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#leaving him with a broken heart (and mind) until he died
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James Potter hadn't always done reasonable things in life. He had made mistakes. He had hurt people. He wasn’t always nice. And he felt ashamed of it.
As a kid, James had everything he wanted. The coolest toys, the best parents he could ask for, money, a big house with a large garden and a pool, a dog to play with, delicious food to choose from and most importantly endless love. That's what made him a bit of an asshole.
It was James's need to make friends, to make kids his age like him that made him act like a selfish twat. He bragged without noticing how others might feel. He made jokes that sometimes could hurt people's feelings. He did pranks to others that sometimes got out of hand.
For James, these things weren't wrong. He found them innocent. Just to have fun. Just to be cool. James was just a kid who wanted to have friends, be liked and have as much fun as he could.
Then James grew up and things started changing around him. He started noticing that not every kid had the luck he had. For example, Sirius, his best friend, had money and everything he wanted but horrible parents. His other friend Peter lacked of confidence because his father disappeared the moment he was born. But yet, James made those two the same way he was. It was more about forgetting about their issues while pranking, breaking the rules and having fun than actually fixing anything.
There were three things that made James open his eyes.
The first one was Remus Lupin. When he arrived, James wasn't happy. He felt threatened by how close he was of Sirius. He got a bit jealous. So he was a bit cold, even mean with Remus. It was until he found out about his past life. Remus had been made fun of, pranked and bullied by other kids his entire life for being trans. And James wondered: "Haven't I done similar things to others?"
The second one was Lily Evans and the way she had called him an arrogant bully. The way she said it wasn't like the silly insults she repeated to him after he tried to flirt with her. This time she had yelled full of rage, leaving James speechless. It had been fair since he had tried to ask her out after her father had died (although he didn't know about it at the time). James understood that the girl he fancied really hated him.
The third and more important reason happened just now, the day before New Year's when James overheard a conversation between his parents he should have never heard.
"We should not tell James for now" his father was saying "You know him. He would act as if this is serious"
"But it is serious, Monty!" Hearing his mother cry had broken his heart "We are not going to pretend you are okay because you aren't."
"Is not that I am sick, Effie. My immune system is just a bit weaker"
"Weaker? Just with a tiny fever you can actually die, Fleamont. You can bloody die and leave me alone"
The way James knew it was something awful and serious was because Euphemia cried. She was sobbing into Fleamont's chest. And Euphemia wasn't a crier. She was always strong, hiding away her emotions. So what James felt in that moment was fear. It was more like panic. Like the one he used to feel when he was little and he was afraid of the dark. His hands shook. His heart raced. He felt his skin shiver in cold.
When James returned to his room, his mind was flooding with thoughts. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe his hearing was as bad as his sight. Maybe his parents had been exaggerating. This couldn't be right. Fleamont was the strongest man he knew. Sporty and healthy. A bloody rock if you asked him. This couldn't be right.
"So, did you ask them?" Sirius asked as soon as James crossed the door.
In James's mind that question didn't make sense. It felt wrong that Sirius looked as happy as he did after those news.
"Ha?" It was all that came out of his mouth.
"Marlene confirmed she is going to some club with her brothers" Sirius said as he texted "I thought you were asking your parents if we can go"
"Not to be rude or anything but this grown up party is boring" Peter added "Plus you like the McKinnons"
"He workships them more like. Especially Adam" Sirius added with a chuckle "Wait until you see Prongs following Adam like a lost puppy, Moony"
James wasn't even listening. For the first time he wished his friends weren't around. Or any adult that was downstairs. He wanted it to be the three of them. His parents and him. So they could discuss this. And Fleamont would tell him everything would be okay.
"Are you okay, James?" Remus asked with concern when James didn't answer.
The others noticed his expression because they stopped smiling and waited to hear the bad news. But James wasn't ready to tell them. It would make it true. He didn't even know what was going on.
"I don't... I don't think... we should... go...out" James had never spoken as slowly and low as now.
"Why not?" Peter asked "You were the one to say you were bored as an oyster"
"Shut up, Wormtail!" Sirius snapped "Did something happen, James?"
James looked at Sirius. His second in command. His best friend in the world. His brother. How could he tell Sirius?.
"Yeah!" he cleared his throat before his voice broke "I mean they said no... Fleamont and Euphemia... They want us to stay"
"What? Why?" Peter pouted.
Remus kept looking at him as if he knew everything.
James shrugged, grabbing a football from the floor.
"I'm going to kick it for a while..."
"Now? It is almost midnight" Remus reasoned. James just shrugged.
"Want us to come with you?" Sirius asked with his eyebrow raised.
"No! You stay here and finish those beers" James faked a smile to calm them down. Even if he wanted to die in the inside "I'll be right back"
"Be back before midnight!" Peter yelled as James climbed down the stairs two at the time.
James unleashed his frustration with the poor ball kicking as hard as he could, tossing it to the other side of the property and hitting it like a punch ball.
All he could think about was that his father was sick, probably dying and James was so terrible, he wouldn't make him proud. Fleamont's son was arrogant, a brag, a rebel who had been into trouble several times and probably a bully. What was there to be proud of?
"Only you would play football on New Year's in this cold night"
Fleamont had been James's role model since he could remember. He had promise to grow just like him. But he was horrible. He wasn’t the man his father was. Why wasn't James sick instead of him?
"You shouldn't be outside, Dad" James sniffed rolling the ball between his feet, eyes locked on it "It is freezing"
"Dad, is it now? Weren't you too cool to call me that? You've been calling me Fleamont or Old Man for a while now. It actually sounded weird to hear that, you little brat"
James's eyes were burning with tears at this point.
"Do I have privileges now that I am a bit sick?"
James's head turned as quickly as possible. Fleamont Potter was smiling under the moonlight. His glasses reflected the light. His hands were on his pockets. He was dressed elegantly for the party looking casual. But James noticed the bags under his eyes. Sucked cheeks. More wrinkles. Whiter hair. Skinner complexion. James saw Fleamont's illness reflected on him.
"I know you heard my conversation with your mother, James. I saw you through the door"
"Are you dying?" James was surprised how small his voice sounded.
Fleamont took a deep breath "No..."
"DON'T LIE TO ME! YOU'RE FUCKING DYING, I KNOW IT! TELL ME THE TRUTH, YOU COWARD! TELL ME THE BLOODY TRUTH"
James had spit and pushed his father in the process. That made him ashamed. Jokes aside, he had always respected his father. Now he felt terrible. So he started crying.
James felt his father's arms wrapping around him. And James hugged him back, clenching from him as if he would disappear any moment. James didn’t want to lose him. He loved him. He loved him so much. And he needed him.
"It's okay, my son. Sh sh sh. It's okay" Fleamont sighed as he stroked his son's hair gently "I'm not going anywhere"
When James calmed down, they sat on a bench and they talked about what was happening. They missed midnight and the celebration inside but James didn't care.
Fleamont explained that years ago the family's fabric used other chemicals for their products. Poisonous ones. That many workers ended up dying. This changed with time and The Potters discovered other chemical-free ingredients to continue producing. But Fleamont had visited the fabric back then plenty of times when he was younger. And the exposure to those chemicals had damaged his blood and immune system.
"So, you're okay?"
"Doctors said I need to have a healthier life" Fleamont explained "That knowing your mother, she will follow rigorously..." he snorted "But I am not precisely sick. I need to slow down a bit. Take care of myself. Try not to get sick. Because any kind of problem would be dreadful to my organism"
James nodded, now feeling better "If you don't follow the doctor's orders, I'll kill you myself, Old Man"
Which made Fleamont laugh.
"No Dad anymore?"
"You bloody scared me, Fleamont"
The man just responded with a smile and a soft pat on James's shoulder. Though James was still sad and very very scared.
"Do Granpa and Nonna know?"
Fleamont shook his head "Not yet"
"Maikee? The guys from the fabric?"
"Only your mother besides you and me"
"But you didn't want to tell me"
"Because you're just as exaggerated as your mother. Even worse"
"Watch it! Old Man" James pointed a finger at him.
Fleamont let out a soft giggle.
"Should I tell Sirius?" James twisted his mouth thinking about Sirius’s reaction.
"I think we will find the right time to tell him. The three of us. Okay?"
James nodded in response. He was still restless. He was still scared of his father being so vulnerable and fragile.
"Dad..." James said carefully which made Fleamont smile "Are you proud of me?"
Fleamont opened his mouth but James continued before him.
"I'm... I'm not a good person" James said "I've been kind of a twat with a lot of people. I've been mean. I've been selfish. And I haven't been the most obedient son... I've driven you and mum mental many times" James shook his head "I am awful. You don't deserve me"
"I am very proud of you, James" Fleamont answered with a soft smile. James was surprised that he sounded genuine.
"Didn't you hear..."
"Yeah" Fleamont nodded "I am not proud because you are perfect. Because you are not... I am proud because you are an amazing person and a good human being. You've might have made mistakes or hurt people. James, you are so young, you are a kid. We are all a bit awful at that age. But I see you are maturing... You are becoming an incredible man. Even more than me"
James expected some scolding. Some sort of disappointment from his father.
"But I..."
"Have you ever wanted to truly hurt someone?" Fleamont asked.
James shook his head.
"Then it had only been silly mistakes of a kid. From now on, James, be a man. Start doing things right. Silly pranks, jokes and mischiefs are fun. But there comes a time in one's life when he needs to take care of serious matters. And I reckon you are doing an amazing job"
"So you don't think I am a bad person?" James's eyes filled with tears.
Fleamont shook his head "Of course not. You have the best of your mother and me. And we are very proud of you"
James wrapped his arms around the old man as tears ran down his eyes. He was willing to change and ammend his mistakes. It was time to grow up. Yes, he was only sixteen. He was still young and he could still have fun. But he was going to be better. He was going to stop making fun of others. He was going to stop bragging. He was going to make Remus feel welcome no matter who he was. He was going to take care of Sirius and Pete. He was going to stop showing off and asking Evans out like an idiot. She deserved better probably. He was going to be a good person. And make his parents proud. New Year, new James.
"I love you, Dad" James said as he squeezed his father tightly.
"Love you too, my son"
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hypnos333 · 2 months
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Slowed to Anger
Alastor x reader
Synopsis: You loved the hotel and yet you risked your life for it
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“Omg! Alaster I can’t believe you’re doing this and it looks so nice, I can’t wait to decorate” You gushed looking everywhere around the hotel making him chuckle.
“I’m glad you find this Journey to find this exciting my dear, I wish I could say the same but i’m stuck on a leash” Alaster sigh still smiling but with a broken one. You wrap your arms around his neck forcing him to wrap his around your waist.
“We’ll break this deal so we can go back to living happily together” You said kissing his temple as he closed his eyes as your kisses. “We have been married for decades it’s nothing we can’t handle My love” You continued saying.
Little did you know this was gonna be very different from those decades.
A war broke out between heaven and hell and you were against Lute and keep in mind you weren’t the best in combat nor fighting but you did have powers and you were gonna try your best to survive for Alastor.
You are a doe it made you fast but you felt like a prey everywhere and every time.
You created multiple shadows to corner Lute making her struggle until she actually stabbed you making clueless before looking down at your heart.
