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halcyone-of-the-sea · 3 months

Text

FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping water—deeper than anything.

In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves.

Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines.

“I still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,” is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older man’s garbled words. “So cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?”

Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later years—one who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled face—the glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline that’s more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. “Gets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.” Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. “Isn’t it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.”

“Don’t need my blood pumpin’ harder,” the old man grinds out, scoffing. “Gonna make my fuckin’ heart stop, Girl…” Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. “And, no, I’m not listening to the birds—they’ll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.”

Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this place—to Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe.

It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.

You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot.

The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a grunt—a cracking of old bones.

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back.

You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.

“You’ll scare away the fish with all that blabber.”

A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath.

“I’m as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Cheeky Bird,” Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. “You’re too wild for this place, then, eh?”

“For most places,” you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. It’s only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisher’s basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples.

Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, he’ll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harriet—older than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a bat—and then, finally, you. After that you’re back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat.

A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter.

Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly.

“Hey!” Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. “Watch yourself—you’ll send me overboard!”

“Did you see that?” Your eyes dart over the water. “I think I saw a fin.”

“You got excited over a fish?” The older man’s voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. “Hell, I got three in the basket if you’re that bloody impressed.”

“Shh,” you wave one of your hands, unblinking. “It was bigger than a fish, Otto!”

Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.

“Lost it,” your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. “Damn.” You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. “It was strange,” you admit. “Like a deep navy color—with specs of silver along the spine.”

Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back.

You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. “Do you know of any animal like that around here?”

“No,” Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock.

Your brows furrow after the silence falls stiffly—the boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air was…muddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water.

Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver.

“...Need help?” You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always.

There’s something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselves—and it wasn’t only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Otto’s strange behavior. The man wasn’t one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings.

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it.

“Don’t need any help,” he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. “M’not in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mum’s womb.”

“Feel sorry for her.” Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paint—

The fin is back.

“Otto!” Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. “It’s back! Look!”

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away.

Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, “Get back!” echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears.

“Whoa!” You’re quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook won’t slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Otto’s curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong.

Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life again—only ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all.

“You go back to the ocean,” Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. “Go back to the bloody hole you swam out of! There’s nothing for you here! Nothing!”

You watch, struck dumb.

“...Mr. Whitworth?” Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the man—utterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?

Perhaps time had caught up to him—was he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fish’s fin, nothing more, nothing less.

“Otto,” you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. “Let’s just go.” Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. “Alright…? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, it’s nothing important.”

His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, “You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.”

Withered hand connecting with your shawl’s edge, you’re dragged back with more force than you’d anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless.

Looking at the water, there’s nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.

—

You dare to ask when you’re pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. “I never took you for someone to believe in spirits.” The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harriet’s back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.

The man’s back over at the sink tightens.

“You watch yourself near the waters, Girl,” Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. “By God, you watch yourself. There’s things out there—terrible things.”

“What kinds of ‘terrible things,’ Otto?” Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life.

What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piqued—your curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. You’d only been here a year, that wasn’t enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles.

Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dog’s visage—worn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. He’d been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually, this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why.

He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, “What’s it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what I’m telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You don’t go on the water,” he blinks, face grim, “unless I’m the one ferryin’ you through it, eh? That’s the end of it. I’ll say no more.”

Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter.

But a fire had been lit in your breast now—a low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place.

To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any you’d seen before.

Blinking to look out the window of Otto’s home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that you’d always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.

—

It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpe—a tiny, unimportant dot on the map—when the way of life you’d chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. You’d picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.

One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment.

It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water.

Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning.

Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enough—the call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so.

Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder.

“What am I doing?” You ask yourself, shaking your head. “It was just a big fish—that old man was just being paranoid, anyways.” Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. “There’s nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.”

Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really say—what can be known are only three things:

One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip.

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

Your head snaps up to the sound of a man’s voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before you’re suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water.

The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendously—a flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp.

Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown.

Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first place—or who was poking a head out of the water before you’d gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.

You certainly weren’t going to.

Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirt’s collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where you’re yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as you’re heaved to the rocky shore moments later.

Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly follows—all spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air can’t come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined.

Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesn’t take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.

But there’s nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths.

Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge.

Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before it’s grasped from below and suddenly plucked—vanishing without a single trace.

—

The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and it’s not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still can’t stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat.

Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after you’d stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal.

There had been a man.

The sensation of hands around your waist—the gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as you’d turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds.

Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustache…square jaw…

“What in God’s name?” You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. “That isn’t possible.”

Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; there’d be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and pallets—bottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks.

There are paintings in the tens—in the twenties—hanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, it’s only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work.

There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows what’s under that thin surface? Well…apparently, it wasn’t human.

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin.

The thing in the water wasn’t… unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose sat—full cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique.

Spiney, nearly—four thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a ‘U’ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of being—for show in it…his?...species.

Could you even assign it a human gender?

You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. “What in the hell is going on?” Your voice is scratchy and low.

Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldn’t be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings.

Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace.

“What has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?”

More importantly…you had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.

With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet.

But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus.

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then.

—

There was no question if you’d gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the ocean—the evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth.

Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. You’re bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.

The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadn’t stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city.

You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friends—at the very least acquaintances. But before long, you’re at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.

The library.

Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences he’d called out on the docks that day—You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.

Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answer—there had to be something about this person, ‘Eleanor,’ in them, right?

If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first hand…you’d rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first.

Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.

“Oh,” the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. “Hello, Dear,” she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. “My, you look a bit under the weather, don’t you? Would you like me to get some tea going…?”

“No, thank you,” you wave an easy hand. “I’m here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.”

“Records?” The woman’s face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. “What kind were you thinking, then?”

After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. “Births and work records? Addresses?” You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. “I guess I don’t know…anything that might help me?”

The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. “How about you tell me what it is you’re looking into, and I’ll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. We’ll work together, then.”

Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. “Deal.”

“Go on then,” she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. “Occupation I can start with, Dear?”

“Well…” you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. “No, unfortunately. Only a first name.”

“You’re lucky Redthorpe is small,” the woman laughs. “Otherwise I would have told you you’re lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.”

“Eleanor,” you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled ‘1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpe’. “E-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least that’s the common spelling, I believe.”

The librarian’s body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, you’re reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face.

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. “There hasn’t been an Eleanor in Redthrope. You’re mistaken.”

“Wait,” you follow, stuttering. “I don’t understand, there has to have been—Otto was talking about her not days ago!”

“You’re mistaken,” is the repeated, firm answer, the librarian’s body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. “Go back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that aren’t there. Don’t take what he says to heart—”

“I saw it!” You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadn’t formed a relationship with the people of this town.

The woman’s mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expression…fear?

She backs up slowly. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dear.”

Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. “I’m done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!” Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what you’re telling her aside as she struggles to string words.

“It…it wouldn’t do that—that’s not how it acts. You’re just imagining things; you’re under the weather!”

“Who’s Eleanor?” You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. “And what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?”

Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarian’s lips move up and down in a panic.

“I…” she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. “I can’t talk about it. It’s not something to be said out loud—especially so close to the water.”

You bark incredulously, “There’s a bloody monster that lives down in—!”

A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body.

“Shh!” The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. “Stop it or you’ll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!” You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. It’s a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. “Do you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear.

She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, “If you’ve already seen it, it wants you. Don’t go back to the water,” before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock.

Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distress—this had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers.

“Careful, then.”

You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coat’s collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.

—

Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.

No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could do—could speculate—before the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided.

Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. It’s a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until you’re bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, there’s a point where a woman’s courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day.

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where you’d been previously.

“Don’t look at the water,” you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isn’t going to topple this way or that. “Don’t even think about it.”

But that tail…that face…

With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on.

The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpe—dreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didn’t mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than you’d like to admit.

The heat of protection, so to speak.

“Even a fish-man can die, I’d wager,” you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. “If I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,” you sneeze, shuddering, “if he even bleeds? If I crack his head open…will blood seep out, or salt water?”

You shiver, and it’s not from the cold. “Fucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, don’t you.”

Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where you’d fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting there…but also your shawl.

Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail.

You aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.

Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.

“Grab it and run,” your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rain—the storm—would render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so.

Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath.

Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due to…your eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.

“Fingerprints?”

Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do now—and, yet, there wasn’t an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared.

Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting.

Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running.

He’d been going through your drawings—he’d somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.

Did he like them?

Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasn’t too important.

Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelp…was it just under where you now study the waves?

So many questions, so few answers.

You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. There’s magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.

“Thank you!” Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree.

The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face.

“Truly,” you shout to the wind. “You have no idea how much this means! If you’re listening, I’d like to extend my gratitude…” Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. “My artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!”

A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldn’t drag you to the bottom of the ocean…right?

Hell, he’d already had a chance to do that—a perfect one—and yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.

Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking.

“You’re good at it,” you halt in a fraction of a second. “The images. Where’d you learn to do that?”

It’s a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.

A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.

Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shoulders—broad, of course—and the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before they’re gone again.

“I…” you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. “I was self-taught, Sir.”

Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and you’re near bursting with questions.

But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.

“You pulled me from the water,” you state slowly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laugh—perhaps it was strange to him.

You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory.

“I scared you,” he grumbles, sighing. “It wasn’t my intention to send you over.” Eyes still stay stuck. “My own fault.”

“I won’t deny you there,” you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thing’s eyes, and he hums. “Forgive me,” your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. “But I haven’t the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.”

“John,” is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesn’t waste his breath, seems.

“John?” You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. I’ve met more than enough ‘Johns’ so far.”

“Funny, are you?” The response, however dry, is tinged with something you can’t name.

“I try,” you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. “Just didn’t expect a man with a fishtail to act so….human. Certainly not be named like one, either.”

“Hm,” John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind.

It wasn’t out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse.

What would it feel like to touch it?

“You live here?” Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. “Right below the cliffs?”

“You’re the woman that goes out in the boat,” John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback.

“Yes, that’s me.” You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. “Otto goes fishing in the mornings—I like to sketch the shore. He isn’t the worst company, of course. He’s kind enough to let me along with him.”

But you won’t be kept down. There’s magical curiosity in your chest now.

“Your tail,” you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. John’s eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. “Forgive me, Sir, but I must know,” your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. “Is it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

John can’t find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You were…different, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old man’s boat—looking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes.

The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated over—the skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.

He doesn't know why he’s speaking to you, truly. He’d done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesn’t dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldn’t leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as that—a woman of all things? A human one?

Blue eyes can’t seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.

“No.” You blink, pulling back a smidge when John’s voice is low and graited. “Go back to your home. It’s late.”

“Hey, wait—!”

But he’s already gone under the waves, and you’re left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.

You stay there far longer than you’d like to admit.

—

You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and still…you were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting.

In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snails—you had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a man’s face peeking above the water.

Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasn’t any wind in here—and you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didn’t know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didn’t erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.

Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.

You turn in a half-circle.

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing.

Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and weary—shaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.

When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child.

Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until you’re inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty.

“What are you doing in here…?” You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces.

Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, it’s as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.

Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water.

You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently.

“One day you’re going to make me keel over,” your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his.

“A thief as well as an artist?” John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coat’s pocket, glaring lightly. “You left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.”

As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before you’re left breathless.

Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tail—that was something you could never describe.

The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You can’t see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the water…but even this was enough for now.

This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity.

It’s only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.

Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The being’s beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes.

“If someone’s avoiding you, Sunshine,” he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. “They usually don’t want to have a conversation.”

“I think it’s fair,” you huff. “You can’t just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.”

John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was so…stoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusement—even annoyed interest.

“I don’t have time to fuckin’ entertain others,” he thins his lips.

Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. “And what else is so much more important, then?” You raise a brow. “Scaring other women into the water?”

He huffs under his breath. “It was an accident—wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so jumpy, eh?”

“It’s not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,” you defend.

“Mer-man, Love,” he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.

“Well,” you chuckle. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

An emotionless glare is all you receive.

It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiry—what does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?

You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations.

A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; John’s hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone.

“And the rings?” You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. “Do you find them out there? Keep them?”

John tilts his head in an affirmation. “Shipwrecks. There’ll be hundreds of them—I’m not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.” He sighs. “Seemed a waste to leave them down there.”

You huff a sound of amusement. “I see. Fascinating.”

In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when you’d first entered.

You blink. “You live here?”

“Affirmative,” John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours.

Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. John’s face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.

“And…” you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. “If I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?”

There’s a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face.

The man was anything but small—everything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. You’d never imagined that you’d find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than you’d care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

“I’ll be here,” John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.

Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.

“...Okay.”

—

And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fear—nor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got.

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks.

The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might be—what correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didn’t have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself.

Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the merman’s rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, John’s face tightens as his eyelids narrow. You’d been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, John’s ears hadn’t twitched to it.

He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dull—he knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns.

He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you don’t look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.

“You’re quiet today,” he starts, frowning.

Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at John’s face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, and the man’s face pulls. “You can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Love, yeah?” John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” your lips mumble, and you shake your head. “It’s one of my questions again.” You pause, closing your book. “A difficult one.”

John’s lips flicker. “Well, we’ve been at this for ages. Can’t see how this one is more difficult than the others.” He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like this—having you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest.

John hums and swallows stiffly.

“Why not?” His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. “Something going on up there?”

Up there.

The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.

“More so in here,” you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot.

“Then speak to me,” John frowns, trying a low smirk. “Think we both know I’m a good listener then, Love. There’s time,” he glances at the entrance. “Won’t be near dark for a few more hours—don’t want you climbing at night.”

“Awe,” you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.

Not yet.

“Hurry up, Sunshine,” John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy.

There’s a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simply—so near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted.

Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, “You’re going to get cold.”

“It’s not as cold here as it is out there,” you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. “Besides, I’m right next to you—you’ll keep me warm, won’t you, John?”

“Fucking hell,” he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet.

You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of John’s tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch John’s left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks.

“There’s a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,” you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. “Eleanor.”

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

“And for some reason,” you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. “Everyone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I don’t know if she’s missing, or…”

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

Not noticing any chance on John’s face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. “Hey, are you alright?” Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.” Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. “I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were some murderous creature,” you shrug, “I don’t think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.” Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” the man huffs, quirking a brow. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Knew it,” you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.

John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. “Gettin’ cheeky, are you?”

If you were a bird, you’d be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps, John.”

It is a wonder, then, that the two of you don’t lock lips that very instant—long fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, John’s head is already moving back and his spine is straight.

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull.

“I knew of a woman named Eleanor—she would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.” Dark brows tighten. “Found her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.” Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. “Interesting that I’d be roped into it, but it’s understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?”

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper. “That must have been horrible.”

Blue slips over to you silently, and it’s a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly.

“Scared me when you fell in.” Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.

“Well,” you lean into him, face on fire, “it was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

“Oh, very,” you joke. “The tail is a bonus.” Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. “Since when did you know that navy is my favorite color?”

The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way John’s fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin.

“Bugger off,” he grunts.

You’ve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.

—

Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact.

John’s appearance in your work had started small—a glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the water—and had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought.

Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didn’t was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the ‘strange fish-man’ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks.

By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarian—

The bell of your shop dings.

Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy.

“How can I help you today, Sir?” Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, there’s the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch.

“I’m here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.” He’s well-spoken as well, and you’re shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpe—he doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Of course,” you nod, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I think I missed your name.”

“Noah Moore,” is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. “My neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.”

Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasn’t that Eleanor’s husband?

“Thank you,” your lips move, thinning. “That’s very high praise, Mr. Moore.”

“This creature,” Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. “The man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?”

Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way he’s trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isn’t right.

“Seen him?” Chuckles echo off the walls. “Who? The beast? No, Sir, that…thing…is just something I made up.” You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. “Oh my, clumsy me.” you laugh stiffly. “Apologies, Sir, but that’s the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.”

Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely.

“Ah,” he huffs, “of course. It was silly of me to ask.” Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. “Though,” Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer.

Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and there’s a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. He’d find you—you know he would.

“Though,” Noah continues, tilting his head. “There is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wife’s body was found at the rocks.”

Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs.

“As far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,” he hums, “you weren’t even here.”

Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. It’s why they’re so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left her—they saw him bring her body to shore.

It’s a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure.

“John would never kill an innocent woman!”

It’s as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, there’s a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noah’s wrist, clawing until there’s blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, there’s wild screaming, and you can’t tell if it’s the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear.

Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noah’s hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you can’t as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side table—searching fruitlessly.

“John?” Noah sneers, holding tighter. “The thing has a name?”

Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinct—breaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.

“It was perfect,” Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. “I had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!”

Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anything—anything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You can’t even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision.

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

“Two years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?”

Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noah’s head.

Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping.

Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead.

Running, you don’t know how to stop, and it’s even harder to catch your breath by the time you’re down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasn’t—but the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of John’s cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.

There’s a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hear—whipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking.

“Love!”

Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue that’s a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck.

Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.

“Hey,” John breathes, having dragged himself at a moment’s notice across the floor of the cave. “Hey,” he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury.

His hand is outstretched, but he doesn’t try to touch you again seeing how you’d jerked away. The man’s heart had stopped at that—his concern shooting up similar to how he felt when you’d raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.

But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.

“What is going on,” he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. There’s only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant.

Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is John’s outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jaw—the eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.

Openly gazing, when John sees you’re back, his blues slip to a softened caress.

“Love,” he mutters, face tight.

You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang.

“Shh,” John breathes, knowing that he’d get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. “I’m right here, Sunshine. Breathe, then…I’m right here, yeah?”

His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fish—no air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.

John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.

You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm.

Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth.

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

When it became apparent you couldn’t speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool.

Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks.

“Careful,” John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. “Let me get it, eh?”

Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate.

“I’m not glass,” you croak, one hand near your throat.

Blue eyes blink at you. “Never said you were,” he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adam’s Apple bob. “Don’t like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.”

Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, “And stop talking—you’ll make it worse.”

You hadn’t explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time you’d been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.

The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you weren’t blind.

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat.

He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment.

“...Can I?” You pause, swallowing as the burn persists.

Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefully—not tightening, not holding you there—resting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose.

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

“Easy,” John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. “When you’re ready, explain it to me, eh?” His head tilts, voice a low tease. “Glass or not.”

Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, “Quietly, now. Can hear just fine—don’t push yourself.”

Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back.

All you say is one name.

“Noah.”

There’s a moment of confusion on John’s face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftly—he wasn’t a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. It’s of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog.

A dog with scales, that is.

Your body is still running hot—your heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. You’re tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again.

When you shift your body, the man’s eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.

A noise exits the back of his throat, and John’s mouth moves in serious question. “What are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at you—”

Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck.

You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a merman’s tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. John’s chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.

You both say nothing, and it’s a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.

—

When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch you’d strung together in the meantime.

You fiddle with one of John’s rings—the emerald one—as you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.

“I think he killed his wife.”

By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.

“Hm,” is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.

He shakes his head, growling out, “You’re not going back up there. Not while he’s still walking the streets.”

You frown, but John glares without any venom. “It wasn’t a question, Love.”

“What will you do,” you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. “Run after me, John?”

The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. “If I have to.”

Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as John’s fingers once again continue their touching—as if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins.

“You don’t have legs,” you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply.

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

His face is immobile. “Then I’ll bleed.”

Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expression—the pull of the crow’s feet beside his eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of a joke in John’s eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low.

The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.

John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green.

“Keep it,” he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. “More of a use to you.”

Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you.

John shrugs. “The rest of ‘em, too, if you want the damn things.” His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things he’d seen from far distant waters.

Oh, but they’d pale in comparison to how you would wear them.

A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait.

A women to the water.

He’d seen your latest sketches—you’d brought them down to him here—and when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. He’d not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as he’d listened to you explain it. You’d told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.

You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciation—a voiceless devotion. He’d never been…captured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didn’t even know himself, and yet there they were.

Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that he’d all but forgotten about, the list was endless.

But he looks at you now, and he can understand why there’s a draw to immortalize the mortal.

His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. There’s little air to be taken in between the two of you.

“John,” you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips.

He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you don’t want to fight it, you don’t want to think about the strangeness of this predicament you’ve found yourself in—a creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.

When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself.

Head snapping up, John’s body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, it’s not long before you realize what’s going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse.

The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls.

“John,” you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. “You need to run,” you choke out. “Go! Quickly!”

You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows it’s fruitless. He won’t leave you here alone.

“They’ll kill you!” Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will.

“Stay under me,” John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows there’s little that he’d be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones he’d yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a ship—a spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter.

There was a sharp feeling in John’s chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment he’d seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers.

He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was.

“John!” You try to bark again, growing desperate.

Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadn’t shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell. They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.

Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something you’d keep for a home invasion beside the bed—the Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story.

He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves.

Half of Mr. Moore’s face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the ground—skin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup.

You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and John’s glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him.

“There!” Noah shouts, balking closer. “See! I knew it was here—seducing the next woman to take to the ocean!”

Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. John’s face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noah’s visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the merman’s waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go.

“Girl!” Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, you’re not sure you would. You wouldn’t even know what to say. “Get away from it!”

“I’d put that down,” John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. “‘Fore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.”

“Otto,” you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in question’s face pulls, wrinkles thinning. “You have to listen to me, please, it’s not how Mr. Moore told you—”

“It speaks!” Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. “Freak of nature, it already has its hold on her.”

“Oh my,” the Librarian gasps. “Noah, it’s horrible—look at the tail.”

Your eyes flare with rage as John doesn’t react.

“Hey!” You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but you’re already pushing until you’re on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.

“You watch your bloody mouth,” you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.

Steady. Keep your head on.

Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.

Your eyes glint. “Drop your weapons,” your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. “Leave. John is innocent—he told me all of it.” You turn to Otto. “Mr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.” Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers.

“Noah killed Eleanor,” you breathe, John’s grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls.

“Absurd—!”

“He pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,” you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. “You all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.”

It didn’t surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dull—he never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.

Hands whipping to snare around the merman’s shoulders, you’re only able to get a quick breath in before you’re completely enveloped in water, with John’s hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine.

You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noah’s muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Otto—held at his sides. There’s a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then John’s fins hide the rest as they slash through the water.

When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the side—always having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below.

“Lier!” Noah screams, face contorted. “She’s lying!”

You look at Otto and see the grim way he’s already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian did—believe a woman who’d been here a year or someone they’d known nearly their entire lives.

“Noah,” Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. “Breathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speak—”

The knife in Noah’s hands slashes the air, and suddenly there’s a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood.

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching.

The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate.

“Don’t move,” he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. “Keep still. Focus on my words, Love.” Under his breath is a tight, “Fuck!”

John speaks above the gargling—the spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes.

“Don’t look,” John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The sounds…oh, the sounds were horrible.

But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.

Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.

“That’s it,” John’s fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “That’s it, then. Doing good, don’t move until I say so, alright?”

When you don’t answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You don’t have to say you know him to understand that he’s only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.

Otto was dead.

John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil.

John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.

“Hey, hey, you hear me?” John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smile—a flash nothing more. “There she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; don’t look until I say so.” Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead.

The man that brought you out on his boat—the man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you can’t stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood.

“There’s nothing out here that can hurt you,” John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. “So long as I’m here, I won’t let it.”

He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears.

Noah is still screaming, but now it’s for help.

John’s voice lowers as he utters, “Hey,” the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes.

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss that’s leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, John’s already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film.

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice.

The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck.

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple.

Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarian—attacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, he’d walked into the sea and had taken his own life.

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it.

You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as he’d named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, he’d been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth.

Harriet stays in the shop with you, where she’ll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. She’s quite fond of the fireplace.

Most days, people find you near the water, and it’s something that wasn’t going to change even after Noah’s body was found in the rocks—freakishly close to where Eleanor’s had been. Some were calling it poetic and you’d have to agree…but for different reasons.

“You shouldn’t be giving me all of these,” you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of John’s trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.

John’s lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer.

“Want to,” he grumbles.

Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the man’s scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicated—lifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below.

Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. He’d let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his life—the softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well.

Shivering, John’s breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.

Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to ‘paint’ him, he’d allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distraction….but because he can’t bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.

“Where do you come from, John,” your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull.

That near kiss.

“No answer, Love.” You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. “I won’t be going back to distant waters anytime soon.”

John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Unique—made for one another despite the obvious.

He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.

“Getting water on you, Love,” he breathes. “New painting soon?” John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isn’t sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind now—instinct.

“Mhm,” you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. “I think I’ll make this one a portrait.”

John blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Portrait? Why’s that?”

Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant.

For a second, the man’s surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.

“I have a subject that’s caught my eye.” You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on.

“And I’d be a fool if I let him swim off.”

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

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charliemwrites · 4 days

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Part 4

Mister(s) Steal Your Girl is, somehow, now the official title. Congratulations you little shits (affectionate).

Content: Toxic Behavior, Brief Weight Shaming, Hurt/Comfort

You didn’t expect to see Johnny much after that one night - or possibly ever again. Kyle introduced you two, it was a lot of fun, but you figure that’ll be the end of it. Like introducing a new man to your girlfriends (not that you can really introduce Kyle to yours) you passed the vibe check and now Kyle will keep you and Johnny separate.

That’s how it’s been with Brandon’s friends. (Granted, you don’t really care for Brandon’s friends. And you figure it’s mutual based on the “uptight” comments they pretended to think you couldn’t hear.)

You’re starting to realize that Kyle is always going to subvert your expectations.

Johnny becomes a fixture - a welcome one. While you and Kyle still have your date nights and privacy, Johnny joins you two at least once a week for movies, drinks, dinner, or just silly adventures out and about.

You’re surprised that you don’t mind. Johnny is fantastic company, always respectful, funny, and friendly. Whenever the two of you are left alone, there’s no dead air. In fact, sometimes you could almost swear there’s electricity. Which is… well. It makes it hard to look him in the eye sometimes - and looking at Kyle even harder.

Guilt nips at your stomach until one of them distracts you with another story you’re 70% sure they shouldn’t tell you.

You and Johnny play a game with pub napkins, doodling something on one folded half, then passing it over for the other to scribble on the second half. The trick is not cheating and seeing the first half, then unfolding it to a complete (and usually silly) picture. Gaz always gets to name whatever monstrosity has been created.

You get a month of that good company. Then Kyle sighs at his phone one night.

“Shipping out again,” he explains when you glance at him.

“Will you be gone long?” you ask, shifting.

His brow furrows. “Not sure. They can’t tell us much over the phone.”

You hum in understanding. Still new to this whole military thing, the redacted danger of it all, but you think you’re getting the hang of it. At least, Kyle never seems annoyed when he can’t answer you, only apologetic.

“Is it gonna be the whole team?” you ask.

“Nah, just me and the cap.” He rubs his palm along your calf, a gesture that you suspect is self-soothing rather than for your benefit. “Probably not too dangerous, then.”

You make a noise of protest, nudging at his thigh with your foot. “Bad luck!”

“Sorry, sorry!” he chuckles, tapping his knuckles on the wooden end table. “You’re right.”

You crawl from your side of the couch to his, nuzzling up under his arm. He trails kisses along the side of your face as you snuggle in.

“I’ll miss you,” you mumble into his neck. Still a little embarrassed to be so needy, but you want him to feel appreciated.

“I’ll miss you too, chickadee. I’ll call if I can, yeah?”

You hum in agreement, squeezing an arm around his middle.

“While I’m gone, if you need anything - even some company - you ought to call Soap,” he adds.

The idea is tempting but… “I don’t want to bother him.”

“I promise you won’t,” he laughs. You don’t know what’s so funny, but hearing his voice rumble in his chest like this is always a treat.

“Maybe,” you allow.

“We’ll take it.” Before you can ask what that means, he loops an arm around your waist and scoops you into his lap. “Now then, about my send off.”

Your giggle turns into a moan as his mouth slants over yours.

Kyle’s only been gone three days. You’ve occupied yourself with cleaning up the flat you share with Brandon. Dust has been collecting since you’ve been out and about so much - and god knows Brandon hardly does more than load the dishwasher. Besides, a good bit of spring cleaning is a pleasant enough distraction, humming as you toss out old things to make more room for the new stuff you’ve been collecting.

“Good to see you getting back to normal,” Brandon says cheerfully. You glance up from the laundry you’re folding. He continues, “I was worried with how behind you got on things, but I knew you just needed some time. I told you this would be better for us both.”

