and spirit despite that tragedy. But Wídfara had never been tested that way and still doubted that a similar strength was in him. “I…I don’t know if I can.”

Guthláf squeezed his hand. “I’m asking you to try. And I know that’s no small thing, but I wouldn’t ask it of you if I thought you couldn’t do it. You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I promise that I’ll do what I can to help. And if it turns out that you never can bear it, then…I don’t know. I guess we’ll deal with that when it comes. But I need you to try first. Please. For me.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to Wídfara’s, once, twice and then a third time before Wídfara caught hold of him and didn’t let go.

Whatever dark uncertainties plagued him, the one thing he knew to be true was that this was where he wanted to be. In Guthláf’s arms again, he felt his defenses and objections begin to relent, thinning like river ice in the first sun of spring and then giving way entirely under its spreading warmth. If he had to swallow his fears for his heart to get what it wanted — to get this — then he would try his hardest. He couldn’t just walk away from everything that was good in his life. If the last week had made anything clear to him, it was that the only thing worse than losing Guthláf later would be to lose him now.

“I will,” he said. “I’ll try for you. For us.”

Guthláf answered by kissing him again, and Wídfara fairly melted into the embrace, savoring every element – the pleasing roughness of his beard, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his skin. All the things he had missed so desperately since everything had first gone wrong.

He would have been content for that kiss to last forever, but he didn’t want to overtax his patient and so he lay back on the bed with Guthláf beside him. For a time they talked of other things, seeking respite from the high emotions of recent days by gingerly turning instead to the lightness of gossip Guthláf had picked up from those who sat at his sick bed or a recounting of how many pairs of Wídfara’s boot laces Slaga had chewed through while staying with him. Eventually Guthláf, still easily tired from even small exertions, began to show his fatigue, and Wídfara encouraged him to sleep. When he had drifted off, a cheek resting comfortably on Wídfara’s chest, Wídfara kissed his forehead and lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling in aimless thought.

From the hallway, he could hear the faint voices of men, friends being summoned or someone’s whereabouts sought. It reminded Wídfara of his youth in the plains, when his cousins would call to him and to each other from their places at far ends of the herd. Back when his life was basic and uncomplicated, and everything he feared was just the standard fare of childhood. The low rumble of thunder in the dark. The shadowy specter of a wolf prowling around in his dreams.

Back then, his mother would sit by him in the night, hold his hand and tell him to find one small thing to focus on very hard, something that brought him peace and calm. No matter how often his mind tried to veer back to the storm or the nightmare, he was to return it again and again to the small thing and think only of that. And he would listen carefully to his mother’s slow, even breathing, counting each inhalation, changing the pace of his own breaths until they matched hers, resting a hand on his chest so that he felt the movements in sync with the sound. And soon, inevitably, his fear would begin to recede and he would find himself able to return to rest.

He set a hand on his chest again now, just next to Guthláf, and he concentrated on their breathing. How it sounded. How it felt, both in the rise and fall of his own ribs and in the warmth of Guthláf’s exhalations on his hand. How it looked when the whiskers of Guthláf’s beard fluttered slightly as air left his nose. He counted breaths and brought his mind back to the count each and every time it slipped to darker matters. And many long minutes and many hundreds of breaths later, he eventually closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Guthláf’s first months as banner bearer passed in relative quiet as he finished his healing and the éored was confined to exercises and training, there being no other need for them at the time. Even so, Guthláf was happy in a way that Wídfara had never seen before. Pride poured out of him when he returned to service, and he greeted each opportunity to practice and drill as one who had been given an unexpected but precious gift. It couldn’t cure Wídfara’s misgivings and dread, but it did help him to see the joy and fulfillment that his endurance allowed. And for his part, Guthláf did all that he could to show Wídfara his loving appreciation for the sacrifices he knew were being made on his behalf, for Wídfara to give up his peace of mind in support of Guthláf’s dreams and ideals that far surpassed any of the modest ambitions Wídfara had for himself.

They held onto a tenuous calm, and Wídfara slowly grew accustomed to the presence of his fears. They were never gone, but they receded into the background, as constant yet indistinct as the sound of the surf to those who live by the sea. But his ability to withstand the present was one thing. It remained uncertain what would happen when the first call for relief brought those fears racing back to the forefront and sent them off to battle with Guthláf in his new role.

That call eventually came from the West-mark, where the need for extra assistance was becoming increasingly common as forces of Isengard grew bolder and more aggressive toward the Rohirrim. Of the éoreds in the city, Elfhelm chose to send the king’s to keep their skills sharp after a period of inactivity, and the order went out around midday for a departure first thing in the morning. Guthláf’s eyes had gone right to Wídfara when the announcement was made, but the busy press of preparations kept them from a moment alone until long after the sun had gone down and the rest of the garrison was settled for sleep.

In those small hours of the night, Wídfara was stretched out on his side, a hand on his chest and counting his breaths, when Guthláf quietly slipped in. Without a word, he lay down alongside Wídfara and pulled him back into his arms. A tall man himself, with broad shoulders and a solid build, it wasn’t easy to make Wídfara feel small, nor was that a sensation he necessarily enjoyed. But held in Guthláf’s long, strong limbs and pressed tightly into the niche made by his body, he surrendered to the feeling and let himself be wholly enveloped.

“Are you alright?” Guthláf whispered the words, his lips so close to the soft, curving edge of Wídfara’s ear that he felt each one.

“I’m trying,” he answered. And Guthláf kissed his ear, pulled him even tighter, and held him that way all night, until the morning bells called the éored to its muster point and they left for battle.

In the next chapter, Wíd sees Guthláf carry the banner for the first time with surprising results. Click to part 6!

@emmanuellececchi @hobbitwrangler @dreambigdreamz @konartiste @sotwk

Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit

[alwritey-aphrodite]

That’s My Whole World

Chapter 8 of There’s Nothing Like This

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x fem!footballer!reader

Warnings: angst, discussions of injury, vague depression thoughts

Word Count: 2.7k

Author’s Note: here she is, the final chapter!! Thank you for all the love on this series, and I’d be happy to write an epilogue or any other little drabbles anyone would like to request <3

Life doesn’t change in any dramatic way after you kiss Jamie. Really, it’s a little shocking how normal everything is. The two of you still spend almost every night together, parked on one of your couches in front of the TV while snacking or eating dinner, and the only difference is that now, you sit closer and you cuddle and you kiss him goodbye. Otherwise, everything’s the same as it has been.

Training is even more grueling than usual with your final game of the season against Arsenal on Saturday. If you lose this game, you come in second and everything you worked for this season would mean nothing. Even though coming in second place your first year in the league is astounding, you need to win, need to prove to everyone that you’re able to play with the big dogs, that you’re just as worthy of praise as the men.

Most nights when you come home, your mind and your body ache, sore all over and running in circles creating every possible scenario for Saturday. Jamie, though, has always been there when you’ve gotten home, no matter how late it was, and he always had warm food and would let you cry and rant and complain to him as long as you’d like.

Even though the end of the men’s season is right around the corner as well, there’s essentially no plausible way for them to lose, as they’ve been on top for the entire season, with even Man City trailing quite a few points behind. Your team, though, has been neck and neck with Arsenal for the entirety of the season, with the two of you switching between first and second place practically every week.

For now, though, you’re winning, and you’d like to keep it that way.

Jamie, despite his own stress about the upcoming end of the season, has never been anything but wonderful and reassuring, spending hours telling you that you have nothing to worry about and gently scolding you for working so hard and putting so much stress on yourself. It’s difficult to balance your intensity during training, and even though you know you need to be in the best shape possible with working muscles when Saturday rolls around, you also know you need to push yourself in training to get yourself to be as great as you know you can be.

Most evenings are spent with you icing your feet and your ankles and sometimes your knees, with Jamie gently rubbing the tension out of your shoulders. He never says it, but you know he thinks you’re pushing yourself too hard, but you can’t stop now. You’ve made it this far, what’s the point in slowing down when you’re so close to the top?

When Saturday morning rolls around, you’re sore and more anxious than you’ve ever been, feeling nauseous and unable to eat. Still, you manage to choke down some food because you know you need to eat, know that if you skip breakfast you’ll just feel worse when you get to Nelson Road. You take a steaming hot shower in the hopes of relaxing your muscles as much as possible, and by the time you’ve dried off and packed your bag, Mackie’s waiting in your driveway.

Silently thanking the universe for her perfect timing, you climb into the passenger’s seat to be greeted by the playlist you had made years ago to hype yourself up before your first game on the national team, even though you both sat on the bench the entire time. Just hearing the songs, remembering how far you’ve come, was enough to momentarily replace your ceaseless anxiety with pure joy, allowing you to simply enjoy a car ride with your best friend and turn off your worrying mind for a few minutes.

Pulling up to the Dog Track, though, it all comes rushing back and you’re an anxious mess, walking on autopilot to the dressing room and trying to ignore all the reports that call out to you in the parking lot. Inside, it’s noisy and bustling, the players and coaches scurrying through the dressing room with Keeley and Rebecca popping in every few minutes to “check on the state of everyone”.

All in all, it serves to make you more jittery, but it’s reassuring to know that everyone’s feeling much the same as you are. Changing into your kit, you take a moment to thank the universe for everything that’s happened to you, the good and the bad, because without that injury, you might not be here with a Richmond on your chest and a 9 on your back.

As Elena fixes your hair, making sure it’s slick and secure the same way she always does, the coaches stand at the front of the room with Keeley and Rebecca, clearly getting ready for their pregame speech. Instead of one of the coaches, though, Keeley steps forward.