“Oh fucking hell” You whispered until your eyes went wide realizing what’s happening. You held onto the sword before Lute pulled it out of you before this time stabbing you in the stomach making you instantly let the life leave from inside of you.
Lute was about to check your pulse until a shadow elopes you making you disappear within an instant.
“M-My dear?” He asked hesitantly in horror seeing you gone and dead. He quickly held you into his arms rocking back in forth trying to heal you he couldn’t because he was trapped.
“No, No No No No NO NONONONONO” He yells out his smile vanished as tears leaked down his face and onto your body.
“This place reeks of death, there's a chill in the air
And I barely escaped being killed by a hair
My wife risked her life just to see the hotel thrive
"Great Alastor, altruist, died for his friends while wife takes the fall"
Sorry to disappoint, that is not where this ends
I'm hungry for freedom like never before
The constraints of my deal surely have a backdoor
Once I figure out how to unclip my wings
Guess who will be pulling all the strings?” He sang before hiding your body somewhere safe to keep so when he gets your soul, you can come back home to him just like you wanted to do.
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klausysworld · 5 months
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I don’t know why but I really want something with Klaus breaking reads heart.
Maybe…. Reader and Cami have been kidnapped and Klaus has to choose who to save. He chooses Cami but before reader can be killed Elijah saves her.
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Left for dead
Living with the originals was hard enough. Between the betrayals and the wars just within the family was overwhelming let alone outsiders going out of their way to destroy each of them.
Being with Klaus was already difficult, between his mood swings and temper tantrum’s he wasn't an easy person to love and yet I did.
Even when I realised he was in love with someone else, even whilst knowing he was kissing someone else, I didn't leave him. I loved him with everything in me whether it was killing me or not.
I had offered my life for his, I took life for his and I ruined my own life for his. With Klaus came his family and I did everything I could to welcome them as my own. Even after I found out that his sister knew that he was seeing someone else.
Hope was treated the way I would treat my own daughter and I loved more than anyone else to walk the planet. Maybe that was why I stayed, for Hope. Or maybe that’s what I tell myself because how could I have been pathetic enough to stay for a an who only saw me as a warm body.
For some reason I had it in my head that perhaps he loved both me and Camille. Maybe he thought I wouldn't accept it and so he kept it a secret but surely after everything he should know that I would never try to change him or invalidate his feelings. It was stupid to be okay with him seeing Cami behind my back, I was blinded by something I had created in my mind.
I would smile when Cami was near and I tried to talk to Klaus but he labelled me paranoid and brushed it off. So I thought maybe he regretted it and he didn't want me to know because he wanted to stop. Maybe he did still love me.
This was the ultimate test really.
Both myself and Camille were beaten until black, blue and bloody. A loop of our cries and screams echoed through my mind and bounced against the walls of whatever dungeon we were seemingly chained within. I had no way of knowing how long we had been there but my body and soul felt such a sense of relief when Klaus's voice rang through the building. That feeling only lasted a few seconds before our captures taunting replayed in my head:
"Klaus will choose between you both, he will decide who lives or dies. He may think that he can have it all, have you both but I won't let him well. Whichever one he chooses, the guilt from the other will eat away at him, he won't be able to stay with the other. You will all end up broken and alone." he had whispered cruelly.
Her heart pounded in her throat as she watched Klaus approach them both, his hands coated in red as he forced the bars that separated us apart and went to step through only to let out a gasp and drop to his knees. The with who had tortured us for however long appeared from thin air in front of Klaus and I automatically pulled my legs to my chest to hide in the corner.
"Only one of them leaves" he stated, a grin on his face. "I don't care which but you will choose one or they both die and the next to go missing will be your daughter"
At his words Klaus let out a vicious snarl and attempted to lurch forward at the man but a sharp pain forced its way to his head and caused a loud yell of pain to burst from within him.
I could feel my eyes burning with another flow of tears just watching his pain, knowing what he felt. I could see Cami staring straight at me. Over our time in here together she had often brought up Klaus's ultimatum, I told her that I knew that they loved each other. I told her that he would choose her. She was certain that I was wrong and that Klaus didn't love her but just used her as a release. But I knew what Klaus looked like when he was in love. Even so part of me hoped she was right, it was a dark thought, a horrible hope that I wish I didn't have but I really wanted it to be true.
I looked back to Camille, a tight lipped smile that was probably more of a grimace formed on my lips as I mouthed the words 'it'll be okay' to her and her head shook as tears slipped down her cheeks.
Cami was sweet, she was lovely and I loathed it. She wanted to die instead of me, she said I deserved to live more than she did. That I was Hope's second mother I was apart of the Mikaelsons. She apologised for ever being with Klaus and it just made me feel worse. I thought that maybe they were lies, maybe she secretly hoped that Klaus would choose her and I would be left to die.
I couldn't tell and it didn't really matter anymore. Not when I realised that Klaus was right in front of me. I felt a small spark of hope as his arms wrapped around me and he pulled my close to his chest. A soft sniffle left him and his lips pressed to the side and top of my head
"I'm so sorry" his voice whispered with a crack and I went to tell him it was okay before I felt him pulling away and I realised what he was apologising for "forgive me" he uttered as he made his way to Cami.
My eyes stayed blurry with tears but they didn't fall as a complete feeling of numbness spread throughout me completely. I could hear my captures sickening laugh spin around me and I could hear Camille asking Klaus what he was doing.
"Klaus- go back to her" she whispered but he shook his head
"I love you" he admitted and a bitter laugh left my lips. I covered my mouth with my hands and pressed my forehead against my knees. I shouldn’t have been surprised and I shouldn’t have been so upset. I knew he loved her, I knew he would choose but for some reason it hurt so much more when he actually confirmed it.
I could hear Camille apologising to me as Klaus lifted her up, carrying her to a safety I thought I would never again know.
As soon as they left hands were on me, grabbing and dragging me by my hair to force me to crawl wherever he wanted me. Uncontrollable pain shot through me continuously and I had no time to comprehend the sobs that shook my body. I felt my back arch painfully, almost breaking but not quite, my head was forced back so my neck was bared and a sharp knife went to the edge of my neck.
"it's unfortunate really..." the voice uttered before the blade began to sink into my throat. My eyes closed and I welcomed the quick death but the pressure stopped and a thud sounded from before me.
Fingers pressed to the place the knife had began to cut, a familiar scent engulfed me and an arm circled my waist.
"You're alright darling" the voice whispered, pulling me into an embrace making me grab onto the back of his suit silently. "He's gone now Y/n. You're safe." he murmured softly, rubbing my back before i felt him pull back a little bit. My eyes slowly cracked open to see his face, his deep dark eyes boring into mine with a knowing look of pity. Silently I watched as an array of reds and purples scattered under his chocolate brown eyes and his pearly fangs dipped into the tough skin of his wrist. The fresh wound was lifted to my lips and I accepted the metallic taste with a sigh. I drank for much longer than I needed, I expected he would pull be off but his hand only pet the back of my head gently
"Good girl" he whispered "just heal". His touch made my heart hurt and I didn't bother trying to stop the tears from falling anymore. My hands clutched onto his jacket desperately and I gulped his blood down as though it was water.
Soft touches were given to the skin of my face before his silk handkerchief cleaned at the dirt and dried blood that had dripped down my neck. Reluctantly I pulled away from his wrist and licked my lips clean. He wiped his own wrist and tucked the material away into his pocket. Elijah proceeded to pull the jacket off of his body and instead wrapped it around my shoulders. The inside was warm and smelt of home.
My eyes felt heavy with exhaustion and I gave him a tired smile making him frown.
"I'll bring you home now okay?" he whispered but I shook my head
"I can't go back" I muttered "I won't stay with him anymore. I should have left ages ago" I admitted and his eyes grew glossier.
"Where should I take you?" He asked gently and I shrugged
"Airport? Train station? I don't care just don't tell anyone you saved me? Please?" I begged softly and he nodded.
"I'll give you whatever you need" he promised "anything"
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lovingmattysposts · 18 days
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Quiet 2
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P1 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8
pairing: y/n and Matt sturniolo
summary: a girl with a lot of baggage and a boy with even more try to help put each others pieces back together one by one. A story about a girl who’s broken and a boy who doesn’t talk
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of family relationship issues, mentions of drinking, mentions of not eating (not in a ed way)
I felt sick to my stomach by the time I went home. My classes were hard, I was yelled at by a kid I didn't know, and the one friend I tried to make literally didn't speak to me.
I don't think he minded my presence though. Or maybe he did. I wouldn't know either way.
I didn't want to take the bus home. Mainly because it was smelly. Or mainly because I didn't want to go home.
I felt my stomach clench.
I didn't like Massachusetts. It was cold and montone here. Flordia was different. It was full of color and life and warmth. I missed my home. I missed my mom.
I wasn't the same after she died, I think that's why dad wanted to move somewhere else. It was like he couldn't stand the ghost of her in the house. I couldn't either, but it was nice to at least feel like she was still there, even if she wasn't really.
Here, she's no where. No matter how hard I looked around.
My dad was born and raised in Boston, but they moved to Flordia when they had me. It wasn't hard for my dad to decide to move back here. I just didn't know we were moving until he came into my room with boxes.
God, I hated that day.
I shook the thoughts out of my head. I turned on the street to a busy road before spotting a convenient store. I paused looking down at my knee. Some hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and some bandaids would heal this up in a matter of days.
No.
Just leave it Y/n.
I continued walking, but I felt my body tug towards the store.
Fuck it, I've done some worse things in my life. No one knows me here. Fuck a fresh start.
I turned on my feet and walked towards the store before pulling the door open and hearing the bell ring above my head. The worker behing the counter looked about my age, scrolling through his phone. Bingo.
I glanced around the store, it was small. Double bingo. I reached behind my head and threw up my hood before walking through the aisles. I lifted my head and searched the ceiling for any type of cameras.
I saw some in the corner before noticing the red light wasn't flashing. I made my way to the medicine aisle before locating the bandaids and picking up a box.
I felt my heart tug and my mom's voice come through my head.
You're better than this.
I might be better than this, but I also didn't have another choice. I just wanted some bandaids. I didn't let the voice sink into my soul before I slipped the bandaids in my pocket and glanced around my shoulder. I didn't see anyone.
I walked along the aisle before seeing Neosporin and picking it up and slipping it into my other pocket. I felt my heart start to beat. I didn't know if it was nerves or adrenaline.
I eyed the hydrogen peroxide. I sighed. It wouldn't fit in my pockets. I swallowed. I could probably do without. I could just clean it the old fashion way with some soap and water.
Okay, I gotta get out of here now. I turned on my feet before making my way out of the aisle I was in. I kept my head down as I walked.
"Have a good day"
I froze on my feet and looked up seeing the boy who was still focused in on his phone. He wasn't looking up at me. I didn't respond to the gesture before I turned and left the store.
-
"Dad?" I lowered my hood and glanced around the kitchen, into the living room. Sometimes when I called out to him, I didn't know If I wanted to hear a response or not.
"Are you home?" I asked quieter. I walked into the living room before walking over to the empty couch. I glanced down to a few more empty beer cans that weren't there when I left this morning. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I picked up at can.