You try not to let that sting. Even if things are better now, and continuing to get better, you can’t forget the pain that lingers from the beginning.

“Tell you what,” he adds, hands in his pockets. “When you finish cleaning up, I’ll take you out to the pub, yeah? Put on something pretty.”

You perk up, pleasantly surprised, though hesitant.

“We could leave earlier if you helped,” you point out, hoping for more than just dinner. “Maybe we could walk in the park or something before eating.”

He gives you a weak smile. One you recognize more than his real one by now. It’s almost apologetic, but not quite.

“I would but I’m bloody exhausted from this week, ya know? Big projects coming up at work.”

Your smile freezes. “And some late nights, I’m sure,” you try to joke.

He doesn’t laugh like you expect, but gives you an odd look. “Why would you say something like that?”

Baffled, you shrug. He shakes his head.

“I’m going to take a nap, come wake me up when you’re ready to go.”

You manage to finish the majority of your to-do list by 5. Shower, get dressed, do your hair and makeup with Brandon snoring in the background until 6. By then, he still hasn’t woken up from his nap, so you perch on the edge of the bed and gently nudge at him until he stirs.

“I’m ready to go, babe,” you murmur.

He scrunches up his face - you spare an affectionate thought for how cute it is. You’ve always found it cute.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbles.

You laugh a little. “It’s getting late, we should probably head out.”

He groans. “Five. Minutes.”

You huff in amusement and reach for his phone to set an alarm, but pause at all the notifications from dating apps crowding his screen. There are… a lot. And as you’re looking, a new message pops up, just labeled “blonde” with a peach emoji. Gross.

You set the alarm and slip away to the living room.

It takes him another half hour to finally rouse, shuffling into the living room with a groan.

“C’mon,” he yawns. “It’s going to be bloody crowded by now.”

You follow him quietly to the car, knowing he’s not chatty when he’s just woken up. Hunger only adds to his mood; you can practically see a cloud forming over his head. By the time he pulls up to the pub, he’s downright grumpy. He grumbles about shit parking, and the milling people outside. It looks busy.

“We could go somewhere else?” you suggest.

“This is fine,” he says.

He parks a block away and starts at a swift pace. You try to hold his hand, but halfway there, he pulls away to check his phone and doesn’t take it again.

Surprisingly, it’s only a twenty minute wait for a table - but Brandon sneers something like “of course it is” under his breath. You smile apologetically at the hostess and usher him away.

He doesn’t talk during the wait, at first. Until suddenly he blurts. “We wouldn’t have to wait if you’d woken me up.”

You blink at him. “I did. You asked for five more minutes.”

“Well, why didn’t you wake me up then?”

“I set an alarm?”

You don’t know why he’s so irritated, just that he seems tired and hungry.

“You know I don’t listen to alarms,” he complains, scowling at the sidewalk.

“Okay… I’ll wake you up next time,” you offer.

“Yeah, next time.”

Thankfully, the two of you are called a little early. The pub is indeed loud and crowded, and you’re definitely overdressed. But at least you know what you want - Brandon’s taken you here a million times before.

Wisely, you wait until he’s downed the texmex rolls before trying for conversation again. He hums along as you talk about work, about the books you’ve been reading, about the new movie you saw last week. You think it’s going pretty well, catching up on each other’s lives, when he interrupts you mid-sentence.

“Where was this?”

You frown. “At the grocery store…?”

“You’re still on that? Thought we moved on from that story.”

You don’t bother finishing it, just ask him about his work. It’s like pulling teeth. A lot of “good” and “busy” and “same as usual.” By the time your entree comes, you’ve given up, not sure if you want to cry or just walk away to see if he even notices. He keeps checking his phone. Your fingers twitch to text Kyle, but you don’t want to bother him while he’s working.

The end of dinner can’t come sooner. You decline dessert when the server asks.

“Probably for the better,” Brandon tells you lowly when they’re gone to get the check. “I think you’ve put on a bit of weight. You know how you get.”

You probably have - Kyle has a sweet tooth and practically begs you to split desserts with him. Johnny’s shares his food with you now too, grinning when you express approval for whatever high-protein dish he’s picked and shoving more at you.

As for “how you get”… Brandon’s mentioned in the past when you were heavier that you get mopey, aren’t much fun to be around.

(A small part of you wonders how that would even effect him at this point. He doesn’t spend enough time around you to notice if you’re mopey. Is that why tonight has been such a disaster…?)

You just collect your purse and lead the way out of the pub. It’s a quiet walk back to the car, even though Brandon seems to be in a better mood. He’s still texting, nearly bumps into an elderly couple along the way.

Back at the apartment, he runs his hand down your side, tugs at the lace hem of your shirt.

“Careful,” you chide.

He sucks his teeth and drops his hand. “I’m just trying to be playful.”

“I know, but I like this shirt.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got three just like it.”

You don’t answer, know it’ll lead to more useless bickering. Just tug the stupid thing over your head, ready to go to bed.

“Hey now, that’s more like it,” he drawls, fingertips running down your spine.

You jump, surprised, but play it off that his hands are cold. He makes some crass comment about warming them up, reaching for your breasts, and your stomach churns.

“I-I think I ate something bad,” you lie, all but sprinting for the bathroom.

You close the door behind you - but don’t lock it. Just sit on the floor, the wall cold against your back, while you try to breathe through your spinning, conflicting thoughts.

He’s finally giving you attention, affection. Why aren’t you jumping at this opportunity to spend time with him? Not long ago, you would have been weeping with joy to have an iota of your normal relationship back. Maybe you really did eat something bad.

“Hey,” Brandon calls through the door, “I’m gonna stay somewhere else tonight.”

You stare at the blank white wood, aghast. “But I’m sick.”

“It’s not like I can do much, is there? Except listen to you be sick all night,” he reasons. “And who knows. Maybe it wasn’t something you ate. Maybe it’s contagious. I don’t want to spend the weekend ill.”

Your eyes burn. He didn’t even open the door to check. “Yeah,” you agree, voice robotic, “you’re right.”

Not even five minutes later, you hear the front door close. That almost, almost does you in. You manage to keep your lackluster dinner down, but not the tears.

You let yourself be pathetic for a few minutes, crying into your arms, folded over your knees. When you finally manage to get yourself together, it’s not Brandon you ache for. It’s Kyle. It’s not possible, you know. You just don’t want to be alone even though the nausea is dissipating.

Sighing, you remove your ruined makeup and wash your face, climb into one of Kyle’s jumpers. At least it still smells like him. It’s only as you’re trying to decide on a comfort show, huddled into a ball on the couch, that you remember his advice.

It takes all of fifteen seconds of debate before you scramble for your phone.

I know it’s late, but are you free, you text Johnny.

A response comes almost immediately.

Always for you, lass. You bite your lip on a tiny smile, already feeling better. Your phone buzzes again. What’s up?

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment as you figure out what to ask - then how to ask it.

Would you want to come to mine for movies? I don’t feel good…

He answers instantly again. Ice cream not-good or Theraflu not-good?

You sniffle when you remember that being sick was a dealbreaker for your night with Brandon.

Ice cream not-good, you reply.

Say no more, hen. Be there in fifteen. Pick a good one.

You watch TikTok’s until there’s a knock at the door. Upon answering, you’re swept up in a bear hug that lifts you off your socked feet.

“Johnny!” you cry, laughing a bit in shock.

“There she is!” he crows, swinging you around. “Been missin’ my best girl!”

You tell yourself the thrill in your stomach is just from him setting you down. (It’s a harder sell when it happens again seeing his wide smile and warm blue eyes.)

“You're ridiculous,” you huff, “I’m not your best girl.”

He arches his eyebrows. “Oh, yer keepin’ track, are ye?”

“C’mon, you must have a partner or something?” you prod as you usher him inside.

“Kyle must’ve told ye, hen, it’s hard in this line of work,” he explains, shrugging. “Tried before but… usually they just end up feeling neglected, ya ken.”

You hum. That’s why Kyle said you and he would work so well with the open relationship - that you’d still have someone at home while he was out. That you wouldn’t be alone if something happened to him.

“Anyway, this is no kinda talk for a cozy night in, now is it?” Johnny says, cutting your melancholy musing short. “Come look at what I brought ya!”

You only notice then the two grocery bags in one hand. He herds you to the couch and sets them on the coffee table for you to root through.

“My favorite!” You exclaim when you extract the tub of ice cream.

The grin Johnny shoots you is proud. “Kyle said so.”

“You two,” you sigh happily.

He’s also brought a squishy stuffed animal, crisps, popcorn, soda, candy, and a small collection of self-care items. You hold the face-masks up with a questioning smile.

“Heard somewhere that it’s good for ye, when yer feelin’ down.” You try not to giggle when the last word comes out sounding like “doon.” He continues, blissfully ignorant. “Hope that’s the right shite, there was a lot to choose from.”

You throw your arms around him, chest warm. “Thank you, this is perfect, Johnny.”

He circles his arm around your waist, holding you close. “Anytime, bonnie,” he murmurs into your hair.

You squeeze his shoulders as you pull away, waving one of the mask packets with a wicked little smile.

“Wanna try this ‘shite’ with me?” you tease.

You expect a resounding and masculine-heavy no. Instead, Johnny tilts his head consideringly for a moment, then shrugs.

“Eh, why the hell not?”

You wake up the next morning to a mess of candy wrappers, discarded moisturizers, and an empty carton of ice cream. And the smell of eggs. Cartoons are playing quietly on the telly. When you yawn and sit up, you’re greeted by a cheerful Johnny at the stove, wearing your pink apron.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls.

You flush and smile back, glad that you called him. “Mornin’!”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #misters steal your girl #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #Brandon the crash dummy

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comradekatara · 2 months

Note

i don’t want to watch natla but i appreciate very much you posting about “zuko’s little faggot diary” that shit made me crack up laughing ty

that’s just canon to me. he’s a boy who loves to monologue. of course he keeps a diary. how else is he gonna keep track of his special interests. where else is he gonna write down his angsty poetry. you know he spent months tracking aang down taking detailed notes on his garb, his fighting style, his flight patterns, and not once ever bothered taking note of his name, even though he easily could’ve learned it from the million times katara screamed it over the course of their fights.

which, if you’ll allow me to go on a tangent, is another thing that bothers me. when ppl are like “zuko learned their names because they all say one another’s names constantly.” and you think that means he actively made an effort to REMEMBER it????? you must be out of your damn gourd if you think that the most one-track minded human being in the history of the universe is paying attention to anything that doesn’t directly interest him in that very moment. but i digress.

i just KNOW that zuko was soo mad that he lost his diary after his ship got blown up by zhao because years of precious poetry and avatar lore, burned to cinders by that PHILISTINE!!!! and then as a refugee in the earth kingdom, he languishes, diaryless, because he’s too embarrassed to actually spend what little money they have on something so extraneous. and then once back in the fire nation he obviously can’t keep a diary because azula will do everything in her power to read it (he learned that the hard way as a child). but then, finally, once he flees to the western air temple, he can actually keep a diary again, now that he is surrounded by nice, normal people who don’t actually care enough about him to snoop through his belongings.

or so he thinks.

now, aang, being a respectful young lad, would never share his findings with the rest of the group, especially since none of them have actually warmed up to him yet. but that doesn’t prevent him from reading everything zuko has ever written in that diary. and of course, he doesn’t tell zuko, because he has the tact and savvy to know that if he alerts zuko to his snooping, then he will simply hide his diary better, or even worse, stop writing in it altogether. and zuko can’t stop writing!! for he has a poet’s soul!!!

also, zuko has somehow gathered a lot of information on sokka that aang himself did not know, despite being friends with him for nearly a year now (like the fact that he dated the moon??? or the fact that his mother was killed by the fire nation??? although that one he really should’ve figured out on his own. considering that he and katara are siblings, and thus logically would share a mother). and so aang really needs zuko to keep updating his SOKKA LORE notebook because he feels kind of guilty that he knew basically nothing about his friend and yet zuko, the least observant person he has ever met, is somehow an expert in sokkology (although aang is deeply offended on katara’s behalf that he simply refers to her as “sokka’s sister” or sometimes “the angry one”).

for the record, aang never actually puts together WHY zuko is so fascinated by sokka. he’s just like “of course he’d be intrigued by sokka. he has a very complex mind, what an adventure to attempt to fathom the depths of his psyche.” like he just assumes that zuko is using sokka as a case study for completely innocuous reasons. he also assumes that zuko, like any teenage boy with eyes, is infatuated with katara. not at first, obviously, because to zuko she is still “girl sister, long hair” but eventually. once they reconcile, and become friends. and then his diary makes a sharp turn from carefully documenting any and all sokka lore to “katara said this really funny thing today” “katara is so nice and pretty” “katara is such a good waterbender” and suddenly aang is NOT having fun anymore!!!! halt the presses!!!!!

so aang just kind of sulks to himself for a while because it’s not like he can TELL anyone about his NEW ROMANTIC RIVAL in the BID FOR KATARA’S AFFECTIONS, but he does try to vaguely intimate to sokka and toph that it bothers him. and toph’s just like “what?? you mean all those times she hooked up with haru at the western air temple???” and aang’s just like. “HARU??????!!?!!??!?!?”

anyway. zuko isn’t a complete idiot, so after a few good years of being friends with aang, he finally catches onto the fact that aang has been keeping up with his diary every time he visits the palace, after like, the fourth or fifth time that aang accidentally lets a piece of information slip that he only could’ve known via reading zuko’s diary. so zuko decides to mess with him, and starts keeping a fake diary in the place he used to keep his real diary (columbus style) and writing shit in it like, “aang’s recent experimentations with facial hair are so embarrassing. just because you’re finally old enough to grow a weak little mustache doesn’t mean that you, under any circumstances, SHOULD. i bet katara is throwing up puking every day just having to kiss his horrendous furry mouth.” or, “katara said that she thinks roku was not only hotter, but also a way better avatar than aang, and personally, i agree. if he was still the avatar today no one would ever go hungry and we would have total world peace.” or, “aang is way too comfortable going shirtless. if i had that scrawny lanky body i would cover that shit up with a big ol sweater every day.” or, “aang said something really mean the other day and it hurt my feelings and i cried alone in my room for 3 hours. aang is literally a bully????”

and aang can’t even SAY anything because zuko is allowed to say whatever he wants about his friends in the privacy of his own journal, but also he decides that if zuko truly hates him so much, then he will simply stop visiting the fire nation so frequently, out of respect to his friend. at which point zuko realizes that he may have gone too far, so the next time aang visits him, he puts his real diary in his drawer with an entry that reads, “i can’t believe aang keeps falling for my fake diary prank. he doesn’t even know that im messing with him. and he never will, because my system is flawless, and i’ll never ever lose track of which diary is the real one and which one is the fake.”

at which point aang runs headfirst into a meeting between fire lord zuko and his senior council and is just like “ZUKO!!!!!!!!!!! YOU IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!” and tackles him in a hug with no regard for propriety. he nearly gives zuko a concussion from the force of his hug. but dammit if it isn’t worth it.

#boyfriendgideon #asks #all of this is canon btw.#zuko #aang #aang&zuko #katara&zuko #aang&katara #sokkaxzuko #also yeah. don’t watch natla. truly NOT worth it in the slightest . u made a good call there

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soaringthroughthegalaxy · 7 months

Text

Such a Good Girl

Crosshair can’t shake this strange feeling in his chest, especially after you save his ass during a mission. Perhaps it's worth finally exploring.

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader

Word count: 4.2k

Rating: NSFW 18+ MINORS DNI!!

Warnings: praise kink, competency kink, pet names, Cross hates having feelings but has to deal with them anyway, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), fingering, heavy eye contact, dirty talk, the armour stays on, light D/s tones, sprinkle of quirofilia, idiots falling in love, mention of inappropriate use of rifle rest, brief Soft!Cross, brief aftercare.

A/N: DBB once described Cross as ‘a coiled snake’, and it’s the most fitting description I’ve ever read.

The ache had started in your calves but was now working up your thighs. You tossed and turned in the small bunk, trying desperately to get comfortable, but nothing worked. With a quiet groan of frustration, you sat up, your flimsy standard-issue blanket tossed aside, and hauled yourself off the bed.

Bare feet on the durasteel floor, you winced as the cold shot up your legs. It took a moment for you to walk without wobbling, but you persevered, quietly moving past the other bunks. Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech had conked out when you entered hyperspace, with Crosshair taking the first watch.

The last mission had been rough – the intel you’d received from Command had been flawed, vastly underestimating the number of droids you’d have to face. Then a damn electrical storm had rolled in, thrown out your comms, and messed with Hunter’s senses. Everything that could’ve gone wrong had, but you shouldn’t have been surprised given everything that had happened over the last year.

A whole year. It had gone past in the blink of an eye. You could still remember the day you’d been introduced to Clone Force 99 and assigned as their civilian handler. It was your job to keep in contact with Command, feed the boys their missions, and ensure they had everything they needed to complete their work and return safely.

While most handlers chose to remain on Kamino, away from the blaster fire and chaos, you’d elected to go with the Batch, to live on the Marauder with them and share their barracks on the rare occasion you could return to base. After all, you couldn’t keep them safe if you weren’t with them.

They’d been distant with you at first – still polite, of course, but hadn’t opened up or engaged in conversation about anything other than the current mission.

Wrecker had cracked after a month, inviting you to watch a holofilm with him in the gunner’s nest. Tech had been next, optimising your datapad when you’d been in the fresher. Hunter followed afterwards, teaching you how to play dejarik. And then Crosshair had been last, sitting silently beside you to field strip and reassemble his rifle before he’d pushed it in your direction for you to repeat his actions.

They were your family now, The four chaotic brothers.

But they’d come close to becoming three today.

Your slow, steadier steps continue through the ship until you reach the closed cockpit doors. It was a courtesy for whoever was on watch to close the doors and dampen any noise for those resting. Pressing your palm against the panel nearby, the door gave a quiet whoosh as it opened, sealing shut behind you as you stepped in.

The cockpit was quiet; a lone figure sat in the co-pilot chair. “You’re meant to be sleeping.” The serpentine slink of Crosshair’s voice filled the space as he turned the chair around to see who was up, momentary surprise flickering in his eyes as he caught sight of you before he tampered it back down.

“Would if I could, Cross.” You answered dryly, sitting in the seat behind him. The nickname slipped out easily these days, though you could remember the scowl the sniper had thrown your way the first time you’d used it. Ultimately, he’d warmed to it and secretly enjoyed every time you used it.

“Hell’s wrong with you?” He asked as you shifted in the seat, the well-worn leather giving a little as you tried to get comfortable. He pushed his toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue, sharp eyes raking over your body as he took quick stock of your condition.

Your lips fell into a flat line as you stared incredulously at the man opposite you. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe my whole body is protesting because I had to race up the side of a damn mountain this afternoon to save my snarky sniper from a platoon of droids.” You huffed, the tension palpable in your voice.

As usual, Crosshair had found the best vantage point during the mission, but the unexpectedly large number of droids had caught you all off guard. You’d been mid-way through fighting a platoon back when you’d spotted another cresting over the mountain. Crosshair had been focused on picking off the droids coming after you and his brothers, and without comms to alert him, you’d been left with two options – furiously field sign the warning and pray he caught it through his scope or haul ass up the mountain and deal with the problem yourself.

You’d chosen the latter.

Your blaster bolt had cut through the first droid just as they’d rounded the corner and spotted Crosshair in a prone position, his rifle aimed down the mountain. And though every muscle in your body had burned and protested, you’d valiantly held them back long enough for him to turn and help fight them off.

The corner of Crosshair’s lip twitched, a tinge of amusement in his hawkish gaze. “Your snarky sniper?” He quips, trying to ignore the warmth in his body at your words.

“Of course, that’s what you take out of that. Not the fact that my legs feel like they’re on fire.” You roll your eyes, arms folding across your chest as you meet his gaze. You weren’t really mad, and you both knew it.

For a moment, you silently stare at each other until Crosshair breaks the contact and reaches down, drawing your legs up onto his lap. A noise of surprise slips past your lips as you slide down a bit in the chair, but you adjust your position. His thumbs press against your ankles, sliding slowly up your calf as he works out the ache in your muscles, one leg at a time. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he pushes and rubs, the pain starting to fade with every pass of his fingers.

The cockpit falls silent again, the streaks of hyperspace throwing soft light through the space, illuminating Crosshair from behind like a halo. The idea has you suppressing a smile, knowing he’d baulk at such a comparison.

He can feel the weight of your gaze on him, but he studiously ignores it, focussing instead on trying to ease your pain. He’d been so intent on ensuring the safety of his brothers, picking off the droids attacking them, that he’d missed your scramble up the mountain. It had only been the sound of your blaster fire nearby that had snapped his attention to you and the oncoming droids. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d have likely been overwhelmed without your quick actions. He was better than any Reg, without a doubt, but without backup, an entire platoon of droids was too much even for him.

The surprise he’d felt at seeing you up on the mountain with him had been short-lived, replaced with a strange sense of attraction as he watched you protect him before instinct kicked in, and he’d joined you in the fight. That feeling had returned just now when you’d called him yours and prompted him to reach for you to ease your aches. It was confusing and infuriating. Sure, over the last year, he’d fleetingly thought of you in a less than professional way, but he’d never had the urge to act on it until today.

Your body sinks into the chair, relaxing as the tension is worked out of your legs. It feels too damn good, and a moan slips from your lips before you can stop it, your eyes widening as you inhale sharply, going stock still. Crosshair’s hands pause, toothpick slowly sliding to the other side of his mouth as he finally lifts his gaze, those sharp brown eyes dancing with something dangerous. “What an unexpectedly pretty sound, kitten.”

A strangled noise escapes you, wide eyes locked onto the sniper. The nickname is nothing new, usually thrown at you with a playful barb or some snark, but this time it’s different. This time, he purrs it.

“S-Sorry.” You stammer, clearing your throat as you try desperately to ignore the sudden heat in your belly. “It slipped out. Felt good.” You gesture vaguely towards your legs before pulling them out of Crosshair’s lap. But those slender fingers of his wrap around your ankles, keeping them in place, his eyes refusing to leave yours.

Crosshair knows he’s playing a dangerous game right now, knows he’s teetering on the edge of something that could go favourably for you both or go wildly wrong. But your moan…fuck. He’s grateful his codpiece hides his half-hard cock as one of his hands trails up your calves, skimming across your knees and thighs. He stops himself from sliding his hand under the hem of the oversized sleep shirt you’re wearing, a strange pang of something clawing at his chest as he realises it’s one of Wrecker’s old shirts.

Your own chest is rising and falling rapidly with tiny breaths. Crosshair’s eyes take in the flutter of your pulse in your neck, the way you’re watching him so intently. The pads of his fingers smooth across your thigh as he weighs up the situation. He could play this off, joke about riling you up and never mention it again. Or, he could figure out this strange feeling and why he’s picturing you naked, writhing beneath him with nothing but pleasure painted on your gorgeous face.

He, too, chooses the latter.

“You did good today.” He states lowly, fingers skirting ever so slightly under the hem of your shirt, eyes focused on your face. That feeling in his chest expands as he watches your pupils dilate as you inhale shakily.

Warmth sits in your belly, the compliment curling around you like a blanket on a cold day. “Just doing my job.” You decide to play it off, even though the words and the way he’s touching you make your heart pound a little wildly. You’d never been good at accepting praise and certainly weren’t expecting it from Crosshair.

“Maybe. But I’d like to thank you properly.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, the usual bite to his words gone as his eyes flit down to watch his fingers shift, dragging down the inside of your knee.

Brows furrowing for a second, you swallow, wondering if you’re reading the room correctly. “Are you…propositioning me?” You ask quietly, a shiver sliding down your spine as Crosshair’s fingers still.

His eyes lift, locking onto you. And the silence stretches.

You can’t deny he’s a good-looking man, nor can you deny how your heart somersaults when you see the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips after you say something amusing or when he reaches around you for something and crowds into your space. Now, watching him, you swear you can see a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

“Forget it.” Crosshair insists, going to move your legs from his lap. He feels stupid for even suggesting it – you could have any man in the galaxy; why would you want him?

You grasp his wrist, having moved on instinct. Focusing on him, your expression softens as he avoids your gaze, shifting that damn toothpick across his mouth again. You reach for it with your free hand, prying it gently from his mouth. The motion makes him finally look at you, and you can see the walls he’s trying to put back up. That can’t happen. “I don’t want to forget it.” You confess, your eyes momentarily betraying you as you glance at his lips.

His mouth is on you before you know it, firm, demanding lips pressed against yours. The toothpick falls to the floor. Hands grasp at your thighs, hauling you into his lap. You go willingly, tongue sliding against his lips, seeking entrance to deepen the kiss. One of your hands slides to the nape of his neck, and the other grasps at his bicep.

Crosshair’s mind is spinning, though he forces himself to appear composed. Your gentle weight in his lap is delicious, the way your ass presses against him, your hands clutching him. That feeling in his chest grows, and he silently luxuriates in it, lips parting as he feels your tongue pressing forward. He tastes you, a groan erupting from low in his throat. There’s something else he wants to taste more.

Supporting your body, he eases you back until you’re sprawled once more in the opposite seat. His lips refuse to leave yours, steady hands positioning you at the edge of the chair before he pulls back. Watching as your eyes flutter open, his cock strains against his codpiece. You’re breathing rapidly, lips shiny, desire burning in your pretty eyes. He did that to you. He can’t fight back his pride.

Dropping to his knees, Crosshair barely feels the cold floor beneath him, his armour buffering the impact and the temperature. Hands slide back up your thighs, fingers hooking on your panties. They slide down your legs quickly, and a smirk tilts his lips as he pulls them off you, eyes locked on yours as he tucks the scrap of fabric safely in one of the pouches on his belt.

Drawing your legs over his shoulders, he leans in, breaking the eye contact to take in the beautiful sight of your pussy spread before him like a buffet.

It’ll be the best meal he’s ever had.

The edges of Crosshair’s armour bite into your thighs, but the sting of pain evaporates the moment he drags his tongue through your slick folds. Head thunking back against the seat, your hips buck as you gasp.

“Maker, your pussy tastes good.” You hear the slink of his voice, a needy whine leaving you as you glance down to watch him feast. The almost permanent frown lines on his face are gone, a borderline serene look on his features as his tongue presses against your entrance, pulling a stuttered exhale from you.

His eyes snap open at the sound, watching up the length of your body as you writhe when he flicks his tongue across your clit, sucking the sensitive bud. The taste of you on his tongue is addictive, and though he’d deny it if he’s ever asked, he could quite happily live between your thighs. Right hand sliding up under your sleep shirt, he drags his fingers across the gentle swell of your breasts. You’d always been softness and smiles where he was hard edges and scowls. His other hand joins the party, two fingers pressing against your entrance, sinking in slowly as his tongue laves over your clit.

He silently preens as your hips buck, back arching while you moan. But then you’re tapping his hand under your shirt, head tilting down so you can catch his gaze. “Swap hands. Please.” You insist, a desperate look in your eyes.

Crosshair isn’t sure why it matters, but he does as you ask, sliding his right hand down your body as he removes his left from your pussy. Swapping them over, he presses his pointer and middle finger into you, prying his mouth from your clit so his thumb can run firm circles across it.

“You gonna tell me why, doll?” He questions, tongue darting out to lick his lips and enjoy your taste as he watches you cant your hips, chasing the pleasure his fingers are bringing you.

Heat rushes across your cheeks, and you avert your eyes, a mix of pleasure and shame flowing through you. “It’s…” You start, cutting yourself off with another moan as Crosshair twists his fingers, firmly pressing their pads to your g-spot.

Crosshair smirks, delight blooming inside him at your reaction. He stills his actions. “You can have more of that if you tell me…” He bargains, enjoying your groan.

Swallowing thickly, you bite the proverbial bullet. “Trigger finger.” You admit, eyes screwing shut.

The delight blooming in Crosshair’s chest now flits across his face. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected, but it went straight to his cock. “You like that thought, of my trigger finger buried in your pretty pussy, coaxing you to cum?” He teases, repeatedly pressing against your g-spot, rewarding you for your honesty. “Knowing this same finger will keep you safe on the next mission…”

Nodding eagerly, you rock your hips, chasing the building pleasure. “Yes. Always feel safe with you. Please, I wanna cum.” Desperation coats your voice.