“I just wanted to thank you guys for everything, for your hard work and dedication and positivity, even when it wasn’t easy,” she smiles at you, even though her eyes shimmer with tears, “and whatever happens out there, I’m proud of you.”

The room erupts into murmurs of agreement, shouting out your love for Keeley as she steps back by Rebecca, who wraps an arm around her shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Let’s go fucking crush them!” Roy adds, and the room explodes into noise, the team huddling up for the final time of the season.

Heading out onto the pitch, it’s shockingly loud and the stands are completely full, but they’re full of Richmond blue and red. Near the pitch you recognize the three men from the pub, all decked out in Richmond gear, even with their faces painted. It’s not hard to find the men’s team, either, who are all covered in Richmond swag as well, and you try not to grin when Jamie blows you a kiss. Mackie notices, and blows one back to him.

The energy is electric, and for the first time all day, you’re thinking that maybe you can win this.

In the final few minutes of the game, your hard work and hope are so close to being paid off, with a two-two tie and a clear path to the goal, you make a break for it, receiving a perfect pass from Mackie and closing in on the undefended goal when suddenly everything stops. You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and all you can hear is the ringing in your ears.

There are hands all around you, touching and prodding and supporting your head, and it’s not until someone reaches out for your right ankle that your body explodes in pain. It all comes back to you, the vicious tackle from an unseen defender that sent you flying and crashing onto the ground, your entire body weight landing on your bad foot. It feels like the whole foot, your ankle and your leg and your hip have been shattered, and now you’re hyperventilating as the medics rush over, your head placed in Mackie’s lap as she holds you steady.

The crowd is silent, waiting with bated breath to see what happened, to see if you’re alright, but the area around you is full of noise; the clear, direct speech of the medics and the frantic responses of all the players, teammates and rivals alike. Unable to move, unable to sit, unable to breathe, you’re placed on a stretcher and hurried off the field.

Of course it would end like this, in defeat and destruction. You were naive to think anything else would have happened, naive to think you were able to play with the big dogs because all these years later, you’re still just a stupid little girl who can’t stop herself from getting hurt. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, but you can’t tell if that’s from whatever they’ve injected you with or because of the shock and adrenaline coursing through your body.

Instead of taking you to the medic’s room, that warm little room with ice packs and various braces, you’re loaded into an ambulance and taken away from Nelson Road, away from your last chance at doing something great, doing something worth remembering other than getting spectacularly injured.

The last and first thing you see are blindingly bright lights, shining down from on high and you wonder for a second if you’d died, from shame or your injury, until the lights are shut off and your eyes adjust to the bleak hospital room. You’re on your back, foot wrapped like a mummy and elevated above your heart, and everything hurts, your entire body aches and screams in pain, but all you can do is let out a pitiful little moan.

This is your life again, helpless and stuck on your back like a sad classroom turtle, just something to be looked at with varying degrees of pity. You don’t even want to think about how helpless you were last time, how you needed to rely on someone to do everything for you, to cook for you and help you shower and walk you to the bathroom, and even just the thought of being stuck like that again makes bile rise in the back of your throat.

You’re interrupted from your self pity party by a soft knock at the door, and it takes all your effort to turn your head just the slightest bit.

“There are some people who’d like to see you, if you’d be ok with that?” The doctor asks in a gentle voice as if you’re a child. Helpless, helpless, helpless.

“Sure,” you try to say but your lips are cracked and your mouth is dry so you’re not confident any words come out but the doctor understands and leaves to usher someone else inside.

“How’re you feeling?” Mackie asks as she enters the room, and she can’t help but chuckle at the withering look you send her because obviously you’re not doing too great. She’s followed into the room by Elena and Keeley and Rebecca and Roy and Beard and Nate, all of them crowding around your little hospital bed. You can’t help but notice that Jamie isn’t with them, and you hate how it makes your chest ache even more.

“The rest of us are waiting outside,” Elena says, taking in your wandering eyes and knowing just what to say, “they wouldn’t let us all in and we won rock paper scissors.” You think you laugh at that, but you’re not convinced any sound comes out.

“I get to take you home later, take care of you like my little baby,” Mackie says, placing a kiss on your forehead in a rarely tender gesture, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Did we win?” You croak, desperate to know the answer while dreading what you might hear.

“3-2,” Roy nods over at Mackie, “this one almost ripped a hole in the net.” You smile at your best friend, despite the resentment and despair that sit deep in your chest. That should’ve been you, scoring a showstopping, game-winning goal, but instead you got a broken foot and endless misery. You want to be happy, but you feel like crying.

You stay that way, for a long, long time. The doctors are unable to determine the scope of your injury, saying that you could be back to playing by the start of next season or you could never play again. You could score the season-winning goal next year or you could never walk normally again. They don’t know, and you refuse to get your hopes up, refuse to think of soccer or the Greyhounds as much as possible.

Mackie, though, is always there, moving herself onto your couch while you wallow in the ground floor guest bedroom, reeking of misery and defeat. The physical pain of your shattered foot is nothing compared to the emptiness in your chest, the disgust you feel over needing someone to take care of you. Mackie doesn’t mind, you know she jumped on the opportunity to be your guardian while you were out, but something painful blooms in your chest every time she brings you food or your meds or asks if you need help getting to the bathroom.

Most of your time is spent crying, the sound of the TV turned up to drown out the noise even though you know Mackie can hear you. You’re just grateful she never says anything, never looks at you with those wide, pitiful eyes and instead she remains her sarcastic, witty self. It’s a nice reminder that not everything has changed, that while your career is most likely over, your life isn’t over.

The Greyhounds come over to visit often, gathering around your bed or sitting on the floor when you’re finally able to make the trip to the living room without gritting your teeth in pain. Rebecca and Keeley send you gifts all the time, pastries and books and snacks you know cost a fortune to ship over from the States, and even the men’s team make sure you know they care, ordering dinner for you or stopping by to chat and vacuum and make sure you’re not going insane with having only Mackie to talk to.

Jamie comes the most, though, relieving Mackie of her babysitting duties as much as he can and as much as you love him, you hate how often he’s around. You hate that he has to see you like this, that he doesn’t mind that you haven’t showered properly in weeks and that you barely brush your hair and that most of the time you’re together, you just sit and cry.

He doesn’t mind at all, though, telling you time and time again that if you want him to leave, he will, but he doesn’t want to go. He’s happy to wipe your tears when you cry and brush out your hair for you, happy to help you to the bathroom or out to your backyard once the weather gets warmer and the doctors say you don’t need to elevate your foot 24/7.

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” you say for what feels like the thousandth time, voice thick and swiping aggressively at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You’re gonna play football,” Jamie says, just like he always does, trying his best to be a beacon of light for you.

Even though you tried to believe him before, even though you desperately wanted him to be right before, the start of the season is creeping closer and closer and your foot is still encased in plastic and velcro, you still struggle with walking by yourself and you haven’t even started physical therapy yet. It feels like your heart is physically breaking, but you know you won’t be playing this season.

“Take a season off,” Jamie says, readjusting your position so he can hold you better, “sit on the bench and annoy grandad all year.” You laugh wetly, and you can feel Jamie smiling into your hair, “or maybe you don’t come back and play, but you could coach or find a pundit gig or write books for kids like Leah Williamson.”

“She still plays though,” you counter, knowing you’re being shitty but thinking that maybe in this situation that’s acceptable.

“Your life isn’t over,” he places a kiss to the crown of your head, “we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

And you will. Clearly, with how slowly your foot is healing, you have plenty of time to figure it out, and you know Jamie and Mackie and Elena and all your other friends and teammates will be there with you every step of the way. You could always wait a season, let yourself rest and heal properly, the way you deserve, before stepping back onto the pitch. Or maybe you’ll never step foot on the pitch as a player again, but you could coach or write or do a thousand different jobs that keep you in the soccer world, or you could leave it all behind forever.

Maybe this chapter of your life is over, but a new one’s about to begin and you can’t wait to see what it holds.

Tags: @andr0medafallen @whimsical-roasting @sokkigarden @hopefulromances @buckychristwrites @guccilongboard @onceuponaoneshot @yepyeahuhhuh @allthefandomtherapy @gibby31 @buddyjuststop @ellietartt @cancvr @brianandthemays @sonyume @aiyaiy @yokolesbianism @jamietarttdodo @innocentbi-stander @skewedcherries @neenieweenie

[shu-box-puns]

You wanna be one of them (Tsu’tey x Reader) Act 3

Previous chapter <- Act 3 -> Next Chapter

If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!

Word count: 7677

Summary: Tsu’tey dropping hints, and everything going over Reader’s head.

Reader uses they/them pronouns.

The long helicopter ride back to Hell’s Gate was painfully awkward. 

Quaritch had been quick and efficient in getting everyone evacuated out of the compound and moved to the waiting Sampson.

You refused to speak when addressed. Seething that you’d been pulled out at such a crucial time, and before dinner of all things. The hunters had brought in fresh yerik this morning, which you’d been greatly looking forward to until Neytiri and Jake rocked up freshly mated and turned everything to shit. 

At least Trudy had been spared. Upon landing, Quaritch had sent her on her way with little more than a slap on the wrist and a promise of getting her grounded if she stepped out of line. She went easily enough, looking hesitant until Grace shot her a firm look. 

That was half an hour ago. Now you were in headquarters, lined up with the other three whilst Quaritch and Selfridge attempted to negotiate the chaos. The colonel had wisely left you cuffed, even after removing everyone else’s. He’d taken one look at the burning fury in your eye and decided he’d be safer if he left you restrained. 