I heard the front door shut.
I jumped and turned my head.
"Y/n!" He yelled before his eyes landed on mine. I froze and my hand froze on the beer. He smiled and held up a bag. I glanced down at the bag feeling like I just got caught doing something I wasn't suppose to.
"I got some food, let's eat" He smiled at me. I let my face relax and I nodded. He set down the food on the table before walking over to me and grabbing the beer can out of my hand and bending down and grabbing the other cans along the table.
"Sorry, I meant to clean this shit up earlier" He mumbled as he grabbed and crushed them. I just stepped back and watched him. He looked up at me with a warm face.
"Go eat kid, I know you must be starving. I got the noodles you like" He stood up and walked over to the trashcan discarding the beer cans. I was starving. I hadn't had a real meal in three days. The only thing I had today was one bite of a overripe apple.
I smiled and nodded as I walked over to the bag and opened the food.
-
The dinner was awkward to say the least. It consisted of us chewing and the sound of our plastic forks digging into the boxes of food, but I didn't care. These noodles tasted like honey.
I couldn't help but smile when I took a first bite.
"How was school? It was your first day today right? We're the kids nice to you and shit?" He chuckled glancing up at me. I looked up at him and wiped my face with the back of my hand.
"Uh, you know how kids are" I said shaking my head not really wanting to dive into my day. He chuckled and nodded. "I do, they are little shits" He nodded. I swallowed and stabbed some noodles on my fork slowly.
"Not you though--You've got a good heart, you" He pointed towards his chest and looked up at me. "Got your mother's heart" He nodded. I forced a smile and nodded up at him as I took another bite.
I never wanted this dinner to end, but in some ways I did. My dad and I don't have the best relationship. We never really did, but I didn't mind it because I had my mom. When she left, It felt like our person in common got taken away.
A lot changed.
My dad didn't know how to talk to me and I didn't know how to talk to him. We he did talk to me, he was yelling. Except for every once in a while.
"What about friends? Did you make any friends? I can clean up the place if you wanna have some over" He asked sparking up a new conversation while shoving food into his mouth.
I cleared my throat as I looked down at my plate. "It was just the first day dad" I mumbled feeling redness come up my neck.
How am I suppose to tell my dad my first day was awful and everyone was just mean?
"Well I know. I was just--" He shook his head and let out a breath. I felt guilt come up my throat that I had no good news to report back to my dad. Like it had been my fault that I hadn't made any friends.
"There was this one kid at lunch" I stated. He glanced up at me and smiled. "Yeah?" He smiled. I nodded and pushed around some noodles on my plate.
"He didn't really talk to me though, but he let me sit with him" I breathed, once the words fell out of my mouth I realized how stupid they sounded. My dad smacked his lips and nodded.
I closed my eyes wishing that in this moment I could just disappear. I felt like a failure.
-
"Windows, Sunflowers when it's sunny, palm trees, series books, the color blue...." I whispered to myself as the tears clouded my eyes and I applied Neosporin to my knee carefully when I got out of the shower.
I wiped my eyes as I reached for the bandaids. "Hikes, The Killers, new shoes..." I ripped the box open that was covered in lies and crimes. I swallowed and opened one, putting it over my wound.
"My mom" I finished and pressed my forehead to my patched up knee.
I'd only been here a week and I was miserable. I didn't understand the point. My point. What was the point?
Just keep naming things Y/n
My mother voice rang.
I wiped my runny nose and looked towards the wall. "Long walks, book stores, old music, coffee..." I named things until I forgot what I was even thinking about.
-
"Can I sit?" I asked looking down at the quiet boy. He blinked up at me. No fear in his eyes this time like the first time when I asked. Somewhat of a surprise. He glanced around the room before his eyes landed on an empty table.
He motioned to the empty table. I turned to look at it and then back to him. He just stared up at me. I bit my lip.
I didn't want to sit alone. That was almost worse than eating in the bathroom. Me asking to sit with him and then him saying no and then going to sit alone was even worse than all of the above.
I took in breath and pushed the tears behind my eyes further down my face. I didn't want to cry today, It was my goal.
"Can I sit?" I asked again my voice quieter. He set down his sandwich and shrugged looking down towards his phone. I just stared at him. I guess that was as much of a yes I was going to get from him.
I sat down and shrugged off my bag.
I upzipped it, but instead of pulling out food, I pulled out a book. If I read I learned that I couldn't focus on the lack of food in my stomach. I opened the book and looked down at it.
August. My favorite time of the year. Where my happiness sprung from. All those summer ago is when I first learned where the happiness sprung from. I was 12---
I felt his eyes burn into me and I looked up from my book.
"What?" I snapped. He just looked at me. I closed my book. "What? Why are you staring at me?" I asked a little harsher that I intended. His eyes widened and he picked up the headphone that he dropped when I walked up to him and shoved it back into his ear.
I felt guilt run cold over me.
"I'm sorry--I didn't mean to yell I--" I swallowed as he looked back up at me. "I just get like this when I'm….tired" I whispered. I didn't know If I was talking to him or just saying this to myself. It was weird because talking to him was like talking to myself, just with an extra pair of eyes.
I looked back up at him. He looked down at my book and then to my bag. I looked at my bag then to him.
"What?" I mumbled. He looked down at his lap and took in a breath like something was running through his brain. I just watched him as his eyes glanced around the table.
What was he doing?
He picked up a bag of chips and looked at me and then looked at the empty table in front of me. I looked down in front of me and then realized what he was asking.
Why don't you have any food?
"Are you asking why I'm not indulging in my amazing choice of fruit today?" I smiled. I could have sworn I saw the corners of his mouth turn up for a split second, but it was gone so fast that I didn't know for sure if it happened.
He nodded.
I let my smile fall slightly but I contained it. "I'm actually on an apple-only strike and I had the last one yesterday. I think other foods are basically pointless when apples exist, and there wasn't one in my fridge so I said forget it" I smiled at him before the pit in my stomach deepened.
"Someone had to stand up for the apple. Today I decided that It was my duty" I smiled.
I wasn't lying about the fact that there wasn't an apple in my fridge. The apple only strike was obvious bullshit. The only thing left in my fridge was that apple. My stomach twisted.
"Plus why eat when you could soak in the nutrients of words of literature" I forced a smile and held up my book. He just stared at me, blankly. I bit my lip and my eyes stared at the page.
I could feel the fact that he hadn't looked away, I was just ingnoring it. My eyes scanned the page over and over but I wasn’t retaining any of the words. I looked up at him. He locked my gaze.
"Stop looking at me" I stated looking back at my book. He looked down at his lap before he started packing up his things. I looked up from my book.
"Where are you going?" I asked quickly. Lunch just started. He didn't look up at me as he put his stuff into his bag. I felt my heart sink. I set down my book.
"I didn't mean to upset you" I whispered as he just ignored me and zipped up his bag. Without another word he stood up and left. I glanced down to the table before I realized he had left half of his sandwhich and his bag of chips.
I looked up and saw him walk out of the cafeteria.
"Wait" I stood up but he was already gone. I swallowed and sat back down and looked at the food he had left.
Part of me was offended, the other part was too hungry to care.
I blinked at the food and then back towards the door of the cafeteria. Maybe was coming back. I sat back in my seat. 15 minutes past and he didn't return.
I swallowed before reaching over and grabbing the sandwhich and taking a bite of out it.
-
I pushed through the doors of the school. Today was a better day. No one yelled at me for taking their seat. I guess that was a plus. I had to give credit where it was due.
I was invisible basically, I talked to no one. Well one person, but they never talked back to me. I was okay with just reading and being quiet in the back of the class. I wondered if that's what quiet boy thought too, or if he hated it.
What does he think about? Could he read my lies through my teeth or was he just guessing that I was bluffing about the apple-strike. I shook my head at myself. An apple-strike? That's the best thing I could come up with?
I didn't want him to pity me. God, did I not want him to pity me. I was okay with the fact that I didn't always have a hot meal for lunch. Or dinner. Sometimes. Most days.
I swallowed the lump in my throat attempting to push out the thoughts from my head. "My life is good everything’s okay" I whispered to myself. It wasn't working.
"Sunsets, beaches, boats, birds..." I shook my head. I looked up seeing the bus closing it's doors. "Fuck" I spat before running towards the bus as it pulled away. My feet stopped running after it as I hung my head in defeat.
The walk home yesterday wasn't exactly short. It was dark before I got home yesterday. I looked around before I saw the back of a boy with brown hair walking away from the school.
Before I knew what I was doing I was moving fast on my feet towards him.
"Hey"
He almost jumped out of his skin before he turned around and looked down at me. He let go of a breath and his face returned to it's normal state, a blank stare. I smiled softly up at him and he took in a breath and turned away from me, walking.
I pushed off my feet and walked up beside him, attempting to match his speed. He looked down at me and stopped walking.
He glanced down at me and I looked up at him. "I'm not stalking you I swear" I breathed shaking my head looking at him. He furrowed his eyebrows. I probably shouldn't have started with that.
"I missed my bus" I pointed to the bus that was exiting the parking lot. He turned and looked at the bus and then back at me. Blank stare.
"Do you care if I walk with you?" I asked. He just stared down at me. I blinked up at him. "Okay" I breathed looking around. "If I can't walk with you, blink three times" I smiled. He just looked unimpressed down at me.
"If you don't want me to, blink three times" I stated. He raised his eyebrows. I sighed. "Give me something quiet boy" I whined looking up at him. He tilted his head in confusion. I sighed.
"Fine, don't walk with me then" I mumbled before turning walking off. I looked in front of me. "Pancakes, plane rides, soup..." I whispered to myself. Even good days aren't good days.
A few seconds later I heard footsteps come up to me. I glanced up before seeing the quiet boy walking next to me. He didn't glance down at me and I looked away slightly smiling to myself.
Is asking him if we are friends pushing it?
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buckyalpine · 8 months
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Cheating!Steve x reader, Bucky x reader
Oh look, more cheating Steve with sweetheart Bucky to save us
A/N: Last year someone asked me for some mad angsty fic and I posted and deleted it so quick because it was god awful. Just awful. However, I had kept a draft of it cause even though I hated it and everything about it, I didn't want it gone forever. Upon rereading it recently...I kinda like it. So I decided to change some stuff (like most of the entire plot), switch around characters (I'm a Bucky girl) and repost. If you want to see the OG fic, I can post it again or just edit this to add it under the new version
Steve couldn't stand seeing you like this. In the hospital room, the needles prodding you, it all reminds him of hydra and the things he had seen on numerous missions. When you almost die, he's thrown back into the spiral where he has no hope for a future. And nothing changes after you get better. You had almost died once. Missions were getting riskier and you weren't always in the clear. In his mind, everything good in his life leaves him or gets ripped away eventually. Peggy was a prime example of that. It's just a matter of time.
Even in your injured state, your attention was all on Steve. You knew how much he hated seeing you hurt. It sent him into a dark place few people had witnessed. As soon as your eyes fluttered open, your tired eyes met his red rimmed, puffy ones. For days, every time you try to bring him back to you, he has his walls built up again.
He won't let himself love you more.
He drinks.
He drinks enough to get drunk. It takes bottle after bottles but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything any more. So much so, he decides to seek the warmth of someone else.