Your admission makes him feel good – knowing how much you rely on him. Watching the slide of his fingers in and out of you, the way you writhe with every press against your g-spot and circle of your clit, he makes a slight noise of approval. “You really did do well today.” He comments lowly, enjoying the little whine you let out at the praise. “And brave girls get rewarded.” He tacks on, enjoying your chest’s rapid rise and fall as you pant, your hips still rocking, grinding against his hand. “You can cum.”

You’d never wanted a man’s permission to climax before, but something about Crosshair makes you want to please him. His fingers crook a little more, a little more pressure added to your clit, and you finally cry out his name. The pleasure slams into you, making you gasp as it floods your body, the tension snapping as your hips and thighs shake through your release. Your mind feels foggy, but you’re distantly aware of his fingers still buried inside you, drawing you through your orgasm.

Watching you fall apart might just be Crosshair’s new favourite thing. Your body is beautiful, the noises you make are absolutely sinful, and the thing clawing at his chest earlier is soothed, knowing he was the one bringing you such pleasure.

As you come down from the high, trying desperately to catch your breath, you feel yourself lifted, manhandled onto Crosshair’s lap as he retakes his place in the co-pilot’s chair. “There you go. So good for me.” The low rasp of his voice brushes against your ear. You feel something press against your lips, and your eyes open to see your sniper pressing two fingers to your mouth — the two fingers that had been buried inside you.

“Taste yourself. Get them nice and clean.” He instructs eyes darkening as he watches you suck them into your mouth, feels your tongue swirling around them, cheeks hollowing. And you hold his gaze will you do it, sending his heart racing and making his cock throb.

You make a show of cleaning him off, moaning around his steady fingers, the taste of your release hitting your tongue. Slowly sliding your lips up, a small ‘pop’ fills the cockpit as you pull off them. The effect you’re having on Crosshair is achingly obvious – his hawkish eyes are filled with a swirl of emotions, his hips shifting underneath you.

“On your knees, kitten.” He commands, easing you down gently off his lap, hands guiding you to the floor. You shudder as the durasteel meets your warm skin, Crosshair’s legs parting until you rest between them. Eyes tracking up his body, you slide your hands across his armour, fingers finding the small gap between the plates on his thighs. The brief contact makes him grunt, and you smirk as you reach his codpiece, undoing the latches and prying it off.

You knew the boys chucked their armour around, the katarn-class kit could withstand more than regular plastoid, but you placed his codpiece down on the floor with reverence. After all, it was part of what kept him safe.

Crosshair watches you intently, swallowing thickly as you place his armour down on the ground. An odd sensation of nervousness crashes into him as your eyes return to his body, homing in on his hard cock, which strains again his blacks. He tampers the feeling down – you’re not the first woman to get her hands on him, but he silently acknowledges that you’re the most important.

The cockpit is quiet again as you lean forward, focused on his outline. Your lips ghost across the taut fabric, the contact dragging a sharp grunt from Crosshair. His right hand finds its way into your hair, holding you steadily as you pull the waistband of his blacks down, revealing him.

Tongue darting across your lips, you tuck his blacks under his balls, pushing them up just so. Dicks weren’t inherently lovely to look at – or at least the ones you’d seen up until now weren’t. However, Crosshair was in an entirely different league.

Just the right thickness and a little longer than average, he curved gently to the right. Heavy balls sat just below, and you had to suppress a smile at the thatch of neat, silvery hair at the base of him. The colour wasn’t a fashion choice after all.

Wrapping your fingers around his base, you look up as you press soft kisses along his underside, dragging your tongue across velvety skin. His groan echoes around the room, fingers tightening in your hair. “Keep looking at me like that, doll. Let me see those pretty eyes.” He instructs, voice low and coiled, igniting heat in your belly.

Your lips wrap around the tip, tongue sliding into his slit to lap up the small bead of pre-cum. His hips buck and you bring your free hand up to rest against his abs to help stabilise yourself and apply gentle pressure to keep him seated. Your eyes stay locked on his, holding steadfast even as you bob your head, moaning unabashedly at his weight on your tongue.

Pulling off him completely, you dragged the head of his cock across your lips, shiny with your spit, watching him track the movement. Laving your tongue across him, you take him back into your mouth, sliding down a couple of centimetres, cheeks hollowing.

Crosshair knows he’s fucked. That strange feeling in his chest…yeah, he knows what it is now.

He can’t pretend this is some random hookup, that he’s just thanking you for saving him earlier. He can’t pretend it wouldn’t bother him for other men to hit on you during shore leave or for you to go home with them. You’re his. And while he might not be able to say it yet, he’ll damn well show it.

His free hand moves to your chin, gently tilting your head so he can slide in further, gasping as he feels the head of his cock bump against the back of your throat. “So perfect at sucking my cock. There’s my good girl.” He croons, watching how your eyes light up, how you bob your head that little bit faster, making him hiss with pleasure.

Spurred on, you take a deep breath and press forward, sliding more of him into your mouth until you can feel him in your throat. You exhale through your nose, hearing his choked moan before you pull back, desperately in need of air. You cough, drawing in a ragged breath, a string of saliva still connecting you to his flushed cock.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” Crosshair grits out, feeling his balls tighten with every glide of your lips across his shaft. Your mouth was heaven – warm and wet – and it only excited him more for the day he could bury himself inside your pussy.

Alas, the Marauder wasn’t the most comfortable place for that. And with what he had in mind, you’d need a comfortable surface.

Taking him back in your mouth, you set a steady pace, feeling the twinges of ache starting in your jaw. But you push through, deep-throating him repeatedly until you can feel his thighs tremble and see how tight his balls are. Your focus shifts to the tip, lips wrapped perfectly around it as you suck and lick, tongue flicking against his frenulum on the upstroke.

He was moving more, unable to stay still as he hurtled towards the edge. Your eyes darted to his rifle rest, the winged extension shifting as he grasped the arm of the chair, knuckles white. It didn’t escape his notice, and a foul thought crossed his mind. “Think you could take it, kitten? Fuck, you’d look so pretty with it buried inside you.” He voiced, hips thrusting upwards as he chased his orgasm. He’d never be able to look at the piece of armour the same way again if it had been inside your gorgeous body.

You moaned around his cock at the idea, and that was all it took. Fingers tangled in your hair tapped at your scalp in warning seconds before Crosshair let out a stuttered groan, hips pressing forward as he came. The tang of him filled your mouth, and you greedily swallowed down everything he gave you, tongue gliding softly around the head of him as he collapsed back against the co-pilot seat. Gently, you cleaned him up, licking the last remnants of his release away, knowing he was extra sensitive.

He guides you off the floor, dragging you back onto his lap, his softening cock pressing against your damp folds. One of his thumbs tugs at your lower lip as you finish licking them clean, and his gorgeous brown eyes are focused on you as you both catch your breath. For a moment, you see a hint of vulnerability pass through him, and he leans in to give you an unexpectedly soft kiss. “Maybe I should save that fine ass of yours some more.” You murmur, voice a little hoarse.

Crosshair’s fingers move to your jaw, and he gently massages it, having spotted the subtle twitch of the aching muscles. The corners of his lips quirked up ever so slightly in a small smile. “I’ll be sure to thank you every time.”

#the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #crosshair x reader #crosshair bad batch #tbb crosshair x you #tbb crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #star wars #star wars the bad batch #star wars clone wars #ct 9904 #bad batch crosshair #crosshair the bad batch #soft smut #idiots falling in love

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one-idea · 4 months

Text

I love a Roger/Rouge lives to raise Ace or a Shanks takes Luffy with him one-shot as much as anyone.

But the main problem I always have is that the ASL brothers would never meet in these circumstances. So my brain (being the mess that it is) has tired to find a solution.

What if Rodger never got sick or at least it was not as deadly as it was. Still chronic but not a death sentence. He lives and Rouge has Ace (she gets pregnant a little later then in cannon so that she doesn’t have the crazy long pregnancy but Ace is still the same age).

To keep his family safe they travel with him on the Oro Jackson. They stay to relatively calm waters that the marines can’t easily get to. Some of the crew also leave to make their own crews. This gives the marines something else to chase.

Shanks is one of the ones to set out on his own. He leaves when he’s around 17 right around the time Ace is born. It’s the push he needs to set out. He wants to distract the marines as much as possible from Roger’s family. (Buggy did the same thing. They decided to split up to cause more mayhem)

Ten years go by. Shanks visits Roger when he can but for the most part he’s making a name for himself. And he’s doing a good job at it. So good he has to lay low for a while. So he decides to go to the East Blue for a bit. Get away from the Grandline while also hiding somewhere different than Roger. (That way if the marines find him they won’t also find Roger)

It’s here that he meets a 7 year old Luffy. And it plays out much the same as cannon. He adores this little ball of sunshine. This is his boy. He doesn’t care who the boy’s blood father is this, is his boy. So he gives him his hat, has Luffy promise to return it when he’s a great pirate someday. But he leaves out the part about that being the next time they see each other because he wants to see his boy again.

When Shanks returns to the Grandline he seeks out Roger to tell him about their new family member. And Roger hears about this boy who is sunshine incarnate, who dreams to be the freest person alive, who wants to dethrone him as pirate king and goes, “I can’t not meet him.” And there’s no way he’s waiting till the kids on the sea. (Plus Ace needs some friends. Shanks and Buggy had each other, Ace has no one his own age and Rouge is starting to worry for their son.)

So they set out for the sleep island in the East Blue.

Meanwhile Grap has moved Luffy to Dadan’s care. While Luffy is out wondering around he bumps into a blond haired boy named Sabo. It takes a while but Sabo starts to warm up to the 7 year old that’s following him like a shadow.

Just in time for a new kid to wander his way into their jungle. Oro Jackson has Docked and Roger has been (discreetly) looking around for this Luffy while the crew restocks. Ace has already made his way into the jungle because even though he was raised by his parents, he’s still feral. (He was raised on a pirate ship go figure) the three boys bump into each other and through some shenanigans Ace and Sabo start to get along.

It doesn’t take long for Sabo and Luffy to figure out who Ace’s dad is. You know since they actually get to meet them.

The Bluejam pirates still happen.

Maybe Ace doesn’t like Luffy at first. He’s a little kid and is annoying in the way all older kids find younger kids that just want to follow them around annoying. But it’s more than that, because Shanks has claimed Luffy. Shanks, who Ace grew up around and looks up to, came back to the ship and didn’t want to talk about anything except for this ‘amazing’ kid. This kid who his uncle/older brother gave up his arm to save. This kid who is so ‘special’ his dad just had to come and meet him. This kid who has his dad wrapped around his finger in under a day. This kid, who is wearing his Dad’s old hat like a crown and talking about dethroning his dad like it’s his right. This little crybaby who’s not even that special. He can’t even swim!

Even Sabo has a soft spot for the kid, Sabo who is now Ace’s first friend, but he obviously likes Ace better because Luffy is such a crybaby.

But then the Bluejam pirates show up and they heard that the king of the pirates is here with his son. His son he would do anything for. Wouldn’t it be nice to get the bounty for the king of the pirates? If they have his son they can probably force the man into handing himself over. They wouldn’t even have to fight him!

They set out to capture Ace. They see him hanging around Sabo and Luffy. When they attack Ace and Sabo get away but Luffy gets caught. He gets tortured as they ask him to give up the location of the Roger Pirates so that they can capture Ace and by extension Roger. But Luffy won’t tell them anything.

Roger comes to save him. The whole crew comes along with Ace and Sabo. After this the three boys are inseparable. Ace steals some of the crew’s sake and the three swear to become brothers.

While the three boys are doing this. Roger sent some men to find the rest of the Bluejam’s crew and find out about their plan to burn Grey Terminal and how they were hired by Sabo’s father. And that settles it for him. If there was any doubt in Roger’s mind that he was taking Sabo with them when they left this island it was gone now. He thought the boy was oddly dressed for a homeless boy, finding out he was a noble explained a lot. He’s not leaving the boy in this situation. Mainly because Ace finally has a friend/brother. Finding out that adopting the boy would make a noble lose their mind was a bonus!

But what about Luffy? He knows Shanks thinks of the boy as a son. He’s know he is Ace and Sabo’s brother, and they haven’t left his side since the kidnapping. Rodger has no clue who the boy’s family is. At this point Luffy has only introduced himself as Luffy. He lives with the bandits but they are not his family. So it’s seems like he’s got no one truly taking care of him. Honestly Roger is shocked Shanks didn’t just take Luffy with him when he left.

So Roger leaves the island. Stealing one noble son. And taking what he believes to be one free child with him. (There are no parents around to claim him? It’s free real estate) they sail away right as a navy ship is approaching. And Roger would recognize that ship anywhere. It’s Garp! What is Garp doing here? Was Roger that careless with his location. The Oro Jackson hasn’t had a true Marine encounter in years (Rouge is just that good at navigating them under the radar)

Garp sees them, of course he does. Roger sees Garp grab a den den mushi, one that projects his voice across the open sea between them. Roger is expecting his regular speech about how Garp is going to catch them, about how they should surrender, really any of their normal banter.

What he is not expecting is the very loud, very panicked, very angry “give me back my grandson!”

Roger and the crew slowly turn to face the three boys. It’s not Ace. Roger would know if he or Rouge were related to Garp but he still checks Ace off the list.

It can’t be Sabo. Roger can’t imagine a reality where Garp lets his child marry a noble. Plus the kid looks nothing like him.

That leaves Luffy.

“Luffy, what was your name again?” Rouge asked ever patient

“Monkey D. Luffy!” The boy says with confidence. It’s the first time the crew has heard the surname. Well, at least that confirms somethings.

After confirming that yep this is Garp’s grandson. Who he is apparently trying to train to be a marine? Who he’s apparently hit with haki infused punches. (Roger’s been hit with those. They hurt.) Roger grabs their own den den mushi and just calls out “finder keepers.” And they sail away to cannon fire and cursing.

Anyhow the three brothers grow up together on the Grandline. Shanks visits when he can and calls once a week at least if not daily to check in on Luffy and the boys.

Whitebeard definitely crosses paths with Rogers at some point and tries to adopt the boys from him. Rogers would fight him if Rouge wasn’t already fighting Whitebeard over her babies. In the end he becomes the fun uncle. Ace adores him. This is Roger’s worst nightmare! (It’s not. There are way worse things that could happen than his son liking his rival. But Roger loves to be dramatic)

When it’s time to make their own crews Ace and Luffy both decide to start from the East Blue. Getting dropped off by the Roger pirates.

At some point Sabo found out about the revolutionary army and decided that he wanted to join rather than be a pirate. He has his family’s full support (as long as he calls once a week. If he doesn’t they will find him) When he meets his boss for the first time he almost loses his mind and immediately calls Roger’s with a “I think I just met Luffy’s dad!” To which he gets the hilariously confused response of, “You’ve known Shanks since you were ten. What do you mean you just met Luffy’s dad?”

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #fire fist ace #one piece ace #portagas d. ace #gol d. ace #gol d. roger #portages d. rouge #shanks #one piece sabo #revolutionary sabo #sabo #I have thought about this for days. I just want one timeline where they all get to be together #roger approaching Ace: we have to take these kids with us for a bit.#Ace: these are my brothers now. we are taking them forever wether you like it or not. they’re mine now #asl brothers

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winterxisxcomingx · 2 months

Note

How do you think Lucifer would react to the Charlie/Vaggie/Emily OT3?

(We really need to find a name for this ship)

Excellent question!

"Wasn't Vaggie your girlfriend? Last time I checked?" "Yes, she still is." "So what about the new on? En-Ed-Em-" "Emily." "Yes! Emily girl?" "She's also my girlfriend." "So... both? At once?" "Yes, dad." "Oh, well. Ahahahaha, as long as they're making you happy, sweetheart."

Overall - really confused. You can imagine how many stages of 'worried dad' he ran, before he figured out what's going on.

He firstly thought that his daughter did similar deed like him (as he helped Eve). Or maybe this plus this new girl was just... mistress? Sort of?

Either way he wouldn't care, but just,, was really confused

still isn't sure how it works, but Lucifer knows how much love is inside his daughter, so he's sure that she have enough for more than one person

he's only worried that her partners will hurt her one day (*angry dad mode*) or stupid Heaven with their stupid taboos. Because demons wouldn't dare. But Heaven? He can't control them.

Let me tell you tho, that he accepts them both immediately. I mean, they are both angels (like him) and they were good God's children until they learnt the hard truth about Heaven. He understands them. And he can understand their love for his daughter.

As he tried had his "father-daughter time' with Charlie, he also tried to do this with Vaggie & Emily.

Did it work? Eh... But they tried!

(Both girls got wooden ducks as a sorry)

Charlie is so glad that her dad accepts her girlfriends and her love life and new family.

Now, she only waits for her mother... She's scared, yes, but... at least she’s not alone now, right?

#two and a half halos #charlie's angels #charlies angels #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanons #charlie morningstar #vaggie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel emily #emily x charlie x vaggie #vaggie x charlie x emily #chaggily #royalhalo #chaggie #emily x vaggie #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer

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midnight-rain-fics · 1 year

Text

Willow

{Part 1 - Hoax}

{Fandom: Grishaverse}

{Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader}

Summary: Y/N and Kaz have been tip toeing around each other for a while now. Will jealousy be the final push that leads to a confession or is it heartbreak that’s waiting on the other side?

“You know that my train could take you home

Anywhere else is hollow

I'm begging for you to take my hand

Wreck my plans, that's my man”

Love was a cheap word in the barrel.

Love wasn't some prince coming to save you on a white horse or wake you from a terrible nightmare with a kiss.

Love in the barrel was found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle or at the tables with cards in hand. Love was losing yourself, slowly but surely or quickly and in one go.

But that's all it was.

A distraction. An escape.

But it never lasted. It wasn't meant to.

Y/N never thought she would end up loving someone, especially not in the Barrel. Love had been a hard pill to swallow, especially considering who she loved.

But she was stubborn. And she knew what she wanted. And if there's one thing she knew, love would never be a regret.

She would not let it be.

"Y/N, with me" The cold rasp of his voice still sent shivers down her spine.

Y/N huffed and stood up from the chair she was sitting on, she bid Jesper farewell, and grabbed her jacket, making her way towards Kaz.

"If it isn't the boy who doesn't like cookies" Y/N mumbled under her breath, fixing the sleeves of her jacket.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

The look that Kaz gave her told her he knew exactly what she had said. But he chose to not say anything. They walked side by side and made their way to the docks.

There weren't any ships docked at the harbour and no one seemed to be around this late in the evening.

The silence was as heavy as the mist surrounding the harbour but Y/N wasn't going to break it. She wanted -needed- him to say something.

Kaz cleared his throat, gaining her attention as they came to a stop, "The cookies were good"

"I thought my baking was aptly edible"

"You must have known it was more than that"

Y/N shook her head and chuckled, pinching the bridge of her nose, "why do you always do this, Kaz?"

"What have I done to displease you now?" Kaz's voice echoed in the silence around them, his eyes on the sea.

He could not bear to look at her. Not when she looked at him like that. He had no right to return that look, to look into her eyes and lose himself, slowly but surely.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek, it was now or never, "I've never known you to be someone who bites his tongue in front of people so why can't you say what you what to say?"

Kaz looked at her, his heart thundering in his chest as he finally met her eyes. There was an accusation in them that was pushing past his walls, urging him to answer; to let her in.

But he knew he couldn't. He did not want her to find what lay hidden behind his walls. Damage. So much damage.

No one could look past that. No one should. Especially not Y/N.

But Y/N was nothing if not unbelievably stubborn.

Kaz took a step closer to her, eyebrow raised as his eyes narrowed, "What is it you think that I want to say, Y/N?"

Y/N scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, "Don't play this game with me, Brekker"

"Resorting to last names, are we L/N?"

"I swear to saints, Kaz- "

"You don't want this, Y/N" Kaz clenched his jaw, his eyes glaring daggers into her own.

"You of all people don't get to tell me what I do or don't want, Kaz"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it's supposed to mean"

"No, I don't" Kaz’s gaze hardened, hand clenching on the crow-headed cane, "so, why don't you enlighten me?”

Y/N found it harder to breathe with the tension that swirled in the air around them.

She sighed and steeled her spine. She couldn’t back down, not now, “you don't even know what you want, Kaz. You shouldn’t be telling me what I want"

"You don't know me as well as you think you do, Y/N"

"On the contrary, I have you all figured out"

"Don't be a brat, Y/N"

“Don’t be an asshole, Kaz”

Y/N could see Kaz’s knuckles had turned almost white from how tightly he was gripping his cane, grasping for whatever control he could find.

Too bad. There was no control in this situation. Only the slow unravelling of whatever had been brewing between them.

"What are you so stubborn?" Kaz gritted out, a blazing inferno of anger accompanying his tone. But at who? He couldn’t quite tell himself.

Y/N would be his ruination. He had known it from the day she had stepped into his office and his heart had given that first traitorous tug.

He had spent days trying to avoid her just so he wouldn’t have to feel, but like the stubborn person she was, she had been consistent in her approach.

He had let her in, before he even knew what that feeling in his chest was, what the constant pounding of his heart meant every time she was near.

He had let her in and she had seen the damage. And she stayed, despite his best efforts to drive her out.

Stubborn. So stubborn. Stupidly stubborn.

"I think it's a rather charming quality of mine" Y/N’s lips tugged up in a grin as she noticed the resignation starting to form in his eyes.

A scowl lined Kaz’s handsome face, "Annoying more like"

Y/N gestured between them with a smug air of satisfaction, "Pot meet kettle"

A quiet sigh escaped Kaz’s lips and his eyes lost some of their previous hardness. He took a step closer to Y/N, the air around them was slightly cold with mist, "I can't give you what you want, darling"

The nickname made her heart lurch but Y/N crossed her arms, standing her ground, "What do you think I want?"

"I can't touch you" The words were poison on Kaz’s tongue but he needed to get them out. He had to say what she couldn’t. What she wouldn’t.

"I don't need you to" the surety in Y/N’s voice was baffling to Kaz. She looked up at him with so much warmth it made his heartache, "I just want you. Even with the gloves and a thousand layers between us, I'd still want you"

"Y/N-"

Y/N cut him off, glaring at him, "I could find a hundred guys who could touch me, Kaz but I can't find another guy who knows me as you do"

“Would it be enough?”

"You've ruined me for anyone else. It has to be enough” The admission stole the breath out of Kaz’s lungs. Even in her most vulnerable moment, Y/N stood tall and proud. As if the very words she had spoken were nothing short of sacred.

Kaz’s throat bobbled as he looked into her eyes, the ground might have very well swept from under his feet and her gaze alone would have anchored him.

"That was never my intention" His voice was a whisper in the mist that surrounded them. Cold and quiet. And so fragile.

Y/N’s lips tugged up in a small smile, a touch melancholic, "I know"

A knife twisting in his chest and oils have hurt less than the sadness in her smile. What was he to do now? He had no words to comfort her, no touches to bring her surety.

“It will get better. It will… I will get better....with time”

Y/N bit her lip as her smile turned wider, “I know, Kaz”

They will be fine. She knew that. She always had. Kaz had just taken his sweet time getting there. And he still had a long way to go if the uncertainty in his shoulders was anything to go by.

"Y/N, the barrel is cruel and has no place for love but if there's one thing I can promise you, I would never let anyone hurt you" Y/N smiled, those words from Kaz Brekker were equivalent of a love confession. And the closest one she was getting from him now.

"You couldn't just say I like you too like a normal person, could you?"

Kaz raised an eyebrow, his heart settling down at seeing her smile so freely, "Would a normal person be able to do this?"

Y/N watched as Kaz touched the sleeve of her jacket, being cautious not to touch her skin and raising the sleeve slightly.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the emerald bracelet on her wrist, "How did you-When did you even get this?"

Kaz smirked and took a step back, putting some much needed distance between them. He watched Y/N run a finger over the emeralds. The blush covering the apples of her cheeks was as delectable as always.

Kaz cleared his throat and took out his pocket watch, checking the time, "Let's go, we'll be late for our reservation"

"What reservation?"

"Our reservation for dinner" Kaz’s smirk turned sharper as he looked at the confused furrow between her eyebrows, wanting nothing more than to smooth it over. Maybe he will, one day. "It's a date"

"A what now?"

"And you say I am the one terrible at communication”

#six of crows x reader #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz brekker imagine

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 10 months

Note

Happy follower milestone! Maybe an Ettore onesbot where reader is assistant to the doctor Dibs and maybe some kind of nurse kink???

Afflictions Of A Dark Nature

Thank you for the request! I hope this lives up to your expectations! This is my first time writing for Ettore so apologies if it seems OOC, I did try my best (I even re-watched High Life and will be sending the bill for emotional damages). Also get well soon @ewanmitchellcrumbs 😚

Warnings under the cut! Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Ettore Taglist

Warnings: *deep breath* lots of swearing, mentions of past sexual encounters that may have not been consensual, fingering, dub-con, p in v sex, ass slapping, degradation, mentions of a blood test, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), creampie, cum eating, dacryphyilia, choking, kinda face slapping?, ass play, spitting, overstimulation | Word Count: 6.4k~ | dividers by @firefly-graphics

If he had to see that wrinkly, smug face of Dr Dibs again, Ettore would lose it.

He knew who he was. He wasn’t beyond acting out against women if he wanted to. It’s part of what put him here in the first place. Drifting through space, on some suicide mission that the oh-so-wise earthlings had decided it would be better to doom prisoners to death rather than qualified astronauts. Not like it mattered. He was on death-row anyway, so what loss really was it?

Only the loss of his complete sanity.

He knew that if he lashed out at anyone, even Dr Dibs, there’d be a punishment of sorts. In a way that was wholly unethical for someone who is supposed to provide care, but hey, who’s keeping track. Nobody gives a shit on earth. She could put arsenic in the water supply if she wanted to, and nobody could say a thing about it.

For the sake of at least living longer, though it made him dry-heave inside, he sweetened up, got more sleeping pills out of it as a result, which in this place was gold dust. A long, good-night’s sleep did little to take a person away from a situation like this, but it was at least something. A small mercy in a way.

Deep down, there was a need-no, an impulse that Ettore couldn’t shake.

But before he could indulge in the memories of those needs, someone called his name.

“Ettore, is it?”

Her voice was sweet, far too compassionate for someone stuck aboard working on this fucked up prison. And when she raised her eyebrows at him to elicit a response, she gave a polite smile. When was the last time someone smiled at him, truly?

She had a clipboard in front of her, disguising the lanyard around her neck and she wore blue scrubs, which looked the same design as the prisoners, but instead theirs were red.

Perhaps to show how dangerous they were. Hers was clinical and clean. Pure.

He wore suspicion on his face, marked with the furrow of his brows and without saying a word he stood and followed her into the infirmary. She was a head shorter than him which made him smirk when he was sure she wasn’t looking.

All he knew was that he was grateful it wasn’t that wrinkly, smug bitch. He was sure she was doing something fucking weird to them. Just couldn’t put his finger on what.

When she drew the curtain, she let him in first, “Have a seat”

This cubicle was at least separate. And even though they’d not been on the ship for long, it looked crusty and old, with those wax linoleum floors, vile padded walls. It looked like it was going to fall apart.

Ettore slumped into a chair next to a computer with a huff, taking in his surroundings, still trying to figure out what to make of this new person. Why hadn’t he seen her before? And she looked a lot younger than Dibs, was she even a real doctor or nurse at all?

Her hair was in a loose bun, fractionally more formal than Dibs who wore her braid like armour over her shoulder at all times. It made her look older, despite what Dibs would like to have believed.

She sat down in front of the computer, typing in a few things, and he admired her face for a moment in silence. The way the light of the monitor reflected off the colour of her eyes, how her tongue darted out to lick her lips when she was trying to read something and how fast her fingers typed on the old, beige keyboard that was far too loud for his liking. Sounded like a clock was ticking in his brain.

He didn’t say a word. As was Ettore’s way. He was usually never one to speak first. He was an observer, seeking out the weaknesses of people as if he could simply by looking, like he could extract a little piece of them the longer he did. For her though, he couldn’t make her out.

When Ettore craned his head slowly to look, he could see she was reading his medical history and it made him feel special to know that she was finding out everything she could about him. He wished he could do the same to her. Find out all her little secrets.