You stood stony faced as Grace attempted to negotiate with Quaritch and Selfridge who clearly were not understanding a word of what she was saying. You could already tell from Selfridge’s expression and the firm set of Quaritch’s crossed arms that they’d already made up their minds. 

You busied yourself with looking around the room while they talked. The other workers in the large office blatantly ignored the conversation whilst Wainfleet guarded the door. 

There was a na’vi bow mounted on the wall in Selfridge’s office. It hung above his head like a bad omen. You recognised the finely carved wood from HomeTree. Took into account the decorative swirls at the tips. Whoever had calved it was definitely dead. Their hard work reduced to a trophy in a dusty office.

Grace finished her small monologue and Selfridge laughed. Any lingering hope that this could be resolved without bloodshed abruptly evaporated. 

Quaritch spoke up, ushering the small group to gather around a nearby monitor. The guards followed suit, intrigued by Jake’s exhausted face popping up on screen in the form of a video log. Even Wainfleet was drawn away from his position so he could look at the monitor. 

You didn’t bother drawing closer. A glance at the date confirmed that you’d been present during that late night rant, tucked out of frame but staring bug eyed at the tired marine as he ranted.

Taking the distraction for what it was, you glanced at the open door and saw your chance.

Knowing the sound of your boots would draw attention, you slipped out of them. One careful footstep after another. The guards hadn’t given you time to lace them up back at the compound, so they came off easily. Then you simply walked out, head held high and your strides confident. No one called you back.

Your footsteps made no sound against the freezing metal floors as you calmly walked out of the main office and took the stairs two at a time down three flights. If you encountered someone in the hallway, you offered a friendly smile and they mostly waved back. It was easy. Unnervingly easy.

By chance, you encountered Trudy outside of the main avatar link room. Her eyes bugged out of her head when she noticed you, head snapping from your triumphant grin to your still cuffed wrists.

She shifted her stance, hands on her hips with an easy grin. “I didn’t know you were so slippery.”

“It was all the training.” You assured her, to which she nodded, looking you up and down with newfound respect.

“Glad to see you’re okay. Are the others?”

“Still trying to talk Quaritch out of hitting HomeTree.”

“So, they just let you go?” Trudy pressed, still looking confused by the cuffs and your lack of shoes.

“About that. Got any good hiding spots around here.”

She rolled her eyes with a taxing sigh before nodding, face splitting into a mischievous grin. You abruptly recalled why the two of you had always gotten on so well. With your crazy ideas and her willingness to follow along despite the dangers, you made a formidable team. You’d only wished you’d spent more time here to remind yourself of that. 

Trudy took great pride in comically looking left, then looking right before grabbing your forearm and hauling you down the nearest corridor towards the hangar. 

“I like your attitude Dr.” 

>_<

<”Tsu’tey.”> Mo’at voice was kind, her hand grounding on his shoulder, but the warrior barely spared her a glance. 

His heart was pounding, hands shaking as he cradled the face of his limp friend. Y/n did not stir at the feeling of hands on their face. They looked dead. He almost believed they were, but there was breath against his skin. The steady rise and fall of their chest. A strong pulse beneath his fingertips.

<”We must move them to the healing cove.”> Mo’at continued, soothing in her tone. Numbly, Tsu’tey nodded, but he did not move away. Not at first. <”I will do everything I can.”> The Tsahik assured him, whistling for a couple of her apprentices to rush forward and scoop up the still body. 

With that, Y/n’s body was whisked away, following Jake and Grace’s that had already been taken to the medical chamber to be tended to and prayed over.

Tsu’tey did not follow. His limbs were heavy. Mind still jared from the sight of the life leaving Y/n’s face. He’d never witnessed such a sudden unlinking. It was unnatural. It had almost looked painful, his arm still stinging from the indents of their nails raking down his skin as their knees gave out.

At his side, Neytiri was in a similar state. Her expression hollow, eyes unseeing as if a piece of her had followed Jake to wherever he had gone. 

Tsu’tey stilled. The compound. Y/n had said something about the compound.

A half-baked plan formed in the back of his mind as he grabbed Neytiri’s wrist. <”Come.”> He urged, taking off at a sprint for the spiral staircase. Dazed, Neytiri obediently followed, keeping pace with Tsu’tey as the pair ascended through the levels of HomeTree and emerged into the roost.

<”What are we doing up here?”> Neytiri asked, her voice lacking any real emotion.

<”You wish to save Jake, do you not?”> Tsu’tey asked, already knowing the answer. The woman visibly collected herself, expression reanimating as Tsu’tey whistled for his ikran. <”There is a base within the mountains.”>

<”Then we must hurry.”> Neytiri agreed, hollering for Seze who was quick to break through the canopy. 

As soon as his mount touched down, Tsu’tey connected his kuru. His ikran immediately responded to the adrenaline coursing through his blood and was swift in manoeuvring himself to the lip of the branch. Seze followed suit, shadowing the larger ikran as Tsu’tey urged him into flight. With twin whoops, the pair launched themselves from the branches of HomeTree and sped towards the direction of the mountains.

They made good time. The compound coming into view as a shining speck on the horizon. The metal ikran that had been nesting in front of the shack the last time Tsu’tey had visited was gone, leaving a clear landing strip for the ikran.

Touching down, Tsu’tey threw himself down from his mount, running a hand soothingly along his neck before disconnecting his kuru. He was careful in approaching the eerily still building. Ears pricked for unexpected Sky People or for familiar movement inside. 

Elegantly, Neytiri slid down from Seze. <”This place is too still.”>

He could only nod, stooping before the small metal door and knocking. His fist left an indent in the weak metal, but he was too stressed to care. Nothing moved within the building. The scent of many Sky People plagued the wind of the mountain, their smells poisoning the door and the grass all around. If he focused, Tsu’tey could tell that they were stale. Hours old.

His expression morphed into a scowl. Neytiri appeared at his side, peering into one of the windows, whilst Tsu’tey dropped into a crouch and gingerly reached the door handle. His large fingers mimicked how Grace had opened it before, the weak metal barrier opening easily under his touch. It had not been locked. 

<”Check the surroundings.”> Tsu’tey ordered his companion, only waiting long enough for her to nod before he tucked himself in small and shuffled into the airlock. With the door closed behind him, he listened to the wheeze of pandora air being sucked out of the tight space before the light overhead flashed green and the second door unlocked.

The scents here were more intense. Hinting towards a lived in space. There was food on the table, a tap still running against the far wall, the sink almost overflowing with dirty dishes. 

Discarding all that useless information, Tsu’tey moved further into the space, his tall body contorted to fit. The deeper he ventured, the more signs of struggle he found. Furniture had been overturned and doors left open, a couple barely hanging on by their hinges. Scattered papers carpeted the floor underfoot, books opened wide, their pages disfigured.

It distantly reminded Tsu’tey of the school. How it had looked after the Sky People had ransacked it. The scents were the same, the fear and rage poisoning the air. 

The only comfort was that there was no blood. Bullet wounds did not scar the walls of the tight space, nor did smoke poison the air. 

But that did not set his heart at ease. There was no one here. 

He had been too late. 

He felt the loss like a blow to the chest, his teeth grinding as he desperately rechecked the small space. Looking in cupboards and under the table in search of hiding places or survivors. He came up empty handed each time.

With nowhere else to look, he emerged back out into the sunlight to find Neytiri pacing beside Seze. She caught his gaze across the clearing, all movements stills as she looked at him with such heart shattering hope. He shook his head. She crumbled before his eyes.

<”They took him.”> Neytiri whispered, voice on the verge of breaking. Tsu’tey was quick to go to her, to drag her into his chest and hold her firmly as her shoulders shook. <”They took my mate!”> She yelled, pain twisting her words as she clawed at him. Desperately seeking comfort. 

Tsu’tey held her through it, shoving down his own grief in the face of her panic. He needed to be strong for her. A rock. Just as he had always been.

<”Come. We must return to the clan.”> He said, giving her something to do in hopes it would help her recollect herself. <”There is nothing more we can do here.”>

>_<

HomeTree was burning. 

And you could do nothing but listen to the victory announcement over the comms echoing throughout the deserted hangar.

Tears streamed down your face as you bit into your fist in a feeble attempt to quieten your sobs. Tears dripped onto the floor of the footwell of Trudy’s helicopter; heart aching for those lost and those left behind. There was no way of knowing who had survived, and who had already died. How many? How many of your friends had been crushed by the falling tree? And how many had passed afterwards in the aftermath?

You should’ve known. Should have spent more time around Hell’s Gate. Should have figured out Quaritch’s plan and foiled it. Instead of frolicing in the forest, greedily spending as much time with Tsu’tey as your days would allow. You should have-

You cut off your train of thought.

You had to get back. Somehow, you needed to relink and warn the People. You needed to be useful by either providing another pair of hands or bringing back valuable information. 

Trudy had to come back soon, it had been two hours since she’d shoved you in here and locked you inside with a swift promise to return with the others. You’d managed to snap the link of the handcuffs ages ago. 

You were pulled from your internal spiral by people climbing up onto the side of the helicopter and reaching for the engine covers. You tensed, making yourself smaller in the cockpit as the doors at the rear of the helicopter opened and someone boarded.

“I got them.” Trudy called by way of greeting as she fell into the pilot’s seat and began flipping buttons and pulling levers. She was grinning from ear to ear as she thrust an exo pack into your lap, which you busied yourself with putting it on. “You doing okay?”

“They got HomeTree.” You replied brokenly. Trudy winced. 