Because you almost left him.
You could die so easily.
You almost did.
Nothing matters any more. His moans of pleasure are empty but he's wrapped around her none the less. He doesn't stop until his body can't move, too exhausted to even think about guilt.
-
You have it all planned out. You were finally released from the hospital and the first thing you wanted to do was spend time with Steve. The team had left the compound so you could set up a movie night for you and the captain, you don't want to let him slip from your grasp, not after all you'd been through together. You didn't go through hell and back to lose him like this. You fought for your life to pull through.
There are snacks laid out on the table, a movie pulled up, some hot chocolate made just for you and him. You shuffle nervously, your heart beating erratically. You didn't spend 4 years with him just for this to end because you nearly died. No. He was worth the fight. His cold demeanor was not towards you but towards the fear of losing you. And that fear was from love. Love you both shared deeply for each other.
You knew he got back from the bar late; if he was too drunk then you'd help him to his room and talk to him in the morning. It was a new habit of his but you understood.
Except he never came. He always made it home. Not tonight.
Steve stumbled in the next morning, rubbing his eyes, seeing a small sleeping form on the sofa, snacks and some drinks laid out in the living room. He swallowed thickly when he sees you get up from the couch wearing one of his hold hoodies, making your way towards him.
"Steve?"
You have a soft smile on your face, but it drops when you get a closer look at him. Tears prickle at your eyes when you see the way his neck is littered in bruises, his skin still flushed. He can't look you in the eyes, not after what he'd just done.
"I-
You freeze before him, you don't want to ask. You don't want to know. The broken expression his face is enough for you. You wordlessly leave the living room, locking yourself in, giving FRIDAY instructions to make sure no one can enter.
"Did you talk to y/n" Bucky asks excitedly when he sees Steve sitting in the living room. He knows how excited you were about the movie night, spending days planning every last detail. His excitement drops when he sees the food untouched and you're nowhere to be seen. "Where is she?"
Steve remains silent, staring at his hands. The rest of the team enter the living room, hoping to find you both curled on the couch, but no. Nat's eyes narrow when she sees the hickeys on Steve's neck but something tells her they're not from you, you've never marked him like that before, you've always been so gentle with him.
"How could you?" She hissed, while the rest of the team look at her in confusion. It doesn't take long for them to piece things together. And it's a mess.
You come down to the living room, both Sam and Tony holding Bucky down on the couch while he glares at Steve, his hands still in fists. They all turn towards you with broken eyes, this is not what they ever wanted for you. The second he sees you, he breaks down. You're numb to his cries, his pleas.
He finds you leaving the compound at 1:00 AM from where he's still seated on the couch, something you'd never done before.
"Baby? Where are you going"
You ignore him, making your way to the garage. You were never able to sleep since and staying in bed only left you alone with your thoughts.
"I-I need some space. Don't worry about where I'm going"
"Y/n, please, just let me explain"
"No"
"I made a mistake, I-
"I don't care. I just want need some air"
"Promise me you'll come back?"
You shake your head, you can't even look at Steve. You scoff, shoving past him, not caring when he hisses in pain. His cheek is bruised, spots of dark purple and blue bloom around his eye and you'd seen Nat icing Bucky's hand earlier.
"Y/n, please angel, I-I just want to talk, just promise me you'll come back?"
"I promise" You reluctantly mumble, hopping on your motor bike and speeding off before Steve can call after you again.
You loved him so much.
You fought so hard to pull through for him, you heard every word he'd said to you when you were unconscious.
Tears clouded your vision.
It all happens too fast for you to comprehend.
The car doesn't see you.
The bend is sharp.
You bike is sent over the edge.
Darkness.
-
It's been a week.
You still haven't woken up.
It's all his fault. It doesn't matter that the driver was intoxicated. It didn't matter that it was dark out. You wouldn't have left the compound if he hadn't done what he did and it eats him alive.
He's not met with any sympathy.
No one bats an eye at his tears or sobs, too concerned about your well being to go and comfort him. Like clock work, every member of the team visits on rotation since they can't all be there at once. however Bucky is exempt from all hospital rules with one brooding, grumpy stare.
Bucky is by your side every single day. He doesn't say anything when Steve grips your hand, praying for you to wake up, silently praying himself while your heart monitor continues to beep. Steve refuses to move from your side but he's not given much of a choice when Fury summons him personally for someone mission related.
He's only gone for a few hours but that's when you finally stir. Bucky is on his feet instantly, paging for the doctor while stroking your hair.
"Hey pretty girl" Bucky whispers when your eyes finally focus, the knuckles of his metal hand gently caressing your cheek. The cool sensation helps you feel more alert. You smile seeing his baby blue eyes, feeling safe as he talks to you softly.
-
Everything hits Steve all at once. He didn't just betray you. He betrayed the team. His bestfriend. Himself. All the people who had faith in him to make the right choice, to do the right thing, to protect them. And he threw it away. Everyone waited a month for you to fully recover before throwing a welcome back party so you'd actually be able to enjoy it. Steve looked back longingly at the happy group gathered together in the living room, more emotions hitting him again.
He was happy you were alive. His sweet, sweet girl pulled through. H
He was envious of the love everyone was sharing, one he wasn't privy to anymore. He was invited, he was still apart of the team after all but he knew it wasn't his place.
He was jealous.
Jealous of the way you melted into Bucky's side. Longing to feel that warmth that he used to feel himself. Bucky had his arm around your waist, keeping you tucked right by him, taking care of you long after you were discharged. He wasn't going to stop any time soon.
There was something between you two, everyone could sense it. The soft gazes at each other and innocent kisses. Bucky wouldn't let a day go by without pressing his lips to your cheek, your nose, your forehead, the top of your head. He needed you to know you were loved and cared for. He stuck to his guns, claiming his actions were purely platonic but the pink blush on his cheeks proved that he was a bald faced liar.
-
Steve knows theres no one to blame but himself. He sighs and swallows the lump in his throat as you stand on your tiptoes to kiss the brunette, sealing you both together forever. He's always thought it would be the two of you standing together at the alter but how things had changed. The cheers of the crowd are a dull buzz to him. He watches Bucky swoop in for another kiss, this time dipping you and capturing your lips sweetly.
"I love you Mrs. Barnes"
"I love you more, Mr. Barnes"
Your happy, love struck giggles cause the first tear to fall.
He does his best to smile when you both walk by, flashes of what your wedding would have looked like. The white dress. The veil. The flowers.
if only he never-
But it was too late.
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undiscovered-horizon · 4 months
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(tw for self-harm -> literally hitting a tree with a bare fist)
[Tav has to carry the world on their shoulders. But when they begin to question this responsibility and the unfairness of it, they need someone to make sure their grief doesn't destroy them.]
Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?
Astarion knows that something is very off when you drop your bag and disappear behind the tree line, never even acknowledging his existence. The certain skip in your step, a bravado of "There's no mountain I can't move" is completely gone, nowhere to be seen. Now, something more sinister has taken its place - a darkness looming over your shoulder that makes even him shudder. Like you've switched places with another creature.
He notices Shadowheart and Gale watching your departure, both of them fidgeting in their stillness. Their hesitancy is all too obvious. Then, they exchange a look of both concern and inquiry. In awkward silence, Gale and Shadowheart part ways, simultaneously deciding to let you have your space.
Be it his curiosity or worry for you that he so vehemently denies, Astarion marches off in the direction he has seen you go, only to disappear behind the trees. He passes by Gale, who grabs Astarion's arm. The bruises on the wizard's face look almost black in the twilight of the campsite.
"I wouldn't do that, Tav is a little..." he hangs his voice as his eyes glance towards the dense forest, "beside themself."
The vampire wears his scowl like a crown. He yanks his arm from Gale's grasp and makes a show of straightening the fabric of his decorative shirt. "Wonderful advice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to happily ignore it."
Without awaiting a rebuttal, Astarion continues his march towards the dense, dark forest where he hopes to find you.
The warm, yellow hue of the campfire quickly disappears as the man ventures into the woods. Low shrubbery keeps nipping at his clothes, almost making him more worried about the state of his pants than your well-being. He is about to call out your name when he hears a loud, muffled thud.
What in Hells is that?
Following the sound, Astarion finally finds you - beaten, bruised. Your clothes look like you haven't washed them since crawling out of the Nautiloid. The blood covering your knuckles glistens in the moonlight as you take another swing at the tree trunk. Another thud resounds in the empty forest. A dent behind to show in the wood where the bark has already been broken off. Just how long have been doing this? More importantly: why are you doing this to yourself?
No matter his confusion and burning worry, Astarion manages to pull himself together. He knows that the last thing you need right now is him blowing up at you, masking his fear for your state of mind with irritation.
"And what did this poor tree ever do to you, darling?" he finally calls out in a light-hearted tone. Truthfully, he couldn't be farther from playful jokes and jabs.
"Just leave me alone," you answer in a harsh tone as you punch the tree trunk once more. A whine escapes your lips as your tender, wounded hand meets the hard wood again.
He's taken aback - you don't normally talk this way. This unforeseen and much unwelcome, sudden change makes him all the more concerned.
Astarion stops close behind you, his arms crossed across his chest. He's unsure what to do. "Not until you tell me what's gotten into you," he states in a firm tone.
You growl in response. "It's so," you hang your voice to hit the tree, "fucking" you punch the trunk again, "unfair!" you scream out.
Your bloodied, trembling hand is about to land another punch but something, someone, stops you. Astarion lunges forward, pressing his chest against your back and grabbing your arms. His firm grasp forces you to keep your hands close to your body.
"Why do I have to decide who lives or dies?!" you continue yelling as you try to ineffectively wiggle out of the man's iron grasp. "I never wanted to be the hero who saves the world! I never asked for any of this!" Suddenly, your defiance disappears. Tired, hopeless and sore, you let yourself lean against his chest. "So why does it have to be me?" you whisper in a weak voice. Then you shudder as tears begin flowing down your cheeks.
The great hero falls and it is only natural that their fall must be of equal grandeur.
Astarion feels your hands shake but he's not sure whether it's because you've scraped their skin down to raw muscle or because you're crying out all the pent-up anger, grief and anxiety. No matter what's the truth, his undead heart breaks all the same.
"My sweet, sweet love," he whispers into your ear. His cold lips brush against the conch before he softly pecks your neck. "Anyone else would do it wrong."
Part of him wants to add 'except for me, of course' but he knows, deep down in his viscera, that even he would falter. So he remains quiet until your sobbing silences and your trembling comes to a stop. Astarion's grip never eases down until you've collected yourself, holding you tight against him as though you're fine porcelain that even a mere gust of wind could shatter into pieces.