“Just some general things and blood work today, nothing fancy” she says, meeting his eyes for a moment with another polite smile, the kind of smile where she’s clearly just trying to be nice, but Ettore can’t help the deep ache in his core to have a woman in front of him now, after years of not touching one. The Box was fine, sure, but there was no other feeling like a woman. Their warm, fleshy insides, each ridge within different from woman to woman.

Something knocked on the door in his mind. A sinful thought had arrived and asked how would she feel? Did she use the Box as well? Who did she think of when she touched herself?

“Roll up your sleeve for me” she instructs, holding the blood pressure monitor in her hands and tearing the velcro away.

She meets his eyes again briefly to find him already looking at her when she leans forward to wrap it around his bicep, right over where his tattoo is. She has small, soft hands, indicative of her work. How would they feel on him, wrapped around his cock? Would her hands even surround him? That was all he could think about as she patted the cuff in place, brushing against his shoulder.

The machine whirred to life and it squeezed his arm, at the end bordering on pain which made him wince. She busied herself with typing on her computer in the meantime, the lanyard around her neck now visible, showing her name.

Got you.

When the machine beeped, she looked at the screen and put the results into his record, wheeling her chair to him again to take it off. He felt his cock get hard beneath his scrubs not just at the feel of her hands on him again, but now because of her proximity. He assumed everyone used the same soap here, she was no exception. But it smelled different on her and he inhaled a deep, long breath to commit as much of it to memory as he could.

She looked surprised when he spoke, as if she hadn’t expected him to.

“Why haven’t I seen you around”

It was hardly a questioning tone, more like an accusation. But she didn’t flinch away at it, rather, she was used to it.

She gave another polite smile, “Oh well, I’m usually in here, running all the tests Dibs gives me” she explains, getting her additional tools ready for the blood test, “But she wanted more help with ‘menial’ tasks like this, is how she put it” she says with a short, quiet huff of a laugh, like she thinks the reasoning was poor.

“So now you’re doing poor sod’s blood tests?”

She nodded, “Something like that”

Her tools were lined up, a tourniquet, a syringe and some cotton swabs. She pulled a pair of blue gloves on and moved her chair closer to him.

“So you’re gonna poke at me?” he asks, half-amused, like he’s testing her.

She cleans the area around his arm with alcohol, a puff of air coming out her nose in a quiet laugh, tightening the tourniquet on him “Just seeing if you have good veins” she says, running her thumb over the pale skin of his arm, clearly finding a vein she was happy with.

Dr Dibs always missed his vein at least once, and he’d clench his fist as the needle went in. He wasn’t into drugs, like a lot of other prisoners here, so he wasn’t used to the prickly feeling. He found pleasure in other ways he deemed fit.

“Just a scratch” she mutters, inserting the needle beneath his skin, smiling to herself when blood goes into the bottle. First time.

Ettore watched the vial fill with rich, thick blood, and then watched her, “You seem a bit young to be a doctor”

"Technically I'm a Junior Doctor" she replies, concentrating on his blood flow before meeting his eyes again. She seems to look at him deeply, her pupils flirting across his face now that they're so close to each other. He hears every little breath, every movement of her throat as she swallows thick, like she's nervous. And everytime her tongue darts out to wet her lips, he stares at the pinkness of it, thinking of how it would feel.

"Should I be trusting you to give me a blood test?" He teases with a wolfish grin, trying to see just how far he can push his luck.

"Hm, I don't suppose you have much choice" her smile turns a bit devilish at his quip, which quite honestly, the turn of her lips makes him want to bend her over the desk and fuck her right then and there. Wants to see what kind of sweet sounds she might make. Even the thought of it makes his cock ache.

“Suppose not”

"I'm allowed to give you blood tests" she says with a teasing smile, pulling the needle from his arm and replacing it with a cotton swab, "Hold that there for me"

He obeys, holding it with his thumb firmly, smirking at the banter he didn't expect to have. The fact that she doesn't visibly seem afraid of him only spurs him on more. Thinking how far can he really go to make her feel uncomfortable. To make her realise just how dangerous he is, what he could do to her.

If anything he's shocked at his own restraint that he's managed this long without touching her. Such a small little thing. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he put his mind to it. And in those cute little scrubs as well, she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing to him. How easy would it be to just rip right through them, to see if she was wearing anything underneath. He imagined she wasn’t, and that he’d rip them open to be greeted with her bare, soft skin, how plush and feminine her tits would be, filling his palm. He wants to squeeze them painfully, make her whine out like a slut.

His body is getting hot, blood thrumming with want.

Once the cotton swab is secured to his arm with adhesive, he can’t take his eyes off her, challenging her to meet his gaze to see what she would do.

“Why are you here?” he asks, intrigued. She doesn’t look a bit like a criminal. But he could be surprised by her and he has a feeling he will.

“That’s a personal question” she states, not losing the lazy smirk on her face at the fact he’s clearly so interested in her, “why are you here?”

“Alright, point taken”

She doesn’t prod for more information.

Holding out a clear tub to him, “You know what to do right?” she asks, clearly holding back a wider smile.

Cheeky bitch.

He snatches it from her grasp with a grin, “Now?”

Her eyebrow twitches in amusement.

“However long it takes”

A jolt goes through his body, as if a light had just come on inside. Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.

Fucking cock tease.

He gave her a look before drawing the curtain in the cubicle, barely a few feet from where she sat. So close that he could hear her typing on her computer, hear her quiet sighs. What sweet noises would she make with his cock prodding her soft, tight insides.

Usually when he did sperm samples for Dibs, he took no enjoyment from the idea that she was essentially in the same room as him, not that it took him any less time to cum, she was still a woman and that meant something. As repulsive as she seemed.

But when he took himself in his fist and stroked himself to hardness, teased himself with eyes softly falling shut, he imagined they were her hands. Everytime he squeezed from base to tip, reaching down with the other hand to cup his balls, wondering what her tongue would feel like dragging over every inch of him. Would she tease him? Lick his angry red tip only slightly, and that sensitive spot underneath, flattening her wet muscle over it slowly, allowing him to feel every warm and minute movement.

Without even really realising, his hand was guiding himself faster, desperate to feel the friction of her pussy choking him. Would she buck her hips to meet his desperate thrusts, or squirm away as he bullied the end of her, pushing against her cervix recklessly. He wanted her to be a good girl, and just take what he gave her. If he started, would he really truly be able to stop?

He struggled to hold in the shuddered breaths and he very nearly forgot to put the tub in front of him before finishing. A pleasant roll of warmth ran through his body, one that quickly turned into a dark, deep desire. His hand wasn't enough. He hadn’t touched a woman in so long. He wanted the real thing and she was right there. Dirty bitch was probably already wet thinking about what he was doing.

Slipping through the curtain he handed it out to her and she took it with an amused raise of her eyebrows.

“That was quick” she quipped, putting a lid on it and writing his name for the label.

Oh she’s going to get it, dirty fucking mouth.

He couldn’t hold off the sort of accomplished grin on his face, she was more fun than he thought. For a moment, he allowed himself to just simply observe her, wondering what other fun they could have.

He was growing impatient at not being able to act on those thoughts.

“Is that it?” he asks, making her look up again.

“Unless you have any other…ailments?” Ettore doesn’t miss the way she suppresses a grin by biting the inside of her cheek. He doesn’t suppress his and feels impossibly hard once again seeing her dainty lips curl up just slightly. She must be able to see beneath the thin fabric of his scrubs, how much he wants her. Let her see, he thinks, make her squirm a bit.

He watches the way her eyes briefly run over him. It was so quick, that had he not been looking right at her, he would have missed it. She swallows, feeling like he caught her and turns away a bit, trying to hide the warm feeling that settles between her legs at the way he’s looking at her, exciting and yet dangerous at the same time.

She only hopes he doesn’t notice the way she’s squeezed her thighs together.

“Smashing then, cheers doc” he smirks, sauntering off with a certain swagger about him, knowing that his sweet, innocent looking little doctor is all worked up. He looks over his shoulder before leaving.

The ache of the blood test is completely forgotten. Instead, all his blood is below his waist, with none left for his brain to function. It’s been a while since a woman last did this to him. Yeah he’d fucked plenty of women, some had even wanted it. But he wanted her to want it. Wanted the little slut to beg for it. To beg him to stuff her full of his cock.

That was new, he thought. But it didn’t deter him from trying to get near her when she was alone, for any chance he could get at having her all to himself.

Annoyingly, he didn’t find the opportunity for quite some time.

Anytime he stalked past her office, there was always some other prisoner inside, having their own tests. A flash of something akin to a dark jealousy courses through his veins, his hands forming fists whenever he hears her talking in a hushed voice to another male prisoner, speaking in that way that only a doctor does.

It’s short lived, when he realises she doesn’t speak as sweetly to them as she does to him.

It feels like he’s had a hard-on for days, just merely thinking about being alone with her. It’s beginning to become painful just how much he wants it, to make her squirm for him, to make her cry. His use of the Box has increased dramatically, but the more he does it, the less the effect. His hand doesn’t do it for him anymore. He can’t replicate that tightness only a woman's cunt could give, the feeling of being sucked so desperately inside someone, being milked for all he’s worth. He dreams of it. She would take it all, he thinks, she’d be a good little slut and take it.

He thinks that if he goes there often enough, he might just run into her, drag her inside, or to a nearby hallway, or even tackle her to the floor if need be and shove himself so deep in her she won’t be able to hold back her wanton moans. He imagines holding her arms behind her back so she can’t move, brutally fucking her so hard that her hips will be bruised.

He’s always liked walking around in the dark, even though he knows he’s not really allowed.

Tonight though, it rewards him.

A soft light emanates from her office and when he leans against the doorway to peek inside, he emits a quiet laugh through his nose, hands in pockets, just watching her.

Her hair is free of the loose bun she wore before and it trails down her back as she’s sat in her chair, leaning over a microscope. She’s so engrossed in what she’s doing and recording notes that his presence doesn’t even disturb her.

He didn’t even think about announcing his presence. He wanted her genuine reaction.

So he didn’t think twice about stalking up behind her and grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her back. Only a quiet gasp escaped before he slammed his palm over her mouth, muffling a surprised cry.

“Shut the fuck up” he warned with a low voice.

She froze at his words, eyes wide and breathing heavily, not even having to wonder who it was. His fingers curled painfully against her scalp, tugging her up so her back is to him. Ettore can feel her hurried breaths out her nose hitting his hand.

“Be quiet and I’ll play nice” he says against the shell of her ear, making her body shudder, drawing his hand away from her mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispers accusingly behind her as he pushes the front of her body close to the desk, the edge biting into the front of her legs. His hands run down the sides of her, sucking in the fabric to the shape of her body, growling low at finally being able to see her form underneath.

“I came to see you” he grins,

“Fucking liar”

There was something exciting about being called out like that, and about her saying such vulgar words. As sweet as she looked, he knew there was something deep inside, somewhere he wanted to prod and poke at.

“It’s your own fucking fault” he snarls, pushing his hardness against the softness of her ass. He feels her freeze up for a moment, as if she’s just putting the pieces together, “prancing about in your slutty fucking doctor’s outfit”

One hand dips beneath the hem of her scrubs, a warm sigh expelled from his chest at the softness of her stomach beneath it, trailing higher over her ribs. He can almost feel her pounding heart from here, and it does nothing to deter him, the smirk on his face evidence of that. His large palm tugs at one of her clothed breasts, slightly annoyed to see that she’s wearing a bra underneath, but he squeezes it all the same, relishing in the pained whine she lets out in response to it.

His other hand tugs her forearm almost painfully behind her, twisting it in his grip harshly. He fully knew how strong he was compared to her and couldn’t have her doing anything rash. Best to keep her hands where he can see them.

“I was just trying to be nice” she counters with a harshness to her voice, not being able to take the breathiness out of it, “Damn sight better than what most of you deserve” she briefly struggles in his hold, that is until he tightens the clamp on her wrist. A warning.

“Careful” he warns low in her ear, “I don’t think you understand the situation right now”

“You need to get off me. Now” she tries to push her hips away from him, but at her blatant refusal, he only pushes himself closer to her, moaning softly at the friction against him and the warmth of her even with her scrubs separating them.

He resists the urge to outright laugh, and scoffs instead, “You are in no position to make demands to me. I see right through you…you want me”

She only grunts painfully in response, half-trying to tear her hand away. Not trusting herself to say anything. Ettore almost wants to laugh at how pathetically she’s trying to avoid showing how she really feels.

“How long has it been, hm?” he says, more like a growl than anything, as his hand dips beneath the waistband of her scrubs, “Since someone touched you here”

She doesn’t reply, half fighting and half giving in. But then his hand cups her clothed sex, only covered by her thin underwear and she feels his large palm rub against her, her clit throbbing with desire at not having been touched in so long. God it had been so long. His fingers tease her entrance, rubbing in circles, coaxing some slick from her.

“A while, huh?” he smirks.

“Stop it, we’ll get in trouble” she says, but it comes out a whisper, not able to hide the way his hand against her most intimate area is having such an effect on her. The heel of his palm rubs against her bundle of nerves, making her blood feel like fire in her veins, arousal pooling in her belly.

“You think I give a fuck?” he retorts, grinning, “I would have a thousand punishments if I meant I could shove my cock in your tight little hole”

“You wouldn’t”

He does laugh at that, “You wanna bet?”

Her body briefly goes rigid, trying to hold back a genuine moan when his hand dips past her underwear, and Ettore groans at the feeling of her warm, wet pussy, coating his fingers with her slick. Her eyes break closed, mouth taut into a thin line to hold in her whine, body slightly trembling at how hard she is trying to hold back.

“You talk all this shit and you’re fucking soaked for me” he grins against her ear, “is this what was under that uniform…while you were prodding and poking me?”

She gasps, her lips opening in a hurried breath as his digit sinks into her, teasing her soft, spongy walls with the calloused pads of his fingertips. She doesn’t answer him. Can’t. She can just feel herself getting warmer. It’s undeniable, the effect he has on her. And she’s not sure if she’d be wise to submit to it.

But it’s getting harder and harder by the second not to.

“Oh, you’re filthy” he says, inserting another finger, stretching her pussy with them, softly but harshly pushing inside “getting off on taking my blood, fucking slut”

At both his words and motions, she lets out a soft and quiet moan, a pressure inside her building the more she feels his fingers caressing her warm, wet walls.

Ettore tugs down his sweatpants, freeing his cock which sits hot and heavy against the curve of her ass, the tip flushed and stood to attention against his stomach. He gives himself a few pumps, pushing forward to let her feel him. He doesn’t even bother to begin the tryst with kissing. He’s not like that.

It’s much too soft and intimate a gesture, compared to what he plans to do with her.

She turns her head, now just quietly moaning at the pleasure his fingers give her, eyes half open and a hedonistic expression on her face. She sees him pull his shirt up his chest, and then looks down, to see what exactly is pushing hard against her backside.

Before she has any time to react, his hand is curled around her nape, pushing her head flush against the table in front of her, sending the samples scattering to the floor.

"Stop it!" She protests, trying to wiggle helplessly out his grasp, "I'll scream"

She sees him smirk, looking down at her with a half lidded lust filled gaze.

"Do it then, makes it more interesting" he shows his teeth, tugging down her scrubs song with her underwear. Now with her body flush against the table and stuck, both his hands knead the globes of her ass, his fingers leaving pink marks in their wake. He takes fistfuls, spreading them to have a proper look at her glistening pussy, just waiting for him. She whimpers at the pleasured pain it emits when his fingers hold her apart, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he kicks her ankles apart.

“Someone could walk in!” she whisper-shouts, holding her hand to her mouth to muffle any sounds when he runs the tip of his cock over her soaked folds, slapping it against her clit and smiling at her reaction.

“Let them watch then, they can see how much of a mess I’ll make of you” he purrs leaning down to press his chest against her back, “None of that either” he pulls her hand from her mouth, “I want to hear how desperate you are for me”

With her cheek flush against the table, she had to only move her eyes to look at him. Glazed over with the pupil blown wide, it betrays just how much she may or may not want it, she still doesn’t want to show him. She’s almost annoyed at his cockiness, until she feels just how big he is, teasing her ever so slightly at her entrance.

“Now let’s see what pretty noises you can make for me, hm?”

He pushes against her, parting her folds, pulling her hips towards him to sink as much inside her as he can. His heart beats faster as he feels her pussy choke him tightly, every single ridge feels like fucking magic against his cock, he feels like just finishing inside her right there. She chokes a moan, his curved member rubbing up inside her at all the right angles the further inside he goes, until he kisses the end of her with the tip, reaching places she could never with her own fingers in the Box. Her back arches slightly as he bottoms out inside her, his fingers so tight on her hips they will definitely be bruised tomorrow.

He doesn’t give her time to adjust, not even a second, as he pulls all the way out, his length covered in her slick and slams back inside with a wet smack, watching how the flesh of her ass ripples when his hips meet it.

“Oh you’re bad…” he purrs, setting a brutally quick pace. Her eyes softly shut, her front rubbing almost painfully against the stainless steel table with each hard thrust.

“Gonna have you on every fucking flat surface in this ship” he breathes, his voice hurried from the effort and how she tightens around him at his words, “you’d like that wouldn’t you….everyone watching how much of a slut you are”

She yelps out in a pained moan when he slaps her ass, gripping it after to emphasise the burn, “Answer me”

“Yes-yes…” she manages through hurried breaths, trying to control her volume but rapidly failing.

Every time he fucks into, the sheer thickness of him pushes the air out of her lungs every time, her walls stretching against him to accommodate. Ettore smirks down at the view. She lets out between a sob and a moan when she feels his spit on her puckered hole, his thumb rubbing circles against it and spreading his saliva over her sensitive skin.

It feels so right and wrong at the same time. And when he pushes a thumb inside, only making her feel more full than she already does, she can't help but buck her ass against him, wanting more friction, pleasured tears falling down her cheeks. It really had been a while since she last had sex, obviously. But nobody had been this forward and rough with her before.

“See? I know you like this…knew you wanted to fuck me the second you saw me” he mocks, giving one hard, deep thrust inside which has her squirming against him with a desperate whine, his thumb sank all the way inside her ass, the movement of their fucking aiding in stimulating that as well.

He thinks, one day he'll claim that hole of hers as well.

But not today.

He pulls out quickly and instantly tugs at her hair, turning her over so that he can see her face. She’s sat weakly up on the counter, thighs held apart for him by one of his hands. Poor thing looks tired out, he thinks, looking at her watery eyes and flushed cheeks, her head lolling back against the counters with a thud.

“Are you fucking crying?” he grins, softly slapping her cheek and grabbing her face so she looks at him, “really has been a while, huh? That’s a bit pathetic”

He practically rips the shirt off her, not even bothering to take the bra underneath off and just tugs it to the side, freeing her breasts. He groans at the sight, perky, rosy and stood to attention in the now hot office, smelling of pure, unadulterated sex. They fill his palms perfectly, and he tugs at them with his fingers, revelling in the low, chesty mewl she lets out.

It’s no effort at all the way his cock just slides into her again, slowly. Too slowly.

She feels the curve of his cock, different in this new position, every vein and ridge. His thickness splits her open until he hits the end of her, pounding mercilessly into her, making the cupboards jolt in place with each snap of his hips against her thighs, which he is keeping in his palms wide apart. Ettore grins down, watching at the way his cock disappears into her over and over, at the ripple of her soft, soft skin each time.

She arches her back against him, warm, pleasured tears pricking at her eyes the closer she gets to that tight, hot pressure in her tummy bursting. He laughs as she clenches noticeably around him,

“What is it, hm?” he sneers, “or have I fucked you stupid?”

Her moans are so desperate she really does look pathetic, “fuck…I’m gonna-”

“You gonna cum for me?” he taunts with a wide smirk, all of this just doing wonders for his ego, “now, why would I let you do that?”

“...ne-need it…”

He never lets up his pace as once hand curls into her neck, tugging her forward so that her eyes are solely on him. She moans softly at the rough action.

Pathetic.

“You gonna be a good girl and be quiet?”

She nods as best she can, his hand tightening only slightly around her neck, trying to will her voice to come out between the deafening smacks of their fucking.

“Yes..”

“Say please, then”

“Please-I need it” she begs in a horse voice.

He shoves her back roughly, smacking her head against the cupboards, watching her tits as they bounce. Truthfully, he can feel himself getting close as well, but more than anything he wants to watch her come undone on his cock. Show her just how much fun she could have with him if she just let herself.

Her cheeks are pink and her chest is dotted with warmth as the air in the office is hot and thick, even more so at the pleasurable lack of oxygen his hand around her neck gives. It makes it harder for those strained moans to pass her lips.

Every drag through her hot, ridged core sends sparks of pleasure through him, crawling up his spine.

You first.

She sucks in a breath when he lets go of her neck, allowing his thumb into her mouth. She sucks on the digit greedily, using her tongue to coat it with saliva. Ettore almost moans at just the sight of her.

He'll have that mouth too, he thinks.

A string breaks between her mouth and her thumb as he presses it suddenly against her clit, hard. She gasps at the painful pleasure of his rough actions, swirling his thumb over her bud to bring her to that precipice first.

Her hands grip his shoulders, but he quickly tears them off him, "I didn't say you could touch me" he snarls in between devastating thrusts, drawing figures of eight on her clit and watching as she squirms.

Her hands brace the counter either side of her legs, needing something to hold onto, "...m sorry…"

"You will be fucking sorry. Stupid bitch"

If it's possible, he moves himself into her faster, bullying that rough patch inside her with such severity that her eyebrows furrow together, her mouth open in a silent scream. She contracts around him at the combined pleasure of his cock and his stimulation to her bud, knuckles going white at her grip on the counter.

"Such a perfect pussy…never fucking using that Box again…not when I have this…" he breathes pressing his body against hers so they are flush, his nose running up the side of her neck.

"Ettore, please…"

It's not really a request, just something that passes her lips. And he knows the second he feels her clench so tightly that she's done for, when her back arches towards him and her body goes rigid for a split second.

Her teeth sink into his skin at his shoulder, muffling the scream of pleasure that threatens to escape. He knows that will be there for days and it will most definitely hurt in the morning.

A gush of arousal soaks his cock and he continues to pound into her through it, pressing his thumb into her clit, extending her little death into a devastating abyss of warmth and rapture. Her walls quiver with overstimulation around him, and he can feel the wetness of her tears on his shoulder, her desperate whines.

"Fuck-shit" Ettore pushes inside once more, hard, with a barely stifled groan, huffing a pleasured laugh at the feeling of stuffing her with his cum and the warmth that surrounds him.

He wants to stay like that forever, keeping his cum inside her with his cock. Her thighs shake slightly, and he delights in the fact that she might not be able to walk afterwards. To remind her who she belongs to, now that he's claimed her.

He calms his hurried breathing just enough to pull his rapidly softening cock from her, earning a low whine from her once she pulls her teeth from him. Her tits move slowly with her breathing, thighs still shaking ever so slightly and parted to give him a good view of the mess he's made of her.

Her arousal combined with the cum that's leaking out of her activates a primal part of his brain and he's tempted to fuck her brains out again, but knows he wouldn't be able to.

Another time.

"Look at my filthy little doctor"

He pulls her thighs close to him, teetering on the edge of the table, and all she's able to do is make a sound of surprise, eyes widening as he sinks to his knees between her legs.

"No-no, Ettore-" she protests quickly. Her hands going back to bracing the counter tightly when she feels his warm, wet muscle lapping against her soaked folds, a combination of her climax and his swirling over his tongue with such lewdness it makes her flush bright red.

After such a recent and all-consuming orgasm, she flinches when his tongue swirls over her clit, the vibrations of his low moans against it feels much too overwhelming now.

"Please-too much-"

He runs his tongue flat over her core, groaning at the combined taste of them and lapping up whatever leaks out of her. He could spend fucking days between her legs if she tastes like this all the time. Her arousal is so sweet and tart, musky when combined with his. Mixed with his cum, he thinks, she's made to be fucked by him. Made to be filled.

Fucking her with his tongue through her fluttering walls, her hand cards through his hair, tugging. To push him away or to bring him closer, she's torn between the two. The warmth of his mouth against her is just too tempting to want him to stop and when he moves his face side to side, his sharp nose nuzzling against her already over-used clit…

"Fuck! Please-"

The orgasm that rocks through her body blazes every nerve in its path, all the way down to the way his tongue is still lapping and sucking her juices, as if she's the best thing he's tasted since boarding this hellscape of a ship. He takes every bit of essence, sighing and moaning, with a grip so iron on her thighs, she can't move even if she wanted to.

Ettore rises to his feet, giving one more flattened lap over her core, sucking at her clit, which makes her twitch. Her glazed over, wettened eyes meet his, the blue almost entirely encompassed by black. He looks like an animal who's just tasted blood again after a long time of being caged. She doesn't entirely know why, but it makes her throb with desire, and it frightens even her to know that such a dangerous man, a criminal no less, is making her feel this way.

It makes her think, is she any better for enjoying it as much as she did.

He looks down at her, almost entirely bared to him, his reddened marks blossoming over her skin in early bruises. Her fucked-out face, a mix of lust and confusion, with that tell-tale pink to her cheeks.

A dangerous grin widens across his face.

"I meant it you know…" he says, dark and low, "...I'm not using that fucking Box ever again"

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#ettore x you #ettore high life #ettore smut #ettore x reader #ettore #ettore x y/n #Ettore x oc #high life fanfiction #high life fanfic #high life movie #high life 2018 #ettore fanfic #ettore fan fic #ettore fan fiction #ettore fanfiction #ettore high life smut #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell characters #ewanverse

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babygirlbenji · 10 months

Text

Last Train To London - Mason Mount

A/N: This is just pure sadness. It was fun to write, I'll give you that, but you may need a tissue. Mason, buddy, in this fic, ya done fucked up.

Listen to this while reading:

Warnings: Angst

It had happened slowly, then before you knew it, you and Mason were like passing ships in the ocean.

Your relationship had always been steadfast. You were the couple everyone wanted to be, everyone wanted what you had. His family adored you, especially Summer, who loved going shopping with her Auntie Y/N. His mum swore up and down right from the moment she had met you six months into your relationship that you were it for him, that you would be the one he would marry. He’d shared the same sentiments. In your nearly four years together, the fans had grown to know and adore you on a level no football wife or girlfriend had experienced before. You were so popular among the Chelsea team, it was no wonder you were almost as popular as Mason was, and you didn’t even play for the team.

In the weeks leading up to his move to Manchester, however, you had noticed a distinct change in Mason, and in your relationship. Date nights had gone from three or four times a week, to maybe once every fortnight. He spent much of the evenings on the phone or on Zoom calls with his agent, with the medical teams, with Manchester United representatives. The morning cuddles in bed had been replaced by a swift kiss on your forehead before he hurried off to training or the gym. You had initially put his distance down to the fact that he was busy upping his whole life to the north, and his occasional snappiness to the fact that he was incredibly stressed about the rumours. He was getting hate from everywhere, the fans, media outlets, even people on the street. Calling him a traitor, disloyal, every name under the sun.

Once the transfer was completed and you and Mason had relocated to Manchester, you had hoped that your relationship would improve. You put in every effort you could; making sure you put extra effort into making sure the house was spick and span for when he came home, ensuring the fridge had all sorts of food for every occasion, making sure you looked good even when you were going to bed.

And yet, you could tell none of it was good enough. His heart had drifted, you could see that. You were holding on to false hope, and it was exhausting you. You spent hours awake at night, noticing that some nights he wouldn’t come home until three or four in the morning. He would shuffle about downstairs, and the next morning, you would find him crashed out on the sofa, eyes red and his hair messy.

You’d asked him if he was okay, if your relationship was okay, and all he had offered you was a shrug, saying he’d talk when he was ready. You’d sigh, knowing you were losing him, and there was nothing you could do about it. Once, he’d got angry that you had sighed, saying there was still a lot going on. You’d ended up having a shouting match that lasted well into the night, and you cried yourself to sleep on more than one occasions.

The loneliness you were starting to feel crept in even more. You missed your friends in London, you missed Chelsea, you were never particularly keen on moving up north, having been a born and bred Londoner. Although Kai and Sophia were now in North London, you would rather be closer to them. You didn’t want to admit to them that you and Mason were having issues, but you didn’t know where else to go.