“I know. But we’re gonna get you back in there.” She replied stubbornly, “we’re gonna steal the mountain compound and drop it somewhere near the Tree of Souls. That’s where the clan has gone.” You nodded along to her hurried explanation, eyes catching on Grace and Jake tearing across the tarmac towards the helicopter.

In the rear, Norm was yelling at them to hurry up as a door on the second level banged open. You inhaled sharply as an armed figure stormed across the upper landing, shoulders hunched as they typically did when carrying a rifle. 

Norm was hauling Jake up into the helicopter, dragging him in as Grace threw his chair in. 

The figure opened fire. Bullets bounced off of the windshield as Trudy kicked the engine into gear, screaming at the others to hurry the fuck up. 

Grace lifted herself into the rear, and Trudy gripped the cyclic stick. 

With the rapid pump of pedals, the overhead propellers roared to life and the machine took flight. Bullets chased the aircraft out of the hangar as Trudy aimed for the open doors. 

Then you were free. Soaring over the tarmac before Trudy pulled up hard and the helicopter went racing towards the stars. You whooped as Hell’s Gate disappeared far below, nothing but its lights marking its position on the ground below. 

“You all alright back there?” Trudy called, as the joyous whoops in the back died down.

“Grace got hit!” Jake yelled from the rear, and your previous joy evaporated. 

>_<

You tried to make Grace comfortable in the spare link unit. After tightly wrapping her stomach, Jake had tossed a blanket over her shivering form before wheeling away to Norm’s active pod in search of a shot of tranexamic acid. Propping her head up on a pillow, you tried not to let your eyes stray to the strip of red peeking out from beneath the blanket, instead choosing to adjust the material so it was out of sight.

High above, you heard the heavy footfalls of Norm walking along the roof, securing the supports which would lift the compound from the floor. Above the distant hum of the samson engine, you could hear Norm yelling to Trudy that the lines were secured. There was no audible reply, but you could tell from the groan of cables and the slight lurch that the compound had been lifted clear. 

“Are you going to keep scowling all evening?” Jake asked from across the room with no humour. Your expression hardened as you made a conscious effort not to give him the satisfaction of getting a response. Instead you refocused your attention on Grace, your touch soothing as you pushed her sweaty hair away from her damp forehead, your stomach twisting at her ashy complexion and the laboured puffs of her breath.

You begrudgingly moved aside as the marine wheeled up to the lip of the unit, leaning over Grace to inject the tranexamic acid into her bloodstream. With luck, it would offer a larger window of time in which you could get her help.

Grace barely flinched at the sharp pain, her eyes slipping open but unseeing. You remained close, clutching her hand tightly between your own. It was limp and cold in your grip. 

She didn’t snap at you to let go. That she was fine and that you were overreacting. And it made your heart crumble like it was a piece of paper that someone had clutched harshly in their fist. 

Jake momentarily forgotten, you felt your knees go weak as you lowered yourself into a kneel beside the unit, head bowed to hide your face. This couldn’t be happening. 

At your side, Jake sighed taxingly. He sounded exhausted. Drained. “Look, I know you’re pissed-”

You hissed at him, hating the sound of his voice in such a delicate situation. Grace was dying and he was still talking about himself, still trying to defend himself. Deep in your chest, amongst the festering wounds of grief and fear, a white hot slice of anger made itself known. 

You didn’t let go of Grace’s hand. Couldn’t bring yourself to sever this precious connection, despite the rage in your tone. 

“Will you just shut up!” You snapped back bitterly. Grace’s fingers twitched against you, a weak squeeze. It helped ground you, to reign in your anger somewhat. 

Beside you, Jake didn’t look like he was breathing. He was frozen in time. Eyes carefully tracking your every movement as if you were a thanator and he was back in his avatar body trying to decide the best way to survive. 

Distantly, you wished you hadn’t jumped in on that day. That you had allowed Eywa’s creature to tear this man to shreds as the Great Mother had intended. At the time, you would have felt guilty, but perhaps, if Jake had not had access to his avatar, none of this would have happened.

A thought struck you, as jarring and shocking as a frying pan over the back of the head. “It was YOU that gave Quaritch that information, wasn’t it?” Jake’s mouth closed with an audible click, eyes bugging wide. Your stomach clenched as you realised that that reaction told you everything you needed to know. Silently, you thanked Eywa that you didn’t have your hunting knife on you and that your gun was well out of reach. Grace’s poor heart would not be able to survive the sound of you murdering this stupid man just feet from her wounded body.

The marine held your gaze, even as he refused to speak up. It made you want to smack him. “I know it was.” You continued on, voice venomous with every word. Grace’s hand had gone completely limp in your own, the pain having finally knocked her out. With great effort, you pulled yourself away from her grasp, filtered air sawing in and out of your lungs with each desperate inhale. 

You heard Jake swallow audibly as you hauled yourself to your feet, glaring down at him. “How else would Quaritch know how to hit HomeTree? To go for the supporting outer structures? That the helix staircase acted as a skeleton for the entire thing?” The image of HomeTree burning flashed across your mind. That ancient, ancestral monument brought to its knees, toppled like a fence in a strong wind.

“It was me.” Jake admitted, in a way that foretold a ‘but’ was on the horizon. “But that was before, when it was only about the mission.” 

You laughed, the sound strained and painful. “You did this.” 

It felt like you were cursing him. An underlying threat despite the simplicity of the phrase. Jerkily, you skirted around him, hands clutching the bolted shelves as the compound swayed and lurched as it got batted around by the wind. 

Jake struggled to find the right words to defend himself. He spoke in a rush, as if terrified you’d cut him off before he could fully explain himself. Still defending his image. Still trying to play the hero. “I did. But I’m gonna do everything in my power to make it right-” Another barked laugh left your tightening throat. You had reached your end of the room now where your belongings sat. Buried deep in the bottom of your satchel sat a RDA issued handgun. “What power Jake? There is nothing we can fucking do.”

“This isn’t over.” He said it so simply. Like that was all there was to it. Just emotion, and a drive to stick together.

“Jake.” You turned in place, fighting every instinct and burning desire to whip out your weapon and finally get him to shut up. “Wake up already.” 

Jake’s passive expression finally turned hostile, his brow furrowing into a scowl as the words hit home. You’d heard it spoken countless times over the past few months in regard to his extensive time spent in the link. Had heard it yourself during your early weeks on Pandora before you’d groan a backbone and forced everyone to back off. 

His tone was furious as he finally raised his voice. “Will you stop being negative for two seconds?!���

The shout had your own rage rearing its head in challenge. It was refreshing to have him fighting back instead of pleading for forgiveness. It would demonstrate his true colours as lips always grew loose during times of high emotion.

“Will you use your head for two seconds? You know, the one up here instead of your fucking dick.” You retorted, tapping your temple twice. Jake levelled you with an acidic glare. You turned the fowl look in kind. “HomeTree is gone. They know you knew what Quaritch was planning. There is no way they’re gonna let us back in.” You yelled out a rush. Before adding, “you’ve fucked this up for both of us.”

Jake’s expression immediately melted into one of pity. 

“No.” He insisted, “no I didn’t.” 

He sounded so certain. As if he hadn’t destroyed everything. As if he hadn’t fucked up everything he touched. 

You laughed again, the sound pained and twisted. Jake kept talking, kept trying to fill your head with fantasies and hope as if Grace wasn’t dying, and the clan you called home hadn’t abandoned you. “They still have your avatar.” Jake reassured you, “it was upstairs with mine and Grace’s when we relinked-”

“Then it’s definitely destroyed by now.”

“They probably took you with them.”

“Why the hell would they do that?” The words hurt to voice but they were true. “We’re Sky People. They see us as Demons. They wouldn’t risk it.”

“Like that ever stopped Tsu’tey.” Jake reasoned.

“Do NOT speak his name!” 

Jake ignored you, sprouting more and more words of encouragement. “I’ve got a plan. We’re gonna get back in there, and we’re gonna help the people.”

“They will never allow us back. Neytiri would kill you on sight.”

He visibly deflated. “She’s never going to look at me the same again.”

“To be betrayed by your mate,” you narrated, “it simply doesn’t happen in their world. Your mate is the one person you can rely on to always have your back, to love and cherish you indefinitely. If anything, she’ll feel obligated to welcome you back because of those deeply ingrained values.” 

Jake kept nodding, his eyes shining. You knew at that moment that he was going back with or without you. That he would stop at nothing to give Grace the best chance of survival he could find. And that was something you could respect.

It took considerable strength to shove down your pride, but the bewildered look on his face was worth it. “Make sure you earn it.” You ordered him. “I don’t care what you do, but make sure when you are forgiven, it is because you deserve it.” He nodded along.

“Do you really think Tsu’tey would’ve abandoned you over this?”

“Yes.” You replied honestly. “He’s driven by his duty to the people. If he deems me a threat, he would’ve left my avatar to burn alongside HomeTree. When I link up, I’ll know where I stand.”

“Good to know.”

>_<

As Trudy lowered the compound into the forests deep into the Hallelujah Mountains closer to the Tree of Souls, you relinked. The others had agreed to take care of Grace whilst you checked on the clan, anxious to find out what had happened to your avatar.

You woke to a cloudy sky and the soothing commotion of cooking food and people talking in hushed, tearful whispers. The mood within the clearing was sombre, the voices of those around you sad or sobbing. Overhead, you saw the swaying vines of the Tree of Souls, and felt your throat tighten with emotion as you realised where you were.