__ Guys when I tell you I almost tripped running to my laptop to write this
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astrowarr · 4 months
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when was the last time scott was this alone?
was it 3rd life, after the death of his husband, gone far too early? or was it last life, as he looked away from the blood on his hands and up to the sky just in time to see the lightning flash? was it double life, when he stood face to face with his soulmate that wasn't really his? was it limited life, when the sword of his ally, his friend sank between his ribs?
no, this is something new entirely. because this is the first time scott has ever been betrayed. jimmy held his hand until scott covered his lifeless body with dirt and planted flowers on his grave. pearl was an ally with loyalty abound up until the free for all that killed her. cleo, his chosen soulmate, never once entertained the idea of turning her back to scott, not even as the world grew emptier, not even for the person her life was bound to. martyn- for all intents and purposes- fought by scott's side until the end of the world, until his mind and body fractured and he turned on his heel. but even then, that wasn't betrayal; not to scott, because he knows what it is to be the last one standing.
scott's allies don't choose to leave him; they die before they get the chance. and even after their deaths, there are new friends to lean on. grian stood by his side in that sweltering desert as their fingers knocked arrows and the sand exploded into glass. when cleo died in double life, he looked to pearl, and for the first time, he saw her. he died looking into her eyes, but his heart felt whole because finally, he understood her. alone in the world together, they mended what was broken.
gem has flipped this on its head. it's not that she was fickle from the start— no, not at all. but something burned under her skin from the start, a fire in her eyes that scott is far too familiar with. when she burst from her home with one red eye and blood matted in her hair and splattered along her skin, she was smiling with sharp teeth. the void trickled along her skin, inky and endless and so so cold. the funny part about it was that scott saw her and thought she looks like herself now.
in the wake of gem's fury, scott has nothing and no one. he won't be able to turn his back to her again, not after knowing the sheer terror of her eyes boring bloody, gaping holes into his skull. he spent days curled up in tiny caves and tucked away behind jagged cliffs. he was utterly alone, more alone than he's ever been. scott's allies are what make him scott— what is he if he stands in solitude, no warm faces to share food and diamonds snd secrets with?
what is scott now if not a shell?
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sorcerous-caress · 5 months
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Hello!! I love your writing 😍 Would it be okay if you wrote Karlach, Lae'zel and whomever you wish with a tiefling!Tav that loses both a horn and an eye during a battle and can't quite find balance in their fighting afterwards bc of it?
Reacting to Tav losing a horn/eye
[Hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, nb!reader, Tiefling!reader]
[Karlach, Laezel, Wyll, Halsin]
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Karlach
She swears she can still hear it, your agonised scream, the splatter of blood, the crunch of bone being torn apart.
As if the world slowed down for a moment, an eerie quietness surrounding the battlefield for the uncomfortable stretched out seconds. Your companions turning to look at you, clutching your eye with your back hunched.
Dread filled her stomach, one of your horns laid on the bloody floor next to your feet.
She doesn't remember the rest. Only when she stood atop the burnt rubble of what used to be the battlefield, did the all-consuming rage fade away from her mind.
Karlach is immediately at your side after, apologising for not being there sooner.
She's by your side as you heal, making sure to bring you anything you might need. As your struggles to adjust to combat again in the aftermath become more and more evadint, she is one of the first people to suggest fully leaving combat to her.
Yes, you are capable. Yes, she has seen how strong you are. But sometimes life just doesn't go the way we plan it. You can relay on her instead.
You don't have to go back to the cruel world. You can let her take care of it. Karlach really can't afford losing you. She'd claw her way up the heavens and steal you away if your fate took a turn to the worse.
Laezel
She completely disagrees with Karlach. This is nothing but a minor setback if anything. Laezel completely has faith in you to relearn how to find your balance, and she'll teach you if she has to.
As long as you can still stand on your feet and carry a sword, then you can fight in her eyes. She will give her sincere apologies for letting you down in battle and not doing something before enemeis got the chance to best you, but besides it, you'll get no pity from her.
Why is everyone acting as if you died? You're clearly still the same strong and capable person she knows. If anything, each scar is evidence of how your enemies' failure to put you down, you should show your broken horn with pride.
She has enough self awareness not to impose her views on you, no matter how much she thinks her companions are being dramatic and oversensitive, is she noticed you being fully uncomfortable with her approach she will take her leave from your bedside.
But you got fed up with people infantlising you, then she will be the first to 6pull you back into an intense daily training routine until you regain your footing.
Wyll
While Karlach and Laezel were too busy arguing about your own fate, Wyll was there for you throughout every stage of healing. He knows what it's it like losing an eye. He can relate to the horror and dissociation that happens whenever you look at the mirror to see a piece of yourself missing.
He still hasn't gotten used to his own horns himself, and losing one of yours must have been painful to bear. He will stay by your side until you feel better, no pressure to discuss the future or your fighting abilities or anything.
Wyll will make sure you don't feel alone, that the dark thoughts don't consume you too much. Share you worries with him, let him help carry your burdens, please. It kills him seeing someone so dear to him suffer when he can't do anything or help.
Halsin
His heart breaks, seeing you coming back to camp limbing and bloodied that day. He prays to Silvanus to ease your pain as he takes shift with Shadowheart to nurse you back to health with healing spells.
Nature can be so unforgiving sometimes, to some animals, losing an eye or horn can be a death sentence.
But he has seen even the most withered of plants suddenly flourish and regain their strength, he has personally stayed up countless nights to care for the weak kittens that their mother refused to even acknowledge.
He has seen them grow, nurtured them into a strong healthy state.
Don't surrendered to the darkness, when the abyss starts whispering about how this is your end and how your potential was wasted you yell at the abyss, bite, claw and fight your way out of this rut.
True strength lies in the heart, give yourself time to rest, and don't rush your healing. Eventually, you'll be back on your own two feet with a new view on the world before you can realise it.
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babygirl-riley · 6 months
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Lies
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He was suppose to be dead…so how is Simon fucking Riley standing in front of you?
A/N: Guys these tik toks make my mind RUN! So her is another idea from this tik tok! Lost of heartache and angst so enjoy! 💙
“A broken heart is all that’s left.”
Warnings: ANGST, heartache, trauma, depression, mention of suicide, violance, swearing
simon x reader guide
simon x reader fluff/angst list
pt. 2
Months. Months you sat crying in the shower. Screaming into your pillow. Hell you fucking slapped Soap because of this. Because Simon Riley died. Died when he promised to come home, you didn’t eat or sleep right. Price would eventually pull you aside to take a holiday. Clear your mind.
You did and all you did was drink and smoked the left over cigarettes of his. To eventually go shop for more and pretend he was smoking them. You drank all his whiskey and your wine. Your parents came over to make sure you weren’t dead, that you decided to pull a Romeo and Juliet bullshit. You wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t have taken your life.
Instead you drank until you didn’t feel the numbness. The sadness. The memories of both you and Simon. Simon plagued your mind, wanting his laugh to burst in the air. His voice. His hands. His kiss. Anything. So why not drink until you don’t remember the next day. You did this until going back into work.
Gaz would make sure you would be alright. Soap tried to make you laugh. Price made sure you wouldn’t run into the field killing yourself. Yet this was so much worse.
Price sat all of the task force down for a debriefing. Yet when the door opened it was him. Simon. Simon fucking Riley. Everyone froze, not because of him being alive, because they knew. They knew he would be alive. Nothing was said for a moment as you stared at him, waiting for him to say or move anything.
“Y/n,” Soap said closing the door behind him. You haven’t turned to him yet looking over the paperwork you had. “Do ya have a minute?”
You rolled your eyes, smirking. “John I am not doing your paperwork. Ghost already mentioned…”
“It’s not that Lass,” Soap mumbled playing with his hands. Soap argued that it would be not a smart idea. However, with the rat in the ranks it would convince that he was dead. “It’s Simon.”
You perked from that, you gave him a confused look. “What about him?” You knew after that, after Soap used Ghost’s name. The one you would say when you laughed, cried, moaned.
“They…they tried to get him out but…” The world flipped, you yelled at Soap and pushed him. Telling him to shut up but you also didn’t know that Simon was listening in. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you to be the one not to know. Price convinced him due to the rat falling for the trap.
Simon heard you yell until the deafening slap echoed through the halls. You slapped him hard, you gritted through your teeth that he was a liar. You said that if his body is not here then it isn’t true. However, he knew that they convinced you that he was too burned to actually see him. His true form. Not a burnt crisp. They led you to the body, left small hints that it would have been his body.
He thought about you crying above the body. Screamed until you couldn’t. Held the bastards hand. Everything was suppose to not to happen. It shouldn’t have been months. He hoped that it wouldn’t. Price would give him updates on how you were doing. It didn’t sound good. He wished he could leave and get to you, hold you, and apologize for everything but he couldn’t.
Now he stands right here in front of you. Hate. Hate is the word the best describe your eyes. “Did you all know?” You voice said in the room. The quiet room. It was filled with venom. It was quiet.
No one said anything until you stood up and slammed your hand on the table. “Who fucking knew!” You snapped your head to Price.
“It was to pull Samson out.” Price said watching your move.
“Bring Samson out,” You repeated shaking your head, looking over at Simon. “You fucking bastard. You fucking bastard.”
No one expected the next thing, you walked over to him and pushed him hard. Slamming your fist into his chest. “You know how long I fucking grieved! How long my heart has been in pieces! You fucking just let this happen! Let me be in pain!”
Simon let you slam your fists into his chest. He deserved it. “You fucking promised! You promised! And it’s broken! It’s been fucking broken!”
Price told everyone to leave besides Simon, you, and Price. As everyone huddled out Simon grabbed your shoulders. “I had no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice!” You said pushing him one last time before facing away.
Price shook his head. “He didn’t, I wanted to tell ya but we couldn’t. We had to make it believable to bring him out.”
You shook your head. “I don’t care, you know what I’ve done the last couple of months? Did you know that empty feeling? Or the nights where I thought ending it all would have me not suffer?”
“Dove,” Simon mumbled reaching out to you. “It’s fucked up and I am sorry it happened. But I’m here now.”
You wanted to lean into him and let him hold you. There was just so much anger. Resentment. You just couldn’t believe that he would do that to you. You made the choices to drink and make yourself miserable sure but the feeling you had. The darkness that pulled you away from anything and anyone.
His hand burned your arm as he gently grabbed it. You ripped your arm away. “Fuck both of you,” Price face dropped to give more reassurance. “We are suppose to be a team.”
Simon knew that was a jab more for him. You both have been secretly running together until he had to fake his death. It was easy when he first did it, making sure that everyone knew he was dead so he could kill all the men that killed his family. Once Price came up to him and asked he declined it.
“No.” Simon firmly said and reaching for the door of Price’s office.
“Simon this would be the best route for the team,” Price explained standing up. “Why the hesitation?” Price knew. Simon knew that Price knew. He just wanted Simon to state it. Confirm Price’s suspicions. “It’s her isn’t it?”
Simon held the knob of the door tighter. All he did was nod his head. He couldn’t lie to Price even if he wanted to. “A year,” Price nodded, he didn’t know it was that long. “I can’t do it to her.”
Price sighed and walked over to place a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t either but…we have to. It will unfortunately be the best time and convincing.”
It felt like a poison came out of Price’s mouth. He didn’t want to do it to his team, didn’t want to hurt nobody. Why everyone got to know? Do they could take care of you. Simon didn’t want that. It wasn’t fair ok your part. He promised to protect you no matter the cost. “Johnny tells her.” He spoke softly.
Price nodded in agreement. “I already assumed that.”
Couple of weeks later was when he wasn’t suppose to be there. Wasn’t suppose to hear your scream. The wail. The heart break. He had to contain himself not to run in there to hold you. Tell you it was some sick joke. “Simon.” Price warned.