Sophia had been so helpful, offering her and Kai’s new home to you anytime you needed it. You’d asked her not to tell anyone, but you figured one way or another people would find out. Sure enough, one day, when Mason was out somewhere, Ben sent you a message.

Benjamin: Hey Y/N, just checking in. How are you holding up? I know how difficult it is moving to a new place. We miss you down here. Lots of love x

You had stared at his message for about five minutes, before you rang him. He picked up on the second ring.

‘Benji, I’m not okay,’ you croaked through the lump in your throat.

‘What’s happened, darling? Talk to me, I’m right here.’ And so, you told him everything. About the arguments, the loneliness, the distance…

‘I just don’t know what to do, Benj. I feel like we’re miles away from each other when we live in the same house. What did I do wrong? What happened to us? I thought we were endgame. What do I do?’ He sighed, making the line go crackly.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong. I think everything’s gone to his head, and without wanting to be blunt, he’s realised what he wants and what he doesn’t want.’ His words sent a stake through your heart, but you knew he was right. Mason was falling out of love with you.

‘I just never thought this would happen.’

‘Me neither. All of us thought you guys would last. So, what are you going to do?’ You looked down. You knew what you had to do, as much as it shattered your heart.

‘I’m going to pack my things, as much as I can into whatever bags I have, and get on the last train home to London. It’s late, I think the last train to London from Manchester leaves just before midnight. I just can’t hold on any longer, you know? I’ve been miserable for weeks, and he’s barely noticed. I can’t remember the last time we hugged, kissed. I need to do this for me.’

‘I’ll pick you up, text me where your train gets in and I’ll be there. You’re not going through this alone, Y/N, I promise you. He’s the idiot for losing a wonderful girl like you.’ As devastated as you were, his words made you feel slightly better knowing that you weren’t going through it alone. You’d been through a break up before and had been completely on your own, and you were glad you had your people around you.

You and Ben talked a little while longer, before you hung up, promising to tell him when your train would be getting in. You sat up from the sofa, knowing you had to pack a bag or two.

It was nearly 11:30 at night when you’d finished packing. Placing your bags by the door, you made sure you had all your important things, like your passport, driving licence and your phone. You would iron out everything once you had things sorted out in London.

As you zipped up a little shoulder bag with all your necessities, the front door opened. You heard Mason drop his bags down, and you knew by the pause of movement that he had seen your bags. He walked slowly into the dimly lit kitchen, where you were standing with your phone in your hand, pretending to look at something just to avoid looking at him. You knew if you did look at him, you’d reverse your decision.

‘What’s going on?’ Mason asked, voice full of confusion. You braved it, and looked him dead in the eye, hands on your hips.

‘I’m leaving. I’ll be on the last train back to London.’ He opened and closed his mouth a few times, reminding you of a goldfish.

‘What? What are you talking about?’ You let out a soft scoffing laugh.

‘I’m going back home. I’m breaking up with you, Mason, I can’t do this anymore. You have barely looked at me the last few weeks. I get it’s been stressful, I get you’ve been busy, but you don’t think you could have told me what was going on? You’re barely here anymore, I barely see you. And when I do, it’s like I’m seeing a stranger. When was the last time you hugged me? The last time you kissed me? This just doesn't feel like home.’ Your voice broke on the last sentence, and you looked down. You couldn’t cry. Not now, not in front of him. You had to wait until you were on the train home to let it all out. You could listen to sad music and let it all out. ‘The last four years have been amazing. We have grown up together, basically. And we’ve made the most amazing memories, hell, the Champions’ League, the Super Cup, World Cup, Euros, it’s all been a dream come true. But we have to face it, we are not happy together anymore. And I need to do what’s best for me, because I feel like a stranger in my own home.’

His face was a mix of anger, disappointment and downright heartache. He knew he’d lost you. He knew you well enough that you had made your mind up, and there was nothing he could do to turn back time and make it better.

‘I have tried so hard…’ Your voice broke again. ‘I have tried so hard to make us work. I kept the house tidy, I put food on the table, I was there to listen but you never talked. You never made any effort after we moved up here. I dare to think this started even before we moved up here.’ He stepped closer, and it was then that you could see the tears pooling in his eyes. ‘I really hope you find the girl of your dreams, Mase. You deserve that. And I hope this move was worth it all.’ You looked down at the promise ring he’d given to you on your second anniversary. Sliding it off and gently placing it onto the counter, you took a deep breath. ‘Goodbye, Mason.’

And with that, you walked past him and collected your bags. Your Uber was waiting outside to take you to Manchester Central. As the car sped away, you saw Mason running out of the house, yelling your name.

‘Y/N! Y/N, please wait! I’m sorry…’ His pleas faded as the car drove away. The driver looked at you through the rearview mirror, but you stared stubbornly out of the window. You couldn’t turn back now, he had to feel the pain you had been feeling the last few weeks. You had so many things to sort out when you were back in London; a job, a flat, your car, everything just seemed so overwhelming.

As you climbed onto the high-speed sleeper train bound for King’s Cross, you texted Ben to tell him that your train would get in about 3 in the morning. He messaged you back:

Benjamin: No worries, will bring food. Keep strong, I'm so proud of you x

The train pulled away, and you rested your head against the window. Your breath fogged the glass as the lights of Manchester gradually faded away, giving way to dark fields and the occasional small village. Your phone pinged with another message:

Mason: I’m so sorry.

Then another.

Mason: Please forgive me.

And another.

Mason: What can I do to make things better?

You looked at his last message. What could he do to make things better? Rewind the last few weeks? You sighed as your finger acted without thought and blocked his number. You then went onto Instagram and blocked his main verified account, then his private account. Before you blocked his private account, however, you had a final glance at the photos of your relationship that littered it. His main account was football focused, but anyone who followed his private account could see he’d worshipped the ground you walked on. Tears were falling thick and fast down your cheeks. What had happened to you? You locked your phone, resting your head on your arms.

The future was uncertain and your heart was aching, but you were going to be back in London, surrounded by your people. You knew that somehow, some day, you were going to be okay.

#mason mount #mason mount fic #mason mount blurb #mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #mason mount fluff #mason mount smut #mason mount angst #mason mount x you #mason mount oneshots #mason mount imagines #mason mount fanfic #mason mount x y/n #chelsea fc #manchester united #football imagines #footballer imagines #Spotify

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tintinwrites · 4 months

Text

ulterior motives | Poe Dameron x Fem!Reader (1 of 2)

A/N: Wow, long time, no Poe! And a long time without posts. I just haven’t been motivated to write (or finish what I start) and time is moving so quickly, I can’t even keep track of it. My goodness!!!!

Rating: 18+

Warning: Canon typical violence, naughty words, people assuming you were promoted for doing sexual favors and it is heavily discussed.

Word Count: 4,499, apparently!

Summary: Post-war with The First Order, your generals, Poe and Finn, promote you to commander of your squadron. Not everyone is happy about it, especially with how close you and Poe seem to be.

GIF Credit: ^^^^

You couldn’t help but smile as you hopped down from your ship, removing your helmet and tucking it under your arm, watching your fellow pilots leave their own X-wings to greet the people awaiting you all.

There was nothing more satisfying than a successful mission where nobody got hurt.

There were still remnants of the First Order, desperate people with no personality outside of the dictatorship, as well as new groups popping up. The galaxy simply couldn’t exist without someone with bad intentions wanting to rule it.

When one of your generals sent your squadron out to nip one of the groups in the bud, you hadn’t expected to be ambushed by their ships as soon as you broke the atmosphere for the planet their headquarters were on.

But, even taken by surprise, you managed to take each one of them out and suffer nothing but superficial damage to your ship and the others’. One day in maintenance and they’d all be good as new, like they never even left the hangar.

“Captain,” said a familiar voice from behind you and you nearly jumped, turning to find Poe was approaching you with a proud smile.

“General Dameron,” you breathed out, nearly stumbling over the name as you fought away your own shy smile.

He had that effect on everyone and you were certainly no exception. He was handsome already, but he’d grown a beard speckled with white since taking over as co-general and it made him so…distinguished. He let his hair grow out a bit and it was just barely graying at the temples. He was smart and strong and kind and toned and his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he’d smile at you or laugh or—

How could you not feel something? It was a little embarrassing, the way your heart would jump at the sight of him and your breath would catch when you spoke with him, and your palms would sweat just from being near him. But you couldn’t blame yourself or anyone else for that matter.

You tried your best to not reveal your feelings, hiding genuine yearning behind banter and what could possibly be construed as flirting. And sometimes you couldn’t help how you looked at him, especially when there were times where he looked at you in such a way that you thought that…maybe…

But he was one of your generals and you were just someone with a silly crush. Just like everyone else. You weren’t special, the two of you weren’t fated to be an item just because you liked him. It just…was what it was.

“Looks like Finn did a good job entrusting you with the squadron for this mission.” Poe looked around the tarmac at the other pilots, who were all animatedly telling anyone near them how intense and ‘cool’ the fight was.

You felt a touch of pride, but you just smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without them.”

You looked at him to find he was looking at you now, like he was considering something. When he didn’t say anything and you found yourself wanting to squirm beneath his gaze, you cut through the silence.

“Do I have something on my face?” You leveled him with a jokingly annoyed expression and he looked away with a laugh.

“Nothing that needs fixing,” he said offhandedly, biting his lip in thought for a moment before he looked at you again. “I wanna talk to you about something. In private.”

Your heart felt like it leapt out of your chest, mind immediately racing as it tried to figure out what he would want to talk about. Had you done something wrong? Was he going to ask you out?

You waved the thoughts away and smiled a little too brightly. “Sure! What’s up?”

“No, no, go take a shower and get changed, come to my office after.”

“Are you saying I stink, General?” Your typical banter was only slightly delayed as you tried to calm yourself.

“I’m just saying, I want to be able to inhale when I talk to you.”

Despite him being your superior, you gave him a playful shove that made him stumble back a bit, shaking your head as he laughed. “You’re horrible.”

“And you like it.” You did. Because he never meant it and just wanted to make you…make people laugh. “See you in fifteen?”

“We’ll see if I even show up now.”

——————————————————————————

You were outside of Poe’s office fourteen and a half minutes later, clean and in comfier clothes than a flightsuit; you sped through the process, both eager and nervous about what Poe wanted to talk to you about.

You took a deep breath to fail at calming your nerves before you knocked on the door.

“No one’s here!”

“Oh, then I guess I can just come back another day.” You barely made it a few feet down the hall before the door slid open and Poe was peeking out, smirking at you. “Oh! I thought no one was there.”

“I snuck by when you weren’t looking. Come in.” He nodded and stepped away, and you followed him into the room as the door shut again.

His office was simple, a desk and a few chairs, some necessary technology, a few little personal touches like toys from his childhood or cool things he found on missions. There was one across the hall for Finn that was nearly identical, but he had a lot more personal touches as he discovered new, wonderful things he enjoyed every day.

You sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk as he sat in his, and you waited for him to start the conversation. He was just smiling at you. You stared at him before you squirmed in your seat, feeling awfully hot for some reason. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“Oh, right, uh…” He sat back in his seat, clearing his throat. “You know how Finn asked you to oversee your mission because Commander Nichos had to step away?”

You nodded. Nichos and you weren’t too close, but he was nice and you respected him, so you were concerned when you found out he wouldn’t be on the mission.

“Well, his wife is pregnant. And he wants to step down as commander so he can just have a family…in peace.” He started to rearrange things on his desk. “Since we’re not in a war and I want his kid to have a dad, I agreed.”

“That’s kind of you.” Poe was a fair general as far as you were concerned. He could get a little worked up sometimes, but it was only when it was necessary.

“But that means we won’t have a commander for your squadron and I’ve been thinking about it and talking to Finn…and we want you.”

You stared. “Want me to do what?”

“Take over as commander…but only if you want to.”

Slowly, you started to register what he was asking you and a smile spread across your face. “I…I would be honored. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” He rolled his eyes playfully at you.

“This…thank you!” You’d been hoping to climb the ranks with your hard work and you so loved overseeing missions and your squadron. Not to mention, you felt so accomplished and flattered, knowing Poe and Finn thought you were capable enough. “Can I hug you?”

“You know I love hugs.”

You were around the desk and on him so fast, making him grunt as you hugged him tight. You would’ve been in his lap if you didn’t keep your feet on the ground. He laughed warmly in your ear and the sound made you melt, knees buckling as his arm came around you and he gently rubbed your back.

You pulled back after a moment and his arm loosened around you, but it didn’t fall. You stared at each other and you couldn’t help admiring how handsome he was, how soft his eyes were when he looked at you. Did he just glance at your lips? Were you imagining things to give yourself hope?

“General Dameron, I— oh.” You both turned to see a member of your squadron had entered; it was Valin, a typical tall, dark, and handsome man. He was a bit aloof, but a good pilot and fighter.

“Well, your breath smells fine to me!” you said quickly, inwardly cringing as you pulled away from Poe. He looked amused, but turned his attention to Valin.

“Hey, we were just finishing up if you wanna take a seat.” Poe nodded to you that you could leave, which you did in a bit of a daze.

Both from the awkwardness of Valin’s entrance and…whatever the hell that other feeling was. It felt like a strange mixture of hope, longing, and disappointment.

You were almost certain that you wanted to kiss Poe and that he wanted to kiss you back. You did want to kiss Poe.

But he was your general! And everyone wanted him! You were being ridiculous, making things up because you were excited and he was gorgeous. So unbelievably gorgeous…

It would never work, but it was nice to flirt and pretend. Even with your logic, you still wished Valin hadn’t walked in and interrupted whatever was going to happen.

Would Poe have kissed you? Would you be the one who initiated it? Would you both lean in, only to smack your noses together and laugh and break the tension that shouldn’t have been there? It was good that Valin walked in.

Great, even. It made things way less complicated that you weren’t able to kiss one of your generals.

You tried to shift your focus to your new role as commander and how excited you were, but you weren’t sure if you couldn’t stop smiling because of that or because it really seemed like Poe wanted to kiss you.

——————————————————————————

There was a celebration the night it was announced that you were promoted to commander and Valin was promoted to captain; everyone chattered, laughed, and even danced as they enjoyed delicious food and dizzying drinks.

Everyone but Valin, but it didn’t seem out of the ordinary given the distance he always kept between himself and the others. He just stood in the corner, sipping on a strong drink. You supposed he kept his emotions about being promoted to himself.

Regardless, you were having a great time with all your friends celebrating you, and other squadron members congratulating you and telling you how right you were for the job.

Poe observed for most of the night until you - a little buzzed, forgetting embarrassment despite the heat in your body - dragged him over to dance. He didn’t mind, joining in on the fun like he wasn’t one of your highest superiors.

Things were so different with the war over. While there were still problems to be dealt with, they were fewer and farther between, which meant you had time for celebrations and access to real food instead of rations.

You could enjoy your lives to some extent.

“Congratulations again. I gotta get this guy out of here,” said Kelsa, a member of the Blue Squadron, as she helped her husband Adharan out of the room. He was a member of your squadron and he was mumbling random things all the way.

There were few people left at the celebration as the night grew late and everyone felt the true effects of what they drank. It was you, Poe, Finn, a few new faces, and Valin left.

The group of newbies left and your eyes widened when you saw Finn with one of them. You looked at Poe in question when he plopped down next to you with a groan. “Someone made a friend.”

He laughed. “He’s been looking at her like a barghest pup since she joined. It’s about time.”

“Yeah…” You stared at him, the alcohol coursing through you doing a great job at making you forget why it was good you hadn’t kissed Poe the other day.

He had such perfect lips. He was made to be kissed and you wanted to do the kissing.

You didn’t even realize you were leaning in until you felt his fingers on your lips, stopping you from meeting his. He looked like he was almost in pain. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough to not know what I’m doing.” You mumbled against his finger tips, turning your head to lean into his touch.

“Maybe not, but you’re drunk enough to not think it through. I’m not gonna take advantage of that.” He slowly removed his hand, being sure you were holding your own head up and not relying on him. “I don’t want you to regret it in the morning.”

You knew refusing to take advantage of someone under the influence was the bare minimum a person could do, but you liked Poe so much, it felt like he’d just offered you a million credits. “You’re such a good guy.”

There was a snorted laugh and you looked over to see Valin walking by, but his face was so emotionless that you figured you heard wrong. You wanted to reach out to him even if he was distant, so you stood. “Captain.”

He just stared straight into your soul, only looking away once he was approaching the door.

You scoffed. “Talk about having a stick up your-“

Poe quickly stood and slapped a hand over your mouth, pulling you to his side as he grinned and waved at Valin with his free hand. “Goodnight!”

Valin’s eyes were darker as he left and you continued to mumble behind Poe’s palm. He made sure the other man was likely out of earshot before he moved his hand away.

“-and another thing, who stands in a corner and glares at everyone when they were just promoted? You should be celebrating! And I’ve been so nice to you and you just stare at me! Why?!”

Poe pressed his lips together and patted your shoulder, gently guiding you toward the door. “Yeah, you’re not in your right mind. Let’s get you to bed.”

——————————————————————————

It was a few days later that you noticed that people didn’t seem as excited for you anymore. It couldn’t just be in your mind that everyone was glaring at you, whispering to each other as soon as you were too far to hear them.

You wondered if you’d done something embarrassing at the celebration, but you remembered all of it and the most embarrassing thing you’d done was try to kiss Poe. That wasn’t reputation destroying, was it?

You did your best to ignore it, but the more people whispered without telling you what the problem was, the more irritated and nervous you became.

The tarmac outside of the base was crowded with people as Blue Squadron prepared to leave for a mission, but all conversations hushed as you walked through. The throngs parted, friends and acquaintances and people you didn’t even recognize staring at you. You felt big and small at the same time, like you were taking up too much space for the meaningless person you were in their eyes.

You just kept walking, wanting to wish the squadron luck before going.

Kelsa was about to get into her ship, but she stopped and looked at you with pity. That was better than being stared at like you were an abomination…maybe…pretty sure…you had no idea if it was better or worse. What was there to pity?

You approached their commander, Alsafi, and did your best to smile. “Hey, I just wanted to wish you luck out there.”

She regarded you for a moment like you were a lowly creature she could easily step on, then she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “You know, I was assigned as commander of the Blue Squadron because I worked hard.”

You furrowed your brow. “Yeah…you’re the perfect fit, anyone knows that.”

She hummed and started to climb the ladder to her ship, saying over her shoulder, “I don’t need luck from General Dameron’s pet.

Your eyes widened and you quickly grabbed her ankle to stop her ascent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on!” She clenched her jaw and kicked you away easily, so she could hop back onto the tarmac and loom over you with her impressive height. “Everybody knows. How could he not grant you such a favor when you’ve been granting his?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times in shock, turning to the crowd where some were staring and others quickly pretended they hadn’t been. “Is…is that what you all think? I was promoted to commander because I’m sleeping with Poe?”

A murmur fluttered across the group, some people saying nasty and hateful things while others begrudgingly admitted their beliefs. A few people were silent, obviously not believing the rumor, but too frightened by the general consensus to stick up for you.

That included members of your own squadron, people you’d known the longest, who’d been the most vocal about how happy they were that you were their commander.

“You all know Poe would never do that! That I…I would never accept…I…” You were so flustered by all the anger and judgment pointed towards you. “Kolb, Navi, come on, you know that’s not why!” Your fellow pilots looked ashamed as they stayed silent, so you turned to the ever stoic Valin.

Something was different in his eyes.

“Valin was promoted to captain! Poe and Finn were just moving up their best pilots to fill a space. Tell them.”

“I saw them together with my own eyes,” he said as he stared at you coldly. “And now you claim to be one of our best pilots? Better than me or the rest of our squadron?”

Your face fell. “No…I didn’t mean that…I just mean…we should trust their decisions, I…and what do you mean, you saw us?!”

“In his office, after everyone left the party…”

You scoffed and laughed nervously because, while you hadn’t done anything, you knew the position was compromising and you were filling with unfounded guilt. Or was it unfounded? You did feel that Poe liked you. Did he just promote you because he liked you?

No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? He promoted Valin too. Maybe he liked Valin.

“We were hugging in his office because I was excited, and I was drunk at the party! Come on, you guys don’t really believe this!”

“If he was just promoting his best pilots, Valin should have been commander and you should have stayed captain,” Alsafi said before climbing into her ship.

Valin leaned in close to you as the crowd began to dissipate, their decision made. “Everyone sees how you look at each other. You think we’re stupid?”

You floundered, but couldn’t come up with a defense before he shouldered past you. What were you supposed to do? Nobody believed you.

All you could think was one thing; hide.

You ran, pushing past anyone who was left, bolting right back into the base so you could hide from their stares and assumptions, humiliated by their lack of faith in your abilities as well as them thinking you were sleeping with Poe.

You were just turning the hallway that held your quarters when you bumped into someone solid, hard enough that the two of you fell into a heap on the floor. He grunted and you gasped, panting.

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes widened when they met Poe’s and you quickly scrambled off him and crawled back until you hit the wall, wanting to put distance between you. You couldn’t imagine if someone walked in and found you on top of him.

His brow furrowed as he sat up. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You didn’t know what to say and you felt panicked as tears welled in your eyes; from how much you liked Poe, and how much you wanted to be commander, and how everyone thought there was a correlation between the two. You opened your mouth and all that came out was a sob.

“Hey…” Poe softened and reached for you, but you quickly moved to your feet and pressed your back against the wall.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I should be commander.” It was like you were replying to a conversation he hadn’t been let in on, and you saw the confusion on his face before you darted down the hallway.

“Wait!” You could hear him calling after you and heard his footsteps running behind you for a moment, but you didn’t dare look back.

Part of you wanted to cry in his arms. The other part feared someone seeing you in another compromising position.

——————————————————————————

You stayed in your quarters for days, too frightened to face the stares or to wrestle with your feelings for Poe. You were also too scared to see his reaction to you turning down the role of commander.

Everyone had rations and a private refresher in their room, so you didn’t even have any reason to leave.

Maybe if you stayed there for a year or two, everyone would forget about this and Valin would be the new commander.

You peeked out from under your covers when you heard a knock on the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Poe.”

“—no one’s here.”

“Should I rephrase that and say that your general is standing out here, in the freezing cold hallway?” When you gave no response, the door slid open and in walked Poe with a sympathetic expression. He looked around before grabbing the chair from your small desk and moving it to face your bed, sitting down. “Kelsa told me what happened.”

You groaned and pulled the covers over your head. “So you see why I can’t be commander and you agree? I’m glad we had this talk.”

“No, I see that someone started a rumor because you’re capable and deserving…and Valin is jealous, he thought he would be promoted to commander.” He tried to pull the covers down, but you held tight. “Come on, I know you. You’re gonna let this ruin something so important?”

“They think I fucked you, Poe,” you said bluntly as you shoved the covers back and sat up to look at him. “Do you know how embarrassing that is? They think I slept with you and that’s why you promoted me.”

“Who cares? You know the truth. I know the truth. And, sooner or later, they’re gonna forget all about the rumor and move onto something else.”

“They’re not gonna respect me if they think I do favors to get what I want.” You looked at your hands.

Poe reached out to tilt your chin up so you’d look at him. “I promoted you because you’re good and you deserved it more than anyone. They’ll get over it.”

You smiled a little, shaking your head. “I just don’t know if it’s right.”

“Well!” He stood and slapped his thighs. “Your squadron has a mission in a few days and I don’t plan to put someone in as commander, even temporarily. So I guess you at least gotta go for this one, or the whole squadron might be lost.”

“That’s just playing dirty.”

“Whatever gets you out of that bed.”

You watched him as he put the chair back and started towards the door, calling out before you could stop yourself, “Poe?”

You didn’t know what you wanted to say when he turned to look at you expectantly. Maybe you wanted to ask if it was all a rumor or if he did like you, if he looked at you the same way you looked at him.

But you couldn’t.

“Thanks,” you said lamely.

“Thank me after your briefing, first thing in the morning.”

——————————————————————————

The morning air was chilled as you finished packing what you needed into your X-wing, looking around at your squadron as they prepared themselves. Most of your group was being respectful and kind, though they hadn’t spoken up for you before.

The only one who didn’t seem to care for your orders was Valin. You didn’t care for him very much at all now, given how he started the rumor, but you would make sure he stayed safe.

You were just climbing the ladder when he approached you, data pad in hand. “General Dameron said he gave us the wrong coordinates, these are the right ones.”

You looked at him and then looked to where Poe was standing to see you all off, smirking a bit when he waved at you. You quickly made your expression neutral and looked at the coordinates on screen, nodding. Maybe even Valin was getting somewhat used to you being his superior, if only by doing something helpful that you imagined Poe was forcing him to do.

“Let’s get a move on, the sooner we’re out of here, the sooner we can come back!” You climbed into the cockpit of your ship and put in the coordinates before you let the canopy close, starting it up.

Poe was still watching as you lifted into the air, followed close by the rest of your squadron with Valin right behind you. You waved to your general quickly before you took off into space, surprised by how far the planet would be.

That’s what hyperspeed was for, you supposed. You were able to engage it once you broke the atmosphere and you were in the quiet expanse of stars.

It cut your travel time in half and you exited it once you were a few minutes away from the planet, pausing when you only saw one ship behind you. Where the hell was the rest of your fleet?

Your comm crackled to life and you could hear Valin, “I think they dropped out of hyperspeed too soon, this place is kinda in the middle of nowhere. We should go ahead and land, scope out the place.”

He was right about the planet being in the middle of nowhere and you knew your squadron was smart, they’d figure out the coordinates. It made sense to go ahead and get started, so you could see what needed to be done.

You took off your helmet once your ship had touched down, climbing out to take a look at your surroundings.

It was pretty barren, dirt as far as the eye could see, crumbling buildings and dead foliage. You couldn’t even hear animals or the wind.

“I think maybe we’re the ones who dropped out of hyperspeed at the wrong time,” you said over your shoulder as Valin jumped out of his ship. “I don’t think this is even livable. Maybe it was at one time, but not anymore…they wouldn’t want a planet without resources they can harvest.”

“No, I think we’re in the right place,” came Valin’s voice from right behind you.

You barely had time to register the pain of something being brought down on the back of your head before everything went black.

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #star wars imagine #poe dameron fic

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mysterycitrus · 3 months

Text

im not a yj girlie in the same way that im a titans girlie however i think there’s a lot to say about how the core four experienced loss vs the titans like…. two of them died as teens and then came back. the other two lost their idea of personhood in some capacity — cassie had to abandon her own name, and tim went off on his own after bruce’s death, etc. an interesting angle to take would be “i didnt think id have to figure stuff out because the world ended when i was seventeen but somehow im still here”

putting them all in california together is a definite shortcut but i think it works narratively in some capacity only because i do not believe dick grayson would see his brother’s suicide ideation and be like yeah… this guy has a very healthy understanding of his responsibility to bruce wayne and there’s no way this will spiral out of control now that bruce is back. like he sees tim as is like i need to put u somewhere that is slightly inconvenient to travel to so u don’t hop on a plane every time bruce has a meltdown. would that exacerbate tims fears of being left behind? absolutely. unfortunately dick puts him in a suitcase and ships him to sf anyway. idk. go to college and kiss a boy, tim. it’ll be good for u

#plotting this out is very hmmmmmmmm #dc comics #tim drake #spokes

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saigethearies · 7 months

Text

saige’s terrortober presents…

trust me

while on an expedition into space, your budding romance with osamu came as a pleasant surprise- the murderer hiding amongst your crew, not so much.

alien!osamu miya x fem!reader

contents/warnings: murder, manipulation, and slight yandere, side character deaths, service dom!osamu, unprotected vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral (f! receiving), size kink, osamu is PACKING, praise, belly bulge, dacryphilia, use of pet names, betrayal, angst in the end, osamu still has his dyed hair but he’s in his twenties, this is basically an among us au bare with me

wc: 6.7k

18+ MINORS DNI

an: this one is posted a little late but it works out so it gets to be posted on samu’s actual bday!

“the fuck you mean you found a dead body?” terushima bites out from next to you.

your brain felt like it was lagging as panicked voices sounded off around you. there was no way one of your crewmates was dead. you’d all had multiple health screenings before getting admission into the space exploration program. no one would have gotten the green light if they were in bad health, so how could they just have died? and within the first week?

unless…

“there were multiple stab wounds,” director takeda said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible to prevent the surrounding tension from worsening. “as of right now, we can only assume it was a homicide.”

the room fell silent as everyone let the news sink in.

“ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” a voice drawls from across the circular table. “we’re stuck on this floatin’ hunk of metal and we’ve gotta damn killer on the loose?”

atsumu miya had a scowl on his face, arms crossed over his chest.

“if that’s the case then we need to start narrowing suspects down now,” oikawa followed up. “someone in this room is a murderer, unless we have a stowaway hiding somewhere.”

“security is top notch, there’s no way someone would have been able to sneak on,” kanoka rebutted.

“well then,” daishou started. “it’s time to start hearing some alibis.”

“i was doing weapons,” asahi supplied.

“i can vouch, i was in the room with him,” oikawa added, the other nodding in agreement.

one by one, all of your crewmates stated where they were, what they were doing, who they were with.

“i was in navigation with the twins trying to get the ship back on course,” suna said. “since dumb and dumber decided it would be a good idea to push a bunch of random buttons.”

“i was tryin’ t’ find the air conditionin’!”

“don’t rope me in with his bullshit,” osamu miya muttered from besides his brother.

you spared a quick glance at the grey-haired man. out of all the people on the ship, he seemed to be the one you always found your eyes wandering to.

“where were you?”

the question pulled you back into focus. you turned to see terushima staring down at you, awaiting your response.

“i was reading some samples in med bay.”

his eyes narrowed. “did anyone see you?”

you blinked. no, no one saw you, but that’s because you were the only scientist hired on with a medical background. most of your time in med bay was spent alone.

would that make you look suspicious?

you figured that honesty was the best policy, so you went ahead and told the truth.

“no, i was there alone- but no one else is ever really in there unless they need treatment or need to run an errand, if that makes any difference.”

“so what i’m hearing is that you don't have a solid alibi.”

you felt your hands start to shake. “i-i guess not…”

“let’s hear where the hell yer ass was, terushima.”

the two of you turned to see osamu’s dark grey eyes trained on the man interrogating you. the intensity in them almost sent a chill down your spine.

“ya seem desperate t’ go ahead and put blame on the lil’ lady without even giving yer own alibi yet.”

was he defending you?

terushima sent him a glare. “i was emptying the trash in storage. daishou saw me when he passed by.”

a furrow appeared on said man’s brow. “uh, hate to say it man, but i don’t remember seeing you there.”

“the hell do you mean? you literally walked right by me!”

“the only people i remember seeing before the emergency alarm sounded off was kanoka and the director in shields. i was dropping off some supplies for them.”

“you can’t be serious right now!”

“well look who doesn't have a solid alibi now,” atsumu taunted. “it seems t’ me like yer dejectin’-”

“projecting,” suna corrected.

“-projectin’ onto someone else because ya don’t wanna look guilty.”

“you’re trying to imply that i did this?” terushima shouted.

“if the shoe fits.”

“that’s enough,” director takeda declares, getting the bickering to subside before it could escalate further. “we don’t need to jump to conclusions and we don’t need to fall into hysteria, either. making a rash decision based on little evidence won’t help anything. the body was found near the reactors, so on the complete opposite side of the ship from where everyone allegedly was. Therefore, we don't really have any leads at the moment.”

“so what do we do?” asahi asked, anxiety written all over his face.

“for now, everyone just stay alert and on guard. try to stay in groups or at least pairs if you can. i don’t think the killer will lash out if more than one person is around, and if worst comes to worst, we’d at least be able to pick out who was with who. if you do notice anything suspicious about a fellow crewmate, come report to me directly. rumors will only cause trouble. understood?”

everyone gave their confirmation, you barely being able to mutter yours out.

there was really a killer amongst your ranks.

you were stuck on a ship traveling further into outer space with a murderer.

“good. meeting adjourned, everyone back to your tasks.”

you turned back towards med bay, practically moving on autopilot as your mind picked apart every piece of information you just received.

“i find it interesting that the person closest to the reactors at the time of the murder was you. that is, if your story was even true”

the voice was followed by a hand roughly grabbing onto your arm, halting your retreat. you turned to see terushima’s glare trained on you, his grip tightening. “everyone else might be letting your shitty alibi slide, but i'm not.”

“your own alibi wasn’t even solid,” you argued back, trying to wrench free from his grasp. “you don't have any right to accuse me, if anything i could be saying the same things to you right now.”

“you’re a lot more combative than you were a few minutes ago. i guess you dropped the quiet, innocent girl act now that we're not surrounded by others, right?”

you wanted to deck this guy. how dare he continue to try and accuse you of one thing after another when you haven't done anything wrong. especially after his own shaky alibi had been exposed.

“that’s not the case at all, i just don’t like to be bothered by a hypocrite!”

“i’ll show you a fucking-”

“get yer filthy hands off’a her.”

osamu was at your side before you could even register. while the expression on his face seemed blank, terushima could see the silent fire raging within his eyes, practically challenging him to try and disobey the grey-haired man’s order.

still, the shorter man made no move to release you, which prompted your unexpected savior to speak again.

“if i have t’ tell ya twice, yer not gonna like what happens next.”

with that, terushima finally released you. he scoffed before turning to storm out of the room.

you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

“ya alright, there?”

looking up you met the dark, concerned eyes of osamu. the contact had the inside of your stomach turning into an ocean, waves swirling around within you as you held his gaze.

“i’m okay, thank you,” you said, trying to ignore the feeling of your cheeks heating up. “he seemed relentless, so i really do appreciate you stepping in.”

a smile then appeared on osamu’s face, and you wanted to burn the image into your memory forever because goodness did that man look handsome.

“it’s no worries, my ma taught me better than t’ just stand by when a lady’s ‘n trouble.”

you felt the corners of your own lips curl upwards. “well then she did a really great job.”

“how ‘bout i walk ya back to med bay,” he offered. “director said we needa stick together, wouldn’t feel right if i just let ya wander off alone.”

the waves inside your stomach felt as if they were growing to tsunami-level proportions. you had clearly noticed that osamu was a handsome man the day the crew was all introduced to each other, but you reasoned that you had a job to do on this ship so you couldn’t let yourself get distracted by what was essentially a schoolgirl crush.

now, however, the person of your attraction was guiding you through the halls with a large hand placed on the small of your back.

“i feel like we’re ‘n the start of’a nightmare,” osamu said, pulling you out of your thoughts. “can’t believe shunki got offed by someone on the damn crew.”

“yeah, it’s insane,” you replied. “i still can’t really wrap my head around it.”

“ ‘m sure that terushima jackass barkin’ atcha hasn't made it any easier for ya, huh?”

you sighed. “no, but i guess he does have somewhat of a reason. my alibi can't be corroborated by anyone. besides, nerves are running rampant right now, so i can't really blame him.”

the two of you reached med bay, osamu reaching for the handle and opening the door before you could even lift a finger. he was every bit as chivalrous as he was handsome, your knees feeling slightly weaker as he ushered you inside.

“well i think his reason for comin’ atcha was bullshit. he doesn’t have a solid story, either, so his whole outburst is rubbin’ me the wrong way. be careful ‘round him, will ya?”

the thought had crossed your mind during your earlier altercation with terushima. you knew you weren’t a killer, but him? it could be entirely plausible that a murderer had just been laying his hands on you. if osamu hadn’t come to your aid…

“i’ll try and steer clear of him,” you replied. “thank you again, osamu. i appreciate it, really.”

“of course,” he replied with a smile coming back onto his face. “and you can call me ‘samu.”

returning his kind expression, you nodded your head before turning to grab the samples you were working with earlier.

“anythin’ i can help ya with while ‘m here?”

“you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, walking me back was already sweet enough of you.”

“nah, we gotta stay ‘n pairs, remember? can’t let ya just sit here by yerself with a killer on the ship.”

by the look on his face, you could tell osamu wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so you relented by pointing to the wireless connection panel on the wall across from you.

“i think that could use some maintenance.”

_____

while very tense, the next few days were quiet. no more killings, no odd behavior from anyone- besides terushima’s rotten attitude towards you, but at this point you were just getting used to it. everyone was taking it day by day, each uneventful twenty-four hours being looked at as a win. crew morale was constantly wavering, however. it was hard to feel confident in your coworkers when one of them was secretly a murderer.

your safe haven amidst all of the suspense was osamu.

he continued to spend hours at a time with you in med bay, your once silent workplace now filled with chatter and laughter. when it came time for him to leave to go attend to other tasks, you would often tag along.

“buddy system, right?” he would say.

atsumu and suna would also occasionally find themselves keeping the two of you company in med bay. watching the three of them banter was probably the best entertainment you were going to get on the spacecraft. with the way the dark-haired man interacted with the twins you would think that they’ve all known each other for a very long time, so you were surprised to learn that they’d only just met at the start of the expedition.

“it literally reminds me of mustard,” suna remarked, earning a burst of laughter from osamu.

“shut yer trap, sunarin!”

“did you just not think to use toner?”

“there is nothin’ wrong with my hair!” atsumu defended.

the bickering had been going on for the past five minutes, suna always finding a way to goad the blonde into being his personal entertainment. he almost had a talent for being able to get under either of the twin’s skin, antagonizing them almost as much as they antagonize each other.

“if yer worried ‘bout what's wrong with ya then yer hair is the least of yer worries,” osamu piped up, earning a small giggle from you. you were too engrossed in recording your sample data to notice the content smile come onto the grey-haired man’s face at hearing your laugh.

he came up behind you, leaning down so that his head was hovering above your shoulder. “what ya got goin’ on here?”

you kept your face turned down towards your desk, not wanting him to catch onto the way your cheeks were heating up at his close proximity. “just going over the results from asahi’s blood test.”

it was no doubt to you that after spending so much time together, there was…something brewing between you and osamu. at first you figured it was just physical attraction, but the more you were around him, the more you began to realize that wasn’t the case.

you felt a comfort with the man you hadn’t felt with anyone else before- not any of your friends, not any of your exes, not even your family. there was no denying that there was a genuine connection there, and whether you were falling for him so quickly because of the circumstances or because you were truly that into him, you didn’t know.

and it didn’t really matter to you, either. every day on this spaceship could end up being your last, so you chose not to waste your time overthinking.

“need any help?”

“no, but thank you, ‘samu. you're always so considerate.”

before he could reply, kissy noises were sounding off from the other two occupants in the room. the glare osamu sent atsumu and suna would probably have most peoples’ stomachs dropping, but the two of them seemed unfazed.

it was then that a red flash illuminated the room, a harsh buzz ripping through the air.

the emergency alarm.

you dropped your pen.

“dammit!” atsumu yelled. “not another murder!”

a hand was placed on the small of your back, guiding you to stand on unsteady legs. “don’t jump t’ conclusions, we don’t know fer sure.”

“well what else would it be?” suna asked.

you began to move towards the door, osamu’s palm not leaving your body.

“i guess we should go find out,” you muttered.

the walk was silent, the once tense atmosphere of the ship now suffocating as days after days worth of anxiety had come to a crescendo. the four of you waited as the cafeteria doors slid open, revealing the rest of your crewmates gathered around the meeting table.

well, all of them except one.

not again…

once you had all gathered around, director takeda spoke the words you’d been dreading to hear since the adjournment of the last meeting.

“another body has been found.”

silence.

“oikawa and asahi found daishou in the electrical room. he wasn’t moving and they couldn’t find a pulse.”

“that’s right around the corner from where the last body was found,” kanoka observed.

“on the same side as med bay,” terushima muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

you frowned. “can you at least wait until we get all the details before you try and start accusing me?”

“why? we’re already two men down, we can’t let this shit just slide again.”

“we won’t,” takeda firmly interjected. “there were several small bruises on daishou’s neck, so it seems that his cause of death was asphyxiation.”

“so whoever did this was able to choke a grown a man to death with their bare hands,” oikawa observed.

“wouldn’t that mean we have the culprit’s fingerprints?” you asked.

“unfortunately the perpetrator was wearing gloves.”

“damn,’ asahi sighed.

“well if they killed the poor guy with their bare hands then i really don’t think it could be the lil’ lady,” atsumu commented.

“yeah, ya really think these tiny ass fingers could choke a man?” osamu added, lifting your hand up to prove his point. your stomach fluttered when you saw how huge his looked compared to yours.

“here the two of you go fucking defending her again,” terushima barked. “she didn’t even have an alibi last time!”

“neither did you,” suna said.

“yeah, and this time all three of us were with her,” osamu motioned between him, his brother, and their friend. “so she has the damn alibi yer so bent over.”

“okay, so we know oikawa and asahi were together again, then the four of them were with each other,” kanoka listed. “i was checking oxygen levels with the director.”

all eyes turned to the remaining unnamed person.

“terushima, where were you?”

the man blinked. “i was doing weapons.”

“did anyone see you?”

“i-uh, well no, everyone was off doing other things.”

director takeda frowned. “so you have no one to confirm your whereabouts?”

“second time this happened,” oikawa commented.

the pierced man sent the brunette a glare.

“since he mentioned it already, wasn’t daishou the one who denied being able to verify terushima’s story last time? and now he’s dead, too.”

everyone went quiet at suna’s observation, terushima’s eyes widening.

“are you seriously implying that i fucking did this?”

“the evidence isn’t really pointing towards anyone else right now,” kanoka said slowly.

“what the fuck.”

“everyone else has alibis,” oikawa said, prepared to lay the facts on the table.”you’re the only one who’s been unaccounted for both times, and you have a possible motive for the most recent killing. no one else has the cards stacked against them like this.”

terushima looked around the table, everyone regarding him with a careful, withdrawn look.

“guys, come on!”

director takeda took a slow breath. “i’m sorry, terushima. but we’ve already lost two lives, and right now you’re the only suspect. we have to do what’s best for the crew.”

“fuck you,” he bit out, practically snarling. “fuck all of you! what are you gonna do now, shoot me?”

“no,” his superior said slowly.

“the ship has come equipped with a different way to handle violent members.”

_____

never in a million years would you have thought that what director takeda meant is that terushima would get ejected. thrown out into deep space to choke and freeze.

it felt so cruel and unusual. yet, your boss insisted that this was the best way to go about it. keeps the threat away without needing anyone to bloody their own hands.

you tried to take his word for it, but you still couldn’t help but feel that there had to have been a better method.

thankfully, the relief of the murder mystery being solved was enough to keep you from dwelling on it for too long. the atmosphere on the ship was light again, everyone more lively and talkative. there was still an underlying somberness held for those departed, but no more going through the day with bated breath.

well, almost.

you still couldn’t fight the feeling that something was…off.

as if your ship’s little mystery had been solved almost too easily. too conveniently.

“what’s wrong?”

osamu’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, standing at the entryway to your sleeping quarters.

“oh! hey,” you said, getting up from your desk. you had to crane your neck so much to look up at him. you tried to ignore how that fact made your heart skip.

as if he could read your thoughts, the grey-haired man brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. “ya didn’t answer me.”

you gave him a small smile. “i’m okay, ‘samu, just tired.”

he frowned. “i don’t believe ya.”

a sigh escaped your lips. “i guess i’m just a little overwhelmed. i’m glad we found terushima out and all, but this whole ordeal has just felt like…a lot. and i think i've been struggling to calm down again, after things were so tense for a while.”

“i don’t like seein’ ya this worried, pretty girl like ya shouldn’t be frettin’ over a thing.”

the comment didn’t catch you completely off guard. osamu had started to become a little more flirtatious, but you always figured it wasn’t that serious. probably just a way for him to be affectionate.

as his dark eyes bore into you right now, however, you started to think that might not be the case.

“i’m okay, really.”

the hand that had brushed your hair away hadn’t left your face, thumb brushing against your cheek.

“i can see yer face lookin’ all gloomy,’ he said, moving closer to you. “c’mon, darlin’, talk to me.”

you took a deep, steadying breath. “i just want a break from all the stress.”

his hands were then roaming your back, pulling you into his chest. his lips found themselves at the shell of your ear.

“then let me take care of ya, sweetheart.”

the sexual tension building up over the past week came to boiling point when osamu’s lips slotted against yours, desire spilling over the sides and shrouding each of you in a cloud of desire. he started to press more firmly, tongue sliding in between the seam of your mouth.

he broke away from you. “ ‘s this alright?”

you nodded, eyes wide, before osamu’s lips chased after yours again, hand coming to the zipper of your pink bodysuit. he dragged it down slowly, revealing more of your skin inch by inch.

stepping out of the material, you stood before him in your matching set.

“so damn beautiful.”

you placed your hands on the back of his neck, eyes staring up at him doefully. “wanna see you too, ‘samu.”

“whatever ya want, darlin’.”

he peeled off his own bodysuit next, grey in color, and was left in just his briefs. gently leading you back towards your bed, he laid you down slowly.

kissing you once more, osamu started to move down your body, leaving little pecks against your heated skin in his wake.

“what are you doing?”

“i told ya i was gonna take care of ya, sweetheart.”

he pressed a kiss below your belly button, fingers gripping the hem of your panties. he glanced towards your face, chest tightening at the sight of your lust-blown expression, waiting for your okay. you nodded, and thus osamu peeled the lace off.

grabbing the underside of each of your thighs, he spread them open. kissing the inner part of each of them, his lips then finally descended onto your glistening cunt.

“ ‘samu,” you squeaked out.

he smirked, tongue grazing up and down your sensitive nub. the sensation had you mewling, fingers tangling into his dyed locks. your sounds made osamu smirk against you, adding two fingers into your cunt in hopes he’d hear even more.

the muscle started to move against your clit faster, mouthing against it like he was starved. another finger was then pressed into your pussy. you weren’t used to being stretched that much.

“too much,” you whined out. “ ‘s too much.”

“ya need t’ take it, sweet thing. if yer gonna take my dick later, ya need this.”

you felt your breath catch, the thought of being filled by him leading the heat in your stomach to start building.

finally hitting his fingers against that spongy spot deep within your walls, a cry ripped from you as he started to put all of his focus there. your legs were starting to shake, so osamu decided now was the time to switch up the motion of his tongue, drawing circles on your bundle of nerves.

you spasmed as your orgasm tore through you, whimpers leaving your lips as pleasure overtook every nerve within you.

osamu removed his mouth and fingers from you, inching back up your body before hovering over you.

“did so good, pretty girl, so good.”

you felt his thick fingers creep behind your back, undoing your bra. his eyes drank in the sight of your tits as he pulled the garment off of you.

kisses and bites were littered along your chest, small praises whispered between each. his lips moved back up your neck, leaving a final peck on the tip of your nose before speaking.

“ya think yer ready?”

you knew what he was talking about, nodding your head vigorously, excited to be able to feel all of him.

however, all of that excitement left your body when he finally removed his boxers.

oh…

you should have known. osamu’s whole frame was big and broad. why would his cock be any different?

god, would that even fit? none of your past boyfriends even came close to his size.

he must’ve seen your face grow pale. “what’s the matter, darlin’?”

you gulped.

“...that’s not gonna fit, ‘samu.”

“it will,” he replied, not even seeming fazed by your concern. “trust me.”

“but-”

“ya trust me, right?”

his gaze was zeroed in on yours, and you felt yourself become transfixed by just how endless it seemed, as if the space surrounding your little floating ship existed in osamu’s eyes.

“yeah, i trust you.”

another soft kiss met your lips. “good.”

his thumb was at your clit again, an attempt to distract you from the head of his cock pressing against your opening. he began to push in, a small whimper leaving your lips as you could already feel the burning stretch.

“relax, doll, ya gotta relax.”

more kisses were then peppered against your lips, silent reassurances as osamu entered into you further, each new inch making your brain feel as if it was going to explode.

“little cunt ain’t used t’ takin’ somethin’ this big, huh?”

you shook your head, confirming his suspicion as tears started to leak from your eyes.

“well, first time fer everythin’, sweetheart.”

you had no idea how he got the whole thing to fit inside of you. your pussy felt as if it was being torn apart at the seams in the best way possible, jaw going slack as he bottomed out.

“oh.”

osamu hummed. “tightest cunt i’ve ever been ‘n. yer just a dream, aintcha?”

you wanted to reply to his praise, but all that could leave you was a scream as he started to pull out and push back in. starting a steady pace, the man pulled you into a hungry kiss.

never before had you ever been so filled, moaning aimlessly into his mouth as the only thought your brain could come up with was so full, so full, so full.

he parted from your lips.

“ya feel it, darlin’?”

you didn’t have a clue what he was talking about until he thrusted back in, palm coming down against a protrusion in your tummy. the realization had more drops falling down your cheeks, babbles bubbling up your throat. he was going to rip you apart, and you were more than willing to let him.

“ ‘m gettin’ close,” he warned, forehead resting against yours. his hands then grabbed each side of your hips, holding you in place as he picked up the pace. “need ya t’ cum too, doll. ladies first.”

your cunt finally couldn’t take anymore battering, muscles spasming as you came hard on osamu’s cock. you saw him grin as your body shook, finally allowing himself to release with a low groan.

he made sure to pull out of your overstuffed pussy before you could get too stimulated, situating himself at your side so he could pull you into his chest. you rested your cheek against his pec.

stillness overtook the room as you tried to compose yourself, body still twitching with aftershocks.

osamu chuckled, kissing the crown of your head.

“i told ya i’d make it work. see, ya can trust me.”

_____

the next twenty four hours were absolute bliss. you and osamu were practically connected at the hip, all ooey gooey and lovey dovey with each other. atsumu and suna made gagging sounds every time they saw the two of you, but neither of you cared. nothing was going to ruin the oasis you’d built with one other.

the emergency alarm figured it was up for the challenge.

your eyebrows knitted together, pulling away from your lover’s side as you heard the sound pierce the content silence you’d been sitting in.

the uneasy feeling from before, the feeling that something still just wasn’t right came back to you.

“it might just be some mechanical issues,” osamu reassured, clearly trying to calm you down. you met his gaze, slightly taken aback by the expression in them. it was hard to read, but you just chalked it up to him being antsy, too.

“hopefully.”

the broken, bloodied glasses of director takeda proved the two of you wrong.

oikawa held them in the palm of his hand, a grim look on his face.

“he was in navigation,” he started. “i could barely even recognize him, that’s how bad the damage was.”

you couldn’t stop your lip from wobbling. your nightmare was still ongoing, and now the one person who kept you all sane had been beaten into his grave.

what came next broke you even more, though.

“kanoka is dead, too.”

two murders.

two murders on the same damn day.

you bit your lip, keeping your cries as silent as you could as the news settled.

suna was the first to speak. “do we need to move their bodies out of there, and give them a nicer…resting place, like the others?”

“that’s the thing,” oikawa’s tone now had an edge to it. “kanoka’s body wasn’t with the director’s, it was in lower engine.”

“so what does that mean?” you said, frustration starting to prick at you. “the killer moved her body? or had enough time to get from one crime scene to the other?”

“no,” asahi said. “oikawa was across the hall cleaning the air filters when he heard crashing in navigation. he remembered the time was around 7:30 pm. i was checking the reactor when i heard kanoka scream, and the clock on it read 7:27 pm.”

“ya mean t’ tell me they were killed at the same time ‘n opposite sides of the ship? how the hell is that possible?”

“is the answer not obvious?” oikawa bit out at atsumu. “there’s two fucking killers, and it has to be one of you four!”

“one of us?” you said in disbelief.

“yes!”

“wait a damn minute,” osamu started. “ya mean t’ tell us that if there’s two killers, it has t’ be two of us? not the two of ya, who’ve been stickin’ together since the beginnin’?”

“what ‘samu said! y’all have always been each other’s alibis, ya could have been bullshittin’ us the whole time!”

atsumu had a point. oikawa and asahi always being each other’s alibis would have been one thing when there was a singular killer, but now that there’s two? they could have been covering for each other the whole time. but still…

“if we were the killers why would we give away that there’s two of us? that makes no sense, we’d have nothing to gain from that.”

oikawa voiced the exact thought you had been thinking. they would have the element of surprise keeping their partnership under wraps, it doesn’t make sense why they would expose there are two murderers when it would be easier to let the impression there’s a singular one linger.

yet, you had gotten to know the other three people at the table. there was no way osamu, atsumu, or suna could be a killer. there was just no way.

“you could be playing mind games with us, who knows,” suna assessed. “there’s no telling what fucked shit you’re willing to do if you’re out here cutting people up.”

“no one is trying to play tricks!” asahi yelled. “the innocent people on this ship are in serious danger, we need to figure this out now!”

“the four of us see one another on a regular basis,” osamu said. “the two of ya are the outliers here.”

“we each have three other people that can vouch for us! the two of ya only have each other! yer outnumbered here!”

you were so overwhelmed. so much muddled information was being thrown around, no solid theories being able to stem from such minimal evidence. you weren’t going to be able to use your brain on this one, you were going to have to trust your gut.

“we’re supposed to believe the pair of two people aren’t the killers and instead the duo is hiding in the tight knit group of four? that shit doesn’t add up in the slightest, the two of you are talking out of your asses.”

oikawa and asahi turned to you.

“you’re smart, please tell us you believe us.”

you bit your lip.

“i just…can’t wrap my head around the idea that any of them could be killers.”

“don’t let being buddy-buddy with the three of them cloud your judgment. like i said earlier, why would we expose there are actually two killers if we were the two killers?”

a theory came to your mind, and you weren’t sure if you thought it up because it was actually plausible, or because you just wanted to prove your lover and friends were innocent. regardless, you shared it.

“the three of them are bigger than the prior victims, so they would put up a tough fight. two against four would be hard to pull off with them, so you could be exposing the murderer duo so that we get rid of two of ourselves and then make it a two against two.”

oikawa and asahi both blanched at your statement.

“she’s a genius!” atsumu exclaimed. “y’all really thought ya could put one by her, huh?”

“she’s wrong! we would nev-”

“i don’t know about you guys,” suna interrupted. “but i’ve heard all that i need to hear. let’s get them the fuck off this ship.”

the screaming and shouting that ensued as he and the twins pushed the two accused men out of the room and down the halls had you covering your ears, eyes squeezed shut as more tears dropped down your face.

you tried to tell yourself that you were okay. the murderers had been caught for real now, you were going to be fine. you were safe.

the ship went quiet, yells no longer being heard. that was all you needed to know that oikawa and asahi had been ejected.

footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts, suna regarding you with a nod as he re-entered the room.

“you alright?”

breathe in, breathe out. “i should be.”

“good. i'm gonna go send a message to headquarters. someone needs to tell them what the hell has been happening.”

you bid him goodbye as he left. standing up, you decided that being wrapped up in osamu’s arms felt like a good idea after the intense moment earlier.

they weren’t in med bay, so you did a little searching before hearing their voices from inside the admin room. you were about to enter the room before a sentence spoken by osamu stopped you in your tracks.

“i told ya t’ fuckin’ wait a while-”

wait for what?

“ ‘m sorry, i just wanted to get it over with! i told ya i didn’t want t’ be the one t’ kill the director.”

not even the limitless space outside could create the coldness you felt seep through every pore in your skin.

please be dreaming.

“ya still nearly got us exposed.”

“who cares? we’ve picked enough people off anyways. ship is ours.”

your pulse currently rivaled that of a racehorse, your brain not being able to deny what it just heard.

the twins were the killers.

osamu was a murderer.

movement to your left caught your eye, the brothers exiting the room only to stop in surprise when they saw you.

you tried to paint a look of nonchalance on your face, but it was too late. the panic was written all over you. there was nowhere to hide.

two very different emotions came onto their faces. atsumu practically looked predatory, whereas ‘samu almost looked as panicked as you.

“darlin’, listen to me-”

“cut her the bullshit, ‘samu, ya already dickmatized her enough.”

you found yourself backpedaling, fingers trembling as you attempted to put as much distance between you and them as possible.

“c’mon, angel, why ya look so scared?” atsumu taunted. you watched in horror as his brown eyes shifted to an inky black, the blonde about to lunge at you before his brother grabbed him by the collar of his maroon suit and yanked him back.

“not her,” osamu bit out, trapping his brother in a headlock. “i told ya anyone but her.”