With great effort, you managed to haul yourself up into a sitting position, to the gasps of the healers attending to your body. You smiled reassuringly as you realised you’d been laid out on a mat, still armed and your bow within arms reach.

One of the men tending to the other wounded rushed over to check you, his voice too low for you to catch what he was asking you. Rapidly, he checked your pulse and temple, pulled back your eyelids to assess your pupils before listening to your breathing. He relaxed when he found nothing amiss. 

You uttered your thanks before asking where the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik were. He motioned to the Tree of Souls where various figures were crouched, conversing on the raised platform of packed earth surrounding the roots. 

You bowed in appreciation before taking up your bow and weaving through the crowd towards the tree. The People parted easily for you, many smiling at your appearance and uttering soft thanks to Eywa for your safe return. You grinned back, momentarily soothed by the positive reaction despite how rocky things had ended only hours before. 

As you approached, you recognised the red, beaded shawl of the clan Tsahik. <“Mo’at. What happened?”> You asked as you approached. The person she was conversing with bowed as he departed, slipping back into the crowd as she turned to you. Her eyes were red and puffy, hair in disarray as she turned on you with a clack of beads. 

<“You’re alive.”> She whispered, soft as a prayer.

<“I escaped.”> You assured her. She nodded before sweeping forward and wrapping you in a tight hug, softly thanking the Great Mother for her guidance. You hugged back, not sure who was comforting who. 

She was crying again. <“Mo’at?”>

<“It’s all gone.”> She whispered. <“HomeTree. Eytukan. Most of the tribe.”> Your breath caught.

<“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”> You whispered, although you knew words alone would never heal this wound. No amount of regret would bring those people back. <“I’m sorry.”> Mo’at continued to cry, her sobs quiet as she hid her face in your shoulder. Hiding herself and her vulnerability from the fractured remains of the clan. Your arm wrapped around her back, whilst the other rested against the back of her head, keeping her close to you, allowing her this moment of weakness that she so desperately needed.

In turn, she held on tightly. Her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling her to you with a grip strong enough to bruise. 

Throughout your time amongst the clan, you had never seen her like this. So lost and emotional. She’d always been a strong pillar of strength. The level-headed leader in every situation.

You were glad you could give back to her in some small way.

<”Y/n?”>

Your aching heart pounded at the soft utterance of your name. Back straightening, your head whipped round to find Tsu’tey picking his way across the roots of the Tree of Souls. His expression was pinched, his bow clutched tightly in his dominant hand. 

Your throat tightened at the ceremonial necklace at his neck, the mark of his elevated status in the clan. The final confirmation that what Mo’at had said was true, her mate was dead and Tsu’tey had risen in the ranks to take his place. 

He moved gracefully towards you, shoulder set and his tail raised. You weren’t sure if his scowl was of confusion or rage. Nor did you wish to find out, although it did loosen something in you that he was here, alive and whole. 

Throughout the adrenaline rush of escaping, you hadn’t dared contemplate what you would do if he had died whilst you were gone. 

And yet, your tail swayed in relief, your eyes drinking in the sight of him. Checking for injuries or pain in his face. As was expected, he was fine. 

His footsteps were even but silent, a predator stalking prey. <“You’re alive.”> He breathed, but you couldn’t tell if he perceived that as a good thing after the morning they’d experienced. 

With a deep, steadying breath, Mo’at pulled herself away from your neck and straightened. She took a moment to recollect her breathing, visibly pulling herself together as she scrubbed at the teartracks glistening across the apples of her cheeks. <”I am relieved that you are well.”> She praised, her trembling hands rising to your shoulders and squeezing with a mother’s reassurance. <”May Eywa smile upon your return.”> 

With that, she turned sharply on her heels and picked her way back across the roots, leaving you alone with the new Olo’eyktan. Absently, you mourned the loss of her comforting touch, realising with a pang that your physical shield had left you vulnerable to Tsu’tey’s reaction. 

The man in question had hardly moved throughout the short interaction, his eyes glued to your face. You swallowed again before returning your attention to him. He looked regal in the neckpiece, the textbook image of a leader. Power oozed off of him.

You tried to sound confident as you raised your hand to your forehead and greeted him. <”I see you, Olo’eyktan.”> <”Cut that out.”> Tsu’tey immediately hissed, his neutral expression morphing into a look that spoke of deep rooted fear and anger. 

Unexpectedly, he grabbed at you, making your body stiffen. Powerful hands grabbed at your shoulders as his eyes roamed across your body. Fingers prodded at your skin, checking for injuries or pains. You gasped as one colossal fist gripped you by the cheeks, turning your head this way and that. <”Did they hurt you?”> 

You floundered for a response. Face ablaze as your mind struggled to keep up with what was happening.

He bared his teeth at your lack of response, ears lying flat. <”Where?”> He continued, brow furrowing at the lack of blood on your skin.

Somehow you composed yourself. <”I’m fine.”> You reassured him, breath stuttering off into a wheeze as he slammed his hand against your chest, pressing down as he felt for your heartbeat. He stilled, fingers pressing into your flesh as he waited. <”I escaped before they could do anything to me.”>

He visibly relaxed, ears rising back up. He began nodding, comforted by your pulse and your response. 

And with a quiet prayer to the Great Mother, his hand slid around to your back and pulled you into him. There was no space left between you with how tightly he clung to your body, hands spread wide across your back as if he needed to hold as much of you as he could. 

You refused to cry as you returned the gesture. Shoving your face into his neck as his chin rested on the crown of your braids. There was an unmistakable rumble emitting from the centre of his chest, but you didn’t dare draw attention to it, for fear he would try to smother his purr. It comforted you on a level you could not describe, your body losing all its previous tension, mind going pleasantly blank despite the shitty situation that had brought about this reunion. 

The din of the clan fell away whilst you embraced him. And for a moment, it was only the two of you. His hands holding you secure. His purr soothing your fears. His scent turning you to mush. 

Fuck, it had only been a few hours, but it felt like you’d been gone for years. 

Tsu’tey pulled back, his hands finding purchase on your cheeks as he urged you to look at him, genuine fear and sorrow echoing in his eyes as he spoke. <”I went to the compound in the mountains. I came for you, I promise, but you were already gone.”>

<”You came for me?”> You whispered, feeling choked up by the simple and soft spoken admittance. The raw vulnerability in his voice and the sincere way he held you made you want to burst into tears. All the stress of the past few hours felt almost worth it. 

Relief was a balm to your nerves as you threw your arms tighter around him, clutching him to you tightly as he buried his face into your braids.<”Of course I did.”> He promised, and you believed him. 

You could tell you were gripping tighter than was probably appropriate, but he did not tell you off. He held you firmly. Allowing you to reassure yourself that he was here, and he was alive. Despite everything, he had come back to you in one piece. 

It was as if a colossal weight had been lifted from your shoulders by a kind god.

The beat of mighty wings had you freezing. 

No ikran could sound that heavy in the air. 

Tsu’tey’s head shot up, his arms tightening around your back. The sound of screaming had you tearing yourself out of his hold, spinning in place with your hand flying to your knife.

Toruk landed at the edge of the clearing, scaring half the clan into defensive positions whilst those who could not fight ran for cover. You instinctively backed up, clinging tightly to the beautiful knife your grasp. You knew in your heart that such a measly weapon would do little against such a majestic beast, but it helped ground you.

Tsu’tey stepped up to your side in moments. He did not pull you away or shove you behind him, so you could be protected. He stood beside you. Shoulder to shoulder, despite the fear clearly adorning his face. Fear for his people. 

Mo’at appeared at your other elbow, Neytiri in tow. 

And then a figure slid down Toruk’s side, disconnecting their queue as they smoothly stepped around its massive head, hands gliding over its eye ridge. The clan collectively held its breath.

<“Toruk Makto?”> Mo’at whispered from beside you. You glanced from the Tsahik to the mysterious rider who was making their way through the parting crowd. You recognised that stiff swagger, the cheap attempt at confidence and the tense set of their shoulders.

“Well I’ll be damned.” You laughed quietly to yourself as Jake approached the Tree of Souls, Neytiri already walking forward to greet him. Then you scoffed. “He’s such a show off.”

That earned you a sharp swat upside the head from a frowning Mo’at. 

>_<

When you had relinked, Grace had been merely dying. There was still hope.

But now, several hours later after a failed consciousness transfer, she was gone. You felt numb as the People sung their hymns, laying her to rest within the trees beyond the clearing with the rest of the fallen. Norm took her avatar away shortly after, his cheeks shining with tears. And then it was as if she was never there. 

Somehow, that thought was worse than watching her die. 

You slipped away from the clan, your footsteps clumsy as you tried to navigate your way through the trees with blurry vision. Grief was an arrow to the heart, twisting itself deeper with every choked off memory of Grace’s body. Of how happy she’d been to see the Tree of Souls despite her worsening condition. Of the pure wonder in her shaking voice as she grasped Jake’s hand, whispering a soft, “I’m with her Jake. She’s real.”

Your world had slowed as she faded. Her head slipped to the side as she went still. 

Mo’at had crouched over her body, searching for life. A soul. The Tsahik had shaken her head and backed away. <”There wasn’t enough time.”> She’d whispered. 

Panic had you scrambling up from your crouch. You stumbled over the extended roots of the tree, dropping to your knees near Grace’s head. Neytiri had already removed her exo pack and laid it beside her. She had looked peaceful, still smiling even in death.

Your quivering hand had cupped her face as you desperately called her name. Growing more frantic when she didn’t respond. 

Vaguely, you had heard the clan grow restless, Mo’at turning her back to calm them. Jake and Norm had settled in front of you, shielding you from their sights. 