Simon stared at him for a moment. His own heart shattering, before Simon could say anything the rat came running in. Anger boiled through his body as he watched him run in the shadows. Why does he get to comfort you? While he stood and watched the heart break unfold. He had to peel himself out of the building, Price sneaking him out and leave. Never had he cried before but after being dropped off at the solitary home, he cried for hours. Wishing that he could have done something better.
“Y/n.” Simon whispered. His heart shattering. Not looking at you. Not hearing you. Nothing was coming around.
It felt like hours of you not talking. Price didn’t want to say anything neither did Simon. They wanted you to speak. Thoughts ran wild in your mind. How could they? Why would they? You knew why it was beneficial for the mission. But was it for you? Was all the heartache and not working especially worth it? You can’t do this over and over again. The pain was too hard. You closed your eyes and shook your head.
You’re tired. You are mentally. Emotionally. Physically tired. You can’t deal with this again if it happens. Your heart is still broke and broke even more of that could be possible. You could feel the water more and more drowning you, you’ve been trying to come back for air. But now this? It went back to what it was.
“I’m done.” You said ripping your patch off and placing it on the table.
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sideeve · 9 months
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OPEN ARMS with miles morales
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you were always there for him, with open arms. until you weren’t
miles morales x f!reader
angst , no fluff at the end , prolly no part 2 , miles being asshole , reader leaving brooklyn for college , agedup!reader and miles ( like 17 years to 18 but no smut whatsoever) i lied here’s part 2
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you couldn’t stand to see miles fall apart. but you couldn’t do anything to help him. he wouldn’t let you. after his father died, his walls were up. his mother vented to you that she missed her son.
you told him multiple times that you would always be there for him. for anything no matter what.
but he refused. he found comfort in hurting people after hours. which you nor mrs. morales knew about.
the name “the prowler” sent shivers down your spine. you have had encounters with the person many times but they gave you mercy. you always left the scene unscathed.
now came a huge choice. attend [ desired college/university ] or stay in brooklyn and attend brooklyn community college.
you were already accepted into the school. but you couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to miles. even though he’s lost all contact with you, you still cared for him. and thinking he did too helped you sleep at night.
you softly knock at his front door, but still loud enough to catch someone one’s attention.
“[ name ]! oh, cariño. te he echado de menos.” mrs morales greets you, pulling you in a tight hug.
you sat her down, telling her the situation you’re in st the moment. “i didn’t want to leave without telling him goodbye. i don’t want to be another person he loses.” she puts her hand on your shoulder.
“he’s in his room right now.” you smile at her before standing up.
your knock got a response of him groaning for whoever it was to go away. you took that as an opening to come in.
“it’s me.” you flash a small smile. he was lying on his unmade bed. “what are you doing here?” he grunts. “well a hello to you too.” you snicker but he doesn’t budge.
“please just leave me alone.” your heart pings. but you’re determined to stand your ground. “i will. after i tell you something.”
he leaves you in silence. “i got accepted into my dream school.” “congrats.” he scoffs. “but i didn’t want to leave without seeing how you feel.” he flips over to look at you, sitting up.
“can you leave me the fuck alone for once? i can’t have a day without you blowing up my phone. i don’t reply because i don’t want to talk to you. i don’t care. i don’t care about your school. and i don’t care about you.”
you bit your lip to suppress the cries that were threatening to spill from you. you blink at him, a tear rolling down your cheek. “i’m sorry.”
you left. heart broken.
after that “conversation” with miles, you made up your mind. you weren’t going to kill your dreams for someone who didn’t care about you.
but he still needed you.
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ellebakers · 7 months
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I am not an object | Part one.
Part Two
• Daemon Targaryen x Reader
Summary : Daemon broke your heart more than once, will you forgive him when he tries to get you back ?
Warning(s) : Daemon is a dick, angst, fight, jealousy, language, mention of Harwin.
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You couldn't believe it.
He had come back. Prince Daemon was back at the castle, you didn't know if your heart could survive another heartache. When Alicent told you this news you had to sit down to avoid falling backwards.
Concerned, the queen sat down at your side. "Y/n, are you okay ?" Your throat tightened and you nodded reassuringly, unable to speak.
If twenty years ago you had been told that Alicent would become your rock here, you would not have believed it.
Indeed, during your childhood, you were not the best friends in the world. The only thing you had in common was being Rhaenyra's Maids and friends.
It was while becoming friends with the princess that you met Daemon.
The first time you had seen him was during a meal given in honor of the future son of the king, he had not even cast a single glance in your direction, but who cares, you were fifteen years and for the first time you had felt new feelings towards the prince.
Your first broken heart was when you learned from Rhaenyra that he was going to marry a whore.
This woman didn't love him, how could he marry her ?
Then this (love) story didn't work, so he came back to his family, and it was from that moment that things changed between you since the evening of his return, after a few drinks, he insisted on sharing with you, he ended up taking your virginity, and these activities became commonplace since every time he wanted to relax, he came to see you, fucked you and left.
Then there was Laena, and he stopped coming to see you, he wasn't even looking at you anymore, he just left.
Years passed, and as you recovered from the behing hole Daemon had left in your heart, it was Rhaenyra who stabbed you. She stopped talking to you, leaving you alone, at least until Alicent insisted on hiring you as a companion, but over time you became like sisters.
As you gradually regained control of your life and your emotions, Laena died. And the same routine returned. Daemon came back, he cried on your shoulder, making you feel guilty, he fucked you again until he found interest in Rhaenyra and dumped you again, leaving Alicent to manage with a broken friend.
Some time passed and you managed to rebuild yourself, until Rhaenyra returned to live in the castle with her sons and... Daemon.
That's why you find yourself sitting around the table where the Targaryen family and Hightower were, the tension was palpable but for the good of the king, the two parties said nothing.
You kept a neutral face as Alicent tried to talk you out of your mind, but you felt Daemon's piercing gaze on you, there was no way you were giving him satisfaction and looking at him.
Alicent had to leave to take care of the king, leaving the place next to you empty, and Daemon wasted no time in coming to occupy it.
"Lady Y/n."
His voice was low and smooth, he used to use that voice when he wanted to end up between your thighs.
You took a big sip of wine to give yourself courage and without looking him in the eye you greeted him.
"Prince Daemon, it's good to see you again. I'm sorry but I'm not feeling very well, it's better that I go back to my room. Please excuse me."
You got up and all eyes were on you, something you hated, you sneaked in politely smiling at the guests, once out of the room you let out a breath of relief and went towards your room .
As you walked through the darkness, footsteps were heard behind you, as you were afraid it was Daemon, you were relieved to hear the voice of your protector, Ser Harwin Strong.
"Lady Y/n, are you feeling okay ?"
You smiled sincerely at him and sighed. "I'm just a little tired Ser Harwin."
The knight looked around and once assured that there was no one, he approached you slightly. "Tell me the truth my lady please."
You took a deep breath. "I am scared." You admitted, your lip trembling.
Harwin grabbed your face in his hands and with the back of his thumb he wiped away the tears that were falling.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
"I know I won't be able to resist him, and I'm afraid he'll rip my heart out again."
Harwin Strong was, along with Alicent, the only person who knew about you and Daemon. He was assigned to you as a protector by the queen when she married the king, so he saw the damage the prince had done to you.
One thing you didn't know was that he dreamed of smashing Daemon's face against a wall every time he saw you crying because of him.
"Listen to me Lady Y/n, you are the fiercest woman I know besides being the kindest, smartest, sweetest and most beautiful. And cut out my tongue for what I'm about to say, Prince Daemon only thinks with his dick, he doesn't deserve you to look at him, you are so much better than him, don't let him have a hold on you."
His words made you blush, but they also gave you the strength needed to face Daemon, and the next day when the prince requested an audience with you, you accepted, along with Ser Harwin of course.
Daemon was surprised that you didn't ask your protector to leave, and even though it bothered him, he swallowed his anger and invited you to sit at the table in the garden.
"Lady Y/n, I am delighted that you have accepted my invitation. It is truly a pleasure to be in your company. I would like that said, to discuss a private matter with you, you might ask Ser Harwin to leave so that-"
"No."
Daemon was surprised by your tone.
"Excuse me ?"
"I won't ask Ser Harwin to leave, if you have anything you want to talk to me about you can do it in front of him."
The prince blinked, looking between you and Harwin. "I don't think he wants to hear what I have to say."
You repositioned yourself on the chair to have an upright and sure posture, then you crossed your arms on your chest.
"I believe I know what you wish to speak to me about my prince and I can assure you that Ser Harwin is aware of what is bothering you."
Having had enough of beating around the bush, Daemon leaned on the stone table. "Fine. Why are you avoiding me ?"
You couldn't help laughing. Asshole.
"Are you serious ?"
He was looking at you like "In your opinion ?"
You looked at Harwin for a moment, and his encouraging words from yesterday began to echo in your head, suddenly a rush of adrelanin invaded you, you turned your attention back to the prince and you took a deep breath before speaking as calmly as possible.
"I am not avoiding you my prince, I am only staying in my place. I am not one of your servants or even your whore." Harwin pursed his lip to keep from smiling with pride. Daemon, in the other hand, was speechless.
"All these years you have only used me when you needed it and then threw me away like you throw leftovers at dogs. And once again you come back to me, why ? Either because the princess does not satisfy you, or out of pride, for years I was stupid enough to believe in you and imagine things, but that time is over."
You got up slowly and slightly put your dress back in place before adding. "Contrary to what you think my prince, I am not an object. Now please excuse me but this meeting is over."
As you turned your back on Daemon, he called out to you. “You seem to forget something.”
You turned to face him. "What ?"
He was still sitting, he had something evil in his eyes. “I always get what I want.”
Even though he scared you, you decided not to show him. "Not this time my prince.
As you walked back, Daemon and Harwin looked at each other.
The prince was clearly mad and had a look of
We'll see.
As for Ser Harwin, he had an expression of pride.
That’s my girl.
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Yakuza x Cinderella AU Part 1 (Sukuna x Reader)
A/N: I listened to Sukuna’s Russian voice dub while writing this. Gave me some cool gangster vibes.
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Everyone would have understood if you shed the “Itadori” name after old man Wasuke passed away, and no one would have blamed you if you walked away from being Yuuji Itadori’s legal guardian. After all, you just started college, you didn’t need to be “burdened,” especially by a kid you weren’t even related to.
But there was no way you could leave eleven-year-old Yuuji alone. You grew up changing his diapers, taught him how to ride a bike, cleaned up his boo-boos, and threatened his bullies. 
He was your family.
Prioritizing your baby brother and his future above your own, you decided to bartender at a fancy but sleazy bar. Although the majority of patrons were assholes and the place was too far from your house and the university, the pay was better than most other part-time jobs so you sucked it up.
Between your job, mandatory onsite classes, group assignments with lazy jerks, and taking care of Yuuji and the house, you could never afford to sleep for more than three hours a day. 
But Yuuji was, of course, an angel. 
He didn’t like to show it, but you knew he missed gramps, and you often caught him biting his lip to suppress his whimpers and wiping his eyes with his back turned to you. He did his best to appear strong, but you wished he’d rely on you more. But the little tiger never stopped doing his chores and liked offering to do yours.