“yer no fun, ‘samu!”

you didn’t wait around to watch them squabble, turning and running towards communications as fast as you could. you had to get to suna. he needed to know, and you weren’t going to be able to stand the slightest chance against the miyas without him.

choked sobs left you as you sped through the halls, sorrow and guilt eating you alive. sorrow because the man you had started to fall in love with, the man you had given your body to, the man you felt safe with ended up being a murderer. you felt beyond just betrayed.

then, your guilt stemmed from the fact that so many of your crewmates lay dead now, and several times you had let their killers roam free. not only that, but you’d also stood by as numerous innocent people were sent to their death outside in the vacuum of space.

you knew something was still off. you knew.

but your gut instinct had been fogged by your stupid, mushy emotions.

this was all fucked.

this was all so fucked.

“SUNA!” you screamed, sprinting into comms with red and bleary eyes.

“what is it- whoa, what’s going on?” he asked, placing his hands on your shoulders.

“we were wrong,” you said, throat tightening. “it’s the twins, they’re the killers! they’ve been playing us the whole time.”

“damn, that’s tough.”

his unserious response confused you. maybe he was in shock?

“also, correction,” the dark-haired man began. “the miyas haven’t been playing us the whole time…”

your heart nearly stopped when you saw suna’s greyish-green eyes turn the same black shade that atsumu’s had.

“...we’ve all been playing you the whole time.”

you couldn’t move, not registering suna’s grip on your shoulders tightening until you were being ripped straight out of it.

“don’t fuckin’ touch her.”

you felt yourself become engulfed in osamu’s arms, back pressed to his chest as he kept the two of you facing the other two…imposters in the room.

“dude, seriously? she’s the last one standing, we could complete the set.”

“sunarin’s right! c’mon, ‘samu!”

you felt his hold tighten around you, the same hands that slaughtered your crewmates now protectively embracing you. that fact made your head hurt.

“i told the two of ya, ‘m keepin’ her. lay a damn finger on her and ‘m rippin’ it clean off ya.”

he was met with begrudged silence from the two other men before suna let out an exasperated sigh. “fine, i guess she can live. she did really help us out by vouching for us back there, fucking oikawa almost had us figured out.”

“a pretty face t’ look at on the ride home won’t hurt.”

“watch it,” osamu warned his brother.

you didn’t know what they were talking about. you didn’t know what home was for them. all you knew was that you were gonna get dragged along, whether you liked it or not, by a man who built a bond with you through sugar-coated lies.

osamu leaned down, kissing the side of your cheek before whispering in your ear. “all my feelins’ are genuine, darlin’, that i can assure ya.”

you felt his fingers intertwine with your still shaking ones.

“ ‘m gonna take good care of ya, i promise.”

_____

saige’s terrortober masterlist

#saige’s terrortober #osamu miya x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x you #miya osamu x you #osamu x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #osamu miya smut #miya osamu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #hq x reader

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lavendertales · 2 years

Text

Hands to myself || Din Djarin x f!reader**

summary: you confess to Din that you like his hands, and he wants to see exactly how much.

word count: 3k

WARNINGS: hand kink obvs, dry humping, male masturbation, vaginal fingering, a dash of praise kink, cockwarming, sub!Din.

A/N: I’ve been meaning to post this for almost two weeks lmao so here we are. feedback is more than welcome 💕hope you enjoy, lovebugs!

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @themandaloriandaily

read on AO3

Throughout the months you’ve spent traveling with Din, many things have remained a mystery, such as his face and his upbringing. Yet you can say with absolute certainty that you knew each other way more intimately than those things.

You don’t need to hold all that information. You know what truly matters the most. You know him, as he is, the man behind the beskar; you know him as kind, sweet, a protector in times of need—and a damn good lover.

It could be argued that Din is easily the best lover you’ve ever had. The months you’ve spent on the ship alongside him carried no shortage of passion. An initial shy attraction blossomed into a near-fatal carnal desire, threatening to overpower you both. You learned in time his likes and dislikes; you knew how he felt and what sounds he’d make before you even touched him. Once he got more comfortable exploring your body in the dim light of the Crest, you studied each scar on his body, every navel and ridge, everything that was worth knowing.

Din himself was worth knowing.

So while you may not know his face or backstory—all curtesy of the Mandalorians’ beloved Creed—you shared an intimacy that stretched beyond definitions.

But there were still things left to discover between you two, things that you had yet to share.

Now, you’ve seen Din in various postures: hunting, carrying bounties back to the ship, expertly driving the Crest through outer space and even handling you in ways that made your head spin. It would’ve been impossible to witness all of that and not develop some sort of bizarre fondness for his hands. You’ve seen his hands ungloved hundreds of times, but you’ve never actually told him how appealing they are to you, how they exude tenderness and power, much like Din himself.

Instead, you resort to watching him carry the toolbox to the outer side of the Crest and mend its metallic wounds. He grabs each item with confidence and expertise, maneuvering them like they’re nothing. You remain in the background, once in a while gulping as your eyes focus on Din’s gloved hands. He’s too attentive to the task at hand to remark you studying him curiously in the background – and a little parched, too.

Even covered, his hands seem to be doing a little magic of their own; their movement, while concise and harsh in order to be able to fulfill the task, is undeniably enticing. Swiftly, your mind transports you elsewhere entirely, picturing those hands—free from the gloves’ leather confinements or not—moving up your body, fondling you and bringing you to pleasure that you’ve only ever experienced with him.

The sudden callout of your name makes your cheeks burn crimson. You’re slightly ashamed of having been daydreaming right next to him.

“Sorry,” you apologize in advance with a brief shake of your head.

“Are you okay?”

Uh-oh. His velvet, raspy voice paired with your prior wishful thinking isn’t aiding you much. You swallow harshly, the blob of saliva feeling like sand on paper.

Damn, what is it with you today? Down, girl.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “Just a little distracted.”

“By what?”

You falter. You figure you should at least let the man finish his job before starting the next one. You know that if you ask nicely enough, Din will help you out without hesitation.

And that thought makes you squirm with excitement, so much so that you feel heat pooling down below.

“A lot of thoughts,” you settle to respond. “Did you need anything?”

“Can you hand me the hammer, please?”

You comply, walking over to give him exactly what he wants. Then, you keep your eyes on his lucrative figure as he starts hammering a screw.

Good Gods, why am I torturing myself like this?

Once he’s done, Din slouches down, grabbing with both hands two loose chunks of metal and parts them. Your eyes widen, breaths a little shallower.

He has to be doing this on purpose. There’s just no way.

You keep watching him though; you keep watching him gently put all the chunks back and causing fast trepidations of your heart, completely unsuspecting and innocent. He catches your eyes eventually, and you sport a cute smile. You like to think he reciprocates. That’s Din: giving and caring. At least with you.

“That should hold us for a while,” he announces.

“Oh, good.”

Your voice dies down, and it’s only when Din stands back up in all of his broad beskar glory that you truly feel the effect of—well, him. You’ve become quite transparent to him, so there’s not much you can hide. You know that eventually he’ll put two and two together and figure out the reason behind your restless aura.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he checks, approaching you.

“Mhm.”

“You seem nervous.”

You keep on smiling, hoping to somehow disguise your nervousness. But you don’t really want to; you want everything that Din is willing to give to you, each taste he’ll allow you to have.

“Do I?” you ask, realizing you might be teasing him subconsciously.

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side, and something goes off inside you. That’s one of the few gestures that get you going on the spot; an additional touch to the right spot and you’ll be a wet bundle of nerves.

He doesn’t ask you anything. He usually doesn’t need to unless he’s making sure what he’s doing is appropriate, and in this moment, he can tell by the way you’re basically forcing your legs together that you’re in need of something else that sparks his interest as well.

“Tell me,” he coos. “What’s on your mind?”

You inhale, heart thrumming in your ears.

“I hope this won’t sound too weird, but… I was watching you work and it’s very—you’re very good at fixing things, and—”

Maker, you’re babbling. Get it together.

“Bottom line is,” you try to laugh it off, “I… like your hands.”

Din feels utterly taken aback. He’s never paid any attention to his physical traits, barely so since you came into his life. He often wonders if you wouldn’t prefer a younger body, one that’s not scarred or bruised or tired. But when he’s inside you, when he hears your sweet moans, when he hastily kneads the warm flesh of your body, there’s no more doubt in his mind that you want him just as he is. And that he wants you.

But hearing that you like his hands in particular is quite surprising. Especially since he spends all day covering them with those worn-out leathery gloves. The only time he takes them off is when he sleeps—or when they’re on you.

“My hands?” he asks, still bewildered at your confession.

You nod shyly.

“I’m sweaty from working, probably should wash off before—”

“I don’t mind. I like it dirty.”

“Hm.”

His hum is soft and husky, just like he is, and you quiver just thinking about him, vulnerable before you yet again. Everything about Din’s presence is intoxicating, and you wish you could put those words that cross your mind in coherent sentences so that he’ll know it, too.

He inches closer to your figure, and you just know his keen eyes scan you from head to toe through his visor. You don’t move; your body already aches and burns and itches in forbidden places that only he gets to see, and you want to enjoy every second of the thrilling moment.

“Go back inside,” he instructs.

And you obey without fault.

Your legs are guided solely by nervousness, an anticipation that allows you no rest. You nearly sprint back on the Crest, and decide to remain in the cockpit. The little cot Din sleeps in wouldn’t provide much space for… whatever it is that’s about to happen. You could use the mattress Din bought from one of the planets you’ve been on, since you’ve both been sleeping and fucking on it since its appearance aboard, but it was a bit unstable after the last time you used it.

You giggle to yourself reminiscing that night, how randy you both were and how rough and speedy things had gotten.

Din’s presence looms over you, a dark, yet shiny figure that somehow always seems to be watching over you. Heart in your throat, you stare at him with those big, doe eyes that drive him insane. You watch him rest in his usual seat, legs mildly spread; he proceeds to remove the beskar plates from his thighs, cocking his head to the side.

“Sit down, cyar’ika,” he coos.

Gods, you’re getting wetter with each passing second and you swear he could hear it with every step you take towards him. But you don’t falter: you spread your own legs and sit on his left thigh, suppressing a moan when your clothed core unconsciously grinds on him.

“Why did you want me to—?” you begin.

“I need you nice and wet before I give you my fingers.”

You gulp, completely blown away by how insanely attractive that sentence was. Din nods, thus encouraging you to move forward with what you need, and you anchor yourself to his broad shoulders, past the pauldrons. You pull him close as you start rubbing your clothed core on his leg, breaths already hitched in your chest. It’s already electric and it gets you tingly all over, and you wonder how long Din intends to keep playing this game.

The friction is good—too good. It’s debilitating in its simplicity, and you find yourself staring into what you presume are Din’s eyes. You see past the helmet’s visor, past everything else that might stand in between the two of you, and you like to think Din cannot keep his eyes away from you.

It’s absolutely true. It’s even more than that: everything that you do or say runs deeper for Din, much deeper than he could ever explain to you. Each drag of your clothed cunt along his thigh is sending him into a spiral of pleasure, clouding his better judgment and freezing him in this particular moment in time. There is nothing else but you, what you want, and how he can get you there.

He swears he feels your pulse throbbing in your core, and it makes him hard. Painfully hard. He’s truly at your mercy, a victim of your saccharine movements which show no mercy.

And then he remembers your flustered confession, and he grabs your hips to cease your grinding. You’re upset—you’ve been building towards something great, something explosive in your belly waiting to be detonated, and he stops it.

But, as you shift your eyes from his helmet to his lap, you notice the protruding erection in his pants, and the removal of his gloves. You hold your breath.

It should not be this attractive. It shouldn’t be—but it is. It’s simply erotic in its basic motions: Din pulls on the glove, one finger at a time, and frees his left hand. He repeats the gesture with his right hand, and now you gasp. Those calloused hands, the same ones that hold you close to his chest at night and knead your flesh in between them with unbridled passion, hold so much more power than Din himself is aware of.

Right under his cautious eyes and his irregular breaths, Din watches you strip down the clothes from your lower half; he feels his cheeks burn crimson with nervousness, an almost shocking realization that you want him so much. It is reciprocated by far: he gets so hard just thinking about you, it feels downright cruel.

Gods, he wishes he could kiss you right now.

More so, when you pull away from him and sit in the passenger’s seat with your legs semi-open, Din gulps, wishing he could quench his thirst by drinking straight from you. He wonders how you taste, what sounds you’d make should he bury his head in between your legs.

You’d be embarrassed at how wet you are just by looking at his hands and rubbing yourself on his thigh for a few minutes, but this is Din. This is no fling, no regular man.

With slightly wobbly legs, he makes his way to you, down on his knees before you. His fingers find your clit with ease, drawing circles as the other hand presses on your lower belly. You instantly throw your head back, a soft moan escaping past your lips.

“Din—”

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Mhm—”

All coherent words flee from your mind when one of his fingers pushes carefully past your soaked lips. He pushes slowly, testing you, but when you spread your legs further and try to move your hips so that they meet with more of his hand, Din nearly crumbles on the spot.

“You’re so warm,” he says in awe.

You can only moan, thankful when he adds a second finger and truly thrusts them inside you. You grab onto the seat, holding onto it till your knuckles turn white. The pleasure that runs through you is sapping, unbearable. Din’s fingers pump hastily in and out of you as the man behind the beskar watches your every facial expression, listens to your every sound.

His pants are strangling him by this point, and he’s not sure how much longer can he pretend like it doesn’t ache just to think about how hard this is making him.

“Oh, fuck,” you hear him whisper.

You look at him in a frenzy, mouth ajar, and see him fumble with his pants. The thrust of his fingers gets a little sloppy as he works with his other hand to free his cock from its confinement. You nearly gasp when you see how hard he is, the tip leaking with precum already. Din grunts as his hand wraps around his cock, resuming his ministration on your cunt.

“You’re so good,” you tell him. “You’re so good, Din—”

“Yeah?”

“Yes—yes, you are—”

The sounds filling the Crest are a concoction of his grunts and your moans, a delicious blend that has you both in shambles.

You catch a glimpse of him stroking himself, and you finally feel it. You feel that burn in your stomach, that much needed tingle leading to inevitable bliss. He sounds so fucking hot, and the idea that he can get so hard when pleasing you is the highest form of flattery.

He’s losing the string of thought with each stroke on his cock. He needs to feel your walls around him, he needs to feel you.

You gasp once Din ceases all motions on both of you. You’re about to complain, audibly so, but then he brings you back on your feet as he resumes his seat, having you straddle his lap. There’s no need for instructions or additional talk; you know exactly what to do. You’ve learned to recognize his neediness some time ago. And when he grabs your ass to move you closer to his weeping cock, you stand up a little, one hand around his cock as you guide it inside you. You moan brokenly, and so does Din. The feeling of his hardness in your warmth remains unmatched.

You anchor yourself to his shoulders once again and start moving up and down, rocking your hips to the best of your abilities. You’re so sensitive from the previous treatment that you doubt you’ll last long.

And somehow, you doubt Din will last long, either.

“Maker, you feel so—f-fucking good,” he grunts.

To that you smile, flattered and turned on alike.

“You’re so warm and—and tight and—fuck – I don’t think I can last, cyar’ika—”

“That’s okay. You’re doing so good.”

The praise gets to him—like, really gets to him. He loses himself in your scent and loses control of the rhythm, doing his best to thrust upwards and fuck you fast while you’re still riding him.

“That’s it—“ you barely breathe, feeling your climax fast approach for the second time. “That’s it, you’re so fucking good—right there, just like that—”

“I’m gonna come—fuck, fuck—”

“Din, please—”

The breathy enunciation of his name breaks him completely. In the spur of the moment, he yanks your hair and pulls you to his chest, burying himself to the hilt inside you. His breaths are harsher, his hands rigid around your torso and his cock softening inside after shooting his warm load.

You could stay like this forever if you could.

Neither says anything. You take your time to settle down and recover from the force of your orgasms, smiling down on him. You like the feeling of him inside of you so much, you dread the moment when he’ll pull out.

And then, you see him reach for his helmet as your heart settles in your throat, waiting, nearly giving out on you. He lifts it up in the slightest, revealing his jaw and, much to your shock, his mouth. You notice a hint of stubble and full lips, and you swear your heart stops altogether. But the shock doesn’t stop there: he takes the two fingers that had been inside you to take them to his mouth and he licks them clean right under your blown-out pupils.

“I knew you’d taste fucking good,” he says.

You blush, breaths shallower yet again. This time around, you know he is staring back at you. You feel his gaze burning through the visor and right through you, and you’re almost tempted to get him hard again just so he can fuck you angrily. Almost.

Maybe someday he’ll get a taste right from the source.

2K notes · View notes

imaginespazzi · 4 months

Text

You Weren't Mine To Lose

They think they're so good at pretending when all they're really good at is pining.

(In which a masochistic writer puts her beloved ship through hell until giving them their much deserved happy ending)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining and a teensy bit of Fluff

Words: 8.2K (idk how this happened but oops? 🙈)

TW: Implied sexual content, mentions of panic attacks, small mention of blood, alcohol, and lots of swearing

“I think that maybe we should end this.”

Azzi Fudd had been on the receiving end of plenty of harsh sentences. And she’d been certain that there wasn’t a sentence left on this planet that could hurt her more than the one the doctor had used to tell her about her torn acl. Until now, until Paige Bueckers, eyes drifting everywhere but towards the girl in front of her, had said those eight words.

“I just,” Paige pauses, rubbing her face, “I think I need something else.”

The words hit Azzi like acid rain, burning into her skin and infiltrating something she can’t quite explain in words. This wasn’t what she’d planned when she’d come searching for her best friend. No, she’d had an entirely different conversation in mind. She swallows the I love you, let’s be more, that had been on the tip of her tongue and chases it down with the carefully constructed speech of wanting forever and happily every after she’d written in her mind. The voice in her head shouts I fucking told you so, she was never yours and Azzi wants to scream.

But what comes out is a quiet, feeble, “okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“Okay,” Azzi repeats, clearing her throat, trying to make her voice sound cavalier, “we said no strings and that means you can end it whenever you want. You don’t owe me any explanation and I won’t ask anything.”

“Right. No strings.”

It had been Azzi’s idea really, her stupid dumb self-preservationist idea that had led her to this moment. They’d been drunk the first time it had happened but she remembers it clearly.

Remembers the way an inebriated Paige had clung to her, eyes shining with lust.

Remembers the way Paige had whispered her name, desire clinging to each syllable.

Remembers the shivers that had crept up her spine as Paige’s hands had gone on a journey starting at her shoulders, and then down her arms, before finally rubbing circles around her waist.

Remembers the moment she decided fuck it.

But most of all she remembers the morning after, remembers the questions written all over Paige’s face, remembers making another decision. Just best friends who occasionally fuck, no strings, just fun. She’d been stupid to think that if she ignored them, the strings just wouldn’t exist. That if she pretended it was just sex, that she wasn’t so completely in love with her best friend, she would get over it. Newsflash: she hadn’t gotten over it.

“Well that’s that then,” Azzi says with a brightness she doesn’t feel, as she heads towards the door, desperate to get away, “I forgot Carol needed help with something so.”

“Azzi.”

She hates the hope that rises in her at the sound of her name. Tell me to stay. Tell me you didn’t mean it. Tell me you love me too.

“We’re still us right?” Paige asks quietly, her voice filled with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

“Of course Paige,” Azzi says, her back still turned towards Paige, knowing if she turns, if she lets Paige see her face, her best friend will see her words for the lies they are, “we’ll always be us.”

***

Azzi doesn’t know how she manages to get to Caroline’s room without falling to pieces. Her legs feel like they’re a second away from giving out and her arms shake uncontrollably. The dull beat of stress headache pounds in her skull.

“Ah Mrs. Bueckers,” Caroline smiles jubilantly as Azzi lets herself in, “did you guys finally figure it out?”

It takes her a second to catch her breath and to understand the meaning of Mrs. Bueckers. And then, Azzi breaks. Laughter erupts from her body and suddenly she’s cackling like a woman possessed. It sounds like shattering glass to her own ears and this is it, she thinks, I’ve officially reached peak madness. But she can’t stop, her body doubling over as she clutches at her stomach, tears beginning to leak from her eyes.

Caroline’s eyes widen, her smile slowly slipping off as the realisation that something has gone very wrong settles in.

“Azzi, fuck, what happened,” she asks, unsure of wether to approach the distressed girl, who, instead of answering, starts laughing harder, “shit, should I get Paige.”

Something shift’s at the mention of Paige’s name. The laughter dies away and instead, an unsettling panic takes birth in Azzi’s stomach at the idea of Paige seeing her like this.

“No,” she chokes out frantically, “don’t get Paige.”

Caroline’s concern grows at that. It had become a rule of sorts, if one of Paige or Azzi seemed to be going through it, then the best thing to do was to go find the other. They knew each other’s wants and needs better than anyone else could ever hope to. And what they wanted, was usually the other to hold them through the pain. So this, Azzi not asking for Paige, Azzi actively denying her need for Paige, this was bad, very bad.

“What happened Az?”

“She ended it,” the words leave Azzi’s mouth in tandem with the air leaving her lungs, “oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. She ended it. Fuck. She wants something else, something more and that’s not– I’m not– oh my god.”

“Az-”

“I knew this was a bad idea but- oh my god. She ended it,” tears wrack through her body as reality crashes and burns around Azzi, “I was so stupid, so, so stupid. I told you this would happen Caroline. I told you she didn’t feel the same. Oh my god, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.”

“Azzi,” Caroline grabs at the brown-skinned girl, spotting the tell-tale signs of panic attack, “breathe with me Az, come on, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Azzi manages to get out, gasping for air, her body vibrating with sobs, “it’s not going to be okay because she doesn’t love me. She doesn’t love me and I don’t know how to live with that because all I know is how to love her.”

Azzi feels the energy leave her body as she goes limp in Caroline’s arms, letting the taller girl anchor her. She’s not ready yet, not ready for tomorrow when she’ll inevitably have to play pretend. She’ll have to stand in the same room as her best friend and put on a smile and pretend that she wouldn’t rather be anywhere but there. She’ll have to bicker and tease and laugh with the girl who broke her heart and pretend that she’d never given her the power to break it in the first place. And Azzi would do it all, because that’s what she’d promised Paige. She’d looked in the blonde girl’s eyes at the age of fifteen and swore to her that no matter what happened, the two of them would always be them. They would always be okay. And Azzi was going to do everything in her power to keep that promise

***

The first few days are fine and Azzi almost deludes herself into believing that she's okay. They fall into their old rhythm of being just best friends almost seamlessly, at least they do when they’re with their teammates. She’s not ready to confront the fact that they haven’t been by themselves, just the two of them, since that night. And if Paige notices the way Azzi avoids being alone with her, she keeps it to herself.

The same way they didn’t tell anyone they were more, they don’t tell anyone they’re less. They don’t need to; the team just knows. Even the coaches, who knew but never said a word, can tell something’s off. It’s in the little hesitations before the smiles, the moments of pause before saying something. But most of all it’s in the way Paige and Azzi don’t touch at all anymore. There’s no more Paige making it a mission to find ways to let her hands linger just a little longer on Azzi’s body when she’s in defending her, no more not-so-subtle brushes and linking pinkies as they walk past each other in the hallways, no more “just another one” pecks in the training rooms as everyone else waits for them.

Nothing changes on the court. Paige passes the ball, a pass only she could see, and Azzi shoots it, a shot only she could get off. They play in tandem, their backcourt chemistry still perfect. But the slap of their hands after the ball goes through the hoop, is half-hearted and formal, like teammates. Less. So, maybe Azzi’s wrong. Maybe they haven’t really fallen back into their old patterns and maybe everybody knows it. But in the bright lights of the gym, as she and Paige argue over a defensive play, and the game of basketball keeps them tethered to each other, she thinks that this will have to be enough.

***

And then, things go from okay to very much not okay. It’s after practice and they’ve chosen Paige’s apartment as their relaxation spot, except Paige isn’t there. She’d snuck away after practice and Azzi had pretended, it’s all she seems to do these days, not to notice. She’s not used to not knowing where Paige is but she’d quenched the overwhelming need to ask the blonde girl where she was going while completely ignoring the part of her that wanted to ask if she could come along.

“And that’s how your brain eats itself,” Amari finishes a long winded explanation with a triumphant smile. There’s dead silence as the rest of the team looks at each other before they all burst into laughter.

“How the hell do you even know that?” Aaliyah manages to get out through peals of laughter.

“Y’all don’t google?” Amari asks incredulously, and the way her face scrunches up causes a brand new wave of giggles to flood the room.

“We google,” Azzi says and she hasn’t smiled like this in days, “we just don’t google things like that.”

Amari lets out an indignant squawk at that and Azzi feels a sense of calm that she hasn’t in a while. It lasts about a minute until two voices, one unfamiliar, one too familiar, begin to invade the room. Paige stumbles in a second later and fuck. Azzi’s breath catches in her throat as she desperately tries to look away from where Paige’s hand is firmly intertwined with someone else’s. It’s a mistake because her eyes land on Paige's face instead and that might be worse. She’s met with a glowing smile and bright eyes, none of which are directed towards Azzi. Instead, all of Paige’s happiness is for another girl.

“Layla,” she hears Aubrey say and oh. Because Azzi knows exactly who Layla is, or at least who she was. There had been a freshman Paige that Azzi had never really known beyond the phone calls and facetimes with her Paige. But she’d known that Paige had gotten around and she’d heard of Layla. They told each other everything and hookups fell right into the scheme of things. Layla had been Paige’s go-to on nights she’d been too tired to go looking for someone else. She’d been such a constant, that she’d slowly become a friend. Things had changed gradually from the moment Azzi stepped on campus. Even before they’d brought sex into it, all of Paige’s time had been Azzi’s, well, until now.

“Hey guys,” Layla smiles and is greeted back with a chorus of not so enthusiastic “hello’s”

“Lay, let’s go,” Paige whines impatiently.

“Give me a second Bueckers, I’m trying to be polite,” Layla rolls her eyes but Azzi doesn’t miss the fondness in them and everything burns again.

“Be polite later,” Paige tugs on Layla’s hand. In turn, Layla gives the team a slightly apologetic smile before letting the blonde girl pull her away. The bang of Paige’s door closing behind the two of them reverberates around the pin drop silence of the living room, that had been filled with laughter only mere seconds ago.

Azzi finds herself suffocating under the sympathetic glances her teammates send her way. She digs her fingernails deep into the palm of her hand, forming dents she knows will bleed. If it hurts, she doesn’t feel it over the reckless thumping in her chest. One, two, three, breathe, she counts to herself, refusing to break down in front of her teammates.

“It’s called phagocytosis,” Amari says after a second, trying to fill the silence, “and I mean it’s not really the brain eating itself but it feels like it.”

“So you just technically lied then.”

“I did no such thing. It was a slight exaggeration maybe.”

“Phagocytosis sounds like a really weird disease.”

“Yeah, maybe Amari has it.”

The team dissolves back into giggles, not quite as rambunctious as before but it’s enough. Enough for them to be distracted. Enough for Azzi to escape. Not enough for Caroline to not notice but Azzi knows her friend will give her a moment. She takes the stairs almost three at a time, flinging the door to her apartment and then to her room. The force of it creates a circle of wind around her and for a second, to her dizzy brain, it feels like Azzi’s floating. She doesn’t bother with the lights, flinging herself onto her bed. Pressing her hands to her forehead, she desperately tries to block the constant stream of thoughts in her head about Paige and Layla. It doesn’t help. And in the familiar comfort of her bedroom, Azzi curls into herself, and lets herself fall apart.

***

The ball passes right through Azzi’s hand and rolls out of bounds. Azzi curses to herself as she hears Coach yell her name. It’s almost the end of practice, and she can hear the disappointment in his voice as he subs her out of their scrimmage. She’d been distracted the whole time, a step too slow on both sides of the ball. It was a novel thing. Azzi had bad games sometimes but she rarely had bad practices. As she walks off to the side, she can feel Paige’s eyes glaring at her. It had been her assist after all that Azzi hadn’t converted. She shrinks into herself, disappointment and shame colliding into one, because they’d done such a good job at not letting their personal havoc impact their game. And she’d blown it.

“What the hell was that,” true to what she’d expected, Paige turns on her the minute they enter the locker room after practice. They’ve barely spoken in the last couple of days and Azzi closes her eyes, letting herself revel just for a second in the feeling of having Paige so close.

“It was an accident,” she replies, turning her body so she’s face to face with her best friend.