“Y/n, she’s gone.” Norm said softly, trying to pull you away from Grace’s body.

You fought him off. <”No.”> Tears made your throat tight. <”Grace! Please.”>

Norm sighed wetly, his hands grabbing at your bicep, trying to pull you to him so he could comfort you. You struggled anew, tearing yourself away from him with a ferocious hiss. He frowned. Jake hadn’t moved from the other side of the body, his eyes distant. A puppet with his strings cut. 

You followed his gaze back to Grace, to her pale skin and relaxed body. It hit you like a truck how small she was. Her hands were barely the length of your palm. 

It was cold to the touch. Lifeless. 

They would never ruffle through your hair again. And Grace would no longer berate you for spending too much time in the link. Nor would she remind you to eat or to take care of yourself in and out of your avatar.

Eywa had taken her home. Had welcomed her into her realm and eternal peace. 

Tears slid down your cheeks as you paused to steady yourself against the trunk of a tree, the clan at your back and your fingers digging deep into the soft bark, as you struggled to control yourself. The moss was grounding beneath your fingernails, soft as a mother’s embrace. 

She was gone. 

Your other hand was quick to also press into the side of the tree, gripping at a low branch for dear life. Strength failed you as your knees shook, head bowed as if in prayer. 

You should’ve been a better friend. Should have been there more. Should have told her how much she meant to you. 

You slid to the ground, legs finally giving out as you knelt in the dirt and leaf litter, eyes squeezed shut and your breath sawing in and out. Faster and faster. Your vision blurred as spots danced before your eyes. You kept panting, picking up speed and not taking in as much air.

Gone. 

The thought was so final. So commanding. A fact. The cruel truth. 

You were almost too scared to accept it. 

>_<

When you finally pulled yourself together enough to make it back to camp, the clan was alive with activity. The ikran riders were long gone on their various missions to rally the clans, whilst those who remained behind were readying the camp for an influx of warriors. 

Mo’at was setting up a healing wing at the rear of the Tree of Souls. Whilst the People were busying themselves with cooking and tending to the wounded. Others mending weapons, tacked up pa’li and painted on each other’s war paint. 

The clan moved seamlessly with a single goal despite the hundreds of bodies completing different tasks. An effortless system, well oiled by repetition and familiarity. 

Tsu’tey saved you from standing idly by for too long. He materialised out of nowhere with a firm hand on your wrist. His gaze caught on your puffy eyes, before flickering all over your face as whatever he’d been meaning to say died on his tongue. You wanted to curl up and cry again, feeling pathetic as you were powerless in offering a decent explanation.

<“Come, we must prepare for war.”> Was what he finally came up with as he pulled you away from the treeline to a spare mat where various shades of war paint had already been laid out in shallow, wooden bowls. Judging by the paint smears caught in the mat fibres and the pigment staining the sides of the bowls, the station had been set up for someone else. 

<“Help me.”> Tsu’tey commanded short and simple. Easy to follow. 

He knelt in front of you, dragging you down to sit directly opposite him, before offering the nearest bowl of dark blue pigment. <“Just like I showed you, remember?”> He instructed, and you nodded, wordlessly taking the bowl from him and dipping two fingers in. 

With a generous amount in hand, you knelt up onto your knees so you were hovering above him, he tilted his face up to follow you, giving you a perfect view and a neutral canvas. Your stomach twisted at the first touch of skin, absently remembering that this was often a task reserved for mates or family members. The act of painting on war paint was supposed to be a sign of good luck. 

Your touch was feather light as you dabbed the first pair of markings high on either side of his temples, marking out the area you would later fill in with the blue. Fingers shaking, you gritted your teeth at the poor linework, wishing you had a ruler or something to make the markings sharper.

<“Properly.”> Tsu’tey growled and you scowled at him, mentally relieved when you found his eyes closed instead of boring into you. <“I am.”>

<“You’re hesitating.”> He corrected with no heat.

<“You were glaring at me like you wanted to bite me.”> You defended, to which his eyes slid open and his face contorted into a venomous frown, which had you grinning despite yourself with how fucking adorable it looked paired with the sloppy markings at his temple. 

<“I was not glaring.”> He protested whilst continuing to glare. You hummed but felt soothed by the childish reaction as you went back to painting. <"And I don’t bite.”>

<“No?”> You asked suggestively to which he gave you a playful shove. You squeaked, lifting the bowl high in an attempt to steady it or not get any pigment on yourself. <“Be careful.”> 

Tsu’tey rolled his eyes. <“You’re slow.”> 

<“Because you’re distracting me.”>

He only snapped his teeth, to which you returned the gesture in kind, tail flicking challengingly. 

Tsu’tey let the conversation taper off again, his expression smoothing out so you could continue your work easier. This time, your strokes were more confident, the earlier grief that had shaken your hands, had been momentarily chased away by the familiar banter. Finishing up the navy layer with a self-satisfied nod, you set down the bowl and reached for the bright yellow paste. 

Tsu’tey watched you with a nod, satisfied by your choice before letting his eyes slip closed. 

These markings came easier to you with the large swooping ‘v’ across his forehead directly below the earlier navy lines, to the twin streaks of yellow that would frame his cheeks. You dipped your thumb into the yellow to capture the precise motion of the painted line that would slice from his lower lip to his chin. 

<“Good.”> Tsu’tey praised as you lent back out of his space to set down the yellow. He sat regally on the mat, shoulders back and his chin tilted up in a show of pride. You hoped you’d done the war markings justice.

<“Now sit, I will do yours.”> He ordered, picking up a bowl of muted yellow before motioning to the space in front of him. You arched a brow before sitting cross legged in your previous spot and closing your eyes at his motioning. 

The cool touch of paste covered fingers to your brow made you jump, but at his hiss, you stilled yourself. His movements were bold, smooth as he mapped out the expanse of your forehead in a curved ‘u’. His hand retracted, gathering more paint, before returning to the space between your eyes and dragging down your nose.

<“So,”> his hand jumped away from your face as you started talking. <“What do you want to talk about?”>

<“No talking.”> He gritted out, his other hand coming up to grip your jaw between his fingers so he could continue painting the mute yellow stripe down your nose. <“Stay still.”> 

You complied, ears swivelling to try and gauge where he was when his hands left your face for a new colour. You peaked open an eyelid, watching him pick out a vibrant white before quickly shutting it again when he turned back to you. He took his time lathering up his finger this time. 

<“So you and Neytiri are good then?”> You blurted, wincing at the lack of decorum and the randomness of the statement. 

Tsu’tey huffed softly, amused by your lack of tact. <“Yes.”>

<“How long ago did you end your courtship?”>

<“Nosy.”>

<“I just want to know how badly I need to beat Jake’s ass, when round 2 inevitably comes around.”> You defended, jumping when his cold finger landed above your eyebrow near the bottom of the yellow strip and began to outline the mark. 

<”You talked with him?”>

<”Shouted would be more accurate.”> You admitted.

He chuckled, eyes on his lap before returning to his work. <“She was not mine.”> Tsu’tey replied simply, as if that was all there was to it. There was no sadness in his tone, but rather a sense of relief and peace. <“We were more like siblings than lovers. It was my duty to the clan to be mated to her, and now it is not.”>

<“And now you’re free.”> You finished, eyes slipping open to catch the lopsided smile on his face.

<“To mate whoever I wish.”> He agreed with a tilt of his head, finger tracing your cheek a little firmer than before as he smeared the white accents into the muted yellow base layer. <“If they choose me in return.”>

Your heart pinched as you smiled. <“I wish you happiness.”>

Previous chapter <- Act 3 -> Next Chapter

[cluz1babe]

‘Open My Eyes to Everything that Closes My Heart’ Chapter Two

(very limited use of ‘Y/N’)

4.2k words

Beta Read and co-written by my husband.

Comments are very appreciated!

PLOT

You were a Belaerys, with the Blood of Old Valyria in your veins, future Queen of Sothoryos. Up until eight years before the Dance of Dragons, everyone thought the Belaerys family was gone after the Doom. You were well-respected by everyone except most of the greens. Despite that, you were officially given a seat on the new High Council. The Hand, Otto Hightower, was trying to bring more countries to their aid, but his excuse was to bring peace between countries. Planning to wed you to Daeron, the Small Council of the Greens are shocked when Aemond refuses to offer you Daeron in order to take you for himself.

TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 129-133+ AC (a mix of show & book timeline & canon, plus my own)

TRIGGER WARNINGS (full story) : Talk of Abortion, Emotionally Abusive Relationships (Aegon / Criston / Otto x Everyone), Alcohol, Blood, Blowjob, Branding, Bullying, Childbirth, Mentions of Rape (no rape of reader) , Death, Drugs, Fire, Hallucinations, Incest, Marriage, Misogyny, Pregnancy, Profanity, Sexism, Slut Shaming, Smut, Violence, War, P in V, Sex, Fingering, No Cheating, MDNI, 18+ , ENM (Ethical Non-Monogamy), Slight Breeding Kink, Dub-Con (in the Aegon Bonus Chapter) if you squint

NOTES : From what I can remember about how to pronounce Nahuatl, you pronounce ‘X’ as ‘SH’, and pronounce every letter except ‘H’.

Reader representations are the lightest and darkest skin colours available.