“I can’t get a part-time job yet so all I can do is take care of the house and everything else!” When he said that, you swore an arrow pierced your heart and you almost died from fluffiness. 
Seeing Yuji’s bright smile was the only thing that kept you going, especially after a long day at the bar.
That’s where you met Ryomen Sukuna. He was the single most irritating bastard you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. It wasn’t like he was a sleazebag per se–he was actually more of a silent, brooding type compared to the handsy, foul-mouthed drunkards you usually dealt with. At least, that was your first expression of him.
It was nine pm and your five minute break was almost over so you sent Yuji a good night text and a reminder to lock the doors and windows. You brushed your hair and went to your post behind the bar. 
This place was in the inner city, far from most schools, so it was rare to find college students here, but it was a Friday and the end of finals week so the place was jam-packed with depressed people. You didn’t mind. Actually, you preferred having a bar full of university kids over a bar full of working adults. You liked college students. They were… nicer, more polite and patient compared to their older counterparts, who were usually middle-aged career men and women whose dreams have been shattered by the real world. Your regulars were broken and pathetic, and they often liked making their problem yours. You’d “listen” to their ramblings, nod and pretend to care, when in reality their words just went in one ear and left straight out the other.
You didn’t like talking or socializing. You left that part up to the waitstaff and prepared the drinks as quietly as possible in order to avoid trouble.  
It was nearing one am, almost time for you to go home. You finished wiping the last piece of glassware when the store bell rang. You didn’t bother to even pretend to be polite this time and continued cleaning up, waiting for one of the waiters to tell the guest that the bar was already closed. But that didn’t happen. 
“The VIP room is a little unclean right now, so if you’re willing to wait–”
“What do you mean unclean? You should always keep it ready,” a cold, androgynous voice reprimanded.
You were annoyed. And a bit confused. You’ve been here for several weeks now and you just found out about this so-called VIP room. And up until now, the personnel here always shooed away all customers during closing. 
“It’s fine, Uraume,” a deep, husky voice interrupted. “I’m fine waiting here. Just get me my drink.”
You raised your eyes and saw a tall man in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bringing attention to his… big veiny hands and sinewy arms, lined with black tattoos. 
“O-of course!” Your boss clasped her hands together. “Please excuse me, I’ll get the sake ready in a bit.”
As if sensing your gaze, your tall, red-haired stranger turned his head, revealing a face also full of tattoos. You blushed but composed yourself and bowed in greeting. You refused to make eye contact again though, too embarrassed that you were caught ogling. He was more gorgeous than most idols and sports players that showed up on TV.
“On second thought, I think I’ll sit at the bar.”
Ah, crap. 
“Oh, um…!” Your boss fumbled towards you, putting a hand over your shoulder. “Th-this is Y/N. She’s new. Really new, I don’t think you’ve met yet.” It felt odd watching your usually calm and charming boss act like this. She was the one who dealt with perverts and other difficult clients, all without getting too emotional or stuttering, but she seemed almost afraid of this man. “Y/N, this is Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, he owns this bar.”
That name certainly felt familiar, but you sucked at names, and as for his face… you glanced up at his smirking face. Yeah, there was no way you’d forget a guy like him. Even if you just saw him walking down the street for a split second you would remember him for sure. 
Your boss squeezed you and you quickly bowed your head again. “Um, hello, thank you for the opportunity.”
“You seemed irritated when my companion and I walked in.” 
“No, you must be mistaken.”
“Really? You couldn’t even be bothered to greet us. Bartenders are supposed to be friendly.”
You just tilted your head, contemplating on what to say next when your phone started ringing from the counter. Mr. Sukuna swiped it before you could blink. 
“Hey!” Your sudden burst of energy shocked you and your boss. You slapped a hand over your mouth. “Er. I mean… I apologize.” 
“Shouldn’t phones be on vibrate during work hours?”
“It was on vibrate. We’re supposed to be closed now.” Welp. You were already as good as fired so you didn’t try to cover up your weariness. Yuji sometimes woke up randomly in the middle of the night. He was probably wondering where you were. You held out your hand. “Can I please have it back now? Sir?”
Like you just told the world’s funniest joke, he threw his head back, laughing heartily. 
Despite your boss almost fainting on the spot thanks to your little stunt, you didn’t get fired. Sukuna seemed absolutely smitten with you–that is, as much as an owner can be smitten by a pet hamster. 
It was the beginning of an irritating, one-sided relationship. 
Ever since that day, Sukuna began frequenting the bar more often. Sometimes three times a week, other times almost daily. Rather than stay at the VIP room, he’d hang out by the bar and find many ways to piss you off, like hitting on you, annoying you until you talked about either Yuji or your classes, and asking you to make some complicated cocktail he heard from a business partner, only to then insult it (he’d always finish the thing though). At the very least, he didn’t try touching you inappropriately. And plus, his childish fascination with you meant he demanded you hang out with him immediately after you finished preparing someone else’s drink, so you didn’t have to listen to other people whine about their lives and you didn’t have to make up excuses with the more gropey customers.
To be continued…
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archonsbane · 9 months
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BEAUTY IS TERROR
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The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 
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pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 
cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 
wc. 15k
an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 
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Dottore is no stranger to running away. 
He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 
How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.
Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 
He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 
Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 
The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 
Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 
The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 
“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 
He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 
“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.
You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 
Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 
“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 
“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 
You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 
“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 
He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.
The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 
“Have you forgiven me now?” 
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 
“Yes.” 
He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 
He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 
Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.
“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 
There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 
You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 
His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”
“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 
“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 
“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 
He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”
You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”
"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 
You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 
"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."
"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."
"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 
"But I want to take you." 
There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 
He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 
He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 
You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 
"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 
"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 
“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  
“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 
You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 
He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 
“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”
It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 
A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 
A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.
He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 
“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 
“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 
He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 
The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 
You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 
You blink innocently. 
He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 
"—and you need to learn how to dance." 
His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 
"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 
He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 
“Fine. Just get out already.” 
Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 
Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.
You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 
For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 
You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 
He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 
Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 
You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 
He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 
He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 
Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 
Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 
Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.
The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 
Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 
A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 
The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 
A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 
He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 
“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 
“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 
Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 
Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 
“Good. I hope it kills you.” 
A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 
“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 
Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 
“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 
Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 
“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 
“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 
Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 
“But they chose me.” 
Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.
“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 
Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 
Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 
He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 
Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 
He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 
He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 
He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 
The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 
You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —
“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  
“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 
Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 
The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 
He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 
And then comes the actual dancing. 
They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 
He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 
Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 
You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 
He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 
He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 
“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 
“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 
You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 
The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 
He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 
“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 
“No, you’re not.” 
“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 
You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 
The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 
He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 
Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 
“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 
You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 
“Are you alright?” 
His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 
Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 
He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 
You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 
He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 
“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 
He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 
“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.” 
Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 
He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 
You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 
“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 
“You didn’t have breakfast?” 
“Did you?” Fair point. 
He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 
All his instincts call for him to flee. 
“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 
The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 
Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 
He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 
He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 
You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 
Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 
“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 
He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 
You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 
He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 
“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 
He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 
You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 
“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 
He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 
“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 
He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 
He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 
“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 
“It’s not the truth.”
You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 
You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 
All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 
One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.
You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 
He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 
“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 
“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”
“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 
He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 
“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 
There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 
He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 
Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.
You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 
“Liar.” 
He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 
He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 
His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 
Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 
He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 
“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 
“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 
“None of your business.” 
“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 
Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.
“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 
It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 
But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)
The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 
He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 
He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 
To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 
The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 
Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 
An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 
“No.” 
He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 
Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 
“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”
“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 
Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 
Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 
“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 
Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 
Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 
He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 
It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat��. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 
They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 
The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.
He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 
He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 
Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  
The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 
Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 
You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 
He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 
But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.
He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 
He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 
“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 
He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 
You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 
He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.
Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 
The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  
He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 
The silence is enough to suffocate. 
Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 
You smile at him. Still, blank.
The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 
He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 
They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 
He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.
He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 
“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 
“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 
The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 
A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 
If anything, Dottore admires her gall.
His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 
"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 
The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 
You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."
The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.
As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 
What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?
He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.
“Relax,” you whisper. 
“I am relaxed.” 
“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 
“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 
“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 
How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 
“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 
He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 
It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 
It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 
How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 
The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 
When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  
Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.
He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 
“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   
You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 
“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 
The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 
The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 
You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 
The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 
You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.
In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 
Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 
You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 
And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 
He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 
When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 
You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."
"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 
You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"
Yes. "Hardly." 
"Really."
He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 
You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 
That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 
“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 
He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 
“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 
“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 
“Gut instinct.” 
Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 
You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 
Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 
You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 
He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 
Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?” 
He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 
You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 
“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 
His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 
You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 
He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 
Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.
The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 
Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 
He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 
You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 
It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 
“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 
If I have to burn, you burn with me. 
He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 
His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 
“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 
You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  
"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.
You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.
Beat.
“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 
He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 
He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 
“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 
“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”
“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 
“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  
It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 
You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.
“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 
“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 
“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 
He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 
You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 
Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 
That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 
Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 
“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 
He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 
“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 
“It’s not worth your energy.” 
“But I only danced once tonight!” 
“It was good enough.” 
“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 
He does.
“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 
You place your hand in his.
Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 
It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.
But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 
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pinkwhalepjs · 10 months
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I LOVE that the collapse of several character relationships this episode comes down to class at the heart of things. The three who were born small folk have infinitely less agency in their own lives. They rise and fall at the whims of the powerful people they serve.
Amangeaux may see Karna as a daughter figure but as she begs her to let her go Karna can clearly see that her biological son is infinitely more important to Amangeaux than Karna could ever be. Amangeaux doesn’t want to play at being queen anymore and it is Karna who must suffer for it. She then attaches herself to Senator Ariana Gemelli and then again to Delissandro. She is dependent on them and lives ultimately at their whim. She may even love Deli but she must know that their relationship can never truly be one of equals. It is part of the tragedy of her character that she seems to always to some extent yearn for those she serves, admiring and caring for them in a way that is unlikely to be returned in full. And even more so that she seems an unwilling servant of the Hungry One who takes of her flesh in return for power and continued life. Unfortunately a good parallel for her relationships to her fellow mortals.
And this is what breaks apart Collin and Deli too. Collin was born to live in fear of what high born can do to those who cross them. He poignantly rebukes Deli that he does not doubt he will be a great leader of the Meatlands, but he is no leader Collin would swear to. He is a cruel and uncaring lord like the rest. He cares not for the innocent he condemns to death on his road to glory. Collin returns to the home of the man he killed because this life matters to him and he knows it does not to Delissandro even though he took it for his sake. Collin grows sick of being an instrument in the same sort of uncaring violence that killed his own family. He leaves behind the blades he swore in service to Delissandro. His anger is much quieter than Deli’s blusterous rage. It feels more directed at himself than at Deli. How could he have deluded himself into seeing this man as a friend and equal all these years? A man who doesn’t even know who he is after all those years by his side.