Paige scoffs, “which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Which one was the accident? That perfect pass you just let go to waste? Was it that wide open three you missed? Or the blind drive to the basket into three defenders for no reason? Oh wait, maybe it was when you completely lost yourself on defence?” Paige rants, anger coating every word. It’s not new for Paige to hold Azzi accountable and god, maybe Azzi’s even missed it a little bit but she can’t help feeling annoyed that this this is what had triggered the old Paige.

“I had a bad day. It happens,” Azzi’s voice is colder than she means for it to come out but all the emotions she’s been suppressing are bubbling at the top of her throat.

“Well it can’t happen. You do that in a game and we’re fucked,” Paige retorts. The rest of the team continues to do what they’ve been doing, occasionally glancing at the two arguing girls. It’s another of those unspoken rules, don’t interfere when Paige and Azzi are fighting.

“I didn’t do it in a game.”

“But you could. And if you keep practising like that you’re going to end up embarrassing yourself in a game.”

“Again, it was one bad day Paige, I’ll keep it in mind and I’ll be better tomorrow,” frustration seeps into her tone and Azzi hopes that her words are enough for Paige.

“You better because that can’t happen again Azzi,” Paige says.

“I just said it wouldn’t,” Azzi’s voice rises, throwing her hands up in irritation.

“Don’t yell at me, I’m-”

“Paige?” a new voice cuts in and both girls reluctantly look away from each other to see Layla, “hey, you okay? You wanna get out of here.”

“I-” Paige lets out a breath, looking back and forth between Azzi and Layla. And Azzi waits, waits for Paige to tell the new girl not to get in between Paige and Azzi, like she always had when anyone else had tried to step into their fights. She waits for Paige to tell Laya that she’s fine, and that she and Azzi just need to talk it out. She waits, and it never comes.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” the blonde girl says instead, giving Layla a small smile. She looks over at Azzi, something unreadable in her eyes, before grabbing her stuff and walking out.

“Shit,” Caroline whispers under her breath, a sentiment clearly echoed in the rest of the team’s faces. Paige and Azzi didn’t leave arguments unfinished. They'd been in uncharted waters with the two girls for a while now, and this feels like yet another turning point.

Anger and frustration course through Azzi’s veins. She just left her brain sneers at her. The hurt and pain fade to the back of her mind, as Azzi lets these new emotions settle all over her. She’s cried more in the last couple of weeks than she ever has in her life and she realises slowly, letting this new volatility swarm her, that she has no more tears left to give. She left. And then a new voice enters her brain, and you let her go.

***

A knock on the door shakes Azzi away from her thoughts. The book on her lap that she’d been pretending to read, falls unmajestically to the floor. Through bleary eyes, she sees the 10 o’clock on her watch and confusion settles into her. She’d been clear before leaving the locker room that she wanted to be alone tonight and while her teammates had protested a little, they’d eventually agreed to give her space, although Caroline had been adamant on coming to wish her a good night. It was far too early for that. She sighs, ready to huff at whichever of her teammates had ignored her pleas. Instead she’s met with the sight of a sheepish looking Paige.

“Hey,” the blonde girl smiles and it’s small and slightly cautious but it’s so genuine.

“Hi,” Azzi says softly.

“I think I owe you a little bit of an apology,” Paige says.

Azzi’s eyebrows furrow at that, “since when do you apologise for holding me accountable?”

“I- well,” Paige stutters, “Layla said I should.”

“That’s what Layla says is it?” Azzi can’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. They’d never apologised for critiquing each other’s games or practise before and suddenly Layla had said Paige should and Paige had listened. Azzi hates everything about that.

“Is me apologizing a bad thing? What’s with the attitude?”

“No,” Azzi sighs, not having the mental stamina to deal with right now, “I’m just tired. I appreciate the apology and I’m sorry too.”

It sounds so formal to her own ears, like two acquaintances writing emails to each other. As they stand face to face, separated by mere inches, Azzi realises the depth of the chiasm between them. And she doesn’t know if she has the strength to build a bridge to go over it.

“Do you want to watch a movie,” Paige asks finally, her voice tinged with hope.

“I don’t know Paige. I’m tired and-”

“Please,” there’s desperation in Paige's voice now, “we haven’t done anything just you and me in a while and,” she stops, her eyes wet as they come up to meet Azzi’s, “I miss you.”

I miss you too, Azzi wants to stay. She wants to throw herself at Paige and wrap herself in the comfort of her arms. She wants to massage away the stress lines on her forehead and kiss away the tears threatening to fall from her blue eyes. Instead, Azzi simply manages to nod and steps away so Paige can come in. She’s rewarded with a smile so bright, it makes her heart ache.

As Paige enters the room, Azzi’s reminded of the last time the two of them had been there together and she can’t help the faint blush that rises up her neck into her cheeks. That night had been different, Paige had been softer, slower. She’d taken her time with every touch, every kiss; her every move had been sinfully deliberate. Through all of it, she’d kept her eyes locked with Azzi’s, making sure she could see how desperately Paige needed her in that moment. And Azzi, hands fisting sheets, had let her take whatever she wanted. She wonders if Paige knew that would be their last time, if she’d already decided to end things. I’d have held on longer if I knew.

Paige’s eyes linger on the bed for a second, before she decides to sit on the couch and Azzi follows her lead. They both curl up as close to the arm rests on their side as they can, leaving an unfathomably large amount of space between themselves for two basketball players who had been attached at the hip since they were fifteen. The awkwardness is palpable as Azzi picks a random comedy movie, the two of them making a subconscious decision to not revert to their normal routine of arguing about what to watch.

It takes a quarter or so of the movie before they find some semblance of normalcy. Paige finally lets out a laugh, after having reined it in during previous funny scenes and it sets Azzi off. And then they’re both giggling messes, feeding off of each other’s infectious laughter. The tension eases and they both unconsciously let their bodies uncurl, letting their legs tangle with each other. It comes so naturally, they don’t even really notice that they’re touching for the first time in weeks. They’re too busy laughing, and when they’re not, there’s a comfortable silence and it’s just, it’s them. Azzi doesn’t know when she falls asleep, she just knows it’s the best sleep she’s had in a while.

***

Azzi stirs awake to cold hands caressing her face, Paige’s touch ever so familiar. She keeps her eyes closed, scared it’s a dream. She’s had a lot of those lately.

“I wish you felt the same,” Paige whispers, pressing her lips to Azzi’s forehead and Azzi swears she feels a teardrop fall on her face. But before she can react, before she can reach out for the figure she can feel hovering above her, she feels it retreat away from her.

When she finally opens her eyes, she’s all alone.

***

Azzi’s on edge. The team had chosen a bar in a random town in Connecticut tonight, instead of going to Ted’s as usual. It was meant to be a change of scenery and they were unlikely to be as recognized in such a random area. In theory, it sounded like a good idea, but the combination of a brand new place with people she’d never seen in her life, made Azzi far more tense than she had thought it would. On top of that, she hadn’t wanted to go out tonight in the first place. It had been two days since Paige had left her cryptically, and with the way the blond was vehemently avoiding her, Azzi was partially convinced, maybe she had dreamt the whole thing. The exhaustion of it all had desperately made her want to simply lie in bed and do nothing for hours. But if she’d stayed, one of her teammates would stay behind for her and if there was one thing Azzi didn’t want, it was to be an inconvenience.

And then there was the Layla of it all. Because apparently Paige didn’t go anywhere without Layla anymore. Remember when it was you, Azzi’s brain reminds her scathingly. From where she sits at a table with the rest of the team, she has a torturously close view of the two of them dancing together. It’s nothing scandalous, in fact to anybody else it’s probably the definition of friendly, but Azzi’s head is clouded with jealousy, and the three shots of vodka she’d already downed to ignore it.

“I think I need another round of shots,” she announces, noticing Paige and Layla start to make their way back to the table, “one of you come with me.”

“Is that a good idea?” Caroline asks tensely.

“Of course it is. Shots are good. Shots are fun,” Azzi wraps an arm around Caroline’s shoulder, her words coming out slightly slurred, “come with me pretty please.”

“Come where?” Paige’s voice interrupts.

“Nowhere you need to be,” Azzi retorts harshly and a flicker of hurt passes across Paige’s face. Azzi almost apologises, hating seeing Paige sad, but then her eyes focus in on where Layla’s hand is carefully placed on Paige’s bicep, and the sorry dies on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she roughly grabs Caroline and pulls her to the bar. She doesn’t get drunk often, hadn’t planned on doing it tonight but she’s so tired of feeling.

“Maybe we should cut you off,” Caroline says softly and Azzi pouts, “c’mon Azzi drinking so you don’t have to deal with your feelings is never a good idea you know that. You know I’m right.”

“I’m really tired of doing what’s right,” Azzi says despondently, waving the bartender over, “a shot of tequila please.”

Caroline sighs but seems to think better of trying again, shaking her head no when the bartender asks if she wants a drink of her own. She watches silently as Azzi downs the shot, concern and sympathy for her friend keeping her from snatching the shot away from Azzi.

“On me,” a deep voice echoes in Azzi’s ear as she pulls out her card to pay for the shot. She loses balance trying to turn around, but a pair of unfamiliar hands grab at her waist to keep her steady. Through the fuzziness in her brain, Azzi finds herself staring into green eyes; green eyes that belong to a pretty girl with blond hair and strong arms. And she’s tall, a voice in her brain says appreciatively. She looks just like Paige, well except the eyes, another less-amused voice points out. But she’s not Paige is she, the other voice reminds her snarkily.

“Oh you don’t have to do that,” Azzi hears Caroline say from behind, her voice weirdly pitched.

“I want to,” the pretty girl says, eyes never leaving Azzi, as she hands her card over to the bartender “I’m Stephanie.”

“Azzi.”

“And is the girl behind you, your girlfriend Azzi?” Stephanie asks, but her tone suggests she already knows.

“Who? Caroline. Oh absolutely not. Just a friend.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I don’t dance with pretty girls with girlfriends,” Stephanie says, emphasising the word pretty.

“We’re not dancing,” Azzi replies dumbly.

“Well let’s fix that,” Stephanie whispers and oh, she’s flirting, Azzi realises. It’s not that Azzi’s never had anyone hit on her. No, there’d been plenty of men but there hadn’t been a girl before, well never a girl that wasn’t Paige, “dance with me Azzi.”

Behind Azzi, Caroline chokes on air.

“Azzi,” she hisses, her eyes flickering over to where Paige is sitting, back turned to the bar. The point guard hasn’t seen what’s happening yet but Caroline knows the moment she catches wind of it, things would go up in quite literal flames.

Azzi stares up at Stephanie’s expectant eyes, before letting her gaze move to Paige, Paige who’s engrossed in a conversation with Layla, who’s laughing at something Layla said. She turns back to Stephanie, a shy smile playing on her lips.

“I’d love to dance,” she says softly, ignoring the groan Caroline lets out behind her and letting Stephanie pull her to the dance floor. Two can play the move on game.

Dancing with Stephanie is different. Her hands feel different against Azzi’s skin, a little too rough and yet still too soft. Her smile is different, sexy and sultry but missing an innocent frivolity that Azzi had become used to. But most of all it’s the eyes. The mysterious green, a sharp contrast from the calm, familiar blue. She pushes the comparisons to the back of her mind, determined to enjoy the way Stephanie twirls her around then pulls her in. And then they’re suddenly so close, noses almost touching. Azzi knows what’s going to happen and she can’t shake the feeling that it’s not right.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Stephanie whispers and the voices in Azzi’s head battle, her heart beating to a chorus of she’s not Paige. But the final nail in the coffin is an image of Paige and Layla that her brain conjures up and in an envious drunken haze, Azzi makes another of her not so great decisions. She nods her head yes.

It takes a second of Stephanie’s lips pressing against hers for Azzi to know it’s all wrong. As she starts pulling away, the sound of shattering glass wreaks havoc in ears. Eyes blinking rapidly, she follows the path of familiar voices shouting to locate the noise. Paige stands, a little distance away from the dance floor, face fuming red. A litany of broken glass shards surround her feet and a gush of red flows from the patch of skin where her left thumb meets her left palm.

“Paige, fuck,” concerns flows through Azzi but before she can make her way to the bleeding girl, Stephanie pulls her back in.

“Meet me outside in a bit yeah,” she says with a devilish smirk. She doesn’t give Azzi a chance to respond, before disappearing out of sight. Azzi blinks dumbfoundedly at the spot where the girl had previously been, the alcohol catching up to her brain.

“Paige oh my god you’re bleeding,” Nika’s voice shakes Azzi out of her trance, “can someone get a band-aid please.”

The crowd parts seamlessly as Azzi rushes towards her best friend, grabbing for her injured left hand.

“What the hell Paige?” she’s incredibly sober now, as she inspects Paige’s hand before it’s yanked out of her grip.

“I should ask you that. What. The. Hell. Azzi?” fury laces every word as Paige stares her down.

“I– what?” Azzi asks quizzically, still focused on trying to grab Paige’s hand again but the blonde girl is determined, despite wincing, to keep it out of her reach.

“Tell me, was she a good kisser?” Paige asks, eyes narrowing dangerously, “did you enjoy the kiss?”

“That’s–I–it–that’s not important,” Azzi stutters, “you’re bleeding Paige.”

“And I’ll keep bleeding till you answer the damn question,” the blonde girl says, unveiling a side of herself Azzi's never seen, “so tell me Azzi, was it a good kiss?”

“Paige,” Caroline says firmly, noticing the crowds that are building up around them, “I don’t think now’s the time.”

“No, I think it’s the perfect time actually. If she can kiss a stranger now, she can answer a question about this kiss now too,” Paige sneers.

“You’re making a scene,” Azzi whispers.

“I’m making a scene?” the laugh Paige lets out is borderline manic, “I’m making a scene? You’re the one borderline dry-humping a stranger in the middle of a random bar and I’m making a scene?”

“Excuse me?” Azzi recoils.

“Just telling the truth. Where’d she go then? Is she waiting for you outside?” when Azzi doesn’t reply, Paige find her answer in the silence and let’s out another laugh, “she is, isn’t she? Well then what the fuck are you doing here Azzi?”

“Paige,” Azzi says softly, eyes brimming with tears now, “you’re bleeding. Let me help you.”

“No, I don’t need your help Azzi.”

“Paige,” she tries again.

“No Azzi. I don’t need you. Go get fucking laid,” the words snap something in Azzi that has been on the edge of breaking since Paige had told her she wanted something else. She steps back from the blonde girl, blood boiling.

“You know what Paige,” her voice is far stronger than she feels, “maybe I fucking will.”

***

“Fuck,” Paige curses, fisting her palms and then hissing when her left hand aches. Regret pulsates through her head. She hadn’t meant it, any of it but especially not the last part. The last thing she wanted was Azzi to go after that girl.

Watching Azzi kiss someone else had been enough torture, the idea of her doing anything more would be the end of Paige’s sanity. It was ingrained in her brain now. She’d been laughing with Layla, hands encased around a beer bottle and then her teammates had gone oddly quiet, their eyes focused on something behind her. Confused, Paige had turned and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Standing in the middle of the dance floor was her Azzi, in somebody else’s arms. Layla, the saviour she’d been the last couple days, had immediately tried to distract her but Paige’s gaze was transfixed on Azzi. Her best friend twirled on the dance floor and a dagger twisted in Paige’s heart. And then, time seemed to slow down as the other girl brough Azzi impossibly close to her. Don’t you fucking dare Paige had thought, squeezing the glass bottle like a stress toy. On the dance floor, someone else, someone who wasn’t Paige, pressed their lips to Azzi’s and on the other side, Paige’s hands crushed the glass bottle into a thousand pieces.

When Azzi looked over, her lipstick slightly smudged, her eyes glassy, Paige had wanted to die. And when the girl had the audacity to pull Azzi back into her, Paige had wanted to commit murder. Misery and fury raged a battle in her head and when Azzi had rushed over, the gentle touch of her hand had been too much. And then Paige had taken it too far.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she repeats, ignoring her teammates as she fights through the crowd to chase after Azzi. Some people move easily, others glare and some flat out yell at her but Paige doesn’t care; she focuses solely on getting to the girl she’d just let go.

“Azzi?” she calls out, stepping out of the bar into the cold breeze, “please, please, please don’t go. Azzi?”

She scans the parking lot for the brunette, frantically pacing around the entrance but there’s no sign of Azzi. Paige hasn’t cried since the night she’d ended it, throwing herself in work and basketball and Layla but as the realisation that Azzi left, that maybe it’s too late, hits her, the tears she’d so carefully kept at bay, traipse down her cheeks like a never ending waterfall.

***

The whole team is silent in the living room as Nika bandages Paige’s left hand. The tension in the air is palpable as Amari paces the room, the sounds of her feet moving matching the rhythm of Aubrey nervously snacking on a packet of chips.

“Are you going to explain yourself,” Aaliyah breaks through the quiet, her question directed at Paige.

“It was an accident,” Paige doesn’t mean to get defensive. She’s aware she fucked up tonight but there’s too much going on and her head is still stuck at Azzi. Azzi, who had left with a random girl and only texted Caroline the words I’m fine after Caroline had blown up her phone with concerned texts. Paige’s I’m sorry, hadn’t gotten any reply.

“An accident,” Aaliayh says slowly, raising an eyebrow, “that’s what you’re going with?”

“I didn’t purposely break a glass bottle and fuck up my thumb Aaliyah.”

“Coach is going to kill you,” Aubrey says nervously, “this is not good Paige.”

“Did I miss the gang up on Paige memo? Because why am I the one being yelled at right now?”

“Who’s yelling?” Amari supplies unhelpfully.

“That’s not the point,” Paige glares at the taller girl who puts her hands up in defeat, “Why am I the one getting this responsibility lecture? I’m not the one who just made out with a random stranger in a bar and then just fucking left with them. We don’t even know where the hell she is.”

She knows she sounds bitter but the hurt of the night still stings and she doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with her teammates being mad at her rightnow. Tomorrow, she’d apologise and own up but she’s feeling reckless tonight. Her teammates are silent and Paige thinks, maybe they’re going to drop it too. And then Caroline speaks, her voice steely in a way that doesn’t match her normally soft sweet self.

“And what’s wrong with that?” she meets Paige’s eyes with an unexpected fierceness, “she’s single. Stephanie as far as I know is single. Azzi’s a grown adult who can hook up with whoever the hell she feels like. It’s not just something you can do.”

“That’s not the point,” Paige growls, “”you guys always know where I-”

“I know exactly where Azzi is actually,” Caroline rebuts , “so what exactly is the problem here?”

“She– I– It’s,” Paige bumbles on, not having an actual answer.

“You’re the one who ended it,” Caroline says, her voice accusatory, and the whole room seems to hold their breath at that, “you ended it and you don’t get to question what she does now. It’s over Paige and that was your decision.”

Paige gapes at Caroline, “how can you, of all people, say that to me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the only one who knows Carol,” Paige says slowly and it’s Carol’s turn to be confused now. The rest of the team shoots each other questioning glances, things suddenly seeming even more puzzling than before.

“I heard you that night,” the blonde girl says, her voice breaking a little, “I heard you and Azzi.”

“Paige,” Caroline says, always quick to catch things, “what exactly did you hear?”

“I heard enough,” Paige says, closing her eyes because she can still hear that conversation in her head, “I heard her telling you she was going to end it, that she was tired of our arrangement. That she wanted– she needed– something else.”

“Oh Paige,” Nika says softly, putting an arm around Paige’s shoulders and her twin practically melts into the comforting touch.

“But I know her. She’s not good at that stuff. Always such a people pleaser. It was gonna be too hard for her to say it to me, so I said it for her. I broke my own heart, so she didn’t have to.”

A heavy silence follows Paige’s words as the blonde girl lets the tears fall for the second time that night. Her teammates are lost for words, the gravity of the situation, of Paige’s feelings, too much for all of them. A myriad of emotions flitter across Caroline’s face before finally settling on a saddened sympathy.

“Paige,” she says softly, coming to sit in front of the sobbing point guard, “you didn’t hear the whole conversation. God you’re such an idiot, the both of you are honestly.”

“Talk about kicking me when I’m down Carol,” Paige jokes.

“That’s not– Paige I can’t tell you the whole conversation because you deserve to hear it from her and she deserves the chance to say it to you. But Paige, Azzi wasn’t going to end it because she wanted less, she was going to end it because she wanted more. From you, for both of you,” Caroline says, hoping against hope that Paige understands what she means.

The realisation hits Paige in waves. She wants more. The words echo through her head and carve out a place in her heart. She wants more. Azzi had wanted more and Paige had wanted more and oh, they’d been so fucking stupid.

“I pushed her too far though,” Paige says as another realisation, the fact that Azzi isn’t here hits her, “she’s gone. Fuck, I need to be alone.”

“No Paige wai-” Caroline begins but Paige is gone out the door before she can tell the girl where Azzi is. She considers going after Paige but decides that maybe she’s revealed enough today. Maybe they could figure out the rest of it by themselves.

***

She’d meant to go to her own apartment, to her own room but her feet had a mind of their own, bringing her to Azzi’s instead. It was muscle memory really, her finding Azzi when she needed to be held. Except, there would be no Azzi to hold her tonight. Still, being in her room, where it smelt like her, Paige could pretend. She’d gotten pretty good at that.

The door opens smoothly as Paige slides into the room. And she almost gasps.

In the dim light of the night lamp, Azzi lies curled up in bed. She’s cuddling a pillow to her chest, her blanket pulled up to her neck with one hand slightly out of it. And she’s wearing one of Paige’s shirts,

She’s the most beautiful girl Paige has ever seen.

Carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible, Paige creeps closer to the sleeping girls. She can vaguely make out the tear tracks running down Azzi’s face and the guilt of it runs through Paige. A part of her thinks, maybe she should leave, wait til tomorrow. But she can’t. Instead she grabs one of Azzi’s shirts that lay scattered on the bean bag chair placed at the end of the bed. Quietly, she changes into it, breathing in the scent of all things Azzi.

“Paige.” Azzi whispers groggily as Paige slips underneath the covers, lying down facing the sleeping girl.

“Yeah,” Paige replies softly, caressing Azzi’s cheeks, “it’s me.”

“It’s not,” Azzi says wistfully, eyes still closed, as she wraps an arm around Paige’s torso, “it’s just me dreaming again.”

“You dream about me?” Paige asks, hating the hurt she can hear in Azzi’s voice.

“Mmm,” comes Azzi’s answer as she snuggles further into Paige, “all the time. I’ll take you however I can get you Paige. Even if it's a dream. Even if you’re not here in the morning.”

“I will be tomorrow. I promise,” Paige presses a kiss to the top of Azzi’s head and the darker skinned girl lets out a content sigh but Paige can tell she still thinks she’s dreaming, that she still thinks she’ll wake up alone tomorrow.

But Paige Bueckers doesn’t break promises. She’d be right there with Azzi tomorrow morning and if things went the way she wanted them to, then she’d be there for every morning after.

***

It’s the best sleep she’s gotten in weeks and Paige wakes up in a complete state of serenity. It doesn’t last long when she blindly feels around the bed for Azzi’s warm body, only to find the cool of empty sheets under her head instead. She jolts up frantically, mind going million miles an hour thinking up the worst possibilities. Her heartbeat begins to calm down as she finally finds the brunette curled up on the bean bag chair with her knees pulled to her chest.

“Hey,” Paige breathes out, unable to stop the smile that spreads across her face. Azzi doesn’t smile back

“What are you doing here Paige?” Azzi asks warily and Paige is instantly defensive.

“What are you doing here Azzi? Didn’t you say you were going to get laid?”

“And what if I did?”

“Well it must not have been very good if you came home that early and put on another girl’s shirt,” Paige says pointedly, amused by the pink that appears on Azzi’s cheeks. She knows the other girl’s lying, it’s just a matter of how long she’ll keep up the ruse.

“I grabbed whatever was closest.”

“Is that so?” Paige quirks an eyebrow, “I wouldn’t stand for it, letting the girl I’d just fucked wear someone else’s clothes. You know that.”

Azzi’s blush intensifies and she’s quick to change topics, “does your girlfriend know you snuck into another girl’s room last night?”

“I wasn’t aware I had a girlfriend,” Paige says, confused by the question.

“So what exactly is Layla then?”

“She’s a friend.”

“Yeah right,” Azzi scoffs, rolling her eyes. Paige stares at her best friend, wondering if she’s gone insane. Her and Layla? Even thinking about it felt a little insane. Sure, she’d slept with the girl a couple of times her freshmen year but even that had felt insanely platonic.

“Az,” she says softly when the realisation sinks in, “Layla is not my girlfriend. She’s– well, I guess she’s my escape? I just– I needed a friend who wasn’t also your friend and she was there and it was easy. You really thought she was my girlfriend?”

“What was I supposed to think Paige?” Azzi says miserably, voice rising with each word, “you said you needed something else and Layla’s something else so I put two and two together and apparently came up with five.”

“I didn’t–,” Paige takes in a deep breath, it was now or never, “I thought you were gonna break my heart.”

“What?”

Paige sighs at the incredulity in Azzi’s voice, “I overheard you telling Carol that you were gonna end it with me, that you needed something else.”

“Oh,” she can see the clogs in Azzi’s brain turning, remembering exactly which conversation Paige is talking about.

“Yeah. So I ended it before you could. I couldn’t let you– I didn’t want you to break my heart,” Paige says, averting Azzi’s eyes.

“So you broke mine instead?” Azzi whispers and Paige doesn’t have to see the girl to know there are tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t realise it was mine to break,” Paige shrugs brokenly, eyes finally looking at Azzi through wet eyelashes.

They stare at each other in silence, hearts beating erratically, both of them waiting to see who’ll make the first move. Finally, Azzi stands up, and for once second, the fear that she’s about to walk away, that it really was too late, fogs Paige’s mind. But she doesn’t and instead Paige watches mesmerised, as Azzi slowly climbs onto the bed and then onto Paige’s lap. She arranges her legs so she’s straddling Paige’s thighs and her arms fall naturally around Paige’s neck. Immediately, Paige’s hands move to grip Azzi’s waist. They stay there like that for a while, foreheads resting against each other, basking in the warmth of finally being so close.

“I haven’t been with anyone since you,” Azzi confesses finally and Paige lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, “I thought about it but then I was in her car and all I could think about was you. I think you might have ruined me for anyone else.”

“Good. Because this is it okay? You and me forever,” Paige juts out a pinky and Azzi immediately links it with her own.

“Forever,” Azzi whispers back and it’s not clear who surges forward first but then they’re kissing and it feels like a brand new adventure and coming home all at once. They melt into each other, gripping each other as close as possible, the overwhelming need to be touching everywhere taking over their senses.

“Azzi,” Paige pulls away and almost laughs at the way Azzi pouts, “I need you to say it.”

Azzi’s eyes twinkle with happiness, a spark only Paige can bring out in them. She leans in, the feel of her breath sending shivers of anticipation up Paige’s spine.

“Wanna play ball?” she whispers sensually. Paige lets out an irritated whine and Azzi bursts out laughing, hiding her face in the crook of Paige’s neck.

“Seriously,” Paige groans, pinching Azzi’s waist, but she’s unable to keep the amusement out of her own voice. She hasn’t seen Azzi this happy in so long and if Azzi’s happy, well then everything in Paige’s world is going right. The younger girl’s giggles slowly subside, as her face takes on a more serious expression.

“Paige Madison Bueckers,” she says, cupping Paige’s face, “you’re my best friend, my soulmate and I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life. And I’m about to be real cliché here so don’t laugh but baby, I want your face to be the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night. I want you at your best but even more at your worst. I want everything as long as it’s with you. Because I am so completely, and utterly and ridiculously in love with you.”

“When did you become such a poet Azzi Fudd,” Paige says, her smile widening when Azzi laughs again, “I’m so completely and utterly and ridiculously in love with you.”

Paige recaptures Azzi’s lips with her own, pulling her girl as close to her as she can. The kiss is sweet and a little salty from the happy tears running down both their faces. It’s innocent and lazy, and still sloppy and passionate. It’s everything.

“If you ever break up with me again, I’ll kill you,” Azzi says, only half joking.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Paige promises, “you’re stuck with me for life.”

***

A/N: Congratulations on making it to the end of that! I'm ngl, I love the concept but I don't think I wrote it out particularly well but I had fun writing it so hopefully y'all enjoyed reading it. I promise the next one will be more happy. But for now, I hope this was worth it <3.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #wcbb

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