CHAPTER ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST

…………………………………………………

This is Jaera

Chapter Two

You had just returned from riding Molcajete and you were still wearing your riding clothes, which doubled as training clothes. You and Jaera, (your friend & handmaiden while in Westeros), were taking a walk on the grounds towards the training yard to practice your swordsmanship when you heard swords clashing. You both ran to see who was currently training. As usual, it was Aemond and Ser Criston Cole. You groaned. You were really hoping you could practice today, but this prince seemed to always be in the training yard or on his way there. You had been able to get in practice only twice since you’d arrived nearly two weeks prior.

“Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll get in soon.” She turned to leave, but you stayed in place. “Princess?”

“I’m going to spar with him.” You watched Aemond move. He was so graceful and he wielded his sword as though it were his arm. He was good and for the first time in three years, you were nervous. You sat there and silently studied his movements for minutes, then you closed your eyes and breathed. It was your way of calming yourself. You cleared your mind and steadied your breathing. Your pulse slowed and stayed in that state until you heard clapping and you knew the match was over.

“Are you sure?” Jaera asked. You smiled at her and held out your hand. She handed you her sword and then whispered in your ear, “If you want to make him nervous…or impress him… Use the spell.”

“Which one?”

”The one you’ve been working on.”

You nodded and stepped to the front.

Ser Criston was looking around and then straight at you. “I haven’t seen you in the yard before.”

You kept your voice pleasant and formal, “I’ve been here twice, but it’s been at night when everyone else has gone to bed, and that tends to last a few hours. I don’t usually want to inconvenience anyone, but late nights and early mornings make me quite fatigued and I haven’t been able to train as often as I would like.”

“Feel free to train here at any time from now on.”

“Thank you, Ser Criston.”

He looked around again. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Prince Aemond.”

There was a murmur in the small crowd that was already there. Criston almost snorted. “If you want to train with him, you have to beat me first.”

You chuckled, “Why?”

“Because I saw you watching us and now you know how we fight, but Aemond doesn’t have that same advantage.”

“Alright.”

Criston’s eyebrows raised, “Are you going to fight with those?”

You looked at your hands, one sword in each, which had blades of dragonglass. They should be easy to break with Valyrian steel. Obsidian isn’t strong enough for a sword, but Aemond knew you were smarter than that and those swords must be enchanted with a spell. Somehow he knew you would at least give Criston a good fight.

And you did. You were quick with two swords. After the initial shock from his blade not shattering yours to pieces, you generously gave him time to recover before besting him twice.

Instead of continuing the duel to see who would win the last match, Aemond interrupted. He stepped up to you and took his stance. You raised your blades in a stance ready to counter him if he tried to end it quickly. Aemond looked between your blades, possibly wondering which you’d use to attack him. He decided to move to your right, outside the first attack with your right blade. You turned to attack with the left and caught his blade with your left. He tried to be quicker but you parried his blade down and brought your right blade up to a lethal spot. Aemond scowled briefly, he wasn’t used to losing, especially in training. His sword was back up in the ready stance, pointing straight at your middle. You lift your blades again, the left higher than the right, held in a way to defend while attacking with the right.

The next battle was much more mobile. You moved forward trying to catch his blade again but he moved back. You pushed him to keep moving, you knew the distraction this was for a swordsman in the best of times. He saw your right blade coming and let his legs relax, falling beneath the blade. He straightened back up while moving forward, pushing you into a defensive retreat. Seeking to show him you could do the same thing better, you allowed him to swing closer to you but you bent your legs with your head and neck thrown back and let the sword move over your head. Your left blade was used to quickly stabilize yourself before you fell back entirely, and your right blade was brought up straight into his shoulder. The second duel would have ended by taking off his arm, had it been real. Your Sothoryi training allowed you to be slightly quicker than Aemond. Due to your skill, agility, and flexibility, you were able to get closer to the ground than he could swing his sword. Everyone around had stopped what they were doing after the second time you beat Aemond with your swords. Some would say your fighting was a less honourable style, but it only egged Aemond on more. He was enjoying himself, you could tell by the smirk on his face.

For the third, he wanted to hold nothing back, he wanted to press the attack and keep you watching for where he’d come from next. He seemed to want to get an attack on your back. You smirked at the thought that he just wanted to see your rear. He kept moving around you and you tracked him carefully, but not entirely facing him. You were attempting to lure him into a reckless moment. You hardly stepped away from where you stood when he attacked, only moving once away, just to step back while forcing the handle of your sword into Aemond’s abdomen. The force caught him by surprise, and he bent forward, looking back up at your right blade pointed at his uncovered eye.

Aemond stood straight and smiled at you, “Best of seven?”

When you nodded, the fight continued. Then there were three times that he defeated you once he adapted to your fighting style. Proof that you would both be deadly under other circumstances. You both enjoyed the fight more than you thought you would. He grinned at you, “I should teach you some Westerosi fighting, and you can train me in Sothoryi combat.”

“That would be wise of you, My Prince.” You winked at him in a teasing way that gave Aemond chills. He knew by now that you called him ‘my prince’ as a term of endearment. He just couldn’t tell what kind.

The last time was tense. There was a moment when everyone thought Aemond had won, but you managed to get away in time. That was when you held your swords parallel in front of you. You narrowed your eyes at Aemond and your swords suddenly lit up in flame. Everyone gasped because now they knew that the Belaerys family could still do magic.

Aemond could feel the heat coming off of your swords and you saw him flinch before he calmed himself. It didn’t phase you, and you hadn’t been told not to use magic on your trip. You wanted this. You wanted them all to see. If there was one thing you were good at, it was either impressing or intimidating. Right then, you’d hoped it was both. Ser Criston almost interrupted the competition, but Aemond held his hand up to stop him. The fight went on for seven minutes, more and more people crowded the yard to watch it play out. You were both quick learners, which led to a duel that Aemond almost called a tie and left it at that, but the intensity in your eyes told him that wouldn’t do for you. You were both fatigued and breathing heavily.

In the end, he managed to outperform you, barely. Not only were you both exhausted by the end, but you had singed his hair and accidentally injured him. To the latter, he only smiled in that devious way he does. But he had you on the ground, his sword to your chest. You smiled and dropped your swords. The flames went out and everyone clapped as Aemond helped you stand. He lifted your arm as well as his own. You looked at him as though he was mad. To be fair, he was, but only for you.

When you put away your swords on your own, you walked with Aemond to your bedchamber to change your clothes. His hand grazed up your arm. You smiled for a second before realizing someone might see the two of you (someone besides your friend, Jaera), so you took a step to the side, away from him.

You noticed he was behind you, looking at his arm where you managed to cut him, so you walked to him. “Did I hurt you horribly?” Your voice was full of concern. Yes, you sliced open his leathers down into his skin a bit, but he had attempted to trip you and you were trying to avoid his boot. You were both playing unfairly.

He smiled at you, “No, Princess. I am well.”

That curve of his lips made your face heat up, but you returned his sweet look. “Good. Because I would like to challenge you again soon.” With that, you turned and walked down the hall. He watched the sway of your hips and he couldn’t help thinking about how much he liked watching you walk away, especially when you were wearing breeches.

Upon the third week of your stay, bannermen from Sothoryos arrived in King’s Landing from the sea. Houses such as Moguel, Cabral, Collazo, Tentle, Zepahua, Cuatlehua, Amaxal, Ocotoxtle, Cocone, Tlila, Huexotl… And they brought your gifts for the family.

Aegon walked into the throne room where Aemond was being followed by trainers who each had either a dog or cat with them. Aemond was holding his gift, who he named Maris, a tiny dog with spots and big brown eyes. Aegon scowled when he saw Maris. “What is that?”

“It’s a dog.”

“What kind?”

“Texixi. Mine is trained to ride dragons.” He pointed to the big dog, chocolate and grey speckled. “This one is for Helaena, trained for protection & the little one for companionship.” He pointed to the little black dog with blue eyes.

He showed Aegon the huge black dog. “That one over there is for your children, for protection and general entertainment. The one over there is for Mother. You and Daeron have cats, also trained to ride dragons, and they’ll prevent you from getting pick-pocketed. Very useful for you on your next foray into the street of silk.”

“Dragon-riding dogs and cats?” Aegon’s face was screwed up.

“Be good to them, Aegon. She’ll know if you aren’t.”

“Oh,” Aegon rolled his eyes at his brother. Ever since the two of you sparred a week ago, Aegon had been giving Aemond a hard time about you. “These are from her. That’s why you’re so excited. Is it customary for them to bring animals as gifts for people who never asked for them?”

“Hmm. Don’t. Hurt. The. Cat. And give the others to our family. I must find Ser Criston and grandfather.” He seemed to get excited for his last sentence. “She brought them horses.”

Aegon looked at his short-haired cat. “What do I feed it?”

“It’s like a dragon. If you leave it alone, it will find its own food.”

“Oh.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give it some meat every once in a while.”

Just then, Otto walked into the room and paused when he saw Aemond holding a dog.

Aegon mocked Aemond’s excitement, “Oh, grandfather, the Belaerys Princess has brought you a Sothoryi horse.”

Otto looked at Aegon’s cat, then at Aegon for some idea of what was going on. Then he was startled when he saw a second cat and a second, third, and fourth dog just to his left. Nonetheless, he followed Aemond to the stables.

You were showing Aemond a map of your country.

He studied the map and his curiosity made him start asking questions. “What is the climate like?”

“First, I need to know… Are you going to show this to everyone later?”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“You can, just don’t tell them everything, please. I trust you to tell them only what they should know right now.”

“Climate?”

“Yes. It has tropical, temperate, and arid zones. Mountains, waterfalls, rivers, jungles, deserts, beaches on the sea… And hundreds of islands near the south that are uninhabited. We have a wet and dry season. We have flamingoes, jaguars, monkeys, caiman, and maned wolves.”