Raphaniel is the most scattered and broken because he began to think of himself as no longer a member of the small folk. But he forgot that he lives and dies at the mercy of his superiors still and that which is given him can just as easily if not far more easily be taken away. To gain power takes a lifetime but to lose it takes an instant. He scrambles again and again until it destroys his mind and body to gain some foothold of power or at least some sense that he serves some higher purpose but is met at every turn with empty sound. He was born cursed with visions of something terrible beyond but finds perhaps more horrible than the sense that there is something special wrong with him alone is the growing sense in his old age that his life and acts may in the end be meaningless entirely and when he dies he will leave behind just as little mark as any other poor born radish.
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taintedtort · 10 months
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Hello! What will be the reaction of Scaramouche and Venti if the reader enters the room naked? (and the reader realizes too late that she is naked)
prompt ✧ you walk in naked
characters ✧ scaramouche, venti
warnings ✧ afab!reader, suggestive, you just got out the shower
a/n ✧ this is scara in his wanderer arc so he’s not as bitchy (also this is EMBARRASSINGLY late. it’s been sitting in my drafts for so long bcus i forgot abt it, im so sorry!!)
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SCARAMOUCHE
✧ oh my god seriously he thinks he died. to be fair, you didn’t know scara was in the room. he wasn’t even there when you first got into the shower! not your fault that he just barges into peoples homes, maybe he should learn some manners!
you were drying off after taking a hot shower, something you really needed after the long day you had. your fuzzy robe sat sprawled out on your bed where you left it, forgetting to take it to the bathroom with you. luckily, your bathroom was connected to your room so you didn’t have to go far in the cold. you wrapped your towel on your head to let your hair dry and keep it from dripping everywhere.
when you walked out of the bathroom and saw scaramouche sitting on your bed, your first thought was what the hell is he doing here? but your second thought came too late, he was already looking up at you.
once he comprehended you were completely naked, his face bursts into red. you both ended up shouting at the same time.
"scaramouche, get out!"
"oh archons!"
his hand flew over his eyes, trying to respect your privacy and also trying to cover his completely red face. he scrambled off the bed and out your door, slamming it in the process.
once he was out, he fell back onto the door and slid down to the floor. his heart was erratic and he could feel the skin on his neck burning red. he was tempted to leave so you wouldn’t see him like this, but he also wanted to apologize and scold you for walking around indecently.
you on the other hand, were mortified beyond belief. you two have never really been intimate before, having newly started the relationship, and now his first impression of your nude body is going to be with a towel around your head and mascara smudges under your eyes.
once you secured the robe around your body, you called out his name. you were praying he left so you wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment until tomorrow. luck wasn’t on your side though.
you heard shuffling behind the door before it cracked open. you saw half of scara‘s face peek in before he fully opened the door. he didn’t enter, just stayed still, unsure of what to do.
"sorry— i didnt know you weren’t going to be decent. i wouldve waited in the living room or something."
you cross your arms and huff. your heart was still racing, but you could see the pink on his face from where you were standing and it made you feel a bit better.
"my robe was sitting on my bed! what did you expect?"
you were scolding him, which was new. you think the whole event fried his brain because he didn’t fire back, he just apologized again.
you sigh heavily before asking him what he’s doing at your house. you think he must’ve needed something to have broken in.
"is it bad i want to see my girlfriend?" he answered, somewhat defensively. the use of the title made your stomach churn. he doesn’t call you that often, almost never in fact, unless he’s jealous.
"well— no…" you trailed off, not finding another reason to yell at him. he was just trying to be sweet and come visit you, its not his fault you were showering.
you took a breath and plastered a pretty smile on your face while making your way across the room to him. he looked at you someone cautiously, the image of your naked body still fresh on his mind.
you pulled him inside the room and shut the door behind him before placing a quick peck to his lips, leaving him wanting more.
"sit down. let me change clothes and we can watch something, yeah?" you gently moved his body towards your bed, further urging him to take the spot he occupied earlier. he sat without complaint, nodding at your suggestion.
"yeah, fine. just don’t come out naked this time."
VENTI
✧ was taken off guard for sure, but quickly recovered and started teasing you. he didn’t even bother giving you privacy by turning away, just immediately started making jokes to get you flustered.
after getting out of the shower and realizing you left your only towel outside sitting on your bed, you sighed loudly and cursed under your breath. you’d have to wipe the floor up after tracking water to your bed. what a hassle.
you had thought venti was still at the tavern enjoying some drinks, but when you opened the door and saw him sitting on your bed, you froze. your reaction time was way slower than his. by the time your brain caught up that he was there and looking at you, he had already taken in the sight of your naked body. a grin broke out across his face before you could say anything.
"oh wow, are you trying to seduce me?" he teased, voice filled with amusement. your face burned red and your arms moved to cover your exposed body.
"venti! get out! what are you doing here?!" you yelped, making a run for the towel that sat dangerously close to him. a laugh bursts out of him as he snatched it up from the bed and away from your grasp.
"hey don’t cover up, i think you look cute!" his cheeks were slightly dusted pink, letting you know that he wasn’t actually as nonchalant about this as he let on.
"give it back! seriously!" you shrieked, completely mortified. you made a move to snatch the towel from him, but the action caused you to lean over the bed, only exposing yourself more to his prying eyes.
when venti realized how close you were, he took the chance to gently cup your cheek and bring you even closer. your breath caught in your throat as his lips met yours. the kiss wasn’t lust filled, it was soft, like he was reassuring you.
you felt his other hand move to caress your arm, bringing you back to the fact that you were completely naked right in front of him. you pulled away from him with a gasp, but he didn’t let you go far. his lips moved to your jaw next, slowly trailing down to the junction where your neck and shoulder met.
"venti," you mumbled, face burning. you felt him hum against your skin, but he didn’t pull away. he placed kisses all down your neck and across your shoulders, but didn’t leave any marks. he’d never mark you up without your permission!
when he heard your breath hitch, he pulled away with one final kiss to your lips. a boyish grin was set on his face, while your own was dazed.
he snickered lightly at your expression before wrapping your towel around your body, finally giving you a way to cover yourself. you sighed in relief, your racing heart slowing just a bit.
"there, better yeah? though… i think you look better without it."
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cutielando · 2 months
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comfort ~ rafe cameron
my masterlist
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Loving someone who continuously hurt you throughout your entire life was peculiar. Rafe knew that better than any other person.
Ward Cameron had done nothing but belittle his son his entire life, making him feel unwanted and unloved when all he should have done was love the broken boy.
And yet, despite even your ability to understand it, Rafe still loved him. Afterall, Ward was his father and nothing he could do could change that.
When his father died, Rafe didn't know how to feel, initially. 
Should he be sad? Should he be angry? Does he have to mourn? Can he mourn, seeing as his father had many every waking second of his life unbearable? 
Rafe didn't know what to do, and you didn't know what to do either.
Ever since the moment he died, the atmosphere at Tannyhill had been very strange. You tried your best to be there for your boyfriend, being his shoulder to cry on if he needed or just simply being there to help him and help him forget.
Whatever he needed, you were more than ready and happy to provide.
But if he didn't know how he felt himself, how were you supposed to know what he needed?
That was the million dollar question.
No matter how many times you tried to approach the subject, Rafe seemed more distant than ever.
"Baby? Don't you want to take a break? You've been working for hours on end" you tried to coax Rafe one night as he sat at his father's desk, dozens of papers scattered around on the big table.
He had been working constantly, trying to organize and structure his father's, now his own, company. 
"I'll come to bed in a couple of minutes" he mumbled, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it without even looking at you.
You sighed and turned his head to the side so he could look at you.
Inspecting his facial features, the bags under his eyes had become a permanent thing ever since Ward's passing, the boy not being able to get more than a handful of hours of sleep at night.
"Baby, you're overworking yourself. I'm really worried about you, my love. Are you sure you're doing okay? You're sure you don't want to talk?" you were running a hand through his hair and with another one you were tracing meaningless shapes on the side of his face, observing as Rafe's eyes fluttered close and he leaned into your touch.
"I'm sure. I promise, I'll come to bed soon" he said and kissed you quickly before getting back to work.
You sighed but nodded, pecking his head once more before finally turning around and leaving the office.
He hadn't come to bed that night until 2 hours later, sinking into the soft bed and attaching himself to your body, holding you close to him.
Unknown to you, that was the only comfort he could feel in the dead of the night when he couldn't sleep, the feeling of your body pressed against his, telling him that you were there and you weren't going anywhere.
The same routine continued for another couple of days, then turning into weeks until the anniversary of 6 weeks from Ward's death came around.
You had gone shopping with Wheezie in Chapel Hill for the day, trying to get the young's girl mind off of everything she had been through in the last couple of weeks.
Upon returning home, you weren't surprised to see Rafe's truck parked in front of the huge mansion, seemingly in the same spot it had been when you had left that morning.
However, as soon as you entered through the front door and saw the mess leading from the kitchen to the living room, your heart instantly dropped to your stomach.
Quickly figuring out what could have happened, you told Wheezie to go to her room and not get out until you would go and get her.
As soon as she was out of sight, you slowly made your way to the living room, carefully avoiding the broken glass that decorated the floor.
"Rafe? Baby?" you called out.
"In here" Rafe grumbled from the couch in the living room, his head in his hands.
The moment you laid eyes on your boyfriend, your heart broke into a million pieces.
He was holding his head with his hands, tugging at his hair with tears streaming down his cheeks. In front of him, on the coffee table, sat a picture of him and his father, one of the few they had taken over the years while the older man had still been alive.
"Oh, baby" you exclaimed as you hurried to sit next to him and pull him in your arms, hugging him tightly and closely to your chest.
He immediately buried his head in your chest, sobs wrecking his fragile body. You started whispering sweet nothings in his ear, pressing kisses on every inch of his face that you could reach. 
Hearing your boyfriend's broken sobs triggered your own tears, your heart breaking even more for the poor boy.
"I miss him" he croaked out between sobs, his voice hoarse and raspy from all the crying.
"I know you do, baby. I know" you said, running your fingers through his hair and kissing his forehead multiple times.
After a couple of more minutes, he slowly started to calm down, his sobs now turned into sniffles until they stopped completely. But he didn't pull away, now needing more than ever to feel you there with him.
"Does that make me a terrible person?" his voice was no louder than a whisper, making it a little difficult for you to hear him.
"God, no, Rafe. He was your father, missing him is freaking normal no matter what anyone else says" 
"I know that, but everybody keeps saying he got what he deserved. I know he was a terrible man, especially in the last few months before he died, but he was still my dad and I should be allowed to miss him without people judging me for it" he explained, slightly letting go of the iron grip he had on you.
You took his face in your hands, wiping the last tears that had fallen from his eyes.
"No matter what anyone says, he was your father and you miss him. There is nothing with that and you shouldn't feel guilty. You're allowed to feel, Rafe. Please don't shut me out and let me help you get through this. You don't have to do it alone, I'm not going anywhere" 
He slowly nodded and pulled you in for a hug, repositioning the two of you so you were straddling his lap and clinging to him like a koala bear.
"I love you so fucking much, you know that?" he whispered in your ear, his breath hot on your neck.
"I love you too" you whispered back, kissing the nape of his neck before tightening your hold on him.
You stayed like that for a long time, just savoring being together and overcoming this obstacle together.
Because, at the end of the way, you only found comfort in one another.
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