“I haven’t heard of any of those creatures before.”

“They’re…different. The lakes and ocean provide fish. The surrounding land offers game like rabbit, turkey, boar, snake…”

“Tell me about the islands.”

“The best fishing, besides the sea are the freshwater lakes of Tlamintli & Maquizcoatl. Wewhyae & Poyomahtli is where we get our medicine as well as herbs & other things used for rituals and divination. The dragons nested on Zugrya for a very short time. I haven’t seen a wild one in ages. Most of our dragons are either born to someone or they were once wild and then every dragon is passed on to the next person in that family who doesn’t already have a dragon.”

Aemond stopped. If she only knew how he got vhagar(?) (is this before or after he tells her?) He walked to the end of the table, which extended a few inches past where the map ended. He pointed to the unmarked, unfinished continent. “What is this land mass down here?”

“No one goes there anymore. We call it ‘Istaktli Uak’.”

“White… What?”

“Desert.” You were proud of him for remembering Loicato.

“People have gone, but they can’t get past the mountains that lay just at the end of the map.” You ran your finger across the land mass from the left side all the way to the right. “Here. No one has gone up those mountains because it’s not safe.” You looked at each other and he placed his hand on top of yours. “It’s too cold, near constant blizzards, regardless if it’s winter or summer…” Aemond was leaning in, but you looked back at the map. “The dragons hate it, mostly because it’s cold, but there’s also less food.” You couldn’t believe how close he’d gotten to kissing you, but now you could practically feel him breathing in your scent. You turned back to him and smiled coyly.

“Hmm…”

The look on his face was too irresistible and before you could stop yourself, you leaned close to him and connected your lips to his. He kissed you back for a minute. It felt as though your heart might burst through your chest. Then he pulled away.

Your face burned from embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Prince Aemond—“

Aemond took a sip of his wine. “Do you drink?”

You were so confused by his changing the subject, but you ran with it. “Drinks made from fermented cactus, maize, agave, honey...” With each word you said, the embarrassment faded. You took his wine and sipped it. “Some of those things are much stronger than this.”

He smiled at you deviously, “You want something stronger?”

“I know where to find rum. Maybe we can drink outside somewhere after?”

You smiled and agreed.

You were in a reclusive spot near the edge of the Red Keep. Aemond was leaning back in his seat, laughing quietly, and you were almost doubled over in laughter. When you finally caught your breath, you sat down your cup. “Did he get back up?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

You fidgeted with a loose string on your dress. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course. That’s what we’re doing right now, asking questions.”

“I don’t want to offend you.”

“Oh?” He thought for a moment before realizing you were probably going to ask about his eye. “Oh. Now you have to ask.”

“I only know what I’ve been told, so… How did you actually lose your left eye?”

“It’s not something I talk about. I let people say what they want. They leave me alone.”

“Alright.”

The room fell silent for a moment while you thought of something else to ask Aemond, then he spoke. “I was ten. I claimed a riderless dragon, but Vhagar’s previous rider had two children. One argued the dragon was hers to claim by right. I disagreed with them, and Jace & Luke, who all said I was in the wrong. Those *bastards* always made fun of me because my egg never hatched.”

“Shh…” You looked around as though someone could hear you. “Don’t use that word.”

“It led to a fight and Luke attacked me with a knife. But nothing will ever stop me from flying.” He waited for your reaction, but there wasn’t one.

You had taken in the information and you were trying to decide what to say. That was forbidden in your family and most others in Loicato.

“Do you think it was justified?”

“If I were in your situation I may have done the same thing.” You took a moment. “You aren’t very fond of bastards, are you?”

“Me or Westerosi?”

“Either.”

Aemond thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say that—”

“In any case, you should know… I am also a bastard.”

Aemond’s eye went wide, a sharp intake of breath, like a bit of a forbidden idea in his mind.

“I may be…intrigued…by the idea that standards are different in your village”

He smirked slightly, a bit of a tease, and he spoke again. “I have more questions.”

You smile at him with a bow of your head.

“Tell me more about your people. How do names work? What events do you have as a community?”

“First names are given by the mother. We have a lot of native and Valyrian names because of the melding of our cultures. They don’t always hold significance. Middle names are chosen by the royalty once they reach ten and five. Family names are the one thing that usually passes from father to son to grandson and so on. Women get to choose if they take their husband’s name, and they often do. As far as events, the age of fifteen holds a lot of significance so we celebrate it, as well as every fifth name day. In general, grinding is a fundamental process in the preparation of many meals. We grind maize into a dough called nixtamal, it is central to our diet and represents a significant daily activity, for everyone in the community. My city has 300 neighborhoods and approximately 300,000 people across the city spanning 1300 sq km.”

“So… Each village sits around as a community and grinds maize?”

“Yes, as well as other things.”

“Who takes care of the children?”

“Everyone. We all contribute as much as we can and some of us choose to take care of children. And, no, bastards are not treated any different.”

“Why not?”

“Because, in the eyes of the Loicato and their gods, blood doesn’t make you better than anyone else. They took care of my family when they were close to death, but only because we didn’t come to conquer them. They took us in and made us part of the community. Community is family, not blood.”

“How kind of them.”

You could tell from his tone that he didn’t take your people as a threat. “We are taught as many languages as possible, starting from the age of one. We learn to read & write, and we are all trained to fight from land, air, and sea, starting at the age of five.”

“What do you have to go through to be a top warrior of the Loicato?”

“It starts with no less than a year of training. Long-distance running, swimming, hand-to-hand combat, weapons training, marksmanship, language training, cultural immersion, survival training, and intense physical conditioning. We train for amphibious operations, small-unit tactics, and long-range patrolling.”

To that, Aemond had no retort. He knew that if Sothoryos were an enemy, you and your people would be quite a formidable force. Still, he smirked at you. He knew he was getting under your skin and you looked so cute when you were frustrated. “I was told you eat insects.”

“Only moth and ant larvae.” You heard yourself say it out loud and laughed at yourself. “We also eat cactus pads, agave, amaranth, and various other wild greens. Fruits such as guavas and papayas are enjoyed for their sweetness.”

“I’m not much for sweets.”

You chuckled, “Of course you aren’t.”

“But I like fruit. What do you do for fun back home?”

“Fish, hunt, fly, swim, fuck…” You realized what you said and felt your face burn from embarrassment. “Almost anything.”

Aemond leaned forward, “What is your weapon?”

“Besides my dragon?”

“Hmm. Obviously.”

You leaned in close to him and pulled one of his stray hairs off of his clothes. “My obsidian blades. As well as the Loicato native weapon, the macuahuitl.”

“You can wield one?” He was teasing you again.

You playfully hit his shoulder. “It comes in all sizes and mine is medium. We’re taught as many weapons as possible, but we all have our favourites.”

“What about magic?”

“You have a lot of questions!”

“I’ve a curious mind.”

You took another sip of the drink you were sharing. “I can’t do everything. I can’t even do half, yet. It takes years of practice and you get to as close to perfect as possible for each spell or ritual before you move on to the next. At a pace of 3 spells & 3 rituals at a time. Anything more than that is dangerous.”

“I wish we still knew magic.”

“Not all of the families practiced. I don’t know if the Targaryens ever did.”

“Is it something I can learn or do I need to be born with the gift?”

“You could learn, but we would have to get permission from the elders first.”

Aemond took the cup from you and drank. “Sing me something in your language.”

“I’m not a singer— I don’t do it in front of people.”

“Was it you singing to the dragons in the pit?”

“Dragons aren’t the same as people. If a dragon doesn’t like your singing, they can make you leave. If a human doesn’t like your singing, they smile and clap anyway. Then behind your back, they tell everyone how bad you are.”

“This happened to you?”

“Well, it may have been my brother and sister. It hurt worse than if someone I didn’t know said it.”

“If you sing me something, I’ll return the favor. Even if I’m good, you can tell people I’m rubbish if I say anything bad about you behind your back.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my right eye that I—“

“Swear on something that you care about.”

He smiled at you. He had meant to sing for you, but you saw through to the fact that losing his other eye wouldn’t keep him from doing things like riding Vhagar. “I swear on my dragon.”

You took in a deep breath to calm your nerves, then you began.

Tonantzin

“Huey Tonantzin

Tonantzin, huey,

huey Tonantzin

Tonantzin, huey.

Ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin,

ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin.

Tonantzin, huey,

huey Tonantzin

Tonantzin, huey.

Ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin,

ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin.

Tonantzin, huey,

huey Tonantzin

Tonantzin, huey.

Ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin,

ipalnemoani moyollocatzin

tlazocamati, Tonantzin”

Aemond clapped and you blushed. “Brilliant.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass

“My featherbed is deep and soft,and there I'll lay you down,I'll dress you all in yellow silk,and on your head a crown.For you shall be my lady love,and I shall be your lord.I'll always keep you warm and safe,and guard you with my sword.And how she smiled and how she laughed,the maiden of the tree.She spun away and said to him,no featherbed for me.I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,and bind my hair with grass,But you can be my forest love,and me your forest lass”

“That was brilliant. I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“I like to keep some things to myself.”

“In that case, I promise to only tell Iyari.” He laughed at the thought of you telling your tiny dog all of your secrets. It was a sound you hadn’t heard from him yet. Your sweet smile caught him off guard, but you stood anyway. “I have to go to bed, My Prince.”

“So soon?”

“It’s been hours, Prince Aemond—“

“Aemond.”

“Aemond. My friend, Jaera, will wonder where I am. And I’m tired.” You kissed his cheek and left him wishing for more.

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